THE CHATEAU DE LA BIDACHE
Months had passed since I shook hands with death in the cornfield by
the banks of the Oise, and the grass was tall and green on the mounds
around La Fere which marked the graves of those who had fought and
died there, in reality for the hand of Spain, in spirit for the League
that was dead. It was autumn now, and as I, well and strong again,
walked down the long avenue of beeches that led to the park gates of
Bidache, I let my memory run back to the days in the hospital of Ste.
Genevieve, whither I was borne from the field; to the soft-voiced,
gentle-handed sisters of mercy; to the physician Marescot, the King's
own leech, with his acid face and kind heart, who doctored me; and
above all to the tall, slight, black-robed figure that came to see me
daily, and for whose coming I used to long, in the dreary hours of my
pain, with an infinite desire. I argued with myself on the absurdity
of the thing--here was I, hardened by ten years of campaigning which
ought to have taught me the world, conquered out of hand by the glance
of a pair of bright eyes, and the tones of a sweet voice. As the days
wore on, I cursed myself for the unworthy suspicions that had come to
me and tied my tongue when I lay wounded, and was rescued by chance,
and her charity. Who or what she was I cared not, and recklessly
abandoned myself to the feelings that were aroused in my heart.
I shall not forget what happened one afternoon. A long gallery in the
convent of Ste. Genevieve had been turned into a ward, and here the
wounded lay on pallets with a walking space between. Owing to Madame's
kindness I was comfortably quartered at the end of the gallery, and a
screen had been set between me and the other patients. I was gaining
strength daily, and, at the moment I speak of, was in a state between
sleeping and waking, when I heard a laugh and the sound of footsteps,
and saw through the partly open wing of the screen that my lady had
come to make her daily rounds, not attended as usual only by her
women, but by a gaily-dressed cavalier as well, and it was his laugh
that I had heard. In this person, dressed in the extreme of fashion, I
made out M. d'Ayen, the same who had so kindly suggested that I should
be left to die in the field. He pattered along, holding a kerchief
edged with gold lace to his nose, and ever and again waving it in the
air, whilst he spoke in a loud tone, regardless of the looks cast at
him by the sisters in attendance on the wounded. They came slowly
towards me, for Madame stayed constantly to speak to some maimed
wretch, and I saw her slip money into the hands of some, and there
were kind words for all. I felt a strange pleasure in watching her,
whilst at the same time I thought of my past, and how unfit I was even
to nurse such a dream as my love for her. When within a yard or so of
the screen, Madame bent over a sufferer, and d'Ayen exclaimed in his
biting voice--
'_Morbleu!_ Madame! But you are the Princess of Charity. Let us hasten
to your interesting patient, however. His Majesty is most anxious to
hear of him.'
'His Majesty has never done me the honour to inquire,' she answered
coldly.
'You could hardly expect that, madame. But it came about in this way.
We were at flux, and as usual I held a bad cascade----'
But Madame, to whom his presence was unwelcome, waited to hear no
more, and passing the screen, came to my side, and would have spoken;
d'Ayen, however, cut in with a rudeness for which I could have run him
through.
'My compliments, M. d'Auriac. You are a lucky man. The King takes so
great an interest in you that he has charged me with a message to you.
His Majesty bids me say,' and his bead-like eyes twinkled down on me
from his painted cheeks, and then turned slily towards Madame.
I waited for him to continue, and he went on, talking as if his words
were meant for Madame as well.
'His Majesty trusts you will soon be recovered, and relieve Madame de
la Bidache from the strain of watching you, and begs me to add that he
is of a temper that can brook no rival in war--or love. Let me say, on
my own account, that it would be well if M. le Chevalier would take a
change of air.'
I looked from one to another in blank amaze--at the little ape with
his cruel eyes, and at Madame, who was still as a stone. Then she
coloured to her eyelids, her hands fell clenched to her side, and she
turned on d'Ayen.
