_A double masquerade._
"Félix, we are speaking in our own tongue. It is such lapses as these
bring men to the gallows. Italian from this word, my girl."
"Monsieur, I have no notion how to bear myself, what to say," I answered
uneasily.
"Say as little as you can. For, I confess, your voice and your hands
give me pause; otherwise I would take you anywhere for a lass. Your part
must be the shy maiden. My faith, you look the rôle; your cheeks are
poppies! You will follow docile at my heels while I tell lies for two. I
have the hope that the ladies will heed me and my jewels more than you."
"Monsieur, could we not go safelier at night?"
"I have thought of that. But at night the household gathers in the
salon; we should run the gantlet of a hundred looks and tongues. While
now, if we have luck, we may win to mademoiselle's own chamber--" He
broke off abruptly, and walked along in a day-dream.
"Well," he resumed presently, coming back to the needs of the moment,
"let us know our names and station. I am Giovanni Rossini, son of the
famous goldsmith of Florence; you, Giulietta, my sister. We came to
Paris in the legate's train, trade being dull at home, the gentry having
fled to the hills for the hot month. Of course you've never set foot out
of France, Fé--Giulietta?"
"Never out of St. Quentin till I came hither. But Father Francesco has
talked to me much of his city of Florence."
"Good; you can then make shift to answer a question or two if put to it.
Your Italian, I swear, is of excellent quality. You speak French like
the Picard you are, but Italian like a gentleman--that is to say, like a
lady."
"Monsieur," I bemoaned miserably, "I shall never come through it alive,
never in the world. They will know me in the flick of an eye for a boy;
I know they will. Why, the folk we are passing can see something wrong;
they all are staring at me."
"Of course they stare," he answered tranquilly. "I should think some
wrong if they did not. Can your modesty never understand, my Giulietta,
what a pretty lass you are?"
He fell to laughing at my discomfort, and thus, he full of gay
confidence, I full of misgiving, we came before the doors of the Hôtel
de Lorraine.
"Courage," he whispered to me. "Courage will conquer the devil himself.
Put a good face on it and take the plunge." The next moment he was in
the archway, deluging the sentry with his rapid Italian.
"Nom d'un chien! What's all this? What are you after?" the man shouted
at us, to make us understand the better. "Haven't you a word of honest
French in your head?"
M. Étienne, tapping his box, very brokenly, very laboriously stammered
forth something about jewels for the ladies.
"Get in with you, then."
We were not slow to obey.
The courtyard was deserted, nor did we see any one in the windows of the
house, against which the afternoon sun struck hotly. To keep out his
unwelcome rays, the house door was pushed almost shut. We paused a
moment on the step, to listen to the voices of gossiping lackeys within,
and then M. Étienne boldly knocked.
There was a scurrying in the hall, as if half a dozen idlers were
plunging into their doublets and running to their places. Then my good
friend Pierre opened the door. In the row of underlings at his back I
recognized the two who had taken part in my flogging. The cold sweat
broke out upon me lest they in their turn should know me.
M. Étienne looked from one to another with the childlike smile of his
bare lips, demanding if any here spoke Italian.
"I," answered Pierre himself. "Now, what may your errand be?"
"Oh, it's soon told," M. Étienne cried volubly, as one delighted to find
himself understood. "I am a jeweller from Florence; I am selling my
wares in your great houses. I have but just sold a necklace to the
Duchesse de Joyeuse; I crave permission to show my trinkets to the fair
ladies here. But take me up to them, and they'll not make you repent
it."
"Go tell madame," Pierre bade one of his men, and turning again to us
gave us kindly permission to set down our burden and wait.
For incredible good luck, the heavy hangings were drawn over the sunny
windows, making a soft twilight in the room. I sidled over to a bench in
the far corner and was feeling almost safe, when Pierre--beshrew
him!--called attention to me.
"Now, that is a heavy box for a maid to help lug. Do you make the lasses
do porters' work, you Florentines?"
