CIRCE’S TOILET.
SO blinded was I by the flash and by the swirl of acrid smoke which
followed it that for an instant I thought there had been some terrible
explosion--another mine perhaps, designed to wreck our cavern and
entomb us beneath the rocks. Then, in an agony of fear, not for myself,
but for the girl confided to my keeping, I sprang forward, determined
to close with my assailant before he could fire again. Once my fingers
were at his throat, I knew he would never fire....
But at the third step I stumbled over some obstruction and came
headlong to the floor. I was up again in an instant, my back to the
wall, my pistol in my hand, wondering at my escape. But there was no
second attack, not a sound, save my own hurried breathing.
Then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I saw with astonishment
that the cavern was empty. What was it that had happened? Who was it
had fired that shot at me? What was the obstruction which had brought
me down? I could just discern it on the floor before me--a dim, huddled
mass. I went to it, bent over it, peered down at it--and in a sudden
panic terror saw that it was Charlotte! The fiends had been watching
then; they had seen me leave the cavern; they had seen me desert
her--fool that I was!--they had waited till I was safely away; then
they had crept in upon her, surprised her as she slept, secure in the
thought that I was watching over her!
With a groan of agony I groped for her wrist and found myself clutching
a pistol whose barrel was still warm. In a flash I understood, and
my heart bounded again with joy, the while I cursed my carelessness.
It was she who had fired at me! How was she to know me in this garb?
She had been watching for me outside the cave, and had seen a brigand
approaching her. She had slipped behind the curtain, and a moment later
I had burst in upon her without a word of warning. Fool that I was!
Fool! Fool! And yet my heart was singing with joy and thankfulness--joy
that she had escaped; thankfulness that she had turned the pistol
against me and not against herself! Had she done that!--but I shook the
thought from me lest I break down completely.
I drew her to the entrance of the cavern that the cool air of the
evening might play upon her face. At the end of a moment her lips
parted in a faint sigh, her bosom rose and fell convulsively and she
opened her eyes and stared up at me with a gaze in which horror grew
and deepened.
“Do you not know me, my love?” I asked. “It is Tavernay. See!” and I
snatched off Pasdeloup’s knotted headgear.
The warm color flooded her face, and she sat suddenly upright.
“Then it was you!” she gasped. “It was you!”
“Yes;” and I laughed with the sheer joy of seeing her again so full
of life. “It was I at whom you discharged your pistol. An inch to the
right, and I should not be talking to you now;” and I placed my finger
on the still smarting scratch across my cheek.
She gave one glance at it, then fell forward, sobbing, her face between
her hands. What would I not have given to take her in my arms--to hold
her close against my heart--to kiss away those tears! But even in that
moment there was about her something which held me back; something
which recalled the promise I had made her; something which bade me
remember that she was in my care, defenseless. So I stilled the hot
pulsing of my blood as far as in me lay, and even succeeded in speaking
with a certain coldness.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, touching her delicate, quivering shoulder, “it
was nothing--or rather it was just what you should have done. The fault
was wholly mine. I should not have burst in upon you like that; but I
was so worried, so anxious to know that you were safe. You were right
in shooting. If you had killed me it would have been no more than I
deserved. I blame only myself, and bitterly. I was a fool. I hope you
will find it in your heart to pardon me.”
Her sobs had ceased, and as I finished she threw back her hair and
sat erect again. I saw with astonishment and relief that she was
smiling--and I found her smile more disturbing than her tears.
“Then we are quits, are we not,” she asked, “since we each made a
mistake?”
“You did not make a mistake,” I protested, “so we are not quits until
you have forgiven me.”
She held out her hand with a charming gesture.
“You are forgiven,” she said, “so far as you need forgiveness. And
now,” she continued, drawing away the hand which I had not the courage
to relinquish, and rising quickly to her feet, “what are your plans?”
“There is down yonder,” I answered, “a charming little brook, which
purls over the stones, and stops to loiter, here and there, in the
basins of the rock. The water is very cool and clear.”