'Such a message, monsieur, should not have been delivered before me. I
will take care that M. d'Auriac has a change of air; and, monsieur,
your presence oppresses me. I beg you will not trouble to escort me
farther.'
Then she turned from us and passed down the ward, but d'Ayen remained.
'I will kill you for this,' I gasped.
He looked at me with a shrug of his lean shoulders.
'Perhaps--I am old. But you would do well to take my advice,
monsieur,' and with a bow he too turned and went.
I was left lost in wonder, utterly in the dark as to what this all
meant, but determined to find out and bring d'Ayen to book at the
first chance. I made up my mind to ask the next day. The next day
came; but Madame did not, and then another and yet another day of
dreariness passed. At last someone, I forget who, told me she had gone
with the court to Nantes, and that I would see her no more. Later on,
when Marescot came to me, I begged the favour of his getting me the
knot of ribbon he would find in the lefthand breast pocket of the
doublet I wore on the day I was brought into the hospital.
'You are getting well,' he said, and turned away, but came back in a
little with a wrinkled smile on his lips, 'I cannot find the cordial
you want, Chevalier.'
I had half raised my head in expectancy as he returned, but sank back
again at his words, and Marescot went on in his low voice that sounded
like the humming of a bee. 'M. le Chevalier, that bow of ribbon has
gone away, so high up that a taller man than you could not reach it.
Forget it. But I have news for you, which the clumsy fool who told you
of Madame's departure should have given you: you are to go to Bidache
shortly, and stay there until you are well again. It will not be for
long. After that, try the tonic of the Italian war. France will be all
ploughshares now that the King is king.'
I caught him by the sleeve of his soutane. 'Tell me,' I said weakly,
'who is Madame, where is Bidache?'
'Madame, as we all call her, is Claude de Rochemars, widow of Antoine
de la Tremouille, and heiress of Bidache, Pelouse, and a quarter of
the Cevennes. Bidache, where you go, is her chateau in Normandy.
Madame,' he went on with a ghost of a smile on his thin lips, 'is
kindness itself. Now no more talk for to-day.' Then he went, and I lay
back, as sore in mind as in body.
In a day or so Madame's steward of Bidache arrived, bearing a letter
from her, in which, as a poor return for the service I had done
her--so she put it--she placed her Norman chateau at my disposal until
I was well again. I had a mind to refuse; but in my state could summon
up no such resolution, and, muttering my thanks to the steward, said
they could do what they listed with me. They moved me here by easy
stages, carrying me in a litter as I was too weak to ride, and when I
came to Bidache, and was borne to my apartments, imagine my joy and
surprise at seeing there my knave Jacques, whom I thought to be either
dead or home again at Auriac; and not only Jacques, but hanging on the
wall my own sword, and the sight of it was like meeting a tried
friend. Later on, Jacques informed me that after the rout he had made
the best of his way back to the old rock, and stayed there, hoping for
news of me. At last it came, with orders for him to hurry to Bidache,
and he did so, bearing with him such things as he thought I needed, as
well as a hundred pistoles of rents, the same being half the sum due
to me for my rights over the fish in the bay of Auriac. As for the
sword, it had been given to him on his arrival by Madame's orders to
keep for me. I had come to a low ebb by this, and the money was trebly
welcome, as it would furnish me with a couple of horses, and leave a
round sum besides when I left Bidache, which I meant to do as soon as
ever I was fit to travel. And now the time had come for me to depart,
and I was to start that evening. For forty crowns Jacques had picked
up a couple of stout cobs at Evreux, and we meant to leave an hour or
so before sundown and make for Paris, where, if the King would accept
an old leaguer's sword, we would stay; if not, the world was wide. I
was as far as ever from understanding the strange message that M.
d'Ayen had delivered to me, and felt myself safe in going to Paris, as
a general amnesty covered all our sins of rebellion--so they were
called now.
