CHAPTER XL. QUOTH THE RAVEN, "NEVERMORE!"
It was the eve of St. Michael. A quiet autumnal night brooded overthe forest of Beaumanoir. The moon, in her wane, had risen late, andstruggled feebly among the broken clouds that were gathering slowly inthe east, indicative of a storm. She shed a dim light through the gladesand thickets, just enough to discover a path where the dark figure ofa woman made her way swiftly and cautiously towards the Chateau of theIntendant.
She was dressed in the ordinary costume of a peasant-woman, and carrieda small basket on her arm, which, had she opened it, would have beenfound to contain a candle and a bouquet of fresh roses carefully coveredwith a paper of silver tissue,--nothing more. An honest peasant-womanwould have had a rosary in her basket, but this was no honest-peasantwoman, and she had none.
The forest was very still,--it was steeped in quietness. The rustlingof the dry leaves under the feet of the woman was all she heard, exceptwhen the low sighing of the wind, the sharp bark of a fox, or the shriekof an owl, broke the silence for a moment, and all was again still.
The woman looked watchfully around as she glided onwards. The pathwas known to her, but not so familiarly as to prevent the necessityof stopping every few minutes to look about her and make sure she wasright.
It was long since she had travelled that way, and she was looking for alandmark--a gray stone that stood somewhere not far from where she was,and near which she knew that there was a footpath that led, not directlyto the Chateau, but to the old deserted watch-tower of Beaumanoir.
That stone marked a spot not to be forgotten by her, for it was thememorial of a deed of wickedness now only remembered by herself andby God. La Corriveau cared nothing for the recollection. It was notterrible to her, and God made no sign; but in his great book of account,of which the life of every man and woman forms a page, it was writtendown and remembered.
On the secret tablets of our memory, which is the book of our life,every thought, word, and deed, good or evil, is written down indeliblyand forever; and the invisible pen goes on writing day after day, hourafter hour, minute after minute, every thought, even the idlest, everyfancy the most evanescent: nothing is left out of our book of life whichwill be our record in judgment! When that book is opened and no secretsare hid, what son or daughter of Adam is there who will not need to say,"God be merciful?"
La Corriveau came suddenly upon the gray stone. It startled her, for itsrude contour, standing up in the pale moonlight, put on the appearanceof a woman. She thought she was discovered, and she heard a noise; butanother glance reassured her. She recognized the stone, and the noiseshe had heard was only the scurrying of a hare among the dry leaves.
The habitans held this spot to be haunted by the wailing spirit ofa woman in a gray robe, who had been poisoned by a jealous lover. LaCorriveau gave him sweatmeats of the manna of St. Nicholas, whichthe woman ate from his hand, and fell dead at his feet in thistrysting-place, where they met for the last time. The man fled to theforest, haunted by a remorseful conscience, and died a retributivedeath: he fell sick, and was devoured by wolves. La Corriveau alone ofmortals held the terrible secret.
La Corriveau gave a low laugh as she saw the pale outline of the womanresolve itself into the gray stone. "The dead come not again!" mutteredshe, "and if they do she will soon have a companion to share hermidnight walks round the Chateau!" La Corriveau had no conscience; sheknew not remorse, and would probably have felt no great fear had thatpale spirit really appeared at that moment, to tax her with wickedcomplicity in her murder.
The clock of the Chateau struck twelve. Its reverberations sounded farinto the night as La Corriveau emerged stealthily out of the forest,crouching on the shady side of the high garden hedges, until she reachedthe old watch-tower, which stood like a dead sentinel at his post on theflank of the Chateau.
There was an open doorway, on each side of which lay a heap of fallenstones. This was the entrance into a square room, dark and yawning asa cavern. It was traversed by one streak of moonshine, which struggledthrough a grated window set in the thick wall.
La Corriveau stood for a few moments looking intently into the gloomyruin; then, casting a sharp glance behind her, she entered. Tired withher long walk through the forest, she flung herself upon a stone seatto rest, and to collect her thoughts for the execution of her terriblemission.
The dogs of the Chateau barked vehemently, as if the very air bore someominous taint; but La Corriveau knew she was safe: they were shut up inthe courtyard, and could not trace her to the tower. A harsh voice ortwo and the sound of whips presently silenced the barking dogs, and allwas still again.
She had got into the tower unseen and unheard. "They say there is aneye that sees everything," muttered she, "and an ear that hears ourvery thoughts. If God sees and hears, he does nothing to prevent me fromaccomplishing my end; and he will not interfere to-night! No, not forall the prayers she may utter, which will not be many more! God if therebe one--lets La Corriveau live, and will let the lady of Beaumanoirdie!"
