AT THE CHÂTEAU OF MAURY
Presently mademoiselle recovered from her faintness and went up to her
chamber, supported by Jeannotte. Her eyes met mine as she was about to
go, but she immediately dropped them, and seemed by an effort to repress
some kind of emotion.
With a heart saddened by the sight of mademoiselle's distress, I then
made arrangements for the night. I was to lie at the front door of the
inn, Blaise at the rear door, Hugo and the gypsies in the horse sheds,
Marianne in the chamber with mademoiselle and Jeannotte, old Godeau where
he chose. It happened that he chose a place before the smouldering fire
in the kitchen.
Any further attempt to find Pierre that night was out of the question. I
dared not leave the inn again, lest I should expose mademoiselle to
possible molestation, or myself to an encounter with those from whom I
had just escaped. Had mademoiselle's safety not depended on that of
myself and Blaise, I might have invited such an encounter for myself or
for him or for both, but I would not have her undergo the slightest risk
of losing her protectors.
I had little apprehension of seeing De Berquin or his men again that
night. Not that he would probably remember his promise to give me my life
and liberty in return for my bringing La Tournoire before him. Even that
promise, if still respected by him, did not affect him in regard to
mademoiselle. But he would consider that, though I was not accompanied by
any of my own men except Blaise, mademoiselle's boy, Hugo, would wield a
stout arm on our side. Unless he knew something of Pierre's
disappearance, he would count that active youth also with our forces. He
had doubtless taken in at a glance the group composed of Godeau, the
gypsies, and Marianne; and he would suppose that I could reckon on
assistance of one kind or another from some or all of these. Thus, having
no odds in his favor, and knowing that we would be on the alert, he would
be little likely to make any kind of demonstration against us. Moreover,
two of his men finding themselves without their weapons, and all of them
angry at the manner of their awakening, they would probably receive very
badly the curses that he would heap on them for their failure to come up
to his support. Their attitude would, for the rest of that night, be one
of mutiny. It was likely that he would retreat and meditate a new plan.
He would not feel safe in the immediate vicinity of the inn, for it
would occur to him that I might send one of my allies to my men with
orders to take him. So he would withdraw and either give up the
enterprise entirely or form a new design.
Now that he knew that I was La Tournoire, what would he do? Abandon his
mission, since my knowledge of him would put me on my guard against him,
and forbid his winning my confidence and betraying me in the way which, I
supposed, Montignac had dictated to him? It was not likely that such a
man, having found only one road by which he might regain the good things
he had lost, would be turned aside from that road. He would follow it to
success or death. Such men are too indolent to go about seeking
opportunities. Having found one, they will pursue it wherever it may
lead. Their fortunes are so desperate that they have only their lives to
lose, and they are so brave that they do not fear death. If they can gain
the stakes, so much the better. If not, little the worse. Meanwhile, they
are occupied in a way congenial to a man who loves adventure, who has
inherited the taste for danger, and finds a pleasurable excitement in
risking his life. Therefore I felt that De Berquin was not yet through
with me, but he would have to change his plan, and, until he should have
time to compose new measures, he would not trouble us.
As I lay in the silence, my thoughts turned from De Berquin to Mlle. de
Varion. Her demonstration on learning that I was La Tournoire was in
harmony with the manner in which she had previously questioned me
concerning my friendship for the bearer of that name. Grieved at the
thought that I was his friend, relieved at my assertion that I did not so
highly esteem him, she had shown the utmost horror on learning that I was
the man himself. Could this be due entirely to the impression conveyed by
a name to which the Catholics in Berry had attached so much dread? It was
natural that one should regard with some terror a man whose deeds had
been so exaggerated by vulgar report; but this fact did not explain the
intensity of mademoiselle's emotion at the moment of my disclosure. Yet
she had attributed that emotion entirely to surprise. Perhaps the
extraordinary manifestation of that surprise was due to her fatigued and
dejected condition. Or it might be, and I felt a delicious thrill at the
thought, that it was her concern for me, her fear that my life might be
the more imperilled by my relations with this proscribed man, that had
caused the distress accompanying her first inquiries. If this was true,
the discovery that I was no other than the man proscribed, and all the
more in danger, would naturally have profoundly affected her.