“Then come!” she cried. “Ah, I am desperately thirsty and frightfully
dirty. I am ashamed for you to see me!”
“I was just marvelling,” I retorted, “that you had kept yourself so
immaculate. I cannot understand it.”
“Immaculate!” she echoed, and set off down the slope.
But suddenly she stopped.
“Shall we return?” she asked. “Shall we see the cave again?”
“No, I think not,” I answered; “we must be starting westward.”
“Then I must say good-by to it;” and she ran back to the entrance, drew
aside the curtain and fell upon her knees. I saw her throw a kiss into
the darkness and her head bent for a moment as though in prayer. I,
too, closed my eyes and prayed God that He would give me strength to
guide this woman through to safety. At last she arose and rejoined me.
“It is a lovable cave,” she said, “and it kept us safe. It would have
been ungrateful to go away without a word of thanks;” and somehow,
for me, as for her, the cavern in that instant assumed a personality,
benign and cheerful. I could fancy it glowing with pleasure at thought
of this last good deed.
“You were right,” I agreed. “But then you are always right.”
“Oh, no,” she protested quickly. “Sometimes I am very wrong. But you
will discover that for yourself.”
“Shall I? When?”
“All too soon, I fear;” and she looked at me with a curious little
smile.
“I don’t believe it!” I retorted, with conviction.
She only smiled again in a way I could not understand, and blushed and
went on without speaking. Who can read a woman’s thoughts? Certainly
not I!
But I was fiercely, madly happy. For the moment no thought of the
future, of its penalties and duties, shadowed me. I was content to be
here with this brave and lovely girl, alone with her--a comrade and
friend. Since nothing more was possible,--since to friend and comrade I
could not add lover,--I would yet be happy in what was granted me. And
that I must be content with this, I saw too well--not in any coldness
or aversion, but by a subtle change of manner, the merest nuance of
expression, which at the same time kept me near to her, and yet held me
away. On the tower she had permitted my endearments, had even raised
her lips to mine; but that was looking in the face of death at a moment
when we need take no thought for the future--at a moment when she had
wished to comfort me, and herself stood in need of comfort. But we had
emerged from that shadow; there was the future again to be reckoned
with, and between us an impalpable but invulnerable veil was stretched
which I must never hope to pass.
We reached the brook, and I placed two broad flat stones at the edge
of a little pool where the lucid water paused for an instant before
pursuing its course along the rocky way, and watched her while she
stooped and drank. She had cast aside her cloak, and I noted with a
clear delight the soft curve of her arms, the slim grace of neck and
shoulders.
“Now it is your turn, my friend,” she said, and made room for me.
I knelt and drank too. How good the water tasted! How it cleansed and
purified the parched throat! How it heartened the whole body!
“And now I shall use some of it externally,” she said, as I stood
aside; and I sat down on a nearby rock to enjoy the spectacle.
She rolled back her sleeves and bound her hair in a tight coil
upon her head. Then from some hidden pocket she produced a dainty
handkerchief, and dipping it in the stream, applied it vigorously to
face and neck. I saw her skin glow and brighten under touch of the cool
water; she seemed like a nymph----
Suddenly she looked aside and caught my eyes.
“Is this the first time you have seen a lady at her toilet, M. de
Tavernay?” she asked, witheringly.
“The very first, mademoiselle.”
“And you feel no compunctions of conscience for keeping your seat
there?”
“None in the least,” I answered calmly. “I must see that no enemy
surprises you.”
“From which direction would an enemy come?”
“Probably from down the valley.”
“You have eyes, then, in the back of your head? How fortunate!”
“Oh, I glance around from time to time,” I explained coolly. “Surely
you would not deny me the pleasure I have in looking at you! That would
be heartless!”
She glanced at me again, with a little pout.
“But I should think that you yourself would feel the need of a bath,”
she retorted.
