A MAN AND A MARQUIS
Colonel Tournay accompanied the crowd of zealous Republicans who had
been the followers of Gardin, until he saw them dispersed to their
various homes or noisily installed in the wine-room of the village inn.
Then he rapidly retraced his steps to the chateau.
He found Mademoiselle Rochefort seated in the salon, contemplating half
mournfully, half disdainfully, the evidences of the mob's incursion,
which surrounded her in the shape of costly pieces of furniture from the
drawing-room, now marred and broken; and bottles from the wine cellars,
shattered and strewn upon the floor.
She did not make any movement as Tournay entered the room, but seemed
occupied with her own thoughts; and for a few moments he stood in
silence, hesitating to speak, as if the communication he had to make
required more tact and diplomacy than for the moment he felt himself
master of.
Finally, approaching her, he said: "Mademoiselle, the immediate danger
is past. You have nothing to fear for the present. As soon as you have
recovered sufficiently I would like to speak with you."
She let her hand drop from her forehead and looked up at him. Her face
was very pale, but she was quite composed and the voice was firm with
which she answered:--
"I am able to hear you now, Robert Tournay."
He drew a sigh of relief. "She has the de Rochefort spirit," he thought.
"All is quiet now," he said. "But when Gardin fully recovers
consciousness I fear he will excite his followers to further violence.
It will be unsafe for you to remain here." As she did not answer, he
continued,--"I have made arrangements, mademoiselle, to conduct you to
the German frontier. Can you prepare to accompany me at once?"
"I am prepared to leave here at once--but--I cannot go with you. It is
better that I go alone," Mademoiselle de Rochefort replied.
"Alone! It would be folly in you to attempt it. Do you suppose that I
could stand quietly by and see you incur such a danger?"
Mademoiselle de Rochefort's eyes, at all other times so frank and
fearless, did not meet his earnest gaze; she answered him hastily, as
one who would have an unpleasant interview come to a speedy end:--
"You have saved me from a great danger. Believe me, I am not ungrateful.
You have already done too much. I cannot accept anything more from you.
Pray leave me now to go my own way."
"That is impossible, mademoiselle; I shall only leave you when you are
across the frontier. Traveling as my wife, under the passports that I
have secured, the journey can be made in comparative safety, provided
always that we start in time."
At the words "my wife" Mademoiselle de Rochefort started, but she only
repeated:--
"I cannot go with you."
"But," ejaculated Tournay, "I don't understand; it was agreed"--
She looked up at him. "I agreed to permit you to tell those wretches
that I was your wife, Father Ambrose, your father, and you, all
protesting that it was the only way to prevent them from destroying the
chateau and those within it. But you also said that the marriage would
not be considered valid, and as soon as the danger was over you would go
away."
"I said," answered Tournay quietly, "that I should in no way consider
the marriage valid; that when I had once taken you to a place of safety
I should leave you. But until then I shall remain by your side."
"Some one said you would go away at once, either your father or the
priest, and so I yielded. Now you tell me I must go away with you,
and"--she hesitated at the words, "be known as your wife."
"But no one will know who you are," said Tournay earnestly. "The
carriage will be a closed one--you shall have Agatha with you. No one
shall be allowed to intrude upon you. Three or four days will bring us
to the frontier. As soon as you are there, and in the care of some of
your friends who have already emigrated, I will leave you. Cannot you
trust me three days?" he asked sorrowfully.
"I cannot go with you," she repeated. "You are of the Republic--I have
already accepted too much from your hands. Can I forget that those hands
which you now stretch out to aid me have helped to tear down a throne?
that like all the Republicans, you share the guilt of a king's murder?"
"I am only guilty of loving France more than the king. I did help to
destroy a monarchy, but it was to build up a Republic."
"Then, instead of aiding, you should denounce me. I am of the Monarchy
and I hate your Republic," she said defiantly. "I will accept protection
from one of my own order or trust to God and my own efforts to preserve
me."
"Where are those of your own order?" demanded Tournay bitterly. "They
are scattered like leaves. Some have taken refuge in England or in
Prussia. Some are hiding here in France. Your own class fail you in the
time of need."
"They do not fail," cried Edme. "If none are here it is because they are
risking their lives elsewhere for our unhappy and hopeless cause; or
languishing in your Republican prisons where so many of the chivalry of
France lie awaiting death."
