THE BITER BITTEN
When Torquato Trotto lifted the candle to guide mademoiselle and La
Marmotte from the supper-room he was confident in the success of his
plan, and already heard the jingle of Simon's crown-pieces in his ears.
Perhaps it was the certainty that the birds were caged that made him a
trifle careless, and so there was something in his air and in the
glance he cast back upon his companions, whilst leading them through
the gallery, that filled mademoiselle with a sudden fear, and, but for
her pride, she would have run back to my side. So she nerved herself,
and went on to La Marmotte's room, though it was with a quaking heart.
At the door Torquato stopped, expressed a civil hope that mademoiselle
would be comfortable, and, bowing politely to her as she passed in,
handed the candle to La Marmotte, and was about to return when he felt
his arm seized. It was La Marmotte, and she looked into his face with
eager, searching eyes as she asked: "What does this mean?--more
treachery?"
There was a bitter note in her voice, and the Italian looked at her
steadily. "She grows old," his thoughts ran on, "old, and exacting; I
must end this." Then, because there was other business on hand, he
restrained himself, and answered calmly:
"I mean no harm to her, I assure you."
With this he tried to disengage himself; but La Marmotte was not
satisfied. She felt he was lying. Then, too, all the vague feelings
of the past that had somehow been aroused in her that night were awake
and groping in her poor heart, and, perhaps, with these emotions there
was jealousy--who knows?
Time had been in the gay days in Paris when La Marmotte could have
counted her lovers by the score. At last fate had thrown her across
the path of the Italian, and she, although knowing him evil, loved him
none the less, and followed his uncertain fortune like a faithful dog;
but years were going, and beauty was fading, and her heart was fearful
lest she should be cast adrift.
"Trotto," she said, and her voice was husky, "I--I do not like this.
Let them go."
Torquato Trotto cursed under his breath; but time was short, and he
could not afford to waste it. He bent down and kissed the woman's hand.
"_Carissima_! have no fear. And now let me go and see to our guest's
wounds." With this he freed himself, and went back.
La Marmotte stood for a pace watching the dim figure as it slipped
through the gloom of the corridor, the candle in her hand casting its
light on her red lips, her white neck and arms, and on the silken black
hair that hung to her waist. Then with a half-stifled sigh she
followed mademoiselle, and stepped into the room. It was empty. La
Marmotte's heart almost stood still, and the candlestick she held all
but fell from her trembling hand, as the poor wretch thought of the
wrath that would overtake her if her charge escaped. But it was
impossible! It could not be! And La Marmotte made another step
forward, and as she looked she saw a white-robed figure kneeling at a
_prie-dieu_, half concealed by the valence of the bed.
"It is her," murmured La Marmotte with a sudden relief; and then she
almost spoke the words aloud, "she prays." And after a moment of
hesitation, she crept up softly, step by step, and stood behind
mademoiselle, a tumult of strange thoughts in her soul. La Marmotte
quivered from head to foot. Near her was a small table. With a
shaking hand she placed the light thereon, and made yet another step
forward.
Prayer! Years had passed since she had prayed. It was years since she
had learned to laugh at the soul's communion with its God; to laugh,
and yet to know, in her heart of hearts, that she lied to herself.
After all, life had gone gaily with her. She was as a sleep-walker in
some garden of dreamland until this girl had come, and with her coming
startled her into wakefulness. And, standing there, La Marmotte was
for the moment innocent and pure in heart. "I will pray too," she
thought. What she was going to say, what she was going to ask from her
Creator, never struck her. All that she felt in her impulsive and
emotional heart was an overpowering desire to pray. She half sank on
her knees, and then sprang up, flushed and trembling, for at the moment
mademoiselle arose, and, turning, saw her.
"Mademoiselle was praying?" stammered the woman.
"Yes, madame. I was thanking God for our escape, and for the friends
He has given us here."
La Marmotte thought of Simon lurking in his chamber. She thought of
Torquato Trotto, and she shivered at the thought. Mademoiselle came up
to her, and placing a hand on her shoulder, said: "I will never forget
the kindness I have had here."
It was too much for La Marmotte. She shrank from the gentle touch.
"Don't," she said; "I am not worthy."
But mademoiselle simply leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and the
caress broke the woman down.
Falling on her knees she sobbed out: "Forgive! forgive! Mademoiselle,
there is danger here! They are going to kill here! Go back to
monsieur, and leave this place whilst there is time. Better trust to
the mercy of the forest wolves than the mercy of Le Jaquemart."
"Is this true?"
"True as I kneel before you." And, springing to her feet, La Marmotte
went on: "But there is no time to waste; come--come at once. A--h!"
For the loud report of the arquebus, and Pierrebon's angry shout, rang
out; then followed the rasping of swords, and the two stood speechless,
staring at each other.
But mademoiselle was brave, and she came to herself.
"Oh! they are killing him." And she flew to the door, but La Marmotte
clung to her. "Not that way! There is dreadful work there!
Here!--come here with me!"
