CHAPTER VII. THE HOSTILITY OF SAINT-EUSTACHE
In the days that followed I saw much of the Chevalier de Saint-Eustache.He was a very constant visitor at Lavedan, and the reason of it was notfar to seek. For my own part, I disliked him--I had done so fromthe moment when first I had set eyes on him--and since hatred, likeaffection, is often a matter of reciprocity, the Chevalier was not slowto return my dislike. Our manner gradually, by almost imperceptiblestages, grew more distant, until by the end of a week it had become sohostile that Lavedan found occasion to comment upon it.
"Beware of Saint-Eustache," he warned me. "You are becoming verymanifestly distasteful to each other, and I would urge you to have acare. I don't trust him. His attachment to our Cause is of a lukewarmcharacter, and he gives me uneasiness, for he may do much harm if heis so inclined. It is on this account that I tolerate his presence atLavedan. Frankly, I fear him, and I would counsel you to do no less. Theman is a liar, even if but a boastful liar and liars are never long outof mischief."
The wisdom of the words was unquestionable, but the advice in them wasnot easily followed, particularly by one whose position was so peculiaras my own. In a way I had little cause to fear the harm the Chevaliermight do me, but I was impelled to consider the harm that at the sametime he might do the Vicomte.
Despite our growing enmity, the Chevalier and I were very frequentlythrown together. The reason for this was, of course, that whereverRoxalanne was to be found there, generally, were we both to be foundalso. Yet had I advantages that must have gone to swell a rancour basedas much upon jealousy as any other sentiment, for whilst he was but adaily visitor at Lavedan, I was established there indefinitely.
Of the use that I made of that time I find it difficult to speak. Fromthe first moment that I had beheld Roxalanne I had realized the truth ofChatellerault's assertion that I had never known a woman. He was right.Those that I had met and by whom I had judged the sex had, by contrastwith this child, little claim to the title. Virtue I had accounted ashadow without substance; innocence, a synonym for ignorance; love, afable, a fairy tale for the delectation of overgrown children.
In the company of Roxalanne de Lavedan all those old, cynical beliefs,built up upon a youth of undesirable experiences, were shattered andthe error of them exposed. Swiftly was I becoming a convert to the faithwhich so long I had sneered at, and as lovesick as any unfledged youthin his first amour.
Damn! It was something for a man who had lived as I had lived to havehis pulses quicken and his colour change at a maid's approach; to findhimself colouring under her smile and paling under her disdain; to havehis mind running on rhymes, and his soul so enslaved that, if she is notto be won, chagrin will dislodge it from his body.
Here was a fine mood for a man who had entered upon his businessby pledging himself to win and wed this girl in cold and supremeindifference to her personality. And that pledge, how I cursed it duringthose days at Lavedan! How I cursed Chatellerault, cunning, subtletrickster that he was! How I cursed myself for my lack of chivalry andhonour in having been lured so easily into so damnable a business! Forwhen the memory of that wager rose before me it brought despair in itstrain. Had I found Roxalanne the sort of woman that I had looked tofind--the only sort that I had ever known--then matters had been easy.I had set myself in cold blood, and by such wiles as I knew, to win suchaffection as might be hers to bestow; and I would have married her inmuch the same spirit as a man performs any other of the necessary actsof his lifetime and station. I would have told her that I was Bardelys,and to the woman that I had expected to find there had been nodifficulty in making the confession. But to Roxalanne! Had there beenno wager, I might have confessed my identity. As it was, I found itimpossible to avow the one without the other. For the sweet innocencethat invested her gentle, trusting soul must have given pause to anybut the most abandoned of men before committing a vileness in connectionwith her.
We were much together during that week, and just as day by day, hour byhour, my passion grew and grew until it absorbed me utterly, so, too,did it seem to me that it awakened in her a responsive note. There wasan odd light at times in her soft eyes; I came upon her more than oncewith snatches of love-songs on her lips, and when she smiled uponme there was a sweet tenderness in her smile, which, had things beendifferent, would have gladdened my soul beyond all else; but which,things being as they were, was rather wont to heighten my despair. Iwas no coxcomb; I had had experiences, and I knew these signs. Butsomething, too, I guessed of the heart of such a one as Roxalanne. Tothe full I realized the pain and shame I should inflict upon her whenmy confession came; I realized, too, how the love of this dear child,so honourable and high of mind, must turn to contempt and scorn whenI plucked away my mask, and let her see how poor a countenance I worebeneath.
