A Norman woman, Amante by name, was sent to Les Rochers by the Paris
milliner, to become my maid. She was tall and handsome, though upwards
of forty, and somewhat gaunt. But, on first seeing her, I liked her;
she was neither rude nor familiar in her manners, and had a pleasant
look of straightforwardness about her that I had missed in all the
inhabitants of the château, and had foolishly set down in my own
mind as a national want. Amante was directed by M. de la Tourelle
to sit in my boudoir, and to be always within call. He also gave
her many instructions as to her duties in matters which, perhaps,
strictly belonged to my department of management. But I was young and
inexperienced, and thankful to be spared any responsibility.
I daresay it was true what M. de la Tourelle said—before many weeks had
elapsed—that, for a great lady, a lady of a castle, I became sadly too
familiar with my Norman waiting-maid. But you know that by birth we
were not very far apart in rank: Amante was the daughter of a Norman
farmer, I of a German miller; and besides that, my life was so lonely!
It almost seemed as if I could not please my husband. He had written
for some one capable of being my companion at times, and now he was
jealous of my free regard for her—angry because I could sometimes laugh
at her original tunes and amusing proverbs, while when with him I was
too much frightened to smile.
From time to time families from a distance of some leagues drove
through the bad roads in their heavy carriages to pay us a visit, and
there was an occasional talk of our going to Paris when public affairs
should be a little more settled. These little events and plans were the
only variations in my life for the first twelve months, if I except the
alternations in M. de la Tourelle’s temper, his unreasonable anger, and
his passionate fondness.
Perhaps one of the reasons that made me take pleasure and comfort in
Amante’s society was, that whereas I was afraid of everybody (I do not
think I was half as much afraid of things as of persons), Amante feared
no one. She would quietly beard Lefebvre, and he respected her all the
more for it; she had a knack of putting questions to M. de la Tourelle,
which respectfully informed him that she had detected the weak point,
but forebore to press him too closely upon it out of deference to his
position as her master. And with all her shrewdness to others, she
had quite tender ways with me; all the more so at this time because
she knew, what I had not yet ventured to tell M. de la Tourelle, that
by-and-by I might become a mother—that wonderful object of mysterious
interest to single women, who no longer hope to enjoy such blessedness
themselves.
It was once more autumn; late in October. But I was reconciled to my
habitation; the walls of the new part of the building no longer looked
bare and desolate; the _débris_ had been so far cleared away by M. de
la Tourelle’s desire as to make me a little flower-garden, in which I
tried to cultivate those plants that I remembered as growing at home.
Amante and I had moved the furniture in the rooms, and adjusted it to
our liking; my husband had ordered many an article from time to time
that he thought would give me pleasure, and I was becoming tame to my
apparent imprisonment in a certain part of the great building, the
whole of which I had never yet explored. It was October, as I say,
once more. The days were lovely, though short in duration, and M. de
la Tourelle had occasion, so he said, to go to that distant estate the
superintendence of which so frequently took him away from home. He took
Lefebvre with him, and possibly some more of the lacqueys; he often
did. And my spirits rose a little at the thought of his absence; and
then the new sensation that he was the father of my unborn babe came
over me, and I tried to invest him with this fresh character. I tried
to believe that it was his passionate love for me that made him so
jealous and tyrannical, imposing, as he did, restrictions on my very
intercourse with my dear father, from whom I was so entirely separated,
as far as personal intercourse was concerned.
I had, it is true, let myself go into a sorrowful review of all the
troubles which lay hidden beneath the seeming luxury of my life. I
knew that no one cared for me except my husband and Amante; for it was
clear enough to see that I, as his wife, and also as a _parvenue_, was
not popular among the few neighbours who surrounded us; and as for
the servants, the women were all hard and impudent-looking, treating
me with a semblance of respect that had more of mockery than reality
in it; while the men had a lurking kind of fierceness about them,
sometimes displayed even to M. de la Tourelle, who on his part, it must
be confessed, was often severe even to cruelty in his management of
them. My husband loved me, I said to myself, but I said it almost in
the form of a question. His love was shown fitfully, and more in ways
calculated to please himself than to please me. I felt that for no wish
of mine would he deviate one tittle from any predetermined course of
action. I had learnt the inflexibility of those thin, delicate lips;
I knew how anger would turn his fair complexion to deadly white, and
bring the cruel light into his pale blue eyes. The love I bore to
any one seemed to be a reason for his hating them, and so I went on
pitying myself one long dreary afternoon during that absence of his
of which I have spoken, only sometimes remembering to check myself in
my murmurings by thinking of the new unseen link between us, and then
crying afresh to think how wicked I was. Oh, how well I remember that
long October evening! Amante came in from time to time, talking away
to cheer me—talking about dress and Paris, and I hardly know what, but
from time to time looking at me keenly with her friendly dark eyes, and
with serious interest, too, though all her words were about frivolity.
