D'HEROUVILLE THREATENS AND MADAME FINDS A DROLL BOOK
The next morning the vicomte went to the hospital to inquire into the
state of the Comte d'Hérouville's health. He found that gentleman
walking back and forth in the ward. There was little of the invalid
about him save for the pallor on his cheeks, which provided proof that
his blood was not yet of its accustomed thickness. At the sight of the
vicomte he neither frowned nor smiled; the expression on his face
remained unchanged, but he ceased his pacing. The two men contemplated
each other, and the tableau lasted for a minute.
"Well, Monsieur?" said D'Hérouville, calmly.
The vicomte was genuinely surprised at the strides toward completeness
which D'Hérouville had made. An ordinary man would still have been
either in bed or in a chair. But none of this surprise appeared on the
Vicomte's face. He had come with a purpose, and he went at it directly.
"Count," he replied, "you and I have been playing hide and seek in the
woods, needlessly and purposelessly."
"I scarce comprehend your words or your presence."
"I will explain at once. Madame de Brissac has made sorry fools of us
all. She is here in Quebec."
"What?" The pain caused by the sudden intake of breath stooped
D'Hérouville's shoulders.
"I have the honor, then, of bringing you the news? Yes," easily,
"Madame de Brissac is in Quebec. Why, is as yet unknown to me."
"What is your purpose in bringing me this lie?" asked D'Hérouville,
recovering. "I have been surrounded by lies ever since I stepped foot
in Rochelle. I shall kill Monsieur de Saumaise a week hence."
"And you do not wish satisfaction from me?" slyly.
A fury leaped into D'Hérouville's eyes, but suddenly died away. "I am
living only with that end in view. It was very clever of you to make
them think you were taking up the Chevalier's cause. You hoodwinked
them nicely."
The vicomte played with the ends of his mustache, as was his habit.
"You say Madame de Brissac is in Quebec ?"
"Yes. And presently your own eyes shall prove the truth of my
statement."
D'Hérouville glanced at his sword, which hung upon the wall. "In
Quebec," he mused. "A lie in this case would be objectless."
"As you see. And would you believe it, there has been a love intrigue
between her and the Chevalier! There's a woman, now! How cleverly she
juggled with us all!"
"The Chevalier?"
"Yes. How you love that man! Droll, is it not? She has been
masquerading, and to this day he hasn't the slightest idea who she is."
"Come, now, Vicomte," with assumed good nature; "your purpose; out with
it."
"I am not a man to waste time, certainly."
"You will give me satisfaction, then?"
"You have but to name the day. The truth is, under the present
circumstances the world has suddenly contracted."
D'Hérouville nodded. "That is to say, it is no longer large enough for
both of us. I comprehend that perfectly."
"As I knew you would. I am exceedingly chagrined," continued the
vicomte, "at seeing you walking above the sod when, by a little more
care on my part, you would be resting neatly under it. But at that
time I had no other idea than temporarily to disable you. Could we but
see into the future sometimes!"
"In your place I should recoil from the gift." The count was shaking
with rage. "I shall not lose my temper when next we meet. If you were
not careful, I was equally careless."
"Within a week's time, Monsieur. By that date you will be as strong as
a bull. Your vitality is remarkable. But listen. Madame de Brissac
shall be my wife. First, I love her for herself; and then because De
Brissac left some handsome property."
"Which has Mazarin's seals of confiscation upon it," mockingly.
"They can be removed," imperturbably. "I tell you frankly that I shall
overcome all obstacles to reach my end. You are one of the obstacles
which must be removed, and I am here this morning expressly to acquaint
you with this fact."
"Perhaps I shall kill you."
"There will be the Chevalier."
"Measure swords with him?" sneeringly. "I believe not."
"There will still remain Monsieur de Saumaise, who, for all his rhymes,
handles a pretty blade."
D'Hérouville snapped his fingers. "His death I have already
determined."
"Besides, if I read the Chevalier rightly he will force you. You
laughed too loudly."
"I will laugh again, even more loudly."
"He will strike you . . . even as I did."