As if the thought goaded her to desperation she added fiercely, "Where I
will join them rather than purchase my freedom at the price you
propose."
"Mademoiselle," said Tournay calmly but with great firmness, "listen to
reason. There is no time for lengthy explanation. I am actuated only by
a desire for your safety. You must accompany me hence. I shall take you
away with me."
Edme arose and confronted him with a look of scorn. "I stood here a
short time ago," she said, "and before all that rabble heard myself
proclaimed your wife; I, Edme de Rochefort, called a wife of a
Republican--one of their number. Oh, the shame of it! What would my
father have said if he had heard that I owed my life to a man steeped in
the blood of the Revolution? That his daughter consented to be called
the wife of her steward's son! a man of ignoble birth, a servant"--
"Stop!" cried Tournay, the blood mounting to his forehead. "Stop! It is
true that those of my blood have served your family for generations. It
was one of my blood, I have heard it told, who in days gone by gave up
his life for one of your ancestors upon the field of battle. Was that
ignoble? My father served yours faithfully during a long life; was that
ignoble? So have I, in my turn, served you. I was born to the position,
but I served you proudly, not ignobly. In speaking thus, you wrong
yourself more than you do me, mademoiselle."
[Illustration: "STOP!" CRIED TOURNAY]
The suddenness of his outburst silenced her. He saw that her bosom
heaved convulsively. He could not guess the conflicting emotions in her
breast; her pride struggling with her gratitude; her horror and
detestation of the Republic contending with her admiration for his brave
bearing in the face of danger; but as he looked at her, slight and
girlish, standing there before him with flushed cheeks, as he saw the
fire flash in her eyes although her hands trembled, he realized keenly
how young, how defenseless she was, and his sudden burst of anger
subsided. Her very pride moved him to pity by its impotence, and his
heart yearned to be permitted to protect her from all the dangers which
threatened her.
In a voice that trembled with emotion he went on:--
"Mademoiselle, I have known you since you were a child, and I have
served you faithfully. Your wishes, your caprices have been my law. It
was no galling servitude to me, mademoiselle, for mine was a service of
love." He uttered the last words almost in a whisper, then stopped
suddenly, as if the avowal had slipped from his lips unwittingly.
Mademoiselle de Rochefort started; while he spoke she had turned away;
so he could not see her face, but he could imagine the look of disdain
and scorn with which she had listened.
"Yes, I dared to love you," he continued. "I never meant to tell you,
but now that the avowal has slipped from my lips I would have you know
that I always loved you. That is why I am here now, pleading with you,
not for your love, for that I know never can be mine, but for your
safety, your life." She remained silent, and he continued, speaking
rapidly,--"You have said that a king's blood is upon my hands. His death
was necessary and I do not regret it." Edme shuddered and letting
herself sink back into a chair sat there with her head resting on her
hand, while she still kept her face turned from him. "I do not regret
it, because it has given us the Republic. I glory in the Republic which
has made me your equal." Bending over her, he said in a low voice, "I
love you and am worthy of your love. Mademoiselle, listen to me. Come
with me while there is yet time. Give me but the right to be your
protector. I will protect you as the man guards the object of his
purest, his deepest affection." In his fervor he bent over her until his
lips almost touched her hair. "I will win a name that even you will be
proud to own. Edme, come with me. It is the love of years that speaks to
you thus--Come!" and he took her hand in his. As his fingers closed upon
hers she sprang to her feet.
"Do not touch me," she cried, with a tone almost of terror. "I will hear
no more. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see you. Go! for the love of
heaven, leave me."
For a moment Tournay stood still. Her words wounded him to the quick,
yet as they stabbed deepest, he loved her the more. Without speaking
again he turned and left her. As he descended the stairs and passed out
through the broken doorway he vowed within himself that despite her
pride, despite what she might say or do, he would yet find means to
save her.
An hour passed, and Edme remained in the salon where Tournay had left
her. The spirit she had shown a short time before seemed much subdued.
Darkness had settled down over the room, and she felt herself alone and
deserted. A current of air, coming through the broken doorway, swept up
the stairs into the apartment, chilling her with its cold breath. She
wondered what had become of Father Ambrose and old Matthieu, and whether
Agatha had deserted her. Yet she did not seek for them. Indeed, she did
not know where to find them, for the house had all the silence of
emptiness.
