THE DEAD AND THE LIVING
At the same moment that the trembling soul of the young Baron passed
away, Thibault, awaking as if from an agitated sleep full of terrible
dreams, sat up in his bed. He was surrounded by fire, every corner of
his hut was in flames; at first he thought it was a continuation of his
nightmare, but then he heard cries of, “Death to the wizard! death to
the sorcerer! death to the were-wolf!” and he understood that some
terrible attack was being made upon him.
The flames came nearer, they reached the bed, he felt their heat upon
him; a few seconds more and he would be burned alive in the midst of the
flaming pile. Thibault leaped from his bed, seized his boar-spear, and
dashed out of the back door of his hut. No sooner did his enemies see
him rush through the fire and emerge from the smoke than their cries of
“death to him!” “death!” were redoubled. One or two shots were fired at
him; Thibault heard the bullets whizz past; those who shot at him wore
the livery of the Grand Master, and Thibault recalled the menace of the
lord of Vez, uttered against him a few days before.
He was then beyond the pale of the law; he could be smoked out of his
hole like a fox; he could be shot down like a buck. Luckily for
Thibault, not one of the bullets struck him, and as the circle of fire
made by the burning hut was not a large one, he was soon safely beyond
it, and once again in shelter of the vast and gloomy forest, where, had
it not been for the cries of the menials who were burning down his
house, the silence would have been as complete as the darkness. He sat
down at the foot of a tree and buried his head in his hands. The events
of the last forty-eight hours had succeeded each other with such
rapidity, that there was no lack of matter to serve as subjects of
reflection to the shoe-maker.
The twenty-four hours, during which he had lived another existence than
his own, seemed to him like a dream, so much so, that he would not have
dared to take his oath that all this recent affair between the Baron,
and the Countess Jane, and the Comte de Mont-Gobert had really taken
place. The church clock of Oigny struck ten, and he lifted his head. Ten
o’clock! and only half-an-hour before he had been still in the body of
the Baron Raoul, as he lay dying in the house of the Curé of Puiseux.
“Ah!” he exclaimed “I must find out for certain what has happened! It is
not quite three miles to Puiseux and I shall be there in half-an-hour; I
should like to ascertain if the Baron is really dead.” A melancholy howl
made answer to his words; he looked round; his faithful body-guards were
back again; he had his pack about him once more.
“Come, wolves! come, my only friends!” he cried, “let us be off!” And he
started with them across the forest in the direction of Puiseux. The
huntsmen of the Lord of Vez, who were poking up the remaining embers of
the ruined hut, saw a man pass, as in a vision, running at the head of a
dozen or more wolves. They crossed themselves, and became more convinced
than ever that Thibault was a wizard. And anybody else who had seen
Thibault, flying along as swiftly as his swiftest wolf, and covering the
ground between Oigny and Puiseux in less than a quarter of an hour,
would certainly have thought so too.
He stopped at the entrance to the village, and turning to his wolves, he
said:
“Friend wolves, I have no further need of you to-night, and indeed, I
wish to be alone. Amuse yourselves with the stables in the
neighbourhood, I give you leave to do just what you like; and if you
chance to come across one of those two-footed animals, called men,
forget, friend wolves, that they claim to be made in the image of their
Creator, and never fear to satisfy your appetite.” Whereupon the wolves
rushed off in different directions, uttering howls of joy, while
Thibault went on into the village. The Curé’s house adjoined the church,
and Thibault made a circuit so as to avoid passing in front of the
Cross. When he reached the presbytery, he looked in through one of the
windows, and there he saw a bed with a lighted wax candle beside it; and
over the bed itself was spread a sheet, and beneath the sheet could be
seen the outlines of a figure lying rigid in death. There appeared to be
no one in the house; the priest had no doubt gone to give notice of the
death to the village authorities. Thibault went inside, and called the
priest, but no one answered. He walked up to the bed, there could be no
mistake about the body under the sheet being that of a dead man; he
lifted the sheet, there could be no mistaking that the dead body was
that of Raoul de Vauparfond. On his face lay the still, unearthly beauty
which is born of eternity. His features, which in life had been somewhat
too feminine for those of a man, had now assumed the sombre grandeur of
death. At the first glance you might have thought he only slept; but on
gazing longer you recognised in that immovable calm something more
profound than sleep. The presence of one who carries a sickle for
sceptre, and wears a shroud for mantle was unmistakeable, and you knew
King Death was there.
