A DISAPPEARANCE
The next morning we resumed our way southward. The weather was clear and
fine, yet Mlle. de Varion seemed more heavy at heart than she had been on
the preceding day. This could not be attributed to any apprehension of
further annoyance from De Berquin, for, as her talk showed, she believed
that he would not again trouble her after his having cut so poor a figure
with his attempt at an intended rescue. But though I did not tell her, I
had good reason to believe that we were not yet done with him. The
failure of his attempt with regard to mademoiselle, whether or not that
attempt had been dictated by Montignac, would not make him abandon the
more important mission concerning the Sieur de la Tournoire. Therefore, I
was likely to encounter him again, and probably nearer Maury, and, as it
was my intention that mademoiselle should remain under my protection
until after my venture in behalf of her father, it was probable that she,
too, would see more of her erstwhile pursuer. I would allow events to
dictate precautions against the discovery of my hiding-place by De
Berquin, against his interference with my intended attempt to deliver M.
de Varion, and against his molesting Mlle. de Varion during my absence
from her on that attempt. I might have killed De Berquin when I disarmed
him on the previous night, but I did not wish to make him, in the least,
an object of mademoiselle's pity, and, moreover, I was curious to see
what means he would adopt towards hunting me down and betraying me.
Not only the dejection of Mlle. de Varion made our ride a melancholy one,
despite the radiance of the autumn morning. Blaise, repentant of his
overindulgence, and still feeling the humiliation of the easy capture
made of him by four scurvy knaves, had taken refuge in one of those moods
of pious reflection which he attributed to maternal influence. Piqued at
this reticence, the maid, Jeannotte, maintained a sulky silence. The two
boys, devoted to their mistress, now faithfully reflected her sad and
uneasy demeanor.
"Look, mademoiselle!" said I, glad of having found objects toward which
to draw her attention, "yonder is the Château of Clochonne. Beyond that,
and to the right, are the mountains for which we are bound. It is there
that I shall introduce to you the Sieur de la Tournoire."
Mademoiselle looked at the distant towers and the mountains beyond
with an expression of dread. She gave a heavy sigh and shuddered in
her saddle.
"Nay, mademoiselle," I said; "you have nothing to fear there."
She turned pale, and answered, in a trembling voice:
"Alas, monsieur! Am I not about to put those mountains between myself and
my father?"
I thought of the joy that I should cause and the gratitude that I should
win, should I succeed in bringing her father safe to her on those
mountains, but I kept the thought to myself.
We skirted Clochonne by a wide détour, fording the Creuse at a secluded
place, and ascended the wooded hills in single file. After a long and
toilsome progress through pathless and deeply shaded wilds, we reached,
in the afternoon, the forest inn kept by Godeau and his wife. It had been
my intention to stop and rest here, and to send Blaise ahead to Maury,
that one of the rooms of our ruined château might be made fit for
mademoiselle's reception. I had expected to find the inn, as usual,
without guests, but on approaching it we heard the sound of music
proceeding from a stringed instrument. We stopped at the edge of the
small, cleared space before the inn and sent Blaise to reconnoitre. He
boldly entered and presently returned, followed by the decrepit Godeau
and his strapping wife, Marianne. Both gave us glad welcome, the old man
with obsequious bows which doubtless racked his rheumatic joints, the
woman with bustling cordiality.
"Be at ease, monsieur," said Marianne. "We have no one within except two
gypsies, who will make music for you and tell your fortunes. Godeau, look
to the horses."
I dismounted and assisted mademoiselle to descend. Then, on the pretext
of giving an order, I took Marianne and Godeau aside, and bade them to
address me as M. de Launay, not on any account as M. de la Tournoire. The
old man then saw to our horses, and Marianne brought us wine.
"Before sunset," I said to mademoiselle, as I raised my glass, "you shall
meet the Sieur de la Tournoire at his hiding-place."
Mlle. de Varion turned pale, and, as if suddenly too weak to stand, sat
down on a wooden bench before the inn door. Jeannotte ran to support her.
"Before sunset!" she repeated, with a shudder.
"Yes, mademoiselle, unless you are too ill to proceed. I fear the fatigue
of this ride has been too much for you."
She gave a look of relief, and replied:
"I fear that it has. I shall be better able to go on to-morrow,--unless
there is danger in remaining here."
