HOW MONSIEUR DE SAINFOY FOUND A WAY OUT
If Angelot expected to find the usual woodland stillness, that night,
about the approaches to the Château de Lancilly, he was mistaken. The
old place was surrounded; numbers of servants, ranks of carriages, a few
gendarmes and soldiers. Half the villages were there, too, crowding
about the courts, under the walls, and pressing especially round the
chief entrance on the west, where a bridge over the old moat led into a
court surrounded with high-piled buildings, one stately roof rising
above another. Monsieur de Sainfoy kept up the old friendly fashion, and
no gates shut off his neighbours from his domain.
Angelot came through the wood, which almost touched the house and
shadowed the moat on the north side. He had meant to go in at some door,
to pass through one of the halls, perhaps, and catch a glimpse of the
dancing. All this now seemed more difficult; he could not go among the
people without being recognised, and though, as far as himself was
concerned, he would have dared anything for a sight of Hélène, loyalty
to his uncle stood in the way of foolhardiness.
He walked cautiously towards the steps leading down into the moat. This
corner, far from any entrance, was dark and solitary. The little door in
the moat was probably still blocked; but in any case the ivy was there,
and the chapel window--heaven send it open, or at least unbarred!
"I shall do no harm to-night, Cousin Hervé. I shall see her dancing with
some happy fellow. If I don't know Lancilly well enough to spend ten
minutes in the old gallery--nobody will be there--well, then--"
"Monsieur Angelot!" said a deep voice out of the darkness.
"Not an inch nearer, or I fire!" Angelot replied, and his pistol was
ready.
"Tiens! Don't kill me, for I am desperately glad to see you," and Martin
Joubard limped forward. "You got away from those ragamuffins, then? I
thought as much, when I heard they had been watching the woods. But
where are you hiding, and what are you doing here? Take care, there are
a lot of police and gendarmes about. Are you safe?"
"No, I'm not safe--at least my uncle says so. Did you think I would stay
with those rascals long?" Angelot laughed. "I'm going out of the country
to-night. Hold your tongue, Martin. Wait here. I will come back this
way, and you can warn me if there is any one on the track."
"Going out of the country without seeing madame, and she breaking her
heart?" said Martin, disapproving.
"No, I am on my way. Pst! I hear footsteps," and Angelot dropped into
the moat, while the soldier stepped back into the shadow of the trees.
"On his way to La Marinière--from his uncle's! Rather roundabout,
Monsieur Angelot. Ah, but to have all one's limbs!" sighed Martin,
smiling, for plenty of gossip had reached him; and he listened to the
gay music which made the air dance, and to the voices and laughter, till
he forgot everything else in the thrilling knowledge that somebody was
scrambling up through the ivy on the opposite wall. There was a slight
clank and crash among the thick depth of leaves; then silence.
"He ought to be one of us, that boy!" thought Martin. "I'll wait for
him. I like a spark of the devil. My father says Monsieur Joseph was a
thorough _polisson_, and almost as pretty as his nephew. He's a pious
little gentleman now. They are a curious family!"
Angelot slipped through the dark empty chapel, and the wind howled
behind him. He ran down the passage between rooms that were empty and
dark, for Mademoiselle Moineau and her pupils had been allowed to go
down to the ball. He went through stone-vaulted corridors, unlighted,
cold and lonely, across half the length of the great house. He had to
watch his moment for passing the head of the chief staircase, for there
were people going up and down, servants trying to see what they could of
the gay doings below. Waves of warm and scented air rolled up against
his face as he darted past, keeping close to the wall, one moving shadow
more. Music, laughing, talking, filled old Lancilly like a flood, ebbing
and flowing so; and every now and then the tramping of feet on the
ball-room floor echoed loudest.
Angelot knew of a little gallery room with narrow slits in the
stonework, opening out of the further passage that led to Monsieur and
Madame de Sainfoy's rooms. It used to be empty or filled with lumber; it
now held several large wardrobes, but the perforated wall remained. He
found the door open; it was not quite dark, for gleams of light made
their way in from the chandeliers in the ball-room, one end of which it
overlooked. There were also a couple of lights in the passage outside.
From this high point Angelot looked down upon the ball. And first it was
nothing but a whirling confusion of sound and colour and light; the
flying dresses, the uniforms, jewels, gold lace, glittering necklaces,
flashing sword hilts. Then--that fair head, that white figure alone.
