the strength of one outraged.
“Stop! In God’s name, stop! Wouldst do me dishonor?” she cried out, in
an anger that bordered upon tears.
“Dishonor! Mon Dieu! wherefore, prithee, camest thou into this garden,
then? Was it to stand here in this doorway and permit me to scream my
devotion at thee from yonder wall?”
In her nervousness Laure suddenly laughed. But she was forced back to
gravity, as he went on with a sudden rush of passion,—
“Laure, Laure, is it thy intent to drive me mad? Faith, what man would
forbear as I have forborne with thee? Thinkest thou any one would wait
for weeks, nay, months, as I have waited, and feel thee at last free and
in his arms, to be instantly thrust away again? Nay, by my soul! Thou
art here, and thou art mine, and I have much to ask of thee. Christ!
Thine eyes! Thy hair! Laure, I shall bear thee away from this
prison-house. I will have thee for all mine own. Thou must leave thy
cell by night, and come to me here. Outside the wall Yvain will wait
with horses; and we will ride away—ride like hounds—out of this land of
tears, southward, into the country of freedom and roses and love! There
we shall dwell together, thou and I—thou and I—Laure, Laure, my sweet!
And who in all God’s earth before hath known such joy as we shall know!
Answer me, Laure, answer me! Say thou’lt come!”
Once again he took her in his arms, but more calmly now, the force of
his passion having spent itself in words but half articulate. And now he
perceived how she was all trembling and afraid; and so he soothed her
with gentle phrases and tender caresses, for indeed Flammecœur loved
this maid as truly as it was in him to love at all. And it seemed to him
a joy to have the protecting of her.
“Speak to me, answer me, greatly beloved,” he insisted, drawing her face
up to his.
Laure clung to him and wept, and did not speak. All that followed was
but a confusion of kisses, of pleadings, of tears and restraints, to
both of them; and presently Laure was struggling from his arms and
crying to him that it was near matins, and she must go. Once again, and
finally, Flammecœur demanded a reply to his plea. There was hesitation,
doubting, evident desire, and very evident fear. Then, staking
everything, he urged her thus,—
“Listen, Laure. I would not have thee decide all things now in thy mind.
In one week I will be here, as to-night, at the same hour, in this
place; and all things will be prepared for our flight. If thou come to
me before the matins bell rings out, all will be well, and we shall go
forth together into heaven. If thou come not,—why, I have tarried far
too long in this Bretagne, and Yvain and I will go on together into the
world, and thou shalt see me no more forever. Fair choice and honorable
I give thee, for that I love thee better than myself. Now fare thee
well, lady of my heart’s delight. God in His sweet mercy give thee into
my keeping!”
With a final kiss he put her from him and saw her go; and then he threw
himself over the wall, and set out on his return ride to the Castle by
the sea.
Laure descended to prime next morning, trembling for fear of unknown
possibilities. But no one in the church saw her muddy sandals; and her
skirts and mantle were not more soiled round the bottom than was
customary with those nuns that took their recreation in the garden. By
the time the breaking of the fast occurred, she was reassured, and felt
herself safe from the consequences of her night. Then, and only then,
did she turn her mind to the choice that she must make during the
ensuing sennight.
That week was one of terror by night and woe by day. Hourly she resolved
to renounce forever all thoughts of the flesh, confess her sin, and
remain true to the convent for life. For the first three days these
renewals of faith made her strong and stronger. She wept and she prayed
and she hoped for strength; and finally she began to believe that the
Devil was beaten. And yet—and yet—she did not even now confess the story
of her acquaintance with Flammecœur. She said to herself that she would
win this last fight alone; but she did not seek to find if there was
self-deception in that excuse. No one but the girl Eloise had any idea
that there existed such a person as the trouvère; and Eloise was unaware
that Sœur Angelique had ever seen that gallant gentleman save when she
and Yvain were present. Moreover, the stupid one was becoming alarmed
lest the sudden devotional fervor of Demoiselle Angelique should lead to
the cessation of those meetings for which her vague soul so impiously
thirsted. The rest of the sisters perceived Laure’s extra prayers and
rigorous fasting with admiration and approval, and put them down to one
of those sudden rushes of fervor to which young nuns were peculiarly
subject.
