"I MUST SPEAK!"
The Epiphany--called in old France, under the Bourbons, _la Fete des
Rois_--was drawing to a close, as St. Georges, his handsome face
looking very dejected and his heart heavy as lead within him, rode
into Paris by the Charenton gate.
Not so entirely over, however, but that the streets were still crowded
with holiday makers of all kinds, with those who were there solely to
enjoy and amuse themselves, and also with those who sought to make
profit out of the others. Moreover, still from all the towers and
steeples the bells rang in honour of those who had died during the
past year, so that, as Boileau sneeringly remarked, "_Pour honorer les
morts ils font mourir les vivants_," while from the dark,
sombre-looking houses--of which the same writer observed that they
must have been built by philosophers instead of architects, so filthy
were they without and so brilliant within--were still hung paper
lanterns, flags, banners, and all kinds of devices and decorations.
St. Georges had found it difficult to pick his way through the many
obstacles with which the streets were encumbered from the time he left
the Bastille and the Rue St. Antoine, and began to approach the more
fashionable part of Paris, the vicinity of the Pont Neuf. Richly gilt
carriages of the _noblesse_ and the _nouveaux riches_ passed each
other frequently, the inmates of the former disdaining to notice the
inmates of the other--human nature was the same then as now--and threw
the January mud upon an extraordinary crowd of foot passengers--a
crowd composed of ladies with mirrors in their hands; men with huge
blonde or white wigs, who would stop suddenly to take a comb from
their servants' hands and arrange their false locks; others of the
commoner sort selling coffee and chocolate on the footway, another
drawing teeth in the open street, two men fighting a duel with short
swords, a woman and a child picking pockets.[5]
[Footnote 5: See engravings of Della Bella, done at the time and
representing such scenes.]
Because it was the Epiphany--the King's Fete--Louis and the court were
at the Louvre this year, occupying the vast and stately palace on
which the Grande Monarque had spent since 1664 the sum of ten million
seven hundred thousand francs; and high festival was being kept. All
the court had come with him, including the wife who was still
suspected by some of being the mistress; the duchesses and countesses
who had been mistresses if they were so no longer; the bishops who
were not in disgrace and under the displeasure of De Maintenon; the
numerous offspring by various mothers; the ministers and
officials--including Louvois. And it was to present himself to the
latter first, and afterward to seek audience with Louis, that St.
Georges now rode toward the palace.
"Surely," he thought to himself as he directed his course through the
heterogeneous mass in the streets, "surely when I relate my tale,
tell of the terrible blow that has fallen upon me, I shall be forgiven
for having halted on my route. I am more than a week behind, have
lagged on my road, yet for what a cause--what a cause! Oh, my child,
my little Dorine, that I should have had to come away and leave you
behind! My child! My child!"
Never for a moment since he had left the peasant's hut had his
thoughts been absent from that child, never had they ceased to dwell
upon the conspiracy that existed without doubt against both him and
her. Moreover, so intricate, so entangled did all appear that the mesh
seemed incapable of being unravelled, and his brain whirled as he
endeavoured to pierce the darkness of it all.
"Let me reflect," he had pondered to himself, as day by day he drew
nearer to the capital, "let me try to think it all out, see it
clearly. God give me power to do so!"
Then he had endeavoured, by going over his life from the commencement,
to reduce matters to something short of chaos.
"That I am De Vannes's son--his heir--must be!" he thought; "it gives
the cause, the reason for what follows. This is clear. Also the attack
on me, the stealing of Dorine, proceeds from a like cause. And if all
that was the duke's--his title, his wealth--is mine, and, after me,
hers, in whose light can we stand, against whose interest thrust, but
De Roquemaure's? All this is as clear as day; it is here the mystery
begins. For, first, how does he know this? Next--which is more
strange--how know that on a certain night I should be on the road
between two such remote places as Pontarlier and Paris? How know, too,
that I have my child with me, as he must have known, since he
mentioned it to the myrmidons he enlisted at Recey? If I could
discover this--should ever discover it, a light might break in upon
what followed--more mysterious still."
When he had turned this over and over again in his thoughts as mile by
mile and league by league he drew nearer the end of his journey, he
endeavoured to arrange and piece together the further, the newer, and
fresher mystery of all that had happened since the night he rested
under the roof of the De Roquemaures' house. And here his perplexity
was even greater than before.
"He acts alone," he reflected; "at least without assistance from his
kinswomen--his stepmother and half-sister. For if such is not the
case, then viler wretches than they never bore the shape of womanhood.
