BURNING OF THE CHATEAU
Mlle Marthe lay in the dusk frowning and knitting her brows until they
made a straight dark line over her restless eyes. A sense of angry
impotence possessed her and found expression in a continual sharp
movement of head and hand; the stabbing physical pain evoked was sheer
relief to the strained mind. Two days had now passed since the first
expedition to the chateau, and every hour of them had seemed more
heavily weighted with impending danger. Nothing would persuade Mme de
Montenay to move, or Ange to leave her to her fate. Louise was tearful,
and useless; Marguerite, a lonely child, terrified of the great shadowed
rooms, and clinging eagerly to her friend;--a complication, in fact,
which roused Mlle Marthe's anger more than all the rest, since even her
resolution recoiled from the abandonment of a young girl, who had no
share in Mme de Montenay's obstinacy. Marthe fretted, turned a little,
groaned, and bit her lip.
As the door opened she looked up sharply, but it was only Jeanne, who
came to ask her if she should light the lamp, and got a snappish "No!"
for answer.
"It is dark, Ma'mselle," she said.
"I will wait till they come in."
"Eh--it 's queer weather, and a queer time of day to be out," muttered
Jeanne sulkily.
"Madame is young; she needs exercise," said Marthe, prompted by
something in the woman's tone.
"Ah, yes, exercise," said Jeanne in a queer voice, and she went out,
shutting the door sharply. Mlle Marthe's thoughts kept tone with the
darkening sky. Her eyes watched the door with an anxious stare. When at
last Ange and Aline came in snow-sprinkled and warm, her temper was
fretted to a sharp edge, and she spoke with quick impatience.
"Mon Dieu, how long you have been! If you must go, you must, but there
is no occasion to stay and stay, until I am beside myself with wondering
what has happened!"
Ange threw off her wet cloak and bent to kiss her sister. "Oh, my
dearest, has it been so long?" she said. "Why, I thought we were being
so quick, and that you would commend us. We did not wait at all, only
gave the food to Louise and came straight back. Has the pain been bad
then, my poor darling? Have you wanted anything?"
Marthe pushed her away with an angry jerk.
"What I want is a way out of this abominable situation," she exclaimed.
"If you had any common-sense, Ange--the slightest instinct of
self-preservation--but no, you will sacrifice all our lives to that
wicked old woman, and then flatter yourself that you have done something
to be proud of. Come here to die, has she? Heavens, she 'll outlive us
all, and then go happy in the thought that she has contrived to do a
little more mischief before the end!"
Ange winced, but only said gently:
"Dearest, don't."
"There, Ange, I 've no patience! I tell you we are all on the brink of
ruin. Madelon has been here."
"Madelon? Ah, the dear child. It is so long since I have really seen
her. I am sorry to have missed her. Was she well?"
Mlle Marthe caught her sister's hand and pressed it until she cried out,
"Marthe, you are hurting me!"
"Ange! Sometimes I could swear at you! For Heaven's sake think of
yourself for a few moments, or if that is asking too much, think of
Aline, think of me. Madelon came here because her father sent her!"
"Her father sent her! Marthe, dearest, don't--that hurts."
"I mean it to. Yes, her father----"
"But why. I don't understand."
Aline had been lighting the lamp. She looked up now, and the yellow
flare showed the trouble in her face.
"Oh, ma tante," she breathed.
"Yes, child. Ange, wake up; don't you realise?"
"Mathieu suspects?" asked Aline quickly. "But how?"
"He saw you take the path to the chateau the other day. Saw, or thought
he saw, a light in the west wing last night, and sent Madelon to find
out how much we knew. A mischief-maker Mathieu, and a bad man,--devil
take him."
"Oh, Marthe, don't. Madelon,--Madelon is as true as steel."
"Oh, yes, but mightily afraid of her father. She sat here with her
round cheeks as white as curds, and cried, and begged me not to tell her
anything;--as if I should be such a fool."
"Ah, poor Madelon," said Ange, "she must not distress herself like that,
it is so bad for her just now."
Marthe ground her teeth.
"Ange, I won't have it--I won't. I tell you all our lives are at stake,
and you discuss Madelon's health."
"My dearest, don't be vexed; indeed, I am trying to think what can be
done."
"Now, Ange, listen to me. If you will go on with this mad business,
there is only one thing to be done. I have thought it all out. They
must do with as little as possible, and you must not go there oftener
than once in four days. You will go at eleven o'clock at night when
there is no one abroad, and Louise will meet you half-way and take the
basket on. There must be no other communication of any sort: you hear
me, Aline?"
"Yes," said Aline, "I think you are quite right."
"That is always a consolation." Marthe's voice took a sarcastic tone.
"Now, Ange, do you agree?"
