THE PARC OF THE CHATEAU DE LA CARQUE.
There was no danger of the Dragon Volant's closing its doors on
that occasion till three or four in the morning. There were
quartered there many servants of great people, whose masters
would not leave the ball till the last moment, and who could not
return to their corners in the Dragon Volant, till their last
services had been rendered.
I knew, therefore, I should have ample time for my mysterious
excursion without exciting curiosity by being shut out.
And now we pulled up under the canopy of boughs, before the sign
of the Dragon Volant, and the light that shone from its
hall-door.
I dismissed my carriage, ran up the broad staircase, mask in
hand, with my domino fluttering about me, and entered the large
bed-room. The black wainscoting and stately furniture, with the
dark curtains of the very tall bed, made the night there more
sombre.
An oblique patch of moonlight was thrown upon the floor from the
window to which I hastened. I looked out upon the landscape
slumbering in those silvery beams. There stood the outline of the
Château de la Carque, its chimneys, and many turrets with their
extinguisher-shaped roofs black against the soft grey sky. There,
also, more in the foreground, about midway between the window
where I stood, and the château, but a little to the left, I
traced the tufted masses of the grove which the lady in the mask
had appointed as the trysting-place, where I and the beautiful
Countess were to meet that night.
I took "the bearings" of this gloomy bit of wood, whose foliage
glimmered softly at top in the light of the moon.
You may guess with what a strange interest and swelling of the
heart I gazed on the unknown scene of my coming adventure.
But time was flying, and the hour already near. I threw my robe
upon a sofa; I groped out a pair of boots, which I substituted
for those thin heelless shoes, in those days called "pumps,"
without which a gentleman could not attend an evening party. I
put on my hat, and lastly, I took a pair of loaded pistols which
I had been advised were satisfactory companions in the then
unsettled state of French society: swarms of disbanded soldiers,
some of them alleged to be desperate characters, being everywhere
to be met with. These preparations made, I confess I took a
looking-glass to the window to see how I looked in the moonlight;
and being satisfied, I replaced it, and ran downstairs.
In the hall I called for my servant.
"St. Clair," said I; "I mean to take a little moonlight ramble,
only ten minutes or so. You must not go to bed until I return. If
the night is very beautiful, I may possibly extend my ramble a
little."
So down the steps I lounged, looking first over my right, and
then over my left shoulder, like a man uncertain which direction
to take, and I sauntered up the road, gazing now at the moon, and
now at the thin white clouds in the opposite direction,
whistling, all the time, an air which I had picked up at one of
the theatres.
When I had got a couple of hundred yards away from the Dragon
Volant, my minstrelsy totally ceased; and I turned about, and
glanced sharply down the road that looked as white as hoar-frost
under the moon, and saw the gable of the old inn, and a window,
partly concealed by the foliage, with a dusky light shining from
it.
No sound of footstep was stirring; no sign of human figure in
sight. I consulted my watch, which the light was sufficiently
strong to enable me to do. It now wanted but eight minutes of the
appointed hour. A thick mantle of ivy at this point covered the
wall and rose in a clustering head at top.
It afforded me facilities for scaling the wall, and a partial
screen for my operations, if any eye should chance to be looking
that way. And now it was done. I was in the park of the Château
de la Carque, as nefarious a poacher as ever trespassed on the
grounds of unsuspicious lord!
Before me rose the appointed grove, which looked as black as a
clump of gigantic hearse-plumes. It seemed to tower higher and
higher at every step; and cast a broader and blacker shadow
toward my feet. On I marched, and was glad when I plunged into
the shadow which concealed me. Now I was among the grand old lime
and chestnut trees--my heart beat fast with expectation.
This grove opened, a little, near the middle; and in the space
thus cleared, there stood with a surrounding flight of steps, a
small Greek temple or shrine, with a statue in the centre. It was
built of white marble with fluted Corinthian columns, and the
crevices were tufted with grass; moss had shown itself on
pedestal and cornice, and signs of long neglect and decay were
apparent in its discoloured and weather-worn marble. A few feet
in front of the steps a fountain, fed from the great ponds at the
other side of the château, was making a constant tinkle and
plashing in a wide marble basin, and the jet of water glimmered
like a shower of diamonds in the broken moonlight. The very
neglect and half-ruinous state of all this made it only the
prettier, as well as sadder. I was too intently watching for the
arrival of the lady, in the direction of the château, to study
these things; but the half-noted effect of them was romantic, and
suggested somehow the grotto and the fountain, and the apparition
of Egeria.
As I watched a voice spoke to me, a little behind my left
shoulder. I turned, almost with a start, and the masque, in the
costume of Mademoiselle de la Vallière stood there.
"The Countess will be here presently," she said. The lady stood
upon the open space, and the moonlight fell unbroken upon her.
Nothing could be more becoming; her figure looked more graceful
and elegant than ever. "In the meantime I shall tell you some
peculiarities of her situation. She is unhappy; miserable in an
ill-assorted marriage, with a jealous tyrant who now would
constrain her to sell her diamonds, which are--"
"Worth thirty thousand pounds sterling. I heard all that from a
friend. Can I aid the Countess in her unequal struggle? Say but
how, and the greater the danger or the sacrifice, the happier
will it make me. _Can_ I aid her?"
