A GENERAL RENDEZVOUS
Meanwhile Cerise, not the least sleepy, though sent prematurely to bed,
dismissed her attendant protesting vehemently, and sat herself down also
at an open window, to breathe the night air, look at the moon, and dream,
wide-awake, on such subjects as arise most readily in young ladies’ minds
when they find themselves alone with their own thoughts in the summer
evening. However exalted these may have been, they can scarcely have
soared to the actual romance of which she was an unconscious heroine,
or foreseen the drama of action and sentiment she was about to witness
in person. Little did she imagine, while she leaned a sweet face, pale
and serene in the moonlight, on an arm half hidden in the wealth of her
unbound hair, that two men were watching every movement who could have
kissed the very ground she trod on; for one of whom she was the type of
all that seemed best and loveliest in woman, teaching him to look from
earth to heaven; for the other, an angel of light, pure and holy in
herself, yet luring him irresistibly down the path to hell.
The latter had been hidden since dusk, that he might but see her shadow
cross the windows of the gallery, one by one, when she sought her
chamber; the other was visiting his guard two hours earlier than usual,
with a silent caution that seemed mistrustful of their vigilance, in
order that he might offer her the heart of an honest man, ere he fled for
his life to take refuge in another land.
Captain George, entering the garden through a private door, could see
plainly enough the figure of Mademoiselle de Montmirail brought into
relief by the lamp-light in her room. She must have heard his step in the
street, he thought, for she had risen and was looking earnestly out into
the darkness; but from some cause or another, at the instant the door in
the garden wall closed behind him, she shrank back and disappeared.
His heart beat high. Could she have expected him? Could she know
intuitively why he was there to-night? Was it possible she would run
down and grant him a meeting in the garden? The thought was rapture! Yet
perhaps with all its intoxication, he scarcely loved her so dearly as
he had done a moment before, as he did a moment after, when he actually
distinguished a white dress flitting along the terrace at the farthest
corner of the building.
Then indeed he forgot duty, danger, exile, uncertainty, the future,
the past, everything but the intense happiness of that moment. He was
conscious of the massive trees, the deep shadows, the black clusters of
shrubs, the dusky outlines of the huge indistinct building traversed
here and there by a broad shimmer of light, the stars above his head,
the crescent moon, the faint whisper of leaves, the drowsy perfume of
flowers, but only because of _her_ presence who turned the whole to a
glimpse of fairyland. He stole towards the terrace, treading softly,
keeping carefully in the shadow of the trees. So intent was he, and so
cautious, that he never observed Cerise return to her post of observation.
She had resumed it, however, at the very moment when the Musketeer,
having advanced some ten paces with the crouching stealthy gait of a Red
Indian drawing on his game, stopped short—like the savage when he has
gone a step too far—rigid, motionless, scarcely breathing, every faculty
called up to _watch_.
The attention of Mademoiselle de Montmirail was aroused at the same
moment by the same cause.
It is scarcely necessary to observe that the Duke of Orleans, Regent of
France, was no less ambitious of distinction in the fields of love than
of war. That in the one, though falling far short of his heroic ancestor,
whom he so wished to resemble, his prowess was not below the average,
scandal itself must admit; but that, if experience ought to count for
anything, his encounters in the other should have made him the most
successful campaigner of his time, history cannot conscientiously deny.
Like all such freebooters, however, he met with many a bitter reverse,
many a signal defeat never mentioned in despatches. His rebuffs, we
may be sure, were written on water, though his triumphs were carved in
stone; and it was for those on whom he could make least impression that
he cherished the greatest interest. The way to captivate the Regent
was not so much to _profess_, as to _entertain_ a thorough contempt
for his character, an utter disregard of his position. The noble mind,
the stout heart, the strong will, the sagacious, deep-thinking, yet
open disposition, true type of manhood, is to be won by love; but the
sensualist, the coward, the false, the wicked, and the weak, are all
best tamed by scorn. With a new face, the Regent was captivated, as a
matter of course, for an hour or two; seldom during a whole day; though
on occasion, if the face were very beautiful, and strictly guarded, he
besieged its owner for a week; but Madame de Montmirail was the only
long-established beauty of the Court who had seriously captivated his
fancy, and, indeed, what little was left of his miserable self-indulgent
heart. This triumph she owed to her perfect unconsciousness of it, and
complete disregard for her admirer, therefore it became more firmly
established day by day; and when Malletort, who thoroughly comprehended
the nature he wished to rule, hinted that his kinswoman was not
insensible to the Prince’s merits, he did but blow into flame a fire that
had been smouldering longer than even he was aware.
