_The Episode Called The Conspiracy of Arnaye_
1. _Policy Tempered with Singing_
"And so," said the Sieur d'Arnaye, as he laid down the letter, "we may
look for the coming of Monsieur de Puysange to-morrow."
The Demoiselle Matthiette contorted her features in an expression of
disapproval. "So soon!" said she. "I had thought--"
"Ouais, my dear niece, Love rides by ordinary with a dripping spur, and
is still as arbitrary as in the day when Mars was taken with a net and
amorous Jove bellowed in Europa's kail-yard. My faith! if Love distemper
thus the spectral ichor of the gods, is it remarkable that the warmer
blood of man pulses rather vehemently at his bidding? It were the least
of Cupid's miracles that a lusty bridegroom of some twenty-and-odd should
be pricked to outstrip the dial by a scant week. For love--I might tell
you such tales--"
Sieur Raymond crossed his white, dimpled hands over a well-rounded
paunch and chuckled reminiscently; had he spoken doubtless he would have
left Master Jehan de Troyes very little to reveal in his Scandalous
Chronicle: but now, as if now recalling with whom Sieur Raymond
conversed, d'Arnaye's lean face assumed an expression of placid sanctity,
and the somewhat unholy flame died out of his green eyes. He was like no
other thing than a plethoric cat purring over the follies of kittenhood.
You would have taken oath that a cultured taste for good living was the
chief of his offences, and that this benevolent gentleman had some sixty
well-spent years to his credit. True, his late Majesty, King Louis XI,
had sworn Pacque Dieu! that d'Arnaye loved underhanded work so heartily
that he conspired with his gardener concerning the planting of cabbages,
and within a week after his death would be heading some treachery against
Lucifer; but kings are not always infallible, as his Majesty himself had
proven at Peronne.
"--For," said the Sieur d'Arnaye, "man's flesh is frail, and the devil is
very cunning to avail himself of the weaknesses of lovers."
"Love!" Matthiette cried. "Ah, do not mock me, my uncle! There can be no
pretence of love between Monsieur de Puysange and me. A man that I have
never seen, that is to wed me of pure policy, may look for no Alcestis in
his wife."
"You speak like a very sensible girl," said Sieur Raymond, complacently.
"However, so that he find her no Guinevere or Semiramis or other
loose-minded trollop of history, I dare say Monsieur de Puysange will
hold to his bargain with indifferent content. Look you, niece, he, also,
is buying--though the saying is somewhat rustic--a pig in a poke."
Matthiette glanced quickly toward the mirror which hung in her apartment.
The glass reflected features which went to make up a beauty already
be-sonneted in that part of France; and if her green gown was some months
behind the last Italian fashion, it undeniably clad one who needed few
adventitious aids. The Demoiselle Matthiette at seventeen was very tall,
and was as yet too slender for perfection of form, but her honey-colored
hair hung heavily about the unblemished oval of a countenance whose nose
alone left something to be desired; for this feature, though well shaped,
was unduly diminutive. For the rest, her mouth curved in an
irreproachable bow, her complexion was mingled milk and roses, her blue
eyes brooded in a provoking calm; taking matters by and large, the smile
that followed her inspection of the mirror's depths was far from
unwarranted. Catherine de Vaucelles reanimate, you would have sworn; and
at the abbey of Saint Maixent-en-Poitou there was a pot-belly monk, a
Brother François, who would have demonstrated it to you, in an
unanswerable ballad, that Catherine's daughter was in consequence all
that an empress should be and so rarely is. Harembourges and Bertha
Broadfoot and white Queen Blanche would have been laughed to scorn,
demolished and proven, in comparison (with a catalogue of very intimate
personal detail), the squalidest sluts conceivable, by Brother François.
But Sieur Raymond merely chuckled wheezily, as one discovering a fault in
his companion of which he disapproves in theory, but in practice finds
flattering to his vanity.
