THE SUBMISSION OF MADEMOISELLE DE LIANCOURT
They buried Jean in the great Church of St. Etienne, as was fitting,
and a whole city mourned him. He had passed in and out amongst them,
there was hardly a man, woman, or child in Vayenne who had not known
him, now his place was suddenly empty. Some had laughed at him, some
with him; some had pitied him; and a few, understanding him better,
had loved him. To-day the whole city mourned and honored him, and a
great silent crowd was in the streets as he passed to his last resting
place, to sleep for ever in that beautiful House of God where he had
so often crept in to sleep at night. Soldiers saluted as he passed,
and men remembered what he had done for the city that he loved,
crowning his good work by giving his life for the Duke's. "It's only
the fool!" they had cried in their first gladness that the Duke had
not been struck down, but now there was a sense of regret almost that
they had expressed their gladness in such words, words which seemed to
mark the loss as a trivial one. They recognized that the loss was a
great one, that Vayenne would be the poorer without that strange
misshapen figure in its streets.
And chief among the mourners stood the Duke himself, and those about
him saw that the strong man who seemed to know no fear, to whom, as
they believed, all sentiment and love were unknown, wept. They spoke
no more of the Duke's fool, but of the Duke's friend. They understood
Jean better now, and perhaps they understood the Duke better, too, as
they returned homeward.
A solemn city to-day, yet over it the carillon laughed its constant
message. Time passeth into Eternity, and Time is a little matter.
Always Jean had understood something of the meaning of the message. He
had a fuller understanding now.
Jean's death had one marked effect upon the people's mind. Three days
since they had accepted the Duke's judgment upon the prisoners without
a murmur, and, if they were inclined to think it too lenient, they
realized that mercy has its part in justice, and were content. They
were still content to exonerate Mademoiselle de Liancourt from any
part in deep-seated treachery, but they were loud in their demands
that Count Felix should die the death of a traitor, nor was their fury
against de Bornais much less. The Duke remained firm in his purpose
with regard to de Bornais, who had left the city two days ago to the
accompaniment of hisses and execrations from the assembled multitude.
Only a strong force of soldiers had procured his safe passage through
the streets. Now Jean's funeral had further inflamed the people's
anger against the Count, who remained a close prisoner in the
semi-circular cell in the South Tower. There was no loose bar in the
window high up in the wall any longer, there was no Jean to come to
his deliverance. Indeed, it was the safest refuge the Count could
have, for in their present mood the populace would have torn down any
less well defended prison to get at him.
Very sad at heart Herrick had returned to the castle after Jean's
funeral. He had been met on all sides with loud demands for the
Count's death. It seemed suddenly to have become the one question of
importance. Many more of the nobles had come to Vayenne, and they,
too, advised his speedy execution. He had added murder to treachery.
No further mercy ought to be shown him.
Herrick sat alone thinking of Jean. Something had gone out of his life
with the quaint figure with which he had become so familiar. He had
never liked the motley, yet, as Jean had said, it seemed to suit
somehow his outward appearance. Herrick would have given much to see
the door open quietly and to hear the jingle of the bells. Clad in
that gaudy green and scarlet, Jean had been a very wise counsellor,
and Herrick missed his wisdom and advice every hour.
"I had not been so good a Duke as I am had it not been for Jean," he
murmured.
The door did open presently, quietly too, but it was Lemasle who
entered.
"You have not forgotten that Mademoiselle de Liancourt rides to Passey
this afternoon, sir."
"No, captain. You will take a strong force. There may still be robbers
on the Passey road, but not of the kind you and I have had experience
of."
"Am I to return with my men from Passey at once?" asked Lemasle.
Herrick was thoughtful for a few moments.
"No," he said slowly. "Viscount Dupre has certain instructions
concerning the--the prisoner, and will decide when it is advisable for
you to return. Be guided entirely by him, Lemasle."
The captain regarded him curiously for a moment.
"Sir, you surely do not intend----" Then he stopped, partly because of
the absurdity of the idea that had suddenly come into his mind,
partly because of the expression in the Duke's face.
"I do nothing without careful consideration, Lemasle," said Herrick.
"Though I seek to serve the state, I am despot enough to do it in my
own fashion."
"Pardon, sir; instead of simply obeying orders, I was presuming to try
and understand."
"To understand what, captain?"
"Your purpose regarding Mademoiselle."
"She is a prisoner sent to the Chateau of Passey," Herrick answered.
"Is it too lenient a punishment? It is a dull place, Passey, likely to
break the high spirits and proud defiance of any woman. Is there not
some vindictiveness in my action in this matter?"
