A Strange Good Humor.
For a moment Marie Delhasse stood looking at me; then she uttered a low
cry, full of relief, of security, of joy; and coming to me stretched out
her hands, saying:
"You are here then, after all!"
Charmed to see how she greeted me, I had not the heart to tell her that
her peril was not past; nor did she give me the opportunity, for went on
directly:
"And you are wounded? But not badly, not badly, Mr. Aycon?"
"Who told you I was wounded?"
"Why, the duke. He said that you had been shot by a thief, and were very
badly hurt; and--and--" She stopped, blushing.
("Where is he?" I remembered the words; my forecast of their meaning had
been true.)
"And did what he told you," I asked softly, "make you leave the convent
and come to find me?"
"Yes," she answered, taking courage and meeting my eyes. "And then you
were not here, and I thought it was a trap."
"You were right; it was a trap. I came to find you at the convent, but you
were gone: only by the chance of meeting with a friend who saw the duke's
carriage standing here have I found you."
"You were seeking for me?"
"Yes, I was seeking for you."
I spoke slowly, as though hours were open for our talk; but suddenly I
remembered that at any moment the old witch might return. And I had much
to say before she came.
"Marie--" I began eagerly, never thinking that the name she had come to
bear in my thoughts could be new and strange from my lips. But the moment
I had uttered it I perceived what I had done, for she drew back further,
gazing at me with inquiring eyes, and her breath seemed arrested. Then,
answering the question in her eyes, I said simply:
"For what else am I here, Marie?" and I caught her hand in my left hand.
She stood motionless, still silently asking what I would. And I kissed her
hand. And again the low cry, lower still--half a cry and half a sigh--came
from her, and she drew timidly nearer to me; and I drew her yet nearer,
whispering, in a broken word or two, that I loved her.
But she, still dazed, looked up at me, whispering, "When, when?"
And I could not tell her when I had come to love her, for I did not know
then--nor can I recollect now; nor have I any opinion about it, save that
it speaks ill for me that it was not when first I set my eyes upon her.
But she doubted, remembering that I had seemed fancy-struck with the
little duchess, and cold, maybe stern, to her; and because, I think, she
knew that I had seen her tempted. And to silence her doubts, I kissed her
lips. She did not return my kiss, but stood with wondering eyes. Then in
an instant a change came over her face. I felt her press my hand, and for
an instant or two her lips moved, but I heard no words, nor do I think
that the unheard words were for my ear; and I bowed my head.
Yet time pressed. Again I collected my thoughts from this sweet
reverie--wherein what gave me not least joy was the perfect trust she
showed in me, for that is perhaps the one thing in this world that a man
may be proud to win--and said to her:
"Marie, you must listen. I have something to tell you."
"Oh, you'll take me away from them?" she cried, clutching my hand in both
of hers.
"I can't now," I answered. "You must be brave. Listen: if I try to take
you away now, it may be that I should be killed and you left defenseless.
But this evening you can be safe, whatever befalls me."
"Why, what should befall you?" she asked, with a swift movement that
brought her closer to me.
I had to tell her the truth, or my plan for her salvation would not be
carried out.
"To-night I fight the duke. Hush! hush! Yes, I must fight with the
duke--yes, wounded arm, my darling, notwithstanding. We shall leave here
about five and go down to the bay toward the Mount, and there on the sands
we shall fight. And--listen now--you must follow us, about half an hour
after we have gone."
"But they will not let me go."
"Go you must. Marie, here is a pistol. Take it; and if anyone stops you,
use it. But I think none will; for the duke will be with me, and I do not
think Bontet will interfere."
"But my mother?"
"You are as strong as she."
"Yes, yes, I'll come. You'll be on the sands; I'll come!" The help she had
found in me made her brave now.
"You will get there as we are fighting or soon after. Do not look for me
or for the duke, but look for two gentlemen whom you do not know, they
will be there--French officers--and to their honor you must trust."