"But I am a stranger here," M. Étienne explained. "Did I hire a porter,
how am I to tell an honest one? Belike he might run off with all my
treasures, and where is poor Giovanni then? Besides, it were cruel to
leave my little sister in our lodging, not a soul to speak to, the long
day through. There is none where we lodge knows Italian, as you do so
like an angel, Sir Master of the Household."
Now, Pierre was no more maître d'hôtel than I was, but that did not
dampen his pleasure to be called so. He sat down on the bench by M.
Étienne.
"How came you two to be in Paris?" he asked.
My lord proceeded to tell him I know not what glib and convincing
farrago, with every excellence, I made no doubt, of accent and gesture.
But I could not listen; I had affairs of my own by this time. The
lackeys had come up close round me, more interested in me than in my
brother, and the same Jean who had held me for my beating, who had
wanted my coat stripped off me that I might be whacked to bleed, now
said:
"I'll warrant you're hot and tired and thirsty, mademoiselle, for all
you look as fresh as cress. Will you drink a cup of wine if I fetch it?"
I had kept my eyes on the ground from the first moment of encounter, in
mortal dread to look these men in the face; but now, gaining courage, I
raised my glance and smiled at him bashfully, and faltered that I did
not understand.
He understood the sense, if not the words, of my answer, and repeated
his offer, slowly, loudly. I strove to look as blank as the wall, and
shook my head gently and helplessly, and turned an inquiring gaze to the
others, as if beseeching them to interpret. One of the fellows clapped
Jean on the shoulder with a roar of laughter.
"A fall, a fall!" he shouted. "Here's the all-conquering Jean Marchand
tripped up for once. He thinks nothing that wears petticoats can
withstand him, but here's a maid that hasn't a word to throw at him."
"Pshaw! she doesn't understand me," Jean returned, undaunted, and
promptly pointed a finger at my mouth and then raised his fist to his
own, with sucks and gulps. I allowed myself to comprehend then. I smiled
in as coquettish a fashion as I could contrive, and glanced on the
ground, and slowly looked up again and nodded.
The men burst into loud applause.
"Good old Jean! Jean wins. Well played, Jean! Vive Jean!"
Jean, flushed with triumph, ran off on his errand, while I thought of
Margot, the steward's daughter, at home, and tried to recollect every
air and grace I had ever seen her flaunt before us lads. It was not bad
fun, this. I hid my hands under my apron and spoke not at all, but
sighed and smiled and blushed under their stares like any fine lady.
Once in one's life, for one hour, it is rather amusing to be a girl. But
that is quite long enough, say I.
Jean came again directly with a great silver tankard.
"Burgundy, pardieu!" cried one of his mates, sticking his nose into the
pot as it passed him, "and full! Ciel, you must think your lass has a
head."
"Oh, I shall drink with her," Jean answered.
I put out my hand for the tankard, running the risk of my big paw's
betraying me, resolved that he should not drink with me of that draught,
when of a sudden he leaned over to snatch a kiss. I dodged him, more
frightened than the shyest maid. Though in this half-light I might
perfectly look a girl, I could not believe I should kiss like one. In a
panic, I fled from Jean to my master's side.
M. Étienne, wheeling about, came near to laughing out in my face, when
he remembered his part and played it with a zeal that was like to undo
us. He sprang to his feet, drawing his dagger.
"Who insults my sister?" he shouted. "Who is the dog does this!"
They were on him, wrenching the knife from his hand, wrenching his lame
arm at the same time so painfully that he gasped. I was scared chill; I
knew if they mishandled him they would brush the wig off.
"Mind your manners, sirrah!" Jean cried.
Monsieur's ardour vanished; a gentle, appealing smile spread over his
face.
"I cry your pardon, sir," he said to Jean; then turning to Pierre, "This
messer does not understand me. But tell him, I beg you, I crave his good
pardon. I was but angered for a moment that any should think to touch my
little sister. I meant no harm."
"Nor he," Pierre retorted. "A kiss, forsooth! What do you expect with a
handsome lass like that? If you will take her about--"
"Madame says the jeweller fellow is to come up," our messenger
announced, returning.
My lord besought Pierre:
"My knife? I may have my knife? By the beard of St. Peter, I swear to
you, I meant no harm with it. I drew it in jest."
