The Inn near Pontorson.
The moment I found myself outside the house--and I must confess that, for
reasons which I have indicated, it was a relief to me to find myself
there--I hastened to old Jean's cottage. The old man was eating his
breakfast; his stolidity was unshaken by the events of the night; he
manifested nothing beyond a mild satisfaction that the two rascals had
justified his opinion of them, and a resigned regret that Pierre had not
shared the fate of Lafleur. He told me that his inquiries after Marie
Delhasse had been fruitless, and added that he supposed there would be a
police inquiry into the attempted robbery and the consequent death of
Lafleur; indeed he was of opinion that the duke had gone to Avranches to
arrange for it as much as to prosecute his search for Marie. I seized the
opportunity to suggest that I should be a material witness, and urged him
to give me one of the duke's horses to carry me to Avranches. He grumbled
at my request, declaring that I should end by getting him into trouble;
but a few francs overcame his scruples, and he provided me with a sturdy
animal, which I promised to bring or send back in the course of the day.
Great as my impatience was, I was compelled to spend the first hour of my
arrival at Avranches under the doctor's hands. He discovered to my
satisfaction that the bullet had not lodged in my arm and that my hurt was
no more than a flesh-wound, which would, if all went well, heal in a few
days. He enjoined perfect rest and freedom from worry and excitement. I
thanked him, bowed myself out, mounted again, and rode to the hotel, where
I left my horse with instructions for its return to its owner. Then, at my
best speed, I hastened down the hill again, reached the grounds of the
convent, and approached the door. Perfect rest and freedom from excitement
were unattainable until I had learned whether Marie Delhasse was still
safe within the old white walls which I saw before me; for, though I could
not trace how the change in me had come, nor track its growth, I knew now
that if she were there the walls held what was of the greatest moment to
me in all the world, and that if she were not there the world was a hell
to me until I found her.
I was about to ring the bell, when from the gate of the burial-ground the
Mother Superior came at a slow pace. The old woman was frowning as she
walked, and her frown deepened at sight of me. But I, caring nothing for
what she thought, ran up to her, crying before I had well reached her:
"Is Marie Delhasse still here?"
The Mother stopped dead, and regarded me with disapprobation.
"What business is it of yours, sir, where the young woman is?" she asked.
"I mean her no harm," I urged eagerly. "If she is safe here, I ask to know
no more; I don't even ask to see her. Is she here? The Duchess of
Saint-Maclou told me that you refused to send her away."
"God forbid that I should send away any sinner who will find refuge here,"
she said solemnly. "You have seen the duchess?"
"Yes; she is at home. But Mlle. Delhasse?"
But the old woman would not be hurried. She asked again:
"What concern have you, sir, with Marie Delhasse?"
I looked her in the face as I answered plainly:
"To save her from the Duke of Saint-Maclou."
"And from her own mother, sir?"
"Yes, above all from her own mother."
The old woman started at my words; but there was no change in the level
calm of her voice as she asked:
"And why would you rescue her?"
"For the same reason that any gentleman would, if he could. If you want
more--"
She held up her hand to silence me; but her look was gentler and her voice
softer, as she said:
"You, sir, cannot save, and I cannot save, those who will not let God
himself save them."
"What do you mean?" I cried in a frenzy of fear and eagerness.
"I had prayed for her, and talked with her. I thought I had seen grace in
her. Well, I know not. It is true that she acted as her mother bade her.
But I fear all is not well."
"I pray you to speak plainly. Where is she?"
"I do not know where she is. What I know, sir, you shall know, for I
believe you come in honesty. This morning--some two hours ago--a carriage
drove from the town here. Mme. Delhasse was in it, and with her the Duke
of Saint-Maclou. I could not refuse to let the woman see her daughter.
They spoke together for a time; and then they called me, and Marie--yes,
Marie herself--begged me to let her see the duke. So they came here where
we stand, and I stood a few yards off. They talked earnestly in low tones.
And at last Marie came to me (the others remaining where they were), and
took my hand and kissed it, thanking me and bidding me adieu. I was
grieved, sir, for I trusted that the girl had found peace here; and she
was in the way to make us love her. 'Does your mother bid you go?' I
asked, 'And will she save you from all harm?' And she answered: 'I go of
my own will, Mother; but I go hoping to return.' 'You swear that you go of
your own will?' I asked. 'Yes, of my own will,' she said firmly; but she
was near to weeping as she spoke. Yet what could I do? I could but tell
her that our door--God's door--was never shut. That I told her; and with a
heavy heart, being able to do nothing else, I let her go. I pray God no
harm come of it. But I thought the man's face wore a look of triumph."
"By Heaven," I cried, "it shall not wear it for long! Which way did they
go?"
She pointed to the road by the side of the bay, leading away from
Avranches.
"That way. I watched the carriage and its dust till I saw it no more,
because of the wood that lies between here and the road. You pursue them,
sir?"
"To the world's end, madame, if I must."
