CHAPTER LXXXVI.
DOUBT.
Henri descended the staircase, and as he passed through theantechambers, observed many officers of his acquaintance, who ranforward to meet him, and, with many marks of friendship, offered to showhim the way to his brother's apartments, which were situated at one ofthe angles of the chateau. It was the library that the duke had givenJoyeuse to reside in during his residence at Chateau-Thierry.
Two salons, furnished in the style of Francois the First, communicatedwith each other, and terminated in the library, the latter apartmentlooking out on the gardens.
His bed had been put up in the library. Joyeuse was of an indolent, yetof a cultivated turn of mind. If he stretched out his arm he laid hishand on science; if he opened the windows he could enjoy the beauties ofnature. Finer and superior organizations require more satisfyingenjoyments; and the morning breeze, the song of birds, or the perfumesof flowers, added fresh delight to the triplets of Clement Marot, or tothe odes of Rousard.
Henri determined to leave everything as it was, not because he wasinfluenced by the poetic sybaritism of his brother, but, on thecontrary, from indifference, and because it mattered little to himwhether he was there or elsewhere.
But as the count, in whatever frame of mind he might be, had beenbrought up never to neglect his duty or respect toward the king or theprinces of the royal family of France, he inquired particularly in whatpart of the chateau the prince had resided since his return.
By mere accident, in this respect, Henri met with an excellent ciceronein the person of the young ensign, who, by some act of indiscretion oranother, had, in the little village in Flanders where we represented thepersonages in this tale as having halted for a moment, communicated thecount's secret to the prince. This ensign had not quitted the prince'sside since his return, and could inform Henri very accurately on thesubject.
On his arrival at Chateau-Thierry, the prince had at first entered upona course of reckless dissipation. At that time he occupied the stateapartments of the chateau, had receptions morning and evening, and wasengaged during the day stag-hunting in the forest; but since theintelligence of Aurilly's death, which had reached the prince withoutits being known from what source, the prince had retired to a pavilionsituated in the middle of the park. This pavilion, which was an almostinaccessible retreat except to the intimate associates of the prince,was hidden from view by the dense foliage of the surrounding trees, andcould hardly be perceived above their lofty summits, or through thethick foliage of the hedges.
It was to this pavilion that the prince had retired during the last fewdays. Those who did not know him well said that it was Aurilly's deathwhich had made him betake himself to this solitude; while those who werewell acquainted with his character pretended that he was carrying out inthis pavilion some base or infamous plot, which some day or anotherwould be revealed to light.
A circumstance which rendered either of these suppositions much moreprobable was, that the prince seemed greatly annoyed whenever a matterof business or a visit summoned him to the chateau; and so decidedly wasthis the case, that no sooner had the visit been received, or the matterof business been dispatched, than he returned to his solitude, where hewas waited upon only by the two old valets-de-chambre who had beenpresent at his birth.
"Since this is the case," observed Henri, "the fetes will not be verygay if the prince continue in this humor."
"Certainly," replied the ensign, "for every one will know how tosympathize with the prince's grief, whose pride as well as whoseaffections had been so smitten."
Henri continued his interrogatories without intending it, and took astrange interest in doing so. The circumstance of Aurilly's death, whomhe had known at the court, and whom he had again met in Flanders; thekind of indifference with which the prince had announced the loss he hadmet with; the strict seclusion in which it was said the prince had livedsince his death--all this seemed to him, without his being able toassign a reason for his belief, as part of that mysterious and darkenedweb wherein, for some time past, the events of his life had been woven.
"And," inquired he of the ensign, "it is not known, you say, how theprince became acquainted with the news of the death of Aurilly?"
"No."
"But surely," he insisted, "people must talk about it?"
"Oh! of course," said the ensign; "true or false, you know, peoplealways will talk."
"Well, then, tell me what it is."
"It is said that the prince was hunting under the willows close besidethe river, and that he had wandered away from the others who werehunting also, for everything he does is by fits and starts, and hebecomes as excited in the field as at play, or under fire, or under theinfluence of grief, when suddenly he was seen returning with a facescared and as pale as death.
"The courtiers questioned him, thinking that it was nothing more than amere incident of the hunting-field.
"He held two rouleaux of gold in his hand.
"'Can you understand this, messieurs?' he said, in a hard dry voice;'Aurilly is dead; Aurilly has been eaten by the wolves.'
"Every one immediately exclaimed.
