THE MESSAGE OF A FOOT OF STRING
Yes, the barriers were broken down, or were breaking.
That very night, when Mademoiselle came to announce that the child
Gaston was more shaken than hurt, she turned at the door with one of
those humble curtseys that were to me so like a blow on the face.
"When one tells a lie and is sorry, Monsieur Gaspard, should she go to
her priest or--or--to the one she has lied to?"
The question was grave and the voice was grave, but there was a tender
demure look on her face, and had her eyes been raised, I am sure there
would have been that spirit of laughter in them which I had come to
know so well.
"A lie, Mademoiselle?"
"A lie, Monsieur, a lie that hurts me to remember, for truly I am not
accustomed to lie. There, on the Grey Leap, I was desperate, and--it
was not quite the truth."
"That you trusted me?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"And yet you told me once that I had shown myself true?"
"Ah, Monsieur! do you not know there is a faith of head and a faith of
heart? In my heart I trusted you, even from the first, but my head
said, 'Nothing good can come out of Plessis'; and so, because there was
no other way, I--I--Monsieur, those cowards of a Hugues and a 'Tuco
drove me to it."
"And now?"
Letting slip the latch she came forward a little.
"Now? The head followed the heart even at the Grey Leap. But lest you
should think that was the lie emotional instead of the lie desperate, I
repeat it again. It was like this. Once you looked up--oh! it was
horrible to see you hanging there on an inch of rock with all that
swimming void below. Your face--Monsieur, what am I to say? A man can
be brave and yet love life, and the grandest courage of all is the
courage that knows and resents the desperate risk, but still goes
forward. You might have come back, and yet, knowing all, and clinging
hungrily to life, you went forward. Since then, Monsieur, it was no
lie; since then--though what a foolish girl thinks can matter nothing
to a spirit like yours--since then I--I--do you think you understand,
Monsieur Hellewyl?" Her eyes were shining, but there were tears
between the lashes, and the fingers of the hands clasped upon the
breast twisted round and round each other in and out. "We who love and
serve Navarre, who serve even as humbly as I serve, pray, God bless
you, Monsieur Hellewyl."
It was my opportunity perhaps, to have passed beyond the broken barrier
a little nearer to her heart, but I dared not use it. That day I had
found myself to be something of a coward, but I was not coward enough
to trade upon a grateful woman's generous emotion, and under cover of a
newly stirred gratitude try to steal more than her sober sense would be
ready to give. So, instead of reaching forward and taking those
shaking hands, I folded my own behind my back and forced myself to a
cold answer.
"Then at last you trust me, Mademoiselle, and will trust, come what
may?"
"Oh, yes, Monsieur! I and all Morsigny. And to prove it, I shall
never again ask you, 'Has Monsieur de Commines' time come yet?'"
"In that, too, you may trust me; so soon as I may, I shall speak."
"I know it well, Monsieur," and with a little grave curtsey, she left
me.
I am not so stockish a man but that what followed was all very
sweet--Mademoiselle's new gaiety, a gaiety of both heart and head, the
boy Gaston's childish adoration, Brother Paul's thanksgiving
overflowing in affection. Of Brother Paul's part in the final scene on
the Grey Leap I have said nothing, and only now say this lest that
kindly, gentle-hearted servant of love and mercy should be thought cold
or callous. There on the ledge he had patted and fondled me with his
withered hands, his heart too full to say more than, "Ah, my son, my
son! God be thanked for His mercy, God be thanked! God be thanked!"
And since then he had petted me like one who was a son indeed, a son
long lost and newly found.
Sweet? It was blessedly, perilously sweet to a lonely man at hourly
odds with his conscience, so perilously sweet that the days slipped on,
and though ten times the child was mine for the taking, I persuaded
myself that to wait yet a little longer was wisest. Solignac, Jan
Meert, Babette, old hate and old love, were alike forgotten, and I
lived on through the glorious days of early August as if there was no
such shadow across the sunshine as the power and vengeance of Louis of
France.