"I grant you, Monsieur de Puysange drives a good bargain," said Sieur
Raymond. "Were Cleopatra thus featured, the Roman lost the world very
worthily. Yet, such is the fantastic disposition of man that I do not
doubt the vicomte looks forward to the joys of to-morrow no whit more
cheerfully than you do: for the lad is young, and, as rumor says, has
been guilty of divers verses,--ay, he has bearded common-sense in the
vext periods of many a wailing rhyme. I will wager a moderate amount,
however, that the vicomte, like a sensible young man, keeps these
whimsies of flames and dames laid away in lavender for festivals and the
like; they are somewhat too fine for everyday wear."
Sieur Raymond sipped the sugared wine which stood beside him. "Like
any sensible young man," he repeated, in a meditative fashion that was
half a query.
Matthiette stirred uneasily. "Is love, then, nothing?" she murmured.
"Love!" Sieur Raymond barked like a kicked mastiff. "It is very
discreetly fabled that love was brought forth at Cythera by the ocean
fogs. Thus, look you, even ballad-mongers admit it comes of a
short-lived family, that fade as time wears on. I may have a passion for
cloud-tatters, and, doubtless, the morning mists are beautiful; but if I
give rein to my admiration, breakfast is likely to grow cold. I deduce
that beauty, as represented by the sunrise, is less profitably considered
than utility, as personified by the frying-pan. And love! A niece of mine
prating of love!" The idea of such an occurrence, combined with a fit of
coughing which now came upon him, drew tears to the Sieur d'Arnaye's
eyes. "Pardon me," said he, when he had recovered his breath, "if I speak
somewhat brutally to maiden ears."
Matthiette sighed. "Indeed," said she, "you have spoken very brutally!"
She rose from her seat, and went to the Sieur d'Arnaye. "Dear uncle,"
said she, with her arms about his neck, and with her soft cheek brushing
his withered countenance, "are you come to my apartments to-night to tell
me that love is nothing--you who have shown me that even the roughest,
most grizzled bear in all the world has a heart compact of love and
tender as a woman's?"
The Sieur d'Arnaye snorted. "Her mother all over again!" he complained;
and then, recovering himself, shook his head with a hint of sadness.
He said: "I have sighed to every eyebrow at court, and I tell you this
moonshine is--moonshine pure and simple. Matthiette, I love you too
dearly to deceive you in, at all events, this matter, and I have learned
by hard knocks that we of gentle quality may not lightly follow our own
inclinations. Happiness is a luxury which the great can very rarely
afford. Granted that you have an aversion to this marriage. Yet consider
this: Arnaye and Puysange united may sit snug and let the world wag;
otherwise, lying here between the Breton and the Austrian, we are so many
nuts in a door-crack, at the next wind's mercy. And yonder in the South,
Orléans and Dunois are raising every devil in Hell's register! Ah, no, ma
mie; I put it to you fairly is it of greater import that a girl have her
callow heart's desire than that a province go free of Monsieur War and
Madame Rapine?"
"Yes, but--" said Matthiette.
Sieur Raymond struck his hand upon the table with considerable heat.
"Everywhere Death yawps at the frontier; will you, a d'Arnaye, bid him
enter and surfeit? An alliance with Puysange alone may save us. Eheu, it
is, doubtless, pitiful that a maid may not wait and wed her chosen
paladin, but our vassals demand these sacrifices. For example, do you
think I wedded my late wife in any fervor of adoration? I had never seen
her before our marriage day; yet we lived much as most couples do for
some ten years afterward, thereby demonstrating--"
He smiled, evilly; Matthiette sighed.
"--Well, thereby demonstrating nothing new," said Sieur Raymond. "So do
you remember that Pierre must have his bread and cheese; that the cows
must calve undisturbed; that the pigs--you have not seen the sow I had
to-day from Harfleur?--black as ebony and a snout like a rose-leaf!--must
be stied in comfort: and that these things may not be, without an
alliance with Puysange. Besides, dear niece, it is something to be the
wife of a great lord."
A certain excitement awoke in Matthiette's eyes. "It must be very
beautiful at Court," said she, softly. "Masques, fêtes, tourneys every
day;--and they say the new King is exceedingly gallant--"
Sieur Raymond caught her by the chin, and for a moment turned her
face toward his. "I warn you," said he, "you are a d'Arnaye; and
King or not--"
He paused here. Through the open window came the voice of one singing to
the demure accompaniment of a lute.
