LOVE.
“Did the rock strike? Is any one hurt?” called out a man’s voice, which
shook with terror.
“No one is hurt, monsieur; but I was frightened, and called out like a
coward,” answered Marguerite, coming swiftly up to his level.
“But you were in danger?”
“Yes; the wind which the rock brought with it, took away my breath; that
was all.”
They stood together now on the same platform, and the moonbeams fell
upon them with all its spiritualizing brightness. A face more sweetly
grand was never bowed over one more beautiful. “Marguerite! in this
dreary place. In Heaven’s name, what brings you here?”
“My heart, Monsieur St. Just. Nothing else could. Some one that I love
was lost, and I came in search of him.”
“But are you not afraid?”
“No. It is over yonder that I am afraid. Stones do not hurt one; men and
women do. Besides, it is here that I should be grateful—not afraid!”
“Grateful! why?”
“Up yonder, I can see the spot where a crowd of men, with red caps on
their heads, and weapons in their hands, seized upon a poor girl,
and—and——”
“I remember. Great Heavens! it was a terrible danger!”
“It was a terrible murder, when that poor man was shot down only for
being faithful to his king.”
“What, the man on guard at the tower?”
“He fell at my feet. Oh, monsieur! I know that you would have saved him.
It was your hand that struck up one carbine; but even then another more
fatal did the cruel work. God forgive them! God forgive them! he is all
merciful; but, oh! I never can!”
“My sweet Marguerite,” said the young man, reaching forth his hand as if
she had been an infant whom he was ready to lead out of peril, “do not
be unforgiving. True, it was a horrible moment!”
“It made a widow of my best friend,” answered Marguerite, with pathetic
simplicity.
“That is hard,” said the man, “but the time must soon come when France
will be the mother of widows made in her behalf.”
Marguerite shook her head. The voice in which this man spoke was deep
and sweet with sympathy. That she could recognize; but his words partook
of a cause from which she recoiled. They seemed to excuse the murderers
of her friend. She drew her hand from his clasp, shuddering. He saw the
change that came over her features, and smiled.
“Marguerite, you do not trust me.”
“Trust you, oh yes. Were you not my saviour? You tried to spare him too,
but could not.”
“But the thing I did was nothing. Any gentleman would have done as
much.”
“Where crowds meet only to pull down and murder, one does not expect to
find a gentleman,” answered Marguerite, unconscious of the sarcasm that
lay in her innocent words.
The young man seemed tempted to argue the matter but checked himself,
saying,
“You must not give me too much credit. But tell me what are your friends
doing that they permit these lonely night walks?”
“They are full of other thoughts. All except two—an old woman whose
husband you saw murdered, alas! tears kept her from watching me; and my
father, who is more helpless than I am. Oh, Monsieur, I sometimes think
it would have been kinder had you left those hideous men to kill me, and
never opened his dungeon. He was used to the prison.”
“Poor old man, is he too suffering? Where can I see him?”
“He does not wish to be seen. They have forced liberty upon him when it
was too late. He loves nothing but solitude.”
“Perhaps not; but a man so wronged must hate the tyrant who persecuted
him.”
“That king is dead. Besides, the good old man hates no one.”
“Not the king?”
“Least of all, the good king.”
“And you, little one—how is it with you?”
“My best friend died serving the king, so would I.”
The beautiful face of the girl kindled, her eyes flashed like stars as
she said this. Then bethinking herself how dangerous such expressions of
loyalty might prove, she said, half timidly,
“They tell me it is dangerous not to abuse the king; but you ask me for
the truth, and I forget to be prudent. Besides, I think you also love
the king.”
“How can you think that?”
“Because you would not let those ruffians kill me, and tried to knock
down that murderer’s gun, when you must have known that honest guard
belonged to the king.”
“But what if I loved France more?”
“I heard some one say, when I was a little girl, that the king _was_
France.”
The young man broke into a low laugh, which began bitterly and ended in
good-humor. What man, he thought, could burden a creature so innocent
and sweet with political prejudices. It seemed like dragging
nightingales out from the sheltering roses, and hurling them into a
maelstrom.
“Well, Marguerite, I will not quarrel with you for loving the king; and
you must permit me to worship France just a little,” he said, smiling.
“But you have not told me why it is that you come to this dangerous
place alone, and at night? It cannot be, certainly, the old home-feeling
that brings _you_ here?”
