If the Comtesse de Valorme had taken but a secondary part in the
conversation that had occurred, it was because she recognised that, to
Sylvia, the moment was all important. Also she recognised, or
understood well, that at the present moment the preservation, the
earthly salvation of Bevill Bracton, if such were possible, stood
before all else. Her own desires, her own hopes of coming into contact
with the Generalissimo of the allied armies, or, short of him, of
someone in high command, must, if only temporarily, give place to the
saving of this man so young and so fearless. Yet, even as this thought
possessed itself of her mind, she acknowledged that all power of so
saving him was outside the efforts of Sylvia or herself.
What, she asked herself, was there that either of them could do to
assist in that salvation--they who were themselves in a sense
prisoners? De Boufflers was here at this moment; he would doubtless
make himself acquainted with everything in connection with the
prisoner, or, indeed, the prisoners; he would give orders as to what
was to be done in the form of a trial, a judgment; and against these
orders there could be no disobedience on the part of any. Nor could
there be any suggestions of mercy. There were none who could venture
to disobey or to suggest, or who, thus venturing, would be allowed a
moment's hearing; while, worse than all, the facts were overwhelming.
Bevill Bracton had placed himself in this position--a position that in
war time was the worst in which any alien could stand. For, having, as
an alien, obtained an entrance to Liége, he had next disobeyed the
stern order that no aliens who happened to be in the city should
attempt to leave it and thereby find the opportunity, should they
desire it, of communicating with the enemy. To all of which was added
the additional terror that, villain though he was, Francbois was a
Frenchman, and the Frenchmen who listened to what he had to say
might be tempted to believe his words. While, to cap everything,
a letter of Lord Peterborough's had been found in Bevill's
possession--Peterborough, of whom it was as well known in France as in
London itself that he had loudly denounced the French succession, had
counselled the rupture with France, and himself thirsted to take part
in the present war.
Yet, even as Madame de Valorme acknowledged that there were none who
could help him who now stood in such imminent deadly danger, a
counter-thought, a counter-question ran through her brain like
wildfire. "Is it so?" she asked herself. "Is it truly so?" and almost
sickened as she found the answer that there were two persons who still
had it in their power to afford timely help, though, in doing so,
their own feelings, their own self-respect, their sense of honour,
might be forfeited. The first was one who might be brought to
influence the council, the court-martial that decided the unlucky
man's fate--De Violaine!
And the second was one who might influence him. Ah, yes! She, the
woman he had loved and lost--the woman whom--since it was idle to
juggle with herself--he still loved. Herself!
Herself! and the moment had come when, if it were to be done she must
do it, though, even as she knew that it was so, she loathed, execrated
herself. For in her heart there dwelt, as there would ever dwell, the
thought, the memory, of her unhappy husband who had died beneath the
horrible tortures, the beatings, the sweat, the labour of the galleys;
while in De Violaine's own heart there dwelt one thing above all--his
honour, his loyalty to the country he loved and served and to the King
he despised, yet had deeply pledged himself to obey faithfully.
But still the essay must be made. The honest, upright life of Bevill
Bracton should not be sacrificed without some effort on her part,
wicked though that effort might be, and surely--surely God would
forgive her! The sweet, fair promise of Sylvia's young life should not
be wrecked if she stood, if she could stand, for aught.
And the moment had come. Sylvia had left the room, unable to bear
further emotion; had left it to retire to her own room, there to cast
herself on her knees and pray for Heaven's mercy on him she had learnt
to love so fondly. The Comtesse de Valorme and De Violaine were alone.
He was glancing out through the window at the garden, now drenched
with rain, while she was seated by the table as she had been seated
since first he was announced.
[Illustration: "Almost in a whisper the Comptess spoke."--_p_. 850.]
For an instant the silence between them was unbroken; then, almost in
a whisper, the Comtesse de Valorme spoke to the man who still stood
with his back to her. For this was no moment for the practising of
that ceremony which was the essence of all intercourse between the
well-bred of those days, but, instead, a moment when courtesy must
sink before those emotions that sometimes in men and women's lives
pluck at and rend their hearts At last, however, the woman spoke, and
the man was forced to turn round and meet her gaze.
"André de Violaine," she said now, and he observed how her voice
faltered as she uttered the words and how her colour came and went,
"have you forgotten a promise, a vow you once made me ten years ago,
while demanding no vow in return from me?"
