It wanted something over an hour to midnight when Monsieur de Garnache
started out in his sodden clothes to run from Condillac. He bore away to
the north, and continued running until he had covered a mile or so, when
perforce he must slacken his pace lest presently he should have to give
way to utter exhaustion. He trudged on bravely thereafter, at a good,
swinging pace, realizing that in moving briskly lay his salvation from
such ill effects as might otherwise attend his too long immersion. His
run had set a pleasant glow upon his skin and seemed to have thawed the
frozen condition of his joints. Yet he could not disguise from himself
that he was sorely worn by that night’s happenings, and that, if he
would reach his goal, he must carefully husband such strength as yet
remained him.
That goal of his was Voiron, some four leagues distant to the north,
where, at the inn of the Beau Paon, his man, Rabecque, should be lodged,
ready for his coming at any time. Once already, when repairing to
Condillac, he had travelled by that road, and it was so direct that
there seemed scant fear of his mistaking it. On he plodded through the
night, his way lighted for him by the crescent moon, the air so still
that, despite his wet garments, being warmed as he was by his brisk
movements, he never felt the cold of it.
He had overheard enough of what had been said by Marius to Valerie to
understand the business that was afoot for the morrow, and he doubted
him that he had not sufficiently injured the Dowager’s son to make him
refrain from or adjourn his murderous ride across the border into Savoy.
Garnache’s purpose now was to reach Voiron, there to snatch a brief
rest, and then, equipped anew to set out with his man for La Rochette
and anticipate the fell plans of Marius and Fortunio.
He might have experienced elation at his almost miraculous escape and at
the circumstance that he was still at large to carry this duel with the
Condillacs to a fitting finish, were it not for the reflection that but
for his besetting sin of hastiness he might now be travelling in dry
garments toward La Rochette, with mademoiselle beside him. Once again
that rash temper of his had marred an enterprise that was on the point
of succeeding. And yet, even as he regretted his rashness, rage stirred
him again at the thought of Marius crushing that slender shape against
him and seeking to force his odious kisses upon her pure, immaculate
lips. And then the thought of her, left behind at Condillac at the
mercy of Marius and that she-devil the Marquise, and the fears that of
a sudden leapt up in his mind, brought him to a standstill, as though he
were contemplating the incomparable folly of a return. He beat his hands
together for a moment in a frenzy of anguish; he threw back his head
and raised his eyes to the sky above with a burst of imprecations on his
lips. And then reflection brought him peace. No, no; they dare offer
her no hurt. To do so must irrevocably lose them La Vauvraye; and it was
their covetousness had made them villains. Upon that covetousness did
their villainy rest, and he need fear from them no wanton ruthlessness
that should endanger their chance of profit.
He trudged on, reassured. He had been a fool so to give way to fear; as
great a fool as he had been when he had laid hands on Marius to quell
his excessive amorousness. Dieu! Was he bewitched? What ailed him? Again
he paused there in the night to think the situation out.
A dozen thoughts, all centering about Valerie, came crowding in upon
his brain, till in the end a great burst of laughter--the laughter of a
madman almost, eerie and terrific as it rang upon the silent night broke
from his parted lips. That brief moment of introspection had revealed
him to himself, and the revelation had fetched that peal of mocking
laughter from him.
He realized now, at last, that not because the Queen had ordered him to
procure Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye’s enlargement had he submitted
to assume a filthy travesty, to set his neck in jeopardy, to play
the lackey and the spy. It was because something in Valerie’s eyes,
something in her pure, lily face had moved him to it; and simultaneously
had come the thought of the relation in which she stood to that man at
La Rochette whose life he now sought to save for her, and it had stabbed
him with a bitterness no misfortune, no failure yet had brought him.
He trudged on, knowing himself for what he was a fool who, after close
upon forty years of a strenuous life in which no petticoat had played a
part, was come under the spell of a pair of innocent eyes belonging to a
child almost young enough to have been his daughter.
He despised himself a little for his weakness; he despised himself for
his apostasy from the faith that had governed his life--the faith to
keep himself immune from the folly to which womanhood had driven so many
a stout man.
And yet, mock himself, despise himself as he would, a great tenderness,
a great desire grew strong in his soul that night as he trudged on
toward distant Voiron. Mile after mile her image kept him company, and
once, when he had left Voreppe behind him, the greater portion of his
journey done, some devil whispered in his ear that he was weary; that
he would be over-weary on the morrow for any ride to La Rochette. He had
done all that mortal man could do; let him rest to-morrow whilst Marius
and Fortunio accomplished by Florimond what the fever had begun.
A cold perspiration broke on him as he wrestled with that grim
temptation. Valerie was his; she belonged to him by the right of dangers
shared; never had mother in her labours been nearer death for the
offspring’s sake than had he for Valerie during the days that were sped
and the hours that were but gone. She belonged to him by the title of
those dangers he had been through. What had Florimond done to establish
his claim to her? He had remained absent during long years, a-warring in
a foreign land. With how many banal loves might not the fellow in that
time have strewn his soldier’s path! Garnache knew well how close does
Cupid stalk in the wake of Mars, knew well the way of these gay soldiers
and the lightness of their loves.