Now the Abbé had sufficient confidence in her powers and her attractions
to be sure that if Madame de Montmirail once obtained an acknowledged and
ostensible influence over the Regent she would become the virtual ruler
of France; and the Abbé, in his own way, loved his cousin better than
anything but the excitement of ambition and the possession of political
power. He believed that her disgrace would be of infinite advantage to
herself as well as to him, and thought he could see her way clearly, with
his own assistance, to an eventual throne. He was a man without religion,
without principle, without honour, without even the common sympathies
of humanity. It is difficult in our days to conceive such a character,
though they were common enough in France during the last century; but
in his views for his cousin, evil as they were, he seemed at least
honest—more, self-sacrificing, since she was the only creature on earth
for whom he cared.
With his knowledge of her disposition, he did not conceal from himself
that great difficulties attended his task. However lightly the cynical
Abbé might esteem a woman’s virtue, his experience taught him not to
underrate the obstinacy of a woman’s pride. That his cousin, in common
with her family, possessed an abundance of the latter quality, he was
well aware, and he played his game accordingly. It was his design to
compromise her by a _coup-de-main_, after he had sapped her defences
to the utmost by the arguments of ambition and self-interest. Like
all worldly men in their dealings with women, he undervalued both her
strength and her weakness—her aversion to the Regent, and her fancy for
the Musketeer; this even while he made use of the latter to overcome
the former sentiment. If she could be induced by any means, however
fraudulent, to grant the Prince an interview at night in her own gardens,
he argued, that first step would have been taken, which it is always so
difficult to retract; and to bring this about, he had forged Captain
George’s signature to the polite note which had proved so effectual in
luring the Marquise down the terrace steps, and across the velvet lawn,
under the irresistible temptation of a meeting by moonlight with the
man she loved. As a measure of mere politeness, connected with certain
military precautions, of course!
But under such circumstances it would appear that _one_ Musketeer ought
to be company enough for _one_ lady at a time. Cerise, viewing the
performances from her window above, might have come to the conclusion,
had she not been too anxious, agitated, terrified, to retain full
possession of her faculties, that the arrival of a few more of these
guardsmen on such a scene, at such a crisis, was conducive rather to
tumult and bloodshed than appropriate conversation.
Captain George, stopping short in his eager though stealthy advance
towards the white figure flitting noiselessly across the lawn, first
thought he was dreaming; next, that he beheld a spectral or illusive
image of himself, denoting near approach of death; lastly, that the
discipline of the corps had become relaxed to a degree which his military
indignation resolved should be severely visited within an hour, though he
abandoned his command the next.
A Grey Musketeer, hatted, cloaked, booted precisely like himself, was
advancing from the direction of the guard-house towards the white figure,
that now stopped short as if expecting him. While yet a few feet apart,
both stood still, and Captain George, in dark shadow at ten paces’
distance, not only recognised the Marquise by her voice, but saw her face
distinctly, as she turned it towards the moonlight, framed in its masses
of black hair.
His heart beat calmly now, and he was the cool resolute man of action
once more.
She was the first to speak, and though they trembled a little, very soft
and musical fell her tones on the listener’s ear.
“I received monsieur’s note. It was most kind and considerate on his
part. I have been expecting him for this hour past.”
The cloaked figure uncovered. George, watching Madame de Montmirail,
observed her start and raise her head defiantly.
“Madame will forgive the intrusion then,” said her companion, “since
it is not unexpected. She will consider also the temptation, and the
discretion of her visitor.”
There was no mistaking the tones of the Regent, good-humoured, easy, and,
though a little husky, pleasant as if mellowed by Bourdeaux. She drew
back hastily, but the speaker at the same time possessed himself of her
hand, almost by force, and, drawing her towards him, whispered in her ear.
The Marquise broke from him furiously. Her eyes glittered like steel, and
she stamped upon the turf, while she exclaimed—
“What have I ever done that your Highness should offer me this insult?
And here, in the midst of my own people! The Montmirails have been always
loyal,” she added, in a tone of bitter scorn, “and know how to spare a
Bourbon! Quit the garden instantly by that door, and your Highness shall
suffer no further humiliation for an act that is at once a folly and an
impertinence.”