In the morning she came down from her loft, pale and showing a calmness
that seemed forced. To my greeting and my announcement that Pierre had
not returned, she replied, quietly:
"He is a faithful and honest boy, and I have prayed that no harm might
befall him. His disappearance must not be allowed to alter your plans, M.
de la Tournoire."
"I shall leave orders with Marianne and Godeau to conduct him to Maury,
should he return to this place, as he very probably will. If you do not
wish otherwise, we shall ride on to Maury this morning."
"I do not wish otherwise," she replied. After a moment's pause, she
added, "Alas, monsieur, your friend, M. de Launay, when he promised me
your guidance across the border, engaged you to a more tedious task than
you might have wished to undertake. I fear that I must ask for a delay at
Maury. You see what trouble your friend has brought you into,--waiting
until a poor woman, who has been overcome by fatigue, recovers her
energies."
"Ah, mademoiselle," I said, with delight, "you will then hold me to the
promise made for me by my friend?"
"What else can a helpless woman do?" she asked, with a pretty smile,
although there was a tremor in the voice.
I was overjoyed to be assured that she had accepted the situation. I had
promised that, on her becoming acquainted with La Tournoire, she should
have no other protector. This had meant to her, at the time when it was
spoken, that I should go from her. To me it had meant, of course, that I
should continue with her. I had feared that, on learning the truth, she
would banish me. She had said that we must part. But now, despite the
fact that the same barrier existed between me and her, whether I was La
Tournoire or De Launay, despite her horror on learning that I was the
former, she had abandoned her intention of parting from me. What had
caused this change of mind? Had she, now that I was known to her as La
Tournoire, ceased to entertain for me those feelings which she had, on
account of our difference in religion, sought by an immediate separation
to destroy? This was unlikely. La Tournoire or De Launay, I was the same
man. I chose a happier explanation,--none other than that, considering by
night, she had come to the conclusion that a religious difference was not
too great a barrier to be removed, and that La Tournoire was not a person
to be regarded with any horror. Though modesty might plead against her
continuing in the company of a man with whom she exchanged such feelings
as had so rapidly grown up between us, yet circumstance, most imperative
of all dictators, showed her no other course than to remain under my
guidance and protection. So I accounted for the decision which was to
keep us together for a few more days.
I was not sorry that she had asked for a delay at Maury. It relieved me
of the necessity of making a pretext for retarding her flight while I
should attempt the rescue of her father. The reason to be given for the
absence of myself and a party of my men need not be a strong one when
there was no apparent haste to continue the flight. I was still
determined to keep the attempt in her father's behalf a secret from her
if it should fail, and as a surprise for her if successful.
Inwardly jubilant with the hope inspired by her change of mind, I
hastened to give the innocent reasons for the concealment of my identity
from her. She listened with a changeless smile, keeping her eyes on mine.
Before she could answer, Marianne announced that breakfast was ready. No
further allusion was made to the matter, nor to her now abandoned
determination that we should part.
After breakfast, our party of five mounted our horses, and, led by
Blaise, forced our way through the high bushes that marked the beginning
of the hardly perceptible road to Maury. The two gypsies followed afoot,
for, knowing that I could rely on their fidelity and secrecy, I had bade
them come, that their music and tricks might amuse mademoiselle during
her stay at Maury.
It was a beautiful morning, and I considered that I had many reasons for
joy. Mademoiselle, too, seemed affected by the sweetness and jocundity of
the early day. She had evidently nerved herself, too, against her griefs.
She seemed to have summoned a large stock of resolution to the task of
facing her troubles without a tear. It appeared that she had banished
dejection by an effort of the will. All the time it was evident that her
manner was the result of a vigilant determination. I was, nevertheless,
glad to see a smile, a steadiness of look, a set lip, though they were
attained with premeditation. There was in her conversation, as we rode on
our slow and difficult way, something of the woman of the world. As we
had to go in single file, and so to speak loudly in order to be heard by
one another, our talk could not take on the themes and tones of
tenderness that I would have gladly given to it.