"But why not to you?"
"If I am alive and well, I shall not fail you; but if I come not, go to
them and demand their protection from the duke, telling them how he has
snared you here. And they will not suffer him to carry you off against
your will. Do you see? Do you understand?"
"Yes, I see. But must you fight?"
"Yes, dear, I must fight. The duke will not trouble you again, I think,
before the evening; and if you remember what I have told you, all will be
well."
So I tried to comfort her, believing as I did that no two French gentlemen
would desire or dare to refuse her their protection against the duke. But
she was clinging to me now, in great distress that I must fight--and
indeed I had rather have fought at another time myself--and in fresh
terror of her mother's anger, seeing that I should not be there to bear it
for her.
"For," she said, "we have had a terrible quarrel just before you came. I
told her that unless I saw you within an hour nothing but force should
keep me here, and that if they kept me here by force, I would find means
to kill myself; and that I would not see nor speak to the duke unless he
brought me to you, according to his promise; and that if he sent his
necklace again--for he sent it here half an hour ago--I would not send it
back as I did then, but would fling it out of the window yonder into the
cattle pond, where he could go and fetch it out himself."
And my dearest Marie, finding increased courage from reciting her
courageous speech, and from my friendly hearing of it, raised her voice,
and her eyes flashed, so that she looked yet more beautiful; and again did
I forget inexorable time. But it struck me that there was small wonder
that Mme. Delhasse's temper had not been of the best nor calculated to
endure patiently such a vexatious encounter as befell her when she ran
against me on the landing outside her door.
Yet Marie's courage failed again; and I told her that before we fought I
would tell my second of her state, so that if she came not and I were
wounded (of worse I did not speak), he would come to the inn and bring her
to me. And this comforted her more, so that she grew calmer, and, passing
from our present difficulties, she gave herself to persuading me (nor
would the poor girl believe that I needed no persuading) that in no case
would she have yielded to the duke, and that her mother had left her in
wrath born of an utter despair that Marie's will in the matter could ever
be broken down.
"For I told her," Marie repeated, "that I would sooner die!"
She paused, and raising her eyes to mine, said to me (and here I think
courage was not lacking in her):
"Yes, although once I had hesitated, now I had rather die. For when I
hesitated, God sent you to my door, that in love I might find salvation."
Well, I do not know that a man does well to describe all that passes at
times like this. There are things rather meet to be left dwelling in his
own heart, sweetening all his life, and causing him to marvel that sinners
have such joys conceded to them this side of Heaven; so that in their
recollection he may find, mingling with his delight, an occasion for
humility such as it little harms any of us to light on now and then.
Enough then--for the telling of it; but enough in the passing of it there
was not nor could be. Yet at last, because needs must when the devil--or a
son--aye, or an elderly daughter of his--drives, I found myself outside
the door of Mme. Delhasse's room. With the turning of the lock Marie
whispered a last word to me, and full of hope I turned to descend the
stairs. For I had upon me the feeling which, oftener perhaps than we
think, gave to the righteous cause a victory against odds when ordeal of
battle held sway. Now, such a feeling is, I take it, of small use in a
court of law.
But Fortune lost no time in checking my presumption by an accident which
at first gave me great concern. For, even as I turned away from the door
of the room, there was Mme. Delhasse coming up the stairs. I was fairly
caught, there was no doubt about it; and for Marie's sake I was deeply
grieved, for I feared that my discovery would mean another stormy scene
for her. Nevertheless, to make the best of it, I assumed a jaunty air as I
said to Mlle. Delhasse:
"The duke will be witness that you were not in your room, madame. You will
not be compromised."
I fully expected that an outburst of anger would follow on this pleasantry
of mine--which was, I confess, rather in the taste best suited to Mme.
Delhasse than in the best as judged by an abstract standard--but to my
surprise the old creature did nothing worse than bestow on me a sour grin.
