FAREWELL HOPE!
"Madame," the waiting maid said to her the next afternoon, "the
gentleman is desirous of setting forth upon his journey again. He is
well now, he says, and he has far to ride."
"Well," said la baronne, glancing up from the lounge on which she lay
in her _salon_ and speaking in her usual cold tones, "he may go. What
is there to detain him? The surgeon says he is fit to travel, does he
not? His was but a fit from long riding in the sun."
"Yes, my lady--but----"
"But what?"
"My lady, he _is_ a gentleman--none can doubt that. He--he is desirous
to speak with you--to----"
"To speak with me?" and from her dark eyes there shot a gleam that the
woman before her did not understand. Nor did she understand why her
ladyship's colour left her face so suddenly. "To speak with me?"
"Yes, my lady. To, he says, thank you for your charity to him a
stranger--for your hospitality."
"My hospitality!" and she drew a long breath. Then, and it seemed to
the waiting maid as if her mistress had grown suddenly hoarse, "He
said that?"
"He said so, madame. He begged you would not refuse to let him make
the only return that lay in his power."
"I will not see him."
"Madame!"
"I will not see him--go--tell him so. No! Yet, stay, on further
consideration I will. Go. Bring him."
Left alone, she threw herself back once more on the cushions of her
lounge, muttering to herself: "After all," she said, "it is best. He
never saw my face on that night--the mask did not fall from it until
his back was turned--I remember it all well--Raoul's cry for
help--this one's determination--my blow. Ah, the blow! It should never
have been struck--yet--yet--otherwise he had slain Raoul. And," she
continued rapidly, for she knew that the man would be here in a
moment, "and I may find out if he knows who and what he is. If he
guesses also the fate in store for him."
Rapidly she went to a cabinet in this great _salon_, took out from it
a little dagger, and dropped it in the folds of her dress, muttering:
"It may be needed again. He may recognise me even after so long and in
such different surroundings," and then turned and faced the door at
which a knocking was now heard. A moment later St. Georges was in the
room.
Pale from the loss of blood he had sustained both from his fall and at
the surgeon's hands, and looking much worn by all he had suffered of
late--to say nothing of the two years of slavery he had undergone--he
still presented a figure that, to an ordinary woman, would have been
interesting and have earned her sympathy. His long hair was now
brushed carefully and fell in graceful folds behind; his face, if worn
and sad, was as handsome as it had ever been. Even his travel-stained
garments, now carefully cleaned and brushed, were not unbecoming to
him. And she, regarding him fixedly, felt at last a spark of
compunction rise in her bosom for all that she had done against him.
Yet it must be stifled, she knew. That very morning's work--a letter
to the commandant at the castle--had been sufficient to make all
regret unavailing now.
"Madame," he said, bending low before her with the courtesy of the
period, "I could not leave your house without desiring first to thank
you for the protection you have afforded me. And, poor and unknown as
I am, I yet beseech you to believe that my gratitude is very great.
You succoured me in my hour of need, madame; for that succour let me
thank you." And stooping his knee he courteously endeavoured to take
her hand.
But--none are all evil--even Nathalie de Louvigny would not suffer
that. Drawing back from him, she exclaimed instead: "Sir, you have
nothing to thank me for. I--I--what I did I should have done to any
whom I had found as you were."
He raised his eyes and looked at her. A chord or tone in her voice
seemed to recall something in the past, and she standing there divined
that such was the case. Then he said, quietly:
"Madame, I can well believe it. Charity does not discriminate in its
objects. Yet, since I so happened to be that object, I must thank you.
Madame, it is not probable that I shall ever visit Rambouillet again,
nor, indeed, France after a little while; let an----"
"Not visit France again!" she exclaimed, staring open-eyed at him.
"Are you not a Frenchman?"
"Madame, I was a Frenchman. I am so no longer. I have parted with
France forever. In another week, or as soon after that as possible, I
intend to quit France and never to return to it."
She took a step back from him, amazed--terrified. What had she done!
This man had renounced France forever--would have crossed her and
Raoul's path no more--have resigned all claim to all that was his. And
she had taken a step that would lead to his being detained in
France--that might, though his chance was remote, lead to his true
position being known. Yet, was it too late to undo that which she had
done? Was it?
She had bidden the officer in command at the _chateau_, who aspired to
her regard, send to her house that night and arrest a man who, she had
every reason to believe, had escaped from the galleys. Also she had
warned him to let no man pass the gate without complete explanation as
to who and what he was; and he had sent back word thanking her, and
saying that, provided the person of whom she spoke did not endeavour
to leave Rambouillet before sunset, he would have him arrested at her
house. She had done this in early morning; now the sunset was at hand.
Ere long the soldiers would be here, and he would be detained--would
speak--might be listened to. She had set the trap, and she herself was
snared in it.
Yet, she remembered, she wanted one other thing--revenge for the
opprobrious word he had applied to her long ago. If he quitted France
she must forego that. But need she forego it? He had spoken of himself
in lowly terms--was it possible he still did not know who he was, as
De Roquemaure had told her long ago he did not know then? The revenge
might still be hers if he knew nothing. She must find that out if she
could.
"Monsieur must have very little in France that he deems of worth," she
said, "since he is so desirous of quitting it. There are few of our
countrymen who willingly exchange the land of their birth for
another."
She had seated herself as she spoke before a table on which stood a
tall, thin vase filled with roses; and she caught now in her hands the
folds of the tablecloth, while he standing there before her saw these
signs of emotion. Also he observed that her eyes sparkled with an
unnatural light, and that her upper lip, owing to some nervous
contraction, was drawn back a little, so that her small white teeth
were very visible. And as he so observed her and noticed these things,
the certainty came to him that they had met before. But where? He
could not remember at first--could not recall where he had seen a
woman seated at a table as she was now seated, clutching the folds of
the cloth in her hands.