After three days of this devotional effort, the Devil widened his little
wedge of temptation, and roused in her an overpowering desire to see her
lover again. By now she had lost her shame at the first hot kiss ever
laid upon her lips, and—alas, poor humanity!—was longing secretly for
more. So long, however, as Flammecœur was still in Le Crépuscule, she
believed that she could endure everything. But she knew that after four
days he would be there no more; and if she let her chance go, it was the
last she should ever have. Then her mind strayed to the after-picture of
her life here in the nunnery; and at the thought her heart grew numb and
cold. Yet still she fought and prayed, trusting to no one her weight of
temptation, keeping steadfastly to that self-deceptive determination to
finish the battle alone.
The torturing week came slowly to an end. On the final night, after
compline, she went to her cell feeling like a spirit condemned to
eternal night. Once alone, face to face with her soul, she sat down upon
a chair, bent her head upon her breast, and thought. She did not
extinguish her light, neither did she make preparations for bed.
Unconsciously she set herself to wait through the hour following
compline, as if its finish would bring the end of her trial. The minutes
were passing smoothly by, and there was a great, unuttered cry of terror
in her heart. What should she do? Nay, at the last minute, what _would_
she do? Here her mind broke. She could think no more. Her brain was a
vacuum. Presently her muscles began to twitch. Her flesh became cold and
damp, and the hot saliva poured into her mouth. Would that hour never
end?
It ended. By now Flammecœur was in the garden, three hundred feet away.
Flammecœur was waiting for her. Horses were there, and garments for
her,—other garments than these of sickening white wool. How long would
the trouvère wait? Till matins, he had said. But if that were not true?
If he should go before—if he were going _now_!
Laure started to her feet, halted, hesitated, then sank slowly to her
knees. The first words of a prayer came from her lips; but in the middle
of the phrase she was silent. Prayer was suddenly nothing to her. She
had prayed so much; she had prayed so long! The beauty of appeals to the
Most High was lost just now. She felt all the weight of her
never-satisfied religion upon her, and she revolted at it. For the
moment love itself seemed desirable only in so much as it would get her
away from this place of her hypocrisy. A sudden thought of her mother
came to her. For one moment—two—five—she kept her mind fixed. Then she
sobbed. Flammecœur was below, calling to her with every fibre of his
being. She knew that. She could see him waiting there, her cloak over
his arm. With a low wail she stretched out her arms to the mental image.
Afterwards, scarcely knowing what she did, she knelt down before the
bright-painted picture of the Madonna on the wall of her cell, and
kissed the stones of the floor below it.
Then she stood up, pressing her hands tightly to her throat to ease the
pain there. She looked around her, and in that look saw everything in
the little stone room that had for so long been her home. Then, removing
from her head the coif, wimple, and veil, the symbols of her virginity,
she extinguished her lantern, and walked, blindly and wearily, out of
her cell. So she passed, without making any noise, through the convent,
into the library, and out—out—out into the garden beyond.
Instantly Flammecœur was at her side. “Laure!” cried he, half laughing
in his triumph. “Laure! Now we shall go!”
Over his arm he carried a voluminous black mantle and a close, dark
hood. These he put upon her, getting small assistance in the matter, for
Laure’s movements were wooden, her hands like ice.
“Now—canst climb the wall with me?” he asked, gazing at her in her
transformation, and noting how pure and white her skin showed in its
dark frame.
She gasped and bent her head. Thereupon he seized her in his arms and
carried her to the wall. There she surpassed his hopes; for her old,
tomboyish skill suddenly came back to her, and she scrambled up the
rough stones more agilely than he. Once in the road outside the garden,
Flammecœur gave a low whistle. Then, out of the shadow of the wood, on
the north side of the road, came Yvain, riding one steed, and leading
that of Flammecœur, on which were both saddle and pillion. Flammecœur
leaped to his place, and, bending over, held out his hand to Laure.
“Thou comest freely,” he whispered.
Laure looked up into his eyes. “Freely,” she answered, surrendering her
soul.
He laughed again, softly, as she climbed up behind him, by the help of
his feet and his hands. And then, in another moment, they were off, into
the moonlit night. And what that night concealed from Laure, what future
of fierce joy, of terror, of misery, and of unutterable heartbreak, how
should she know, poor girl, whose only guide was God Inscrutable,
working His mysterious way alone, in heaven on high?