But as once on a day of feasting there came a hand upon the wall and
wrote, so now, when my heart was a nest of song-birds, that sang of
peace and love till my little world was full of the harmony, there came
a warning which crashed the music to a discord with a curt, Thou fool!
It is hate, and there is no peace.
It was always Martin's custom to meet me at the gate on the return from
our daily rides, partly that all Morsigny might see I was well served,
but partly, and as I love to believe, chiefly that he might the sooner
see his beloved Master Gaspard. On the day of which I write he was
there as usual--Brother Paul was in Pan, and Mademoiselle would neither
mount nor dismount at the Château gate--but he was there with a
difference. His bow was deeper, his swagger had a larger pride, and
instead of himself leading Roland to the stables, he handed him over to
a groom's care with an unwonted air of authority. Then with a "This
way, Monsieur, it you please," he led the way to my sleeping-room, and
shot the bolt behind me.
"These with haste," said he, drawing a letter from an inner pocket;
"and, my faith! but they must truly be in a hurry to send all the way
to Morsigny after us. _To Monsieur Gaspard de Helaville, at Morsigny,
in Navarre. These in haste._"
At the sight of it my heart went sick as sick as when I had hung upon
the sheer face of the Grey Leap. And well it might. The solid earth,
and that which is so much sweeter, and, at times, so much more real,
the world of my own imagining, had crumbled suddenly under my feet, and
the abyss below was as deep as all eternity.
"These with haste," repeated Martin, rolling the words in his mouth
with a relish. "All Morsigny knows of it; I took care of that. The
seal is Monseigneur the Prince's quarterings, and that, too, I took
care to tell them. These louts will better understand now what is due
to a Hellewyl of Solignac, who has letters sent him a week's journey.
These with haste!"
Commines' quarterings; yes, I had seen that from the first. Even the
flaw in the collet was there; but what did that prove? Commines'
quarterings, Commines' colour of wax, Commines' handwriting in the
address, even a faint lingering of the perfume Commines most affected,
and yet all, so far as Commines was concerned, might be as gross a lie
as that which frayed its edges upon my heart.
"These with haste," said Martin again, but this time testily, for his
curiosity was at bursting point. "What is the use of a man foundering
a horse, as I'll wager he who brought this foundered his, if you don't
open it, and see what's inside?"
"Brought it?" said I. "Who brought it, and where is he?"
"God knows," and Martin's face fell, the pride dying out of him like
the wind from a ripped bladder. "It was pushed in at the porter's
window, and yet the guard at the gate swear that no one but a goatherd
or two passed Morsigny all day. But," he added, brightening up, "there
it is, all the same; there it is, 'These with haste,' and with
Monseigneur's seal to back it."
"And all Morsigny knows of it? A messenger comes in secret to your
master, comes like a thief, and all Morsigny knows of it? You fool!
oh, you fool! Remember, if harm comes of this, it is your doing."
"Oh! Monsieur Gaspard, Monsieur Gaspard! I never thought----"
"There, the mischief's done," said I, softening as I saw the rueful
sorrow on his face. After all, it was the zeal of his love that had
been indiscreet. He had thought to glorify his Monsieur Gaspard in the
eyes of Morsigny, never looking to the consequences. "We shall see
what Monseigneur has to say," and tearing off the silk that, running
through the wax, bound the packet, I ripped open the outer cover.
The enclosure was both thick and crisp, as if of several folds, and
across the face of the paper this was written, the writing being
undoubtedly that of Monseigneur.
_I am bid send you what is within. What it is I know not, but, dear
lad, for God's sake see to yourself. To say so much does the King no
wrong._
The folded paper was again fast sealed, as was that within it, but in
each of these latter cases with a plain device. Inside the third
wrapping was a foot of thin cord, and at the end of the cord a noose.
Across the paper was written, _So saith Tristan_.
Taking out the cord by its end I thrust a finger-tip through the noose,
and dangled it in Martin's face.
"These with haste, so saith Tristan," said I, and laughed in a grim
contempt of my own helplessness.