"Hey?" said the Sieur d'Arnaye.
Sang the voice:
"_When you are very old, and I am gone,
Not to return, it may be you will say--
Hearing my name and holding me as one
Long dead to you,--in some half-jesting way
Of speech, sweet as vague heraldings of May
Rumored in woods when first the throstles sing--
'He loved me once.' And straightway murmuring
My half-forgotten rhymes, you will regret
Evanished times when I was wont to sing
So very lightly, 'Love runs into debt.'_"
"Now, may I never sit among the saints," said the Sieur d'Arnaye, "if
that is not the voice of Raoul de Prison, my new page."
"Hush," Matthiette whispered. "He woos my maid, Alys. He often sings
under the window, and I wink at it."
Sang the voice:
_"I shall not heed you then. My course being run
For good or ill, I shall have gone my way,
And know you, love, no longer,--nor the sun,
Perchance, nor any light of earthly day,
Nor any joy nor sorrow,--while at play
The world speeds merrily, nor reckoning
Our coming or our going. Lips will cling,
Forswear, and be forsaken, and men forget
Where once our tombs were, and our children sing--
So very lightly!--'Love runs into debt.'
"If in the grave love have dominion
Will that wild cry not quicken the wise clay,
And taunt with memories of fond deeds undone,--
Some joy untasted, some lost holiday,--
All death's large wisdom? Will that wisdom lay
The ghost of any sweet familiar thing
Come haggard from the Past, or ever bring
Forgetfulness of those two lovers met
When all was April?--nor too wise to sing
So very lightly, 'Love runs into debt.'
"Yet, Matthiette, though vain remembering
Draw nigh, and age be drear, yet in the spring
We meet and kiss, whatever hour beset
Wherein all hours attain to harvesting,--
So very lightly love runs into debt."_
"Dear, dear!" said the Sieur d'Arnaye. "You mentioned your maid's
name, I think?"
"Alys," said Matthiette, with unwonted humbleness.
Sieur Raymond spread out his hands in a gesture of commiseration. "This
is very remarkable," he said. "Beyond doubt, the gallant beneath has made
some unfortunate error. Captain Gotiard," he called, loudly, "will you
ascertain who it is that warbles in the garden such queer aliases for our
good Alys?"
2. _Age Glosses the Text of Youth_
Gotiard was not long in returning; he was followed by two men-at-arms,
who held between them the discomfited minstrel. Envy alone could have
described the lutanist as ill-favored; his close-fitting garb, wherein
the brave reds of autumn were judiciously mingled, at once set off a
well-knit form and enhanced the dark comeliness of features less French
than Italian in cast. The young man now stood silent, his eyes mutely
questioning the Sieur d'Arnaye.
"Oh, la, la, la!" chirped Sieur Raymond. "Captain, I think you are at
liberty to retire." He sipped his wine meditatively, as the men filed
out. "Monsieur de Frison," d'Arnaye resumed, when the arras had fallen,
"believe me, I grieve to interrupt your very moving and most excellently
phrased ballad in this fashion. But the hour is somewhat late for melody,
and the curiosity of old age is privileged. May one inquire, therefore,
why you outsing my larks and linnets and other musical poultry that are
now all abed? and warble them to rest with this pleasing but--if I may
venture a suggestion--rather ill-timed madrigal?"
The young man hesitated for an instant before replying. "Sir," said he,
at length, "I confess that had I known of your whereabouts, the birds had
gone without their lullaby. But you so rarely come to this wing of the
chateau, that your presence here to-night is naturally unforeseen. As it
is, since chance has betrayed my secret to you, I must make bold to
acknowledge it; and to confess that I love your niece."
"Hey, no doubt you do," Sieur Raymond assented, pleasantly. "Indeed, I
think half the young men hereabout are in much the same predicament. But,
my question, if I mistake not, related to your reason for chaunting
canzonets beneath her window."
Raoul de Frison stared at him in amazement. "I love her," he said.
"You mentioned that before," Sieur Raymond suggested. "And I agreed, as I
remember, that it was more than probable; for my niece here--though it be
I that speak it--is by no means uncomely, has a commendable voice, the
walk of a Hebe, and sufficient wit to deceive her lover into happiness.