There was a winding stair of stone, narrow and tortuous, in one cornerof the tower. It led upwards to the roof and downwards to a deep vaultwhich was arched and groined. Its heavy, rough columns supported thetower above, and divided the vaults beneath. These vaults had formerlyserved as magazines for provisions and stores for the use of theoccupants of the Chateau upon occasions when they had to retire forsafety from a sudden irruption of Iroquois.
La Corriveau, after a short rest, got up with a quick, impatientmovement. She went over to an arched doorway upon which her eyes hadbeen fixed for several minutes. "The way is down there," she muttered;"now for a light!"
She found the entrance to the stair open; she passed in, closing thedoor behind her so that the glimmer might not be seen by any chancestroller, and struck a light. The reputation which the tower had ofbeing haunted made the servants very shy of entering it, even in theday-time; and the man was considered bold indeed who came near it afterdark.
With her candle in her hand, La Corriveau descended slowly into thegloomy vault. It was a large cavern of stone, a very habitation ofdarkness, which seemed to swallow up the feeble light she carried. Itwas divided into three portions, separated by rough columns.
A spring of water trickled in and trickled out of a great stone trough,ever full and overflowing with a soft, tinkling sound, like a clepsydrameasuring the movements of eternity. The cool, fresh, living waterdiffused throughout the vaults an even, mild temperature the year round.The gardeners of the Chateau took advantage of this, and used the vaultas a favorite storeroom for their crops of fruit and vegetables forwinter use in the Chateau.
La Corriveau went resolutely forward, as one who knew what shesought and where to find it, and presently stood in front of a recesscontaining a wooden panel similar to that in the Chateau, and movablein the same manner. She considered it for some moments, muttering toherself as she held aloft the candle to inspect it closely and find thespring by which it was moved.
La Corriveau had been carefully instructed by Mere Malheur in everypoint regarding the mechanism of this door. She had no difficulty infinding the secret of its working. A slight touch sufficed when theright place was known. She pressed it hard with her hand; the panelswung open, and behind it gaped a dark, narrow passage leading to thesecret chamber of Caroline.
She entered without hesitation, knowing whither it led. It was damp andstifling. Her candle burned dimmer and dimmer in the impure air of thelong shut-up passage. There were, however, no other obstacles in herway. The passage was unincumbered; but the low arch, scarcely over herown height, seemed to press down upon her as she passed along, as if toprevent her progress. The fearless, wicked heart bore her up,--nothingworse than herself could meet her; and she felt neither fear at what laybefore her nor remorse at what was behind.
The distance to be traversed was not far, although it seemed to herimpatience to be interminable. Mere Malheur, with her light heels,could once run through it in a minute, to a tryst in t
he old tower. LaCorriveau was thrice that time in groping her way along it before shecame to a heavy, iron-ribbed door set in a deep arch, which marked theend of the passage.
That black, forbidding door was the dividing of light from darkness, ofgood from evil, of innocence from guilt. On one side of it, in a chamberof light, sat a fair girl, confiding, generous, and deceived onlythrough her excess of every virtue; on the other, wickedness, fell andartful, was approaching with stealthy footsteps through an unseen way,and stood with hand upraised to knock, but incapable of entering inunless that unsuspecting girl removed the bar.
As the hour of midnight approached, one sound after another died away inthe Chateau. Caroline, who had sat counting the hours and watching thespectral moon as it flickered among the drifting clouds, withdrew fromthe window with a trembling step, like one going to her doom.
She descended to the secret chamber, where she had appointed to meet herstrange visitor and hear from strange lips the story that would be toldher.
She attired herself with care, as a woman will in every extremity oflife. Her dark raven hair was simply arranged, and fell in thick massesover her neck and shoulders. She put on a robe of soft, snow-whitetexture, and by an impulse she yielded to, but could not explain, boundher waist with a black sash, like a strain of mourning in a song ofinnocence. She wore no ornaments save a ring, the love-gift of Bigot,which she never parted with, but wore with a morbid anticipation thatits promises would one day be fulfilled. She clung to it as a talismanthat would yet conjure away her sorrows; and it did! but alas! in a waylittle anticipated by the constant girl! A blast from hell was at handto sweep away her young life, and with it all her earthly troubles.
She took up a guitar mechanically, as it were, and as her fingerswandered over the strings, a bar or two of the strain, sad as the sighof a broken heart, suggested an old ditty she had loved formerly, whenher heart was full of sunshine and happiness, when her fancy used toindulge in the luxury of melancholic musings, as every happy, sensitive,and imaginative girl will do as a counterpoise to her high-wroughtfeelings.