And yet I drifted with the tide of things. It was my habit so to drift,and the habit of a lifetime is not to be set at naught in a day by aresolve, however firm. A score of times was I reminded that an evil isbut increased by being ignored. A score of times confession trembledon my lips, and I burned to tell her everything from its inception--theenvironment that had erstwhile warped me, the honesty by which I was nowinspired--and so cast myself upon the mercy of her belief.
She might accept my story, and, attaching credit to it, forgive me thedeception I had practised, and recognize the great truth that must ringout in the avowal of my love. But, on the other hand, she might notaccept it; she might deem my confession a shrewd part of my scheme, andthe dread of that kept me silent day by day.
Fully did I see how with every hour that sped confession became moreand more difficult. The sooner the thing were done, the greater thelikelihood of my being believed; the later I left it, the more probablewas it that I should be discredited. Alas! Bardelys, it seemed, hadadded cowardice to his other short-comings.
As for the coldness of Roxalanne, that was a pretty fable ofChatellerault's; or else no more than an assumption, an invention ofthe imaginative La Fosse. Far, indeed, from it, I found no arroganceor coldness in her. All unversed in the artifices of her sex, allunacquainted with the wiles of coquetry, she was the very incarnationof naturalness and maidenly simplicity. To the tales that--with manyexpurgations--I told her of Court life, to the pictures that I drewof Paris, the Luxembourg, the Louvre, the Palais Cardinal, and thecourtiers that thronged those historic palaces, she listened avidly andenthralled; and much as Othello won the heart of Desdemona by a recitalof the perils he had endured, so it seemed to me was I winning the heartof Roxalanne by telling her of the things that I had seen.
Once or twice she expressed wonder at the depth and intimacy of theknowledge of such matters exhibited by a simple Gascon gentleman,whereupon I would urge, in explanation, the appointment in the Guardsthat Lesperon had held some few years ago, a position that will revealmuch to an observant man.
The Vicomte noted our growing intimacy, yet set no restraint upon it.Down in his heart I believe that noble gentleman would have beenwell pleased had matters gone to extremes between us, for howeverimpoverished he might deem me; Lesperon's estates in Gascony being, asI have said, likely to suffer sequestration in view of his treason--heremembered the causes of this and the deep devotion of the man Iimpersonated to the affairs of Gaston d'Orleans.
Again, he feared the very obvious courtship of the Chevalier deSaint-Eustache, and he would have welcomed a turn of events that wouldeffectually have frustrated it. That he did not himself interfere sofar as the Chevalier's wooing was concerned, I could but set down to themistrust of Saint-Eustache--amounting almost to fear--of which he hadspoken.
As for the Vicomtesse, the same causes that had won me some of thedaughter's regard gained me also no little of the mother's.
She had been attached to the Chevalier until my coming. But what did theChevalier know of the great world compared with what I could tell? Herlove of scandal drew her to me with inquiries upon this person and thatperson, many of them but names to her.
My knowledge and wealth of deta
il--for all that I curbed it lest Ishould seem to know too much--delighted her prurient soul. Had she beenmore motherly, this same knowledge that I exhibited should have made herponder what manner of life I had led, and should have inspired herto account me no fit companion for her daughter. But a selfish woman,little inclined to be plagued by the concerns of another--even when thatother was her daughter--she left things to the destructive course thatthey were shaping.
And so everything--if we except perhaps the Chevalier deSaint-Eustache--conspired to the advancement of my suit, in a mannerthat must have made Chatellerault grind his teeth in rage if he couldhave witnessed it, but which made me grind mine in despair when Ipondered the situation in detail.
One evening--I had been ten days at the chateau--we went a half-leagueor so up the Garonne in a boat, she and I. As we were returning,drifting with the stream, the oars idle in my hand, I spoke of leavingLavedan.
