WOULD YOU LEAVE ME NOW
I fought my way to Brussels against the elements, and reached there at
sunset of the last day of the year. I had not slept for thirty-six
hours, and then it was in the rude cart of a peasant, jolting over the
rough highroad. But sleep had departed from me. Up to that time I had
managed to get a few hours of rest out of every twenty-four, for I was
a soldier and knew how to take hard travel. But if I had been offered
the great down bed of Louis le Grand, I could not have slept on that
December night, thank God! Had I remained the night in Brussels--had I
preferred soft slumber to the dumb cry of Francezka's soul to
mine--what grief! What remorse! Therefore, I took horse again at
sun-setting, and did not draw rein until I reached Capello, at nine of
the clock.
It was the first time I had seen the place in the icy clutch of
winter. I had ever thought it the cheerfullest spot on earth. Nature
was all gaiety at Capello. Now she was in a tragic mood, but not the
less beautiful. The sky was of a deep, dark blue, jeweled with stars
in every part. A radiant, majestic moon rode high, flooding the snowy
earth with a pale, unearthly splendor. The chateau, white and stately,
shone dazzling in this moonlit glow. The bare branches of the forest
covered with frost, were like silver lace. All was cold, still, lonely
and sad.
I noticed as I approached the chateau through the great bare avenue of
frosted lindens, that the windows were not, as usual, lighted up. Two
only were illuminated--the windows of the little yellow saloon, where
Francezka spent her evenings when without company.
As ever I drew nearer to Francezka, that need for haste seemed to be
more urgent. I dismounted in the courtyard, and ran, rather than
walked up the terrace. Through the window, with its undrawn curtains,
I saw Francezka and Gaston seated together in the yellow saloon.
I had not meant to watch them. I meant to stop and recover myself a
little before presenting myself before them, but I could not keep my
eyes away from the scene in the yellow saloon. I believe most persons
have felt the fascination of looking at an interior illuminated with
fire and candle, as one stands without, and so, unconsciously, I stood
and watched Francezka and Gaston Cheverny.
The room presented that charming, luxurious and comfortable air which
always distinguished it. A fire was burning on the hearth, and a table
with candles and books on it, was drawn up. Gaston sat on one side of
it, and Francezka on the other. She wore a robe of some white
shimmering stuff, and her rich dark hair was unpowdered. I noticed the
little tendrils of hair upon her milk-white neck. In her lap lay an
open book, which she was not reading. She was pallid, and had no more
that joyous loveliness of flesh and blood which had once been hers;
but never saw I more plainly her mysterious and poetic beauty, which
shone forth star-like. And one thing else I saw, and would have seen
had it been my first view of her--she had a canker at her heart.
Gaston sat on the other side of the table, looking as usual, handsome
and content. He, too, had a book in his hand, which he was not
reading. He was furtively watching Francezka. Francezka watched the
fire.
After a time--I know not how long--Francezka laid her book down
softly, went to her open harpsichord, and sitting before it, played
with her usual skill. I recognized the air; it was that old, old one
of Blondel's, _O Richard, O mon roi!_
Gaston shifted a little in his chair. He had ever showed an
indifference to the song, which once had been so dear to them, and had
been so full of meaning for them. There was a look of uneasiness in
his face, and he began for the first time to read attentively, his
brows drawn together, while Francezka's fingers delicately played this
quaint air.
Francezka played some other airs, lightly, gracefully, softly,
pausing between them, meditating, with one hand on the keys of the
harpsichord, and the other hanging down. The hand that hung down moved
a little, as if in the act of patting a dog's head. I was reminded of
poor Bold--it was as if Francezka were thinking of this lost friend.
She gave me the impression of a person who feels herself alone and
debates with herself.
When she ceased to play this fitful soft music, she rose and went to
the window which looked toward the lake. She shaded her face with her
hands, so she could see the still, pale glory of the night, and the
lake, lying in melancholy beauty under the soft shining stars. There
was a deep and perfect silence within and without, and it seemed to
cast a spell upon Francezka and upon me, so near together, and she all
unknowing.