"If you really think----"
"Why, yes, I do. Ange, I 'm a cross animal, but I can't see you throw
your life away and not say a word. I 'm a useless cripple enough, but I
have the use of my tongue. Will you promise?"
"Well--yes."
"That's right. Now for goodness let's talk about something else. If
there 's going to be trouble it will come, and we need n't go over and
over it all before it does come. Aline, do, for the love of heaven,
remember that I cannot bear the light in my eyes like that. Put the lamp
over here, behind me, and then you can take a book and read aloud so as
to give us all a chance of composing our minds."
Aline waked late that night. All the surface calm in her had been
broken up by the events of the last few days. The slight sprinkling of
snow had ceased, but there was a high wind abroad, and as it complained
amongst the stripped and creaking woods, it seemed to voice the yearning
that strained the very fibres of her being.
She stood at midnight and looked out. Very high and pale rode the moon,
and the driving cloud wrack swept like shallow, eddying water across the
one clear space of sky in which she queened it. All below was dense,
dull, cloud mass, darkening to the hill slope, and the black sighing
woodland. Thoughts drove in her brain, like the driving cloud. Sadness
of life, imminence of death, shortness of love. She had seen an ugly
side of ancestral pride in these two days, and suddenly she glimpsed a
vision of herself grown old and grey, looking back along the
interminable years to the time when she had sacrificed youth and love.
Then it would be too late. Life was irrevocable; but now--now? She
threw open her window and leaned far out, drawing the strong air into
her lungs, whilst the wind caught her hair and spread it all abroad.
The spirit of life, of youth, cried to her, and she stretched her arms
wide and mingled her voice with its voice. "Jacques!" she called under
her breath, "Jacques!" and then as suddenly she drew back trembling and
hid her face in her cold hands.
She did not know how the time passed after that, but when she looked up
again there was a faint glow in the sky. She watched it curiously,
thinking for a moment that it was the dawn, and then aware that morning
must still be far away.
A tinge of rose brightened the cloud bank over the hill, and at its edge
the ether showed blue. Then quite suddenly a tongue of fire flared
above the trees and sank again. As the flames rose a second time Ange
Desaix was in the room.
"Aline! The chateau! It is on fire!" she cried. "Oh, mon Dieu, what
shall we do?"
They ran out, wrapped hastily in muffling cloaks, and as they climbed
the hill Ange spoke in gasps.
"They must have seen it in the village before we did. All the world
will be there. Oh, that poor child! God help us all!"
"Oh, come quickly!" cried Aline, and they took hands and ran. The slope
once mounted, the path so dark a few hours back was illuminated. A red,
unnatural dusk filled the wood, and against it the trees stretched great
black groping arms. The sky was like the reflection from some huge
furnace, and all the way the fire roared in the rising wind.
"How could it have happened? Do you think,--oh, do you suppose this is
what she meant to do?" Aline asked once, and Ange gave a sort of sob as
she answered:
"Oh, my dear, God knows,--but I 'm afraid so," and then they pushed on
again in silence.
They came out of the bridle-path into the cypress walk that led to
Madame's Italian garden. At a turn the flaming building came into view
for the first time. South and east it burned furiously, but the west
front, that which faced them, was still intact, though the smoke eddied
about it, and a dull glare from the windows spoke of rooms beyond that
were already in the grip of the flames. Between low hedges of box the
two pressed on, and climbed the terrace steps.
Here the heat drove to meet them full of stinging particles of grit.
The hot blast dried the skin and stung the eyes. The wind blew strongly
from the east, but every now and then it veered, and then the fire
lapped round the corner and was blown out in long dreadful tongues,
which licked the walls as if tasting them, and threw a crimson glare
along the dark west wing. Great sparks like flashes of flame flew high
and far, and the dense reek made breathing painful.
"Look!" said Aline, catching her companion by the arm, and pointing.
From where they stood the broad south terrace was full in view, and the
fire lighted it brilliantly. Below it, where the avenue ceased, was a
small crowd of dark gesticulating figures, intent on the blazing pile.
"They can't see us," said Ange; "but come this way, here, where the
statue screens us."
They paused a moment, leaning against the pedestal where a white Diana
lifted an arrow against the glare. Then both cried out simultaneously,
for driven by a sudden gust the smoke wreaths parted, and for a moment
they saw at a window above them a moving whiteness,--an arm thrust out,
only to fall again, and hang with fatal limpness across the sill.
"Ah, it was Marguerite," cried Aline with catching breath. "I saw her
face. Marguerite! Marguerite!"
"Hush!" said Mlle Ange. "It is no use calling. She has fainted. Thank
God she came this way. There is a stair if I could only find it. Once I
knew it well enough."
As she spoke she hurried into the smoke, and Aline followed, gasping.
