CHAPTER XXIX.
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 château, 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 château, "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 galérien– 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!"
CHAPTER XXX.
"IT IS TRUE."
The windows of the salon giving on to the crushed-shell path of the Hôtel de Louvigny had been open all day to let in the air, and the handsomely apparelled young officer of the Régiment de Grancé, stationed at Rambouillet, was enabled therefore to at once enter the room, leaving his men outside. Yet as he did so he seemed bewildered and astonished at the sight which met his eyes.
Lying fainting, gasping, on her couch was Madame de Louvigny —la belle Louvigny as they called her, and toasted her nightly in the guardroom – standing over her was a man, white to the lips, his hands clinched, his whole form and face expressing horror and contempt.
"Pardie!" the young fellow muttered between his lips, "I have interrupted a little scene, un roman d'amour! Bon Dieu the lover has detected madame in some little infidelity, and – and – has had a moment of vivacity. Yet 'tis not my fault. Devoir avant tout," and as he muttered the motto of the noble house to which he belonged – perhaps as an aid in that devoir– he advanced into the room after bidding his men remain where he had stationed them.
"Madame la baronne will pardon my untimely appearance," he muttered in the most courtly manner, and with a comprehensive bow of much ease and grace which included St. Georges, "but my orders were – what – madame herself knows. Otherwise I should regret even more my presence here."
She, still on the lounge, her face buried in her Valenciennes handkerchief, was as yet unable to utter a word —he, standing before her, never removed his eyes from her. The officer's words had confirmed what he suspected – what he knew.
"But," continued the lieutenant, "madame will excuse. I have my orders to obey. The man she mentioned to the commandant has not yet endeavoured to pass the barrier – is it madame's desire that her house should be searched?"
She raised her head from the couch as he spoke, not daring to cast a glance at him whom she had betrayed to his doom. Then she said, her voice under no control and broken. "No. He is not here. He – has escaped."
"Escaped, madame? Impossible! Rambouillet is too small even for him to be in hiding – he – "
"Has not escaped," St. Georges said, turning suddenly on the officer. "On the contrary, he has been betrayed. I am the man."
"You! Madame's – " and he left his sentence unfinished. "You! Here alone with her, and a galérien!"
"Yes – I."
It was useless, he knew, to do aught than give himself up. Escape was impossible. It was known, must be known in this small town, that he was the only stranger who had entered it lately; nor did he doubt that when the treacherous creature had informed against him she had described him thoroughly. Even though now she lied to save him, it would be of no avail. He could not remain in her house, hide in it as she had suggested, take shelter from her. From her! No! even the galleys – or the gallows – were better than that.
"I regret to hear it," the officer said, "since monsieur appears to be a friend of madame la baronne. Yet, under the circumstances, monsieur will not refuse to accompany me."
"I will accompany you."
Whatever the young fellow may have thought of the man who was now in his custody – and what he did think was that he was some old lover of la belle Louvigny who had either cast her off, or been cast off by her, and had reappeared at an awkward moment, so that she had taken an effectual manner of disposing of him – he at least did not show it. But for her he testified his contempt in a manner that was unmistakable. He motioned to St. Georges to precede him to the open window where his men were, and, putting on his hat before he had quitted the room, he strode after his prisoner without casting a glance at the woman.
But as they neared the window, and were about to step on to the path, St. Georges stopped and, addressing him, said: "Sir, grant me one moment's further grace, I beg of you. Ere I go I have a word to say to madame."
Courteous as he had been all through – to him – the young fellow shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, raised no objection, and lounged by the open window, while St. Georges returned to where she still crouched upon the lounge. Yet, as she heard his footsteps nearing her, she looked up with terror-stricken eye, and shrunk back even further into its ample depths. The officer had not demanded his sword, it hung still by his side; her craven heart feared that in his last moment allowed to him he might wrench it from its sheath and punish her for her treachery. But, as she learned a moment later, he had a worse punishment in store for her than that.
"You have sent me to my doom," he said, gazing down on her, "yet, ere I go, hear what has been the doom of another – as vile as you yourself – "
In an instant she had sprung to her feet, was standing panting before him, one hand upon her heart, the other by her side in the folds of her dress. "Vile as she herself," he had said. "Vile as she herself!" To whom else but De Roquemaure could such words apply when issuing from that man's lips?
"The doom of another!" she hissed, repeating those words; "the doom of another – of whom?"
And again on her face there was now the look – the canine look – that had been there before – the lip drawn back, the small teeth showing, the threatening glance in the eyes.
"Of whom but one! Who else but your vile partner" – the young officer, of noble race as he was, and steeped in good breeding, could scarce refrain from being startled at those words – "the man you say you love? Well, love him! Only learn this, you have nothing but his memory to love. He is dead! – "
With a scream that rang not only through the salon, but the house also, and penetrated out into the cool garden beyond – a scream that caused the lieutenant to start toward them, and his men to peer into the room – she sprang at him, her right hand raised now, and in it the dagger she had so long concealed.
"Beware!" the officer cried. "Beware, she is dangerous!" And, even as he spoke, she struck full at St. Georges's breast with the knife.
"Bah!" he exclaimed, thrusting aside her upraised arm with the hand in which, all through the interview with her, he had held his hat – thrusting it aside with such force that she almost staggered and fell. "Bah! you mistake, woman. Did you think it was my back again at which you struck?"