D'Hérouville spat. "Leave me, Monsieur. My wound may open again, and
that would put me back."
"I advise you to take the air to-day."
"I shall do so."
They were very courtly in those old days.
So D'Hérouville went forth to take the air that afternoon and
incidentally to pay his respects in person to Madame de Brissac.
Fortune favored him, for he met her coming down the path from the upper
town. He lifted his hat gravely and barred her path.
"Madame, my delight at seeing you is inexpressible."
Madame's countenance signified that the delight was his alone; she
shared no particle of it. She knew that eventually their paths would
cross again, but she had prepared no plans to meet this certainty. Her
gaze swerved from his and rested longingly on the Henri IV in the
harbor. She had determined to return to France upon it. The amazing
episode of the night before convinced her that her safety lay rather in
France than in Canada. But she had confided this determination to no
one, not even to Anne.
"Have you no welcome, Madame?"
"My husband's friends," she said, "were not always mine; and I see no
reason why you should continue further to address me."
"De Brissac? Bah! I was never his friend."
"So much the more doubt upon your honesty;" and she moved as if to pass.
"Madame, D'Halluys told me this morning that he is determined that you
shall be his wife."
"The vicomte's confidence is altogether too large." She laughed, and
made another ineffectual attempt to pass. "Monsieur, you are detaining
me."
"That is correct. I have much to say to you. In the first place, you
played us all for a pack of fools, and all the while you were carrying
on an intrigue with that fellow who calls himself the Chevalier du
Cévennes."
Madame's lips closed firmly, and a circle of color spotted her cheeks.
There had been times recently when she regretted De Brissac's death.
"What have you to say, Madame?" he demanded.
"To you? Nothing, save that if you do not at once stand aside I shall
call for aid. Your impertinence is even greater than Monsieur
d'Halluys'. I wonder at your courage in thus addressing me."
"I am not a patient man, Madame," coming closer. "I have publicly
vowed my love for you, and Heaven nor hell shall keep me from you."
"Not even myself? Come, Monsieur," wrathfully, "you are acting like a
fool or a boy. Women such as I am are not won in this braggart
fashion. Certainly you must admit that I have something to say in
regard to the disposition of my hand. And let me say this at once: I
shall wed no man; and were either you or Monsieur le Comte the last man
in the world, I should run away and hide. Stand aside."
"And if I should use force?" throwing aside the reins of self-control.
"Force, force!" flinging wide her hands; "you speak to me of force!
Monsieur, you are not a fool, but a madman."
"But we are still tender toward the Chevalier?" snarling.
"The least I can say of Monsieur le Chevalier is that he is a
gentleman."
"A gentleman? Ho! that is rich. A gentleman!"
The path was at this point almost too narrow for her to walk around
him; so she waited without replying.
"And do not forget, Madame, that you are a fugitive from justice, and
that a word to Monsieur de Lauson . . ."
"I dare you to speak, Monsieur," with growing anger. "Have you no
bogus paper to hold over my head? Are you about to play the vicomte's
trick second-hand?"
"I know nothing about his tricks, but I shall kill him at an early
date."
Madame's shrug said plainly that it mattered nothing to her. "Once
more, will you stand aside, or must I call?"
"Call, Madame!" His violence got the better of him, and he seized her
wrist. "Call to the fellow who calls himself the Chevalier; call!"
"Do I hear some one calling my name?" said a voice not far away.
D'Hérouville looked over madame's shoulder, while madame turned with
relief. She quickly released her wrist and sped some distance up the
path, passing the Chevalier, who did not stop till he stood face to
face with D'Hérouville.
"You were about to remark?" began the Chevalier, a frank and honest
hatred in his eyes.
The count eyed him contemptuously. "Stand out of the way, you . . ."
"Do not speak that word aloud, Monsieur," interrupted the Chevalier,
gloomily, "or I will force it down your throat, though we both tumble
over the cliff."
D'Hérouville knew the Périgny blood well enough to believe that the
Chevalier was in earnest. "It would be your one opportunity," he said;
"for you do not suppose I shall do you the honor to cross swords with
you."