So absorbed was I in these thoughts, that I did not mark the rapid
approach of a horseman, nor indeed was I aware of his presence until,
when within a few yards of me, he reigned in his plunging beast, whose
bit and neck were white with foam, and lifting his hat respectfully,
inquired if I was the Chevalier d'Auriac and on my reply exclaimed,
'Madame will be overjoyed. We heard that you had already left Bidache,
and my lady arrives within the hour from Evreux. Pardon, monsieur--I
go to give the news to the household,' and, saluting again, the lackey
dashed onwards towards the chateau.
So I would meet her within the hour. Half unconsciously I glanced down
to see if my doublet sat aright and my points were tied. Then I
thought I would go back to the house and meet her there, and, as I did
this, I looked at the fall of the plumes in my hat, and, finally,
laughing at myself for a coxcomb, took my heart in both hands, and
marched onwards towards the gates. The porter had already been warned,
and on my coming I found him there with a crowd of yokels, all in a
state of high excitement.
'It is three years since Madame was here, monsieur,' the honest fellow
exclaimed to me as I came up, 'three years, and now she comes without
a word of warning--_hola!_ There they are, and there is Madame on the
jennet she purchased from M. le duc de Sully--he was but the Sieur de
Rosny then--_hola_! _hola!_'
The crowd joined with him in his cheers, although as yet the party was
far off--not so far, however, that I could not easily make out the
graceful figure on the jennet, and in the two riders who accompanied
Madame, apart from the half-dozen servants behind, I recognised to my
surprise d'Ayen, and guessed that the grey-beard in the tall-crowned,
broad-brimmed hat, with the sad-coloured cloak over his shoulders, was
no other than the old Huguenot, whose zeal had outrun his discretion
on the night when I saved Madame from a great peril.
This guess of mine I hazarded aloud to the gate-keeper, who replied:
'Yes, M. le Chevalier, that is Maitre Palin, Madame's chaplain, and he
was also chaplain to M. le Compte before he died.'
'When was it that M. le Compte died?'
'Let me see, monsieur--ah, yes--four years ago in Paris, at the time
of the Plague. He was a great lord, as you may know, and brother of
the duke, who they say has quarrelled with the King because of his
conversion, and of Madame Charlotte, the Princess of Conde, who lives
in the Rue Grenelle, and whom the King kept for long a close prisoner
in the tower of St. Jean d'Angely--no one knows why; but it is buzzed
that Monseigneur, the Prince of Conde, the King's cousin, died of a
flask of wine, and that the Princess--but _hola_! _hola_! welcome to
your own house, madame,' and he dropped on his knees as the cavalcade
rode up, and presented the keys of the chateau gates slung on a silver
chain to their mistress. She bent from the saddle and touched them
with her hand, and the peasantry surrounded her with hearty greeting,
hedging her in with cheerful red faces and broad smiles, so that she
could not move. Meanwhile, I stood apart, tugging at my moustache,
wondering by what right d'Ayen rode at her bridle hand, and feeling
how true Marescot's words were, that the bow of ribbon was hung too
high for me. Not that it was a question of birth--de Breuil of Auriac
was a name that was old when Tremouille was unknown; but--there were
other things which made all the difference, and men and women of the
world will understand what I mean when I say this.
As Madame lifted her head our eyes met, and, raising my hat, I
advanced towards her, the people giving way respectfully. My ears were
buzzing, and I was as shy and nervous as a schoolboy as I bowed over
her gloved hand, and touched it with my lips.
'Let me welcome you back to health, Chevalier,' she said, 'and say how
glad I am to be able, even for a short while, to do the honours of my
poor house in person to you. News came to us that you had already left
Bidache--without even a word to me;' her voice dropped a little as she
said this, but the tone was cool and friendly, nothing more.
'I go to-night, madame.'
'So soon; but I understand why, and will not press you to stay--here
is one who, like myself, has longed for an opportunity to thank you in
person. _Mon pere_,' and she turned to the Huguenot priest, 'this is
our friend to whom we owe so much.'