"There is very little danger. People crossing the mountains by way of
Clochonne now use the new road, which is shorter. If, by any chance,
soldiers from the Clochonne garrison should come this way and detain us
as fleeing Huguenots, we could summon help,--for we are so near the
hiding-place of the Sieur de la Tournoire."
Again that shudder! Decidedly, in the accounts that she had received
of me, I must have been represented as a very terrible personage. I
smiled at thinking of the surprise that awaited her in the disclosure
of the truth.
It was thereupon arranged that we should stay at Godeau's inn until the
next morning. Mademoiselle's portmanteaus were carried to the upper
chamber, which was a mere loft, but preferable to the kitchen. Thither,
after eating, she went to rest. Blaise then departed to direct the
desired preparations at Maury, with orders to return to the inn before
nightfall. Jeannotte and the two boys remained in the kitchen to hear the
music of the two gypsies, a man and a girl. Having nothing better to do,
I took my seat on the bench outside the inn and sat musing.
Late in the afternoon, I heard the light step of mademoiselle on the
threshold. On seeing me, she stopped, as if it were I whom she had come
out to seek I rose and offered her the bench. She sat down in silence,
and for a moment her eyes rested on the ground, while on her face was a
look of trouble. Suddenly she lifted her glance to mine and spoke
abruptly, as if forcing herself to broach a subject on which she would
rather have been silent.
"Monsieur," she said, "I suppose that the Sieur de la Tournoire, whom we
are so soon to meet, is a very dear friend of yours!"
"A very close friend," I replied, with an inward smile. "And yet he has
got me into so much trouble that I might fairly consider him my enemy."
"I must confess," said she, "that I have heard little of him but evil."
"It is natural that the Catholics in Berry should find nothing good to
say of him," I replied. "Yet it is true that he is far from perfect,--a
subtle rascal, who dons disguises, and masquerades as other than he is, a
leader of night-birds, and sometimes a turbulent roysterer."
"I have been told," she said, "that he treacherously killed a man in
Paris, and deserted from the French Guards."
"As for the killing," I replied, "there was no treachery or unfairness on
his part; and if he deserted from the King's French Guards, it was when
the King had consented to give him up to the Duke of Guise, whom the weak
King, then as now, hated as much as feared."
She gave a heavy sigh, and went on, "La Tournoire is a brave man,
of course?"
"He is a man," I said, "who expects to meet death as he meets life,
cheerfully, not hoping too much, not fearing anything."
"And this hiding-place of his," she said, in a very low voice, again
dropping her glance to the ground. "Tell me of it."
I gave her a description of the ruined Château of Maury.
"But," she said, "is not the place easily accessible to the troops of the
Governor?"
"The troops of the garrison at Clochonne have not yet found the way to
it," I replied. "The château was abandoned twenty years ago. Its master
is an adventurer in the new world, if he is not dead. Its very existence
has been forgotten, for the land pertaining to it is of no value. The
soldiers from Clochonne could find it only by scouring this almost
impenetrable wilderness."
"Is there, then, no road leading to it?" she asked.
"This road leads hither from Clochonne, and on southward across the
mountain. There are the remains of a by-road leading from here westward
to the château, and ending there. But this by-road, almost entirely
recovered by the forest, is known only to La Tournoire and his friends. A
better way for the Governor's soldiers to find La Tournoire's stronghold,
if they but knew, would be to take the road along the river from
Clochonne to Narjec, and to turn up the hill at the throne-shaped rock
half-way between those towns. At the top of that hill is Maury, hidden by
dense woods and thickets."
Mlle. de Varion, who had heard my last words with a look of keen
attention and also of bitter pain of mind, now rose and walked to and fro
as if meditating. Inwardly I lamented my inability to drive from her face
the clouds which I attributed to her increasing distress, as she found
herself further and further from her father and her home, bound for still
gloomier shades and wilder surroundings.
I asked if she would go in and hear the music of the gypsy, or have him
come out and play for her, but she thanked me with a sorrowful attempt at
a smile, and returned to her own chamber.
When the sun declined, I ordered Marianne to prepare the best supper that
her resources would allow, and then, as it was time that Blaise should
have been back from Maury, I went to a little knoll, which gave a view of
a part of the abandoned byroad, to look and listen for him. Presently, I
heard the sound of a horse's footfalls near the inn, and made haste back
to see who rode there. Just as I reached the cleared space, I saw the
rider disappearing around a bend of the road which led to Clochonne.
