AT ROSNY.
The morning brought only fresh proofs of the kindness which M. de
Rosny had conceived for me. Awaking early I found on a stool beside my
clothes, a purse of gold containing a hundred crowns; and a youth
presently entering to ask me if I lacked anything, I had at first some
difficulty in recognising Simon Fleix, so sprucely was the lad
dressed, in a mode resembling Maignan's. I looked at the student more
than once before I addressed him by his name; and was as much
surprised by the strange change I observed in him--for it was not
confined to his clothes--as by anything which had happened since I
entered the house. I rubbed my eyes, and asked him what he had done
with his soutane.
'Burned it, M. de Marsac,' he answered briefly.
I saw that he had burned much, metaphorically speaking, besides his
soutane. He was less pale, less lank, less wo-begone than formerly,
and went more briskly. He had lost the air of crack-brained disorder
which had distinguished him, and was smart, sedate, and stooped less.
Only the odd sparkle remained in his eyes, and bore witness to the
same nervous, eager spirit within.
'What are you going to do, then, Simon?' I asked, noting these changes
curiously.
'I am a soldier,' he answered, 'and follow M. de Marsac.'
I laughed. 'You have chosen a poor service, I am afraid,' I said,
beginning to rise; 'and one, too, Simon, in which it is possible you
may be killed. I thought that would not suit you,' I continued, to see
what he would say. But he answered nothing, and I looked at him in
great surprise. 'You have made up your mind, then, at last?' I said.
'Perfectly,' he answered.
'And solved all your doubts?'
'I have no doubts.'
'You are a Huguenot?'
'That is the only true and pure religion,' he replied gravely. And
with apparent sincerity and devotion he repeated Beza's Confession of
Faith.
This filled me with profound astonishment, but I said no more at the
time, though I had my doubts. I waited until I was alone with M. de
Rosny, and then I unbosomed myself on the matter; expressing my
surprise at the suddenness of the conversion, and at such a man, as I
had found the student to be, stating his views so firmly and
steadfastly, and with so little excitement. Observing that M. de Rosny
smiled but answered nothing, I explained myself farther.
'I am surprised,' I said, 'because I have always heard it maintained
that clerkly men, becoming lost in the mazes of theology, seldom find
any sure footing; that not one in a hundred returns to his old faith,
or finds grace to accept a new one. I am speaking only of such, of
course, as I believe this lad to be--eager, excitable brains, learning
much, and without judgment to digest what they learn.'
'Of such I also believe it to be true,' M. de Rosny answered, still
smiling. 'But even on them a little influence, applied at the right
moment, has much effect, M. de Marsac.'
'I allow that,' I said. 'But my mother, of whom I have spoken to you,
saw much of this youth. His fidelity to her was beyond praise. Yet her
faith, though grounded on a rock, had no weight with him.'
M. de Rosny shook his head, still smiling.
'It is not our mothers who convert us,' he said.
'What!' I cried, my eyes opened. 'Do you mean--do you mean that
Mademoiselle has done this?'
'I fancy so,' he answered, nodding. 'I think my lady cast her spell
over him by the way. The lad left Blois with her, if what you say be
true, without faith in the world. He came to my hands two days later
the stoutest of Huguenots. It is not hard to read this riddle.'
'Such conversions are seldom lasting,' I said.
He looked at me queerly; and, the smile still hovering about his lips,
answered 'Tush, man! Why so serious? Theodore Beza himself could not
look dryer. The lad is in earnest, and there is no harm done.'
And, Heaven knows, I was in no mood to suspect harm; nor inclined just
then to look at the dark side of things. It may be conceived how
delightful it was to me to be received as an equal and honoured guest
by a man, even then famous, and now so grown in reputation as to
overshadow all Frenchmen save his master; how pleasant to enjoy the
comforts and amiabilities of home, from which I had been long
estranged; to pour my mother's story into Madame's ears and find
comfort in her sympathy; to feel myself, in fine, once more a
gentleman with an acknowledged place in the world. Our days we spent
in hunting, or excursions of some kind, our evenings in long
conversations, which impressed me with an ever-growing respect for my
lord's powers.