And then, feeling rather than seeing some one near me, I turned and
saw a figure in a black cloak pass me; the same figure that had passed
before me in the shadowy streets of Prague--the man I thought to be
Gaston Cheverny. He walked straight to the great door of the
chateau, and without knocking, opened it as if he were the master
of all there. And then, as I stood unable to move, with all my
faculties concentrated in my eyes, I saw the door of the yellow
saloon open. I saw the real Gaston Cheverny enter. I saw Francezka
turn toward the opening door. I saw the man I had supposed for
nearly two years to be Gaston Cheverny rise from his chair--and he
was, in truth, Regnard Cheverny. It was impossible to mistake one
for the other, standing together, face to face. It became a miracle
how Regnard had ever managed to deceive his whole world into
thinking him Gaston Cheverny. All the differences between them came
out and seemed to clamor for recognition. The expression of the eye
was different; the whole of the actual man in each was dissimilar; and
how this could have been covered up by the mere likeness in shape,
in voice, in feature--no one could tell.
Gaston was Gaston. He was pale and thin, and looked ten years older
than he should, but there was no mistaking him. I know not how I found
myself standing on the threshold of the room. Gaston had advanced to
the middle, and held out his arms to Francezka.
"I know all," he cried, "poor, faithful soul! For you there is an
unchanging love. There is nothing to forgive--nothing--nothing!"
Francezka stood as if turned to stone for a moment--one of those
moments in which Time seems no more. Then she moved a little
back, averting her face from Gaston, with a look, never to be
forgotten--love, shame, despair--crying aloud from her eyes. But
as Gaston spoke, she turned again, full toward him, and raised both
of her white arms.
"Dearest," she cried, in her old, sweet, penetrating voice. "I do not
ask why you did not come before. You could not--you could not come
until now!"
At that, Regnard stepped forward, and raised his hand to separate the
two.
"Wait," he said to Gaston. "She was your wife for one week. She has
been my wife nearly two years. She shall remain so. I, too, loved her
well, from my boyhood--and was it to be expected that I should let
that childish fancy for you stand between her and me, when I thought
you dead?"
I think neither Gaston nor Francezka heard him; but suddenly as a bird
flies from its perch, so Francezka flew to Gaston and rested her head
upon his breast. Not even Regnard dared to lay a sacrilegious hand
upon her there.
"I have been the most miserable woman on God's earth," she said to
Gaston, raising her head, and looking him full in the face--"and I can
not survive this hour. Do not ask me to live--I can not live. I was
thinking, just now, as I sat and played the air we loved so well, that
I must, this very night, seek rest in death--for I suspected the truth
only a little while ago. But, love, this hour atones for much. You
know now how I loved you--how I remembered you. If I was dull of
apprehension--if, after seven years, I accepted too quickly the
deception practised on me--well, it was because I loved you so well.
But I must depart; there is no place on earth for me."
For answer Gaston kissed her tenderly.
"Would you leave me now?" he asked. "Have not I, too, loved you and
sought you? And shall not our happiness swallow up our misfortune, and
the crimes committed against us, after those crimes are avenged?"
Then, as calmly as a summer day, he placed Francezka in a chair, and,
turning to his brother, said:
"To-night, you or I must die."
"Agreed," replied Regnard.
He opened a cabinet in the room, took out several swords, and, handing
them to Gaston, said:
"Choose which one you will die by."
Gaston selected one.
"With this will I kill you," he said.
Neither of them had seen me, although I was in evidence plain enough.
I started forward, however, and grasping Gaston's arm, forced him to
look at me.
"Babache," he said, recognizing me instantly. "The world is not big
enough for my brother and for me. It is better to end it now and here.
Either let him kill me, or let me kill him; so I pray you, hands off;
and if I am the one to die, take care of Francezka."
I thought, too, that the world could not and ought not to hold them
both living, and the sooner it was settled which should die that
night, the better.
Francezka, meanwhile, sat quite still in the chair where she had been
placed. Gaston, turning to her, said, with an air of gentle command:
"Leave. This is no place for you."
"Stay!" cried Regnard violently. "You are to obey my commands, not
his."
Francezka, without looking toward Regnard, without a shudder or a
tremor, rose. I had thought she could neither rise nor move nor speak,
but there was not the least sign of weakness about her. She actually
stopped and curtsied toward Gaston as she went out. He bowed
ceremoniously in response.