'In the service of the Lord one would willingly lay down life,' said
Palin, as he shook me warmly by the hand, 'nevertheless, a few hours
more of the world for an old man is a grace not to be despised, and I
thank the instrument that has bestowed this benefit upon me.'
D'Ayen, between whom and myself there had passed no greeting, now
spoke in a voice that fairly trembled with anger.
'I was not aware that I should have the pleasure of meeting you here,
M. le Chevalier. It will surprise the King,' he added, in a lower tone
to Madame.
I made no answer; but the memory of his warning and my determination
to settle with him came up in full force. Madame, however, spoke.
'M. d'Ayen, when, by the order of the King, you were directed to
escort me to Bidache, there was nothing said about your right to
dictate to me who shall be my guests. Remember, monsieur, that your
company is forced upon me, and let me add that you are a trifle too
paternal.'
D'Ayen paled under his rouge, and, muttering something, reined back a
pace, whilst Palin, looking him full in the eyes, said:
'Will you swallow that, too, M. d'Ayen? At your age one would have
thought digestion hard.'
And there was no answer.
Madame had in the meantime signalled a lackey to dismount and offer me
his beast.
'I cannot allow you to walk, and we will reach the house quicker in
this way, besides, I want to hear all your news. My friends,' and she
turned to the people, 'come to Bidache: it is long since we have met,
and I would have you to make merry as of old--come, Chevalier.'
In the cheers which followed, she touched her horse lightly on the
shoulder with her whip, and galloped on, Palin and I on either hand,
and the suite behind. In a little while she slackened pace, saying
with a laugh, 'We are going too fast to talk, Chevalier, and I am a
woman, you know, and must hear my own voice, if nothing else--so you
are quite well and strong again?'
'I am, madame, thanks to your kindness, which Alban de Breuil can
never forget.'
Her colour deepened slightly. 'It is the other way, Chevalier, the
debt is on my side.'
'I have done nothing--and the repayment was too much.'
'I am sorry you think so,' looking straight between her horse's ears.
'I did not mean that--I have already said I can never requite your
kindness, and if Madame ever needs a stout arm and a good sword, it is
my hope she will call on that of Auriac.'
'Perhaps I may--some day,' she answered, 'for the blood of my fathers
runs strong in me, but I think Maitre Palin here will tell you that I
am wrong, and that the sword is accursed.'
'Unless it be drawn in the service of God, madame,' put in the
Huguenot gravely.
'_Mon pere_ Palin has been a man-at-arms in his day,' said Madame,
'and has fought at Jarnac and Moncontour. He is therefore of the
church militant, as you see.'
'I am proud to meet so brave a soldier as I doubt not you were, Maitre
Palin. We took different sides; but all that is passed now, and
Huguenot and Leaguer are merged in the common name of Frenchman.'
'Long live the King!' said Madame gaily; but Palin answered sadly:
'Would it were so. But to my eyes there are still dark clouds ahead.
We have no longer Henry of Navarre, but Henry of France; no longer a
prince of the true faith, but a pervert.'
'His Majesty will be delighted to hear that,' put in d'Ayen; but
Madame took no more notice of him than of a fly.
'Hush! _mon pere_,' and she raised a warning hand, 'I will have no
word against the King. M. le Chevalier is right, we are all one again,
as France should ever be.'
'Amen!' answered Palin; 'but too much blood has been shed for this
compromise to be accepted. The way is dark--but I will say no more,'
and the old croaker dropped a half length behind.
A turn in the avenue at this moment brought us in full view of the
grey walls of Bidache, and on the wide stone staircase that led to the
great hall we saw the servants of the household assembled. Madame
waved her hand in greeting, and the cheer which broke from them was
drowned in the boom of the bombard from the keep. As the blue wreaths
of smoke curled upwards a little ball ran to the top of the flagstaff
on the keep, and the next moment the banner of Tremouille, with the
arms of Rochemars of Bidache quartered thereon, spread out its folds
to the morning, and Madame was come home once more.
