REVELATION.
Had Madame Labroquerie continued firm in her resolve never to approach
the fortress while her nephew ruled, all might have been well; but
unfortunately for her daughter, and, as it was to prove, for herself,
the bitter little woman permitted her longing to enter again into the
affairs of the world to prevail over her hatred for the commandant, and
so suffered herself to be brought to the citadel, railing savagely
throughout the journey. Before a week had passed she revealed herself
fully as an unnatural mother and an implacable foe. Yet, to do justice
to even a worker of evil, it must be admitted that Madeleine, with all
her sweetness, was a sore trial to a fanatical Catholic and bigoted
patriot, for she refused to be ashamed of her heresy, and was never
weary of singing the praise of her English lover.
Left to themselves, neither Laroche, now the head of the Church in that
district, nor Roussilac would have taken action against the lovely
sinner; but Madame, in one of her fits of ungovernable anger, publicly
preferred two charges against her daughter, accusing her of heresy and
treason, and calling upon the Church to punish her for the one offence
and the State to exact a penalty for the other.
These were grave indictments, but both priest and layman closed their
ears, the former not wishing to be troubled by unpleasant duties, the
latter hanging back, not on account of the tie of relationship, but
because of Madeleine's beauty. But when Madame, in another fit of
fury, openly denounced the commandant before D'Archand, who for the
second time had arrived at that coast, as a Lutheran at heart, and a
protector of the enemies of the Church, he was driven to act for the
sake of his ambition. So Madeleine was arrested and confined in a
small stone hut high upon the cliff, and before her door a sentry paced
both by day and night, while Laroche, with many deep grumblings, was
compelled to undertake the uncongenial task of saving the fair girl's
soul.
To the credit of the priest, be it said that he was charitable. He
believed Madeleine had been perverted from the right way by some spell
of witchcraft, and this belief was strengthened by the fact that, when
he adjured the girl by the tears of the Saviour to weep, she merely
laughed at him. It was notorious that a guilty witch was unable to
shed tears. Accordingly Laroche attended himself to the obvious duty
of exorcising the evil spirit which had taken up its abode in her; but,
in spite of all his efforts, the girl remained as wickedly obstinate as
before.
"The Church acts towards her children with wondrous love, and because
of that love may chasten," the abbe preached. "'Tis the duty of the
faithful within the fold to bring in the wandering sheep, either by
suasion or by force. Being bewitched, my daughter, you stand in great
peril, and we, by the powers entrusted unto us, may remove that danger,
when reasoning fails, by bodily torment. Be converted, and your soul
shall live. Remain in your unbelief, and punishment shall follow,
because a living heretic is a danger to the world and a dishonour to
the holy saints."
Even such sound doctrine as this failed to move the heart of Madeleine,
and each day Laroche grumbled louder at his failure, and Roussilac
shrank yet more from bringing his cousin to trial, and Madame became
more stinging in speech and more furious in her awful passions, because
of the suffering of her mind during lucid moments, when she could see
herself in sunny Normandy once more young and sane. Her hatred for
Roussilac increased, until she would spit and snarl at him when he
passed, and scream: "Infidel! This shall be known in France. Power
shall fall from you, and the people shall curse your name." And when
the men who had been sent after Geoffrey returned afoot with their tale
of failure, Madame Labroquerie made it known from the ship to the
citadel that it was the commandant who had secured the spy's safety for
the love of his heretic cousin.
Coward as he was in many ways, Roussilac at length saw that he must act
or be dishonoured; he must either release Madeleine or bring her to
trial for treason. The former alternative was impossible, because the
girl was an ecclesiastical prisoner. The lightest sentence he could
pass for treason was banishment, and he could not endure the prospect
of losing Madeleine. Besides, when he had sentenced her, she still
remained to be judged by the clerical court. It needed a wiser brain
than Roussilac's to solve so tangled a problem. Nevertheless, he
resolved to attempt it. After some speech with Laroche, who was
heartily weary of the whole business, the commandant passed from the
church of Ste. Mary, after the hour of vespers, and ascended the
winding path which led towards the hut where the impenitent was
imprisoned. The sentry saluted as the governor approached, then
resumed his march along the brown scar which the constant tread had
made.
"Withdraw yonder," Roussilac ordered.
A happy voice broke out, as he put up his hand to the door:
"There is the sun upon the side of the wall. So it is already evening.
Time flies as fast in prison as elsewhere. I pray you, sun, shine upon
Geoffrey rather than on me!"
Cribbed and confined as the girl was, she steadily refused to be cast
down, because she was assured that life had far better things in store.
Her lover was pursued, but then she knew he would escape. Her body
might be held in prison, but her spirit was free, flying over forest
and hill, and singing like a lark against the clouds.
Her note changed when Roussilac flung open the door and stood before
her in a flood of light.
"Cousin," Madeleine said coldly. "You break upon me suddenly. I had
better company before you came. Why do you drive my friends away?"
The commandant closed the door and stepped forward, his sallow face
working.
"You are alone," he said. "None dare visit you without permission."
"I am never alone," she declared. "My friends left me when you
entered; but they shall return when you depart."