The excitement of the marquise, the noble sympathy of that girl
expressed in every glance of those pure eyes, were not, could not have
been assumed--false! If so, perish all my belief in woman's truth and
honour! Yet from that very manoir over which she, his mother, rules
more than he, for the present at least, came forth two--one a man in
his garb, the dress of his house--the other a woman. For her, though,
it is not so difficult of explanation! The murdered peasant's wife
spoke of him as having female instruments at his beck and call, and
although her companion wore his livery she might be any creature in
the city over whom he possessed influence."
And now, as he reflected, he knew that he had come to the most
difficult of all knots to untie, the hardest of all the mystery to be
solved. For, arrived so far in his endeavours to unwind the plot with
which he was surrounded, he found himself at fault, groping
helplessly in the dark, when he stood face to face with the memory of
the man who had been assassinated by De Roquemaure's vassal--face to
face with Pierre, the Bishop of Lodeve's servant, who at the time he
was set upon was in possession of Dorine!
One thought alone rose to his mind at first, one only which would have
explained his presence on the scene, his possession of the child--the
thought that the cynical Bishop of Lodeve, the man of whom the whole
of France spoke so ill, might in truth have known of some deep-laid
scheme for kidnapping that child and have sent Pierre forward--or
after him--to rescue it at all costs, thinking, perhaps, that if
abstracted by him, it could be better kept in safety than even by its
own father. A wild and visionary idea, in truth, to have entered St.
Georges's mind, yet, perhaps, not too remote to suggest itself to an
unhappy parent so bereft as he was. But, in a moment, another
reflection chased it away.
"No!" he exclaimed to himself as the second thought arose. "No! no!
More like that the fellow Pierre was the messenger from Dijon who put
the ruffians on their guard; who warned them that I was accompanied by
the Mousquetaire Noir; that they would have two soldiers to contend
against instead of one. The fellow who had tracked us all day, then
passed us, and who, masked like the others, had stood out of the fight
in the graveyard. So! so! That vile bishop is in it, too. Fool that I
am to have thought that that sneering, evil priest had ever a kindly
thought in his heart. Yet why in it also? Why? why?"
He could follow his chain of reasoning no more--against all his
thoughts a blacker wall of impenetrable mystery rose than ever. He was
forced to desist from thinking, or go mad in doing so. For if this
man Pierre was De Roquemaure's auxiliary--if, as was undoubted from
the peasant woman's story, he had possessed himself of Dorine on
behalf of De Roquemaure--why had two other of that villain's myrmidons
slain him and possessed themselves of her? His mind could find no
answer to this; his reasoning ceased; he could go no further through
the maze.
"God, he knows," he muttered reverently. "In his good time, in his
infinite mercy, it may be he will let me know all, too."
But even as he rode through the crowded streets and drew near the
great courtyard of the Louvre he was still thinking--thinking
always--of the web in which he was entangled and of his helpless
little child alone, unhappy--perhaps ill treated--perhaps dead! There
was that day no more heartbroken man in Paris than he.
As he drew rein at the courtyard door, vast as a cathedral's, there
issued from it a great emblazoned carriage, with arms and crests upon
its panels, the four horses drawing it being also richly apparelled
with velvet and nodding plumes, and with at the back three footmen
who, as was the custom of the time, stood each behind the other on a
platform instead of side by side.
His eye, glancing into the interior of the vast fabric, saw within a
woman, young and beautiful, yet with her fair face disfigured--as was
indeed obligatory on all women who attended the court of Louis--with
powder and paint, and with _mouches_, or patches, cut into the various
forms of stars, half moons, and so forth. Her dress, too, was
gorgeous, being of rich velvet of the colour then known as "pigeon
breast," faced with silver brocade and slashed with seams to show the
red and silver lace, while the whole was enriched with plain satin
and watered ribbons, and deep full point lace at breast and sleeves.
On her head, though not hiding her much-curled hair, was a rich
_escoffion_ of ruby velvet surmounted by pearls, and tied beneath her
chin.
She saw him in a moment, the soft hazel eyes resting full on him--saw,
too, that he hesitated as though about to draw his horse away out of
her range of vision; then with a look she beckoned him to draw near
her carriage door, while through the window at the back of the vehicle
she made a sign to the first of the three footmen to have it stopped
against the _chaussee_.
And he, scarce knowing what to do--whether, indeed, to content himself
with coldly taking off his hat and avoiding her, or to obey her
glance, yet instinctively did the latter, and drew up to the window.