"Your cloak over your face, child, and remember you must not faint."
How they gained the boudoir, Aline hardly knew, but she found herself
there with the smoke all round, pressing on her like a solid thing,
blinding, stinging, choking. Ahead of her Mlle Ange groped along the
wall. Once she staggered, but with a great effort kept on, and at last
stopped and pressed with all her strength.
In the darkness appeared a darker patch, and then, just as Aline's
throbbing senses seemed about to fail her, she felt her hand caught, she
was pulled through a narrow opening, her feet felt steps, mounted
instinctively, and her lungs drew in a long, long breath of relief, for
here the smoke had hardly penetrated, and the air, though heavy, was
quite fit to breathe. For a moment they halted and then climbed on.
The stair went steeply up, wound to the left, and ceased. Then again
Ange stood feeling for the catch with fingers that had known it well
enough in the dead days. Now they hesitated, tried here and there,
failed of the secret, and went groping to and fro, until Aline's blood
beat in her throat, and she could have cried out with fear and
impatience. The moment seemed interminable, and the smoke mounted
behind them in ever-thickening whirls.
"It was here, mon Dieu, what has become of it? So many years ago, but I
thought I could have found it blindfold. Rene showing me,--his hand on
mine--ah, at last," and with that the murmuring voice ceased, and the
panelling slipped smoothly back, letting in more smoke, to press like a
nightmare upon their already labouring lungs. Through it the window
showed a red square, against which was outlined a white, huddled shape.
It was Marguerite, who lay just as she had fallen, head bowed, one hand
thrust out, the other at her throat. Ange and Aline stood by her for a
moment leaning from the window, and taking in what air they might, and
then the confusion and the stumbling began once more, only this time
they had a weight to carry, and could shield neither eyes nor lungs from
the pervading smoke. Twice they stopped, and twice that dreadful roar
of the fire, a roar that drowned even the heavy beat of their burdened
pulses, drove them on again, until at last they stumbled out upon the
terrace, and there halted, gasping terribly. The intolerable heat
dripped from them in a black sweat, and for a while they crouched
trembling in every limb. Then Ange whispered with dry lips:
"We must go on. This is not safe."
They staggered forward once more, and even as they did so there was a
most appalling crash, and the flames rushed up like a pyramid to heaven,
making all the countryside light with a red travesty of day. Urged by
terror, and with a final effort, they dragged Marguerite down the steps,
and on, until they sank at last exhausted under a cypress which watched
the pool where the fountain played no more.
In a minute or two Aline recovered sufficiently to wet the hem of her
cloak and bathe Marguerite's face. This and the cold air brought her to
with a shudder and a cry. She sat up coughing, and clung to Aline.
"Oh, save me, save me!"
"Cherie, you are saved."
"And they are burnt. Oh, Holy Virgin, I shall see it always."
"Don't talk of it, my dear!"
"Oh, I must. I saw it, Aline; I saw it! There was a little thread of
fire that ran up Louise's skirt, like a gold wire. Oh, mon Dieu! They
are burnt."
"Madame?" asked Ange, very low.
"Yes, yes; and Louise, poor Louise! I was so cross with her last night;
but I did n't know. I would n't have been if I had known. Oh, poor
Louise!"
"Tell us what happened, my dear, if you can."
"Oh, I don't know." Marguerite hid her face a moment, and then spoke
excitedly, pushing back her dishevelled hair. "I woke up with the smoke
in my throat, and ran in to la tante's room. She had n't gone to bed at
all. There she was in her big chair, sitting up straight, Louise on her
knees begging her to get up, and all between the boards of the floor
there was smoke coming up, as if there were a great fire underneath."
"Underneath! It began below, then?"
"Yes, Aline, she did it herself! She must have crept down and set light
in ever so many places. Yes, it is true, for she boasted of it. 'Ange
Desaix says I am the last of the Montenay. Very well, then; she shall
see, and the world shall see, how Montenay and I will go together!'
That is what she said, and Louise screamed, 'Save yourself, Ma'mselle!'
But la tante nodded and said, 'Yes, if you have wings, use them, by all
means.' It was like some perfectly horrid dream. I ran through the
rooms to see if I could get down the stairs, but they were all in a
blaze. Then I ran back again; but when I was still some way from the
door I saw that the fire was coming up through the floor. Louise gave
one great scream, but la tante just sat and smiled, and then the floor
gave way, and they went down with a crash. Oh, Aline--Aline!"
"Oh, Marguerite, my dear--and you?"
Marguerite shuddered.
"I ran across the corridor and into the farthest room, and the smoke
came after me, and I fainted, and then you came and saved me."
"Hush! there is some one coming," said Mlle Ange in a quick whisper.