The room was full of servants now; her own waiting maid and one or two of the lackeys busy about the house, preparing a little supper madame had intended giving that night to a few admirers, had rushed in at her scream; and now the former stood behind and half supported her while she muttered incoherent sounds amid which the words only could be caught, "You slew him! – at last!"
"Nay," he said, standing still in front of her, calm and sinister; "such satisfaction was not granted me, nor so easy an ending to him. The English who drove Tourville's fleet to its doom at La Hogue did their work effectively. Each ship, each transport, found by them was blown out of the water; in one of those transports, named the Vendôme, he was blown up, too. I was there but a little while before it exploded; I saw its fragments and all within it hurled into space. I think, madame, my doom is scarce worse than his."
With another shriek, as piercing as the first, she threw her arms above her head, then fell an insensible mass into the serving woman's arms. And St. Georges, turning to the young officer, said:
"Sir, I am at your service."
They took him that night to the Château de Rambouillet, he marching with three of the soldiers in front of and three behind him, the young officer by his side. And this scion of nobility, one of the De Mortemarts, testified by his actions that night that the French good breeding of the great monarch's day was no mere outward show. He permitted his prisoner to still retain his sword, and he walked by his side instead of ahead of his men, because he did not desire that those whom in his mind he considered the canaille should make any observations upon that prisoner as they passed through the streets. Moreover, wherever a knot of persons were gathered together in any corner he affected a smiling exterior, so that they should be induced to suppose that St. Georges was an ordinary acquaintance accompanying him.
"Sir," said the latter, observing all this, "you are very good to me. You make what I have to bear as light as possible."
"It is nothing, nothing," the lieutenant replied. "I only wish it had not fallen to my lot to undertake so unpleasant a duty. By the way, I suppose it is true, as she told the commandant! You have, unfortunately known – been – at the galleys?"
"It is true."
"Tiens! A pity. A thousand pities! Above all, that you should have encountered that she-devil. Well, I am glad you had those hard words with her. Ma foi! she is a tigress! I only hope you may escape from – from other things – as you did from her dagger."
The commandant – who was also the colonel of the Régiment de Grancé – was, however, a different style of man from his lieutenant – a man who from long service in the army had become rough and harsh; also, like many men commanding regiments under Louis, he had risen solely by his military qualifications, and owed nothing to birth or influence.
He listened, however, very attentively to all De Mortemart told him of the scene that had taken place, and especially as to how the Baronne de Louvigny – to whom he himself was paying court, as has been told – had evidently had some lover whose existence he had never suspected; and then he sent for St. Georges, who was brought into his presence by De Mortemart himself.
"So," he said, "you are an escaped galérien, monsieur. Well! You know what happens to them when retaken!"
"I know."
"What was your crime?"
"Nothing – except serving the king as a soldier."
"As a soldier!" he and De Mortemart exclaimed together, while the former continued, "In what capacity?"
"As lieutenant in the Chévaux-Légers of Nivernois."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the commandant. "A picked regiment, and commanded by De Beauvilliers —n'est-ce pas?"
"He was my colonel."
"Come," said the other, relaxing his stern method of addressing St. Georges, and warming toward him, unknowingly to himself by the fact that this man in such dire distress was a comrade and had served in a corps d'élite– "come, tell us your history. We cannot help you – there is but one thing to do, namely, to send you to Paris for inquiry; but until you go we can at least make your existence here more endurable."
So St. Georges told them his story.
All through it both his listeners testified their sympathy – De Mortemart especially, by many exclamations against De Roquemaure and his sister, and also against la belle Louvigny – while the colonel spoke approvingly of the manner in which St. Georges had almost avenged himself on his foe in the inn. The description, too, of his existence in the galleys moved both young and old soldier alike; it was only when he arrived at the account of the destruction of Tourville's fleet that they ceased to make any remark and sat listening to him in silence.
It was finished, however, now, and when the colonel spoke his voice was more cold and unsympathetic.
"You have ruined yourself by the last month's work," he said. "I am afraid you can never recover from that. Did you not know that his Majesty has made it a rule that none who have served him shall ever take service under a foreign power and dare to venture into France again?"
"I know it," St. Georges said, "and I must abide by my fate. Yet, my child was here. I was forced to come, and there was no other way but this."
One thing only he had not told them, the story of what he believed to be his birth, the belief he held that he was the Duc de Vannes. Nor, he determined then – had, indeed, long since determined – would he ever publish that belief now. Had he kept his freedom until he had once more regained Dorine, it was his intention to have repassed to England and never again to have recalled that supposed birthright, or, as the child grew up, to have let her obtain any knowledge on the subject. He would work for her, slave for her, if necessary become tutor, or soldier, or sailor, as Fate might decree; but it must be as an Englishman, and with all connection with France broken forever.
And now, a prisoner, a man who would ere long be tried as an ex-galérien, as – if De Mortemart and the colonel did not hold their peace – a Frenchman who had joined England and helped her in administering the most crushing blow to France which she had suffered for centuries – he would never see his child again; what need, therefore, to publish his belief?
The hope that had sustained him for years was gone; the prayer he had uttered by night and day, that once more he might hold his little child in his arms and cherish and succour her, was gone, too; they would never meet again. Let him go, therefore, to his doom unknown, and, so going, pass away and be forgotten. And it might be that, with him removed, God would see fit to temper to his child the adversity that had fallen to his own lot.