Presently from a bush at the side of the path a man sprang up, saluted,
and stood respectfully while we passed him. It was one of my men,
Maugert, on duty as sentry, for I kept men watching every approach to our
hiding-place night and day. They lay secreted among the brushwood, and
would observe an intruder long before the intruder could be aware of
their presence. A few minutes later we passed another of these faithful
sentinels, who rose out of his concealment to give me a look of welcome,
and soon afterward we rode through the ruined gate into the old
courtyard itself.
"Welcome to Maury!" said I to mademoiselle.
She looked up at the broken façade of the château, around at the trees
that environed the walls and in some places pushed their branches through
openings, then at some of my men, who had been mending their clothes or
tinkering at their weapons.
"I shall feel safe at Maury, monsieur," she said, quietly.
Thus Mlle. de Varion became my guest in that wilderness fastness. I gave
her the two chambers in best preservation, one of them being immediately
over the chief entrance and overlooking the courtyard. My own abode was
in the northern turret, looking down the steep wooded declivity that fell
to the road from Clochonne to Narjec. Hugo was to sleep outside her door.
My own men made their beds in the great hall and in certain sheltered
portions of the wings and outbuildings. They usually ate in this hall,
receiving their food on platters from the cook (happily the kitchen had
remained fit for use), and bearing it thither. It was arranged that Hugo
should carry the meals of mademoiselle and Jeannotte to mademoiselle's
apartments.
It was more after our arrival than during our ride to Maury that
mademoiselle showed the fatigue of which she had spoken. It was evident
that she had reached a resting-place none too soon. Weakness was
manifest in all her movements as well as in the pallor of her cheeks.
Yet, though she languished thus, she did not keep all the time to her
chamber. Each morning she came down to walk about the courtyard, saying
that the air and sunshine--as much as found its way through the
overspreading branches of the trees--strengthened her. There was in one
corner of the yard an old stone bench, which, in good weather, was for a
great part of the afternoon half in sun and half in shade. Here she would
sit by the hour, changing her position as sunlight or shade became
preferable for the moment.
Morning or afternoon, I was never far from her. For I had had to defer
from day to day the first steps towards the projected deliverance of M.
de Varion. On our arrival I had found that some of the men on whose aid I
would most depend were away on a foraging expedition. Each hour I looked
for their return, but in vain. Their absence had now become so prolonged
as to be a cause of alarm. My anxiety about them, and my concern over
other matters, took up so much of my mind that little was left in which
to devise a plan for the rescue of the prisoner, and I would not make the
first move until the whole design should be complete.
As days passed, and mademoiselle's missing boy, Pierre, did not come, I
ceased to hope that we should ever see him again. Had he found his way
to the inn where he had left us, Marianne or Godeau would have brought
him to Maury immediately. It was useless to speculate as to what might
have become of him. He might have perished in the forest, or found his
way to Clochonne, or fallen in with De Berquin and suffered for having
been of our party. When his disappearance was mentioned, Jeannotte would
look at mademoiselle, and mademoiselle would say:
"Poor boy! I pray that no evil may have befallen him. He was fidelity
itself. He would die for me!"
But she did not give herself up to poignant sorrow on his account, or,
indeed, since the night at Godeau's inn, on account of anything. She
seemed to have set herself to bear her troubles in Spartan manner, and to
find in herself, perhaps with surprise, the strength to do so.
So the days passed, and still my plans in regard to her father remained
unformed, the men on whom I relied did not appear, and mademoiselle did
not speak of resuming her flight southward. There came no further sign of
the existence of De Berquin. From or of the outside world we heard
nothing, save occasionally, when the wind was in the right direction, the
faint sound of the bell of Clochonne. We seemed to dwell apart, in a
region of our own, an enchanted forest which none other might enter, a
place where we were forever safe from the strife of humanity, the touch
of war, the reach of the King's edicts, the power of provincial
governors, the vengeance of the great. The gypsies remained with us, and
sweetened the time with their songs and the music of their instruments.