"And afterward, sir?"
"Ah, my good friend, so you would look through the Duke into the heart
of the man," said Herrick, with a smile. "The passing hours must bring
the afterward as they will; but this much of my heart you may know: I
send Mademoiselle to Passey guarded by the man, the one man I trust as
I would trust myself--Gaspar Lemasle; yet even he would be a fool to
enter Vayenne again should harm befall Christine de Liancourt. She is
dear to me, dear as my own soul; know, therefore, Lemasle, how I trust
you."
"Your words prophesy summer weather for this land of Montvilliers,"
said the captain quickly. "If only----"
Herrick looked at him as he paused.
"I would to heaven my sword had been thrust deeply into the Count's
throat the other day before your sharp command had had time to hold it
back," the captain burst out.
"Truly he is a great difficulty," said Herrick.
"Let him die, sir. No man ever merited death more. The whole city
demands it."
What would Jean have said? Herrick found himself glancing down at the
floor beside his chair, caught himself listening for the jingle of
bells. There was no sound, there was no quaint little figure seated
beside him.
"For a few days longer he must live," he said suddenly. "He is a pawn
in the game, and must keep his place on the board. He shall be judged,
Lemasle. Rest assured, he shall be judged. Has not a man, because of
him, died for me?"
The captain had turned to go, fully satisfied that the Count's fate
was sealed, when the door opened, and a messenger entered.
"Sir, Mademoiselle de Liancourt prays that she may see you before she
leaves the castle."
"I will come to her at once," Herrick answered, and the messenger
withdrew.
The prompt answer, the sudden change in Herrick's face, the alertness
of his movements as he rose from his chair, were not lost upon
Lemasle. The least observant of men could not help but be conscious of
them.
"Is it possible that, after all, Mademoiselle will not leave the
castle?" he asked.
"Nothing will prevent her going to Passey, Lemasle, I trust you to see
that she goes in safety." And then as Herrick reached the door he
turned back. "You must take a strong force. The rabble is fickle, and
may think to please me by jeering at her. Should any cur fling so much
as a sneering word at her, drag him to his knees, captain, make him
kiss the dust before her, humble himself, and crave her pardon. If, as
you let him go, you so far forget yourself as to give him a sound cuff
to help him to better manners in the future, no great harm will be
done. There is more vindictiveness in me than you supposed."
With the stripping off of her wedding garments a gladness had come
into Christine's heart, a feeling that in casting them aside she had
escaped some great disaster. Herrick was hardly absent from her
thoughts for a moment. She had credited him with an overweening
ambition; had judged all his actions in this light. She could no
longer believe that he was prompted by mere ambition. He had fought
for, and saved Montvilliers. He had returned to save her from a
disastrous wedding. She knew now that others about her had schemed and
plotted for their own ends, and that, whatever motive lay under Roger
Herrick's actions, the love of this land was deep rooted in his heart.
He had indeed taught her a lesson in patriotism. She did not
understand him, how could she? but the outlines of the man, as it
were, began to take a different and a larger shape. They were
indefinite still, she could not fit the Roger Herrick who had knelt to
her offering his service with the Duke who seemed desirous of bending
everyone and everything to his will. His splendid courage before the
Church of St. Etienne had fascinated her. The man she had come to
marry, all the men about her, seemed to sink into insignificance
beside this one commanding figure; she felt that he must be obeyed,
and forgot to be resentful. The words he had spoken to her were stern
ones, yet there was a look in his eyes, something in the touch of his
hand as he helped her into the carriage, which had thrilled her. Then
had come that day in the hall. Surely he had excuse enough to avenge
himself, not upon herself, she had not expected him to do that, but
upon Felix and de Bornais. She had to confess that his judgments upon
them were more lenient than probably her own would have been. Too
lenient, surely, for the swift tragedy of Jean's death had followed.
As surely as the downward stroke of that cruel dagger had taken the
dwarf's life, so surely had it shown to Christine, in an instant of
time, what this man Roger Herrick really was to her. Real grief had
cast her upon her knees beside Jean, but there was wild joy in her
heart that it was not Herrick who lay there.
They had hurried Felix roughly from the hall, and she had left Herrick
bending over the body of the man who had died to save him. He had not
spoken to her, he had not replied to the words she had whispered as
Jean died; their eyes had met for a moment, and she had not seen him
since. Lucille, her only companion, was as close a prisoner as
herself, so nothing of the gossip of the castle was brought to
Christine. One of those who watched and waited upon her told her that
the Count was confined in the South Tower, and gradually Felix began
to come into her thoughts. For prisoners there had ever been a
sinister meaning in that semi-circular cell in the South Tower. Death
had so often been the only road to freedom from it. Felix deserved
death. It was almost certain that the Duke had decided upon his death.