"I have forgotten nothing," the other answered, his voice more calm
than hers as he turned towards her, yet with his eyes lowered so that
they did not meet hers. "I have forgotten neither vows nor
hopes--vows, the fulfilment of which has never been demanded; hopes
that withered even as they blossomed. Shall I recall them, to show how
clear my memory is?"
"Nay; rather let me do so. I recall a man who vowed in days gone
by--far off now--that there should be no demand a woman--I--could ever
make of him that he would not meet, not carry out by some means, even
though at the cost of his life."
"His life," De Violaine said, lifting his eyes suddenly to hers. "His
life. Yes."
"What can a man give that is more precious? What else is there for him
to fear who fears not death, the end of life?"
"Nothing," De Violaine said now, leaving that question unanswered,
"has ever been demanded of me by that woman--by you. Madame, there are
some men so lowly, so unheeded in this world, that favours from them
are scarce worth accepting or even asking for. Had you ever called on
me to do you any service, to give you even my life, the service would
have been done, would have been given without a moment's hesitation."
"How he dwells on the word life!" the Comtesse said to herself. "How
he shields himself behind it! Because he knows there is another word
neither of us dares utter." Yet, a moment later, she was to hear that
word uttered.
Then she continued:
"And now it is too late to ask for favours. That time is too long past
for vows to have kept fresh--even as, perhaps," and he saw she
trembled, it may be shuddered, as she spoke the words, "it is for
hopes."
"Too late for vows to be redeemed? No. For life to be freely given if
required? No. For hopes? Yes, since no price can be demanded for the
fulfilment of those vows."
"Is hope dead within your heart, or has it but turned to
indifference?"
"Radegonde," De Violaine said now, speaking quickly, yet with a tremor
in his voice, "all hope died within my heart ten years ago, on the day
when, at Nîmes, you married Gabriel de Valorme. Nay," seeing she was
about to speak, "do not tell me that he is dead; I know it now. But
his memory, your love for him, is not dead."
"Ah!" the Comtesse gasped. For De Violaine's words were true, and she
despised herself for having, even in so great a cause as this she was
now concerned in, endeavoured to rouse fresh hopes within De
Violaine's breast.
"Now," the latter said, "tell me what you desire--what your words
mean. Though you are still wedded in your heart to Gabriel, still
bound to him by memory's chain, there yet remains--my--life."
"No, no," she almost cried; "not that. Why should I ask your life--I
who slew the happiness of that life--I who could not give you what was
not mine to give? Instead----"
"Yes--instead?"
"I seek to save a life, a guiltless one." Then, rising from her chair
and advancing close to De Violaine, she said, "You can preserve this
Englishman. If," and she wrestled with herself, strung herself
masterfully to utter the words, "if you ever loved me, if in your
heart there still dwells the memory of that dead and gone love, I
beseech you to save him. He is innocent of aught against France."
"The memory of that love is there, never to be effaced; but for what
you ask--it is impossible."
"Oh! oh! And this is the man who vowed to give his life to me!" the
Comtesse murmured. "The man who is supreme here, in Liége, yet will
not do that!"
"My life is yours, now as it has ever been--to do with as you
will--instantly--to-day, at once. But you demand more of me; you ask
that which I cannot give--my honour! You have said that he who fears
not death fears nothing. Alas! you--you--Radegonde de Montigny, as
once you were when first I knew and--Heaven help me!--loved you; you,
Radegonde de Valorme as you now are, should know that death is little
beside honour: and I, before all, am a soldier."
"You will do nothing?"
"I can do nothing."
Madame de Valorme sank into the chair she had quitted a moment ago,
and sat there, no longer gazing at him, but, instead, at the ground.
Then, suddenly, she looked up at De Violaine, and he saw so strange a
light in her eyes that he was filled with wonderment at what the
meaning might be--filled with wonderment, though, as she spoke again,
he understood, or thought he understood; for now, though using almost
the same words she had but just uttered, they were uttered in so
different a tone that he deemed understanding had come to him.
"_In no case_ will you do anything?"
"In no case," he answered in a tone so sad that it wrung her heart.
"Whatever may be, can be, done, cannot be done by me."
After which, without attempting to touch her hand even in the most
formal way, De Violaine whispered the word "Farewell," and left her.
And she knew that in one way she had won what she desired. She knew
that, should she and Sylvia attempt anything which might have in it
the germ of a chance for Bevill's ultimate escape from death, that
attempt would not be frustrated by him, although he would have no hand
in it.
