THE DILIGENCE FROM ROUEN AND THE MASQUERADING LADIES
The diligence from Rouen rolled and careened along the road to
Rochelle. Eddies of snow, wind-formed, whirled hither and thither, or
danced around the vehicle like spirits possessed of infinite mischief.
Here and there a sickly tree stretched forth its barren arms blackly
against the almost endless reaches of white. Sometimes the horses
struggled through drifts which nearly reached their bellies; again,
they staggered through hidden marsh pools. The postilion, wrapped in a
blanket, cursed deeply and with ardor. He swung his whip not so much
to urge the horses as to keep the blood moving in his body. Devil take
women who forced him to follow the king's highway in such weather! Ten
miles back they had passed a most promising inn. Stop? Not they!
Rochelle, Rochelle, and nothing but Rochelle!
"How lonely!" A woman had pushed aside the curtain and was peering
into the night. There was no light save that which came from the
pallor of the storm, dim and misty. "It has stopped snowing. But how
strange the air smells!"
"It is the sea . . . We are nearing the city. It is abominably cold."
"The sea, the sea!" The voice was rich and young, but heavy with
weariness. "And we are nearing Rochelle? Good! My confidence begins
to return. You must hide me well, Anne."
"Mazarin shall never find you. You will remain in the city till I take
leave of earthly affairs."
"A convent, Anne? Oh, if you will. But why Canada? You are mad to
think of it. You are but eighteen. You have not even known what love
is yet."
"Have you?"
There was a laugh. It was light-hearted. It was a sign that the
sadness and weariness which weighed upon the voice were ephemeral.
"That is no answer."
"Anne, have I had occasion to fall in love with any man when I know man
so well? You make me laugh! Not one of them is worthy a sigh. To
make fools of them; what a pastime!"
"Take care that one does not make a fool of you, Gabrielle."
"Ah, he would be worth loving!"
"But what are you going to do with the property?"
"Mazarin has already posted the seals upon it."
"Confiscated?"
"About to be. That is why I fled to Rouen. My mother warned me that
the cardinal had found certain documents which proved that a conspiracy
was forming at the hôtel. Monsieur's name was the only one he could
find. His Eminence thought that by making a prisoner of me he might
force me to disclose the names of those most intimate with monsieur.
He is searching France for me, Anne; and you know how well he searches
when he sets about it. Will he find me? I think not. His arm can not
reach very far into Spain. How lucky it was that I should meet you in
Rouen! I was wondering where in the world I should go. And I shall
live peacefully in that little red château of yours. Oh! if you knew
what it is to be free! The odious life I have lived! He used to bring
his actress into the dining-hall. Pah! the paint was so thick on her
face that she might have been a negress for all you could tell what her
color was. And he left her a house near the forest park and seven
thousand livres beside. Free!" She drew in deep breaths of briny air.
"Gabrielle, you are a mystery to me. Four years out of convent, and
not a lover; I mean one upon whom you might bestow love. And that
handsome Vicomte d'Halluys?"
"Pouf! I would not throw him yesterday's rose."
"And Monsieur de Saumaise?"
"Well, yes; he is a gallant fellow. And I fear that I have brought
trouble into his household. But love him? As we love our brothers.
The pulse never bounds, the color never comes and goes, the tongue is
never motionless nor the voice silenced in the presence of a brother.
My love for Victor is friendship without envy, distrust, or
self-interest. He came upon my sadness and shadow as a rainbow comes
on the heels of a storm. But love him with the heart's love, the love
which a woman gives to one man and only once?"
"Poor Victor!" said Anne.
"Oh, do not worry about Victor. He is a poet. One of their
prerogatives is to fall in love every third moon. But the poor boy!
Anne, I have endangered his head, and quite innocently, too. I knew
not what was going on till too late."
"And you put your name to that paper!"
"What would you? Monsieur le Comte would have broken my wrist, and
there are black and blue spots on my arm yet."
"Tell me about that grey cloak."
"There is nothing to tell, save that Victor did not wear it. And
something told me from the beginning that he was innocent."