She extended her white hand with the gesture of one who orders a
disobedient hound to kennel, and Captain George, in his hiding-place,
felt the blood mounting to his brain. But the Regent was not so easily
discouraged. Clasping both her hands in his own, he knelt at her feet,
and while cloak and hat fell off, proceeded to pour out a stream
of professions, promises, and protestations, with a good-humoured
carelessness that was in itself an outrage.
Nevertheless, though she struggled fiercely to get free, cool,
courageous, and self-possessed, she made no outcry; but in her efforts a
bracelet flew from her arm, and the skirt of her muslin dress was torn to
its hem.
Captain George could stand it no longer. In two strides he was upon him,
hovering over the aggressor with his drawn sword.
Then the Regent’s nerve failed. Shaken, excited, irritated, he suspected
a plot; he shrank from assassination; he imagined himself surrounded.
“Help! help!” he shouted loudly, staggering to his feet, and looking
wildly about him. “To me! my Musketeers, to me! Down with them! fire on
them all! The traitors! the assassins!”
Lights twinkled in the hotel, and servants came rushing out in great
alarm, but long ere they could reach the scene of action, half-a-dozen
Musketeers had arrived, with Bras-de-Fer at their head.
“Why, ’tis the Captain!” exclaimed the latter, stopping short with his
point lowered, in sheer bewilderment—a lack of promptitude that probably
saved his officer’s life.
“Arrest him, I tell you, idiots!” shrieked the Regent, with a horrible
oath, trembling and glaring about him for a fresh enemy.
The Marquise had plenty of courage. Still she was but a woman, and not
actually hemmed in a corner; so, when the Musketeers ran in with levelled
weapons, she turned and fled; only as far as the terrace steps, however,
where she took up her post and watched the sequel with a wild fixed face,
white and stony as the balustrades themselves.
The servants hovered round, chattering, flinching, and doing nothing.
Half-a-dozen blades flashed in Captain George’s eyes; as many points
were levelled at his heart. His own men had been bid to take him, and
they must obey. He knew well they were some of the best swordsmen in the
French army; but his good horse should by this time be waiting in the
street beyond, and if he could fight his way to the garden-gate there was
yet a chance left.
Even in this extremity he was conscious that the light still streamed
from Cerise’s window. Catching a couple of thrusts in his cloak, and
engaged with a third adversary, he was aware of Bras-de-Fer’s tall figure
advancing upon him. For an instant his heart sank, and he felt he was
over-matched.
But an unexpected auxiliary, who seemed to have risen out of the very
ground, stood at his side. With a thrill of triumph he recognised
Beaudésir’s voice in his ear.
“Courage, my captain!” said the professional coolly, as if giving a
lesson. “Carte and counter-carte—carte and counter-carte! Keep the wrist
going like a windmill, and we shall fight through them all.”
He was yet speaking when Bras-de-Fer went down with an ugly thrust
through the lower ribs, exclaiming as he lost his footing—
“_Peste!_ Had I known _you_ were in it, I’d have parried _your_ blade
with a pistol-shot!”
A few flashing passes, a clink of rapiers, an oath or two, a shriek
from upstairs, shouts, groans, a scuffling of feet, and George was safe
through the garden-door and out in the street. He looked for Beaudésir:
the youth had disappeared. He looked for his horse; the good beast was
walking quietly off in the custody of two Musketeers. A patrole of the
same corps were entering the street from the other end. It seemed hard to
be taken here after all.
But, once more to-night, Captain George found a friend where he least
expected one. A coach was drawn up within six paces. A lackey, with
a lighted torch in one hand, held the door open with the other. Old
Chateau-Guerrand caught him by the arm.
“You are a brave lad,” said he, “and, Regent or _roué_, I am not going
to turn my back on my aide-de-camp! I watched you from the roof of my
coach over the wall. By the cross of St. Louis, I never saw so good a
fight, and I have had fifty years of it, my boy. Here! take my carriage.
They dare not stop _that_ at their barriers. Those English horses can go
like the wind: bid them carry you where you will.”
George pressed his hand and whispered in his ear.
“Relays!” exclaimed the Prince-Marshal. “Then you are safe. Shut him in!
And you, coachman, be off! Drive as if you had the devil or old Turenne
in your rear!”
It was about this moment that Célandine, rushing into her young lady’s
room to comfort her, in the alarm, found Cerise extended, motionless and
unconscious, on the floor.