For there seemed to be no end either to his knowledge of France, or to
the plans for its development, which even then filled his brain, and
have since turned wildernesses into fruitful lands, and squalid towns
into great cities. Grave and formal, he could yet unbend; the most
sagacious of counsellors, he was a soldier also, and loved the
seclusion in which we lived the more that it was not devoid of danger;
the neighbouring towns being devoted to the League, and the general
disorder alone making it possible for him to lie unsuspected in his
own house.
One thing only rendered my ease and comfort imperfect, and that was
the attitude which Mademoiselle de la Vire assumed towards me. Of her
gratitude in the first blush of the thing I felt no doubt, for not
only had she thanked me very prettily, though with reserve, on the
evening of my arrival, but the warmth of M. de Rosny's kindness left
me no choice, save to believe that she had given him an exaggerated
idea of my merits and services. I asked no more than this. Such good
offices left me nothing to expect or desire; my age and ill-fortune
placing me at so great a disadvantage that, far from dreaming of
friendship or intimacy with her, I did not even assume the equality in
our daily intercourse to which my birth, taken by itself, entitled me.
Knowing that I must appear in her eyes old, poor, and ill-dressed, and
satisfied with having asserted my conduct and honour, I was careful
not to trespass on her gratitude; and while forward in such courtesies
as could not weary her, I avoided with equal care every appearance of
pursuing her, or inflicting my company upon her. I addressed her
formally and upon formal topics only, such, I mean, as we shared with
the rest of our company; and reminded myself often that though we now
met in the same house and at the same table, she was still the
Mademoiselle de la Vire who had borne herself so loftily in the King
of Navarre's ante-chamber. This I did, not out of pique or wounded
pride, which I no more, God knows, harboured against her than against
a bird; but that I might not in my new prosperity forget the light in
which such a woman, young, spoiled, and beautiful, must still regard
me.
Keeping to this inoffensive posture, I was the more hurt when I found
her gratitude fade with the hour. After the first two days, during
which I remarked that she was very silent, seldom speaking to me or
looking at me, she resumed much of her old air of disdain. For that I
cared little; but she presently went farther, and began to rake up the
incidents which had happened at St. Jean d'Angely, and in which I had
taken part. She continually adverted to my poverty while there, to the
odd figure I had cut, and the many jests her friends had made at my
expense. She seemed to take a pleasure positively savage in these,
gibing at me sometimes so bitterly as to shame and pain me, and bring
the colour to Madame de Rosny's cheeks.
To the time we had spent together, on the other hand, she never or
rarely referred. One afternoon, however, a week after my arrival at
Rosny, I found her sitting alone in the parlour. I had not known she
was there, and I was for withdrawing at once with a bow and a muttered
apology. But she stopped me with an angry gesture. 'I do not bite,'
she said, rising from her stool and meeting my eyes, a red spot in
each cheek. 'Why do you look at me like that? Do you know, M. de
Marsac, that I have no patience with you.' And she stamped her foot on
the floor.
'But, mademoiselle,' I stammered humbly, wondering what in the world
she meant, 'what have I done?'
'Done?' she repeated angrily. 'Done? It is not what you have done, it
is what you are. I have no patience with you. Why are you so dull,
sir? Why are you so dowdy? Why do you go about with your doublet awry,
and your hair lank? Why do you speak to Maignan as if he were a
gentleman? Why do you look always solemn and polite, and as if all the
world were a preche? Why? Why? Why, I say?'
She stopped from sheer lack of breath, leaving me as much astonished
as ever in my life. She looked so beautiful in her fury and fierceness
too, that I could only stare at her and wonder dumbly what it all
meant.
'Well!' she cried impatiently, after bearing this as long as she
could, 'have you not a word to say for yourself? Have you no tongue?
Have you no will of your own at all, M. de Marsac?'
'But, mademoiselle,' I began, trying to explain.
'Chut!' she exclaimed, cutting me short before I could get farther, as
the way of women is. And then she added, in a changed tone, and very
abruptly, 'You have a velvet knot of mine, sir. Give it me.'