My men treated mademoiselle with the utmost respect. I had caused them to
know that she was a refugee, a lady most precious in my esteem, one for
whose safety and happiness any other consideration must, should occasion
arise, be sacrificed. The weather was dry, sunny, and, for the time of
year, mild. It was like a sweet dream, and I, for one, had no premonition
of the awakening that was to come.
Often during that time I spoke of my love for her. I told her that, to
me, at least, religion was not so much as to drive me from the woman whom
I had so long sought in vain among the beauties of our Henri's court,
whom I had so long worshipped in the ideal, whom I had instantly
recognized as being the embodiment of that ideal, of whose presence I
could not endure to be deprived even in thought.
She would sit looking in my eyes while I told her these things. Sometimes
she would seem to yield to a kind of bliss in hearing them, to forget all
else than ourselves and my words. Then suddenly a look of anguish would
come on her features, she would rise and press her hands to her eyes, as
if to blot out the memory of my look, and say:
"Monsieur, you must not! You must not! You do not know! Oh, if you knew!"
And she would quickly glide away into the château, keeping her face
turned from me until she had disappeared.
I began to think that there might be another obstacle than that of our
difference in religion. Perhaps a promise to another or some vow! But I
swore to myself that, whatever the obstacle might be, I would remove
it. The only matter for present disposition was to get her consent to
my doing so.
She would soon return, composed and smiling, with no sign of wishing to
elude me. For the life of me, I could not long refrain from the subject
that had before so strangely put her to flight.
Sometimes when I talked in the strain of love, joy and pain would succeed
each other on her face, sometimes they would seem to be present at the
same moment. From the look of complete abandonment to happiness that
sometimes, though never for long, shone on her features, I felt that she
loved me, and that eventually her love would gain the victory. I
continually tried to elicit an expression of her feelings in words. Sweet
to me as was the frequent confession of her looks, I sought a confession
in speech also.
One afternoon, as we stood on a little spur that rose from the declivity
below the château, and whence through a small opening between trees could
be seen the river, the smiling plain, and afar the high-perched château
of Clochonne, I asked her:
"Why is it that when I speak of what most occupies my heart you become
silent or sorrowful, or go suddenly from me?"
With assumed lightness she replied:
"Can a woman explain her capricious doings any more than a man can
understand them? It is well known that we do unaccountable things."
Not heeding this evasion, I went on:
"I sometimes fear that you imagine some other barrier between us than the
one of religion. Is it that some other gentleman--?"
"Oh, no, monsieur!" she answered, quickly and earnestly, before I had
time to finish the question.
"Is there, then, some vow or girlish resolution?"
She shook her head negatively in reply, but would not give me any more
satisfaction.
At last I said, abruptly, "Do you, then, wish me not to love you?"
She looked at me first as if she would answer yes, and then as if she
would answer no, and finally, after a sigh, she said:
"Can we cause things by wishing?"
Finally, as a last means of trying her, I said:
"Mademoiselle, I have been thinking that it might be better if I were to
go on alone to Guienne, and leave Blaise and my men to conduct you when
you are able to follow."
She regarded me strangely, first as if the suggestion were a welcome one,
then,--while her brow darkened, and a kind of mental anguish forced
itself into her expression,--as if the plan were not at all acceptable.
"But you will not do that, monsieur?" was all that she said.
I could but sigh in puzzlement, and abandon my attempt to make her tell
her feelings.
Sometimes I would suddenly turn my eyes towards her, and catch her
looking at me with mingled tenderness and pity, as a man condemned to die
might be looked on by the woman who loved him. At those times I thought
that she had some fear or foreboding that I might yet fall a victim to
the vengeance of those whom I had offended. Sometimes her look quite
startled me, for it contained, besides a world of grief and pity,
something of self-reproach. I then supposed that she blamed herself for
allowing her fatigue to delay me in my departure from the province.
But these demonstrations did not often escape her. She oftenest showed
the forced cheerfulness that I have already mentioned. The moments when
any kind of distress showed itself were exceptional, and many of them
were caused by the persistence with which I sought a response in words to
my declarations of love.