"My countrymen," he said, still vainly wondering, "have not often
suffered as I have suffered--have not such reasons, perhaps, for
quitting their native land forever."
"What reasons?" and as she spoke her nervousness was such that she
released the folds of the cloth which her left hand grasped, and with
that hand toyed with the slim vase before her which contained the
roses.
And this further action stirred his memory still more. When had he
seen a woman seated thus, her hand trifling first with a table cover,
then with some object on the table itself? When?
"Reasons so deep, so profound," he said, "that scarce any who knew of
them would be surprised at my resolve: a career cruelly blighted for
no fault of my own; my life attempted secretly, murderously; my little
child doomed to assassination; the wrongdoer in my power, a
treacherous stab from behind--" He paused amazed.
The woman's right hand--the left now gathering up the folds of the
cloth again in its small palm--had dropped to the side of her dress,
was thrust into a pocket in that side, was feeling for, perhaps
grasping, something within that pocket. That action aided remembrance
and cleared away all wonder. Swift as the lightning flashes, there
flashed to his recollection the woman who had sat at the table of the
inn--the woman whom, as he and De Roquemaure had once changed places
as they fought, he had seen seize the flask of wine with her left
hand, her right grasping her small dagger. _And this was the woman!_
The drawn-back lip, the glassy stare with which she regarded him in
the swift-coming darkness of the summer evening, all reproduced the
scene of that night--a scene which, until now, he had almost forgotten
amid the crowd of other events that had taken place since then.
Advancing a step nearer to her, so that he stood towering above, he
said, his voice deep and solemn:
"It is strange, madame, how we stand face to face once more--alone
together. Is it not? It was your hand dealt that stab!"
She could not answer him, could only regard him fixedly, her eyes
glaring as they had glared four years ago, and as they had glared not
four minutes since. Only now it was with the wild stare of fear added
to hate and fury, and not with hate and fury alone; also she kept
still her right hand in the fold of her dress.
"When last we met, madame," St. Georges continued, his voice low and
solemn as before, "you interfered between me and my vengeance on one
who had deeply wronged me. You had the power to do so, bore about you
a concealed weapon, and--used it! Have you one now?" and he pointed
with his finger to where her hand was.
Still she maintained silence--trembling all over and affrighted; even
the arm hanging down by her side with the hand in the pocket was
trembling too.
"Well," St. Georges said, "it matters not! I shall not give you a
second opportunity--shall not turn my back on you."
Then she spoke, roused by the contempt of those last words.
"I would not have struck at you," she said, "even though I loved De
Roquemaure--am his affianced wife when he returns from England----"
"When--he--returns--from England!" St. Georges repeated, astonished.
"Yes. His affianced wife." In her tremor she thought his disbelief of
this was the cause of his astonishment, never dreaming of how he had
last left her lover. "Not even for that love. But you had abused,
insulted me, called me wanton, suggested it was I who stole your
child. And you were very masterful, ordered us to follow you into the
inn, carried all before you, treated him like a dog, would have slain
him----"
"I have since learned I wronged you, at least; that it was
another--woman--who stole my child. But enough. We have met again,
madame, and--and--I must----"
"What!" she gasped, thinking he was about to slay her. "What will you
do to me?"
"Do!" he replied. "Do! What should I do?"
"God knows! Yet in mercy spare me! I am a woman," and overcome with
fear she cast herself at his feet. "Spare me--spare me."
"I do not understand you," St. Georges said, looking down disdainfully
at her. "I think, too, you do not understand me. I wish to do only one
thing now, to quit your presence and never set eyes on you again," and
without offering to assist her to her feet he backed toward the door.
But now--perhaps, because of the discovery that this man meant her no
harm, intended to exact no horrible atonement from her--a revulsion of
feeling took place in the woman's breast.
"No, no!" she cried, springing to her feet. "No, no! Do not go--for
God's sake do not attempt to quit the town yet! You will be lost--if
you are seen--lost, lost! Ah, heavens!" she screamed, for at that
moment there boomed a cannon from the _chateau_, "the sunset gun! The
sunset gun! It is too late!"
"What is too late?" he asked advancing toward her. "What?" And as he
spoke he seized her wrist. "Woman, what do you mean? Is this some
fresh plot, some new treachery? Answer me. Am I trapped--and by you?"
"No, no!" she wailed, afraid to tell what she had done, afraid that
even now, ere the soldiers should come, he would strangle the life out
of her, or thrust the sword he carried by his side through her heart.
"No, no! But it is known--they know--that you have been a
_galerien_--you will be arrested! The mark upon your shoulder is known
to the commandant."
"How?" he said, again seizing her by the arm. "How? Who knows it? Who?
Outside this house none can have seen it."
"Come!" she replied, not daring to answer him; "come, hide. They will
look for you here. Yet I can secrete you till the search is over. For
a week--months--if need be. Come."
"They know I am here! Through _you_?"
"No, no! The mark was seen when you lay insensible--ah!" she screamed
again. "See, see! it is too late! They are in the garden. It is too
late!"
It was true. Along the garden path to which the windows of her _salon_
opened, six soldiers were advancing led by a young officer. Across
their shoulders were slung their muskets; the officer carried his
drawn sword. And St. Georges looking from her to them knew that he was
snared, his freedom gone. Doubtless his life, too.
"Devil," he said to the woman as she reeled back to the lounge and
fell heavily on it--"devil, I thanked you too soon. Had I known,
dreamed of this, I would have slain you as you dreaded!"