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER FIVE_
SHADOWS
[Illustration]
On the day after Laure’s flight, Madame Eleanore left the great
dinner-table and went to her bedroom early in the afternoon. Once again,
as a year ago, she was alone there, hovering over her priedieu. Only
this day was not sunny, but cold and damp, and very gray. Eleanore was
in her usual mood of lonely melancholy, but when Alixe tapped at the
door she was admitted, and madame ceased her devotions and bade the girl
come in and sit down to her embroidery frame beside the window. Latterly
it had become a habit of Alixe’s to break in upon her foster-mother’s
elected solitude, and to draw her, willy-nilly, out of her sadness. If
madame perceived the kindly intention in these interruptions, she did
not comment upon it, but accepted the maid’s devotion with growing
affection.
When Alixe entered, madame also seated herself near the window, yet did
not take up any work, leaving the tambour frame and spinning-wheel both
idle in their places. She regarded Alixe for a few moments in silence,
wondering why the young girl did not speak, finally putting her dulness
down to the fact that it was but yesterday morning they had bidden
Flammecœur and his squire God-speed on their journey to Normandy. Their
long sojourn at Crépuscule had brought a gayety to the Castle that made
it doubly dull now that they were gone. Madame pondered for some time on
the subject, and presently spoke of it.
“Sieur Bertrand hath a dreary sky for his journey.”
“But a promise of beauty in the land to which he goeth,” responded
Alixe, with something of an effort.
“Mayhap. I have not been in Normandy.”
And here the conversation ended. They sat together, these two women,
listening to the incessant beating of the heavy waves on the cliff far
below, and to the tap, tap, of the rain upon the windows; but neither
found it in her heart to speak again. Alixe was shading her bird from
blue into green, and Eleanore sat with folded hands, her eyes looking
far away, musing upon the nothingness of her life. Suddenly there came a
clamor at the door. Somewhat startled, Eleanore called admittance, and
immediately David the dwarf walked into the room, stepped to the right
of the doorway, and ushered in his companion, announcing her gravely,—
“Sœur Celeste from the Couvent des Madeleines.”
The sub-prioress, her white cloak and veil damp and stringing with rain,
came slowly into the room and courtesied, first to Eleanore, then to
Alixe.
Madame rose hastily, in some surprise, and went forward.
“Give you God’s greeting, good sister,” she said.
The nun returned the salutation, and then, with some hesitation,
indicated the little dwarf in a gesture that showed her desire that he
should leave the room. Madame accordingly motioned him away, and when he
was gone, turned to the nun with a hint of anxiety on her face. The
new-comer did not hesitate in her mission. Leaning over, she asked
eagerly,—
“Madame, is Angelique here, with you?”
Eleanore looked at her blankly. “Laure?—Laure is with you. Laure is—What
sayest thou, woman?”
Sœur Celeste resignedly bent her head. For some seconds nothing was
said. Alixe, her face grown ashen, her body changed to ice, rose, and
moved to the side of madame. Then she asked softly, “What hath happened,
good sister?”
“Angelique—Laure—the demoiselle—is not in the convent. We have searched
for her everywhere. Her veil and wimple were found in her cell upon the
bed. Beyond this there is no trace of her. This morning she came not to
the church for prime, and we thought she had overslept. She hath so much
fasted and prayed of late that Reverend Mother granted indulgence, and
bade us let her rest. At breaking of the fast Sœur Eloise was despatched
to her cell, and returned with word that she was not there. Since that
hour even the daily services have been suspended, while we sought for
her. In the garden we found footprints,—those of a woman, and of a man.
Perchance they were hers—yet—”
“It is a lie! That is a lie!” burst from Eleanore’s white lips. “Woman,
woman, unsay thy words! No man hath ever seen her,—my Laure!”
“I said it not, Madame Eleanore; I but said mayhap,” ventured the gentle
sister, timidly. But Eleanore did not hear her. White, rigid, her every
muscle drawn tense, she stood there staring before her into space; while
Alixe, feeling this scene to be too intimate even for her presence,
glided slowly from the room.
Immediately outside the closed door stood David the dwarf, moving
restlessly from one spot to another, biting his thick lips, and working
his heavy black brows with great nervousness. Seeing Alixe, he seized
upon her at once.
“I know what it is: Laure hath gone away, hath she not?”
Alixe simply nodded.