Now, this, which was the sole true statement he had made since our
arrival, was the only one Pierre did not quite believe. He took the
knife from Jean, but he hesitated to hand it over to its owner.
"No," he said; "you were angry enough. I know your Italian temper. I'm
thinking I'll keep this little toy of yours till you come down."
"Very well, Sir Majordomo," M. Étienne rejoined indifferently, "so be it
you give it to me when I go." He grasped the handle of the box, and we
followed our guide up the stair, my master offering me the comforting
assurance:
"It really matters not in the least, for if we be caught the dagger's
not yet forged can save us."
We were ushered into a large, fair chamber hung with arras, the carpet
under our feet deep and soft as moss. At one side stood the bed, raised
on its dais; opposite were the windows, the dressing-table between them,
covered with scent-bottles and boxes, brushes and combs, very glittering
and grand. Fluttering about the room were some half-dozen fine dames and
demoiselles, brave in silks and jewels. Among them I was quick to
recognize Mme. de Mayenne, and I thought I knew vaguely one or two other
faces as those I had seen before about her. I started presently to
discover the little Mlle. de Tavanne: that night she had worn sky-colour
and now she wore rose, but there was no mistaking her saucy face.
We set our box on a table, as the duchess bade us, and I helped M.
Étienne to lay out its contents, which done, I retired to the
background, well content to leave the brunt of the business to him. It
was as he prophesied: they paid me no heed whatever. He was smoothly
launched on the third relating of his tale; I trow by this time he
almost believed it himself. Certes, he never faltered, but rattled on as
if he had two tongues, telling in confidential tone of our father and
mother, our little brothers and sisters at home in Florence; our journey
with the legate, his kindness and care of us (I hoped that dignitary
would not walk in just now to pay his respects to madame la générale);
of our arrival in Paris, and our wonder and delight at the city's
grandeur, the like of which was not to be found in Italy; and, last, but
not least, he had much to say, with an innocent, wide-eyed gravity, in
praise of the ladies of Paris, so beautiful, so witty, so generous! They
were all crowding around him, calling him pretty boy, laughing at his
compliments, handling and exclaiming over his trinkets, trying the
effect of a buckle or a bracelet, preening and cooing like
bright-breasted pigeons about the corn-thrower. It was as pretty a sight
as ever I beheld, but it was not to smile at such that we had risked our
heads. Of Mlle. de Montluc there was no sign.
No one was marking me, and I wondered if I might not slip out unseen and
make my way to mademoiselle's chamber. I knew she lodged on this story,
near the back of the house, in a room overlooking the little street and
having a turret-window. But I was somewhat doubtful of my skill to find
it through the winding corridors of a great palace. I was more than
likely to meet some one who would question my purpose, and what answer
could I make? I scarce dared say I was seeking mademoiselle. I am not
ready at explanations, like M. le Comte.
Yet here were the golden moments flying and our cause no further
advanced. Should I leave it all to M. Étienne, trusting that when he had
made his sales here he would be permitted to seek out the other ladies
of the house? Or should I strive to aid him? Could I win in safety to
mademoiselle's chamber, what a feat!
It so irked me to be doing nothing that I was on the very point of
gingerly disappearing when one of the ladies, she with the yellow curls,
the prettiest of them all, turned suddenly from the group, calling
clearly:
"Lorance!"
Our hearts stood still--mine did, and I can vouch for his--as the heavy
window-curtain swayed aside and she came forth.
She came listlessly. Her hair sweeping against her cheek was ebony on
snow, so white she was; while under her blue eyes were dark rings, like
the smears of an inky finger. M. Étienne let fall the bracelet he was
holding, staring at her oblivious of aught else, his brows knotted in
distress, his face afire with love and sympathy. He made a step forward;
I thought him about to catch her in his arms, when he recollected
himself and dropped on his knees to grope for the fallen trinket.
"You wanted me, madame?" she asked Mme. de Mayenne.
"No," said the duchess, with a tartness of voice she seemed to reserve
for Mlle. de Montluc; "'twas Mme. de Montpensier."