There came at last the afternoon--how well I remember it!--when we sat
together on the stone bench in the sunlit part of the old courtyard.
Through the interstices of the overspreading branches we could see a
perfectly clear blue sky. The slightest movement of air made the leaves
rustle sleepily, dreamily. Save the chirping of the birds, no other sound
emanated from the forest. The murmur of the river at the foot of the
wooded steep came up to us. In a corner of the yard the two gypsies lay
asleep. Some of my men were off on various employments. A few had gone
for game; others to fish. One of them, Frojac, was in Clochonne disguised
as a peasant, to keep a watch on the garrison there. The party of
foragers had not returned. Of the men at the château, those who were not
on guard were with Blaise Tripault in the great hall, where they had just
finished eating and drinking, Hugo had gone to the stables to feed
mademoiselle's horses. Jeannotte was asleep in her chamber. Mademoiselle
and I sat in silence, in the midst of a solitude, a remote tranquillity,
a dreamy repose that it was difficult to imagine as ever to be broken.
She seemed to yield to the benign influence of this enchanted place. She
leaned back restfully, closed her eyes, and smiled.
Suddenly there came from within the château the sound of my men singing.
Their rude, strong voices were low at first, but they rose in pitch and
volume as their song progressed. Mademoiselle ceased to smile, opened her
eyes, again took on the look of dark foreboding. The song had an ominous
ring. It was one of the Huguenot war hymns sung in the army of our Henri:
"With pricking of steel
Our foe we have sped,
We've peppered his heel
With pellets of lead,
And the battles we win are the gifts of the Lord,
Who pointeth our cannon and guideth our sword.
We fire and we charge and there's nothing can bar
When we fight in the track of the King of Navarre.
Then down, down, down with the Duke of Guise!
Death, death, death to our enemies!
And glory, we sing, to God and our King,
And death to the foes of Navarre!"
The melody was grim and stirring. The men's voices vibrated with war-like
wrath. They were impatient for battles, charges, the kind of fighting
that is done between great armies on the open field, when there is the
roar and smoke of cannon, the rattle of small firearms, the clash of
steel, the cries of captains, the shrieks and groans of wounded, the
plenteous spilling of blood. They were hungry for carnage.
"There is no cause to shudder, mademoiselle," said I, perceiving the
effect that the song had on her; "we are far away from fighting. There is
no danger here."
"There may be dangers of which you do not guess," she answered.
As if to verify her words, a sudden, sharp cry broke the stillness. It
came from the forest path by which we had arrived at the château. It was
the voice of one of my sentinels challenging a newcomer.
"It is I," came the reply. "I have important news for the captain."
"Oh, it is you, Marianne?" replied the man on guard. "I didn't know you
for an instant, you appeared so suddenly, without any noise."
I hastened to the gate and called, "Come, Marianne, what is it?"
She came up puffing and perspiring. So breathless was she that she had to
sit down on a bench in the courtyard before she could answer me.
"Oh, monsieur!" she said, when she had recovered some breath. "Look to
yourself! The governor of the province is at Clochonne!"
"The devil!" I said, and turned to see the effect of this news on
mademoiselle.
She was standing, trembling, as white as death, her one hand on the back
of the bench for support.
"Be not alarmed, mademoiselle," I said, "Clochonne is not Maury! They do
not know our hiding-place. How did you learn, Marianne, and what else do
you know?"
Mademoiselle stood perfectly still and fixed her eyes on Marianne,
awaiting the latter's answers with apparently as much interest as I
myself felt.
"Godeau went to Clochonne this morning with some eggs to sell, and
learned that the governor arrived last night and occupies the château,"
said Marianne.
"With how many men?" I asked.
"Godeau said that the courtyard of the château and the market-place of
the town were full of men-at-arms, but he did not wait to find out how
many there were. He knew what he would catch from me if he did not
immediately bring me the news, that I might let you know. So he came home
at once, and as soon as I had heard it I started for this place."
"I thank you, Marianne. You are the best of women. Yet it may not be on
our account that M. de la Chatre honors Clochonne with a visit."