“Yea, I know it,—with that scoundrelly trouvère!”
Alixe quivered as if she had been touched upon the raw; but David paid
no attention to her movement of pain.
“Come,” he jerked out nervously; “come away from this room. Come below.
I will tell thee what I saw in the fellow.”
The two of them walked silently across the broad upper hall and down the
great staircase into the lower room, which was always deserted at this
hour. Here Alixe and the dwarf seated themselves on tabourets at one of
the long tables, and David began to talk. It seemed that he had watched
Flammecœur closely, and had seen a good deal of his attentions to Laure;
knew how he rode with her to and from the priory, guessed Laure’s all
too apparent feeling for him, and was aware that most of the hours in
which the troubadour had supposedly hunted, hawked, or gone to St.
Nazaire, had really been spent in the neighborhood of the priory, though
how much he had seen of the nun, David could not know.
Alixe listened to him without much comment, and agreed in her heart with
all that he said. But she was at a loss to comprehend her own bitterness
of spirit at thought of what Flammecœur had done. She loved Laure truly;
yet these sensations of hers were not for Laure, but for herself alone;
and this girl, so acute at reading the minds of others, failed entirely
to read her own; for had she not soundly hated Flammecœur? _Had_ she
hated him?
It was a heavy hour that these two, dwarf and peasant born, spent
waiting for their lady to give some sign. At length, however, there were
footsteps on the stairs, and both of them rose, as Eleanore, followed,
not accompanied, by the white-robed nun, descended.
Madame was very erect, very brilliant-eyed, very white and stiff, but
she had perfect control over herself. As she swept toward the great
door, David could plainly see her state, and Alixe read well her heart;
yet neither of them could but admire her splendid self-possession. Out
of the Castle and into the courtyard she went, the three others
following her, on her way to the keep. In the open doorway of the rough
stone tower, she halted; and the dozen lolling henchmen within instantly
started to their feet.
“My men,” she said, in a voice as steady and as commanding as that of a
lord of Crépuscule, “my men, a great blow has fallen upon me, and a
disgrace to all that dwell in this Castle. Laure, my daughter, your
demoiselle, the lady of all our hearts, hath been stolen from the place
of her consecration. She hath been abducted from the priory of the Holy
Madeleine, by one that hath broken our bread, and received our
hospitality. Bertrand Flammecœur, the troubadour, hath brought dishonor
upon Le Crépuscule, and I ask you all to avenge your lord and me!”
Here she was interrupted by a chorus begun in low murmurs of
astonishment, and now risen to a roar of wrath. After a moment she
raised her hand, and, in the silence that quickly ensued, began again,—
“In the name of your lord, I bid you avenge us! Ride forth, every man of
you, into the countryside, in pursuit of the flying hound. Go every man
by a different road, nor halt by day or night till you bring me tidings
of my child. And to him that shall find and bring her back to me, will I
give honor and riches and great love, such as I would give to none that
was not of noble blood. Go, nor stay to talk of it.—Go forth in the name
of God—and bring me back my child!”
The men needed no further urging to action. As she ceased to speak they
sprang from their places, and began preparations for departure with a
spirit that showed their devotion to madame and to Laure. Madame stayed
in the courtyard till Sœur Celeste and the last henchman had ridden
away; and then, when there was no more to see, she turned to Alixe, and,
leaning heavily upon the young girl’s shoulder, slowly mounted to her
darkening chamber and lay down upon her tapestried bed. Alixe moved
gently about the room, bringing her lady such physical comforts as she
could, though these were not many. Neither of them spoke, and neither
wept. Eleanore lay motionless, staring out into the dusk. Alixe’s eyes
closed every now and then, with a kind of deadly weariness that was not
physical. But she did not leave madame.
After a long time, when it had grown quite dark, Alixe asked suddenly,—
“Wouldst have a message sent to Rennes, madame?”
“To Gerault? No, it is too late. What could he do? Nay, I will not have
the shame of his house published abroad in the Duke’s capital. Speak of
it no more.” And, obediently, Alixe was silent.
