ESCAPE OF TWO MADCAPS
"Well, it is a mercy, only what's to happen next?" said Mlle Marthe in
the morning.
"I don't know," said Aline doubtfully.
Marthe caught her sister's hand.
"Now, Ange, promise me to keep out of it, and you, Aline, I require you
to do the same. Madelon is a most capable young woman, and if she and
Jean Jacques can't contrive something, yes, and run next to no risk in
doing so, you may be sure that you won't do any better. The sooner the
girl is got out of the place the better, and while she 's here, for
Heaven's sake act with prudence, and don't go sniffing round the secret,
like a dog with a hidden bone, until every one knows it's there."
"My dearest, you forget we can't desert Madelon."
"My dear Ange, you may be a good woman, but sometimes I think you 're a
bit of a fool. Don't you see that Madelon is not in the least danger as
long as you keep well away from her? Who does Mathieu suspect? Us.
Well, and if you and Aline are always in Madelon's pocket, do you think
he will put it all down to an interest in that impending infant of hers?
He 's not such a fool,--and I wish to Heaven you weren't."
This adjuration produced sufficient effect to make Mlle Ange pass
Madelon on the road that very afternoon with no more than a dozen words
on either side.
"Approve of me," she said laughingly on her return. "It was really very,
very good of me, for there were a hundred things I was simply dying to
say."
Mlle Marthe was pleased to smile.
"Oh, you can be very angelic when you like, my Angel. Kindly remember
that goodness is your role, and stick to this particular version of it."
"Madelon says the poor child is rested. She has put her in the loft
where she stored her winter apples."
"Sensible girl. Now you would have given her the best bed, if it meant
everybody's arrest next moment."
"Oh, if it pleases you to say so, you may, but I 'm not really quite so
foolish as you try to make me out. Mathieu thinks everyone was burnt."
"Well, one hoped he would. For Heaven's sake keep out of the whole
matter, and he 'll continue to think so."
"Yes, I will. I see you are right, dearest. Jean Jacques has a plan.
After a few days he thinks he could get her out of the place. Madelon
would not tell me more."
"Oho, Mademoiselle Virtue, then it was Madelon who was good, not you."
"We were both good," asserted Ange demurely.
After that there were no further confidences between Madelon and the
ladies of the white house. If they met on the road, they nodded, passed
a friendly greeting, and went each on her own way without further words.
Ten days went by and brought them to the first week of March. It came
in like the proverbial lamb, with dewy nights which sparkled into tender
sunny days. The brushwood tangles reddened with innumerable buds; here
and there in the hedgerow a white violet appeared like a belated
snowflake, and in the undergrowth primrose leaves showed fresh and
green. Aline gave herself up to these first prophecies of spring. She
roamed the woods and lanes for hours, finding in every budded tree, in
every promised flower, not only the sweetest memories of her childhood,
but also, God knows what, of elusive beckoning hopes that played on the
spring stirring in her blood, as softly as the Lent breeze, which
brought a new blush to her cheek. One exquisite afternoon found her
still miles from home. So many birds were singing that no one could
have felt the loneliness of the countryside. She turned with regret to
make her way towards Rancy, taking here a well-known and there an
unfamiliar path. Nearer home she struck into the woods by a new and
interesting track. It wandered a good deal, winding this way and that
until she lost her bearings and had no longer any clear notion of what
direction she was taking. Presently a sweetness met her, and with a
little exclamation of pleasure she went on her knees before the first
purple violets of the year. It seemed a shame to pick, but impossible
to leave them, and by searching carefully she obtained quite a bunch,
salving her conscience with the thought of what pleasure they would give
Mlle Marthe, who seemed so much more suffering of late.
"It is the spring--it will pass," Ange said repeatedly.
Aline walked on, violets in hand, wondering why the spring, which
brought new life to all Nature, should bring--she caught herself up with
a shiver--Death? Of course there was no question of death. How foolish
of her to think of it, but having thought, the thought clung until she
dwelt painfully upon it, and every moment it needed a stronger effort to
turn her mind away. So immersed was she that she did not notice at all
where she was going. The little path climbed on, pursued a tortuous
way, and suddenly brought her out to the east of the chateau, and in
full view of its ruined pile, where the blackened mass of it still
smoked faintly, and one high skeleton wall towered gaunt and bare, its
empty window spaces like the eyeless stare of a skull.