My faith, young man, you show excellent taste! But, I submit, the purest
affection is an insufficient excuse for outbaying a whole kennel of
hounds beneath the adored one's casement."
"Sir," said Raoul, "I believe that lovers have rarely been remarkable for
sanity; and it is an immemorial custom among them to praise the object of
their desires with fitting rhymes. Conceive, sir, that in your youth, had
you been accorded the love of so fair a lady, you yourself had scarcely
done otherwise. For I doubt if your blood runs so thin as yet that you
have quite forgot young Raymond d'Arnaye and the gracious ladies whom he
loved,--I think that your heart must needs yet treasure the memories of
divers moonlit nights, even such as this, when there was a great silence
in the world, and the nested trees were astir with desire of the dawn,
and your waking dreams were vext with the singular favor of some woman's
face. It is in the name of that young Raymond I now appeal to you."
"H'm!" said the Sieur d'Arnaye. "As I understand it, you appeal on the
ground that you were coerced by the moonlight and led astray by the
bird-nests in my poplar-trees; and you desire me to punish your
accomplices rather than you."
"Sir,--" said Raoul.
Sieur Raymond snarled. "You young dog, you know that in the most prosaic
breast a minor poet survives his entombment,--and you endeavor to make
capital of the knowledge. You know that I have a most sincere affection
for your father, and have even contracted since you came to Arnaye more
or less tolerance for you,--which emboldens you, my friend, to keep me
out of a comfortable bed at this hour of the night with an idiotic
discourse of moonlight and dissatisfied shrubbery! As it happens, I am
not a lank wench in her first country dance. Remember that, Raoul de
Frison, and praise the good God who gave me at birth a very placable
disposition! There is not a seigneur in all France, save me, but would
hang you at the crack of that same dawn for which you report your
lackadaisical trees to be whining; but the quarrel will soon be Monsieur
de Puysange's, and I prefer that he settle it at his own discretion. I
content myself with advising you to pester my niece no more."
Raoul spoke boldly. "She loves me," said he, standing very erect.
Sieur Raymond glanced at Matthiette, who sat with downcast head. "H'm!"
said he. "She moderates her transports indifferently well. Though, again,
why not? You are not an ill-looking lad. Indeed, Monsieur de Frison, I am
quite ready to admit that my niece is breaking her heart for you. The
point on which I wish to dwell is that she weds Monsieur de Puysange
early to-morrow morning."
"Uncle," Matthiette cried, as she started to her feet, "such a marriage
is a crime! I love Raoul!"
"Undoubtedly," purred Sieur Raymond, "you love the lad unboundedly,
madly, distractedly! Now we come to the root of the matter." He sank back
in his chair and smiled. "Young people," said he, "be seated, and hearken
to the words of wisdom. Love is a divine insanity, in which the sufferer
fancies the world mad. And the world is made up of madmen who condemn and
punish one another."
"But," Matthiette dissented, "ours is no ordinary case!"
"Surely not," Sieur Raymond readily agreed; "for there was never an
ordinary case in all the history of the universe. Oh, but I, too, have
known this madness; I, too, have perceived how infinitely my own
skirmishes with the blind bow-god differed in every respect from all that
has been or will ever be. It is an infallible sign of this frenzy.
Surely, I have said, the world will not willingly forget the vision of
Chloris in her wedding garments, or the wonder of her last clinging kiss.
Or, say Phyllis comes to-morrow: will an uninventive sun dare to rise in
the old, hackneyed fashion on such a day of days? Perish the thought!
There will probably be six suns, and, I dare say, a meteor or two."
"I perceive, sir," Raoul said here, "that after all you have not
forgotten the young Raymond of whom I spoke."