Though I saw only his back, I recognized him as mademoiselle's boy,
Pierre, mounted on one of her horses.
On the bench before the inn sat mademoiselle herself, alone. She gave a
start of surprise when I came up to her.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I have just seen your boy, Pierre, riding
towards Clochonne."
"Yes," she replied, looking off towards the darkest part of the forest.
"I--I was alarmed at your absence. I did not know where you had gone; I
sent him to look for you."
"Then I would better run after and call him back," I said, taking a step
towards the road.
"No, no!" she answered, quickly. "Do not leave me now. He will come back
soon of his own accord. I told him to do so if he did not find you. I
must ask you to bear with me, monsieur. The solitude, the strangeness of
the place, almost appal me. I feel a kind of terror when I do not know
that you are near."
"Mademoiselle," I said, sitting beside her on the bench, "I cannot
describe that which I shall feel, if I am doomed ever to know that you
are not near me. It will be as if the sun had ceased to shine, and the
earth had turned barren."
A blush mounted to her cheeks; she dropped her humid eyes; her breast
heaved. For an instant she seemed to have forgotten her distresses. Then
sorrow resumed its place on her countenance, and she answered, sadly:
"Ah, monsieur, when you shall have truly known me!"
"Have I not known you a whole day?" I asked. "I wonder that life had any
relish for me before yesterday. It seems as if I had known you always,
though the joy that your presence gives me will always be fresh and
novel. Ah, mademoiselle, if you knew what sweetness suddenly filled the
world at my first sight of you!"
I took her hand in mine. She made a weak effort to withdraw it; I
tightened my hold; she let it remain. Then she turned her blue eyes up to
mine with a look of infinite trust and yielding, so that I felt that,
rapid as had been my own yielding to the charm of her beauty and her
gentleness, she had as speedily acknowledged in me the man by whom her
heart might be commanded.
As we sat thus, the gypsy within, who had been for some time aimlessly
strumming his instrument, began to sing. The words of his song came to us
subdued, but distinct:
"The sparkle of my lady's eyes--
Ah, sight that is the fairest!
The look of love that in them lies--
Ah, thrill that is the rarest!
Oh, comrades mine, go roam the earth,
You'll find in all your roving
That all its other joys are worth
Not half the joys of loving!"
"Ah, mademoiselle," I whispered, "before yesterday those words would have
meant nothing to me!"
She made no answer, but closed her eyes, as if to shut out every thought
but consciousness of that moment.
And now the gypsy, in an air and voice expressive of sadness, as he had
before been expressive of rapture, sang a second stanza:
"But, ah, the price we have to pay
For joys that have their season!
And, oh, the sadness of the day
When woman shows her treason!
Her look of love is but a mask
For plots that she is weaving.
Alas, for those who fondly bask
In smiles that are deceiving!"
I thought of Mlle. d'Arency, but not for long; for suddenly Mlle. de
Varion started up, as if awakened from a dream, and looked at me with an
expression of unspeakable distress of mind.
"Oh, monsieur!" she cried. "You must leave me! I must never see you
again. Go, go,--or let me go at once!"
"Mademoiselle!" I cried, astonished.
"I beg you, make no objections, ask no questions! Only go! It is a
crime, an infamy, for me to have listened while you spoke as you spoke a
while ago! I ought not to have accepted your protection! Go, monsieur,
and have no more to do with the most miserable woman in France!"
She started to go into the inn, but I caught her by the hand and
detained her.
"Mademoiselle," I said, gently, "the difference in our religions need not
forbid such words between us as I have spoken. I can understand how you
regard it as an insuperable barrier, but it is really a slight one,
easily removed, as it has been in many notable cases."
"Monsieur," she replied, resolutely, shaking her head, "I say again, we
must part. I am not to be urged or persuaded. The greatest kindness you
can do me is to go, or let me go, without more words."
"But, mademoiselle," I interposed, "it will be very difficult for you to
continue your flight across this border without a guide. Not to speak of
the danger from men, there is the chance of losing your way."
"The Sieur de la Tournoire will not refuse me his guidance," she said, in
a voice that seemed forced to an unwonted hardness.
"Then you will discard my protection, and accept his, a stranger's?"
"Yes, because he is a stranger,--thank God!"