The sun was behind it, throwing it into strong relief, and the sight
brought back the sort of terror which the place had always had for
Aline. She walked on quickly, skirting the ruins and keeping to the
outer edge of the wide terraces, on her way to the familiar bridle-path,
which was her quickest way home. When she came into the Italian garden
she paused, remembering the nightmare of that struggle for Marguerite's
life. The pool with its low stone rim reflected nothing more terrible
than sunset clouds now, but she still shuddered as she thought how the
smoke and flame had woven strange spirals on its clear, passive mirror.
She stooped now, and dipped her violets in the water to keep them fresh.
Her own eyes looked back at her, very bright and clear, and she smiled a
little as she put up a hand to smooth a straying curl. Then, of a
sudden she saw her own eyes change, grow frightened. A step sounded on
the path behind her, and another face appeared in the pool,--a man's
face--and a stranger's.
Aline got up quickly and turned to see a tall young man in a
riding-dress, who slapped his boot with a silver-headed cane and
exclaimed gallantly:
"Venus her mirror, no less! Faith, my lady Venus, can you tell me where
I have the good fortune to find myself?"
His voice was a deep, pleasant one, but it carried Aline back oddly to
her convent days, and it seemed to her that she had heard Sister Marie
Seraphine say, "Attention, then, my child."
Then she remembered that Sister Marie Seraphine in religion was Nora
O'Connor in the world, and realised that it was the kindly Irish touch
upon French consonants and vowels which she had in common with this
young man, who was surely as unlike a nun as he could be. She looked at
him with great attention, and saw red unpowdered hair cut to a soldier's
(or a Republican's) length, a face all freckles, and queer twinkling
eyes, a great deal too light for his skin.
"Monsieur my cousin, or I 'm much mistaken," she said to herself, but
aloud she answered:
"And do you not know where you are then, Citizen?"
"I know where I want to be, but I hope I have n't got there," said the
young man, coming closer.
"And why is that, Citizen?"
He made a quick impatient gesture.
"Oh, a little less of the Citizen, my dear. I know I 'm an ugly devil,
but do I look like a Jacobin?"
Aline was amazed at his recklessness.
"Monsieur is a very imprudent person," she said warningly.
"Monsieur would like to know where he is," responded the young man,
laughing.
She fixed her eyes on him.
"You are at Rancy-les-Bois, Monsieur."
He bit his lip, made a half turn, and indicated the blackened ruins
above them.
"And this?"
"This is, or was, the Chateau de Montenay."
In a minute all the freckles seemed to be accentuated by the pallor of
the skin below. The hand that held the cane gripped it until the
knuckles whitened. He stared a minute or two at the faintly rising
vapour that told of heat not yet exhausted, and then said sharply:
"When was it burned?"
"Ten days ago."
"Any--lives--lost?"
"It is believed so," said Aline, watching him.
He put his hand to his face a moment, then let it fall, and stood rigid,
his queer eyes suddenly tragic, and Aline could not forbear any longer.
"Marguerite is safe," she cried quickly and saw him colour to the roots
of his hair.
"Marguerite--mon Dieu! I thought she was gone!" and with that he sat
down on the coping, put his head down upon his arms, and a long sobbing
breath or two heaved his broad shoulders in a fashion that at once
touched and embarrassed Aline.
She drew nearer and watched uneasily, her own breathing a little quicker
than usual. A woman's tears are of small account to a woman, but when a
man sobs, it stirs in her the strangest mixture of pity, repulsion,
gentleness, and contempt.
"She is quite safe," she repeated nervously, whereupon the young man
raised his head, exclaiming in impulsive tones:
"And a thousand blessings on you for saying it, my dear," whilst in the
same moment he slipped an arm about her waist, pulled her a little down,
and before she could draw back, had kissed her very heartily upon the
cheek.
It had hardly happened before she was free, and a yard away, with her
head up, and a look in her eyes that brought him to his feet, flushing
and bowing.
"I ask a thousand pardons," he stammered. "Indeed if it had been the
blessed Saint Bridget herself that gave me that news, I 'd have kissed
her, and meant no disrespect. For it was out of hell you took me, with
the best word I ever heard spoken. You see, when I found Marguerite
gone with that old mad lady, her aunt, I was ready to cut my throat,
only I thought I 'd do more good by following her. Then when I saw
these ruins, my heart went cold, till it was all I could do to ask the
name. And when you said it, and I pictured her there under all these
hot cinders--well, if you 've a heart in you, you 'll know what I felt,
and the blessed relief of hearing she was safe. Would n't you have
kissed the first person handy yourself, now?"
