THE JUSTICE HALL IN MORSIGNY
But let it not be supposed that we trusted entirely to Jean Volran's
oath; those who served Louis' court of honour too easily found
absolution for vows broken in the King's interest. From the
watch-tower in the steeple of Saint Suzanna the band of five were seen
to ride northward, and when, having dined, we left La Voulle, it was
with an armed company of the townfolk, to do honour, as Brother Paul
said, to Monseigneur the Count de Foix.
These we dismissed as soon as Morsigny was in sight; nor did we lose
time on our way. It was little Gaston's first forced march, and hugely
he enjoyed it. But we elders were silent; when the heart is troubled,
the tongue commonly takes holiday. Once only did Brother Paul speak.
"From the bottom of my heart I pity him," he said, turning to me
suddenly.
"Pity whom? Jean Volran?"
"That most unhappy man, Louis of France. I sometimes think--though it
is heresy, from which God deliver us all!--I sometimes think we make
our own hell, people it with devils of our own creating, and by
dwelling with them become like them."
"If by hell you mean our own follies," I began bitterly, but Brother
Paul stopped me, and his voice was infinitely gentle.
"No, my son, no--not that; such pains truly are stripes of healing.
But Louis! What a mind he must have to think that every man is such
another as himself, and--oh, for poor human nature!--how often he must
have found it true. To every man his price! But it is a lie, a lie,
and to-day proves it a lie. I am glad, though, that you go back with
us first to Morsigny. Mademoiselle de Narbonne has a shrewder head
than I, though I am thrice her age. She may help us in our straits. I
have great faith in Mademoiselle de Narbonne."
"Mademoiselle de Narbonne?"
"Yes, Suzanne."
"But I thought she was Mademoiselle D'Orfeuil?"
Brother Paul smiled and shook his head.
"That was some jest, some whim of hers, and yet, perhaps, with a
purpose behind it. Suzanne is no light-of-mind to jest just for
jesting's sake. Perhaps she thought you would be more at ease at
Morsigny. Nor was it an untruth. She is Suzanne D'Orfeuil de
Narbonne, Monseigneur's cousin. Because of your ignorance of our
tongue she had only Gaston and me to reckon with. To Gaston she was
always Suzanne, and I humoured her, as why should I not? She can
always make me do as she wills."
"But now?" said I blankly, and feeling as if again the bottom of my
world were dropping out.
"The time for such toys is past," answered Brother Paul gravely. "It
does not become my office to countenance the prolonging of a jest in
the face of such issues as lie before us."
I made no reply; and he, perhaps in contemplation of these same issues,
he too fell silent.
Mademoiselle D'Orfeuil de Narbonne! What a fool I had been in my
condescension. How she must have laughed as she played her part from
day to day; laughed at my simplicity in swallowing her mock humility,
laughed at my clownish setting her at her ease, she who miscalled
herself, lest Gaspard Hellewyl, the broken-fortuned country lout of
Flanders, should be overawed by her greatness! Who is there has not
been wise after the event when he might have been wise before? And who
is there has not cursed the puppy-blindness in him that could not see
what was plain before his face? Not a day had passed but the gilding
of the Narbonne had shone through the homespun of the Orfeuil, and yet
the glint taught me nothing.
But it might have been worse. I might have spoken more boldly, more
openly, and so have given myself more frankly to her laughter. I owed
her some thanks that I had not, for even my bitter heart set this to
her credit, that she had never beckoned me to a fall. Her jest had not
been that cruellest of jests that spoils a life for a pastime. Yes, it
might have been worse, though that is cold comfort when might have been
worse is elbow-neighbour to as bad as can be, and there was a kind of
grim satisfaction in the knowledge that Louis would soon give me other
things to think of.
Never, by day or night, was Morsigny left unsentinelled, and
Mademoiselle, being warned of our coming, met us at the gate.
"Welcome home, _mon coeur_!" she said, having dropped, and for the last
time, her little curtsey. "Hast thou had a good day? How red thy
cheeks are! Monsieur Gaspard must have--oh! Monsieur, Monsieur, is
the news bad? Is there to be no peace for Navarre that you are so
grave? What has happened, Monsieur? Tell me, tell me!"