"If you despise a danger--which, yet, is not a danger; if you
despise, as she does, the tyrannical canons of the world; and, if
you are chivalrous enough to devote yourself to a lady's cause,
with no reward but her poor gratitude; if you can do these things
you can aid her, and earn a foremost place, not in her gratitude
only, but in her friendship."
At those words the lady in the mask turned away, and seemed to
weep.
I vowed myself the willing slave of the Countess. "But," I added,
"you told me she would soon be here."
"That is, if nothing unforeseen should happen; but with the eye
of the Count de St. Alyre in the house, and open, it is seldom
safe to stir."
"Does she wish to see me?" I asked, with a tender hesitation.
"First, say have you really thought of _her_, more than once,
since the adventure of the Belle Etoile."
"She never leaves my thoughts; day and night her beautiful eyes
haunt me; her sweet voice is always in my ear."
"Mine is said to resemble hers," said the mask.
"So it does," I answered. "But it is only a resemblance."
"Oh! then mine is better?"
"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I did not say _that_. Yours is a sweet
voice, but I fancy a little higher."
"A little shriller, you would say," answered the De la Vallière,
I fancied a good deal vexed.
"No, not shriller: your voice is not shrill, it is beautifully
sweet; but not so pathetically sweet as her."
"That is prejudice, Monsieur; it is not true."
I bowed; I could not contradict a lady.
"I see, Monsieur, you laugh at me; you think me vain, because I
claim in some points to be equal to the Countess de St. Alyre. I
challenge you to say, my hand, at least, is less beautiful than
hers." As she thus spoke, she drew her glove off, and extended
her hand, back upward, in the moonlight.
The lady seemed really nettled. It was undignified and
irritating; for in this uninteresting competition the precious
moments were flying, and my interview leading apparently to
nothing.
"You will admit, then, that my hand is as beautiful as hers?"
"I cannot admit it, Mademoiselle," said I, with the honesty of
irritation. "I will not enter into comparisons, but the Countess
de St. Alyre is, in all respects, the most beautiful lady I ever
beheld."
The masque laughed coldly, and then, more and more softly, said,
with a sigh, "I will prove all I say." And as she spoke she
removed the mask: and the Countess de St. Alyre, smiling,
confused, bashful, more beautiful than ever, stood before me!
"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed. "How monstrously stupid I have been.
And it was to Madame la Comtesse that I spoke for so long in the
_salon_!" I gazed on her in silence. And with a low sweet laugh
of goodnature she extended her hand. I took it, and carried it to
my lips.
"No, you must not do that," she said, quietly, "we are not old
enough friends yet. I find, although you were mistaken, that you
do remember the Countess of the Belle Etoile, and that you are a
champion true and fearless. Had you yielded to the claims just
now pressed upon you by the rivalry of Mademoiselle de la
Vallière, in her mask, the Countess de St. Alyre should never
have trusted or seen you more. I now am sure that you are true,
as well as brave. You now know that I have not forgotten you;
and, also, that if you would risk your life for me, I, too, would
brave some danger, rather than lose my friend for ever. I have
but a few moments more. Will you come here again to-morrow night,
at a quarter past eleven? I will be here at that moment; you must
exercise the most scrupulous care to prevent suspicion that you
have come here, Monsieur. _You owe that to me._"
She spoke these last words with the most solemn entreaty.
I vowed again and again, that I would die rather than permit the
least rashness to endanger the secret which made all the interest
and value of my life.
She was looking, I thought, more and more beautiful every moment.
My enthusiasm expanded in proportion.
"You must come to-morrow night by a different route," she said;
"and if you come again, we can change it once more. At the other
side of the château there is a little churchyard, with a ruined
chapel. The neighbours are afraid to pass it by night. The road
is deserted there, and a stile opens a way into these grounds.
Cross it and you can find a covert of thickets, to within fifty
steps of this spot."
I promised, of course, to observe her instructions implicitly.
"I have lived for more than a year in an agony of irresolution. I
have decided at last. I have lived a melancholy life; a lonelier
life than is passed in the cloister. I have had no one to confide
in; no one to advise me; no one to save me from the horrors of my
existence. I have found a brave and prompt friend at last. Shall
I ever forget the heroic tableau of the hall of the Belle Etoile?
Have you--have you really kept the rose I gave you, as we parted?
Yes--you swear it. You need not; I trust you. Richard, how often
have I in solitude repeated your name, learned from my servant.
Richard, my hero! Oh! Richard! Oh, my king! I love you."
I would have folded her to my heart--thrown myself at her feet.
But this beautiful and--shall I say it--inconsistent woman
repelled me.
"No, we must not waste our moments in extravagances. Understand
my case. There is no such thing as indifference in the married
state. Not to love one's husband," she continued, "is to hate
him. The Count, ridiculous in all else, is formidable in his
jealousy. In mercy, then, to me, observe caution. Affect to all
you speak to, the most complete ignorance of all the people in
the Château de la Carque; and, if any one in your presence
mentions the Count or Countess de St. Alyre, be sure you say you
never saw either. I shall have more to say to you to-morrow
night. I have reasons that I cannot now explain, for all I do,
and all I postpone. Farewell. Go! Leave me."
She waved me back, peremptorily. I echoed her "farewell," and
obeyed.
This interview had not lasted, I think, more than ten minutes. I
scaled the park-wall again, and reached the Dragon Volant before
its doors were closed.
I lay awake in my bed, in a fever of elation. I saw, till the
dawn broke, and chased the vision, the beautiful Countess de St.
Alyre, always in the dark, before me.