"Am not I a friend? Nay, more--I am a relation," began Roussilac; but
she checked him with the reproof: "I have no family now that Jean-Marie
is dead."
"Your mother," he reminded her.
"She has delivered me into the power of the Church."
"Because it is best for you. I would care for your body, Madeleine, as
your mother cares for your soul. Cousin, think not unkindly of me. I
would release you; but what power have I to remove the judgment of the
Abbe Laroche? He has sentenced you to close confinement, until----"
"My lover returns to release me," she finished, and backed from him
with a laugh.
Roussilac clenched his fingers tightly, and jealousy venomed the words
which then left his lips:
"Foolish girl, would you rouse all the evil in me? Bear with me,
cousin," he went on quickly. "It is not in me to endure patiently.
Since that day when I stood before you in the grove I have not known
the meaning of peace. My nights have been long, my days dark, my
position unprofitable----"
Again she interrupted him, to simplify what she knew must follow:
"Because you think that you love me."
He stepped forward to seize her hands; but she drew back and steadied
herself against the wall.
"I do love you, sweet cousin."
"You do not love me. Need I give you the lie when your own tongue
gives it you? Is it love when the nights become long, and the day
dark, and position brings no pleasure? Arnaud, I love, and am held in
prison; but my nights are short, my days warm, and my position is a
happiness. Believe you that love, however unrequited, takes away from
life? I tell you it adds, it enriches, it beautifies. It is a crown
which makes a humble man a king, and the halo which makes the
singing-girl a saint. Love gives a man strength to use his power, to
defy superstition and false religion, to snap his fingers in the face
of a fat priest who believes that a strong will may be bent and broken
by holding the body in bondage. Had I my heart to offer I would scorn
your cowardly love."
He had faced her while she spoke, but when she stopped he turned, and,
feeling the sting of her eyes, savagely pulled at the cloak which had
drifted from his shoulders.
"My mother has sent you," said Madeleine.
"She and I are bitter enemies," came the sullen answer. "I have but
borne with her for your sake. She seeks to stir up mischief all the
day long." He turned abruptly. "Have you no kind word for me, little
cousin?"
He looked worn and old, and the girl pitied him; but she was too honest
to deceive by fair speech.
"You brought me to this place against my will," she reminded him. "I
was happy in our cabin beyond the river. You have played into the
hands of my mother, who desires to see me punished because I have
abjured her faith. Would you have brought me here had you found the
plain country maid you had looked to see?"
"I swore to your brother to protect you."
"Do not recall that death scene, I pray you," she said firmly. "If the
spirit of Jean-Marie looks down upon us now, he finds you--protecting
me!"
Roussilac winced as that shot struck him. "Blame me not," he said more
submissively. "Were you a civil prisoner only, I would open this door,
and you should go as free as air. My purpose in coming to you is to
urge you to free yourself."
"Never at the price demanded. Arnaud, I put your courage to the test.
I trow that the man who loves a woman will for her sake perform what
she may demand, even though he lose position for it. Open the door,
and lead me to Father Laroche, and say to him: 'Father, I have taken it
upon myself to release your prisoner, since it shames me to see flesh
and blood of mine confined against her will in the fortress over which
I rule.' Do so, Arnaud, and I shall believe in you."
"It is madness to ask it," said Roussilac loudly.
"Let us have the truth. You dare not."
"It is so," he confessed. "I dare not set myself against the Church,
which has the power to consign a man's soul to hell."
Madeleine smiled contemptuously.
"If you would search your heart and read truly what there you find, I
should hear a different answer. You do not fear Father Laroche. He
does not wish to hold me here. Rather would he cast me from his mind,
that he might have more time to spend at the tavern and his brawls. I
will tell you what you fear: your actions are watched, your words
criticised. If you let me free, it would be rumoured that you were
false to the faith. That rumour would be wafted across seas, and your
enemies at home would see to it that you were recalled and relegated to
the obscurity from which you have arisen. You would rather treat your
cousin as a courtesan than abate one fragment of the pitiful power
which shall some day fall from your body like a rag. Now, my
commandant, are you answered?"
Roussilac said not a word when he saw the scorn in those violet eyes.
He merely put out his hand, and opened the door, muttering, as though
to himself: "That pride shall break when she knows."
"Know?" cried Madeleine. "What should I know?"
He looked at her savagely, feeling that it was in him to make her
suffer.
"That your lover is hanged at my command."
He closed the door quickly and fastened it, half hoping, half dreading,
to hear the scream of anguish which he believed must follow. But there
came to him as he waited a peal of joyous laughter, and the happy words:
"Geoffrey, Geoffrey! would that you could hear that! Dead! Why, my
love, you are full of life. Were you to die, which God indeed forbids,
your dear spirit would fly at once to me. Dead! Have I not seen you
in my dreams? Do not I see you now walking within sight of the New
England fields? Oh, Geoffrey! Near--how near! Who is that great man
riding beside you, a panther skin across his shoulder? How noisily he
talks ... and now leans over, and pats you on the arm. Ah, gone--gone!
And he would have me think that you are hanged!"