“COURAGE!”
FOR a time I thought I was again in that raftered chamber at Beaufort
which had been mine for so many years; but finally I recognized
uneasily that this was not the bed to which I was accustomed, nor were
these dark and grimy walls the ones at which I had been wont to stare
while building my castles in Spain.
Then in a flash I remembered,--escape, flight, capture, rescue,--and I
started to spring from the bed, but fell back again with a cry of pain.
For an instant my head seemed splitting open, and I closed my eyes
dizzily.
“Gently, monsieur, gently,” said a voice; and I opened my eyes to see a
kindly woman’s face bending over me. “You must lie still,” she added,
and placed a cool hand upon my forehead. “You must go to sleep.”
“But where am I?” I asked.
“You are with friends.”
“And Mademoiselle de Chambray?”
“She also is safe.”
I closed my eyes with a deep sigh of thankfulness. Safe, safe, safe--I
repeated the word to myself again and again. Safe! Surely Providence
had guarded us! Safe....
When I awoke the second time it was night, and I lay for long staring
up through the darkness and piecing together the adventures which had
befallen me since that moment when Dubosq had halted me on the highway
from Tours. My heart quickened as I recalled that evening in the
garden, as I rebuilt it, as I lived it over again, second by second.
Ah, that had been the one hour of my life! And yet, even in the shadow
of the perils which followed, I had not been unhappy, for she had been
beside me, with her clear eyes and smiling lips; and if she chose to
smite me now and then, why certainly I had invited the blows and even,
in a way, deserved them.
Then at the end I had won. That final disaster had driven her straight
into my arms, as a storm drives the boats to harbor. She had laid
her head upon my shoulder and whispered that she loved me! My pulses
quickened at thought of it. She loved me--that superb, matchless
woman loved me! What did all the rest matter--the world’s opinion, my
plighted word? I would take her--I would never give her up! She loved
me! That should be my justification. And gripping that thought tight
against my heart I dropped away to sleep.
The sun was shining brightly at the open window when I awakened for the
third time, and again I saw that kindly face bending above me.
“You are better, monsieur?” she asked; and again her cool hand touched
my forehead. “Yes--your fever is nearly gone.”
“I am quite well,” I assured her, “except for a little soreness of the
head. Where are my clothes?”
“You will not need them for some days yet,” she said, smiling at my
eagerness.
“Nonsense!” I protested. “I must get up at once;” and I made a movement
to throw back the covers, but she held my hands, and I found with
surprise that she was stronger than I.
“You see,” she added, still smiling, “you are weaker than you thought.”
“But I cannot lie here,” I cried half angrily. “I must get up. I have
many things to do.”
I shrank somehow from asking her outright where my love was waiting,
why she did not come to me. Perhaps she was ill and could not come.
That injury to the ankle....
“I must get up,” I repeated doggedly; but again she held me back, her
kindly eyes reading the trouble in my face.
“If you will lie still,” she said, “I will bring you some one who will
tell you all you wish to know--and whom, besides, I think you will be
very glad to see.”
“Thank you,” I answered, my heart beating madly. “At once?”
She nodded, went to the door and spoke a word to some one in the room
beyond.
Then my heart chilled, for it was not the dear face I had hoped to
see which appeared in answer to the summons, but an ugly, bearded
countenance, set on gigantic shoulders. And yet, at a second glance,
I saw that the countenance, though ugly, was not repulsive, that the
eyes were kindly, and that the lips could smile winningly.
“M. de Tavernay,” said my nurse, bringing him to my bedside, “this is
M. de Marigny.”
He bent and pressed one of my hands in his great palm, then sat down
beside me, while I gazed with interest at perhaps the most famous among
the leaders of the Bocage.
“And very pleased I am to find you doing so well, monsieur,” he said in
a voice singularly rich. “In faith, I thought for a time that we had
rescued you from the rope merely to condemn you to the bludgeon.”
“Even that would have been a service, monsieur,” I answered, smiling in
response to him. “But it seems I am to get well again.”
“Yes; you had youth and health to fight for you. Alas, they are not
always on one’s side!”
“But the rescue, monsieur?” I asked. “How came it so pat to the moment?”
“I must confess that that was an accident,” he laughed. “My spies
brought me word that this regiment was marching to Thouars. I
determined to strike one more blow before Easter, so I called my men
together and we waited behind our hedges. When night fell we turned our
sheepskins and, mingling with the flock upon the hillside, gradually
descended upon our enemy’s pickets. It was then that a sudden commotion
in the camp below attracted our attention. We saw a fracas, from which
emerged that little procession of which you were the central figure. We
saw them prepare for the execution and supposing them to be about to
hang some cut-throat of their own waited until they should accomplish
it. Then suddenly you gave our battle-cry, ‘God and the King!’ and
brought us headlong to your rescue. In fact I had not even to give the
word to fire.”
“It was fortunate I chose to make a theatric exit,” I commented,
laughing.
“Permit me to say that it was the act of a brave man, monsieur. I trust
that I shall meet my end as bravely.”
Poor, gallant gentleman! He met it more bravely still--the victim of
treacherous envy, he faced the muskets erect, with eyes unbandaged, and
himself gave the word to fire.
“Tell me more,” I urged. “You won?”
