"No, no, you must go, monsieur: go, or I go!"
"You forget, madame, that I have your promise not to leave the château
without informing me of your purpose."
"Very well, monsieur, I now inform you that I propose to leave
Chantilly instantly."
"And do you imagine that I will allow it?"
"What!" cried the viscountess; "you will detain me by force?"
"Madame, I know not what I may do, but I do know that it is impossible
for me to part from you."
"Then I am your prisoner?"
"You are a woman whom I have already lost twice, and whom I do not
propose to lose a third time."
"Aha! violence?"
"Yes, madame, violence," replied Canolles, "if there is no other way to
keep you."
"Oh! what extreme felicity," cried Madame de Cambes, "to detain by
force a woman who shrieks, who demands her freedom, who does not love
you, who detests you!"
Canolles started back, and made a rapid mental effort to distinguish
between the words and the thought that prompted them. He realized that
the moment had come to stake his all upon a single cast.
"Madame," said he, "the words that you have just uttered, with such
evident sincerity that there is no mistaking their meaning, have
removed all uncertainty from my mind. You shrieking, you a slave!
I detain a woman who does not love me, who detests me! Nay, nay,
madame, have no fear; that shall never be. I did think, judging from
my own happiness in being with you, that you would perhaps endure my
presence; I hoped that, after I had thrown away my reputation, my peace
of mind, my future, mayhap my honor, you would reward me for this
sacrifice by the gift of a few brief hours, which I am fated never to
enjoy. All this might have been had you loved me,--yes, even had I been
indifferent to you; for you are kind of heart, and would have done for
compassion's sake what another would have done for love. But I find
that I have not mere indifference to reckon with, but hatred; that puts
a different face upon the matter, as you say. I crave your pardon,
madame, for failing to realize that one who loves so madly could be
hated in return. It is for you to remain here, queen, mistress, and
free in this château as everywhere; it is for me to withdraw, and I
withdraw accordingly. In ten minutes you will be fully at liberty once
more. Adieu, madame, adieu, forever!"
And Canolles, whose despair, assumed at first, had become quite genuine
and distressful toward the close of his address, saluted Madame de
Cambes and turned upon his heel, groping blindly for the door, which
he could not find, and repeating the word, "Adieu! adieu!" with an
accent of such profound melancholy that, coming from the heart, it went
straight to the heart. Unfeigned affliction has a voice of its own as
truly as the tempest.
Madame de Cambes did not anticipate this unquestioning obedience on
the part of Canolles; she had marshalled her forces for a struggle,
not for a victory, and her calculations were all set at naught by this
combination of humility and love. As the baron was walking toward
the door, putting out his arms at random, and giving utterance to
something very like a sob, he suddenly felt that a hand was laid upon
his shoulder with a most significant pressure; it did not touch him,
simply, it stopped him.
He turned his head. She was still standing in front of him. Her arm
still rested gracefully upon his shoulder, and the dignified expression
which her face wore an instant before had melted away in a lovely smile.
"Well, well, monsieur!" said she, "is this the way you obey the queen?
You would go hence when your orders bid you stay, traitor that you are!"
Canolles with a sharp cry fell upon his knees, and pressed his burning
brow against the hands she held out to him.
"Oh! I shall die with joy!" he exclaimed.
"Alas! do not be overjoyful yet," said the viscountess; "for my object
in stopping you is simply that we might not part thus, that you might
not go hence with the idea that I am an ingrate, that you might
voluntarily give back the promise I gave you, that you might come to
look upon me as a friend, at least, since the fact that we belong to
opposite parties will prevent our ever being anything more to each
other."
"Oh! _mon Dieu!_" cried Canolles, "am I deceived again? You do not
love me?"
"Let us not talk about our sentiments, baron; rather let us talk of the
risk we both run by remaining here. Go yourself, or allow me to go; it
must be."
"What do you say, madame?"
"The truth. Leave me here; return to Paris; tell Mazarin, tell the
queen what has happened. I will assist you to the best of my ability;
but go, go!"
"Must I tell you again," cried Canolles, "that to leave you would be
death to me?"
"No, no, you will not die, for you will retain the hope that in happier
days we shall meet again."
"Chance has thrown me in your way, madame, or, rather, has placed
you in my way twice already; but chance will have grown weary in
well-doing, and if I leave you now I shall never see you again."
"Then I will seek you out."
"Oh! madame, ask me to die for you; death is an instant's suffering,
and all is over. But do not ask me to leave you again. At the bare
thought my heart is breaking. Why, consider, pray, that I have hardly
seen you, hardly spoken with you."
"Well, then, if I allow you to remain to-day, if you are at liberty to
see me and talk to me throughout the day, will you be content? Tell me."
"I make no promises."
"Nor I, if that is so. But, as I did some time since promise to give
you due notice of my departure, know that I leave this place an hour
hence."
"Must I do whatever you wish? Must I obey you in every point? Must I
set aside my own volition and follow yours blindly? If I must do all
that, be content. You have before you a slave, ready to obey. Command
me, madame, command me."
Claire gave the baron her hand, and said, in her softest and most
winning voice:--
"I ask a new promise in exchange for mine; if I do not leave your side
from now until nine o'clock this evening, will you go at nine o'clock?"
"I swear it."
"Come, then; the sky is blue and gives promise of a beautiful day;
there is dew upon the grass, sweet perfume in the air, and balm among
the trees. _Holé!_ Pompée."
The worthy intendant, who had doubtless been instructed to remain
outside the door, made his appearance at once.
"My saddle-horses," said Madame de Cambes, assuming her princely
expression; "I will ride this morning to the ponds, and return by
the farm, where I will breakfast. You will accompany me, Monsieur
le Baron," she continued; "it is a part of your duties, as you have
received her Majesty's commands never to lose sight of me."
A suffocating cloud of joy blinded the baron, and enveloped him, like
the masses of vapor in which the immortal gods of old were carried up
to heaven; he went where he was led, unresistingly, almost without
volition; he was intoxicated, he was mad. Soon, amid a charming wood,
through shadowy avenues, where hanging branches softly swept across his
brow, he opened once again his eyes to things of earth. He was on foot,
his heart oppressed by pleasure so intense that it was well-nigh pain,
his hand in hers, and she as pale, as silent, and as happy, too, as he.
Behind them Pompée stalked along, so near that he could see, so far
away that he could not hear.