It was the eve of St. Michael. A quiet autumnal night brooded over
the forest of Beaumanoir. The moon, in her wane, had risen late, and
struggled feebly among the broken clouds that were gathering slowly in
the east, indicative of a storm. She shed a dim light through the glades
and thickets, just enough to discover a path where the dark figure of
a woman made her way swiftly and cautiously towards the Château of the
Intendant.
She was dressed in the ordinary costume of a peasant-woman, and carried
a small basket on her arm, which, had she opened it, would have been
found to contain a candle and a bouquet of fresh roses carefully covered
with a paper of silver tissue,--nothing more. An honest peasant-woman
would have had a rosary in her basket, but this was no honest-peasant
woman, and she had none.
The forest was very still,--it was steeped in quietness. The rustling
of the dry leaves under the feet of the woman was all she heard, except
when the low sighing of the wind, the sharp bark of a fox, or the shriek
of an owl, broke the silence for a moment, and all was again still.
The woman looked watchfully around as she glided onwards. The path
was known to her, but not so familiarly as to prevent the necessity
of stopping every few minutes to look about her and make sure she was
right.
It was long since she had travelled that way, and she was looking for a
landmark--a gray stone that stood somewhere not far from where she was,
and near which she knew that there was a footpath that led, not directly
to the Château, but to the old deserted watch-tower of Beaumanoir.
That stone marked a spot not to be forgotten by her, for it was the
memorial of a deed of wickedness now only remembered by herself and
by God. La Corriveau cared nothing for the recollection. It was not
terrible to her, and God made no sign; but in his great book of account,
of which the life of every man and woman forms a page, it was written
down and remembered.
On the secret tablets of our memory, which is the book of our life,
every thought, word, and deed, good or evil, is written down indelibly
and forever; and the invisible pen goes on writing day after day, hour
after hour, minute after minute, every thought, even the idlest, every
fancy the most evanescent: nothing is left out of our book of life which
will be our record in judgment! When that book is opened and no secrets
are hid, what son or daughter of Adam is there who will not need to say,
“God be merciful?”
La Corriveau came suddenly upon the gray stone. It startled her, for its
rude contour, standing up in the pale moonlight, put on the appearance
of a woman. She thought she was discovered, and she heard a noise; but
another glance reassured her. She recognized the stone, and the noise
she had heard was only the scurrying of a hare among the dry leaves.
The habitans held this spot to be haunted by the wailing spirit of
a woman in a gray robe, who had been poisoned by a jealous lover. La
Corriveau gave him sweatmeats of the manna of St. Nicholas, which
the woman ate from his hand, and fell dead at his feet in this
trysting-place, where they met for the last time. The man fled to the
forest, haunted by a remorseful conscience, and died a retributive
death: he fell sick, and was devoured by wolves. La Corriveau alone of
mortals held the terrible secret.
La Corriveau gave a low laugh as she saw the pale outline of the woman
resolve itself into the gray stone. “The dead come not again!” muttered
she, “and if they do she will soon have a companion to share her
midnight walks round the Château!” La Corriveau had no conscience; she
knew not remorse, and would probably have felt no great fear had that
pale spirit really appeared at that moment, to tax her with wicked
complicity in her murder.
The clock of the Château struck twelve. Its reverberations sounded far
into the night as La Corriveau emerged stealthily out of the forest,
crouching on the shady side of the high garden hedges, until she reached
the old watch-tower, which stood like a dead sentinel at his post on the
flank of the Château.
There was an open doorway, on each side of which lay a heap of fallen
stones. This was the entrance into a square room, dark and yawning as
a cavern. It was traversed by one streak of moonshine, which struggled
through a grated window set in the thick wall.
La Corriveau stood for a few moments looking intently into the gloomy
ruin; then, casting a sharp glance behind her, she entered. Tired with
her long walk through the forest, she flung herself upon a stone seat
to rest, and to collect her thoughts for the execution of her terrible
mission.
The dogs of the Château barked vehemently, as if the very air bore some
ominous taint; but La Corriveau knew she was safe: they were shut up in
the courtyard, and could not trace her to the tower. A harsh voice or
two and the sound of whips presently silenced the barking dogs, and all
was still again.
She had got into the tower unseen and unheard. “They say there is an
eye that sees everything,” muttered she, “and an ear that hears our
very thoughts. If God sees and hears, he does nothing to prevent me from
accomplishing my end; and he will not interfere to-night! No, not for
all the prayers she may utter, which will not be many more! God if there
be one--lets La Corriveau live, and will let the lady of Beaumanoir
die!”