He could hear nothing of what was said; but he saw her brother come up
with General Ratoneau, he watched the dance--and if those slits in the
solid wall had been wider, there might have been danger of a young man's
daring to drop down by his hands, trusting to fate to land him safely
on the floor below. For he saw his love walk away with her partner down
the ball-room, out of his sight, and then he waited in unbearable
impatience, but saw her no more for what seemed a long time. He began to
think that he must go, carrying with him the agony of leaving her in
familiar talk with Ratoneau, when suddenly he saw her again, and forgot
his mother, his uncle, César d'Ombré, and all the obligations of life.
She came back alone; her brother was speaking to her; she looked
troubled, there was something strange about it all, but Ratoneau was not
there. That, at least, was well; and how divinely beautiful she looked!
Angelot gazed for a minute or two, holding his breath; then a sudden
step and a voice in the corridor close by startled him violently. He had
left the door half open, standing where he could not be seen through it.
He now turned his head to see who was passing. It was the step of one
person only, a quick and agitated step. Was this person then speaking to
him? No, it was his cousin Hervé de Sainfoy, and he was talking to
himself. He was repeating the same words over and over again: "But who
can save us? What shall I do? What shall I do? Who can save us? A way
out, he says? My God, there is none."
When his cousin had passed the door, Angelot stepped forward and looked
after him. It was impossible not to do so. The Comte was like a man who
had received some terrible blow. His face was white and drawn, and his
whole frame trembled as he walked. He carried an open letter shaking and
rustling in his hand, glanced at it now and then, flung his clenched
fists out on each side of him.
Then he said aloud, "My God, it is her doing!"
Angelot forgot all caution and stepped out into the corridor. His cousin
seemed to be walking on to his own room at the end; but before he
reached it he turned suddenly round and came hurrying back. Angelot
stood and faced him.
He, too, was pale from his imprisonment and the excitement of the night,
but as he met Hervé de Sainfoy's astonished gaze the colour flooded his
young face and his brave bright eyes fell.
"_You_ here, Angelot?" said the Comte.
He spoke absently, gently, with no great surprise and no anger at all.
Angelot knew that he loved him, and felt the strangest desire to kneel
and kiss his hand.
"Pardon, monsieur"--he began quickly--"I was looking at the ball--I
leave France to-morrow, and--Can I help you, Uncle Hervé?" For he saw
that the Comte was listening to no explanations of his. He stared
straight before him, frowning, biting his lips, shaking the letter in
his hand.
"It is some diabolical intrigue," he said. "How can you help, my poor
boy? No! but I would rather see her dead at my feet--for her own
sake--and the insult to me!"
"But tell me what it all means? Let me do something!" cried Angelot; for
the words thrilled him with a new terror.
He almost snatched the letter from his cousin's hand.
"Yes, yes, read it. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" Hervé groaned, and stamped
his feet.
The letter was written in very shaky characters, and Angelot had to hold
it under one of the candle sconces on the wall.
"My dear Comte:--
"You will receive to-morrow, I have reason to think, an Imperial
recommendation--which means a command--to give Mademoiselle your
daughter in marriage to General Ratoneau. If you see any way out of
this dilemma, I need hardly advise you to take it. You would have
been warned earlier of the danger, but circumstances have been too
strong for me. My part in the affair I hope to explain. In the
meanwhile believe in my sincere friendship, and burn this letter.
"_De Mauves_."
Angelot drew in his breath sharply. "Ah! The Prefect is good," he said.
While he read the letter, his cousin was staring at him. Slowly,
intently, yet with a sort of vague distraction, his eyes travelled over
Angelot; the plain shooting clothes, so odd a contrast in that gay
house, at that time of night, to his own elegant evening dress; the
handsome, clear-cut, eager face, the young lips set with a man's
firmness and energy.
"I thought you were in prison," said Hervé.
"I escaped from the police."
"Why did they arrest you?"
"I do not know. I believe it was a private scheme of that rascal
Simon's--such things have happened."
"Tell me all--and quickly."
Angelot began to obey him, but after a few words broke off suddenly.