It was, indeed, true that the governor would naturally visit his border
towns at a time when war might be expected soon to enter his province.
Yet I could not help thinking that his coming at this particular time had
something to do with his plan to capture me. I remembered what course
Montignac had advised him to take: to wait until his spy should have
located me and sent him word of my hiding-place, then to come to
Clochonne, whither the spy, on learning of his presence, should send him
the information that would enable him to lay an ambuscade for me. This
was a good plan, for a premature arrival of the governor at Clochonne
might give me time to flee before my whereabouts should be known to the
spy; but, knowing my exact whereabouts, La Chatre could first take
measures for cutting off my flight, and then risk nothing by coming to
Clochonne. Moreover, should the spy fail as to the ambush, the governor's
acquaintance with my whereabouts would serve him in a chase that he might
make with his soldiers. The ambush was but a device more likely to
succeed than an open search and attack. It was, if at all possible,
easier, and would cost the governor no lives.
Now, if the plan suggested by Montignac was being carried out, the
governor's arrival at Clochonne meant that his spy had sent him word of
my hiding-place. But could De Berquin have done so? He had previously
shown some skill in secret pursuit. Had he eluded the vigilance of my
sentinels, learned that we were at Maury, and sent one of his men to the
governor with the information? It was improbable, yet nothing occurs more
often than the improbable. So I asked Marianne:
"Have you seen anything of the five men who drank with me the night you
carried wine to us from the inn?"
"Not since that night, monsieur."
"And you have no more news than you have told me?"
"Nothing more, monsieur; so, if you please, I will hurry back, for
my old man is sure to have fallen asleep, and it would be a pity if
the governor's men should come by the forest road without being
seen. Be sure, if they come after I reach home, you shall know of it
in good time."
I bade her go, and turned to mademoiselle.
She was as pale as a white lily. As soon as my eye met hers, she said, in
a faint voice:
"I am going in, monsieur. I am tired. No, I can go alone. Do not be
concerned about me. I shall soon feel better."
And she went rapidly into the château, giving me no time in which to
assure her that there was no reason for immediate alarm.
I wished to consider Marianne's news before communicating it to any of my
men. I had to inquire of myself whether it called for any immediate
action on my part. So that my meditations might not be interrupted, I
left the château and walked into the forest.
For hours I considered the possible relations of the governor's arrival
to mademoiselle's safety and my own, to that of my men and our cause, and
to my intention of delivering M. de Varion from prison. But I could
arrive at no conclusion, for I knew neither the governor's intentions,
nor what information he had concerning me. There were so many
probabilities and so many possible combinations of them, that at last I
threw the whole matter from my mind, determining to await events. On the
way back to the château I reproached myself for having wasted so much
time in making useless guesses, for when I found myself at the gate it
was night, and the moon had risen.
I stopped at the entrance and stood still to listen to the voice of
Blaise, which rose in the courtyard in the words of a psalm. He sang it
with a gentleness the very reverse of the feeling his voice had expressed
in the war hymn a few hours earlier. From a sound that came between the
words now and then, I knew that he was engaged in one of his favorite
occupations, that of polishing his weapons.
Pleased to hear him singing in the moonlight, I stood at the gate, lest
by entering I might interrupt the psalm.
Presently, at the end of the stanza, I heard another voice from the
doorway of the château.
"Ah, Blaise," said Jeannotte, "it is the spirit of your mother that
controls you now."
He made no answer, nor did he resume his singing. Then I recalled that
for the past few days he had not shown his former susceptibility to the
maid's charms; he had, indeed, exhibited towards her a kind of
disapproving shyness. I had not attached any importance to this.
"Why do you not go on singing your psalm?" Jeannotte asked, coming
nearer to him.
His answer was a strange one. It was spoken with a kind of contemptuous
irony and searching interrogation. The words were:
"Mademoiselle's boy Pierre has not yet come back to us."
"What has that to do with your singing?" said Jeannotte. "We all know it
very well. Poor Pierre! To think that he may have been taken by Monsieur
de Berquin!"