What, I asked myself, was to be the end of this? Would she not, on
learning that La Tournoire was myself, all the more decidedly insist on
going her own way? Therefore, before disclosing myself to her, I must
accustom her to the view that a difference in religion ought not to
separate two who love each other. In order to do this, I must have time;
so I said:
"At least, mademoiselle, you will let me show you the way to Maury, and
present to you the Sieur de la Tournoire. That is little to ask."
"I have already accepted too much from you," she replied, hesitating.
"Then cancel the obligation by granting me this one favor."
"Very well, monsieur. But you will then go immediately?"
"From the moment when you first meet La Tournoire, he shall be your only
guide, unless you yourself choose another. In the meantime," I added, for
she had taken another step towards the inn, "grant me at least as much of
your society as you would bestow on an indifferent acquaintance, who
happened to be your fellow-traveler in this lonely place."
She gave a sigh which I took as meaning that the more we should see each
other, the harder the parting would be at last, but she said,
tremulously:
"We shall meet at supper, monsieur, and to-morrow, when you conduct me
on to Maury." Then she entered the inn, but stopped on the threshold,
and, casting on me a strangely wistful look, she added, "Great must be
the friendship between you and La Tournoire, that you can so confidently
assure his protection to those for whom you ask it."
"Oh, I have done much for him, and he cannot refuse me any request that
it is in his power to grant," I said, truly enough.
"Then," she went on, "the tie is one of obligation, rather than of great
friendship?"
"Yes. I have often been in a position to do him great services when no
one else was, and when he most needed them. As for my feeling of
friendship for him, I shall not even weep when he is dead."
"Suppose you should love a woman," she continued, with a strange
eagerness, "and there should come a time when you would have to choose
between your love for her, and your friendship for this man, which
would prevail?"
"I would sacrifice La Tournoire for the woman I loved," I answered,
with truth.
She looked at me steadily, and a hope seemed to dawn in her eyes, but in
a moment they darkened again; she sighed deeply, and she turned to ascend
to her chamber, while I stood there trying to deduce a meaning from her
strange speeches and conduct, which I finally put down to the
capaciousness of woman. I could understand the feeling that she ought to
part from a man who loved her and whom her religion forbade her to love
in return; but why she should seem pleased at the apparent lukewarmness
of my friendship for La Tournoire, whom she was willing to accept as her
guide, I could not guess. Since she intended to part from me, never to
see me again, what mattered it to her whether or not I was the intimate
of a proscribed ruffian? Yet she seemed glad to hear that I was not, but
this might be only seeming. I might not have read her face and tone
aright. Her inquiries might have been due to curiosity alone. So I
thought no more of them, and gave my mind instead to planning how she
might be made to ignore the difference between our religions, and to
revoke the edict banishing me from her side. It would be necessary that
she should be willing to remain at Maury, with a guard composed of some
of my men, while I, giving a pretext for delaying the flight and for the
absence of myself and the most of my company, should attempt the delivery
of her father from the château of Fleurier. It was my hope, though I
dared not yet breathe it, that I might bring her father and my company
back to Maury, and that all of us might then proceed to Guienne.
My meditations were interrupted by the return of Blaise from Maury, where
he had found all well and the men there joyous at the prospect of soon
rejoining the army in Guienne. A part of the company was absent on a
foraging raid. Two of the roofed chambers were rapidly being made
habitable for Mlle. de Varion, whom Blaise had announced to the men as a
distinguished refugee.
When supper was ready in the kitchen, I sent Jeannotte to summon her
mistress. Mademoiselle came down from her chamber, her sweet face
betokening a brave attempt to bear up under the many woes that crushed
her,--the condition of her father, her own exile, the peril in which she
stood of the governor's reconsidering his order and sending to make her
prisoner, the seeming necessity of exchanging my guidance for that of a
stranger who had been painted to her in repulsive colors, and the other
unhappy elements of her situation.
"It is strange that the boy, Pierre, has not returned," I said, while we
sat at table.
Mademoiselle reddened. It then occurred to me that, in her abstraction,
she had not even noticed his absence, and that now it came on her as a
new trouble.
"Pardon me for speaking of it in such a way as to frighten you," I said.
"There is no cause for alarm. Not finding me on the road, he may have
turned into the woods to look for me, and so have lost his way. He would
surely be able to find the road again."
"I trust he will not come to any harm," replied mademoiselle, in a low
voice that seemed forced, as if she were concealing the fears that she
really felt.
Jeannotte cast a sympathetic look at her mistress.