"Tristan of the House of Nails?"
"Tristan of the House of Nails," I answered, and laughed again.
Through the laughter there came a knocking at the door. "See who is
there."
Screwing his neck as a man does who swallows his spittle to moisten a
dry throat, Martin shot back the bolt, opening the door an inch or two,
and peering through the crack as if behind whoever knocked he looked to
find Tristan himself, with a dangle of ropes in his hand.
"It is Mademoiselle Suzanne."
Mademoiselle Suzanne! Already she had heard of the letter, already she
knew that it came from Commines, and that knowledge forced a crisis.
In these few seconds thought travelled fast. Should I trust her?
Should I say: Here, in the yielding of the boy, is the peace of
Navarre, here is France turned friend; Louis, Gaston's protector. Give
him to me, and there is a final end to your fear. But swift on the
heels of the question came the reply: That is to throw your
responsibility on to her. She is accountable to Jean de Narbonne.
Before she dared say yes, she must send to Pamplona. That meant
negotiations, _pour-parlers_, and above all, publicity, and what
publicity stood for; a warning to the adverse party in Navarre, a
threat to Spain, even a confession of France's weakness. And would
Louis wait? Unconsciously I tightened the noose upon my finger, and in
the pain of the pinch found an answer--Louis would neither wait nor
forgive. What then? Our only safety, the boy's, my own,
Mademoiselle's even, lay in instant action, and crumpling the letter
out of sight, I motioned to Martin to fling open the door.
As the light broke upon her, Mademoiselle shrunk still further from it
across the passage.
"Monsieur, they said--Oh! I know I promised, and indeed, I trust
you--but they said there was a letter, and that Monsieur de Commines
had written. Have you--that is, is it good news, Monsieur?"
"Have no fear; good news, Mademoiselle," lied I, with the string
swinging from my finger. "I was just about to search for you, and--oh,
yes, good news, good news indeed, only all is not yet quite clear."
"Must we still wait, Monsieur?"
At the disappointment in her tone I winced, but there was nothing for
it but to brazen out my part as best I could.
"That is just it, we must wait. But this time, not for long, and to
shorten the waiting I think that to-morrow I shall ride into La Voulle,
perhaps with Gaston?"
"To La Voulle with Gaston? That is a long ride for the child."
"Long? Surely not. He rides as far every day, but he rides as a dog
runs, up and down, here and there, so that we lose count of distance.
I thought it would please Brother Paul to meet him in La Voulle. You
know he returns to-morrow from Pau."
"But,"--and in the shadow I saw a touch of colour flush her cheeks--"I
do not think I can go to La Voulle, at least not to-morrow. Once all
is clear between us, and Brother Paul is home, it will be different."
"Is not all clear now, Mademoiselle?"
"Oh, Monsieur!" she replied, dropping me the curtsey I so hated; "I
mean between France and Navarre."
How I cursed Martin in my heart for a tactless, blundering booby. Here
was my chance to say: And must it be always and only France and
Navarre? May it never be Suzanne D'Orfeuil and Gaspard Hellewyl?
Always Kingdom and Kingdom, and never man and maid as lover and lover?
The peace of one's country is very well, very splendid and much to be
desired; but we are men and women as well as patriots, and the heart
has a peace of its own that is sweeter and dearer and yet more to be
desired than that of France and Navarre. But with that leathern-faced
idiot standing at my elbow, staring open-mouthed, how could I say all
that, or any part of it? Ten chances to one, if I had, he would have
reminded me of Brigitta under the beech tree, and poured his contempt
upon Mademoiselle Suzanne as he had upon her.
"For a Hellewyl of Solignac, you have a strange taste," he would have
said. "First it was a swineherd's daughter you chose for your
philandering, and now it is----" and he would have blown out his cheeks
with an exploding puff that left the suggestion worse than plain words.
And how would Mademoiselle have looked at such a tale? I did not dare
consider that point, so answered soberly:
"To-morrow will make all clear, Mademoiselle; I can promise you that."