"Much, Mademoiselle de Narbonne, but not what you think."
"Thank God for that! And Narbonne! Ah," and frank laughter chased
away the sudden seriousness. "But you are not angry at my poor little
pretence? You should not be, for it was you who taught it to me.
Remember how I took you for Martin."
"Mademoiselle, if I have deceived myself, I have deceived you also."
"What?" and she looked me imperiously in the eyes, "are you, after all,
Martin the servant, and is the other the Gaspard Hellewyl Monsieur de
Commines called friend? If that is your meaning----"
"No, no; worse than that, much worse. I am, most unhappily, that
Gaspard Hellewyl, and so it is much worse than that."
As may be supposed, the grooms had led away the horses, and we four
were alone, the little Count being clasped in her arms. Before she
could reply, Brother Paulus intervened.
"Run to thy Marie, Gaston, _mon gars_; she will give thee thy bread and
milk for to-night."
"Yes," said Mademoiselle, kissing him, and letting him slip to the
ground. "Run away, _p'tit_, I shall come to thee presently."
"I think you are angry with my Monsieur Gaspard," said he; "but you
must not be angry, Suzanne; he took such care of me all day. From the
time you gave him the rose he has in his bonnet until now he has never
let me out of reach of his arm. Kiss me, Monsieur Gaspard," and,
forgetting he was a prince, with a rush he hugged me round the knees.
As I stooped over him, I thought a touch of colour rose to
Mademoiselle's face, and I know it was a relief to hide my own; it is
not easy at all times to keep the heart from showing through the eyes.
"Sleep sound, _p'tit ami_," said I, kissing him on the forehead.
When, with a bend of the knee to Brother Paul, he had gone,
Mademoiselle turned to the priest.
"It is serious, then?"
"It might have been," he answered. "With anyone else than Monsieur de
Helville it might have been serious beyond words, but he has saved us."
"Saved you?" I echoed. "Do you call that saving? Mademoiselle de
Narbonne, I have a story to tell, and afterwards, if you will give me a
night to rest the horses, Martin and I will go."
"Go? Go where?" she asked blankly.
"Whence we came."
"Yes," said Brother Paul, "to God's keeping."
"So I think," said I significantly, "to God's keeping."
Without a further question Mademoiselle led the way to the main door of
Morsigny, through the great hall, and into a broad, timber-roofed
chamber. It was the Justice Hall of the Count of Narbonne, and, facing
the east, was already gloomy, though the sun still shone yellow on the
grass.
Seating herself on the carved chair that faced the top of the table,
Mademoiselle pointed to a bench beyond its angle and looked round her.
From the almost black walls of dull oak glimmered in steel the wordless
history of her race. Lance and sword, shield and casque, glaive and
morion, told their story in dint and notch how the House of Narbonne
had risen, fighting; had thriven, fighting; and fighting, held its own.
Many a Gaston, many a Phoebus, many an Antony, had gone to its
building, laying himself down as a foundation stone on which the
fortunes of his race might rise. And never had it risen higher than at
that day. No wonder Paulus had smiled at little Gaston's promise that
I should marry his Suzanne. A D'Orfeuil of Narbonne, comparatively
remote though she was from the direct line, was not for a homeless
Hellewyl, and I, like the blind fool for which I still cursed myself,
had inverted the pyramid of his thought.
Was it for that, I wondered, was it to point this difference between
our fortunes that she had brought us to this room of all rooms in
Morsigny? Or, more significant still, was it to say, It is here that
Narbonne judges and condemns?
Mademoiselle must have understood something of what was passing in my
mind, for her first words brushed aside the alternative.
"Here we can be undisturbed," she said to Paul; "and here, you know, we
take counsel together. Monsieur Hellewyl, you said you had a story to
tell; but before you begin, I wish to say this: I do not retract a
single word spoken on the Grey Leap."
"That was your ignorance, Mademoiselle," said I; "wait, and hear me
out."
"I am not afraid," she answered, "and--will you believe me?--though I
am a woman, I am not curious. Tell me no more than you wish to tell."
"And that is everything."
Already she knew the story in part--how that a landless, penniless
gentleman had been driven from his home like a smoked rat, how he had
found a friend in Philip de Commines, and how he had come to Navarre on
secret service. But I went back to the beginning and told it all over
afresh, hoping vaguely that my forlorn helplessness might plead an
extenuation for me.