"It was I," the fair-haired beauty answered in the same breath. "I want
you to stop moping over there in the corner. Come look at these baubles
and see if they cannot bring a sparkle to your eye. Fie, Lorance! The
having too many lovers is nothing to cry about. It is an affliction many
and many a lady would give her ears to undergo."
"Take heart o' grace, Lorance!" cried Mlle. de Tavanne. "If you go on
looking as you look to-day, you'll not long be troubled by lovers."
She made no answer to either, but stood there passively till it might be
their pleasure to have done with her, with a patient weariness that it
wrung the heart to see.
"Here's a chain would become you vastly, Lorance," Mme. de Montpensier
went on, friendlily enough, in her brisk and careless voice. "Let me try
it on your neck. You can easily coax Paul or some one to buy it for
you."
She fumbled over the clasp. M. Étienne, with a "Permit me, madame," took
it boldly from her hand and hooked it himself about mademoiselle's neck.
He delayed longer than he need over the fastening of it, looking with
burning intentness straight into her face. She lifted her eyes to his
with a quick frown of displeasure, drawing herself back; then all at
once the colour waved across her face like the dawn flush over a gray
sky. She blushed to her very hair, to her very ruff. Then the red
vanished as quickly as it had come; she clutched at her bosom, on the
verge of a swoon.
He threw out his arms to catch her. Instantly she stepped aside, and,
turning with a little unsteady laugh to the lady at whose elbow she
found herself, asked:
"Does it become me, madame?"
The little scene had passed so quickly that it seemed none had marked
it. Mademoiselle had stood a little out of the group, monsieur with his
back to it, and the ladies were busy over the jewels. She whom
mademoiselle had addressed, a big-nosed, loud-voiced lady, older than
any of the others, answered her bluntly:
"You look a shade too green-faced to-day, mademoiselle, for anything to
become you."
"What can you expect, Mme. de Brie?" Mlle. Blanche promptly demanded.
"Mlle. de Montluc is weary and worn from her vigils at your son's
bedside."
Mme. de Montpensier had the temerity to laugh; but for the rest, a sort
of little groan ran through the company. Mme. de Mayenne bade sharply,
"Peace, Blanche!" Mme. de Brie, red with anger, flamed out on her and
Mlle. de Montluc equally:
"You impudent minxes! 'Tis enough that one of you should bring my son
to his death, without the other making a mock of it."
"He's not dying," began the irrepressible Blanche de Tavanne, her eyes
twinkling with mischief; but whatever naughty answer was on her tongue,
our mademoiselle's deeper voice overbore her:
"I am guiltless of the charge, madame. It was through no wish of mine
that your son, with half the guard at his back, set on one wounded man."
"I'll warrant it was not," muttered Mlle. Blanche.
"Mar has turned traitor, and deserves nothing so well as to be spitted
in the dark," Mme. de Brie cried out.
Mademoiselle waited an instant, with flashing eyes meeting madame's. She
had spoken hotly before, but now, in the face of the other's passion,
she held herself steady.
"Your charge is as false, madame, as your wish is cruel. Do you go to
vespers and come home to say such things? M. de Mar is no traitor; he
was never pledged to us, and may go over to Navarre when he will."
It was quietly spoken, but the blue lightning of her eyes was too much
for Mme. de Brie. She opened her mouth to retort, faltered, dropped her
eyes, and finally turned away, yet seething, to feign interest in the
trinkets. It was a rout.
"Then you are the traitor, Lorance," chimed the silvery tones of Mme. de
Montpensier. "It is not denied that M. de Mar has gone over to the
enemy; therefore are you the traitor to have intercourse with him."
She spoke without heat, without any appearance of ill feeling. Hers was
merely the desire, for the fun of it, to keep the flurry going. But
mademoiselle answered seriously, with the fleetingest glance at M. le
Comte, where he, forgetting he knew no French, feasted his eyes
recklessly on her, pitying, applauding, adoring her. I went softly
around the group to pull his sleeve; we were lost if any turned to see
him.