She sighed and opened her lips to speak, but no words came; and without
more, I turned and left her, and set my face to follow the carriage. I
was, I think, half-mad with anger and bewilderment, for I did not think
that it would be time well spent to ascend to the town and obtain a
vehicle or a horse; but I pressed on afoot, weary and in pain as I was,
along the hot white road. For now indeed my heart was on fire, and I knew
that beside Marie Delhasse everything was nothing. So at first
imperceptibly, slowly, and unobserved, but at the last with a swift
resistless rush, the power of her beauty and of the soul that I had seemed
to see in her won upon me; and that moment, when I thought that she had
yielded to her enemy and mine, was the flowering and bloom of my love for
her.
Where had they gone? Not to the duke's house, or I should have met them as
I rode down earlier in the morning. Then where? France was wide, and the
world wider: my steps were slow. Where lay the use of the chase? In the
middle of the road, when I had gone perhaps a mile, I stopped dead. I was
beaten and sick at heart, and I searched for a nook of shade by the
wayside, and flung myself on the ground; and the ache of my arm was the
least of my pain.
As I lay there, my eye caught sight of a cloud of dust on the road. For a
moment I scanned it eagerly, and then fell back with a curse of
disappointment. It was caused by a man on a horse--and the man was not the
duke. But in an instant I was sitting up again--for as the rider drew
nearer, trotting briskly along, his form and air was familiar to me; and
when he came opposite to me, I sprang up and ran out to meet him, crying
out to him:
"Gustave! Gustave!"
It was Gustave de Berensac, my friend. He reined in his horse and greeted
me--and he greeted me without surprise, but not without apparent
displeasure.
"I thought I should find you here still," said he. "I rode over to seek
you. Surely you are not at the duchess'?"
His tone was eloquent of remonstrance.
"I've been staying at the inn."
"At the inn?" he repeated, looking at me curiously. "And is the duchess at
home?"
"She's at home now. How come you here?"
"Ah, my friend, and how comes your arm in a sling? Well, you shall have my
story first. I expect it will prove shorter. I am staying at Pontorson
with a friend who is quartered there."
"But you went to Paris."
Gustave leaned clown to me, and spoke in a low impressive tone:
"Gilbert," said he, "I've had a blow. The day after I got to Paris I heard
from Lady Cynthia. She's going to be married to a countryman of yours."
Gustave looked very doleful. I murmured condolence, though in truth I
cared, just then, not a straw about the matter.
"So," he continued, "I seized the first opportunity for a little change."
There was a pause. Gustave's mournful eye ranged over the landscape. Then
he said, in a patient, sorrowful voice:
"You said the duchess was at home?"
"Yes, she's at home now."
"Ah! I ask again, because as I passed the inn on the way between here and
Pontorson I saw in the courtyard--"
"Yes, yes, what?" cried I in sudden eagerness.
"What's the matter, man? I saw a carriage with some luggage on it, and it
looked like the duke's, and--Hallo! Gilbert, where are you going?"
"I can't wait, I can't wait!" I called, already three or four yards away.
"But I haven't heard how you got your arm--"
"I can't tell you now. I can't wait!"
My lethargy had vanished; I was hot to be on my way again.
"Is the man mad?" he cried; and he put his horse to a quick walk to keep
up with me.
I stopped short.
"It would take all day to tell you the story," I said impatiently.
"Still I should like to know--"
"I can't help it. Look here, Gustave, the duchess knows. Go and see her. I
must go on now."
Across the puzzled mournful eyes of the rejected lover and bewildered
friend I thought I saw a little gleam.
"The duchess?" said he.
"Yes, she's all alone. The duke's not there."
"Where is the duke?" he asked; but, as it struck me, now rather in
precaution than in curiosity.
"That's what I'm going to see," said I.
And with hope and resolution born again in my heart I broke into a fair
run, and, with a wave of my hand, left Gustave in the middle of the road,
staring after me and plainly convinced that I was mad. Perhaps I was not
far from that state. Mad or not, in any case after three minutes I thought
no more of my good friend Gustave de Berensac, nor of aught else, save the
inn outside Pontorson, just where the old road used to turn toward Mont
St. Michel. To that goal I pressed on, forgetting my weariness and my
pain. For it might be that the carriage would still stand in the yard, and
that in the house I should come upon the object of my search.
Half an hour's walk brought me to the inn, and there, to my joy, I saw the
carriage drawn up under a shed side by side with the inn-keeper's market
cart. The horses had been taken out; there was no servant in sight. I
walked up to the door of the inn and passed through it. And I called for
wine.
A big stout man, wearing a blouse, came out to meet me. The inn was a
large one, and the inn-keeper was evidently a man of some consideration,
although he wore a blouse. But I did not like the look of him, for he had
shifty eyes and a bloated face. Without a word he brought me what I
ordered and set it down in a little room facing the stable yard.
"Whose carriage is that under your shed?" I asked, sipping my wine.
"It is the carriage of the Duke of Saint-Maclou, sir," he answered readily
enough.