From Plessis the story differed from what I had allowed her to believe,
and stooping upon her crossed arms, she leaned towards me over the
table, losing no word. Slowly, simply, I told it all, palliating
nothing, and hiding one thing only; it did not seem necessary to
mention Brigitta. She belonged to Solignac, and had no interest for
Morsigny; but all the rest I laid bare. Once she interrupted me. It
was as I told of the King's commission, the sealed letter, and how
that, through little Gaston was to come that peace to Navarre for which
she had so fervently prayed in the chapel in Saint Gatien.
"And you really believed him?"
"Yes, the scheme was plausible."
"Plausible!" she echoed, with a laugh that was the nearest to a sneer I
ever heard from her mouth. "Truly, Monsieur Hellewyl, Plessis must be
very remote from Solignac."
"I believe," said Paul. "I remember the Grey Leap, and I believe."
"I, too, believe, but now Monsieur Hellewyl will understand why at the
Grey Leap I doubted. Go on, Monsieur."
Thenceforward the story, being chiefly what had happened at Morsigny,
was shortened. The error Mademoiselle had fallen into because of
Commines' writing; the second letter, which I passed over as simply a
warning to make haste; the inn at La Voulle--none of these called for
any detail; nor did she again speak until I ended--"And so, no harm
being done, I pray God, but good rather, since you are warned and on
your guard, we shall go to-morrow if you give us leave to rest the
horses until then."
"We shall think of that presently," she answered, but speaking as if
her thoughts were elsewhere. "Monsieur, a while ago I said that though
a woman I was not curious. That was a mistake. Have you told me
everything?"
"A full confession, Mademoiselle."
"Confession? But at times there are other things besides confession.
What was the warning Monsieur de Commines sent you?"
Thoughtlessly, or rather with the thought that she was suspicious of my
entire good faith, I handed her Monseigneur's letter, which, holding it
slanting to the light, she read through twice before handing it on to
Paul.
"What was within it?"
"Within it, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes; he says, I am bid send you what is within."
Then I saw what a fool I had been. The story of the King's full-handed
bribes, his promise of a new Solignac, of restored lands, and of a
blood for blood vengeance on Jan Meert I had told her in full detail,
but of the blunt threat sprawled across the other side of the account I
had said nothing.
"Well, Monsieur, what was within it?" Then, as I still hesitated, "A
full confession, Monsieur Hellewyl."
"This," and upon the table between us I laid the piece of cord, the
noose still looped at the end. "This, and the message, So saith
Tristan!"
She leaned, as I have said, across the table, resting on her folded
arms; now she drew back, shrinking into the capacious hollow of her
rounded chair as if the foot of innocent string had been a death-adder
at the least. Of its symbolism there could be no mistake.
"That? You had that in your pocket to-day at La Voulle? You had that
while Gaston lay asleep, and you faced Jean Volran on the stairway?
Jean Volran? Not him alone; Jean Volran had four others, with him.
Five against two are great odds?"
"No, Mademoiselle, not really great odds. We held the upper stairs,
and Father Paul would have raised La Voulle behind them."
"Five against two are great odds," she persisted, "odds that no man
need be ashamed to find too great--compellingly great--when he carries
that in his pocket. Nor need Father Paul have raised La Voulle; that
thought was yours? You had your chance there to save your honour,
Monsieur Hellewyl--and your life," she added, tapping the table an inch
away from the noosed cord.
"Should I have taken the chance?" said I; "or do you think that only
frail, gentle-nurtured girls should ride into the shadow of the House
of Nails?"
"It was for my nation, Monsieur?"
"It was for my honour, Mademoiselle; for though the world might say I
had saved it, my own heart would give the world the lie daily, until I
died. Besides, you make too much of it. The King is in Plessis, and
I----"
"You are safe in Morsigny, and Morsigny can hold you safe; yes, thank
God for that!"
But I shook my head, unwillingly enough, though I trust the
unwillingness to be hanged did not show too plainly in my face.
"No, Mademoiselle de Narbonne, that cannot be. Why! the King would
rake Navarre as with a wool-carder's comb until he found me. Martin
and I go hence to-morrow."