"Madame," mademoiselle addressed her cousin of Montpensier, speaking
particularly clearly and distinctly, "I mean ever to be loyal to my
house. I came here a penniless orphan to the care of my kinsman Mayenne;
and he has always been to me generous and loving--"
"If not madame," murmured Mile. Blanche to herself.
"--as I in my turn have been loving and obedient. It was only two nights
ago he told me M. de Mar must be as dead to me. Since then I have held
no intercourse with him. Last night he came under my window; I was not
in my chamber, as you know. I knew naught of the affair till M. de Brie
was brought in bleeding. It was not by my will M. de Mar came here--it
was a misery to me. I sent him word by his boy that other night to leave
Paris; I implored him to leave Paris. If, instead, he comes here, he
racks my heart. It is no joy to me, no triumph to me, but a bitter
distress, that any honest gentleman should risk his life in a vain and
empty quest. M. de Mar must go his ways, as I must go mine. Should he
ever make attempt to reach me again, and could I speak to him, I should
tell him just what I have said now to you."
I pressed monsieur's hand in the endeavour to bring him back to sense;
he seemed about to cry out on her. But mademoiselle's earnestness had
drawn all eyes.
"Pshaw, Lorance! banish these tragedy airs!" Mme. de Montpensier
rejoined, her lightness little touched. A wounded bird falls by the
rippling water, but the ripples tinkle on. "M. de Mar is not likely ever
to venture here again; he had too warm a welcome last night. My faith,
he may be dead by this time--dead to all as well as to you. After he
vanished into Ferou's house, no one seems to know what happened. Has
Charles told you, my sister?"
"Ferou gave him up, of course," Mme. de Mayenne answered. "Monsieur has
done what seemed to him proper."
"You are darkly mysterious, sister."
Mme. de Mayenne raised her eyebrows and smiled, as one solemnly pledged
to say no more. She could not, indeed, say more, knowing nothing
whatever about it. Our mademoiselle spoke in a low voice, looking
straight before her:
"If Heaven willed that he escaped last night, I pray he may leave the
city. I pray he may never try to see me more. I pray he may depart
instantly--at once."
"I pray your prayers may be answered, so be it we hear no more of him,"
Mme. de Montpensier retorted, tired of the subject she herself had
started. "He was never tedious himself, M. de Mar, but all this solemn
prating about him is duller than a sermon." She raised a dainty hand
behind which to yawn audibly. "Come, mesdames, let us get back to our
purchases. Ma foi! it's lucky these jeweller folk know no French."
M. Étienne was himself again, all smiles and quick pleasantries. I
slipped off to my post in the background, trying to get out of the eye
of Mlle. de Tavanne, who had been staring at me the last five minutes in
a way that made my goose-flesh rise, so suspicious, so probing, was it.
On my retreat she did indeed move her gaze from me, but only to watch M.
le Comte as a hound watches a thicket. It was a miracle that none had
pounced on him before, so reckless had he been. I perceived with
sickening certainty that Mlle. de Tavanne had guessed something amiss.
She fairly bristled with suspicion, with knowledge. I waited from
breathless moment to moment for announcement. There was nothing to be
done; she held us in the hollow of her hand. We could not flee, we could
not fight. We could do nothing but wait quietly till she spoke, and then
submit quietly to arrest; later, most like, to death.
Minute followed minute, and still she did not speak. Hope flowed back to
me again; perhaps, after all, we might escape. I wondered how high were
the windows from the ground.
As I stole across the room to see, Mlle. de Tavanne detached herself
from the group and glided unnoticed out of the door.
It was thirty feet to the stones below--sure death that way. But she had
given us a respite; something might yet be done. I seized M. Étienne's
arm in a grip that should tell him how serious was our pass.
Remembering, for a marvel, my foreign tongue, I bespoke him:
"Brother, it grows late. We must go. It will soon be dark. We must go
now--now!"
He turned on me with an impatient frown, but before he could answer,
Mme. de Montpensier cried, with a laugh:
"And do you fear the dark, wench? Marry, you look as if you could take
care of yourself."