There was a winding stair of stone, narrow and tortuous, in one corner
of the tower. It led upwards to the roof and downwards to a deep vault
which was arched and groined. Its heavy, rough columns supported the
tower above, and divided the vaults beneath. These vaults had formerly
served as magazines for provisions and stores for the use of the
occupants of the Château upon occasions when they had to retire for
safety from a sudden irruption of Iroquois.
La Corriveau, after a short rest, got up with a quick, impatient
movement. She went over to an arched doorway upon which her eyes had
been fixed for several minutes. “The way is down there,” she muttered;
“now for a light!”
She found the entrance to the stair open; she passed in, closing the
door behind her so that the glimmer might not be seen by any chance
stroller, and struck a light. The reputation which the tower had of
being haunted made the servants very shy of entering it, even in the
day-time; and the man was considered bold indeed who came near it after
dark.
With her candle in her hand, La Corriveau descended slowly into the
gloomy vault. It was a large cavern of stone, a very habitation of
darkness, which seemed to swallow up the feeble light she carried. It
was divided into three portions, separated by rough columns.
A spring of water trickled in and trickled out of a great stone trough,
ever full and overflowing with a soft, tinkling sound, like a clepsydra
measuring the movements of eternity. The cool, fresh, living water
diffused throughout the vaults an even, mild temperature the year round.
The gardeners of the Château took advantage of this, and used the vault
as a favorite storeroom for their crops of fruit and vegetables for
winter use in the Château.
La Corriveau went resolutely forward, as one who knew what she
sought and where to find it, and presently stood in front of a recess
containing a wooden panel similar to that in the Château, and movable
in the same manner. She considered it for some moments, muttering to
herself as she held aloft the candle to inspect it closely and find the
spring by which it was moved.
La Corriveau had been carefully instructed by Mère Malheur in every
point regarding the mechanism of this door. She had no difficulty in
finding the secret of its working. A slight touch sufficed when the
right place was known. She pressed it hard with her hand; the panel
swung open, and behind it gaped a dark, narrow passage leading to the
secret chamber of Caroline.
She entered without hesitation, knowing whither it led. It was damp and
stifling. Her candle burned dimmer and dimmer in the impure air of the
long shut-up passage. There were, however, no other obstacles in her
way. The passage was unincumbered; but the low arch, scarcely over her
own height, seemed to press down upon her as she passed along, as if to
prevent her progress. The fearless, wicked heart bore her up,--nothing
worse than herself could meet her; and she felt neither fear at what lay
before her nor remorse at what was behind.
The distance to be traversed was not far, although it seemed to her
impatience to be interminable. Mère Malheur, with her light heels,
could once run through it in a minute, to a tryst in the old tower. La
Corriveau was thrice that time in groping her way along it before she
came to a heavy, iron-ribbed door set in a deep arch, which marked the
end of the passage.
That black, forbidding door was the dividing of light from darkness, of
good from evil, of innocence from guilt. On one side of it, in a chamber
of light, sat a fair girl, confiding, generous, and deceived only
through her excess of every virtue; on the other, wickedness, fell and
artful, was approaching with stealthy footsteps through an unseen way,
and stood with hand upraised to knock, but incapable of entering in
unless that unsuspecting girl removed the bar.
As the hour of midnight approached, one sound after another died away in
the Château. Caroline, who had sat counting the hours and watching the
spectral moon as it flickered among the drifting clouds, withdrew from
the window with a trembling step, like one going to her doom.
She descended to the secret chamber, where she had appointed to meet her
strange visitor and hear from strange lips the story that would be told
her.
She attired herself with care, as a woman will in every extremity of
life. Her dark raven hair was simply arranged, and fell in thick masses
over her neck and shoulders. She put on a robe of soft, snow-white
texture, and by an impulse she yielded to, but could not explain, bound
her waist with a black sash, like a strain of mourning in a song of
innocence. She wore no ornaments save a ring, the love-gift of Bigot,
which she never parted with, but wore with a morbid anticipation that
its promises would one day be fulfilled. She clung to it as a talisman
that would yet conjure away her sorrows; and it did! but alas! in a way
little anticipated by the constant girl! A blast from hell was at hand
to sweep away her young life, and with it all her earthly troubles.
She took up a guitar mechanically, as it were, and as her fingers
wandered over the strings, a bar or two of the strain, sad as the sigh
of a broken heart, suggested an old ditty she had loved formerly, when
her heart was full of sunshine and happiness, when her fancy used to
indulge in the luxury of melancholic musings, as every happy, sensitive,
and imaginative girl will do as a counterpoise to her high-wrought
feelings.
In a low voice, sweet and plaintive as the breathings of an Aeolian
harp, Caroline sang her Minne-song:--
“'A linnet sat upon a thorn
At evening chime.
Its sweet refrain fell like the rain
Of summer-time.