"Uncle Hervé, what is the use of talking about me? What are you going to
do? Let us think--yes, I have a plan. If you were to call my cousin
Hélène quietly out of the ball-room to change her dress, I would have
horses ready in the north wood, and I would ride with you at least part
of the way to Le Mans. There you could get a post-chaise and drive to
Paris. Place her safely in a convent, and go yourself to the Emperor--"
"And do you suppose, Angelot, that I have enough influence with the
Emperor to make him withdraw an order already given--and do you not know
that this is a favourite amusement of his, this disgusting plan of
giving our daughters to any butcher and son of a butcher who has
slaughtered enough men to please him? Your uncle Joseph told us all
about it. He said it was in the Prefect's hands--I can hardly believe
that our Prefect would have treated me so. There is some intrigue
behind all this. I suspect--ah, I will teach them to play their tricks
on me! A convent--my poor boy, do you expect they would leave her there?
Even a hundred years ago they would have dragged her out for a political
marriage--how much more now!"
For a moment there was dead silence; they looked hard at each other, but
if Angelot read anything in his cousin's eyes, it was something too
extraordinary to be believed. He flushed again suddenly as he said, "You
can never consent to such a marriage, for you gave me your word of
honour that you would not."
"Will they ask my consent? I have refused it once already," said Hervé
de Sainfoy.
He walked a few steps, and turned back; he was much calmer now, and his
face was full of grave thought and resolution.
"Angelot," he said, "you are your father's son, as well as your uncle's
nephew. Tell me, have you actually done anything to bring you under
imperial justice?"
"Nothing," Angelot answered. "The police may pretend to think so. Uncle
Joseph says I am in danger. But I have done nothing."
"Did you say you were leaving the country to-morrow? Alone?"
"With some of Uncle Joseph's friends."
"Ah! And your father?"
"I shall come back some day. Life is too difficult," said Angelot.
"You want an anchor," Hervé said, thoughtfully. "Now--will you do
everything I tell you?"
"In honour."
"Tiens! Honour! Was it honour that brought you into my house to-night?"
"No--but not dishonour."
"Well, there is no time for arguing. I suppose you are not bound in
honour to this wild-goose chase of your uncle's--or his friends'?"
"I don't know," Angelot said; and indeed he did not, but he knew that
César d'Ombré looked upon him as an addition to his troubles, and had
only accepted his company to please Monsieur Joseph.
And now the same power that had dragged Angelot out of his way to
Lancilly was holding him fast, heart and brain, and was saying to him,
"You cannot go"; the strongest power in the world. He was trembling from
head to foot with a wilder, stranger madness than any he had ever known;
the great decisive hour of his life was upon him, and he felt it, hard
as it was to realise or understand anything in those dark, confused
moments.
What wonderful words had Hervé de Sainfoy said? by what way had he
brought him, and set him clear of the château? he hardly knew. He found
himself out in the dark on the south, the village side; he had to skirt
round the backs of the houses and then slip up the river bank till he
came to the bridge between the long rows of whispering, rustling
poplars. After that a short cut across the fields, where he knew every
bush and every rabbit hole, brought him up under the shadow of the
church at La Marinière.
The Curé lived with his old housekeeper in a low white house above the
church, on the way to the manor. She was always asleep early; but the
old man, being very studious and too nervous to sleep much, often sat up
reading till long after midnight. Angelot therefore counted on finding a
light in his window, and was not disappointed. He cut his old friend's
eager welcome very short.
"Monsieur le Curé, come with me at once to the château, if you please.
Monsieur de Sainfoy wishes to see you."
"At this hour of the night! What can he want with me? I understood the
whole world was dancing."
"So it is--but he wants you, he wants you. Quick, where is your hat?"
"How wild you look, Angelot! Is any one dying?"
"No, no!"
"Why does he not send for his own priest?"
"Because he wants a discreet man. He wants you."
The Curé began to hurry about the room.
"By the bye, take your vestments," said Angelot in a lower tone. "He
wants you to say mass in the chapel. Take everything you ought to have.
I will carry it all for you."
"The chapel is not in a fit state--and who will serve at the mass?"
"I will--or he will find somebody. Oh, trust me, Monsieur le Curé, and
come, or I shall have to carry you."
"But _you_, Ange--I thought--"
"Don't think! All your thoughts are wrong."
"My dear boy, have you seen your father?"
"No! Has he come back?"
"Two hours ago. He has gone to Les Chouettes with your mother, to find
you."
"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried Angelot, and laughed loudly.
The good old Curé was seriously frightened. He thought that this
charming boy, whom he had known from his birth, was either crazy or
drunk with strong wine. Yet, as he really could not be afraid to trust
himself to Angelot, he did as he was told, collected all he wanted,
asking questions all the time which the young man did not or could not
answer, and started off with him into the dim and chilly dampness of the
night.
