THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
I
Ten minutes later Matthieu once more knocked discreetly at the door of
the library, and in response to Madame's call, he opened the door very
softly and peeped in.
"Leroux has returned," he said, instinctively dropping his voice, even
though he knew quite well that no eavesdroppers could be about.
"Where is he?" queried Madame.
"Just outside. Shall I show him in?"
"Yes. At once. Stay," she added, as Matthieu had already made haste to
obey. "Where is Mademoiselle de Courson?"
"In the garden, I think, Madame la Marquise. But I will go to see."
"No. Never mind now. But if you see Mademoiselle coming in, ask her to
go and wait for me in my room upstairs; then let me know immediately."
"Very good, Madame la Marquise."
Leroux was standing waiting in the hall, when Matthieu came to tell him
that Madame la Marquise would see him in the library. He shuffled into
the room, looking sulky and villainous, nor did he moderate his attitude
or assume the slightest show of respect when he found himself alone in
the presence of Madame. He did not remove his tricorne hat as he
entered, but merely pushed it with a nervy gesture to the back of his
head. The first word which he spoke was a curse, and he spat on the
carpet as he uttered it.
"Well?" queried Madame haughtily.
"Well!" he retorted with a leer.
She would have given worlds for the power to flare up at his
impertinence, but she and her friends were too deeply involved with the
brutish creature to venture on rousing his resentment at this hour, when
the very throne of the King of France rested on the insecure foundation
of a recreant's loyalty to a bond. The sinister aspect of the ex-convict
caused her to shudder; she longed for the presence of her brother or her
son to help her deal with the arrogant ruffian, to turn him from her
presence with the contumely which she felt, yet dared not express. At
the same time, she was longing, with a desperate, passionate
earnestness, to hear what he had come to say--she longed to hear him put
into actual words those thoughts of evil and of darkness which had
assailed her ever since Ronnay had gone and which she did not dare to
face. She felt like a man who has been mysteriously and grievously
wounded, who feels some awful pain which he has not yet had the chance
to locate, and knows that somewhere on his body there is a hideous and
gaping sore, unseen as yet by him, which is gnawing at his very life,
torturing him insidiously and hitherto only felt--not yet seen--by him.
And, like him, she felt that at all costs must she see that hidden wound
and realize exactly how deeply she was hurt.
Leroux, with keen, shifty eyes, was watching the play of emotions on
Madame's haughty face. His mouth was distorted by a hideous grin of
scorn and of arrogance. He knew well enough how completely he now had
all these scheming aristocrats at his mercy. One word from him and he
could send the lot to moulder in jail or else to the guillotine. But
strive how he might, he could not perceive one single trait of fear in
the cold, pale eyes which Madame kept fixed upon him; her calmness
irritated him, even though he knew well enough that it only lay on the
surface. An insensate desire seized him to see that proud lady cringe
with terror, to see her blanch when he made her understand plainly the
bond which existed between her and him.
"Why have you come back?" queried Madame after a while. "Have you not
realized that M. de Maurel might return, too, and that...?"
"Well," retorted Leroux fiercely, "and if he does ... you don't want him
in the way, I presume."
She made no reply, but lifted her handkerchief up to her mouth in order
to smother the cry which had so instinctively risen to her lips.
"I thought," resumed the man gruffly, "that you would wish to know that,
as far as I am concerned, the Maréchal's interference will not affect
our plans in any way. There's plenty of time between now and the close
of day to talk things over with my mates. Do not be afraid, my fine
lady, we are prepared for every eventuality."
"Prepared?" she asked, and her voice sounded choked and hoarse.
"Prepared?" she reiterated. "In what way do you mean?"
"Well, we must assume that the Maréchal is not coming down in force
to-night to turn me out of my Lodge, mustn't we?" he queried with a
snarl.
"No ... I suppose not," she replied vaguely.
"Well, then," he rejoined slowly, "we can deal with him easily enough if
he is alone--what?"