"The duke is here, then?"
"Have you business with him, sir?"
"I did but ask you a simple question," said I. "Ah! what's that? Who's
that?"
I had been looking out of the window, and my sudden exclamation was caused
by this--that the door of a stable which faced me had opened very gently,
and but just wide enough to allow a face to appear for an instant and then
disappear. And it seemed to me that I knew the face, although the sight of
it had been too short to make me sure.
"What did you see, sir?" asked the inn-keeper. (The name on his signboard
was Jacques Bontet.)
I turned and faced him full.
"I saw someone look out of the stable," said I.
"Doubtless the stable-boy," he answered; and his manner was so ordinary,
unembarrassed, and free from alarm, that I doubted whether my eyes had not
played me a trick, or my imagination played one upon my eyes.
Be that as it might, I had no time to press my host further at that
moment; for I heard a step behind me and a voice I knew saying:
"Bontet, who is this gentleman?"
I turned. In the doorway of the room stood the Duke of Saint-Maclou. He
was in the same dress as when he had parted from me; he was dusty, his
face was pale, and the skin had made bags under his eyes. But he stood
looking at me composedly, with a smile on his lips.
"Ah!" said he, "it is my friend Mr. Aycon. Bontet, bring me some wine,
too, that I may drink with my friend." And he added, addressing me: "You
will find our good Bontet most obliging. He is a tenant of mine, and he
will do anything to oblige me and my friends. Isn't it so, Bontet?"
The fellow grunted a surly and none too respectful assent, and left the
room to fetch the duke his wine. Silence followed on his departure for
some seconds. Then the duke came up to where I stood, folded his arms, and
looked me full in the face.
"It is difficult to lose the pleasure of your company, sir," he said.
"If you will depart from here alone," I retorted, "you shall find it the
easiest thing in the world. For, in truth, it is not desire for your
society that brings me here."
He lifted a hand and tugged at his mustache.
"You have, perhaps, been to the convent?" he hazarded.
"I have just come from there," I rejoined.
"I am not an Englishman," said he, curling the end of the mustache, "and I
do not know how plain an intimation need be to discourage one of your
resolute race. For my part, I should have thought that when a lady accepts
the escort of one gentleman, it means that she does not desire that of
another."
He said this with a great air and an assumption of dignity that contrasted
strongly with the unrestrained paroxysms of the night before. I take it
that success--or what seems such--may transform a man as though it changed
his very skin. But I was not skilled to cross swords with him in talk of
that kind, so I put my hands in my pockets and leaned against the shutter
and said bluntly:
"God knows what lies you told her, you see."
His white face suddenly flushed; but he held himself in and retorted with
a sneer:
"A disabled right arm gives a man fine courage."
"Nonsense!" said I. "I can aim as well with my left;" and that indeed was
not very far from the truth. And I went on: "Is she here?"
"Mme. and Mlle. Delhasse are both here, under my escort."
"I should like to see Mlle. Delhasse," I observed.
He answered me in low tones, but with the passion in him closer to the
surface now and near on boiling up through the thin film of his
self-restraint:
"So long as I live, you shall never see her."
But I cared not, for my heart leaped in joy at his words. They meant to me
that he dared not let me see her; that, be the meaning of her consent to
go with him what it might, yet he dared not match his power over her
against mine. And whence came the power he feared? It could be mine only
if I had touched her heart.
"I presume she may see whom she will," said I still carelessly.
"Her mother will protect her from you with my help."
There was silence for a minute. Then I said:
"I will not leave here without seeing her."
And a pause followed my words till the duke, fixing his eyes on mine,
answered significantly:
"If you leave here alive to-night, you are welcome to take her with you."
I understood, and I nodded my head.
"My left arm is as sound as yours," he added; "and, maybe, better
practiced."
Our eyes met again, and the agreement was sealed. The duke was about to
speak again, when a sudden thought struck me. I put my hand in my pocket
and drew out the Cardinal's Necklace. And I flung it on the table before
me, saying:
"Let me return that to you, sir."
The duke stood regarding the necklace for a moment, as it lay gleaming and
glittering on the wooden table in the bare inn parlor. Then he stepped up
to the table, but at the moment I cried:
"You won't steal her away before--before--"
"Before we fight? I will not, on my honor." He paused and added: "For
there is one thing I want more even than her."
I could guess what that was.
And then he put out his hand, took up the necklace, and thrust it
carelessly into the pocket of his coat. And looking across the room, I saw
the inn-keeper, Jacques Bontet, standing in the doorway and staring with
all his eyes at the spot on the table where the glittering thing had for a
moment lain; and as the fellow set down the wine he had brought for the
duke, I swear that he trembled as a man who has seen a ghost; for he
spilled some of the wine and chinked the bottle against the glass. But
while I stared at him, the duke lifted his glass and bowed to me, saying,
with a smile and as though he jested in some phrase of extravagant
friendship for me:
"May nothing less than death part you and me?"
And I drank the toast with him, saying "Amen."