"It is well that he did not know the place of our destination when he
went away," said Blaise, in the same insignificant tone, "else M. de
Berquin might torture the secret out of him, and carry it to the governor
of the province, for M. de Berquin knows now that my master is La
Tournoire. It would not be well for the boy, or any one else, to be the
means of the governor's learning La Tournoire's hiding-place!"
After which words, spoken with a kind of ominous menace, Blaise abruptly
left the girl, and strode around the corner of the château. The maid
stood still a few moments, then went into the château.
Completely mystified, I crossed the courtyard and called Blaise.
"M. de la Chatre is at Clochonne," I said, abruptly, as soon as he was
before me.
He stood still, returning my gaze. Presently he said:
"Do you think that he has learned where you are?"
"Through M. de Berquin?" I said, as if completing his question.
"Or any one else?" he said, in a low voice. "There was the boy who
disappeared, for instance."
"But he did not know our hiding-place when he left. He did not know how
near we then were to it. He did not then know that I was La Tournoire."
"But there was much talk of La Tournoire on the journey. Did you at any
time drop any hint of this place, and how it might be reached?"
"None that could have reached his ears. I told only Mlle. de Varion, and
we were quite alone when I did so."
Blaise looked at the ground in silence. After some time he gave a heavy
sigh, and, raising his eyes, said:
"Monsieur, I have been thinking of many things of late. Certain matters
have had a strange appearance. But,--well, perhaps my thoughts have been
absurd, and, in short, I have nothing to say about them except this,
monsieur, it is well to be on one's guard always against every one!"
I was about to ask him whether he meant that the boy Pierre had been
guilty of eavesdropping and treachery, and to reprove him for that
unworthy suspicion, when there was a noise at the gate. Looking thither,
I saw two of my men, Sabray and Roquelin, conducting into the courtyard
three starved-looking persons, who leaned wearily on one another's
shoulders, and seemed ready to drop with fatigue.
"We found these wretches in the woods," explained Sabray. "They are
Catholics, although that one tried to hide his cross and shouted, 'Down
with the mass!' when we told them to surrender in the name of the Sieur
de la Tournoire."
"It is true that I was a Catholic," whined the bedraggled fop who had
belonged to De Berquin's band of four; "but I was just about to abjure
when these men came up."
"I will abjure twice over, if it pleases monsieur," put in the tall
Spanish-looking ruffian. "Nothing would delight me more than to be a
Huguenot. By the windpipe of the Pope, for a flagon of wine I would
be a Jew!"
"And I a damned infidel Turk," wearily added their fat comrade, "for a
roast fowl, and a place to lay my miserable body!"
At this moment the fop's eyes fell on Blaise.
"Saint Marie!" he cried, falling to his knees. "We are dead men. It is
the big fellow we trussed up at the inn!"
"Belly of Beelzebub, so it is!" bellowed Blaise, pulling out his sword.
Turning to Jeannotte, who had just reappeared in the courtyard, he
roared: "It is now my father's spirit that controls me!"
Whereupon he fell to belaboring the three poor, weary, hungry, thirsty
rascals with the flat of his sword, till all of them yelled in concert.
They were too limp to resist or even to run, and he had his way with them
until Sabray and Roquelin howled with laughter. At last I ordered him to
stop, and to confine the men in a chamber, where they should be fed and
questioned. So they limped away moaning, driven like cattle by Blaise,
who promised them as they went that they should not be put to the trouble
of tying up honest people in the dark for some time to come. Jeannotte
followed, out of curiosity, as did Sabray and Roquelin.
Left alone in the courtyard, I sat on the stone bench, which was now in
part yellow with moonlight, and began to ponder. I could doubtless learn
from the three captives whether De Berquin had had any hand in the coming
of La Chatre to Clochonne. Anxious as I was to inform myself, I was yet
in no mood to question the men at that moment, preferring to wait and
hear the result of Blaise's interrogations.
While I was thinking, my arms folded and my eyes turned to the ground at
my feet, I suddenly heard a deep sigh very near me.
I looked up and saw Mademoiselle de Varion standing before me in the
moonlight. My gaze met hers, and in the delicious glow that her presence
sent through me I forgot all in the world but her.