I took her hand and led her out into the vast hall, dimly lighted. She
did not speak my name, but she held on to my hand. In the tempest of
her soul she instinctively clung to one whom she knew to be true. She
walked with me steadily across the great hall, and into the Diana
gallery, now dark and cold as a vault. She looked like a specter as
her white figure glided past the mirrors on the walls.
She continued to grasp my hands as a drowning man grasps his savior.
We were too far off from the place of combat to hear anything except
the dull shuffling of feet upon the floor. I had not the slightest
doubt that in five minutes, at most, Regnard would kill Gaston.
In less than five minutes the door of the yellow saloon opened, and a
flood of light poured into the great hall, vacant, dark and silent.
Regnard appeared on the threshold.
"Come, Madame," he cried in a loud and triumphant voice. "Come and
behold the man you claimed as husband just now!"
Through the open door we could see Gaston, lying huddled in a pool of
blood upon the floor of the little room. Blood, too, was on Regnard's
face, but he wiped it off with his handkerchief, and laughed to
himself.
I turned to where Francezka had sat, but she was gone. At the end of
the hall, I heard the great door clang. At once the thought of the
lake suggested itself to me and I ran out of doors. The way Francezka
usually took to the lake was by way of the Italian garden. I knew
this, but a strange confusion fell upon me when I found myself out of
doors, under the blue-black starlit sky. I could not recall the way to
the Italian garden--nor yet the lake. At last, it came to me. I saw,
afar, through the bare trees, the white statues gleaming, the black
cedars, the yew trees--black, too, in the white moonlight.
I ran toward this garden, with its pathway to the lake, and thought
every moment I should see before me Francezka's flying figure. She was
ever fleet of foot, and when I remembered this, the heart within me
died.
When I reached the statue of Petrarch under which the poor dog lay
buried, I stopped and searched the scene with a glance sharpened by
agony. The lake lay before me; I heard its voice in the night--that
strange voice to which I had often listened with Francezka. And then
from the lonely cedars on the bank, I saw Francezka emerge, and, at
the same moment, there was a sound of swift pursuing feet--Regnard,
too, had known where to seek her.
Francezka paused one moment on the brink of the lake, and turned her
head toward those steadily nearing footsteps. Then she raised her
face, raised both arms above her head and clasped them, as if in one
last appeal to that Eternal Power, on the bosom of whose mercy she was
about to cast herself, not wholly despairing. There was a sound of
parting waters--of the black and icy waters--oh, Francezka! Francezka!
How sweet must Death have been to thee!
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
Author's archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation is
preserved.
Author's punctuation style is preserved.
Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_.
Typographical problems were corrected, and are listed below.
Irregularly hyphenated words are listed below.
Transcriber's Changes (indicated with =equals signs=):
Page 55: Was 'Cheverney' (Regnard =Cheverny=, like his brother, was
no man of milk and water, and once seen, was likely to be
remembered.)
Page 59: Was 'her' (Monsieur Voltaire pricked up =his= ears; it was
well-known that he loved the society of the great.)
Page 148: Was 'led' (We sat late, and, before we parted, Jacques
Haret had arranged to travel with us, riding one of the
=lead= horses.)
Page 150: Was 'toward toward' (you show great good-will =toward=
Monsieur Gaston Cheverny--and they are as like as two)
Page 175: Was 'good by' (At last the time came for us to say
=goodbye= to the chateau of Capello, and to start for
Paris)
Page 263: Was 'must I' (I can tell you, but I know not how to tell
Gaston. Yet, =I must= tell him some day.)
Page 317: Standardised hyphenation: Was 'snuffbox' (He spoke to her,
gave her a silver =snuff-box= in default of money)
Page 403: Was 'tactiturnity' (I fell behind all the party, and was
rallied by Count Saxe on my =taciturnity=)
Page 442: Was 'Jacquet' (he turned again in his chair, but said no
word, although =Jacques= Haret's laughing face was thrust
toward him.)
Irregular hyphenation:
bare-legged and barelegged
small-pox and smallpox
death-bed and deathbed
head-long and headlong
sun-dial and sun dial
good-will and good will
hand-clapping and hand clapping
right-hand man and right hand man
love-letter(s) and love letter(s)
half-light and half light
baggage-wagons and baggage wagons
well-known and well known
ever-present and ever present
half-ruined and half ruined
well-remembered and well remembered
* * * * *