"'Nay, indeed,' said the prince; 'may the foul fiend take me if it benot so; the poor lute-player had always been a far better musician thana horseman. It seems that his horse ran away with him, and that he fellinto a pit, where he was killed; the next day a couple of travelers whowere passing close to the pit discovered his body half eaten by thewolves; and a proof that the affair actually did happen, as I haverelated it, and that robbers have nothing whatever to do with the wholematter is, that here are two rouleaux of gold which he had about him,and which have been faithfully restored.'
"However, as no one had been seen to bring these two rouleaux of goldback," continued the ensign, "it is supposed that they had been handedto the prince by the two travelers who, having met and recognized hishighness on the banks of the river, had announced the intelligence ofAurilly's death."
"It is very strange," murmured Henri.
"And what is more strange still," continued the ensign, "is, that it issaid--can it be true, or is it merely an invention?--it is said, Irepeat, that the prince was seen to open the little gate of the parkclose to the chestnut trees, and that something like two shadows passedthrough that same gate. The prince then introduced two persons into thepark--probably the two travelers; it is since that occasion that theprince has retired into his pavilion, and we have only been able to seehim by stealth."
"And has no one seen these two travelers?" asked Henri.
"As I was proceeding to ask the prince the password for the night, forthe sentinels on duty at the chateau, I met a man who did not seem to meto belong to his highness's household, but I was unable to observe hisface, the man having turned aside as soon as he perceived me, and havinglet down the hood of his cloak over his eyes."
"The hood of his cloak, do you say?"
"Yes; the man looked like a Flemish peasant, and reminded me, I hardlyknow why, of the person by whom you were accompanied when we met outyonder."
Henri started; the observation seemed to him in some way connected withthe profound and absorbing interest with which the story inspired him;to him, too, who had seen Diana and her companion confided to Aurilly,the idea occurred that the two travelers who had announced to the princethe death of the unfortunate lute-player were acquaintances of his own.
Henri looked attentively at the ensign.
"And when you fancied you recognized this man, what was the idea thatoccurred to you, monsieur?" he inquired.
"I will tell you what my impression was," replied the ensign; "however,I will not pretend to assert anything positively; the prince has not, inall probability, abandoned all idea with regard to Flanders; hetherefore maintains spies in his employ. The man with the woolenovercoat is a spy, who, on his way here, may possibly have learned theaccident which had happened to the musician, and may thus have been thebearer of two pieces of intelligence at the same time."
"Tha
t is not improbable," said Henri, thoughtfully; "but what was thisman doing when you saw him?"
"He was walking beside the hedge which borders the parterre--you can seethe hedge from your windows--and was making toward the conservatories."
"You say, then, that the two travelers, for I believe you stated therewere two--"
"Others say that two persons were seen to enter, but I only saw one, theman in the overcoat."
"In that case, then, you have reason to believe that the man in theovercoat, as you describe him, is living in the conservatories."
"It is not unlikely."
"And have these conservatories a means of exit?"
"Yes, count, toward the town."
Henri remained silent for some time; his heart was throbbing mostviolently, for these details, which were apparently matters ofindifference to him, who seemed throughout the whole of this mystery asif he were gifted with the power of prevision, were, in reality, full ofthe deepest interest for him.
Night had in the meantime closed in, and the two young men wereconversing together without any light in Joyeuse's apartment.
Fatigued by his journey, oppressed by the strange events which had justbeen related to him, unable to struggle against the emotions which theyhad aroused in his breast, the count had thrown himself on his brother'sbed, and mechanically directed his gaze toward the deep blue heavensabove him, which seemed set as with diamonds.
The young ensign was seated on the ledge of the window, and voluntarilyabandoned himself to that listlessness of thought, to that poeticreverie of youth, to that absorbing languor of feeling, which the balmyfreshness of evening inspires.
A deep silence reigned throughout the park and the town; the gates wereclosed, the lights were kindled by degrees, the dogs in the distancewere barking in their kennels at the servants, on whom devolved the dutyof shutting up the stables in the evening.
Suddenly the ensign rose to his feet, made a sign of attention with hishead, leaned out of the window, and then, calling in a quick, low toneto the count, who was reclining on the bed, said:
"Come, come!"
"What is the matter?" Henri inquired, arousing himself by a strongeffort from his reverie.
"The man! the man!"
"What man?"
"The man in the overcoat, the spy!"
"Oh!" exclaimed Henri, springing from the bed to the window, and leaningon the ensign.
"Stay," continued the ensign; "do you see him yonder? He is creepingalong the hedge; wait a moment, he will show himself again. Now looktoward that spot which is illuminated by the moon's rays, there he is;there he is."
"Yes."