At length she heaped the fire with wood, drew the heavy silken curtains
close; for I had been anxious hitherto to keep them open, so that I
might see the pale moon mounting the skies, as I used to see her—the
same moon—rise from behind the Kaiser Stuhl at Heidelberg; but the
sight made me cry, so Amante shut it out. She dictated to me as a nurse
does to a child.
“Now, madame must have the little kitten to keep her company,” she
said, “while I go and ask Marthon for a cup of coffee.” I remember
that speech, and the way it roused me, for I did not like Amante to
think I wanted amusing by a kitten. It might be my petulance, but
this speech—such as she might have made to a child—annoyed me, and I
said that I had reason for my lowness of spirits—meaning that they
were not of so imaginary a nature that I could be diverted from them
by the gambols of a kitten. So, though I did not choose to tell her
all, I told her a part; and as I spoke, I began to suspect that the
good creature knew much of what I withheld, and that the little speech
about the kitten was more thoughtfully kind than it had seemed at
first. I said that it was so long since I had heard from my father;
that he was an old man, and so many things might happen—I might never
see him again—and I so seldom heard from him or my brother. It was a
more complete and total separation than I had ever anticipated when
I married, and something of my home and of my life previous to my
marriage I told the good Amante; for I had not been brought up as a
great lady, and the sympathy of any human being was precious to me.
Amante listened with interest, and in return told me some of the events
and sorrows of her own life. Then, remembering her purpose, she set
out in search of the coffee, which ought to have been brought to me an
hour before; but, in my husband’s absence, my wishes were but seldom
attended to, and I never dared to give orders.
Presently she returned, bringing the coffee and a great large cake.
“See!” said she, setting it down. “Look at my plunder. Madame must
eat. Those who eat always laugh. And, besides, I have a little news
that will please madame.” Then she told me that, lying on a table
in the great kitchen, was a bundle of letters, come by the courier
from Strasburg that very afternoon: then, fresh from her conversation
with me, she had hastily untied the string that bound them, but had
only just traced out one that she thought was from Germany, when a
servant-man came in, and, with the start he gave her, she dropped the
letters, which he picked up, swearing at her for having untied and
disarranged them. She told him that she believed there was a letter
there for her mistress; but he only swore the more, saying, that if
there was it was no business of hers, or of his either, for that he had
the strictest orders always to take all letters that arrived during his
master’s absence into the private sitting-room of the latter—a room
into which I had never entered, although it opened out of my husband’s
dressing-room.
I asked Amante if she had not conquered and brought me this letter.
No, indeed, she replied, it was almost as much as her life was worth
to live among such a set of servants: it was only a month ago that
Jacques had stabbed Valentin for some jesting talk. Had I never missed
Valentin—that handsome young lad who carried up the wood into my salon?
Poor fellow! he lies dead and cold now, and they said in the village
he had put an end to himself, but those of the household knew better.
Oh! I need not be afraid; Jacques was gone, no one knew where; but with
such people it was not safe to upbraid or insist. Monsieur would be at
home the next day, and it would not be long to wait.
But I felt as if I could not exist till the next day, without the
letter. It might be to say that my father was ill, dying—he might
cry for his daughter from his death-bed! In short, there was no end
to the thoughts and fancies that haunted me. It was of no use for
Amante to say that, after all, she might be mistaken—that she did not
read writing well—that she had but a glimpse of the address; I let my
coffee cool, my food all became distasteful, and I wrung my hands with
impatience to get at the letter, and have some news of my dear ones at
home. All the time, Amante kept her imperturbable good temper, first
reasoning, then scolding. At last she said, as if wearied out, that if
I would consent to make a good supper, she would see what could be done
as to our going to monsieur’s room in search of the letter, after the
servants were all gone to bed. We agreed to go together when all was
still, and look over the letters; there could be no harm in that; and
yet, somehow, we were such cowards we dared not do it openly and in the
face of the household.