'It is in my room,' I answered, astonished beyond measure at this
sudden change of subject, and equally sudden demand.
'Then fetch it, sir, if you please,' she replied, her eyes flashing
afresh. 'Fetch it. Fetch it, I say! It has served its turn, and I
prefer to have it. Who knows but that some day you may be showing it
for a love-knot?'
'Mademoiselle!' I cried, hotly. And I think that for the moment I was
as angry as she was.
'Still, I prefer to have it,' she answered sullenly, casting down her
eyes.
I was so much enraged, I went without a word and fetched it, and,
bringing it to her where she stood, in the same place, put it into her
hands. When she saw it some recollection, I fancy, of the day when she
had traced the cry for help on it, came to her in her anger; for she
took it from me with all her bearing altered. She trembled, and held
it for a moment in her hands, as if she did not know what to do with
it. She was thinking, doubtless, of the house in Blois and the peril
she had run there; and, being for my part quite willing that she
should think and feel how badly she had acted, I stood looking at her,
sparing her no whit of my glance.
'The gold chain you left on my mother's pillow,' I said coldly, seeing
she continued silent, 'I cannot return to you at once, for I have
pledged it. But I will do so as soon as I can.'
'You have pledged it?' she muttered, with her eyes averted.
'Yes, mademoiselle, to procure a horse to bring me here,' I replied
drily. 'However, it shall be redeemed. In return, there is something I
too would ask.'
'What?' she murmured, recovering herself with an effort, and looking
at me with something of her old pride and defiance.
'The broken coin you have,' I said. 'The token, I mean. It is of no
use to you, for your enemies hold the other half. It might be of
service to me.'
'How?' she asked curtly.
'Because some day I may find its fellow, mademoiselle.'
'And then?' she cried. She looked at me, her lips parted, her eyes
flashing. 'What then, when you have found its fellow, M. de Marsac?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'Bah!' she exclaimed, clenching her little hand, and stamping her foot
on the floor in a passion I could not understand. 'That is you! That
is M. de Marsac all over. You say nothing, and men think nothing of
you. You go with your hat in your hand, and they tread on you. They
speak, and you are silent! Why, if I could use a sword as you can, I
would keep silence before no man, nor let any man save the King of
France cock his hat in my presence! But you! There! go, leave me. Here
is your coin. Take it and go. Send me that lad of yours to keep me
awake. At any rate he has brains, he is young, he is a man, he has a
soul, he can feel--if he were anything but a clerk.'
She waved me off in such a wind of passion as might have amused me in
another, but in her smacked so strongly of ingratitude as to pain me
not a little. I went, however, and sent Simon to her; though I liked
the errand very ill, and no better when I saw the lad's face light up
at the mention of her name. But apparently she had not recovered her
temper when he reached her, for he fared no better than I had done;
coming away presently with the air of a whipped dog, as I saw from the
yew-tree walk where I was strolling.
Still, after that she made it a habit to talk to him more and more;
and, Monsieur and Madame de Rosny being much taken up with one
another, there was no one to check her fancy or speak a word of
advice. Knowing her pride, I had no fears for her; but it grieved me
to think that the lad's head should be turned. A dozen times I made up
my mind to speak to her on his behalf; but for one thing it was not my
business, and for another I soon discovered that she was aware of my
displeasure, and valued it not a jot. For venturing one morning, when
she was in a pleasant humour, to hint that she treated those beneath
her too inhumanly, and with an unkindness as little becoming noble
blood as familiarity, she asked me scornfully if I did not think she
treated Simon Fleix well enough. To which I had nothing to answer.
I might here remark on the system of secret intelligence by means of
which M. de Rosny, even in this remote place, received news of all
that was passing in France. But it is common fame. There was no coming
or going of messengers, which would quickly have aroused suspicion in
the neighbouring town, nor was it possible even for me to say exactly
by what channels news came. But come it did, and at all hours of the
day. In this way we heard of the danger of La Ganache and of the
effort contemplated by the King of Navarre for its relief. M. de Rosny
not only communicated these matters to me without reserve, but engaged
my affections by farther proofs of confidence such as might well have
flattered a man of greater importance.