"Nay, madame," I protested, "but the box. Come, Giovanni. If we linger,
we may be robbed in the dark streets."
"Why, my sister, where are your manners?" he retorted, striving to shake
me off. "The ladies have not yet dismissed me."
"We shall be robbed of the box," I persisted; "and the night air is bad
for your health, my Nino. If you stay longer you will have trouble in
the throat."
He looked at me hard. I tried to make my eyes tell him that my fear was
no vague one of the streets, that his throat was in peril here and now.
He understood; he cried with merry laughter to Mme. de Montpensier:
"Pray excuse her lack of manners, duchessa. I know what moves the maid.
I must tell you that in the house where we lodge dwells also a beautiful
young captain--beautiful as the day. It's little of his time he spends
at home, but we have observed that he comes every evening to array
himself grandly for supper at some one's palace. We count our day lost
an we cannot meet him, by accident, on the stairs."
They all laughed. I, with my cheeks burning like any silly maid's, set
to work to put up our scattered wares. But despair weighed me down; if
we had to remember ceremony we were lost. The ladies were protesting,
declaring they had not made their bargains, and monsieur was smirking
and bowing, as if he had the whole night before him. Our one chance was
to bolt; to charge past the sentry and flee as from the devil. I pulled
monsieur's arm again, and muttered in his ear:
"She knows us; she's gone to tell. We must run for it."
At this moment there arose from down the corridor piercing shriek on
shriek, the howls of a young child frantic with rage and terror. At the
same time sounded other different cries, wild, outlandish chattering.
"The baby! It's Toto! Oh, ciel!" Mme. de Mayenne gasped. "Help,
mesdames!" She rushed from the room, Mme. de Montpensier at her heels,
all the rest following after.
All, that is, but one. Mlle. de Montluc started as the rest, but at the
threshold paused to let them pass. She flung the door to behind them,
and ran back to monsieur, her face drawn with terror, her hand
outstretched.
"Monsieur, monsieur!" she panted. "Go! you must go!"
He seized her hand in both of his.
"O Lorance! Lorance!"
She laid her left hand on his for emphasis.
"Go! go! An you love me, go!"
For answer he fell on his knees before her, covering those sweet hands
with kisses.
The door was flung open; Mlle. de Tavanne stood on the threshold. They
started apart, monsieur leaping to his feet, mademoiselle springing back
with choking cry. But it was too late; she had seen us.
She was rosy with running, her little face brimming over with mischief.
She flitted into the room, crying:
"I knew it! I knew it was M. de Mar! The gray eyes! M. le Duc has done
with him as he thought proper, forsooth! Well, I have done as I thought
proper. I unchained Mme. de Montpensier's monkey and threw him into the
nursery, where he's scared the baby nearly into spasms. Toto carried the
cloth-of-gold coverlet up on top of the tester, where he's picking it to
pieces, the darling! They won't be back--you're safe for a while, my
children. I'll keep watch for you. Make good use of your time. Kiss her
well, monsieur."
"Mademoiselle, you are an angel."
"No, she is the angel," Mlle. Blanche laughed back at him. "I'm but your
warder. Have no fear; I'll keep good watch. Here, you in the petticoats,
that were a boy the other night, go to the farther door. Mme. de Nemours
takes her nap in the second room beyond. You watch that door; I'll watch
the corridor. Farewell, my children! Peste! think you Blanche de Tavanne
is so badly off for lovers that she need grudge you yours, Lorance?"
She danced out of the door, while I ran across to my station, Mlle. de
Montluc standing bewildered, ardent, grateful, half laughing, half in
tears.
"Lorance, Lorance!" M. Étienne murmured tremulously. "She said I should
kiss you--"
I put my fingers in my ears and then took them out again, for if my ears
were sealed, how was I to hear Mme. de Nemours approaching? But I admit
I should have kept my eyes glued to the crack of the door; that I ever
turned them is my shame. I have no business to know that mademoiselle
bowed her face upon her lover's shoulder, her hand clasping his neck,
silent, motionless. He pressed his cheek against her hair, holding her
close; neither had any will to move or speak. It seemed they were well
content to stand so the rest of their lives.