Presently my supper came up—partridges, bread, fruits, and cream. How
well I remember that supper! We put the untouched cake away in a sort
of buffet, and poured the cold coffee out of the window, in order that
the servants might not take offence at the apparent fancifulness of
sending down for food I could not eat. I was so anxious for all to
be in bed, that I told the footman who served that he need not wait
to take away the plates and dishes, but might go to bed. Long after
I thought the house was quiet, Amante, in her caution, made me wait.
It was past eleven before we set out, with cat-like steps and veiled
light, along the passages, to go to my husband’s room and steal my own
letter, if it was indeed there; a fact about which Amante had become
very uncertain in the progress of our discussion.
To make you understand my story, I must now try to explain to you the
plan of the château. It had been at one time a fortified place of some
strength, perched on the summit of a rock, which projected from the
side of the mountain. But additions had been made to the old building
(which must have borne a strong resemblance to the castles overhanging
the Rhine), and these new buildings were placed so as to command a
magnificent view, being on the steepest side of the rock, from which
the mountain fell away, as it were, leaving the great plain of France
in full survey. The ground-plan was something of the shape of three
sides of an oblong; my apartments in the modern edifice occupied the
narrow end, and had this grand prospect. The front of the castle was
old, and ran parallel to the road far below. In this were contained the
offices and public rooms of various descriptions, into which I never
penetrated. The back wing (considering the new building, in which my
apartments were, as the centre) consisted of many rooms, of a dark and
gloomy character, as the mountain-side shut out much of the sun, and
heavy pine woods came down within a few yards of the windows. Yet on
this side—on a projecting plateau of the rock—my husband had formed the
flower-garden of which I have spoken; for he was a great cultivator of
flowers in his leisure moments.
Now my bedroom was the corner room of the new buildings on the part
next to the mountain. Hence I could have let myself down into the
flower-garden by my hands on the window-sill on one side, without
danger of hurting myself; while the windows at right angles with
these looked sheer down a descent of a hundred feet at least. Going
still farther along this wing, you came to the old building; in fact,
these two fragments of the ancient castle had formerly been attached
by some such connecting apartments as my husband had rebuilt. These
rooms belonged to M. de la Tourelle. His bedroom opened into mine, his
dressing-room lay beyond; and that was pretty nearly all I knew, for
the servants, as well as he himself, had a knack of turning me back,
under some pretence, if ever they found me walking about alone, as I
was inclined to do, when first I came, from a sort of curiosity to
see the whole of the place of which I found myself mistress. M. de la
Tourelle never encouraged me to go out alone, either in a carriage or
for a walk, saying always that the roads were unsafe in those disturbed
times; indeed, I have sometimes fancied since that the flower-garden,
to which the only access from the castle was through his rooms, was
designed in order to give me exercise and employment under his own eye.
But to return to that night. I knew, as I have said, that M. de la
Tourelle’s private room opened out of his dressing-room, and this out
of his bedroom, which again opened into mine, the corner-room. But
there were other doors into all these rooms, and these doors led into
a long gallery, lighted by windows, looking into the inner court. I
do not remember our consulting much about it; we went through my room
into my husband’s apartment through the dressing-room, but the door of
communication into his study was locked, so there was nothing for it
but to turn back and go by the gallery to the other door. I recollect
noticing one or two things in these rooms, then seen by me for the
first time. I remember the sweet perfume that hung in the air, the
scent bottles of silver that decked his toilet-table, and the whole
apparatus for bathing and dressing, more luxurious even than those
which he had provided for me. But the room itself was less splendid in
its proportions than mine. In truth, the new buildings ended at the
entrance to my husband’s dressing-room. There were deep window recesses
in walls eight or nine feet thick, and even the partitions between the
chambers were three feet deep; but over all these doors or windows
there fell thick, heavy draperies, so that I should think no one could
have heard in one room what passed in another. We went back into my
room, and out into the gallery. We had to shade our candle, from a
fear that possessed us, I don’t know why, lest some of the servants
in the opposite wing might trace our progress towards the part of the
castle unused by any one except my husband. Somehow, I had always the
feeling that all the domestics, except Amante, were spies upon me, and
that I was trammelled in a web of observation and unspoken limitation
extending over all my actions.