They crouched down and waited breathlessly. Then, after an agonised
struggle, Marguerite coughed, and at once a dark figure bore down on
them.
"Thank the Saints I have found you," said Madelon's voice.
Aline sprang up.
"Madelon--you? How did you know?"
"Ah! Bah--I saw you when you crossed the terrace. I saw you were
carrying some one. Is it Madame?"
"No, no; a girl--younger than we are. Oh, Madelon, you will help us?"
"Well, at least I won't harm you--you know that; but you are safe
enough, so far, for no one else saw you. They were all watching to see
the roof fall in over there to the right, and I should have been
watching too, only that my cousin Anne had just been scolding me so for
being there at all. She said my baby would have St. John's fire right
across his face. She herself has a red patch over one eye, and only
because her mother would sit staring at the embers. Well, I thought I
would be prudent, so I bade Jean Jacques look instead of me, and turned
my head the other way, and, just as the flames shot up, I saw you cross
the terrace and go down the steps. And now, what are you going to do
with Mademoiselle?"
This most pertinent question took them all aback, and Marguerite looked
up with round, bewildered eyes; she certainly had no suggestions to
make. At last Mlle Ange said slowly:
"She must come home with us."
"Impossible! No, no, that would never do, dear Ma'mselle."
"But there is nothing else to be done."
"Oh, there must be. Why, you could not hide an infant in your house.
Everything is known in the village,--and--I should not trust Jeanne
overmuch."
"Madelon! Jeanne? She has been with us a life-time."
"Maybe, but she hates the Montenay more than she loves you and Mlle
Marthe. Also, she is jealous of Madame here,--and--in fact, she has
talked too much already."
"Then what is to be done?" asked Ange distractedly. She was trembling
and unnerved. That a man's foes could be they of his own household, was
one of those horrible truths which now came home to her for the first
time. "Jeanne," she kept repeating; "no, it is not possible that Jeanne
would do anything to harm us."
Madelon drew Aline aside.
"Jeanne is an old beast," she said frankly. "I always said so; but
until the other day I did not think she was unfaithful. Now,--well, I
only tell you that my father said she had given him 'valuable
information.' What do you make of that, eh?"
"What you do," said Aline calmly.
"Well, then, what next?"
"What do you advise?"
"Seigneur! Don't put it on me. What is there to advise?"
As she spoke, with a shrug of her plump shoulders, Marguerite came
forward. In her white undergarment, with her brown hair loose and
curling, and her brown eyes brimmed with tears, she looked like a
punished child. Even the smuts on her face seemed to add somehow to the
youth and pathos of her appearance.
"Oh, Aline," she said, with a half sob, "where am I to go? What am I to
do?" And in a moment the mother in Madelon melted in her.
"There, there, little Ma'mselle," she said quickly, "there 's nothing to
cry about. You shall come along with me, and if I can't give you as
fine a bed as you had in this old gloomy place, at any rate it will be a
safer one, and, please the Saints, you 'll not be burnt out of it."
"No, no, Madelon, you mustn't," said Mlle Ange.
"And why not, chere Ma'mselle?"
"The danger--your father--your good husband. It would not be fair. I
will not let you do what you have just said would be so dangerous."
"Dangerous for you, but not for me. Who is going to suspect me? As to
Jean Jacques, you need n't be afraid of him. Thank God he is no
meddler, and what I do is right in his eyes."
"Dear child, he is a good husband; but--but just now you should not have
anxiety or run any risks."
Madelon laughed, and then grew suddenly grave.
"Ah, you mean my baby. Why, you are just like Anne; but there,
Ma'mselle, do you really think le bon Dieu would let my baby suffer
because I tried to help poor little Ma'mselle here, who does n't look
much more than a baby herself?"
Ange kissed her impulsively.
"God bless you, my dear," she said. "You are a good woman, Madelon."
"Well, then, it is settled. Here, take my cloak, Ma'mselle. What is
your name? Ma'mselle Marguerite, then--no, not yours; it is much better
that you should not come into the matter any more, Ma'mselle Ange, nor
you, Madame. Ma'mselle Marguerite will put on my cloak and come along
with me, and as quickly as possible, since Jean Jacques will be getting
impatient."
"Where is he, then?" asked Aline.
"Oh, yonder behind the big cypress. I left him there to keep a look-out
and tell us if any one came this way. He has probably gone to sleep, my
poor Jean Jacques. It took me a quarter of an hour to wake him, the
great sleepy head. He had no desire to come, not he, and will be only
too thankful to be allowed to go back to bed again."
"Now, Ma'mselle, are you ready?"
They went off together into the shadows, and Ange and Aline took their
way home to remove the smoke and grime, and to tell Mlle Marthe the
events of the night.