It was now long past the early supper hour, but neither of the women
went downstairs. The thought of food did not occur to Eleanore. Alixe
sat by the closed window, brooding deeply. Darkness had come over the
sea, and with it clouds dispersed so that a few stars glimmered forth,
and at times a moon showed through the ragged mists. Downstairs the
young men and maidens had resorted to their usual evening amusements of
games, but they played without spirit, and finally, one by one, heavy
with unvoiced foreboding, crept off to rest. David the dwarf had not
been among them at all to-night. Ever since the ending of supper he had
sat outside the door of madame’s room, waiting, patiently, for some
sound to come from within. Everything, however, was silent. From her bed
the mother, tearless, bright-eyed, watched the broken moonlight creep
along the floor, past the figure of Alixe. Her mind was filled with
terrible things,—pictures of Laure, and of what the young girl was
doubtless enduring. For a long time she contained herself under these
thoughts, but finally, racked with unbearable misery, she started up,
crying aloud,—
“Alixe! Alixe! Methinks I shall go mad!”
As she spoke, madame rose from the bed, stumbled across the floor, flung
open one of the windows, and looked out upon the splendor of the
tumbling, moonlit sea. After a moment or two she felt upon her arm a
gentle touch, and she knew that Alixe was beside her.
“Mad with thy thoughts, madame? Indeed, meseemeth Laure will not die.
Doubtless the Sieur Trouvère loveth her—”
She was interrupted by a long groan.
“Madame?” she whispered, in soft deprecation.
“Not die, Alixe? Not _die_? Dieu! It were now my one prayer for her that
she might quickly die!”
“Nay, what is there so terrible for her, save that she hath brought upon
herself damnation an she die unrepentant? Wouldst thou not have her live
to repent and be shriven?”
Eleanore groaned again. “Thou art too young to understand, Alixe. Ah!
her purity! her innocence! How she will suffer! There is no suffering
like unto it.” Madame slipped to her knees, there by the window, and
putting her arms upon the sill, buried her head in them, and drew two or
three terrible breaths. Alixe, helpless, fighting to keep down her own
secret woe in the face of this more bitter grief, felt herself useless.
She remained perfectly still, looking out at the sea, but noting nothing
of its beauty, till, all at once, madame began to speak again, in a
muffled voice,—
“I remember well my wedding with the Sieur du Crépuscule. I was of the
age and of the innocence of Laure. Never was mortal so happy as I, upon
the day of the ceremony at Laval. I loved my lord, and he had given all
his honor into my keeping. But had the bitterness of guilt been on me
when I was brought home to Le Crépuscule, alone and a stranger in his
house, I know not if I could have lived through the shame and bitterness
of my first days. Thou canst not know, Alixe; but the humiliation of
that time is as fresh in my memory as ’twere but yesterday. Ah! leave me
now, maiden. Leave me alone. Thou’st been good and faithful to me, but a
mother’s grief she must bear alone. Go thou to bed, child, and, in the
name of pity, pray for thy sister!”
So she sent Alixe from the room, and made the door fast after her. After
this she did not return to her place at the window, but began slowly to
make ready for the night. When at length she was prepared, she wrapped
herself closely in a warm woollen mantle, and went to her priedieu.
Laure, from the priory, had ceased to accost Heaven. Therefore madame
took her daughter’s place, and thence through the night ascended an
unceasing, bitter, commanding prayer that Laure should be restored to
her mother’s house, or else be mercifully received into the more
accessible hereafter.
When morning dawned, her great bed had not been slept in, but throughout
that day Eleanore sought no rest. She spent the hours passing from the
hall to the keep and thence to the tower at the drawbridge, waiting,
hoping, praying for tidings. During the afternoon three or four henchmen
rode in, exhausted. But none of them had found any trace of Laure. One,
however, who had taken the St. Nazaire road and had reached that town
during the night, had learned that Flammecœur and his page had been
there on the afternoon of the day they left Crépuscule. And, upon
further search, this man found a shop where the trouvère had bought a
lady’s mantle and hood, both black. This was all the news that could be
got; but it was enough to prove, without the least doubt, Flammecœur’s
guilt.
Late in the afternoon Alixe went to work among the falcons, changing
some of them from their winter-house to the open falconry in the field.
Madame, seeing her at work, went out and watched her for a time. Alixe
answered her few remarks with respect, but would not talk herself. The
girl was dark-browed to-day, and very silent, and madame, perceiving
that something troubled her, shortly left her to herself, and began to
pace the damp turf. Hither, presently, came David, with the news that
Monseigneur de St. Nazaire had come.