There was a light in the upper room; we paused, and Amante would have
again retreated, but I was chafing under the delays. What was the
harm of my seeking my father’s unopened letter to me in my husband’s
study? I, generally the coward, now blamed Amante for her unusual
timidity. But the truth was, she had far more reason for suspicion as
to the proceedings of that terrible household than I had ever known
of. I urged her on, I pressed on myself; we came to the door, locked,
but with the key in it; we turned it, we entered; the letters lay on
the table, their white oblongs catching the light in an instant, and
revealing themselves to my eager eyes, hungering after the words of
love from my peaceful, distant home. But just as I pressed forward
to examine the letters, the candle which Amante held, caught in some
draught, went out, and we were in darkness. Amante proposed that we
should carry the letters back to my salon, collecting them as well
as we could in the dark, and returning all but the expected one for
me; but I begged her to return to my room, where I kept tinder and
flint, and to strike a fresh light; and so she went, and I remained
alone in the room, of which I could only just distinguish the size,
and the principal articles of furniture: a large table, with a deep,
overhanging cloth, in the middle, escritoires and other heavy articles
against the walls; all this I could see as I stood there, my hand on
the table close by the letters, my face towards the window, which,
both from the darkness of the wood growing high up the mountain-side
and the faint light of the declining moon, seemed only like an oblong
of paler purpler black than the shadowy room. How much I remembered
from my one instantaneous glance before the candle went out, how much
I saw as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I do not know,
but even now, in my dreams, comes up that room of horror, distinct
in its profound shadow. Amante could hardly have been gone a minute
before I felt an additional gloom before the window, and heard soft
movements outside—soft, but resolute, and continued until the end was
accomplished, and the window raised.
In mortal terror of people forcing an entrance at such an hour, and
in such a manner as to leave no doubt of their purpose, I would have
turned to fly when first I heard the noise, only that I feared by
any quick motion to catch their attention, as I also ran the danger
of doing by opening the door, which was all but closed, and to whose
handlings I was unaccustomed. Again, quick as lightning, I bethought
me of the hiding-place between the locked door to my husband’s
dressing-room and the portière which covered it; but I gave that up,
I felt as if I could not reach it without screaming or fainting. So I
sank down softly, and crept under the table, hidden, as I hoped, by the
great, deep table-cover, with its heavy fringe. I had not recovered my
swooning senses fully, and was trying to reassure myself as to my being
in a place of comparative safety, for, above all things, I dreaded the
betrayal of fainting, and struggled hard for such courage as I might
attain by deadening myself to the danger I was in by inflicting intense
pain on myself. You have often asked me the reason of that mark on
my hand; it was where, in my agony, I bit out a piece of flesh with
my relentless teeth, thankful for the pain, which helped to numb my
terror. I say, I was but just concealed when I heard the window lifted,
and one after another stepped over the sill, and stood by me so close
that I could have touched their feet. Then they laughed and whispered;
my brain swam so that I could not tell the meaning of their words, but
I heard my husband’s laughter among the rest—low, hissing, scornful—as
he kicked something heavy that they had dragged in over the floor, and
which lay near me; so near, that my husband’s kick, in touching it,
touched me too. I don’t know why—I can’t tell how—but some feeling, and
not curiosity, prompted me to put out my hand, ever so softly, ever
so little, and feel in the darkness for what lay spurned beside me. I
stole my groping palm upon the clenched and chilly hand of a corpse!
Strange to say, this roused me to instant vividness of thought. Till
this moment I had almost forgotten Amante; now I planned with feverish
rapidity how I could give her a warning not to return; or rather, I
should say, I tried to plan, for all my projects were utterly futile,
as I might have seen from the first. I could only hope she would hear
the voices of those who were now busy in trying to kindle a light,
swearing awful oaths at the mislaid articles which would have enabled
them to strike fire. I heard her step outside coming nearer and nearer;
I saw from my hiding-place the line of light beneath the door more and
more distinctly; close to it her footstep paused; the men inside—at
the time I thought they had been only two, but I found out afterwards
there were three—paused in their endeavours, and were quite still, as
breathless as myself, I suppose. Then she slowly pushed the door open
with gentle motion, to save her flickering candle from being again
extinguished. For a moment all was still. Then I heard my husband say,
as he advanced towards her (he wore riding-boots, the shape of which I
knew well, as I could see them in the light),—
“Amante, may I ask what brings you here into my private room?”