Marguerite’s head drooped, and if the light had been sufficient, the
young man might have seen a blush steal over her face.
“It is partly that I have memories, and some one else comes here that I
care for.”
“Some one that you care for, and come to meet?”
The young man spoke sternly, and he drew back from the drooping young
creature a little, as if something had stung him. She lifted her eyes to
his in shrinking astonishment.
“Who is this person?” he asked.
“I—I must not tell. He does not like people to know.”
“_He?_ Did you say he?”
“Yes, I said he; but that was not speaking his name.”
“And you come here nights to meet this man?”
“Yes, but he does not wish any one to be told.”
Marguerite saw that something had offended her companion, and answered
his questions with timid hesitation; but her eyes pleaded with him all
the time.
“You steal away from home, Marguerite, when the streets of Paris are
full of dangers, and come to this lonely spot only to meet a man whose
name you dare not speak? Is this the truth?”
“Yes, but—but I have another reason.”
“Another reason, Marguerite?”
Marguerite’s voice sank almost to a whisper, as she answered,
“The memory I spoke of, Monsieur.”
The young man started, and his eyes flashed.
“You mean this, Marguerite—you have not forgotten that one hour when
your heart beat against mine?”
“How could I forget?”
“Yet you come here to meet another man.”
A little joyous laugh broke from the girl. St. Just could see her eyes
sparkle in the moonlight.
“Why not?” she said, “since the man is my own father.”
“Your father—the prisoner?”
“I can trust you with his secret; perhaps you will even help me to
protect him for there is danger.”
“Especially when heedless wanderers send rocks crashing down upon him,”
said St. Just.
Marguerite shuddered. “I couldn’t help screaming, it frightened me
dreadfully,” she said.
“Not more than it frightened me,” answered the young man, whose
good-nature had entirely returned. “It was a loose stone that gave way
under my boot, and almost carried me down with it—a blessed stone I
shall always think; for it brought you out of the darkness, the only
lovely thing, I do believe, those walls ever gave forth.”
“But for that I should have kept out of sight, and gone home
heavy-hearted.”
“Why heavy-hearted, Marguerite?”
“Because it was impossible to see you where I sat. I never should have
found courage to come into the light, and should have missed a great
happiness, without knowing what it was.”
The young man bent his eyes upon her with a look of tender admiration,
that brought the blushes to her cheek, and weighed down her soft eyes
till she stood before him like a child rebuked.
“Then it was not altogether that other person, whom I was almost jealous
of,” said the young man, after gazing upon that sweet face in silence.
“You saved my life, and tried to save him!” faltered the young creature;
and gratitude is a sweet feeling that haunts one so.
“True, Marguerite—but there is a sweeter feeling yet that haunts me all
the time. I only hope that you know what it is.”
Marguerite gathered the frail drapery with which she had ventured into
the night air, softly around her, but even through that St. Just could
see how her heart rose and fell.
“I—I must be going now,” she said.
“But not alone—I cannot permit that; the streets of Paris are not safe
for you. Come, let me help you over these stones.”
Marguerite had passed over them once that night swiftly and safely as a
young chamois on some mountain peak; but with those eyes upon her she
grew timid, and held out her little hand, touching the stones daintily
with her feet. He took her hand with a firm grasp, and led her over the
rugged masses of stone, which was so broken up in heaps and chasms that
every footstep brought its danger. At a jagged hollow, which the girl
had sprung lightly over an hour before, she paused, and began to
tremble. The youth reassured her with a smile; then threw his arm around
her waist, lifted her over, and sat her down on the other side, bathed
in blushes, which seemed shadows in the moonlight.
At last these two young people reached the broken draw-bridge, crossed
over its shaking timbers, and entered the dark court beyond.
Here St. Just paused close by the stone bench where Marguerite had
rested that day.
“Here on this spot your dear lips told me the sweetest secret man ever
learned,” he said, throwing his arms around the startled girl, and
straining her to his heart. “Repeat it here—repeat it, my beloved. I
love you, oh Heavens, how I do love you! Say—out of your dreams—be sure
that it is out of your dreams—say that you love me.”
Marguerite tried to speak, but the sweet words died on her lips as she
gave them up to his kisses for a single instant. Then her voice came
back, and she said with the innocent frankness of a child,
“How could I help loving you?”