"Where?"
"Does that matter? Anywhere."
"I can tell you where," said Paul, breaking in for the first time. "He
rides straight to Plessis. I heard him tell Jean Volran; to Plessis by
the road of the King's choosing."
"To Plessis!" cried Mademoiselle, bringing down her clenched hand upon
the noose. "To Plessis, with that before you? Never!"
"My oath, Mademoiselle, my oath by the Cross of Saint Lo, whereon who
swears falsely dies here and hereafter."
"For the dying in this world I can answer," said she; "Louis will see
to that. As to the hereafter, Christ who died upon the Cross is above
the cross. The keeping of such an oath is the sacrilege, not the
breaking. Promise me, Monsieur; not to Plessis? Think what we owe
you--Navarre, Narbonne, Morsigny, I myself. Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur! do
not put your blood upon our heads for such a blind oath as that.
Promise me, promise me."
But again I shook my head. This was the bitterest moment of all that
bitter humiliation, and yet, knowing that it was not altogether my oath
that drew me, I could not leave her to sorrow over a seeming useless
sacrifice.
"There is another reason, Mademoiselle; the King holds a hostage for my
return."
"Oh!" said she blankly, the fire dying from her eyes; "a hostage? Who
is he?"
"It is a woman, Mademoiselle."
"Oh!" said she again, but this time with a subtle sharpening of the
emphasis; "a woman? As I said at the first, tell me no more than you
wish to tell."
"Then you trust me, Mademoiselle?" I asked, but doubtfully, for if her
mouth said, Tell nothing, her eyes said, I, too, am a woman; tell all.
"Why not?" she answered, her voice prim and hard, until her eyes, which
had been looking proudly into mine, fell, I don't know why, and rested
on the cord, then it grew gentle again. "Say nothing, or--everything."
"Everything, then. She is a peasant of Flanders, a herdsman's
daughter. The story is common enough----"
"Too common, Monsieur," she broke in, her eyes blazing, her hands
clenched in her lap as again she shrank back as far as the hollows of
the chair would let her. "Oh, you honourable gentlemen! Do you think
that because I am Suzanne de Narbonne and she a peasant I care nothing
for her womanhood? Shame, Monsieur Hellewyl, shame; she is my sister."
"I thought you trusted me, Mademoiselle?" I retorted, not sorry she had
put herself in the wrong.
"I said so, Monsieur, but this common story of yours----"
"Is it not common that a man should think himself in love with the one
pretty face he has ever seen in his life? that he should dress her
coarse mind with the graces he knew later had never touched her, no,
not for an hour? that he should hold her sacred for her very womanhood,
and worship as God's fine gold what, when his knowledge wakened, he
knew to be at its best but honest potters' clay? Is it----"
"Yes, Monsieur," she interrupted softly, and stretching her open hand
across the angle of the table, "that last at least is so uncommon from
a Seigneur of where you will to a peasant born in his woods, that I may
be forgiven if for a minute I doubted. Am I forgiven, Monsieur
Gaspard?"
It was a return of the old Suzanne D'Orfeuil, and resting her hand on
mine, I kissed it as I might have kissed a Queen's, or no, not quite:
if the kiss was reverent and carefully passionless, the touch of the
lips lingered a moment or two beyond the nice allotment of ceremony.
"No woods of mine, for I owned not one rood of the land nor stick of
the timber."
"Never mind that," she answered, withdrawing her hand; "you understand
my meaning, and I think I need hear no more of the woods of Flanders.
What of the hostage in Plessis?"
The rest was easy; not even when the King put the construction he did
on the mention of Brigitta's name did the softness wither from her
face. Only at the grim picture of how other limbs would writhe in my
default, and a tortured woman scream her curse of Gaspard Hellewyl, she
drew in her breath with a shudder, covering her eyes with her hand as
if to shut out the sight. Nor, when I had ended, did she say more
than--"Yes, you are right, and Father Paul was right; there is nothing
for it but Plessis and the King's mercy."
The King's mercy! I had it in my heart to copy her bitter phrase:
Morsigny must indeed be remote from Plessis when you talk of the King's
mercy! But her white face restrained me. And why recall the only
reproach she ever uttered?