He stood between her and the dead body of a man, from which ghastly
heap I shrank away as it almost touched me, so close were we all
together. I could not tell whether she saw it or not; I could give her
no warning, nor make any dumb utterance of signs to bid her what to
say—if, indeed, I knew myself what would be best for her to say.
Her voice was quite changed when she spoke; quite hoarse, and very low;
yet it was steady enough as she said, what was the truth, that she had
come to look for a letter which she believed had arrived for me from
Germany. Good, brave Amante! Not a word about me. M. de la Tourelle
answered with a grim blasphemy and a fearful threat. He would have no
one prying into his premises; madame should have her letters, if there
were any, when he chose to give them to her, if, indeed, he thought
it well to give them to her at all. As for Amante, this was her first
warning, but it was also her last; and, taking the candle out of her
hand, he turned her out of the room, his companions discreetly making
a screen, so as to throw the corpse into deep shadow. I heard the key
turn in the door after her—if I had ever had any thought of escape it
was gone now. I only hoped that whatever was to befal me might soon
be over, for the tension of nerve was growing more than I could bear.
The instant she could be supposed to be out of hearing, two voices
began speaking in the most angry terms to my husband, upbraiding him
for not having detained her, gagged her—nay, one was for killing her,
saying he had seen her eye fall on the face of the dead man, whom he
now kicked in his passion. Though the form of their speech was as if
they were speaking to equals, yet in their tone there was something of
fear. I am sure my husband was their superior, or captain, or somewhat.
He replied to them almost as if he were scoffing at them, saying it
was such an expenditure of labour having to do with fools; that, ten
to one, the woman was only telling the simple truth, and that she was
frightened enough by discovering her master in his room to be thankful
to escape and return to her mistress, to whom he could easily explain
on the morrow how he happened to return in the dead of night. But his
companions fell to cursing me, and saying that since M. de la Tourelle
had been married he was fit for nothing but to dress himself fine and
scent himself with perfume; that, as for me, they could have got him
twenty girls prettier, and with far more spirit in them. He quietly
answered that I suited him, and that was enough. All this time they
were doing something—I could not see what—to the corpse; sometimes they
were too busy rifling the dead body, I believe, to talk; again they let
it fall with a heavy, resistless thud, and took to quarrelling. They
taunted my husband with angry vehemence, enraged at his scoffing and
scornful replies, his mocking laughter. Yes, holding up his poor dead
victim, the better to strip him of whatever he wore that was valuable,
I heard my husband laugh just as he had done when exchanging repartees
in the little salon of the Rupprechts at Carlsruhe. I hated and dreaded
him from that moment. At length, as if to make an end of the subject,
he said, with cool determination in his voice,—
“Now, my good friends, what is the use of all this talking, when you
know in your hearts that, if I suspected my wife of knowing more than I
chose of my affairs, she would not outlive the day? Remember Victorine.
Because she merely joked about my affairs in an imprudent manner, and
rejected my advice to keep a prudent tongue—to see what she liked, but
ask nothing and say nothing—she has gone a long journey—longer than to
Paris.”
“But this one is different to her; we knew all that Madame Victorine
knew, she was such a chatterbox; but this one may find out a vast deal,
and never breathe a word about it, she is so sly. Some fine day we may
have the country raised, and the gendarmes down upon us from Strasburg,
and all owing to your pretty doll, with her cunning ways of coming over
you.”
I think this roused M. de la Tourelle a little from his contemptuous
indifference, for he ground an oath through his teeth, and said, “Feel!
this dagger is sharp, Henri. If my wife breathes a word, and I am such
a fool as not to have stopped her mouth effectually before she can
bring down gendarmes upon us, just let that good steel find its way to
my heart. Let her guess but one tittle, let her have but one slight
suspicion that I am not a ‘grand propriétaire,’ much less imagine that
I am a chief of Chauffeurs, and she follows Victorine on the long
journey beyond Paris that very day.”