She tried to plan what she should do in case she had been entirely
abandoned, but her brain, usually so active, seemed benumbed. She could
not think. Conscious that she must shake off this feeling of
helplessness, she was about to rise and go in search of a light, when
she heard a footstep outside in the corridor. "Agatha has come back,"
she thought, and stepped forward to meet her maid. The sound of
footsteps approached until they reached the door of the salon; there
they seemed to hesitate.
Edme was on the point of calling Agatha by name, when the door was
pushed open and a man entered and passed stealthily across the floor of
the salon into the ante-chamber without noticing her presence. Edme
thrust her hand over her mouth to stifle the cry that was upon her
lips.
The man was evidently familiar with the surroundings, for almost
immediately the light of a candle shone out from the ante-room, throwing
a faint glow upon the polished floor of the salon. Edme had seen him
very imperfectly in the darkness. She was uncertain whether he was one
of the mob, returned alone for plunder, or one of the lackeys of her
household who had got the better of his terror and returned to the
chateau.
Unable to bear the suspense, she advanced toward the door of the
ante-room. Her heart beat rapidly as she placed her hand upon the door,
which had been left ajar. She hesitated one moment, then summoning up
the courage that had sustained her during the whole of that terrible
afternoon, she boldly pushed the door open and looked into the room. To
her amazement she saw, bending over a cabinet, her cousin, the Marquis
de Lacheville. The marquis held a candle in one hand while he searched
hurriedly for something in the drawer of the cabinet. In his haste and
anxiety he threw out the contents of each drawer as he opened it till
the floor was littered with papers. So intent was he upon his search
that he did not hear Edme's approach.
"Monsieur de Lacheville!" she said in a low tone. Upon hearing his name,
the marquis uttered a cry like that of a hunted animal, and turning,
confronted her.
"Mademoiselle de Rochefort, you here! How you startled me!" he
exclaimed, endeavoring to control himself; but his knees shook, and his
lips twitched nervously.
"Your coming gave me a start also, monsieur. You glided across the floor
of the salon so like a phantom, I did not know who it was, nor what to
think."
"I have just arrived from Paris, where I have been in hiding for
months," he stammered. "Upon seeing the doors all battered down and the
frightful disorder in the lower halls, I thought the chateau must be
deserted and that you had sought some place of refuge. Knowing that in
times past the baron, your father, was in the habit of keeping money in
this old secretary, I have been ransacking it from top to bottom. I have
need of a considerable sum; but I find nothing here--not a sou."
Edme noticed that his dress was in great disorder and that his face was
pale and haggard. Every few moments he put up his hand in an attempt to
stop the nervous twitching of the mouth which he seemed unable to
control.
"My nerves have been much shaken lately," he said, as she looked at him
with wonder. And then he laughed discordantly. The sound of the
mirthless laughter, accompanied by no change in the expression of his
face, was painful to Edme's ears.
"I have been pursued," he said, "hunted in Paris like a dog, but I have
given them the slip; they shall not overtake me now." The wild look in
his eyes became more intense. "I am going to leave France; I have a
friend whom I can trust waiting for me near at hand. Together in
disguise we are going to the frontier--either to Belgium or Germany. We
shall be safe there. But I must have some more money, money for our
journey." His fear had so bereft him of his reason that he apparently
forgot the presence of his cousin, the mistress of the house, and turned
once more to the old writing-desk to recommence his search with feverish
haste.
"To Germany!" cried Edme joyfully. "You are going to Germany? then you
can take me with you. We can leave this unhappy blood-stained country
for a land of law and order."
The marquis turned upon her sharply.
"Why did not your father take you with him to England?" he demanded.
"Why? You have no need to ask the question. He went upon some secret
business for King Louis. He went away unexpectedly. When he left he
imagined that I, a woman, living in quiet seclusion, would be perfectly
safe, notwithstanding the disordered state of the country even at that
time."
"Can you not find a place of refuge with some friend here in France?"
asked de Lacheville. "The journey I am about to undertake will be full
of danger and fatigue."
"I am not afraid of danger," replied Edme, "and as for fatigue, I am
strong and able to support it."