"Most certainly I do. You laughed that night, and no man shall laugh
at me and boast of it."
"I shall always laugh," and the count's laughter, loud and insulting,
drifted to where madame stood.
There was something so sinister in the echo that she became chilled.
She watched the two men, fascinated by she knew not what.
"You shall die for that laugh," said the Chevalier, paling.
"By the cliff, then, but never by the sword."
"By the sword. I shall challenge you at the first mess you attend. If
you refuse and state your reasons, I promise to knock you down. If you
persist in refusing, I shall slap your face wherever and whenever we
chance to meet. That is all I have to say to you; I trust that it is
explicit."
D'Hérouville's eyes were full of venom. "It wants only the poet to
challenge me, and the circle will be complete. I will fight the poet
and the vicomte; they come from no doubtful source. As for you, I will
do you the honor to hire a trooper to take my place. Fight you? You
make me laugh against my will! And as for threats, listen to me.
Strike me, and by the gods! Madame shall learn who you are, or,
rather, who you pretend to be." The count whistled a bar of music,
swung about cavalierly, and retraced his steps toward the lower town.
The Chevalier stared at his retreating figure till it sank below the
level of the ridge. He was without redress; he was impotent;
D'Hérouville would do as he said. God! He struck his hands together
in his despair, forgetful that madame saw his slightest movement. When
he recollected her, he moved toward her. Madame. D'Hérouville had
called her madame.
On seeing him approach her first desire was to move in the same
direction; that is to say, to keep the distance at its present measure.
A thousand questions flitted through her brain. She had heard a
sentence which so mystified her that the impulse to flee went as
suddenly as it came. She succeeded in composing her features by the
time he arrived at her side.
"Madame," he said, quietly, "whither were you bound?"
She looked at him blankly. For the life of her she could not tell at
that moment what had been her destination! The situation struck her as
so absurd that she could barely stifle the hysterical laughter which
rushed to her lips.
"I . . . I will return to the château," she finally replied.
"The count was annoying you?" walking beside her.
"Thanks to you, Monsieur, the annoyance is past."
Some ground was gone over in silence. This silence disturbed her far
more than the sound of his voice. It gave him a certain mastery. So
she spoke.
"You said 'Madame'," tentatively.
"Such was the title D'Hérouville applied." And again he became silent.
"Did he tell you my name?" with a sudden and unexpected fierceness.
"No, Madame; he did not speak your name. But he knows it; while I, who
love you honorably and more than my life, I must remain in ignorance.
An expedition is to start soon, Madame, and as I shall join it, my
presence here will no longer afford you annoyance."
"Wherefore this rage, Madame, shining in your beautiful eyes, thinning
your lips, widening your nostrils?"
Madame was in a rage; but not even the promise of salvation would have
forced the cause from her lips. O for Paris, where, lightly and
wittily, she could humble this man! Here wit was stale on the tongue,
and every one went about with a serious purpose. She went on, her chin
tilted, her gaze lofty. The wind tossed her hair, there were phantom
roses on her cheeks which bloomed and withered and bloomed yet again.
Diane, indeed: Diane of the green Aegean sea and the marbles of Athens!
"You need go no farther, Monsieur. It is quite unnecessary, as I know
the way perfectly."
"I prefer to see you safe inside the château," with quiet determination.
Was this the gallant who had attracted her fancy? This was not the way
he had made love in former days. Slyly her eyes revolved in his
direction. His temples were grey! She had not noted this change till
now. Grey; and the face, tanned even in the shaven jaws, was careworn.
There was a gesture which escaped his notice. Why had she been guilty
of the inexcusable madness, the inexplicable folly, of this voyage?
"Madame, this is your door."
The Chevalier stepped aside and uncovered.
"Monsieur, you have lost a valuable art." There was a fleeting glance,
and she vanished within, leaving him puzzled and astonished by the
unexpected softening of her voice. How long he stood there, with his
gaze fixed upon the vacant doorway, he never knew. What did she mean?
"Well, Paul?" And Victor, having come up behind, laid his hand on the
Chevalier's arm. "Do you know her, then?" nodding toward the door.