“She’ll outwit you yet; or I never judged women well. Those still
silent ones are the devil. She’ll be off during some of your absences,
having picked out some secret that will break us all on the wheel.”
“Bah!” said his voice; and then in a minute he added, “Let her go if
she will. But, where she goes, I will follow; so don’t cry before
you’re hurt.”
By this time, they had nearly stripped the body; and the conversation
turned on what they should do with it. I learnt that the dead man was
the Sieur de Poissy, a neighbouring gentleman, whom I had often heard
of as hunting with my husband. I had never seen him, but they spoke as
if he had come upon them while they were robbing some Cologne merchant,
torturing him after the cruel practice of the Chauffeurs, by roasting
the feet of their victims in order to compel them to reveal any hidden
circumstances connected with their wealth, of which the Chauffeurs
afterwards made use; and this Sieur de Poissy coming down upon them,
and recognising M. de la Tourelle, they had killed him, and brought
him thither after nightfall. I heard him whom I called my husband,
laugh his little light laugh as he spoke of the way in which the dead
body had been strapped before one of the riders, in such a way that it
appeared to any passer-by as if, in truth, the murderer were tenderly
supporting some sick person. He repeated some mocking reply of double
meaning, which he himself had given to some one who made inquiry. He
enjoyed the play upon words, softly applauding his own wit. And all
the time the poor helpless outstretched arms of the dead lay close to
his dainty boot! Then another stooped (my heart stopped beating), and
picked up a letter lying on the ground—a letter that had dropped out
of M. de Poissy’s pocket—a letter from his wife, full of tender words
of endearment and pretty babblings of love. This was read aloud, with
coarse ribald comments on every sentence, each trying to outdo the
previous speaker. When they came to some pretty words about a sweet
Maurice, their little child away with its mother on some visit, they
laughed at M. de la Tourelle, and told him that he would be hearing
such woman’s drivelling some day. Up to that moment, I think, I had
only feared him, but his unnatural, half-ferocious reply made me hate
even more than I dreaded him. But now they grew weary of their savage
merriment; the jewels and watch had been apprised, the money and papers
examined; and apparently there was some necessity for the body being
interred quietly and before daybreak. They had not dared to leave him
where he was slain for fear lest people should come and recognise him,
and raise the hue and cry upon them. For they all along spoke as if it
was their constant endeavour to keep the immediate neighbourhood of
Les Rochers in the most orderly and tranquil condition, so as never to
give cause for visits from the gendarmes. They disputed a little as
to whether they should make their way into the castle larder through
the gallery, and satisfy their hunger before the hasty interment, or
afterwards. I listened with eager feverish interest as soon as this
meaning of their speeches reached my hot and troubled brain, for at
the time the words they uttered seemed only to stamp themselves with
terrible force on my memory, so that I could hardly keep from repeating
them aloud like a dull, miserable, unconscious echo; but my brain was
numb to the sense of what they said, unless I myself were named, and
then, I suppose, some instinct of self-preservation stirred within
me, and quickened my sense. And how I strained my ears, and nerved my
hands and limbs, beginning to twitch with convulsive movements, which I
feared might betray me! I gathered every word they spoke, not knowing
which proposal to wish for, but feeling that whatever was finally
decided upon, my only chance of escape was drawing near. I once feared
lest my husband should go to his bedroom before I had had that one
chance, in which case he would most likely have perceived my absence.
He said that his hands were soiled (I shuddered, for it might be with
life-blood), and he would go and cleanse them; but some bitter jest
turned his purpose, and he left the room with the other two—left it by
the gallery door. Left me alone in the dark with the stiffening corpse!
Now, now was my time, if ever; and yet I could not move. It was not my
cramped and stiffened joints that crippled me, it was the sensation of
that dead man’s close presence. I almost fancied—I almost fancy still—I
heard the arm nearest to me move; lift itself up, as if once more
imploring, and fall in dead despair. At that fancy—if fancy it were—I
screamed aloud in mad terror, and the sound of my own strange voice
broke the spell. I drew myself to the side of the table farthest from
the corpse, with as much slow caution as if I really could have feared
the clutch of that poor dead arm, powerless for evermore. I softly
raised myself up, and stood sick and trembling, holding by the table,
too dizzy to know what to do next. I nearly fainted, when a low voice
spoke—when Amante, from the outside of the door, whispered, “Madame!”