"Shall I go and look for him?" asked Hugo, showing in his face his
anxiety for his comrade.
"You would lose yourself, also," I said. "Mademoiselle, I shall go, for I
know all the hillocks and points of vantage from which he may be seen."
"Nay, monsieur, do not give yourself the trouble, I pray you."
But I rose from the table, to show that I was determined, and said:
"Blaise, I leave you as guard. Remember last night."
"I am not likely to forget," he growled, dropping his eyes before the
sharp glance of Jeannotte. "Mademoiselle need have no fears."
"But, monsieur," said mademoiselle. She was about to continue, but her
eye met Jeannotte's, and in the face of the maid was an expression as if
counselling silence. So mademoiselle said no more, but she followed me to
the door, and stood on the threshold.
"Monsieur," she said, "if you do not find him within a few minutes, I
entreat that you will not put yourself to further discomfort. See, it is
already nearly dark. If he be lost in the woods for the night, he can
doubtless find his way hither tomorrow."
"I shall not seek long, mademoiselle, for the reason that I would not be
long away from you."
At that moment, feeling under my foot something different from leaves or
earth, I stooped and found one of mademoiselle's gloves, which she had
dropped, probably, on first entering the inn. Remaining in my kneeling
posture and looking up at her sweet, sad face, I said:
"Whatever may come in the future, mademoiselle, circumstance has made me
your faithful chevalier for a day. Will you not give me some badge of
service that I may wear forever in memory of that sweet, though
sorrowful day?"
"Keep what you have in your hand," she replied, in a low voice, and
pointed to her glove.
I rose, and fastened the glove on my hat, and said: "They shall find
it on me when I am dead, mademoiselle." Then I turned to go in search
of Pierre.
"I shall go to my room now," she said, "and so, good-night, monsieur!"
I turned, and made to take her hand that I might kiss it, but she drew it
away, and then, standing on the threshold, she raised it as one does in
bestowing a _benedicite_, and said:
"God watch you through the night, monsieur!"
"And you forever, mademoiselle!" said I, but she had gone. For a moment
I stood looking up at her chamber window, thinking how it had come over
me again, as in the days of my youth, the longing to be near one woman.
Night was now coming on. In the deeper shades of the forest it was
already dark, but the sky was clear, and soon the moon would rise. Musing
as I went, I walked along the road that Pierre had first taken. The only
sounds that I heard were the ceaseless chirps and whirrs of the insects
of the bushes and trees.
When I had gone some distance, I bethought me of my heedlessness in
coming away from the inn without my sword. I had taken this off before
sitting down to eat, and at my departure my mind had been so taken up
with other matters that I had omitted to put it on. My dagger was with it
at the inn. At first I thought of returning for these weapons, but I
considered that I would not be away long, and that there was no
likelihood of my requiring weapon in these solitudes. So I continued on
my way towards a knoll whence I expected to get a good view of the road,
and thus, should Pierre be returning on that road, spare myself the labor
of plunging into the wood's depths and listening for the footsteps of his
horse or of himself.
I had walked several minutes in the increasing darkness, when there came
to my ears, from the shades at the right, the sound of a human snore.
Had the boy fatigued himself in trying to find the way, and fallen asleep
without knowledge of his nearness to the inn?
"Pierre!" I called. There was no answer.
I called again. Again there was no reply, but the snoring ceased. A third
time I called. My call was unheeded.
I turned into the wilds, and forced my way through dense undergrowth. At
a short distance from the road, I came on traces of the passage of some
one else. Following these, I arrived at last at a small open space,
where the absence of vegetation seemed due to some natural cause.
Sufficient of the day's failing light reached the clearing to show me
the figures of four men on the ground before me, three of them stretched
in slumber, the fourth sitting up. The last held a huge old two-handed
sword over his shoulder, ready to strike. The threatening attitude of
this giant made me take mechanically a step backward, and feel for my
sword. Alas, I was unarmed!
"So, my venturesome lackey, we meet again!" came a sarcastic voice from
the left, and some one darted between me and the four men, facing me with
drawn sword.
It was the Vicomte de Berquin, and a triumphant smile was on his face.
Moved by the thought that mademoiselle's safety depended on me, I was
not ashamed, being unarmed, to turn about for immediate flight. But I had
no sooner shown my back to M. de Berquin, than I found myself face to
face with the scowling Barbemouche, who stood motionless, the point of
his sword not many inches from my breast.