"And the Chevalier du Cévennes could not have worn it because he was in
Fontainebleau that dreadful night."
"The Chevalier du Cévennes is living in Rochelle?" asked Gabrielle.
"Yes. Was it not gallant of him to accept punishment in Victor's
stead?"
"What else could he do, being a gentleman?"
"Why does your voice grow cold at the mention of his name?" asked Anne.
"It is your imagination, dear. My philosophy has healed the wounded
vanity. Point out the Chevalier to me, I should like to see the man
who declined an alliance with the house of Montbazon."
"I thought that you possessed a miniature of him?"
"It contained only the face of a boy; I want to see the man. Besides,
I do not exactly know what has become of the picture, which was badly
painted."
"I will point him out. Was the Comte d'Hérouville among the
conspirators?"
"Yes. How I hate that man!"
"Keep out of his path, Gabrielle. He would stop at nothing. There is
madness in that man's veins."
"I do not fear him. Many a day will pass ere I see him again, or poor
Victor, for that matter. I wonder where he has gone?"
"I would I could fathom that heart of yours."
"It is very light and free just now."
"Am I your confidante in all things?"
"I believe so."
"The year I lived with you at the hôtel taught me that you are like
sand; a great many strange things going on below."
"What a compliment! But give up trying to fathom me, Anne. I love you
better when you laugh. Must you be a nun, you who were once so gay?"
"I am weary."
"Of what? You ask me if I am your confidante in all things; Anne, are
you mine?"
No answer.
"So. Well, I shall not question you." The speaker drew her companion
closer and retucked the robes; and silence fell upon the two, silence
broken only by the wind, the flapping leather curtains, and the muffled
howling of the postilion.
It was twelve o'clock when the diligence drew up before the Corne
d'Abondance. The host came out, holding a candle above his head and
shading his eyes with his unengaged hand.
"Maître, I have brought you two guests," said the postilion, sliding
off his horse and grunting with satisfaction.
"Gentlemen, I hope."
"Ladies!" and lowering his voice, the postilion added: "Ladies of high
degree, I can tell you. One is the granddaughter of an admiral and the
other can not be less than a duchess."
"Ladies? Oh, that is most unfortunate! The ladies' chamber is all
upset, and every other room is engaged. They will be compelled to wait
fully an hour."
"That will not inconvenience us, Monsieur," said a voice from the
window of the diligence, "provided we may have something hot to drink;
wines and hot water, with a dash of sugar and brandy. Come, my dear;
and don't forget your mask."
"How disappointing that the hôtel was closed! Well, we can put up with
the tavern till morning."
With some difficulty the two women alighted and entered the common
assembly room, followed by the postilion who staggered under bulky
portmanteaus. They approached the fire unconcernedly, ignoring the
attention which their entrance aroused. The youngest gave a slight
scream as the Iroquois rose abruptly and moved away from the chimney.
"Holy Virgin!" Anne cried, clutching Gabrielle's arm; "it is an
Indian!" The vision of quiet in a Quebec convent grew vague.
"Hush! he would not be here if he were dangerous." Gabrielle turned
her grey-masked face toward the fire and rested a hand on the broad
mantel.
Victor, who had taken a table which sat in the shadow and who was
trying by the aid of champagne to forget the tragic scene of the hour
gone, came near to wasting a glass of that divine nectar of Nepenthe.
He brushed his eyes and held a palm to his ear. "That voice!" he
murmured. "It is not possible!"
At this same moment the vicomte turned his head, his face describing an
expression of doubt and astonishment. He was like a man trying to
recollect the sound of a forgotten voice, a melody. He stared at the
two figures, the one of medium height, slender and elegant, the other
plump and small, at the grey mask and then at the black. These were
not masks of coquetry and larking, masks which begin at the brow and
end at the lips: they were curtained. Seized, by an impulse, occult or
mechanic, the vicomte rose and drew near. The younger woman made a
gesture. Was it of recognition? The vicomte could not say. But he
saw her lean toward her companion, whisper a word which caused the grey
mask to wheel quickly. She seemed to grow taller, while a repelling
light flashed from the eyeholes of the grey mask.