Mademoiselle was the first to stir; she raised her head and strove to
break away from his locked arms.
"Monsieur! monsieur! This is madness! You must go!"
"Are you sorry I came?" he demanded vibrantly. "Are you sorry, Lorance?"
His eyes held hers; she threw pretence to the winds.
"No, monsieur; I am glad. For if we never meet again, we have had this."
"Aye. If I die to-night, I have had to-day."
Their voices were like the rune of the heart of the forest, like the
music of deep streams. I turned away my head ashamed, and strove to
think of nothing but the waking of Mme. de Nemours.
"I thought you dead," she moaned, her voice muffled against his cheek.
"No one would tell me what happened last night. I could not devise any
way of escape for you--"
"There is a tunnel from Ferou's house to the Rue de la Soierie. His
mother--merciful angel--let me through."
"And you were not hurt?"
"Not a scratch, ma mie."
"But the wound before? Félix said--"
"I was put out of combat the night I got it," he explained earnestly,
troubled even now because he had not obeyed her summons. "I was dizzy; I
could not walk."
"But now, monsieur? Does it heal?"
"It is well--almost. 'Twas but a slash on the arm."
"Oh, then have I no anxiety," she murmured, with a smile that twinkled
across her lips and was gone. "I cannot perceive you to be disabled,
monsieur."
"My sweeting!" he laughed out. "If I cannot hold a sword yet, I can hold
my love."
"But you must not, monsieur," she cried, fear, that had slept a moment,
springing on her again. "You must go, and this instant, while the others
are yet away. I knew you, Blanche knew you; some other will. Oh, go, go,
I implore you!"
"If you will come with me."
She made no answer, save to look at him as at a madman.
"Nay, I mean not now, past the sentry. I am not so crazy as that. But
you will slip out, you will find a way, and come to me."
Silently, sadly, she shook her head. His arms loosened, and she freed
herself from him. But instantly he was close on her again.
"But you must! you will, you must! Ah, Lorance, my father is won over.
He bids me win you. He has sworn to welcome you; when he sees you he
will be your slave."
"But my cousin Mayenne is not won over."
"Devil fly away with your cousin Mayenne!" M. Étienne retorted with a
vehemence that made me shudder, lest the walls have ears.
"Ah, you are free to say that, monsieur, but I am not. I am of his
blood, and dwell in his house, and eat at his board."
He was looking at her with a passionate ardour, grasping her actual
words less than their import of refusal.
"Are you afraid?" he cried. "Are you frightened, heart-root of mine? You
need not be, mignonne. You can contrive to slip from the house--Mlle. de
Tavanne will help you. Once in the street, I will meet you; I will carry
you home to hold you against all the world."
"It is not that," she answered.
"Am I your fear?" he cried quickly. "Ah, Lorance, my Lorance, you need
not. I love you as I love the Queen of Heaven."
"Ah, hush!"
"As I love the Queen of Heaven. I will as soon do sacrilege toward her
as ill to you."
He dropped on his knees before her, kissing the hem of her gown. She
stood looking down on his bowed head with a tenderness that seemed to
infold him as with a mantle.
He raised his eyes to hers, still kneeling at her feet.
"Lorance, will you come with me?"
She was silent a moment, with heaving breast and face a-quiver.
"Monsieur, I am sworn. That night when Félix came, when I was in deadly
terror for him and for you, Étienne, I promised my lord, an he would
lift his hand from you, to obey him in all things. He bade me never
again to hold intercourse with you--alack, I am already forsworn! But I
cannot--"
He leaped to his feet, crying out:
"Lorance, he was the first forsworn! For he did move against me--"
"He told you--the warning went through Félix--that if you tried to reach
me he would crush you as a buzzing fly. Oh, monsieur, I implored you to
leave Paris! You are not kind to me, you are cruel, when you venture
here."
"You are cruel to me, Lorance."
Sighing, she turned from him, hiding her face in her hands.
"Mayenne has not kept faith with you!" monsieur went on vehemently. "He
has broken his oath. I mean not last night. I had my warning; the attack
was provoked. But yesterday in the afternoon, before I made the attempt
to see you, he sent to arrest me for the murder of the lackey Pontou."