And in another moment the embroidered glove had been withdrawn from
her white hand, which was resting in his, while her eyes scanned his
sorrow-stricken face.
"Monsieur St. Georges honoured our poor house no more," she said, "ere
he quitted Troyes. Yet, considering all, it was not strange he should
not do so."
On his guard, since--believing though he did in her honour and in her
mother's--he could not forget she was a De Roquemaure, the kinswoman
of the devil who had already worked him so much ill, and might--nay,
would, if not thwarted--work so much more, he replied cautiously:
"'Considering all,' mademoiselle; you doubtless refer to----"
"Oh, monsieur," she said, "let there be no more cross purposes. I
know--I know as though I could see deep into your heart, beneath your
gorget, that--that--you couple us with my brother. And you know,"
while as she spoke she leaned forward so that her fair--yet, alas!
painted--face almost bent over his sleeve, and her clear, starlike
eyes gazed into his, "that he is your enemy; at least, you fear so."
"I know nothing," he replied, "except that all--all--in one case
suspicion in the other certainty--points to him. I know that when one,
whose part in the affair I cannot yet unravel, had my child"--he said
"my child" with a sob in his voice--"in his keeping, a vassal of De
Roquemaure's, clad in the russet livery of your house, and accompanied
by one of his master's lemans, slew him and stole her. I know that."
"One of his lemans!" she whispered, while over her face there crept a
blush deeper than the court-ordained paint--"one of his lemans! You
know that?"
"I know it," he replied. "Masked, too, as though, foul as she might
be, she still had some shame, dreaded to show her face in such
proceeding."
She seemed to be endeavouring to tame some emotion within her;
perhaps, as he thought, to prevent any sign of knowledge on her part
escaping from her by accident. Then she said, in a faint voice:
"Since you know that, you must know more. Oh, my God!" she exclaimed
suddenly--so suddenly that he started at her excitement. "I must
speak! Yet, Monsieur St. Georges, remember; it is the man's sister,
the child of the same father as himself, who speaks to you. Remember
that, I say, and listen. Though he stole your child, though his vassal
slew the man who had it in his keeping, though his _leman_--that I
should pronounce the word!--assisted that vassal, yet De Roquemaure
has not harmed it--will not harm it. Do you believe?"
"Tell me more. Where is it? It is mine, mine, mine!"
"Do you believe me, Monsieur St. Georges?--me, though I am his sister,
a De Roquemaure myself?"
His eyes looked back into hers now--looked deep into those pure,
clear, gray eyes; he hesitated no longer. She was his sister, was a De
Roquemaure, yet he believed.
"Yes," he said, "mademoiselle, I believe. I do believe."
Beneath the hateful, necessary carmine he saw the true blood show
itself as he spoke. He saw the honest, truthful eyes glisten--at least
no rococo monarch could cause them to be made vile!--he knew that his
words had satisfied her. He had an ally, a friend, here. And how
powerful such an ally might be! Yet he continued, his anxiety
overmastering all:
"But in pity, mademoiselle, not so much for me, her father, as her own
innocent, helpless little self--think of her, poor little babe, in
that man's--in any man's power!--tell me all you know. Tell me, I
implore."
What she would have said, what answered, he could not know. At that
moment there came forth from the inner court a troop of the mounted
gendarmerie, followed by an enormous carriage, three times the size of
that in which sat Mademoiselle de Roquemaure, covered with gilding. It
was the carriage of Louis Quatorze, who was about to proceed to Marly
for the night. Naturally, therefore, the vehicle in which Aurelie sat
was forced to go forward; naturally, also, St. Georges had to back his
horse to the side of the huge gateway, since no obstruction was
allowed to impede the gracious sovereign's progress. With a bow they
parted, therefore, she giving him one glance that might mean that
later on they would meet again, while her carriage proceeded as fast
as was possible in the direction of the already fashionable quarter of
St.-Germain.
And he, drawing aside, witnessed the passage of Louis ere he himself
proceeded to present himself to Louvois. He saw the king with his
great carriage full of ladies, saw the table inside it covered with
sweetmeats and fruit, saw the greatest monarch in Europe lolling back
alone on one seat, a dog upon his knees. And, as he bowed low before
his master, it seemed to him almost as if the king had distinguished
him from among the heterogeneous mass of people who thronged the
filthy footpath, and had looked at him an instant as though either
gazing on a familiar face or wondering where he had seen one like it
before.