"Know her?" The Chevalier faced his comrade. "Would to God, lad, I
did not, for she has made me the most unhappy of men."
The poet trembled in terror at the light within. "She is . . . ?"
"Yes, Diane; Diane, whose name I murmur in my dreams, waking or
sleeping."
"She?" in half a whisper. "Her name?"
"Her name? No! I know her as a mystery; as Tantalus thirsting for the
fruit which hangs ever beyond the reach, I know her; as a woman who is
not what she seems, always masked, with or without the cambric. Know
her?" with a laugh full of despair.
Victor was a man of courage and resource. "I know where there's a
two-quart bottle of burgundy, Paul. Bah! life will look cheerful
enough through that mellow red. Come with me."
The Chevalier followed him to the lower town, where, in a room in one
of the warehouses, they sat down to the wine.
"Let the women go hang, lad, one and all!" cried the Chevalier, after
his sixth and final glass.
"Let them go hang!" But Victor did not confide; not he, loyal friend!
And when he held his emptied glass on high, sighed, and dropped it on
the earthen floor, the Chevalier did not know that his comrade's heart
lay shattered with the glass. Gallant poet!
As madame threaded her way through the dim corridor, but one thought
occupied her mind. It echoed and re-echoed--"Or, rather, what you
pretend to be." What did D'Hérouville mean by that? To what did the
Chevalier pretend? Her foot struck something. It was a book.
Absently she stooped and picked it up, carrying it to her room. "Or,
rather, what you pretend to be." If only she had heard the first part
of the sentence, or what had led to it! The Chevalier was gradually
becoming as much of a mystery to her as she was to him. There had been
a sea-change; he was no longer a fop; there was grey in his hair; he
was a man. In her room there was light from the sun. Carelessly she
glanced at the book. It was grey with dust, which she blew away.
Evidently it had lain some time in the corridor. She flapped the
covers. The title, dim and worn, smiled drolly up. She blushed, and
abruptly laid the offending volume on the table. The merry Vicar of
Meudon was not wholly acceptable to her woman's mind. To whom did it
belong, this foundling book? With a grimace which would have caused
Rabelais to smile, she turned back the cover.
"The Chevalier's!" To what did he pretend? "I shall send it back to
his room. Gabrielle, Gabrielle, thou wert a fool, and a fool's folly
has brought you to Quebec! A nun? I should die! Why did I come? In
mercy's name, why? . . . A letter?" An oblong envelope, lying on the
floor, attracted her attention. She took it up with a deal more
curiosity than she had the book. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny,"
she read, "to be delivered into his hands at my death." She studied
the scrawl. It was not the Chevalier's; and yet, how strangely
familiar to her eyes! Should she send it directly to the marquis or to
the son? She debated for several moments. Then she touched the bell
and summoned the woman whom the governor had kindly placed at her
service.
"Take this book and letter to Monsieur du Cévennes, and if he is not
there, leave it in his room." Her lack of curiosity saved her. Some
women would have opened the letter, read, and been destroyed. But
madame's guiding star was undimmed.
It was just before the evening mess that the Chevalier, on entering his
room, saw the volume and the letter. He gave his attention immediately
to the letter; and, became strangely fascinated. It was addressed to
his father! "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into
his hands at my death." Whose death? The Chevalier rested the letter
on the palm of his hand. How came it here? He inspected the envelope.
It was unsealed. He balanced it, first on one hand, then, on the
other. Was it the wine that caused the shudder? Whose death? kept
ringing through his brain. How the gods must have smiled as they
played with the fate of this man! Terror and tragedy, and only an
opaque sheet of paper between! Whose death? The envelope was old, the
ink was faded. What was written within? Did the contents in any way
concern him? It was within a finger's reach. But he hesitated, as a
blind man hesitates when the guiding hand is suddenly withdrawn. "To
Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my
death."
"It is his, not mine; let him read it. Breton, lad, here's your
Rabelais, come back I know not how. But here is a letter which you
will deliver to Jehan, who in turn will see that it reaches its owner."
Thus, the gods, having had their fill of play, relented.