"Paul's deed!" she cried in white surprise. "He spoke of it--we heard,
Félix and I. What, monsieur! sent to arrest you? But you are here."
"They missed me. They took by mistake Paul de Lorraine."
"He was not here last night!" she cried. "Mayenne was demanding him of
me."
"Then he slept pleasantly in the Bastille. May he never look on the
outside of its walls again!"
"But he will, he does. He must be free by this time; they cannot keep
Mayenne's nephew in the Bastille. And oh, if he hated you before, how he
will hate you now! Oh, Étienne, if you love me, go! Go to your own camp,
your own side, at St. Denis. There are you safe. Here in Paris you may
not draw a tranquil breath."
"And shall I flee my dangers? Shall I run, in the face of my peril?"
"Ah, monsieur, perhaps your life is nothing to you. But it is more to me
than tongue can tell."
"My love, my love!" He snatched her into his arms; she held away from
him to look him beseechingly in the face, her little clutching hands on
his shoulders.
"Oh, you will go! you will go!"
"Only if you come with me. Lorance, it is such a little way! Only to
meet me in the next square. We will slip out of the gates
together--leave Paris and all its plots and murders, and at St. Denis
keep our honeymoon."
"Monsieur," she said slowly, "I am told that my cousin Mayenne offered a
month ago to give me to you for your name on the roster of the League.
Is that true?"
"It is true. But you cannot think, Lorance, it was for any lack of love
for you. I swear to you--"
"Nay, you need not. I have it by heart that you love me."
"Lorance!"
"But when you could not take me with honour you would not take me. Your
house stands against us; you would not desert your house. Am I then to
be false to mine?"
"A woman belongs to her husband's house."
"Aye, but she does not wed the enemy of her own. Monsieur, you are full
of loyalty; shall I have none? I was born, my father before me, in the
shadow of the house of Lorraine; the Lorraine princes our kinsmen, our
masters, our friends. When I was orphaned young, and penniless because
King Henry's Huguenots had wrenched our lands away, I came here to my
cousin Mayenne, to dwell here in kindness and love as a daughter of the
house. Am I to turn traitor now?"
"Lorance," he was fiercely beginning, when Mlle. de Tavanne bounded in.
"On guard!" she hissed at us. "They come!"
She looked behind her into the corridor. Mademoiselle gave her lips to
monsieur in one last kiss, and slipped like water from his arms. I was
at his side, and we busied ourselves over the trinkets, he with shaking
fingers, cheeks burning through the stain.
The ladies streamed into the room, the lovely Mme. de Montpensier alone
conspicuous by her absence. Mme. de Mayenne's face was hot and angry,
and bore marks of tears. Not in this room only had a combat raged.
"Never shall he come into this house again," madame was crying
vigorously. "I had had him strangled, the vile little beast, an she had
not seized him. I will now, if she ever dares bring him hither again."
"You certainly should, madame," replied the nearest of the ladies. "You
have been, in the goodness of your heart, far too forbearing, too
patient under many presumptions. One would suppose the mistress here to
be Mme. de Montpensier."
"I will show who is mistress here," the Duchesse de Mayenne retorted.
Then her eye fell on Mlle. de Montluc, making her way softly to the
door, and the vials of her wrath overflowed upon her:
"What, Lorance, you could not be at the pains to follow me to the rescue
of my child! Your little cousin, poor innocent, may be eaten by the
beasts for aught you care, while you prink over trinkets."
Mademoiselle faced her blankly, scarce understanding, midst the whirl of
her own thoughts, of what she was accused. The little Tavanne came
gallantly to the rescue:
"I did not follow you either, madame. We thought it scarcely safe;
Lorance could not bear to leave this fellow alone."
Mme. de Mayenne glanced instinctively at her dressing-table's rich
accoutrements, touched in spite of herself by such care of her
belongings.
"I had not suspected you maids of such fore-thought," she said with
relenting. "I vow for once I am beholden to you. You did quite right,
Lorance."