Thibault had left the door open, and he heard the sound of light
footsteps approaching; at the back of the alcove hung a serge curtain,
which masked a door by which he could retreat, if necessary, and he now
went and placed himself behind it. A woman dressed in black, and covered
with a black veil, paused in some hesitation at the door. The head of
another woman passed in front of her’s and looked carefully round the
room.
“I think it is safe for Madame to go in; I see no one about, and
besides, I will keep watch.”
The woman in black went in, walked slowly towards the bed, stopped a
moment to wipe the perspiration from her forehead, then, without further
hesitation, lifted the sheet which Thibault had thrown back over the
face of the dead man; Thibault then saw that it was the Countess.
“Alas!” she said, “what they told me was true!”
Then she fell on her knees, praying and sobbing. Her prayer being ended,
she rose again, kissed the pale forehead of the dead, and the blue marks
of the wound through which the soul had fled.
“O my well-beloved, my Raoul;” she murmured, “who will tell me the name
of your murderer? who will help me to avenge your death?” As the
Countess finished speaking, she gave a cry and started back; she seemed
to hear a voice that answered, “I will!” and something had shaken the
green serge curtain.
The Countess however was no chicken-hearted woman; she took the candle
that was burning at the head of the bed and went and looked behind the
curtain; but no creature was to be seen, a closed door was all that met
her eye. She put back the candle, took a pair of gold scissors from a
little pocket case, cut off a curl of the dead man’s hair, placed the
curl in a black velvet sachet which hung over her heart, gave one last
kiss to her dead lover, laid the sheet over his face, and left the
house. Just as she was crossing the threshold, she met the priest, and
drawing back, drew her veil more closely over her face.
“Who are you?” asked the priest.
“I am Grief,” she answered, and the priest made way for her to pass.
The Countess and her attendant had come on foot, and were returning in
the same manner, for the distance between Puiseux and Mont-Gobert was
not much more than half-a-mile. When about half way along their road, a
man, who had been hiding behind a willow tree, stepped forward and
barred their further passage. Lisette screamed, but the Countess,
without the least sign of fear, went up to the man, and asked: “Who are
you?”
“The man who answered ‘I will’ just now, when you were asking who would
denounce the murderer to you.”
“And you can help me to revenge myself on him?”
“Whenever you like.”
“At once?”
“We cannot talk here very well.”
“Where can we find a better place?”
“In your own room for one.”
“We must not enter the castle together.”
“No; but I can go through the breach in the park wall: Mademoiselle
Lisette can wait for me in the hut where Monsieur Raoul used to leave
his horse, she can take me up the winding-stair and into your room. If
you should be in your dressing-room, I will wait for you, as Monsieur
Raoul waited the night before last.”
The two women shuddered from head to foot.
“Who are you to know all these details?” asked the Countess.
“I will tell you when the time comes for me to tell you.”
The Countess hesitated a moment, then, recovering her resolution, she
said:
“Very well then; come through the breach; Lisette will wait for you in
the stable.”
“Oh! Madame,” cried the maid, “I shall never dare to go and bring that
man to you!”
“I will go myself then,” said the Countess.
“Well said!” put in Thibault, “there spoke a woman worth calling one!”
And so saying he slid down into a kind of ravine beside the road, and
disappeared. Lisette very nearly fainted.
“Lean on me, Mademoiselle,” said the Countess, “and let us walk on; I am
anxious to hear what this man has to say to me.”
The two women entered the castle by way of the farm; no one had seen
them go out, and no one saw them return. On reaching her room, the
Countess waited for Lisette to bring up the stranger. Ten minutes had
elapsed when the maid hurried in with a pale face.
“Ah! Madame,” she said, “there was no need for me to go to fetch him.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Countess.
“Because he knew his way up as well as I did! And oh! Madame! if you
knew what he said to me! That man is the devil, Madame, I feel sure!”
“Show him in,” said the Countess.
“I am here!” said Thibault.
“You can leave us now, my girl,” said the Countess to Lisette. The
latter quitted the room and the Countess remained alone with Thibault.
Thibault’s appearance was not one to inspire confidence. He gave the
impression of a man who had once and for all made up his mind, but it
was also easy to see that it was for no good purpose; a Satanic smile
played about his mouth, and there was a demoniacal light in his eyes. He
had made no attempt to hide his red hairs, but had left them defiantly
uncovered, and they hung over his forehead like a plume of flame. But
still the Countess looked him full in the face without changing colour.