He regarded her with such complete earnestness that Aline could hardly
refrain from smiling. She bent her head a little and said:
"I can understand that Monsieur le Chevalier did not know what he was
doing."
He stared.
"What, you know me?"
"And do you perhaps think that I go about volunteering information about
Mlle de Matigny to every stranger I come across? Every one is not so
imprudent as M. Desmond."
"I 'll not deny my name, but that I 'm imprudent--yes, with my last
breath."
Aline could not repress a smile.
"Do you talk to all strangers as you did to me?" she inquired.
"Come, now, how do you think I got here?" he returned.
"I am wondering," she said drily.
"Well, it 's a simple plan, and all my own. When I see an honest face I
let myself go, and tell the whole truth. Not a woman has failed me yet,
and if I 've told the moving tale of my pursuit of Marguerite to one
between this and Bale, I 've told it to half a dozen."
Aline gasped.
"Oh, it 's a jewel of a plan," he said easily, "and much simpler than
telling lies. There are some who can manage their lies, but mine have a
way of disagreeing amongst themselves that beats cock-fighting. No, no,
it 's the truth for me, and see how well it 's served me. So now you
know all about me, but I 've no notion who you are."
"I am a friend of Marguerite's, fortunately," she said, "and, I believe,
M. le Chevalier, that I am a cousin of yours."
Mr. Desmond looked disappointed.
"My dear lady, it would be so much more wonderful if you were n't. You
see my great-grandfather had sixteen daughters, besides sons to the
number of eight or so, and between them they married into every family
in Europe, or nearly every one. Marguerite is n't a cousin, bless her.
Now, I wonder, would you be a grand-daughter of my Aunt Elizabeth, who
ran away with her French dancing-master, in the year of grace 1740?"
The blood of the Rochambeau rose to Aline's cheeks in a becoming blush,
as she answered with rather an indignant negative.
"No?" said Mr. Desmond regretfully. "Well, then, a pity it is too, for
never a one of my Aunt Elizabeth's descendants have I met with yet, and
I 'm beginning to be afraid that she was so lost to all sense of the
family traditions as to die without leaving any."
"If she so far forgot," Aline began a little haughtily, and then,
remembering, blushed a very vivid crimson, and was silent.
"Well, well, I 'm afraid she did," sighed Mr. Desmond; "and now I come
to think of it you 'll be Conor Desmond's granddaughter, he that was
proscribed, and racketed all over Europe. His daughter married a M.
de--Roche--Roche----"
"Rochambeau, Monsieur. Yes, I was Aline de Rochambeau."
"Was?" said Mr. Desmond curiously, and then fell to whistling.
"Oh, my faith, yes, I remember,--Marguerite told me," and there was a
slight embarrassed pause which Desmond broke into with a laugh.
"After all, now, that kiss was not so out of place," he said, with a
twinkle in his green eyes. "Cousins may kiss all the world over."
His glance was too frank to warrant offence, and Aline answered it with
a smile.
"With Monsieur's permission I shall wait until I can kiss Madame ma
cousine," she said, and dropped him a little curtsey.
Mr. Desmond sighed.
"I wish we were all well out of this," he said gloomily; "but how in the
devil's name, or the saints' names, or any one else's name, we are to
get out of it, I don't know. Well, well, the sooner it's tried the
better; so where is Marguerite, Madame my cousin?"
Aline considered.
"I can't take you to her without asking leave of the friend she is
with," she said at last; "but if you will wait here I will go and speak
to her, and come back again when we have talked things over. We shall
have to wait till it is quite dark, and you 'll be careful, won't you?"
"I will," said Mr. Desmond, without hesitation. He kissed his hand to
Aline as she went off, and she frowned at him, then smiled to herself,
and disappeared amongst the trees, walking quickly and wondering what
was to come next.