"Mesdames," said the vicomte with elaborate courtesy, "the sight of the
Indian doubtless alarms you, but he is perfectly harmless. Permit a
gentleman to offer his services to two ladies who appear to be
traveling alone."
Father Chaumonot frowned from his chair and would have risen but for
the restraining hand of Bouchard, who, like all seamen, was fond of
gallantry.
"Monsieur," replied the black mask, coldly and impudently, "we are
indeed alone; and upon the strength of this assertion, will you not
resume your conversation with yonder gentlemen and allow my companion
and myself to continue ours?"
"Mademoiselle," said the vicomte eagerly, "I swear to you, that your
voice is familiar to my ears." He addressed the black mask, but he
looked searchingly at the grey. His reward was small. She maintained
under his scrutiny an icy, motionless dignity.
"And permit me to say," returned the black mask, "that while your voice
is not familiar, the tone is, and very displeasing to my ears. And if
you do not at once resume your seat, I shall be forced to ask aid of
yonder priest."
"Yes, yes! that voice I have heard before!" Then, quick as a flash, he
had plucked the strings of her mask, disclosing a round, piquant face,
now white with fury.
"Oh, Monsieur!" she cried; "if I were a man!"
"This grows interesting," whispered Bouchard to Du Puys.
"Anne de Vaudemont?" exclaimed the vicomte; "in Rochelle?" The vicomte
stepped back confused. He stared undecidedly at mademoiselle's
companion. She deliberately turned her back.
Victor was upon his feet, and his bottle of wine lay frothing on the
floor. He came forward.
"Vicomte, your actions are very disagreeable to me," he said. The end
of his scabbard was aggressively high in the air. He was not so tall a
man as the vicomte, but his shoulders were as broad and his chest as
deep.
Neither the vicomte nor the poet heard the surprised exclamation which
came with a muffled sound from behind the grey mask. She swayed
slightly. The younger threw her arms around her, but never took her
eyes from the flushed countenance of Victor de Saumaise.
"Indeed!" replied the vicomte coolly; "and how do you account for
that?" He spoke with that good nature which deceives only those who are
not banterers themselves.
"It is not necessary to particularize," proudly, "to a gentleman of
your wide accomplishments."
"Monsieur de Saumaise, your servant," said the vicomte. "Ladies, I beg
of you to accept my apologies. I admit the extent of my rudeness,
Mademoiselle." He bowed and turned away, leaving Victor puzzled and
diffident.
"Mademoiselle de Vaudemont," he said, "is it possible that I see you
here in Rochelle?" How his heart beat at the sight of that figure
standing by the mantel.
"And you, Monsieur; what are you doing here?"
"I am contemplating a journey to Spain," carelessly.
"Success to your journey," said Anne, frankly holding out a hand. But
she was visibly distressed as she glanced at her companion. "Is the
Vicomte d'Halluys going to Spain also?" smiling.
Victor shrugged. "He professes to have business in Quebec. That
beautiful Paris has grown so unhealthy!"
"Quebec?" The woman in the grey mask spun on her heels. "Monsieur,
did I hear you say Quebec?"
"Yes, Madame la Comtesse."
The grey mask made a gesture of dissent. Presently she spoke.
"Monsieur, you have made a mistake. There is no Madame la Comtesse
here."
Victor did not reply.
"Do you hear, Monsieur?"
"Yes, Madame. Our eyes and ears sometimes deceive us, but never the
heart."
Madame flung out a hand in protest. "Never mind, Monsieur, what the
heart says; it is not worth while."
Victor grew pale. There was a double meaning to this sentence. Anne
eyed him anxiously.
A disturbance at the table caught Victor's ear. He saw that the
vicomte and the others were proceeding toward the stairs. The vicomte
was last to mount. At the landing he stopped, looked down at the group
by the chimney, shrugged, and went on.
Maître le Borgne came in from the kitchens. "If the ladies will follow
me I will conduct them to their rooms. A fire is under way. The wines
and brandy and sugar are on the table; and the warming-pan stands by
the chimney."