“My maid says that you know the way to my room; have you ever been here
before?”
“Yes, Madame, once.”
“And when was that?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“At what time?”
“From half-past ten till half-past twelve at night.”
The Countess looked steadily at him and said:
“That is not true.”
“Would you like me to tell you what took place?”
“During the time you mention?”
“During the time I mention.”
“Say on,” replied the Countess, laconically.
Thibault was equally laconic.
“Monsieur Raoul came in by that door,” he said, pointing to the one
leading into the corridor, “and Lisette left him here alone. You entered
the room by that one,” he continued, indicating the dressing-room door,
“and you found him on his knees. Your hair was unbound, only fastened
back by three diamond pins, you wore a pink silk dressing-gown, trimmed
with lace, pink silk stockings, cloth-of-silver slippers and a chain of
pearls round your neck.”
“You describe my dress exactly,” said the Countess, “continue.”
“You tried to pick a quarrel with Monsieur Raoul, first because he
loitered in the corridors to kiss your waiting-maid; secondly, because
someone had met him late at night on the road between Erneville and
Villers-Cotterets; thirdly, because, at the ball given at the Castle, at
which you yourself were not present, he danced four times with Madame de
Bonneuil.”
“Continue.”
“In answer to your accusations, your lover made excuses for himself,
some good, some bad; you, however, were satisfied with them for you were
just forgiving him when Lisette rushed in full of alarm calling to
Monsieur Raoul to escape, as your husband had just returned.”
“Lisette was right, you can be nothing less than the devil,” said the
Countess with a sinister laugh, “and I think we shall be able to do
business together.... Finish your account.”
“Then you and your maid together pushed Monsieur Raoul, who resisted,
into the dressing-room; Lisette forced him along the corridors and
through two or three rooms; they then went down a winding staircase, in
the wing of the Castle opposite to the one by which they had gone up. On
arriving at the foot of the staircase, the fugitives found the door
locked; then they ran into a kind of office where Lisette opened the
window, which was about seven or eight feet above the ground. Monsieur
Raoul leaped down out of this window, ran to the stable, found his horse
still there, but hamstrung; then he swore that if he met the Count at
any time he would hamstring him as the Count had hamstrung his horse,
for he thought it a cowardly act to injure a poor beast so
unnecessarily. Then he went on foot to the breach, climbed it, and found
the Count awaiting him outside the park, with his sword drawn. The Baron
had his hunting-knife with him; he drew it, and the duel began.”
“Was the Count alone?”
“Wait ... the Count appeared to be alone; after the fourth or fifth
pass the Count was wounded in the shoulder, and sank on one knee,
crying: ‘help, Lestocq!’ Then the Baron remembered his oath, and
hamstrung the Count as he had hamstrung the horse; but as the Baron
rose, Lestocq drove his knife into his back; it passed under the
shoulder blade and out through the chest. I need not tell you where ...
you kissed the wound yourself.”
“And after that?”
“The Count and his huntsman returned to the Castle, leaving the Baron
lying helpless; when the latter came to, he made signs to some passing
peasants, who put him on a litter, and bore him away, with the intention
of taking him to Villers-Cotterets; but he was in such pain, that they
could not carry him farther than Puiseux; there they laid him on the bed
where you found him, and on which he breathed his last a second after
the half hour after nine in the evening.”
The Countess rose, and without speaking, went to her jewel-case and took
out the pearls she had worn two nights before. She handed them to
Thibault.
“What are they for?” he asked.
“Take them,” said the Countess, “they are worth fifty thousand livres.”
“Are you still anxious for revenge?”
“Yes,” replied the Countess.
“Revenge will cost more than that.”
“How much will it cost?”
“Wait for me to-morrow night,” said Thibault, “and I will tell you.”
“Where shall I await you?” asked the Countess.
“Here,” said Thibault, with the leer of a wild animal.
“I will await you here,” said the Countess.
“Till to-morrow then.”
“Till to-morrow.”
Thibault went out. The Countess went and replaced the pearls in her
dressing case; lifted up a false bottom, and drew from underneath it a
small bottle containing an opal-coloured liquid, and a little dagger
with a jewelled handle and case, and a blade inlaid with gold. She hid
both beneath her pillow, knelt at her prie-dieu, and, her prayer
finished, threw herself dressed on to her bed....