"Do you not think he is a sinister-looking fellow?"
"Sinister is the very word," replied Du Bouchage, in a gloomy voice.
"Do you believe he is a spy?"
"I believe nothing, and yet I believe everything."
"See, he is going from the prince's pavilion to the conservatories."
"The prince's pavilion is in that direction, then?" inquired DuBouchage, indicating with his finger the direction from which thestranger appeared to be proceeding.
"Do you see that light whose rays are trembling through the leaves ofthe trees."--"Well?"
"That is the dining-room."
"Ah!" exclaimed Henri, "see, he makes his appearance again."
"Yes, he is no doubt going to the conservatories to join his companion?Did you hear that?"
"What?"
"The sound of a key turning in the lock."
"It is singular," said Du Bouchage; "there is nothing unusual in allthis, and yet--"
"And yet you are trembling, you were going to say?"
"Yes," said the count; "but what is that?"
The sound of a bell was heard.
"It is the signal for the supper of the prince's household; are yougoing to join us at supper, count?"
"No, I thank you, I do not require anything; and, if I should feelhungry, I will call for what I may need."
"Do not wait for that, monsieur; but come and amuse yourself in oursociety."
"Nay, nay, it is impossible."
"Why so?"
"His royal highness almost directed me to have what I should need servedto me in my own apartment; but do not let me delay you."
"Thank you, count, good-evening; do not lose sight of our phantom."
"Oh! rely upon me for that; unless," added Henri, who feared he mighthave said too much, "unless, indeed, I should be overtaken by sleep,which seems more than probable, and a far more healthy occupation thanthat of watching shadows and spies."
"Certainly," said the ensign, laughingly, as he took leave of Henri duBouchage.
Hardly had he quitted the library than Henri darted into the garden.
"Oh!" he murmured, "it is Remy! it is Remy! I should know him again inthe darkness of hell itself."
And the young man, as he felt his knees tremble beneath him, buried hisburning forehead in his cold damp hands.
"Great Heaven!" he cried, "is not this rather a phantasy of my poorfevered brain, and is it not written that in my slumbering and in mywaking moments, day and night, I should ever see those two figures whohave made so deep and dark a furrow in my life?
"Why," he continued, like a man aware of the need that exists ofconvincing himself, "why, indeed, should Remy be here in this chateau,while the Duc d'Anjou is here? What is his motive in coming here? Whatcan the Duc d'Anjou possibly have to do with Remy? And why should hehave quitted Diana--he, who is her eternal companion? No; it is not he."
Then, again, a moment afterward, a conviction, thorough, profound,almost instinctive in its nature, seemed to overcome all the doubts hehad entertained.
"It is he! it is he!" he murmured, in utter despair, and leaning againstthe wall to save himself from falling. As he finished giving utteranceto this overpowering, overwhelming thought, which seemed to crush allothers in his mind, the sharp sound of the lock was again heard, and,although the sound was almost imperceptible, his overexcited sensesdetected it instantly. An indefinable shudder ran through the youngman's whole frame; again he listened with eager attention. So profound asilence reigned around him on every side that he could hear thethrobbings of his own heart. A few minutes passed away without anythinghe expected making its appearance. In default of his eyes, however, hisears told him that some one was approaching, for he heard the sound ofthe gravel under the advancing footsteps. Suddenly the straight blackline of the hedge seemed broken; he imagined he saw upon this darkbackground a group still darker moving along.
"It is he returning again," murmured Henri. "Is he alone, or is some onewith him?"
The objects advanced from the side where the silver light of the moonhad illuminated a space of open ground. It was at the very moment when,advancing in the opposite direction, the man in the overcoat crossedthis open space, that Henri fancied he recognized Remy. This time Henriobserved two shadows very distinctly; it was impossible he could bemistaken. A death-like chill struck to his heart, and seemed to haveturned it to marble.
The two shadows walked quickly along, although with a firm step; theformer was dressed in a woolen overcoat, and at the appearance of thesecond apparition, as at that of the first, the count fancied herecognized Remy.
The second, who was completely enveloped in a large man's cloak, seemedto defy every attempt at recognition.
And yet, beneath that cloak, Henri fancied he could detect what no humaneye could have possibly seen.
He could not control a deep bitter groan of despair, and no sooner hadthe two mysterious personages disappeared behind the hedge than theyoung man darted after them, and stealthily glided from one group oftrees to another, in the wake of those whom he was so anxious todiscover.
"Oh!" he murmured, as he stole along, "do I not indeed deceive myself?Oh! Heaven, can it really be possible?"