"Anne," said madame, "go you to the room with the host. I will follow
you shortly. I have something to say to Monsieur de Saumaise."
There was a decision in her tones which caused Victor to experience a
chill not devoid of dread. If only he could read the face behind the
mask!
Anne followed Maître le Borgne upstairs. Victor and madame were alone.
He waited patiently for her to speak. She devoted some moments
absently to crushing with her boot the stray pieces of charred wood
which littered the broad hearthstone.
"Victor," she said of a sudden, "forgive me!"
"Forgive you for what?"
"For innocently bringing this trouble upon you, for endangering your
head."
"Oh, that is nothing. Danger is spice to a man's palate. But will you
not remove your mask that I may look upon your face while you speak?"
There was a break in his voice. This unexpected meeting seemed to have
taken the solids from under his feet.
"You have been drinking!" with agitation.
"I have been striving to forget. But wine makes us reckless, not
forgetful." He rumpled his hair. "But will you not remove the mask?"
"Victor, you ought never to look upon my face again."
"Do you suppose that I could forget your face, a single contour or line
of it?"
"I have been so thoughtless! Forgive me! It was my hope that many
months should pass ere we met again. But fate has willed it otherwise.
I have but few words to say to you. I beg you to listen earnestly to
them. It is true that in your company I have passed many a pleasant
hour. Your wit, your gossip, your excellent verses, and your unending
gaiety dispelled many a cloud of which you knew nothing, nor shall
know. When I fled from Paris there was a moment when I believed you to
be guilty of that abominable crime. That grey cloak; I had seen you
wear it. Forgive me for doubting so brave a gentleman as yourself. I
have learned all. You never spoke of the Chevalier du Cévennes as
being your comrade in arms. That was excessive delicacy on your part.
Monsieur, our paths must part to widen indefinitely."
"How calmly you put the cold of death in my heart!" The passion in his
voice was a pain to her. Well she knew that he loved her deeply,
honestly, lastingly. "Gabrielle, you know that I love you. You are
free."
"Love?" with voice metallic. "Talk not to me of love. If I have
inspired you with an unhappy passion, forgive me, for it was done
without intent. I have played you an evil turn." She sank on one of
the benches and fumbled, with the strings of her mask.
"So: the dream vanishes; the fire becomes ashes. Is it really you,
Gabrielle? Has not the wine turned the world upside-down, brought you
here only in fancy? This night is truly some strange dream. I shall
wake to-morrow in Paris. I shall receive a note from you, bidding me
bring the latest book. The Chevalier will dine with his beautiful
unknown . . . Gabrielle, tell me that you love no one," anger and love
and despair alternately changing his voice, "yes, tell me that!"
"Victor, I love no man. And God keep me from that folly. You are
making me very unhappy!" She bent her head upon her arm.
"Oh, my vanished dream, do not weep on my account! You are not to
blame. I love you well. That is God's blame, not yours, since He
molded you, gave you a beautiful face, a beautiful mind, a beautiful
heart. Well, I will be silent. I will go about my affairs, laughing.
I shall write rollicking verses, fight a few duels, and sign a few
papers under which the ax lies hidden! . . . Do you know how well I
love you?" sinking beside her and taking her hand before she could
place it beyond his reach. He put a kiss on it. "Listen. If it means
anything toward your happiness and content of mind, I will promise to
be silent forever." Suddenly he dropped the hand and rose. "Your
presence is overpowering: I can not answer for myself. You were right.
We ought not to have met again."
"I must go," she said, also rising. She moved blindly across the room,
irresolutely. Seeing a door, she turned the knob and entered.
It was only after the door closed that Victor recollected. Paul and
she together in that room? What irony! He was about to rush after
madame, when his steps were arrested by a voice coming from the stairs.
The vicomte was descending.
"Ah, Monsieur de Saumaise," said the vicomte, "how fortunate to find
you alone!"
"Fortunate, indeed!" replied Victor. Here was a man upon whom to wreak
his wrath, disappointment and despair. Justice or injustice, neither
balanced on the scales of his wrath. He crossed over to the chimney,
stood with his back to the fire and waited.