Of summer-time when roses bloomed,
And bright above
A rainbow spanned my fairy-land
Of hope and love!
Of hope and love! O linnet, cease
Thy mocking theme!
I ne'er picked up the golden cup
In all my dream!
In all my dream I missed the prize
Should have been mine;
And dreams won't die! though fain would I,
And make no sign!'”
The lamps burned brightly, shedding a cheerful light upon the landscapes
and figures woven into the tapestry behind which was concealed the black
door that was to admit La Corriveau.
It was oppressively still. Caroline listened with mouth and ears for
some sound of approaching footsteps until her heart beat like the swift
stroke of a hammer, as it sent the blood throbbing through her temples
with a rush that almost overpowered her.
She was alone, and lonely beyond expression. Down in these thick
foundations no sound penetrated to break the terrible monotony of the
silence around her, except the dull, solemn voice of the bell striking
the hour of midnight.
Caroline had passed a sleepless night after the visit of Mère Malheur,
sometimes tossing on her solitary couch, Sometimes starting up in
terror. She rose and threw herself despairingly upon her knees, calling
on Christ to pardon her, and on the Mother of Mercies to plead for her,
sinner that she was, whose hour of shame and punishment had come!
The mysterious letter brought by Mère Malheur, announcing that her place
of concealment was to be searched by the Governor, excited her liveliest
apprehensions. But that faded into nothingness in comparison with the
absolute terror that seized her at the thoughts of the speedy arrival of
her father in the Colony.
Caroline, overwhelmed with a sense of shame and contrition, pictured to
herself in darkest colors the anger of her father at the dishonor she
had brought upon his unsullied name.
She sat down, she rose up, she walked her solitary chamber, and knelt
passionately on the floor, covering her face with her hands, crying to
the Madonna for pity and protection.
Poor self-accuser! The hardest and most merciless wretch who ever threw
stones at a woman was pitiful in comparison with Caroline's inexorable
condemnation of herself.
Yet her fear was not on her own account. She could have kissed her
father's hand and submitted humbly to death itself, if he chose to
inflict it; but she trembled most at the thought of a meeting between
the fiery Baron and the haughty Intendant. One or the other, or both of
them, she felt instinctively, must die, should the Baron discover that
Bigot had been the cause of the ruin of his idolized child. She trembled
for both, and prayed God that she might die in their stead and the
secret of her shame never be known to her fond father.
A dull sound, like footsteps shuffling in the dark passage behind the
arras, struck her ear; she knew her strange visitant was come. She
started up, clasping her hands hard together as she listened, wondering
who and what like she might be. She suspected no harm,--for who could
desire to harm her who had never injured a living being? Yet there she
stood on the one side of that black door of doom, while the calamity of
her life stood on the other side like a tigress ready to spring through.
A low knock, twice repeated on the thick door behind the arras, drew
her at once to her feet. She trembled violently as she lifted up the
tapestry; something rushed through her mind telling her not to do it.
Happy had it been for her never to have opened that fatal door!
She hesitated for a moment, but the thought of her father and the
impending search of the Château flashed suddenly upon her mind. The
visitant, whoever she might be, professed to be a friend, and could, she
thought, have no motive to harm her.
Caroline, with a sudden impulse, pushed aside the fastening of the door,
and uttering the words, “Dieu! protège moi!” stood face to face with La
Corriveau.
The bright lamp shone full on the tall figure of the strange visitor,
and Caroline, whose fears had anticipated some uncouth sight of terror,
was surprised to see only a woman dressed in the simple garb of a
peasant, with a little basket on her arm, enter quietly through the
secret door.
The eyes of La Corriveau glared for a moment with fiendish curiosity
upon the young girl who stood before her like one of God's angels. She
measured her from head to foot, noted every fold of her white robe,
every flexure of her graceful form, and drank in the whole beauty and
innocence of her aspect with a feeling of innate spite at aught so fair
and good. On her thin, cruel lips there played a smile as the secret
thought hovered over them in an unspoken whisper,--“She will make a
pretty corpse! Brinvilliers and La Voisin never mingled drink for a
fairer victim than I will crown with roses to-night!”
Caroline retreated a few steps, frightened and trembling, as she
encountered the glittering eyes and sinister smile of La Corriveau. The
woman observed it, and instantly changed her mien to one more natural
and sympathetic; for she comprehended fully the need of disarming
suspicion and of winning the confidence of her victim to enable her more
surely to destroy her.
Caroline, reassured by a second glance at her visitor, thought she had
been mistaken in her first impression. The peasant's dress, the harmless
basket, the quiet manner assumed by La Corriveau as she stood in a
respectful attitude as if waiting to be spoken to, banished all fears
from the mind of Caroline, and left her only curious to know the issue
of this mysterious visit.