"That was a long while ago," snapped Sieur Raymond. "I know a deal more
of the world nowadays; and a level-headed world would be somewhat
surprised at such occurrences, and suggest that for the future Phyllis
remain at home. For whether you--or I--or any one--be in love or no is to
our fellow creatures an affair of astonishingly trivial import. Not since
Noé that great admiral, repeopled the world by begetting three sons upon
Dame Noria has there been a love-business worthy of consideration; nor,
if you come to that, not since sagacious Solomon went a-wenching has a
wise man wasted his wisdom on a lover. So love one another, my children,
by all means: but do you, Matthiette, make ready to depart into Normandy
as a true and faithful wife to Monsieur de Puysange; and do you, Raoul de
Prison, remain at Arnaye, and attend to my falcons more carefully than
you have done of late,--or, by the cross of Saint Lo! I will clap the
wench in a convent and hang the lad as high as Haman!"
Whereon Sieur Raymond smiled pleasantly, and drained his wine-cup as one
considering the discussion ended.
Raoul sat silent for a moment. Then he rose. "Monsieur d'Arnaye, you know
me to be a gentleman of unblemished descent, and as such entitled to a
hearing. I forbid you before all-seeing Heaven to wed your niece to a man
she does not love! And I have the honor to request of you her hand in
marriage."
"Which offer I decline," said Sieur Raymond, grinning placidly,--"with
every imaginable civility. Niece," he continued, "here is a gentleman who
offers you a heartful of love, six months of insanity, and forty years
of boredom in a leaky, wind-swept château. He has dreamed dreams
concerning you: allow me to present to you the reality."
With some ceremony Sieur Raymond now grasped Matthiette's hand and led
her mirror-ward. "Permit me to present the wife of Monsieur de Puysange.
Could he have made a worthier choice? Ah, happy lord, that shall so soon
embrace such perfect loveliness! For, frankly, my niece, is not that
golden hair of a shade that will set off a coronet extraordinarily well?
Are those wondrous eyes not fashioned to surfeit themselves upon the
homage and respect accorded the wife of a great lord? Ouais, the thing is
indisputable: and, therefore, I must differ from Monsieur de Frison here,
who would condemn this perfection to bloom and bud unnoticed in a paltry
country town."
There was an interval, during which Matthiette gazed sadly into the
mirror. "And Arnaye--?" said she.
"Undoubtedly," said Sieur Raymond,--"Arnaye must perish unless Puysange
prove her friend. Therefore, my niece conquers her natural aversion to a
young and wealthy husband, and a life of comfort and flattery and gayety;
relinquishes you, Raoul; and, like a feminine Mettius Curtius, sacrifices
herself to her country's welfare. Pierre may sleep undisturbed; and the
pigs will have a new sty. My faith, it is quite affecting! And so," Sieur
Raymond summed it up, "you two young fools may bid adieu, once for all,
while I contemplate this tapestry." He strolled to the end of the room
and turned his back. "Admirable!" said he; "really now, that leopard is
astonishingly lifelike!"
Raoul came toward Matthiette. "Dear love," said he, "you have chosen
wisely, and I bow to your decision. Farewell, Matthiette,--O indomitable
heart! O brave perfect woman that I have loved! Now at the last of all, I
praise you for your charity to me, Love's mendicant,--ah, believe me,
Matthiette, that atones for aught which follows now. Come what may, I
shall always remember that once in old days you loved me, and,
remembering this, I shall always thank God with a contented heart." He
bowed over her unresponsive hand. "Matthiette," he whispered, "be happy!
For I desire that very heartily, and I beseech of our Sovereign Lady--not
caring to hide at all how my voice shakes, nor how the loveliness of you,
seen now for the last time, is making blind my eyes--that you may never
know unhappiness. You have chosen wisely, Matthiette; yet, ah, my dear,
do not forget me utterly, but keep always a little place in your heart
for your boy lover!"
Sieur Raymond concluded his inspection of the tapestry, and turned with a
premonitory cough. "Thus ends the comedy," said he, shrugging, "with much
fine, harmless talking about 'always,' while the world triumphs.
Invariably the world triumphs, my children. Eheu, we are as God made us,
we men and women that cumber His stately earth!" He drew his arm through
Raoul's. "Farewell, niece," said Sieur Raymond, smiling; "I rejoice that
you are cured of your malady. Now in respect to gerfalcons--" said he.
The arras fell behind them.