"But," persisted de Lacheville, "if you could find some suitable refuge
here it would be so much better."
"I cannot," retorted Edme, in a decided tone of voice, "and I prefer to
accompany you to Germany, although it seems to me that you offer your
escort somewhat reluctantly."
"The fact is, Cousin Edme," replied the marquis, "I cannot take you with
me. Alone, my escape will be difficult; with you it will be impossible."
Edme looked at him for a moment with open-eyed wonder, then she repeated
the word. "Impossible! Do you mean to tell me that you, a kinsman, are
going to leave me here to meet whatever fate may befall me, while you
save yourself by flight?"
"No, no, you do not understand me," the marquis replied, his pale face
flushing. "It is for your own sake that I cannot take you. It will mean
almost certain capture. If, as I said before, you could remain in some
place of safety in France for a little while"--
"I am ready to run whatever risk you do," replied the girl coolly. "When
do you start?"
"Mademoiselle, this is madness," exclaimed de Lacheville, pacing the
floor. "Can you not listen to reason?"
The sound of shouting in the distance caused him to stop suddenly and
run to the window. The candle had burned down to the socket and went out
with a few last feeble flickers. The cries of Gardin's ruffians were
borne to him on the wind.
The slight composure which he had managed to regain during his talk with
Edme left him again, and he turned toward her, the trembling, shaking
coward that he was when she had first discovered him.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered, his hand shaking as he put it to his
lips.
"I have heard it in this very room to-day," replied Edme, looking at him
with disdain.
"They are coming here again," he whispered hoarsely. "But they shall not
find me," he exclaimed fiercely, clenching his fist and shaking it in a
weak menace toward the spot whence the sound came. "I have a swift horse
in the courtyard beneath. In an hour I shall be safe from them," and he
prepared to leave the room.
The ordeal of the afternoon had told on Edme's nerves and the thought of
being left alone again made her desperate.
"You shall not leave me here alone," she cried, seizing his arm. "You
were born a man--behave like one. Devise some means to take me from this
place at once. Do not leave me alone to face those wretches again, or I
shall believe you are a coward."
De Lacheville roughly released himself from her grasp.
"I care not what you think of me," he snarled. "It is each for himself.
I cannot imperil my safety for a woman. I must escape." And he rushed
from the room.
She heard the crunching of his horses' feet upon the gravel, and going
to the window saw him ride rapidly away. The remembrance of the young
Republican leader offering to risk his life for her, and the cowering
figure of her cousin, indifferent to all but his own safety, flashed
before her in quick contrast. She turned away from the window to find
herself in the arms of Agatha, who had at that moment returned.
"Agatha," she exclaimed, "do your hear those hoof-beats? Monsieur de
Lacheville is running away. He, a nobleman, is a coward and flies from
danger, while another man, a Republican--oh, Agatha, Agatha, what are we
to do? whom are we to believe; in whom should we trust?"
"Calm yourself, mademoiselle," replied Agatha, "and think only of what I
have to tell you. Listen to me closely. We must leave at once. I have a
plan of flight. I have been making a few hurried preparations."
"True, Agatha, in my bewilderment and anger, I forgot for the moment the
danger we incur by remaining here. Where are Father Ambrose and
Matthieu?"
"Matthieu is here in the chateau; he says he will never desert you as
long as you can have need of his poor services. Father Ambrose has
disappeared, but I think he is in a place of safety. But now you are to
be thought of. Will you trust me?"
"How can you ask that, Agatha? Have you not always proved faithful?"
"I mean, can you trust me to lead, and will you follow and be guided by
my suggestions?"
"I will do just as you may direct. I know you have a wise head, Agatha."
"This is my plan, then," continued the maid; "listen carefully while I
tell it to you."
An hour later the two women, dressed as peasants, with faces and hands
brown from apparent exposure to the sun in the hayfield, left the park
behind the chateau de Rochefort, and made their way along a hedge-bound
lane that wound through the fields. As they reached the crest of a hill
they stopped and looked back at the chateau. A red glow appeared in the
eastern sky.
"Look, Agatha," said Edme, "morning is coming, the sun is about to
rise."
Suddenly the glow leaped into a broad flame which lit up the whole sky.
"'Tis the chateau on fire!" cried both women in one breath, and clinging
to each other they stood and watched it burn.