Once more Madame had to make a vigorous effort to repress a cry of
horror. The combat which she was fighting with herself while the
impudent wretch stood looking down on her, his hands buried in the
pockets of his breeches, his feet planted wide apart, his whole attitude
one of arrogance and of scorn--was, indeed, a bitter one. On one side
were ranged her fanatical enthusiasm for a cause which she held to be as
sacred as that of her faith, and her boundless belief in the efficacy of
the coup which had been planned for this night. To jeopardize its
success now at this eleventh hour, by allowing her sensibilities to
overmaster her, would in her eyes have been akin to the blackest, the
most dire treachery toward her King and her country.
Indeed, at this moment she was putting to pagan uses and misinterpreting
the dictum of the Gospel: "If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out."
She was wilfully closing her heart against every dictate of sentiment or
of motherhood. As she would have been ready--and more than ready--to
risk her own life for the sake of her cause, so was she willing to throw
into the balance of her King's cause the safety of a man who happened to
be in the way, even if at the same time he happened to be her son.
And Leroux, the servile tool in the nefarious work, knew exactly what
was passing in the proud lady's mind: he knew that she had understood
the covert hint which he had thrown out, and that by her very silence
she had acquiesced in his schemes.
He had no intention of relinquishing the ten thousand francs which had
been offered him because of that obstacle which he was more than ready
to sweep out of his path. Murderer, incendiary, thief, jail-bird and
convict!--what was a crime more or less upon the conscience of such a
man? Nor did he feel the slightest respect for these people who had
bribed him to do a monstrous treachery. Brute as he was, he was shrewd
enough to look upon them as his equals in villainy, and to realize that
they had far more to gain by the iniquitous deed which he contemplated
than he had himself.
And for a while there was silence in the room while this man and this
woman--the jail-bird and the high-born lady--looked straight into one
another's eyes and tacitly sealed a bond of fraternity between them. The
measured ticking of a clock upon the mantelpiece marked the passage of
time which separated this unspoken and monstrous compact from its
fulfilment by and by. A bundle of papers beneath Madame's hand rustled
with weird persistency, and suddenly Leroux gave a laugh, throwing back
his head and showing his ugly yellow teeth, and he shrugged his
shoulders and spat once more on the carpet ere he queried with
contemptuous familiarity:
"Then our plans are as they were--eh?"
"As they were," replied Madame.
The man turned on his heel and started whistling the old "_Ça ira_" of
Revolution times through his teeth.
"_Ça ira! Ça ira! Les aristos à la lanterne!_"
His hand was already on the handle of the door, when he looked once more
over his shoulder and said roughly:
"Your people are not going to leave me in the lurch, I suppose?"
"That is out of the question," replied Madame coldly.
"Because you know, my good woman," he said, still over his shoulder, as
he opened the door and stepped across the threshold, "if the Maréchal
gives us trouble to-night and your people fail us afterwards, it will
mean hanging for some of us."
He looked at Madame and nodded with studied insolence by way of
farewell. But she seemed to have forgotten his presence already. She sat
upright and stiff in the high-backed chair, the silk of her gown falling
in rigid folds around her, the darkness of her attire relieved by a
white scarf round her shoulders. Her face was set and pale beneath the
hard line of her white hair dressed in the mode of the past generation,
her eyes stared, unseeing, before her. Leroux laughed once more--it was
the scornful laugh of a hardened criminal for what he termed a
white-livered beginner. Once more he shrugged his shoulders, then with a
final muttered imprecation he stalked out of the hall.
II
The moment he had gone Madame pulled herself together with an almost
superhuman effort of will; she shook herself free from the torpor which
had momentarily paralysed her limbs, and, rising to her feet, she went
quickly to the door which Leroux had left ajar.
It had seemed to her that the moment when the man's shuffling footsteps
began to resound against the marble floor of the hall, he had uttered an
exclamation of surprise, and that exclamation from Leroux had at once
been followed by another sound--one soft and mournful like a sigh.
Less than five seconds later Madame was in the hall--just in time to see
Fernande walking rapidly across it toward the monumental glazed doors
which gave on the outside stairway and on the terraces.
"Fernande," she called authoritatively, "where are you going?"
Instinctively the young girl had paused when she heard her name, but it
was only for an instant; the next she had resumed her quick walk, and
had just reached the first glazed door when Madame overtook her and,
without warning, seized her peremptorily by the wrist.