We dined an hour or so later than usual, Madame, d'Ayen, Palin, and
myself at the high table, and the rest of the household with all
Bidache at the next. Madame, who seemed in nowise fatigued by her long
ride, was in the gayest of spirits and rippled with talk. As if
thinking she had punished d'Ayen enough, she directed all her
conversation towards him, and the old beau was in his element in
discussing the intrigues of court life, and, let me add, interesting,
for his memory went far back. Madame spoke of the Edict, but for which
they would never have been at Bidache; of the surrender of Mercoeur,
and of the betrothal of his daughter Francoise de Lorraine, the
greatest heiress in France, to _Cesar Monsieur_, the little Duc de
Vendome; of the Constable and his disappointment thereat; of the
squabbles between M. de Bar and his wife, the King's sister; of court
gossip and court scandal, until Palin's face grew sour, and I felt a
disappointment within me, as she prattled on like some Paris beauty,
whose sole thoughts were of masques at the Louvre and hunting parties
at Vincennes. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled as she
discussed with d'Ayen whether the ruff or the collar drooped in the
Italian manner was the more becoming, and whether the _cinque pace_
dance was more enjoyable than the minuet. _Pardieu!_ Their speech was
all frill and furbelows. But for a word thrown in here and there, I
sipped my Romanee in silence, wondering at this flow of talk, and
wondering, too, at this change of front, and if I was wrong in my
estimate of Madame. As she talked, my head for a moment overcame my
heart, and I began to judge her in that way, showing, in doing so, my
ignorance of that complex thing--a woman.
At last the dinner came to a close, and Palin, rising, opened his lips
with a long thanksgiving, to which all, Madame included, listened
devoutly. Our hostess then retired, and we three were left together in
an absolute silence. Had it been any other place I would have felt
bound to call d'Ayen to account, and ask him to name a proxy if he was
unable to meet me by reason of his age. But as it was this was
impossible, and I contented myself with a frigid reserve, in which I
was joined by the Huguenot. He looked from one to the other of us with
a satirical smile on his thin lips, and then rising made a slight bow
and left us to ourselves. As we returned to our seats from our
response to his greeting, I blurted out the questions:
'Who is M. d'Ayen? Why is he here?'
'Who is he? It is enough to say he is one of those men who live on the
follies of kings. And it is enough to say that his company is forced
upon us.'
'I have heard that before; but Madame seemed to like him well enough
at dinner.' I felt I was wrong as I said this, but the words came out.
'He is here by the King's orders, by the orders of Henry the Great,'
said Palin with bitterness. 'Monsieur, you seem a man of honour, what
do you think of a king who would force a marriage on a woman to----'
and he whispered words in my ear which struck me speechless.
I could not believe him. It was incredible. Was this the hero king,
the gallant soldier, the father of his people? It could not be true.
Palin saw the doubt on my face.
'Even you,' he said; 'well, go to Paris and see.'
'I shall go, I am going to-day.'
'It will be at the risk of your life.'
'Maitre Palin, there is the King's Peace, and even if it were not so I
will go.'
He looked at me long and attentively: 'Let it be so,' he muttered to
himself, and then loudly, 'Well, Chevalier, I have warned you; if you
go you will want a safe lodging--seek out Pantin in the Rue des Deux
Mondes, and mention my name. The house faces the Pont Neuf, you can't
miss it.'
'Thank you, I will do so.'
Then after a few minutes more of talk we wished each other good-bye
and parted.