“Oh, yes; we cut them to pieces and seized a store of arms and
ammunition which will stand us in good stead. But we captured something
else a thousand times more welcome.”
“What was that, monsieur?” I asked.
“That was Citizen Goujon,” he answered; and his eyes grew cold as
steel. “We found him writhing in his tent----”
“Yes--I planted one good blow,” I said, and told him the story. “What
did you do with him?”
“We dragged him out, screaming with terror, begging for mercy, offering
to divulge I know not what secrets, and hanged him with the rope which
had been prepared for you. It was a pretty vengeance--even you could
not desire a better.”
“No,” I murmured. “No.”
His face softened into a smile.
“It has a resemblance to a certain Bible story, hasn’t it?” he asked.
“I did not then know the full tale of Goujon’s iniquities, or I might
have chosen a different death for him. It was Mademoiselle de Chambray
who told me of the assault upon the château and the death of my dear
friend, de Favras. Permit me to say that in that affair also, M. de
Tavernay, you proved yourself a gallant man.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” I answered. “I but did what any gentleman would
do. You found Mademoiselle de Chambray, then?”
I tried to ask it carelessly, but I fear my burning face betrayed me.
At any rate, he smiled again as he looked at me.
“Yes,” he said, “we found her lying senseless on the floor of Goujon’s
tent. At first we thought her dead, but she soon opened her eyes. Can
you guess what her first word was? But perhaps I ought not to tell you!”
“Tell me,” I murmured, striving to restrain the leaping of my heart.
“Well, you deserve some reward. Her first word was ‘Tavernay!’”
“Yes,” I said, my eyes suddenly misty; “she had just seen me dragged
away to be hanged.”
“And when we told her what had befallen you she ran to where you
lay----”
“But her ankle,” I broke in. “Did you know----”
“Yes, but she had forgotten it. She ran to where you lay; she washed
and dressed your wound; she had you borne hither on a litter; and she
remained beside you until yesterday--until, in a word, it was certain
that you would recover.”
“Then she has gone?” I asked. “She has gone?” and my heart seemed to
stop in my bosom.
“Yes, she has gone.”
“But her ankle?” I protested. “Oh, how she must have suffered!”
“She did not suffer at all,” said Marigny. “When she at last had
time to remember her injury she found that it no longer existed. She
attributed its cure to you.”
I lay a moment silent, striving to appear composed. She had gone--she
had been brave enough to go; she had sought to spare me the agony of
that farewell which must in any event be spoken. She had been wise
perhaps. She knew my weakness; but I felt that I would give my whole
life to see her again, to hold her hand, to look into her eyes, to hear
her say once more, “I love you!”
“She left no word for me?” I asked at last.
“She left a note; but I am not to give it to you until you are ready to
set out for Poitiers.”
“For Poitiers?” I repeated, trembling. “Did she herself name Poitiers?”
“Most assuredly. And why do you grow so pale, my friend? Is it not near
Poitiers that her home is?”
“Yes, monsieur,” I groaned; “but my journey ends two leagues this side
of Chambray. Those two leagues I shall never cover.”
“What nonsense! Take my advice, the advice of a man who knows more
than you of women. Do not draw rein at Poitiers. Press on to the end of
the journey. You will find a fair prize awaiting you.”
I shook my head--he may have known other women, but not this one.
“Nevertheless I should like to have the note, M. de Marigny,” I said.
“It will comfort me somewhat. And besides, I am to start to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” he cried. “A week hence perhaps, if all goes well.”
I smiled and continued to hold out my hand.
“Let me have the note, monsieur,” I repeated.
He hesitated a moment, still looking at me, then went to the other room
and brought the note back with him and placed it in my hands.
My fingers were trembling so I could scarcely break the seal; a mad
hope possessed me that she had absolved me from my vow, that she
summoned me to her. As I opened the paper a little heap of withered
rose leaves fell upon my breast.
“Ah, you see!” cried Marigny. “I was right, then!”
I could not answer, but I held out the note for him to read. It
contained but one word: “Courage!”
“Well,” he said, “that is good advice. That is precisely what you need
in this affair, M. de Tavernay.”
“Yes,” I agreed bitterly; “courage to give her up--courage never again
to see her. You see she has gone!”
“She could not very well remain,” he said dryly, “after listening to
you three days in your delirium!”
“My delirium?”
“Oh, I dare say she was not offended--what woman would have been?--but
she was certainly red to the ears most of the time. Few maidens, I
fancy, have been treated to such a continuous stretch of love-making.”
I reddened, too, at thought of it.
“What she has suffered on my account!” I murmured.
“I tell you she did not suffer in the least,” repeated Marigny. “You
permitted her to see to the very bottom of your soul, and she saw no
image there except her own!”
“She knew that from the first,” I said sadly; “that does not alter
matters. No; there is no way out, M. de Marigny. I can never hope to
marry her--honor forbids it--an oath not to be broken. She herself has
pointed that out to me in the clearest way. She has shown me what a
coward I was when, for a moment, I permitted my love for her to blind
me to my duty; and I know how she hates a coward. That is the real
meaning of this message, monsieur; she is afraid even yet that I may
not be brave enough.”
Marigny had risen and stood looking down at me with a queer little
smile upon his lips.
“Ah, M. de Tavernay,” he said at last, “I understand now why that blow
on the head failed to kill you.”
With which cryptic utterance he left the room.