"Where are you going, Fernande?" she reiterated harshly.
The girl looked round at her somewhat wildly, then she made a vigorous
effort to disengage her wrist.
"I am going out, _ma tante_," she replied, with a quietude which in no
way deceived Madame la Marquise.
"Out?" queried Madame. "Whither?"
"Into the garden, _ma tante_. The heat indoors is oppressive and...."
"You lie, Fernande," broke in Madame curtly.
"_Ma tante_...."
"You lie. Tell me where you are going."
Then, as the girl made no reply but drew up her slim, graceful figure to
its full height and looked fearlessly into the austere face of Madame de
Mortain, the latter continued sternly:
"Did you see Leroux just now?"
"Yes," replied Fernande quietly.
"And you heard what he said just as he was leaving?"
"Yes."
For a moment or two longer the two women stood looking keenly into one
another's eyes. The vast château was solitary and still; not a sound
came from within, and the heavy doors shut out effectually all the many
sounds which fill the air on a warm, midsummer afternoon: the call of
thrush and blackbird, the distant croaking of frogs and cooing of
wood-pigeons, the flutter of parched leaves upon the tiny boughs and
tripping of unseen little beasts through thicket and shrubbery.
It was Madame whose eyes were the first to veil themselves behind their
heavy lids, in order to conceal the thoughts within from the searching
gaze of the younger woman. The next moment Fernande was free to go;
Madame no longer held her wrist.
"I will not ask you again, my child, whither you are going," she said
quietly. "Since first the rising nations were torn between conflicting
parties of men who had divergent aims there have been traitors as well
as heroes in the world."
"_Ma tante_...."
"Listen to me, my child, for at this supreme moment of your whole
existence you are standing at the parting of the ways, at the
cross-roads where many a woman has stood before you, hesitating at the
two turnings which faced her on the tortuous path of life. Many a woman
before you has taken the wrong turning, Fernande. Take care that you do
not do the same and for ever after weep endless tears of remorse and of
shame."
"I would indeed weep bitter tears, _ma tante_," retorted the girl
firmly, "if I were to allow the monstrous outrage to be perpetrated
which that dastardly wretch hath even now set out to do."
"You rave, Fernande," rejoined Madame quietly, "and 'tis not my purpose
to probe into the thoughts which are leading you at this moment into the
path of treachery."
"There is no treachery, _ma tante_, in warning an unsuspecting man that
a murderer's hand is raised against him in the dark."
"You talk at random, child, and your ears deceived you if you attribute
such intentions to Leroux."
"In any event, _ma tante_, will you send a runner over to M. de Puisaye
and let him know what has occurred?"
"What has occurred?" queried Madame, with a slight lift of her eyebrow
in token of contemptuous surprise. "What--in your estimation--has
occurred, my dear Fernande, that would justify my upsetting M. de
Puisaye at this hour?"
"Will you let M. de Puisaye know that M. de Maurel will be at the
factory to-night?"
"Why should I? In what way do you suppose that M. de Maurel's comings
and goings can possibly affect the business of His Majesty the King, or
the plans which his faithful adherents have formed for the triumph of
his cause?"
"_Ma tante_," protested Fernande, with all the fervour and all the
strength at her command, "you know quite well what I mean. M. de Puisaye
must be told that if M. de Maurel goes to the factory to-night, Leroux
has it in him to commit a dastardly murder."
"M. de Puisaye cannot obviously prevent M. de Maurel from going to his
own factory to-night."
"No. But he can prevent the dastardly deed from being accomplished."
"It is not for me to try and influence the actions of our chiefs."
"It is for every woman--every human being who has a spark of loyalty and
Christianity in them--to try and prevent murder being done."
For the space of a second or two Madame made no retort; there was a cold
glance of mockery in her eyes. Then she said slowly:
"Had you perchance thought of confronting M. de Puisaye yourself and
trying to turn him from his purpose by your wild and incredible tales?
Let me assure you, child, that our chief is not the man to allow one
life--and that the life of our bitter enemy--to stand in the way of His
Majesty's cause and of its success."