Apparently, if I were well-pleased with the last half-hour, she had found
time pass no less pleasantly. All traces of her exasperation and ill humor
had gone, and she looked as pleased and contented as though she had been
an exemplary mother, rewarded (as such deserve to be) by complete love and
peace in her family circle.
"You've been slinking in behind my back, have you?" she asked, but still
with a grin.
"It would have been rude to force an entrance to your face," I observed.
"And I suppose you've been making love to the girl?"
"At the proper time, madame," said I, with much courtesy, "I shall no
doubt ask you for an interview with regard to that matter. I shall omit no
respect that you deserve."
As I spoke, I stood on one side to let her pass. I cannot make up my mind
whether her recent fury or her present good humor repelled me more.
"You'd have a fine fool for a wife," said she, with a jerk of her thumb
toward the room where the daughter was.
"I should be compensated by a very clever mother-in-law," said I.
The old woman paused for an instant at the top of the stairs, and looked
me up and down.
"Aye," said she, "you men think yourselves mighty clever, but a woman gets
the better of you all now and then."
I was utterly puzzled by her evident exultation. The duke could not have
consented to accept her society in place of her daughter's; but I risked
the impropriety and hazarded the suggestion to Mme. Delhasse. Her face
curled in cunning wrinkles. She seemed to be about to speak, but then she
shut her lips with a snap, and suspicion betrayed itself again in her
eyes. She had a secret--a fresh secret--I could have sworn, and in her
triumph she had come near to saying something that might have cast light
on it.
"By the way," I said, "your daughter did not expect my coming." It was
perhaps a vain hope, but I thought that I might save Marie from a tirade.
The old woman shrugged her shoulders, and observed carelessly:
"The fool may do what she likes;" and with this she knocked at the door.
I did not wait to see it opened--to confess the truth, I felt not sure of
my temper were I forced to see her and Marie together--but went downstairs
and into my own room. There I sat down in a chair by the window close to a
small table, for I meant to write a letter or two to friends at home, in
case the duke's left hand should prove more skillful than mine when we met
that evening. But, finding that I could hardly write with my right hand
and couldn't write at all with the other, I contented myself with
scrawling laboriously a short note to Gustave de Berensac, which I put in
my pocket, having indorsed on it a direction for its delivery in case I
should meet with an accident. Then I lay back in my chair, regretting, I
recollect, that, as my luggage was left at Avranches, I had not a clean
shirt to fight in; and then, becoming drowsy, I began to stare idly along
the road in front of the window, rehearsing the events of the last few
days in my mind, but coming back to Marie Delhasse.
So an hour passed away. Then I rose and stretched myself, and gave a
glance out of the window to see if we were likely to have a fine evening
for our sport, for clouds had been gathering up all day. And when I had
made up my mind that the rain would hold off long enough for our purpose,
I looked down at the road again, and there I saw two figures which I knew.
From the direction of Pontorson came Jacques Bontet the inn-keeper,
slouching along and smoking a thin black cigar.
"Ah! he has been to deliver the note to our friends the officers," said I
to myself.
And then I looked at the other familiar figure, which was that of Mme.
Delhasse. She wore the bonnet and cloak which had been lying on the bed in
her room at the time of my intrusion. She was just leaving the premises of
the inn strolling, nay dawdling, along. She met Bontet and stopped for a
moment in conversation with him. Then she pursued her leisurely walk in
the direction of Pontorson, and I watched her till she was about three
hundred yards off. But her form had no charms, and, growing tired of the
prospect, I turned away remarking to myself:
"I suppose the old lady wants just a little stroll before dinner."
Nor did I see any reason to be dissatisfied with either of my
inferences--at the moment. So I disturbed myself no more, but rang the
bell and ordered some coffee and a little glass of the least bad brandy in
the inn. For it could not be long before I was presented with the Duke of
Saint-Maclou's compliments and an intimation that he would be glad to have
my company on a walk in the cool of the evening.