In a low voice, sweet and plaintive as the breathings of an Aeolianharp, Caroline sang her Minne-song:--
"'A linnet sat upon a thorn At evening chime. Its sweet refrain fell like the rain Of summer-time. Of summer-time when roses bloomed, And bright above A rainbow spanned my fairy-land Of hope and love! Of hope and love! O linnet, cease Thy mocking theme! I ne'er picked up the golden cup In all my dream! In all my dream I missed the prize Should have been mine; And dreams won't die! though fain would I, And make no sign!'"
The lamps burned brightly, shedding a cheerful light upon the landscapesand figures woven into the tapestry behind which was concealed the blackdoor that was to admit La Corriveau.
It was oppressively still. Caroline listened with mouth and ears forsome sound of approaching footsteps until her heart beat like the swiftstroke of a hammer, as it sent the blood throbbing through her templeswith a rush that almost overpowered her.
She was alone, and lonely beyond expression. Down in these thickfoundations no sound penetrated to break the terrible monotony of thesilence around her, except the dull, solemn voice of the bell strikingthe hour of midnight.
Caroline had passed a sleepless night after the visit of Mere Malheur,sometimes tossing on her solitary couch, Sometimes starting up interror. She rose and threw herself despairingly upon her knees, callingon Christ to pardon her, and on the Mother of Mercies to plead for her,sinner that she was, whose hour of shame and punishment had come!
The mysterious letter brought by Mere Malheur, announcing that her placeof concealment was to be searched by the Governor, excited her liveliestapprehensions. But that faded into nothingness in comparison with theabsolute terror that seized her at the thoughts of the speedy arrival ofher father in the Colony.
Caroline, overwhelmed with a sense of shame and contrition, pictured toherself in darkest colors the anger of her father at the dishonor shehad brought upon his unsullied name.
She sat down, she rose up, she walked her solitary chamber, and kneltpassionately on the floor, covering her face with her hands, crying tothe Madonna for pity and protection.
Poor self-accuser! The hardest and most merciless wretch who ever threwstones at a woman was pitiful in comparison with Caroline's inexorablecondemnation of herself.
Yet her fear was not on her own account. She could have kissed herfather's hand and submitted humbly to death itself, if he chose toinflict it; but she trembled most at the thought of a meeting betweenthe fiery Baron and the haughty Intendant. One or the other, or both ofthem, she felt instinctively, must die, should the Baron discover thatBigot had been the cause of the ruin of his idolized child. She trembledfor both, and prayed God that she might die in their stead and thesecret of her shame never be known to her fond father.
A dull sound, like footsteps shuffling in the dark passage behind thearras, struck her ear; she knew her strange visitant was come. Shestarted up, clasping her hands hard together as she listened, wonderingwho and what like she might be. She suspected no harm,--for who coulddesire to harm her who had never injured a living being? Yet there shestood on the one side of that black door of doom, while the calamity ofher life stood on the other side like a tigress ready to spring through.
A low knock, twice repeated on the thick door behind the arras, drewher at once to her feet. She trembled violently as she lifted up thetapestry; something rushed through her mind telling her not to do it.Happy had it been for her never to have opened that fatal door!
She hesitated for a moment, but the thought of her father and theimpending search of the Chateau flashed suddenly upon her mind. Thevisitant, whoever she might be, professed to be a friend, and could, shethought, have no motive to harm her.
Caroline, with a sudden impulse, pushed aside the fastening of the door,and uttering the words, "Dieu! protege moi!" stood face to face with LaCorriveau.
The bright lamp shone full on the tall figure of the strange visitor,and Caroline, whose fears had anticipated some uncouth sight of terror,was surprised to see only a woman dressed in the simple garb of apeasant, with a little basket on her arm, enter quietly through thesecret door.
The eyes of La Corriveau glared for a moment with fiendish curiosityupon the young girl who stood before her like one of God's angels. Shemeasured her from head to foot, noted every fold of her white robe,every flexure of her graceful form, and drank in the whole beauty andinnocence of her aspect with a feeling of innate spite at aught so fairand good. On her thin, cruel lips there played a smile as the secretthought hovered over them in an unspoken whisper,--"She will make apretty corpse! Brinvilliers and La Voisin never mingled drink for afairer victim than I will crown with roses to-night!"
Caroline retreated a few steps, frightened and trembling, as sheencountered the glittering eyes and sinister smile of La Corriveau. Thewoman observed it, and instantly changed her mien to one more naturaland sympathetic; for she comprehended fully the need of disarmingsuspicion and of winning the confidence of her victim to enable her moresurely to destroy her.
Caroline, reassured by a second glance at her visitor, thought she hadbeen mistaken in her first impression. The peasant's dress, the harmlessbasket, the quiet manner assumed by La Corriveau as she stood in arespectful attitude as if waiting to be spoken to, banished all fearsfrom the mind of Caroline, and left her only curious to know the issueof this mysterious visit.