"_Ma tante!_" exclaimed Fernande in horror.
"Of a truth, child," rejoined Madame coldly, "I do but waste my time in
arguing with you. You are self-willed and obstinate, and in your heart
you have chosen to range yourself on the side of the enemy of your King
and of your kindred. Therefore, I will not argue. 'Tis for you to probe
your heart, and find out for yourself how much disloyalty doth lurk in
it against Laurent, against your father, against all your friends. With
that I have nothing to do. In the happy times which are so near to us
now, when the King of France comes to his throne again through the
self-sacrifice and the heroism of those whom in your heart you proclaim
murderers and outcasts--when that happy time comes, I say, repentance
will come with it for you. Until then nothing I may say now will turn
you back to the path of loyalty. But let me tell you this, Fernande,"
continued Madame with desperate earnestness, "that whatever you may
think, whatever you may suspect, whatever you may fear, if you speak one
word of warning to Ronnay de Maurel you will not only be betraying the
cause of your King and of your country, but you will also betray your
father, your lover--every one of your kindred and your friends. Your
father, M. de Puisaye and Laurent are in camp at this moment in the
Cerf-Volant woods on the other side of Mortain; within the next few
hours they will have started upon their march: Laurent for Domfront, M.
de Puisaye for La Frontenay, your father to carry out the surprise
attack against the garrison of Mortain. If the slightest alarm be given
to the garrison of Domfront--and you may be sure that after your
warning, that is one of the first things which Ronnay de Maurel will
do--Laurent will be the first to fall into the _guet-apens_ which you
will have been the means of preparing for him; with Laurent's failure to
surprise that garrison, your father's attack on Mortain is bound to
fail. Domfront will warn Mortain; your father's small force will be cut
up, he himself either killed or a prisoner in the hands of the
Imperialist forces, with the prospect of the guillotine or, at best,
deportation before him. Of myself I will not even speak, and will leave
you to imagine the fate which will await M. de Puisaye on his march
hither, once de Maurel's five thousand works men are prepared against
his coming. The catastrophe of 1800, when Cadoudal and all his followers
perished for our cause, will be repeated once again; and this time the
fate of your kindred, of your lover and of your father, will be laid at
your door, their blood will sully your hands. To save the man whom in
your treacherous heart you have come to set above your King and your
caste, you will have sacrificed your father, the lives of your nearest
kin and the honour of your name. And now, child," she concluded calmly,
"thank God on your knees that I was here in time to save you from
committing a crime, beside which in the years to come the foulest
betrayal that hath ever blackened the pages of our country's history
will seem like the thoughtless prank of a child. I'll say no more,
Fernande. You are free to take the turning which your heart will
indicate."
The harsh, strident voice resounded from end to end of the vast hall; it
beat against Fernande's brain long after the marble walls had ceased to
send back its echo. Madame gathered her heavy silk skirts around her and
then, without another word, without another look for the unhappy girl on
whose finest feelings she had so ruthlessly trampled, she sailed across
the hall and up the monumental staircase, and her soft footfall alone
went echoing now through the silent house.
For a few moments Fernande remained quite still ... white and rigid like
the marble pillars around her; only her mouth twitched convulsively, and
there was a look of mute agony in her face. The swish of Madame's skirts
soon ceased to resound from above; after a while Fernande's straining
senses heard the opening and shutting of a door ... then nothing
more--silence absolute, and the utter solitude of a soul that is
irrevocably parted from its mate.
A heartrending sob broke from the unfortunate girl's overburdened
heart. She staggered forward and, pushing open the heavy glazed door,
she ran like one pursued down the monumental stone steps which led to
the garden beyond. She ran--looking neither to right or left--across the
terrace to a distant shrubbery which screened her favourite walk and a
seat whereon she liked to sit and dream. As soon as she felt that she
was quite alone, and that no prying eyes could look upon her misery, she
fell on her knees, and throwing her arms over the seat, she buried her
head between them.
"Oh, my God!" she moaned. "Dear God! tell me what to do! Give me some
sign--a word--a token! Oh, my God! have mercy! Tell me what to do! Tell
me which road to take!"