3. _Obdurate Love_
Matthiette sat brooding in her room, as the night wore on. She was
pitifully frightened, numb. There was in the room, she dimly noted, a
heavy silence that sobs had no power to shatter. Dimly, too, she seemed
aware of a multitude of wide, incurious eyes which watched her from every
corner, where panels snapped at times with sharp echoes. The night was
well-nigh done when she arose.
"After all," she said, wearily, "it is my manifest duty." Matthiette
crept to the mirror and studied it.
"Madame de Puysange," said she, without any intonation; then threw her
arms above her head, with a hard gesture of despair. "I love him!" she
cried, in a frightened voice.
Matthiette went to a great chest and fumbled among its contents. She drew
out a dagger in a leather case, and unsheathed it. The light shone evilly
scintillant upon the blade. She laughed, and hid it in the bosom of her
gown, and fastened a cloak about her with impatient fingers. Then
Matthiette crept down the winding stair that led to the gardens, and
unlocked the door at the foot of it.
A sudden rush of night swept toward her, big with the secrecy of dawn.
The sky, washed clean of stars, sprawled above,--a leaden, monotonous
blank. Many trees whispered thickly over the chaos of earth; to the left,
in an increasing dove-colored luminousness, a field of growing maize
bristled like the chin of an unshaven Titan.
Matthiette entered an expectant world. Once in the tree-chequered
gardens, it was as though she crept through the aisles of an unlit
cathedral already garnished for its sacred pageant. Matthiette heard the
querulous birds call sleepily above; the margin of night was thick with
their petulant complaints; behind her was the monstrous shadow of the
Chateau d'Arnaye, and past that was a sullen red, the red of contused
flesh, to herald dawn. Infinity waited a-tiptoe, tense for the coming
miracle, and against this vast repression, her grief dwindled into
irrelevancy: the leaves whispered comfort; each tree-bole hid chuckling
fauns. Matthiette laughed. Content had flooded the universe all through
and through now that yonder, unseen as yet, the scarlet-faced sun was
toiling up the rim of the world, and matters, it somehow seemed, could
not turn out so very ill, in the end.
Matthiette came to a hut, from whose open window a faded golden glow
spread out into obscurity like a tawdry fan. From without she peered into
the hut and saw Raoul. A lamp flickered upon the table. His shadow
twitched and wavered about the plastered walls,--a portentous mass of
head upon a hemisphere of shoulders,--as Raoul bent over a chest, sorting
the contents, singing softly to himself, while Matthiette leaned upon the
sill without, and the gardens of Arnaye took form and stirred in the
heart of a chill, steady, sapphire-like radiance.
Sang Raoul:
_"Lord, I have worshipped thee ever,--
Through all these years
I have served thee, forsaking never
Light Love that veers
As a child between laughter and tears.
Hast thou no more to afford,--
Naught save laughter and tears,--
Love, my lord?
"I have borne thy heaviest burden,
Nor served thee amiss:
Now thou hast given a guerdon;
Lo, it was this--
A sigh, a shudder, a kiss.
Hast thou no more to accord!
I would have more than this,
Love, my lord.
"I am wearied of love that is pastime
And gifts that it brings;
I entreat of thee, lord, at this last time
"Inèffable things.
Nay, have proud long-dead kings
Stricken no subtler chord,
Whereof the memory clings,
Love, my lord?
"But for a little we live;
Show me thine innermost hoard!
Hast thou no more to give,
Love, my lord?"_
4. _Raymond Psychopompos_
Matthiette went to the hut's door: her hands fell irresolutely upon the
rough surface of it and lay still for a moment. Then with the noise of a
hoarse groan the door swung inward, and the light guttered in a swirl of
keen morning air, casting convulsive shadows upon her lifted countenance,
and was extinguished. She held out her arms in a gesture that was half
maternal. "Raoul!" she murmured.
He turned. A sudden bird plunged through the twilight without, with a
glad cry that pierced like a knife through the stillness which had fallen
in the little room. Raoul de Frison faced her, with clenched hands,
silent. For that instant she saw him transfigured.
But his silence frightened her. There came a piteous catch in her voice.
"Fair friend, have you not bidden me--_be happy?_"
He sighed. "Mademoiselle," he said, dully, "I may not avail myself of
your tenderness of heart; that you have come to comfort me in my sorrow
is a deed at which, I think, God's holy Angels must rejoice: but I cannot
avail myself of it."