So saying she strove to drag mademoiselle back; but the latter, with a
strength surprising in one so slight, freed herself, and slipping past
La Marmotte made for the corridor. Down this she ran, almost brushing
against a figure crouching behind the arras--a figure skulking there
like the evil thing it was. It was Simon, who had heard the shot too,
and overcome by his fierce impatience had come forth from his chamber,
poniard in hand. As the girl passed he made a half movement towards
her, like the spider about to pounce upon his prey. But La Marmotte
was following, and he drew back, and watched the two figures speeding
down the gallery, and then they halted suddenly, for the clashing
ceased, and there was the thud of a heavy body falling. Through the
partly-open door of the supper-room a banner of light fell crosswise on
the corridor, throwing into relief the figures of the two women
standing side by side with blanched faces, and for the moment there was
an awful stillness.
"Well thrust, Trotto!" shouted Simon from his lurking-place, too sure
of the issue, and then he started back with a sickening chill.
He had heard my voice as I stepped out and called to mademoiselle. And
she, who was but an arm's length away, sprang forward.
"Here! here! Oh! what has happened?"
"It has happened that we have come into the house of murder," I
replied; and then, my eyes falling on La Marmotte, I said, as I pointed
to the room within: "He needs all your care; go to him."
La Marmotte shrank back at my look and tone, and then cried out: "I am
innocent--I swear it."
"Go to him!" I said; and turning to mademoiselle: "Come! we have not a
moment to lose."
And so we went out, leaving La Marmotte staring after us, for she made
no movement. And, standing there, a cold hand grasped her wrist, and a
voice hissed in her ear:
"Fool! there is a dagger at your girdle. Could you not have driven it
through his heart?"
But La Marmotte only looked at the Vidame foolishly, and from the far
distance there came through the night the sound of a horn.
"It is Aramon returning," exclaimed Simon; "we have them yet." And
leaving La Marmotte where she stood he followed on our footsteps, his
dagger in his unwounded hand.
On he went, with uncertain, wavering footsteps, and fury in his heart.
He meant to kill if he could. It was in Simon's mind to make a sudden,
desperate attack. An unexpected stroke from his poniard might free him
from me, and his prize might yet be his. As for the varlet--Simon gave
Pierrebon not a thought. But as he went on his wounded arm began to
sting and bleed afresh. A faintness came upon him, and, overcome by
the pain and loss of blood, he sank down all dizzy behind the high
privet, a cold sweat on his forehead. In impotent fury he struck his
dagger to the hilt in the soft turf at his side, and, still holding the
haft, leaned forward and peered through the hedge. Then as he crouched
he heard quick voices, and then three mounted figures rode across the
parterres to the gate. Again the sound of the horn rang out, and Simon
heard Pierrebon's voice.
"The other wasps come back, monsieur! Hasten! Let us be off!"
"But not before I have struck a blow," answered Simon, as, heartened by
the sound of the horn, he gathered himself together and made for the
gate, only to see us pass through it ere he had gone ten paces.
He reached the gate somehow, and stared into the night. We were gone.
We had turned to the right in the direction of the river, and were
already hidden from view by the woods.
Twice Simon heard the beat of hoofs as the horses dashed over the hard
ground, and after that all was still.
"If Aramon would but come!" he groaned; and then, through the moonlit
haze on the left, where the moorland stretched long and brown, came the
sound of hoarse voices, and a loud laugh, and upon this a line of about
half-a-dozen horsemen appeared riding slowly towards the house.
"Aramon! Aramon! Here! To me!"
At his call they put spurs to their beasts, and were soon beside
him--an evil-looking set of knaves, mounted on horses foam-flecked and
weary with hard going. Simon gave them no time for speech, but shouted:
"After them! After them! Else they escape!"
"After whom, monseigneur?" asked he who appeared to be their leader as
he went on: "We have chased the air all day; are we to ride after
phantoms by night?"
"Fool! It is Mademoiselle de Paradis and her lover. He has wounded
me, and killed Trotto and Piero and Malsain, and escaped with her ten
minutes ago. They cannot have gone far, and the river must stop them.
After them!" And, panting with excitement, he ceased.
From the height of his saddle Aramon looked down on Simon, and whistled
low to himself.
"So monseigneur is wounded, which is bad for you, monseigneur; and
Piero is dead, which is good; and Malsain is dead, which is bad, for he
was my own man; and the captain Trotto is dead, which is good
again--for me, monseigneur."
"Fool! Will you waste time? Every moment is precious."
"Softly, monseigneur! There is plenty of time for me. Trotto is dead,
you say, and I sit here in my saddle captain of the wolves of
Fontevrault; and," he continued with a chuckle, "with a new king comes
a new policy, as you are aware, monseigneur."
"What do you mean?" asked Simon, with an uneasy note in his voice.
"I mean, monseigneur, that of late you have not played fair with us. I
mean that a sword that can slay as the one you describe is not one to
be meddled with by weary men; and I mean that I, Aramon, being captain
of these brave fellows now, intend to be my own captain for the future.
Is it not so, my wolves?"
There were gruff murmurs of assent, and Simon drew back a space. It
was not, however, from fear--Simon of Orrain never suffered from the
poltroon fever; he but drew back to strike hard, and to sell his life
dearly. They ringed him in--his own men who had turned against
him--and he stood with his back to the gate. He did not flinch, and
meant to fight, hopeless as it was, for all around him were white,
shining swords, that needed but a word from Aramon to be red with his
blood. But the new captain did not want this.
"Bah!" he said, "throw down your dagger, monseigneur. We want not your
life. For the present you will be the guest of Aramon--that is, until
you have paid me, and these gentlemen here, two thousand gold
Henris--fat gold Henris--for all our trouble. Come!--throw down the
dagger! Put a good face on it!"