As for myself, I was on the cross with what I had heard. My mind was
racked with doubt, and at last in despair I sought my own room to
think over the matter. I could make nothing of it, turn it which way I
would. To me Palin's story was incredible. But yet it explained and
made clear so much! It was not to offer my sword only to the King that
I would now go to Paris, it would be to save the woman I loved if
possible. How I was to do this I had no definite idea, the one thing
at present in my mind was Paris, Paris. I therefore gave the necessary
orders to Jacques to make ready to start at once, and, descending the
winding staircase of the tower wherein my room lay, sought the great
hall with the view of either finding Madame there, or of sending some
one with the request to permit my waiting on her to say good-bye. The
staircase ended in a long dark corridor, hung on each side with
trophies of the chase, old armour, and frayed and tattered banners. At
the end of this was an arched doorway hidden by a heavy curtain, and
above the arch was a half-length portrait of a man. The painter had
not flattered his subject; the long pointed face with its grey beard
was bent forward slightly, there was a cynical curve to the lips, and
the eyes looked down on me as if with a laugh in them. I had passed
this picture fifty times before, but had never stayed to examine it.
Somehow I did so on this occasion, and as I read the inscription
'Antoine de la Tremouille' on the frame, the thin lips appeared to
lengthen out into a grin. For a moment a chill fell on me, and then,
laughing at myself for a fool, I lifted the curtain and passed into
the great hall. At first I thought it was empty, but a second glance
showed me Madame, seated at a small table, in the recess of the bow
window that overlooked the park. Her face, leaning on her hand, was
half averted from me, and I caught, a glimpse of a small foot resting
on one of the lions' heads in which the legs of the table finished.
The foot was beating up and down as if in unison with the impatience
of Madame's thoughts, but I could see nothing of her face beyond its
contour. She was, as usual, robed in black, wearing no jewels except a
gold collar round her neck. For a moment I stood in silence, looking
at her, half thinking that here was a chance to speak out what was in
my heart, and then stilling the words by the thought of how impossible
it was for a poor man to woo a rich woman.
Through the open window I could see the woods, ruddy in their autumn
foliage, and ever and again came the sound of cheerful voices, marking
where the good people of Bidache were holding revelry in honour of
their mistress' return.
As I stood, hat in hand, Madame suddenly turned with a little start,
and hastily concealed something as she caught sight of me. I went up
at once, and she rose to meet me.
'I have come to say farewell, madame,' and I held out my hand.
'So soon,' she said, as she took it for a moment, her eyes not meeting
mine.
'Yes--Paris is far--and it will be well for me to be there as quickly
as possible.'
'Paris! You are surely not--' and she stopped.
'Why not, madame?'
'Oh! I don't know,' and hastily, 'one sometimes says things that
don't exactly convey one's meaning. But I can imagine why you go to
Paris--you are tired of Bidache, and pine for the great city.'
'It is not that; but,' and I pointed to the rolling woods and wide
lands that spread before us, 'I have no responsibilities like
these--and Auriac, which stands by the sea, takes care of
itself--besides, I have my way to make as yet.'
'You have friends?'
'One at any rate, and that was restored to me by you,' and I glanced
to the hilt of my sword.
'Man does not want a better; but you have another--here at Bidache,
and I shall be in Paris soon, too, and--this place is dull. It kills
me.'
'And yet you have not been here for three years--madame, are all the
masques at the Louvre so attractive that you can desert your home,
where your name is honoured as that of the King, for the follies of
the court?'
I spoke with some bitterness, for I was sore at what I had heard at
dinner, and she glanced up at me in a slight surprise. Then her lips
parted in a half smile. 'Chevalier, will you answer me a question or
so?'
'Why not?'
'You like gaiety, cheerfulness, light, do you not?'
'Assuredly.'
'You sometimes amuse yourself by gaming, do you not--and losing more
than you can afford?'
I bowed in simple wonder.
'That friend of yours at your side has not been drawn only in battle,
has it?'
De Gonnor's white face rose up before me, and I felt my forehead burn.
I could make no answer. Madame looked at me for a moment, and then
dropped a stately little courtesy. 'Monsieur, you are very good to
advise me, and I take your reproof. But surely what is sauce for the
gander is sauce for the goose. Is not the Chevalier d'Auriac a little
hasty? How is it that he is not at home at Auriac, instead of
hastening to Paris as fast as he can--to the masques at the Louvre,
and the salons of Zamet?'