The vicomte approached within a yard, stopped; twisted his mustache,
resting his left hand on his hip. His discerning inspection was soon
completed. He was fully aware of the desperate and reckless light in
the poet's eyes.
"Monsieur de Saumaise, you have this night offered me four distinct
affronts. Men have died for less than one."
"Ah!" Victor clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
"At the Hôtel de Périgny you called me a fool when the Chevalier struck
me with his sword. I shall pass over that. The Chevalier was mad, and
we all were excited. But three times in this tavern you have annoyed
me. Your temperament, being that of a poet, at times gets the better
of you. My knowledge of this accounts for my patience."
"That is magnanimous, Monsieur," railingly.
"Were I not bound for a far country I might call you to account."
"It is possible, then?"
"Braver men than you find it to their benefit to respect this sword of
mine."
"Then you have a sword?"
The vicomte laughed. It was real laughter, unfeigned. He was too keen
a banterer himself not to appreciate this gift in the poet. "What a
lively lad you are!" he exclaimed. "But four affronts make a long
account for a single night."
"I am ready now and at all times to close the account."
"Do you love Paris?" asked the vicomte, adding his mite to the
bantering.
"Not so much as I did."
"Has not Rochelle become suddenly attractive?"
"Rochelle? I do not say so."
"Come; confess that the unexpected advent of Madame de Brissac has
brought this change about."
"Were we not discoursing on affronts?"
"Only as a sign of my displeasure. By September I dare say I shall
return to France. I promise to look you up; and if by that time your
manner has not undergone a desirable change I shall take my sword and
trim the rude edges of your courtesy."
"September? That is a long while to wait. Why not come to Spain with
me? We could have it out there. Quebec? Do you fear Mazarin, then,
so much as that?"
"Do you doubt my courage, Monsieur?" asked the vicomte, his eyes cold
and brilliant with points of light.
"But September?"
"Come, Monsieur; you are playing the boy. You will admit that I
possess some courage. 'Twould be a fool's pastime to measure swords
when neither of us is certain that to-morrow will see our heads safe
upon our shoulders. I am not giving you a challenge. I am simply
warning you."
"Warning? You are kind. However, one would think that you are afraid
to die."
"I am. There is always something which makes life worth the living.
But it is not the fear of dying by the sword. My courage has never
been questioned. Neither has yours. But there is some doubt as
regards your temper and reason ability. Brave? To be sure you are.
At this very moment you would draw against one of the best blades in
France were I to permit you. But when it comes man to man, Monsieur,
you have to stand on your toes to look into my eyes. My arm is three
inches longer than yours; my weight is greater. I have three
considerable advantages over you. I simply do not desire your life; it
is necessary neither to my honor nor to my happiness."
"To desire and to accomplish are two different things, Monsieur."
"Not to me, Monsieur," grimly. "When my desire attacks an obstacle it
must give way or result in my death. I have had many desires and many
obstacles, and I am still living."
"But you may be killed abroad. That would disappoint me terribly."
"Monsieur de Saumaise, I have seen for some months that you have been
nourishing a secret antipathy to me. Be frank enough to explain why
our admiration is not mutual." The vicomte seated himself on a bench,
and threw his scabbard across his knees.
"Since you have put the question frankly I will answer frankly. For
some time I have distrusted you. What was to be your gain in joining
the conspiracy?"
"And yours?" quietly. "I think we both overlooked that part of the
contract. Proceed."
"Well, I distrust you at this moment, for I know not what your purpose
is to speak of affronts and refuse to let me give satisfaction. I
distrust and dislike you for the manner in which you approached the
Chevalier tonight. There was in your words a biting sarcasm and
contempt which, he in his trouble did not grasp. And let me tell you,
Monsieur, if you ever dare mention publicly the Chevalier's misfortune,
I shall not wait for you to draw your sword."