Was, then, this fellow to come now and claim her, when perils were past,
when there was naught left to do but lead her to the altar? Could he be
worthy of such a pearl of womanhood, this laggard who, because a fever
touched him, sat him down in an inn within a few hours’ ride of her to
rest him, as though the world held no such woman as Valerie?
And she, herself, by what ties was she bound to him? By the ties of an
old promise, given at an age when she knew not what love meant. He
had talked of it with her, and he knew how dispassionately she awaited
Florimond’s return. Florimond might be betrothed to her--her father and
his had encompassed that between them--but no lover of hers was he.
Thus far did his thoughts journey, and temptation gripped him ever more
and more strongly. And then his manhood and his honour awoke with a
shudder, as awakens a man from an ugly dream. What manner of fool was
he? he asked himself again. Upon what presumptions did he base his silly
musings? Did he suppose that even were there no Florimond, it would be
left for a harsh, war-worn old greybeard such as he to awaken tenderness
in the bosom of that child? The tenderness of friendship perhaps--she
had confessed to that; but the tenderness of her sweet love must be won
by a younger, comelier man.
If love had indeed touched him at last, let him be worthy of it and of
her who inspired it. Let him strain every sinew in her service, asking
no guerdon; let him save the life of the man to whom she was affianced;
let him save her from the clutches of the Marquise de Condillac and her
beautiful, unscrupulous son.
He put his folly from him and-went on, seeking to hold his mind to the
planning of his to-morrow’s journey and its business. He had no means to
know that at that very hour Valerie was on her knees by her little white
bed, in the Northern Tower of Condillac, praying for the repose of the
soul of Monsieur de Garnache--the bravest gentleman, the noblest friend
she had ever known. For she accounted him dead, and she thought with
horror of his body lying in the slime under the cold waters of the moat
beneath the window of her antechamber. A change seemed to have come upon
her. Her soul was numb, her courage seemed dead, and little care had she
in that hour of what might betide her now.
Florimond was coming, she remembered: coming to wed her. Ah, well! It
mattered little, since Monsieur de Garnache was dead--as though it could
have mattered had he been living!
Three hours of his long striding brought Garnache at last to Voiron, and
the echo of his footsteps rang through the silent streets and scared a
stray cat or two that were preying out of doors. There was no watch
in the little township and no lights, but by the moon’s faint glimmer
Garnache sought the inn of the Beau Paon, and found it at the end of a
little wandering. A gaudy peacock, with tail spread wide, was the sign
above the door on which he thumped and kicked as if he would have beaten
it down.
It opened after some delay, and a man, half clad, candle in hand, a
night-cap on his hoary locks, showed an angry face at the opening.
At sight of the gaunt, bedraggled figure that craved admittance, the
landlord would have shut the door again, fearing that he had to do with
some wild bandit from the hills. But Garnache thrust his foot in the
way.
“There is a man named Rabecque, from Paris, lodging here. I must have
instant speech with him,” said he; and his words, together with the
crisp, commanding tones in which they were uttered, had their effect
upon the host.
Rabecque had been playing the great lord during the week he had spent
at Voiron, and had known how to command a certain deference and regard.
That this tatterdemalion, with the haughty voice, should demand to see
him at that hour of the night, with such scant unconcern of how far
he might incommode the great Monsieur Rabecque, earned for him too a
certain measure of regard, though still alloyed with some suspicion.
The landlord bade him enter. He did not know whether Monsieur Rabecque
would forgive him for being disturbed; he could not say whether Monsieur
Rabecque would consent to see this visitor at such an hour; very
probably he would not. Still, monsieur might enter.
Garnache cut him short before he had half done, announced his name
and bade him convey it to Rabecque. The alacrity with which the lackey
stirred from his bed upon hearing who it was that had arrived impressed
the host not a little, but not half so much as it impressed him
presently to observe the deference with which this great Monsieur
Rabecque of Paris confronted the scarecrow below stairs when he was
brought into its presence.
“You are safe and sound, monsieur?” he cried, in deferential joy.
“Aye, by a miracle, mon fils,” Garnache answered him, with a short
laugh. “Help me to bed; then bring me a cup of spiced wine. I have swum
a moat and done other wonders in these clothes.”
The host and Rabecque bustled now to minister to his wants between them,
and when, jaded and worn, Garnache lay at last between good-smelling
sheets with the feeling in him that he was like to sleep until the day
of judgment, he issued his final orders.
“Awake me at daybreak, Rabecque,” said he drowsily. “We must be stirring
then. Have horse ready and clothes for me. I shall need you to wash me
clean and shave me and make me what I was before your tricks and dyes
turned me into what I have been this week and more. Take away the light.
At daybreak! Don’t let me sleep beyond that as you value your place with
me. We shall have brisk work to-morrow. At--daybreak--Rabecque!”