'It is different,' I stammered.
'Ah, yes, it is different,' with a superb scorn; 'I saw you pull a
half league of face as I talked at dinner. Monsieur can go here.
Monsieur can go there. He may dance at a revel from curfew till
cockcrow, he may stake his estates on a throw of the dice, he may run
his friend through for a word spoken in jest--it is all _comme il
faut_. But, Madame--she must sit at home with her distaff, her only
relaxation a _preche_, her amusement and joy to await Monsieur's
return--is not that your idea, Chevalier?' She was laughing, but it
was with a red spot on each cheek.
'Madame,' I replied, 'when I was but fifteen I joined the Cardinal de
Joyeuse, and from that time to now my life has been passed in the
field; I am therefore but a soldier, rough of speech, unused to
argument, apt to say what is in my mind bluntly. I was wrong to make
the remark I did, and ask your pardon; but, madame, brush away the
idea that in this case the sauce for the gander is sauce for the
goose--I use your own words--think what it would be if all womankind
acted on what you have preached--think what would happen if the
illusions that surround you, and which are now your strength, are
dispelled. The worst of men have some memory of a home made happy by a
woman, sister, mother, or wife, and the return to which was like a
glimpse into heaven--the thought of which often made them better
men--do not destroy this. And, madame, there is yet another thing--man
is a fighting animal, and the final issues of an affair come to the
sword--where would a struggle between this hand and mine end?--'in my
eagerness I took her small white fingers in mine as I spoke, and shut
them within my palm--'Madame,' I continued, 'rest assured that the
glory and strength of a woman is in her weakness, and when she puts
aside that armour she is lost. Think not that you have no mission--it
is at a mother's knee that empires have been lost and won, that
generations have, and will be, cursed or blessed.'
I stood over her as I spoke; I was a tall man then and strong, and
whether it was my speech or what I know not, but I felt the hand I
held tremble in mine, and her eyes were turned from me.
'Let me say good-bye now,' I continued, 'and thank you again for what
you have done.'
She shook her head in deprecation.
'Very well, then, I will not recall it to you; but I can never
forget--life is sweet of savour, and you gave it back to me. We will
meet again in Paris--till then good-bye.'
'At the Louvre?' As she glanced up at me, trying to smile, I saw her
eyes were moist with tears, and then--but the wide lands of Bidache
were before me, and I held myself in somehow.
'Good-bye.'
'Good-bye.'
I turned, and without another look passed out of the hall. As I went
down the stairway I saw on the terrace to my right the figure of
d'Ayen. He had changed his costume to the slashed and puffed dress
which earned for the gay gentlemen of Henry's court the nickname of
'Bigarrets,' from M. de Savoye's caustic tongue, and his wizened face
stood out of his snowy ruff in all the glow of its fresh paint. With
one foot resting on the parapet, he was engaged in throwing crumbs to
the peacocks that basked on the turf beneath him. I would have passed,
but he called out.
'M. le Chevalier--a word.'
'A word then only, sir, I am in haste.'
'A bad thing, haste,' he said, staring at me from head to foot; 'these
woods would fetch a good price, would they not?' and he waved his hand
towards the wide-stretching forest.
'You mistake, M. d'Ayen, I am not a timber merchant.'
'Oh! a good price,' he went on, not heeding my reply. 'M. le
Chevalier, I was going to say I will have them down when I am master
here. They obstruct the view.'
I could have flung him from the terrace, but held myself in and turned
on my heel.
'Adieu! Chevalier,' he called out after me, 'and remember what I have
said.'
I took no notice. The man was old, and his gibing tongue his only
weapon. I ran down the steps to where Jacques was, ready for me with
the horses. Springing into the saddle, I put spurs to the beast, and
we dashed down the avenue, but as I did so I yielded to an impulse,
and glanced up to the window--it was empty.