At eleven o'clock that night a council of four sat in the apple loft at
the mill. Marguerite, perched on a pile of hay, was leaning against
Aline, who sat beside her. Every now and then she let one hand fall
within reach of Mr. Desmond, who, reclining at her feet, invariably
kissed it, and was invariably scolded for doing so. Madelon sat on the
edge of the trap-door, her feet supported by the top rungs of the ladder
which led to the barn below. She and Aline were grave, Marguerite
pouting, and Mr. Desmond very much at his ease.
"But what plan have you?" Aline was asking.
"Oh, a hundred," he said carelessly.
Marguerite pulled her hand away with a jerk.
"Then you might at least tell us one," she said.
"Ah, now I 'd tell you anything when you look at me like that," he said
with fervour.
"Then, tell me. No, now,--at once."
He sat up and extracted a paper from his waistcoat pocket. It set forth
that the Citizen Lemoine and his wife were at liberty to travel in
France at their pleasure.
"In France," said Aline.
"Why, yes, one can't advertise oneself as an emigre. Once on the
frontier, one must make a dash for it,--it's done every day."
"But it says his wife," objected Marguerite, "and I 'm not your wife."
"And I 'm not Lemoine, but it does n't hurt my conscience to say I
am,--not in the least," returned Mr. Desmond.
"But I can't go with you like that," she protested. "What would
grandmamma have said?"
Mr. Desmond gave an ironical laugh. "Your sainted grandmamma is past
knowing what we do, and we 're past the conventions, my dear," he
observed, but she only sat up the straighter.
"Indeed, Monsieur, you may be, but I 'm not. Why, there was Julie de
Lerac, who escaped with her brother's friend. It was when I was in
prison, and I heard what grandmamma and the other ladies said of her.
Nothing would induce me to be spoken of like that."
"But your life depends on it. Marguerite, don't you trust me?"
"Why, of course; but that has nothing to do with it."
"But, my dearest child, what is to be done? You can't stay here, and we
can't be married here, so the only thing to be done is to get away, and
then we 'll be married as soon as your father will allow it. My aunt
Judith's money has come in the very nick of time, for now we 'll be able
to go back to the old place. Ah, you 'll love Ireland."
Marguerite tapped with her foot.
"Why can't we be married now?" she said quickly.
Madelon, who had been listening in silence, started and looked up, but
did not speak.
"Impossible," said Mr. Desmond; and Aline whispered:
"My dear, you could n't."
"Why not? There is a priest here."
"You could n't trust him. He has taken the oath to the Convention,"
said Aline.
"Well but--Madelon, you told me of him; tell them what you said. Do you
think he would betray us?"
"How do I know?" said Madelon, with a frown. "I do not think so, but
one never knows. It is a risk."
"I don't mind the risk."
"To us all," continued Madelon bluntly. "I am thinking of more than
you, little Ma'mselle."
"Who is this priest?" asked Desmond. "What do you know of him?"
"What I know is from my husband's cousin, Anne Pinel, who is his
housekeeper. He took the oath, and ever since he has a trouble on his
mind, and walks at night, sometimes all night long. At first Anne would
get up and listen, and then she would hear groans and prayers, and once
he called out: 'Judas! Judas! Judas!' so that she was frightened, and
went back to her bed and put her hands over her ears. Now she takes no
notice, she is so used to it."
"There!" cried Marguerite. "Poor man, if he can torment himself in such
a way he would not put a fresh burden on his conscience by betraying us.
Besides, why should he? I have a beautiful plan."
"Well?"
"We shall start at night; and first we will go to the priest's house,
and I shall throw pebbles at his window. He will open, and I shall say,
'Mon pere, here are two people who wish to be married.'
"Yes! and he 'd want to know why?"
"Of course, and I shall say, 'Mon pere, we are escaping for our lives,
and we wish to be married because I am a jeune fille bien elevee, and my
grandmamma would turn in her grave at the thought of my crossing France
alone with ma fiance; and then he will marry us, and we shall walk away
again, and go on walking until we can't walk any more."
"Marguerite, what folly!" cried Aline, and Madelon nodded her head.
"It's a beautiful plan!" exclaimed Mr. Desmond. He had his betrothed's
hand in his once more, and was kissing it unrebuked. "My dear, we were
made for each other, for it's a scheme after my own heart! Madame, my
cousin, will you come with us?"
"Oh, yes, as chaperon, and then we needn't bother about getting
married," said Marguerite, kissing her.
"That's not what I meant at all," observed Mr. Desmond reproachfully,
and Aline was obliged to laugh.