Angelot nearly died of impatience. He had run all the way to La
Marinière, he had to walk all the way back, and slowly. For the Curé was
feeble, and his sight was not good, and the lanes and fields were
terribly uneven. Angelot had prudence enough not to take a light, which
would have been seen a mile off, moving on those slopes in the
darkness. This precaution also helped to save him from Simon, who, after
waiting about for some time between Les Chouettes and La Marinière, had
seen Monsieur and Madame Urbain coming out with their lantern and had
tracked them half the way, hearing enough of their talk to understand
that he must lay hands on Angelot that night, or not at all. For it
sounded as if the young man's protectors were more powerful than General
Ratoneau, his enemy.
Simon was very uneasy, as he stole back, and turned towards Lancilly,
shrewdly guessing that those bright windows had attracted Angelot. He
crept through the lanes like a wolf in winter, searching for some lonely
colt or sheep to devour. Furious and bewildered, worn out with his long
watching, he almost resolved that young La Marinière should have short
shrift if he met him. This, it seemed now, was the only way to remove
him out of the General's path. None of his relations knew exactly where
he was that night. If he were found dead in a ditch, the hand that
struck him would never be known. For his own sake, General Ratoneau
would never betray the suspicions he might have. At the same time, Simon
was not such a devil incarnate as to think of cold-blooded murder
without a certain horror and sickness; and he found it in his heart to
wish that he had never seen Ratoneau.
He heard footsteps in a deep lane he was approaching, and lying down,
peered over the bank and saw that two men had already passed him,
walking cautiously between the ruts of the road. They carried no light,
and it was so dark in the lane that he could hardly distinguish them.
One seemed taller than the other, and walked more feebly. There was
nothing to suggest the idea that one of these men might be Angelot. All
pointed to the contrary. He would be coming towards La Marinière, not
going from it towards Lancilly. He would certainly be alone; and then
his air and pace would be different from that of this shorter figure,
who, carefully guiding his companion, was also carrying some bundle or
load. There was a low murmur of talk which the police spy could not
distinguish, and thus, his game within shooting distance, he allowed him
to walk away unharmed. He followed the two men slowly, however, till he
lost them on the edge of the park at Lancilly. There Angelot took the
Curé by a way of his own into the wood, and led him up by a path soft
with dead leaves to the north side of the château.
"Monsieur Angelot!"
It was once more Martin Joubard's voice. He was much astonished, not
having seen Angelot leave the château. He stared at the Curé and took
off his hat.
"All's well, Martin; you are a good sentry--but hold your tongue a
little longer," said Angelot.
"Ah! but take care, Monsieur Angelot," said the soldier, pointing with
his stick to the dark, tremendous walls which towered beyond the moat.
"I don't know what is going on there, but don't venture too far. There's
a light in the chapel window, do you see? and just now I heard them
hammering at the little door down there in the moat. It may be a trap
for you. Listen, though, seriously. I don't know what sport you may be
after, but you ought not to run Monsieur le Curé into it, and so I tell
you. It is not right."
The good fellow's voice shook with anxiety. He did not pretend to be
extra religious, but his father and mother reverenced the Curé, and he
had known him ever since he was born.
Angelot laughed impatiently.
"Come, Monsieur le Curé," he said. "We are going down into the moat, but
the steps are uneven, so give me your hand."
"Do not be anxious, Martin," said the old man. "All is well, Monsieur de
Sainfoy has sent for me."
The crippled sentry waited. In the deep shadows he could see no more,
but he heard their steps as they climbed down and crossed the moat, and
then he heard the creaking hinges of that door far below. It was
cautiously closed. All was dark and still in the moat, but shadows
crossed the lighted chapel window.
The wind was rising, the clouds were flying, and the stars shining out.
Waves of music flowed from the south side of the long mass of building,
and sobbed away into the rustling woods. An enchanting valse was being
played. Georges de Sainfoy was dancing with the richest heiress in
Touraine, and his mother was so engrossed with a new ambition for him
that she forgot Hélène for the moment, and her more certain future as
the wife of General Ratoneau.
Madame de Sainfoy had not seen her husband since he received the
Prefect's letter, and was not aware of his disappearance from the ball,
now at the height of its success and splendour.