“So that you might feel some pleasure in looking at me?” I asked. “I
know I must appear a most hideous scoundrel. My skin is fairly stiff
with the dirt upon it; and yet I dare not so much as touch it with
water.”
“Dare not?”
“A clean skin would hardly be in keeping with this clothing,” I pointed
out.
“That is true,” she admitted, with a swift glance over it. “But why did
you assume such a disguise? Who will see you?”
“Many people, I am afraid. In the first place we must have food.”
“It is useless to deny that I am very hungry,” she agreed.
“Instead of seeking food, I fell asleep,” I confessed miserably. “I
shall never forgive myself.”
“Nonsense! We both of us needed rest first of all. Indeed I find the
pangs of hunger rather exhilarating--and how I shall relish the food
when we get it! But continue: whom else shall you meet?”
“In the second place,” I went on, “I must ask my way, since I am wholly
unfamiliar with this country.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And in the third place, in a country even thinly settled, we must be
prepared for chance encounters. To all the people we meet I must appear
a peasant in order to protect you.”
“To protect me?”
“Yes; you are my prisoner--a spoil of war; there is a price on your
head which I am anxious to secure. I may even have to be a little
brutal with you.”
“I pardon you in advance,” she smiled. “Do not hesitate to be as brutal
as is needful.”
“I had thought at first,” I explained, “of endeavoring to get for you a
disguise somewhat like my own, but I saw the folly of the plan when I
came to consider it.”
“Why, pray?”
“Oh, mademoiselle,” I said, “you would be no less beautiful in the
dress of a peasant than in the robe of a queen! Such a disguise would
deceive no one. On the contrary, it would serve only to attract
attention, since a diamond is never so brilliant as in a tarnished
setting.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” she said, bowing. “That was very prettily
turned. But since you slumbered all the afternoon, where did you find
those garments? Had some one thrown them away?”
“No, mademoiselle,” I stammered, turning red and white, for I had not
expected the question. “I--that is----”
“What is it?” she demanded, looking at me steadily. “Do not fear to
tell me. Oh, I have been selfish! I have been thinking only of myself!
Where are the others, M. de Tavernay? Where are our friends? Did they,
also, escape?”
With her clear eyes upon me, it was impossible to lie as I had intended
doing.
“No,” I answered in a low voice, “they did not escape.”
“They were captured?” she cried, her face livid.
“Oh, not so bad as that! Thank God, not so bad as that! Madame was
killed by that first shot and died in the arms of the man she loved,
smiling up at him. M. le Comte and Pasdeloup met the end as brave men
should, facing the enemy. It was only I who ran away,” I added, the
tears blinding me.
She held out her hand with a quick gesture of sympathy and
understanding.
“It was for my sake,” she said softly. “Never forget that, my friend.
In telling the story over to yourself never forget that.”
“You are kind,” I murmured with full heart. “That thought alone
consoles me--it was not for myself I fled.”
And then I told her of the grave which I had improvised, of how I had
placed Pasdeloup’s body beside that of his master. She heard me to the
end with shining eyes; and when I had ended she sat for a moment, her
hand still in mine, her head bowed; and I knew that she was praying.
“They are at peace,” she said at last, looking up at me with eyes
tear-dimmed. “Nothing can harm them now. And God will avenge them.”
“I am sure of it,” I answered, “for I am the instrument which He has
chosen.”
“The instrument?”
“I have sworn to kill the scoundrel who set them on,” I said simply. “I
know that He heard the oath and approved it.”
She sat looking at me a moment longer, then passed her hand before her
eyes and rose to her feet.
“You will keep the vow, M. de Tavernay,” she said quietly; “I am sure
of it. And the same God who listened and approved will see you safe
through for your guerdon at the end.”
“My guerdon!” I stammered, startled out of my self-control. “Ah,
mademoiselle, I crave no guerdon; at least there is only one----”
She was looking at me steadily, and the words died upon my lips, for
the veil had fallen again between us.
“Come, monsieur,” she said in another tone, “we must be setting
forward. See--it is growing dark.”