The faithful creature had been on the watch, had heard my scream, and
having seen the three ruffians troop along the gallery down the stairs,
and across the court to the offices in the other wing of the castle,
she had stolen to the door of the room in which I was. The sound of her
voice gave me strength; I walked straight towards it, as one benighted
on a dreary moor, suddenly perceiving the small steady light which
tells of human dwellings, takes heart, and steers straight onward.
Where I was, where that voice was, I knew not; but go to it I must, or
die. The door once opened—I know not by which of us—I fell upon her
neck, grasping her tight, till my hands ached with the tension of their
hold. Yet she never uttered a word. Only she took me up in her vigorous
arms, and bore me to my room, and laid me on my bed. I do not know
more; as soon as I was placed there I lost sense; I came to myself with
a horrible dread lest my husband was by me, with a belief that he was
in the room, in hiding, waiting to hear my first words, watching for
the least sign of the terrible knowledge I possessed to murder me. I
dared not breathe quicker, I measured and timed each heavy inspiration;
I did not speak, nor move, nor even open my eyes, for long after I was
in my full, my miserable senses. I heard some one treading softly about
the room, as if with a purpose, not as if for curiosity, or merely to
beguile the time; some one passed in and out of the salon; and I still
lay quiet, feeling as if death were inevitable, but wishing that the
agony of death were past. Again faintness stole over me; but just as I
was sinking into the horrible feeling of nothingness, I heard Amante’s
voice close to me, saying,—
“Drink this, madame, and let us begone. All is ready.”
I let her put her arm under my head and raise me, and pour something
down my throat. All the time she kept talking in a quiet, measured
voice, unlike her own, so dry and authoritative; she told me that
a suit of her clothes lay ready for me, that she herself was as
much disguised as the circumstances permitted her to be, that what
provisions I had left from my supper were stowed away in her pockets,
and so she went on, dwelling on little details of the most commonplace
description, but never alluding for an instant to the fearful cause why
flight was necessary. I made no inquiry as to how she knew, or what she
knew. I never asked her either then or afterwards, I could not bear
it—we kept our dreadful secret close. But I suppose she must have been
in the dressing-room adjoining, and heard all.
In fact, I dared not speak even to her, as if there were anything
beyond the most common event in life in our preparing thus to leave
the house of blood by stealth in the dead of night. She gave me
directions—short condensed directions, without reasons—just as you
do to a child; and like a child I obeyed her. She went often to the
door and listened; and often, too, she went to the window, and looked
anxiously out. For me, I saw nothing but her, and I dared not let my
eyes wander from her for a minute; and I heard nothing in the deep
midnight silence but her soft movements, and the heavy beating of my
own heart. At last she took my hand, and led me in the dark, through
the salon, once more into the terrible gallery, where across the black
darkness the windows admitted pale sheeted ghosts of light upon the
floor. Clinging to her I went; unquestioning—for she was human sympathy
to me after the isolation of my unspeakable terror. On we went, turning
to the left instead of to the right, past my suite of sitting-rooms
where the gilding was red with blood, into that unknown wing of the
castle that fronted the main road lying parallel far below. She guided
me along the basement passages to which we had now descended, until we
came to a little open door, through which the air blew chill and cold,
bringing for the first time a sensation of life to me. The door led
into a kind of cellar, through which we groped our way to an opening
like a window, but which, instead of being glazed, was only fenced with
iron bars, two of which were loose, as Amante evidently knew, for she
took them out with the ease of one who had performed the action often
before, and then helped me to follow her out into the free, open air.
We stole round the end of the building, and on turning the corner—she
first—I felt her hold on me tighten for an instant, and the next step
I, too, heard distant voices, and the blows of a spade upon the heavy
soil, for the night was very warm and still.
We had not spoken a word; we did not speak now. Touch was safer and as
expressive. She turned down towards the high road; I followed. I did
not know the path; we stumbled again and again, and I was much bruised;
so doubtless was she; but bodily pain did me good. At last, we were on
the plainer path of the high road.
I had such faith in her that I did not venture to speak, even when she
paused, as wondering to which hand she should turn. But now, for the
first time, she spoke:—
“Which way did you come when he brought you here first?”