From this time the two women turned their thoughts to but one
thing--their own chances of quitting Liége and communicating with
Marlborough. While, as they did so, they remembered that, in a way at
least, these chances must be more favourable than heretofore. There
was now no such crawling snake as Francbois at liberty to spy on them
or to denounce them and their plans when once he knew them.
Meditating always on what steps might be taken to ensure the success
of this evasion, consulting with Van Ryk on what opportunities might
arise, even as, for exercise and fresh air, they walked about the
quays or drove in and round the city, it gradually became apparent to
them that the attempt need not be hard of accomplishment. Many of the
French soldiers had been at this moment withdrawn, since De Boufflers
had decided that it was best to mass them on the road the English
forces must traverse, and so, if possible, check Marlborough ere he
could reach Liége, instead of awaiting his attack on the city itself.
Meanwhile, they observed many other things. They saw that all the
gates were open in the mornings for the entrance of the peasantry with
their country produce, and, afterwards, for their exit; they perceived
also that those who came in with the sparse provender they still had
left for sale did so with the slightest of inspection, and, with their
baskets and panniers over their arms, went out entirely unmolested.
"Alone we could do it," the Comtesse said. "I know it, feel it. Only,
each must do it alone--you at one gate, I at another. And, outside, we
could meet directly it was done. Seraing is close--'tis but a
walk--so, too, is Herstal. And Herstal is better; it is on the way we
must go."
"Doubtless," said Sylvia, "it is best we go alone, apart. Thus, if one
is stopped, the other may escape, may be able to continue the attempt
alone. Ah! Radegonde, if we should succeed! If we should be in time to
save him!"
"Ay! 'tis that. If we should be in time! Yet time is one's best
friend! They will not try him yet. They cannot. Except at the citadel
and in the Chartreuse, Liége is almost denuded of troops for the
moment. There are not enough officers to try him now, and--and--I know
it, am sure of it--De Violaine will not advance matters. Oh! Sylvia,
we must succeed."
So now they made all plans for ensuring their success, and decided
that, on the next morning after this conversation, those plans should
be put into execution. Fortunately one thing--money--was not wanting
to aid them.
That next morning broke wet and stormy; the rain poured down at
intervals, though followed, also at intervals, by slight cessations in
the downpour, and by transient gleams of sunshine. Owing to which the
peasant women who had sold their fowls and eggs and vegetables, as
well as those who had been less successful, were forced to cower
under antique stoops around the markets or under the market roofs
themselves, or to trudge away in their heavy sabots--which, at least,
served to keep their feet dry--towards the gates and out into the open
country.
Amongst others who were doing the latter was a tall, fine peasant girl
whose eyes, gleaming out from beneath the coarse shawl thrown over her
head, belied, in their sombre gravity, the old Walloon song she hummed
as she went along. A tall, fine girl, who, with her basket over her
arm, splashed through the mud and slush until she reached the
northeast gate and asked the corporal, who stood carefully out of the
rain, if he did not require a fowl for his _pot-au-feu_ or some eggs
for his midday meal.
"If I had a wife like you to cook them for me!" the Frenchman
gallantly replied. "But, tell me, are all the girls from Herstal as
handsome as you?"
"Handsomer," the peasant girl replied lightly. "My sister to wit. Buy
some eggs from me, corporal."
[Illustration: "Seeing a strange look in the girl's eyes, he changed
the word he was about to utter"--_p_. 852.]
"I have no money, and eggs are dear here now. Give me one for----"
Then, seeing a strange look in the girl's eyes, he changed the word he
was about to utter into "luck."
But since the peasant was now outside the gate it may be that, even if
he had said "love" instead "luck," it would have made little
difference to her. For she was out of Liége; she was free--free to
begin her efforts, her attempt, mad as it might be, to rescue the one
man on earth with whom and whose name the word and meaning of love
could ever be associated in her mind.
Free to stride on in her coarse, rain-soaked peasant dress towards the
village of Herstal, and, when two hundred yards from it, to fling
herself into the arms of another peasant woman some few years older
than herself and to murmur, "Outside and free, Radegonde! Oh, thank
God! thank God! Free to attempt to save him."
"Ay, and free to set out at once. Mynheer Van Ryk's old domestic still
keeps the inn here. The _charrette_ is ready. We have but to remove
these peasants' clothes and sabots, and we can depart. Come, Sylvia,
come!"