I have said that, as a rule, there was no coming or going of
messengers. But one evening, returning from the chase with one of the
keepers, who had prayed my assistance in hunting down a crippled doe,
I was surprised to find a strange horse, which had evidently been
ridden hard and far, standing smoking in the yard. Inquiring whose it
was, I learned that a man believed by the grooms to be from Blois had
just arrived and was closeted with the baron. An event so far out of
the ordinary course of things naturally aroused my wonder; but
desiring to avoid any appearance of curiosity, which, if indulged, is
apt to become the most vulgar of vices, I refrained from entering the
house, and repaired instead to the yew-walk. I had scarcely, however,
heated my blood, a little chilled with riding, before the page came to
me to fetch me to his master.
I found M. de Rosny striding up and down his room, his manner so
disordered and his face disfigured by so much grief and horror that I
started on seeing him. My heart sinking in a moment, I did not need to
look at Madame, who sat weeping silently in a chair, to assure myself
that something dreadful had happened. The light was failing, and a
lamp had been brought into the room. M. de Rosny pointed abruptly to a
small piece of paper which lay on the table beside it, and, obeying
his gesture, I took this up and read its contents, which consisted of
less than a score of words.
'He is ill and like to die,' the message ran, 'twenty leagues south of
La Ganache. Come at all costs. P. M.'
'Who?' I said stupidly--stupidly, for already I began to understand.
'Who is ill and like to die?'
M. de Rosny turned to me, and I saw that the tears were trickling
unbidden down his cheeks. 'There is but one he for me,' he cried. 'May
God spare that one! May He spare him to France, which needs him, to
the Church, which hangs on him, and to me, who love him! Let him not
fall in the hour of fruition. O Lord, let him not fall!' And he sank
on to a stool, and remained in that posture with his face in his
hands, his broad shoulders shaken with grief.
'Come, sir,' I said, after a pause sacred to sorrow and dismay; 'let
me remind you that while there is life there is hope.'
'Hope?'
'Yes, M. de Rosny, hope,' I replied more cheerfully. He has work to
do. He is elected, called, and chosen; the Joshua of his people, as M.
d'Amours rightly called him. God will not take him yet. You shall see
him and be embraced by him, as has happened a hundred times. Remember,
sir, the King of Navarre is strong, hardy, and young, and no doubt in
good hands.'
'Mornay's,' M. de Rosny cried, looking up with contempt in his eye.
Yet from that moment he rallied, spurred, I think, by the thought that
the King of Navarre's recovery depended under God on M. de Mornay;
whom he was ever inclined to regard as his rival. He began to make
instant preparations for departure from Rosny, and bade me do so also,
telling me, somewhat curtly and without explanation, that he had need
of me. The danger of so speedy a return to the South, where the full
weight of the Vicomte de Turenne's vengeance awaited me, occurred to
me strongly; and I ventured, though with a little shame, to mention
it. But M. de Rosny, after gazing at me a moment in apparent doubt,
put the objection aside with a degree of peevishness unusual in him,
and continued to press on his arrangements as earnestly as though they
did not include separation from a wife equally loving and beloved.
Having few things to look to myself, I was at leisure, when the hour
of departure came, to observe both the courage with which Madame de
Rosny supported her sorrow, 'for the sake of France,' and the unwonted
tenderness which Mademoiselle de la Vire, lifted for once above
herself, lavished on her. I seemed to stand--happily in one light, and
yet the feeling was fraught with pain--outside their familiar
relations; yet, having made my adieux as short and formal as possible,
that I might not encroach on other and more sacred ones, I found at
the last moment something in waiting for me. I was surprised as I rode
under the gateway a little ahead of the others, by something small and
light falling on the saddle-bow before me. Catching it before it could
slide to the ground, I saw, with infinite astonishment, that I held in
my hand a tiny velvet bow.
To look up at the window of the parlour, which I have said was over
the archway, was my first impulse. I did so, and met mademoiselle's
eyes for a second, and a second only. The next moment she was gone. M.
de Rosny clattered through the gate at my heels, the servants behind
him. And we were on the road.