The vicomte swung about his scabbard and began lightly to tap the floor
with it. Here and there a cinder rose in dust. The vicomte's face was
grave and thoughtful. "You have rendered my simple words into a Greek
chorus. That is like you poets; you are super-sensitive; you
misconstrue commonplaces; you magnify the simple. I am truly sorry for
the Chevalier. Now there's a man. He is superb with the rapier, light
and quick as a cat; a daredevil, who had not his match in Paris. Free
with his money, a famous drinker, and never an enemy. Yes, I will
apologize for my bad taste in approaching him to-night. I should have
waited till morning."
"You were rude to Mademoiselle de Vaudemont." Victor suddenly refused
to conciliate.
"Rude? Well, yes; I admit that. My word of honor, I could not contain
myself at the sound of her voice."
"Or of madame's?" shrewdly.
"Or of madame's." The vicomte smoothed his mustache.
Their eyes met, and the flame in the vicomte's disquieted Victor,
courageous though he was.
"It seems to me," said the vicomte, "that you have been needlessly
beating about the bush. Why did you not say to me, 'Monsieur, you love
Madame de Brissac. I love her also. The world is too small for both
of us?'"
"I depended upon your keen sense," replied Victor.
"I am almost tempted to favor you. I could use a short rapier."
"Good!" said Victor. "There is plenty of room. I have not killed a
man since this year Thursday."
"And having killed me," replied the vicomte, rising, and there was a
smile on his lips, "you would be forced to seek out Monsieur le Comte
d'Hérouville, a man of devastated estates and violent temper, the
roughest swordsman since Crillon's time; D'Hérouville, whose greed is
as great and fierce as his love. Have you thought of him, my poet? Ah
well, something tells me that the time is not far distant when we shall
be rushing at each other's throats. For the present, a truce. You
love madame; so do I. She is free. We are all young. Win her, if you
can, and I will step aside. But until you win her . . . I wish you
good night. I am going for a tramp along the sea-walls. I beg of you
not to follow."
The echo of the slamming door had scarce died away when Victor, raging
and potent to do the vicomte harm, flung out after him. With his sword
drawn he looked savagely up and down the street, but the vicomte was
nowhere in sight. The cold air, however, was grateful to the poet's
feverish cheeks and aching eyes; so he strode on absently, with no
destination in mind. It was only when the Hôtel de Périgny loomed
before him, with its bleak walls and sinister cheval-de-frise, that his
sense of locality revived. He raised a hand which cast a silent
malediction on this evil house and its master, swung about and hurried
back to the tavern, recollecting that Gabrielle and Paul were together.
"And all those dreams of her, they vanish like the hours. That hope,
that joyous hope, of calling her mine shall buoy me up no more. She
does not love me! God save me from another such unhappy night. We
have all been stricken with madness." He struck at the snow-drifts
with his sword. The snow, dry and dusty, flew up into his face.
Meanwhile, when madame entered the private assembly-room her eyes,
blurred with tears, saw only the half dead fire. With her hand she
groped along the mantel, and finding a candle, lit it. She did not
care where she was, so long as she was alone; alone with her unhappy
thoughts. She sat with her back toward the Chevalier, who had fallen
into a slight doze. Presently the silence was destroyed by a
hiccoughing sob. She had forced the end of her kerchief against her
lips to stifle the sound, but ineffectually.
The Chevalier raised his head. . . . A woman? Or was his brain
mocking him? And masked? How came she here? He was confused, and his
sense of emergency lay fallow. He knew not what to do. One thing was
certain; he must make known his presence, for he was positive that she
was unaware of it. He rose, and the noise of his chair sliding back
brought from her an affrighted cry. She turned. The light of the
candle played upon his face.
"Madame, pardon me, but I have been asleep. I did not hear you enter.
It was very careless of them to show you in here."
She rose without speaking and walked toward the door, with no uncertain
step, with a dignity not lacking in majesty.
"She sees I have been drinking," he thought. "Pray, Madame, do not
leave. Rather let me do that."
She made a gesture, hurried but final, and left him.
"It seems to me," mused the Chevalier, resuming his seat, "that I have
lost gallantry to-night, among other considerable things. I might have
opened the door for her. I wonder why she did not speak?"