"Raoul, Raoul," she said, "do you think that I have come in--pity!"
"Matthiette," he returned, "your uncle spoke the truth. I have dreamed
dreams concerning you,--dreams of a foolish, golden-hearted girl, who
would yield--yield gladly--all that the world may give, to be one flesh
and soul with me. But I have wakened, dear, to the braver reality,--that
valorous woman, strong enough to conquer even her own heart that her
people may be freed from their peril."
"Blind! blind!" she cried.
Raoul smiled down upon her. "Mademoiselle," said he, "I do not doubt that
you love me."
She went wearily toward the window. "I am not very wise," Matthiette
said, looking out upon the gardens, "and it appears that God has given
me an exceedingly tangled matter to unravel. Yet if I decide it
wrongly I think the Eternal Father will understand it is because I am
not very wise."
Matthiette for a moment was silent. Then with averted face she spoke
again. "My uncle commands me, with many astute saws and pithy sayings, to
wed Monsieur de Puysange. I have not skill to combat him. Many times he
has proven it my duty, but he is quick in argument and proves what he
will; and I do not think it is my duty. It appears to me a matter wherein
man's wisdom is at variance with God's will as manifested to us through
the holy Evangelists. Assuredly, if I do not wed Monsieur de Puysange
there may be war here in our Arnaye, and God has forbidden war; but I may
not insure peace in Arnaye without prostituting my body to a man I do not
love, and that, too, God has forbidden. I speak somewhat grossly for a
maid, but you love me, I think, and will understand. And I, also, love
you, Monsieur de Frison. Yet--ah, I am pitiably weak! Love tugs at my
heart-strings, bidding me cling to you, and forget these other matters;
but I cannot do that, either. I desire very heartily the comfort and
splendor and adulation which you cannot give me. I am pitiably weak,
Raoul! I cannot come to you with an undivided heart,--but my heart, such
as it is, I have given you, and to-day I deliver my honor into your hands
and my life's happiness, to preserve or to destroy. Mother of Christ,
grant that I have chosen rightly, for I have chosen now, past retreat! I
have chosen you, Raoul, and that love which you elect to give me, and of
which I must endeavor to be worthy."
Matthiette turned from the window. Now, her bright audacity gone, her
ardors chilled, you saw how like a grave, straightforward boy she was,
how illimitably tender, how inefficient. "It may be that I have decided
wrongly in this tangled matter," she said now. "And yet I think that God,
Who loves us infinitely, cannot be greatly vexed at anything His children
do for love of one another."
He came toward her. "I bid you go," he said. "Matthiette, it is my duty
to bid you go, and it is your duty to obey."
She smiled wistfully through unshed tears. "Man's wisdom!" said
Matthiette. "I think that it is not my duty. And so I disobey you,
dear,--this once, and no more hereafter."
"And yet last night--" Raoul began.
"Last night," said she, "I thought that I was strong. I know now it was
my vanity that was strong,--vanity and pride and fear, Raoul, that for a
little mastered me. But in the dawn all things seem very trivial, saving
love alone."
They looked out into the dew-washed gardens. The daylight was fullgrown,
and already the clear-cut forms of men were passing beneath the swaying
branches. In the distance a trumpet snarled.
"Dear love," said Raoul, "do you not understand that you have brought
about my death? For Monsieur de Puysange is at the gates of Arnaye; and
either he or Sieur Raymond will have me hanged ere noon."
"I do not know," she said, in a tired voice. "I think that Monsieur de
Puysange has some cause to thank me; and my uncle loves me, and his
heart, for all his gruffness, is very tender. And--see, Raoul!" She drew
the dagger from her bosom. "I shall not survive you a long while, O man
of all the world!"
Perplexed joy flushed through his countenance. "You will do
this--for me?" he cried, with a sort of sob. "Matthiette,
Matthiette, you shame me!"
"But I love you," said Matthiette. "How could it be possible, then, for
me to live after you were dead?"
He bent to her. They kissed.