It was just, and yet Christine shrank from the contemplation of it. By
reason of Roger Herrick's coming, Felix had suffered terrible
humiliation; there was surely some excuse for him. There was, Herrick
himself had admitted it, but that, of course, was before Jean had been
murdered. Yes, it was just that Felix should die, and yet he was her
cousin, the man whom a few days ago she had been willing to marry. Was
she not in some measure responsible for what had happened? The thought
that in an hour or two she would have left Vayenne, would be
powerless to plead for mercy, made her send impulsively to Herrick and
pray for an audience.
She had sent Lucille into another room, and was standing by the window
clad in her riding habit ready for her journey to Passey when the door
opened, and a soldier, saluting, announced the Duke.
Christine remembered that last time he had come unannounced.
For a moment Herrick paused upon the threshold. She had been dressed
as she was now when he had first seen her. She had looked like this
when he had first offered her his service. Nothing could suit the
pretty head so well as that astrakhan cap. It was with an effort that
he advanced slowly toward her; he would like to have caught her in his
arms, and stopped all remonstrance with his kisses on her lips.
"You sent for me, mademoiselle."
Now he had come Christine hardly knew what to say to him, or how best
to say it. Could she move him to mercy if she were humble enough?
"I wanted to thank you," she said, "for your leniency to me and--and
to others. You might have chosen a harder prison for me than the
Chateau of Passey. It has its associations for me. You thought of that
when you chose it."
"Naturally I had reasons for choosing it," he answered.
"My lord, Count Felix is----"
"Mademoiselle, for these three days past the Count's name has been
ringing in my ears. Spare me more of it. They shout in the streets at
me for his death. In the castle they are insistent that he should die.
I cannot forget that Jean's love for me saved my life, and Jean is
dead."
"Neither do I forget it; still, I would plead for the Count."
"Surely he merits death?"
"Yes; still, I would plead for him," said Christine earnestly. "You
know--you said--you have admitted that for his plotting, at least,
there was some excuse. He was mad with the uncontrollable madness of a
desperate man."
"It was murder, mademoiselle, no more, no less; that the victim was
not the one he hoped for makes little difference."
"Yet I plead for him," she persisted. "You have already shown great
generosity; show it once more, if not to him, to me. Felix is my own
flesh and blood. How far I may be responsible for his madness I do not
know. He had lost everything, his kingdom, his honor, the woman he has
always desired to marry. In his own fashion he may have loved me. I
had plotted with him against you. Truly in a large degree I am
responsible, and I pray you have mercy. Make my punishment greater if
you will, so that you save Felix. Banish him, anything, but do not
kill him."
"You forget that the state has laws, and that the Duke but serves the
state," he said quietly.
"You are all-powerful, and you know it. On my knees I beg this thing."
And she suddenly dropped at his feet. "I beg it of the Duke, the Duke
I promise to serve should it presently please him to give me freedom.
You have taught me patriotism. I would I had the power I once had to
make my service a worthy gift."
"Mademoiselle, I doubt not the people still love you," said Herrick,
putting out his hand to raise her; but she would not see it.
"You believe that? You believe that I might still be a danger?"
"Am I not sending you to the Chateau of Passey? If you were of small
account in Vayenne, why should I banish you from the city?"
There was a moment's pause, then she said quietly. "Not long ago in
this room you asked me to make a sacrifice, it was your own word, and
I refused. I have learned much since then. I will do anything to serve
the Duke and my country."
Herrick remembered the manner in which he had asked her to marry him.
For an instant now he nearly lost control of himself, almost bent down
and caught her up in his arms to tell her all that was in his heart,
but he quickly had himself in hand again.
"Mademoiselle," he said, gently raising her, "I do not like to have
you kneeling to me, and I will not bargain with you in this fashion.
For the present Felix must remain where he is, but this I promise, you
shall have speech with me again before he is condemned."
"Thank you," she said. "Before he is condemned; you mean before----"
"There is no juggling in the words," Herrick answered. "Is it too much
to ask you to trust me?"
"I trust the word of the Duke," she said.
"I will leave you, mademoiselle. I hear your escort assembling in the
court-yard. You may find the Chateau of Passey a less dreary prison
than you imagine."
A little later Christine and Lucille rode out of the great gates with
Gaspard Lemasle and a large escort, and from a corner of the terrace
Roger Herrick watched them go. His world had moved since the night he
had seen her ride out upon the same journey when she went to bring the
pale scholar of Passey to Vayenne.