"No, no, ma mie; not even to keep you out of so mad a scrape," she said,
and Madelon nodded again.
"No, no," she echoed. "That would be a pretty state of affairs. There
is Citizen Dangeau to be thought of. Deputies' wives must not emigrate."
Aline drew away from Marguerite, and caught Madelon by the arm.
"What's to be done?" she asked.
"Why, let them go."
"But the plan 's sheer folly."
Madelon shrugged.
"Madame Aline," she said in a low voice, "look at them. Is it any use
talking? and we waste time. Once I saw a man at a fair. There was a
rope stretched between two booths, and he walked on it. Then a woman in
the crowd screamed out, 'Oh, he will fall!' and he looked down at her,
went giddy, and fell. He broke his leg; but if no one had called out he
would not have fallen."
"You mean?"
"It will be like walking on the rope for Monsieur and little Ma'mselle
Marguerite, all the way until they get out of France. If they think
they can do it,--well, they say God helps those who cannot help
themselves, and perhaps they will get across safely; but if they get
frightened, if they think of the danger, they will be like the man who
looked down and grew giddy, and pouf!--it will be all over."
"But this added risk----"
"I do not think there is much risk. The cure is timid; for his own sake
he will say nothing. If Anne hears anything, she will shut her ears;
and, Madame Aline, the great thing is for them to get away. I tell you,
I am afraid of my father. He watches us. I do not like his eyes."
She broke off, looking troubled; and Desmond stopped whispering to
Marguerite and turned to them.
"Well, you good Madelon, we shall be off your mind to-morrow. Tell us
where this cure lives; set us in the way, and we 'll be off as soon as
may be. My dear cousin, believe me that frown will bring you lines ten
years before they are due. Do force a smile, and wish us joy."
"To-night!" exclaimed Aline.
"Yes, that's best," said Madelon decidedly. "Little Ma'mselle knows
that she has been a welcome guest, but she 's best away, and that 's the
truth. If we had n't been watched, Jean Jacques would have driven her
out in the cart a week ago."
"Watched! By whom?" Desmond's eyes were alert.
"By my father, Mathieu Leroux, the inn-keeper."
"Ah! well, we 'll be away by morning--in fact we 'll be moving now.
Marguerite is ready. Faith, now I 've found the comfort of travelling
without mails, I 'm ready to swear I 'll never take them again."
"I 'm not," said Marguerite, with a whimsical glance at her costume,
which consisted of an old brown skirt of Madelon's, a rough print
bodice, and a dark, patched cloak, which covered her from head to foot.
They stole out noiselessly, Madelon calling under her breath to the yard
dog, who sniffed at them in the darkness, and then lay down again with a
rustle of straw.
Afterwards Aline thought of the scene which followed as the most
dreamlike of all her queer experiences. The things which she remembered
most vividly were Marguerite's soft ripple of laughter, half-childish,
half-nervous, as she threw a handful of pebbles at the cure's window,
and the moonlight glinting on the pane as the casement opened. What
followed was like the inconsequent and fantastic dramas of sleep.
The explanations--the protests, the cure's voice ashake with timidity,
until at last his fear of immediate discovery overbore his terror of
future consequences, and he began to murmur the words which Aline had
heard last in circumstances as strange, and far more terrifying. For
days she wondered to herself over the odd scene: Desmond with his head
bent towards his betrothed, and his deep voice muffled; and Marguerite
pledging herself childishly--taking the great vows, and smiling all the
time. Only at the very end she turned and threw her arms round Aline,
holding her as if she would never leave go, and straining against her
with a choked sob or two.
"No, no, I can't go--I can't!" she murmured, but Aline wrenched herself
away.
"Marguerite, for God's sake!" she said. "It is too late,--you must go";
and as Desmond stepped between them Marguerite caught his arm and held
it in a wild grip.
"Oh, you'll save me!" And for once Aline was thankful for his tone of
careless ease----
"My jewel, what a question! Why, we 're off on our honeymoon. 'T is a
most original one. Well, we must go. Good-bye, my cousin," and he took
Aline's hand in a grip that surprised her.
"I'll not forget what you've done," he said, and kissed it; and so,
without more ado, they were gone, and Aline was alone in the chequered
moonlight before the priest's house, where the closed window spoke of
the haste with which M. le Cure withdrew himself from participation in
so perilous an affair.