Hand in hand they went forth into the daylight. The kindly, familiar
place seemed in Matthiette's eyes oppressed and transformed by the
austerity of dawn. It was a clear Sunday morning, at the hightide of
summer, and she found the world unutterably Sabbatical; only by a
vigorous effort could memory connect it with the normal life of
yesterday. The cool edges of the woods, vibrant now with multitudinous
shrill pipings, the purple shadows shrinking eastward on the dimpling
lawns, the intricate and broken traceries of the dial (where they had met
so often), the blurred windings of their path, above which brooded the
peaked roofs and gables and slender clerestories of Arnaye, the broad
river yonder lapsing through deserted sunlit fields,--these things lay
before them scarce heeded, stript of all perspective, flat as an open
scroll. To them all this was alien. She and Raoul were quite apart from
these matters, quite alone, despite the men of Arnaye, hurrying toward
the courtyard, who stared at them curiously, but said nothing. A brisk
wind was abroad in the tree-tops, scattering stray leaves, already dead,
over the lush grass. Tenderly Raoul brushed a little golden sycamore leaf
from the lovelier gold of Matthiette's hair.
"I do not know how long I have to live," he said. "Nobody knows that. But
I wish that I might live a great while to serve you worthily."
She answered: "Neither in life nor death shall we be parted now. That
only matters, my husband."
They came into the crowded court-yard just as the drawbridge fell. A
troop of horse clattered into Arnaye, and the leader, a young man of
frank countenance, dismounted and looked about him inquiringly. Then he
came toward them.
"Monseigneur," said he, "you see that we ride early in honor of your
nuptials."
Behind them some one chuckled. "Love one another, young people," said
Sieur Raymond; "but do you, Matthiette, make ready to depart into
Normandy as a true and faithful wife to Monsieur de Puysange."
She stared into Raoul's laughing face; there was a kind of anguish in her
swift comprehension. Quickly the two men who loved her glanced at each
other, half in shame.
But the Sieur d'Arnaye was not lightly dashed. "Oh, la, la, la!" chuckled
the Sieur d'Arnaye, "she would never have given you a second thought,
monsieur le vicomte, had I not labelled you forbidden fruit. As it is, my
last conspiracy, while a little ruthless, I grant you, turns out
admirably. Jack has his Jill, and all ends merrily, like an old song. I
will begin on those pig-sties the first thing to-morrow morning."
* * * * *
OCTOBER 6, 1519
_"Therefore, like as May month flowereth and flourisheth in many
gardens, so in likewise let every man of worship flourish his heart in
this world; first unto God, and next unto the joy of them that he
promiseth his faith unto."_
_The quondam Raoul de Prison stood high in the graces of the Lady Regent
of France, Anne de Beaujeu, who was, indeed, tolerably notorious for her
partiality to well-built young men. Courtiers whispered more than there
is any need here to rehearse. In any event, when in 1485 the daughter of
Louis XI fitted out an expedition to press the Earl of Richmond's claim
to the English crown, de Puysange sailed from Havre as commander of the
French fleet. He fought at Bosworth, not discreditably; and a year
afterward, when England had for the most part accepted Henry VII,
Matthiette rejoined her husband.
They never subsequently quitted England. During the long civil wars, de
Puysange was known as a shrewd captain and a judicious counsellor to the
King, who rewarded his services as liberally as Tudorian parsimony would
permit. After the death of Henry VII, however, the vicomte took little
part in public affairs, spending most of his time at Tiverton Manor, in
Devon, where, surrounded by their numerous progeny, he and Matthiette
grew old together in peace and concord.
Indeed, the vicomte so ordered all his cool love-affairs that, having
taken a wife as a matter of expediency, he continued as a matter of
expediency to make her a fair husband, as husbands go. It also seemed to
him, they relate, a matter of expediency to ignore the interpretation
given by scandalous persons to the paternal friendship extended to Madame
de Puysange by a high prince of the Church, during the last five years of
the great Cardinal Morton's life, for the connection was useful.
The following is from a manuscript of doubtful authenticity still to be
seen at Allonby Shaw. It purports to contain the autobiography of Will
Sommers, the vicomte's jester, afterward court-fool to Henry VIII._