She looked up quickly; her expression was almost of alarm, and her eyesdilated as they met mine--for, as I have said, she was all unversed inthe ways of her sex, and by nature too guileless to attempt to disguiseher feelings or dissemble them.
"But why must you go so soon?" she asked. "You are safe at Lavedan, andabroad you may be in danger. It was but two days ago that they tooka poor young gentleman of these parts at Pau; so that you see thepersecution is not yet ended. Are you"--and her voice trembled ever soslightly--"are you weary of us, monsieur?"
I shook my head at that, and smiled wistfully.
"Weary?" I echoed. "Surely, mademoiselle, you do not think it? Surelyyour heart must tell you something very different?"
She dropped her eyes before the passion of my gaze. And when presentlyshe answered me, there was no guile in her words; there were thedictates of the intuitions of her sex, and nothing more.
"But it is possible, monsieur. You are accustomed to the great world--"
"The great world of Lesperon, in Gascony?" I interrupted.
"No, no; the great world you have inhabited at Paris and elsewhere.I can understand that at Lavedan you should find little of interest,and--and that your inactivity should render you impatient to be gone."
"If there were so little to interest me then it might be as you say.But, oh, mademoiselle--" I ceased abruptly. Fool! I had almost fallen aprey to the seductions that the time afforded me. The balmy, languorouseventide, the broad, smooth river down which we glided, the foliage,the shadows on the water, her presence, and our isolation amid suchsurroundings, had almost blotted out the matter of the wager and of myduplicity.
She laughed a little nervous laugh, and--maybe to ease the tensionthat my sudden silence had begotten--"You see," she said, "how yourimagination deserts you when you seek to draw upon it for proof of whatyou protest. You were about to tell me of--of the interests that holdyou at Lavedan, and when you come to ponder them, you find that youcan think of nothing. Is it--is it not so?" She put the question verytimidly, as if half afraid of the answer she might provoke.
"No; it is not so," I said.
I paused a moment, and in that moment I wrestled with myself. Confessionand avowal--confession of what I had undertaken, and avowal of the lovethat had so unexpectedly come to me--trembled upon my lips, to be drivenshuddering away in fear.
Have I not said that this Bardelys was become a coward? Then mycowardice suggested a course to me--flight. I would leave Lavedan. Iwould return to Paris and to Chatellerault, owning defeat and paying mywager. It was the only course open to me. My honour, so tardily aroused,demanded no less. Yet, not so much because of that as because it wassuddenly revealed to me as the easier course, did I determine to pursueit. What thereafter might become of me I did not know, nor in that hourof my heart's agony did it seem to matter overmuch.
"There is much, mademoiselle, much, indeed, to hold me firmly atLavedan," I pursued at last. "But my--my obligations demand of me that Idepart."
"You mean the Cause," she cried. "But, believe me, you can do nothing.To sacrifice yourself cannot profit it. Infinitely better you can servethe Duke by waiting until the time is ripe for another blow. And howcan you better preserve your life than by remaining at Lavedan until thepersecutions are at an end?"
"I was not thinking of the Cause, mademoiselle, but of myself alone--ofmy own personal honour. I would that I could explain; but I am afraid,"I ended lamely.
"Afraid?" she echoed, now raising her eyes in wonder.
"Aye, afraid. Afraid of your contempt, of your scorn."
The wonder in her glance increased and asked a question that I could notanswer. I stretched forward, and caught one of the hands lying idle inher lap.
"Roxalanne," I murmured very gently, and my tone, my touch, and the useof her name drove her eyes for refuge behind their lids again. A flushspread upon the ivory pallor of her face, to fade as swiftly, leaving itvery white. Her bosom rose and fell in agitation, and the little hand Iheld trembled in my grasp. There was a moment's silence. Not that Ihad need to think or choose my words. But there was a lump in mythroat--aye, I take no shame in confessing it, for this was the firsttime that a good and true emotion had been vouchsafed me since theDuchesse de Bourgogne had shattered my illusions ten years ago.
"Roxalanne," I resumed presently, when I was more master of myself, "wehave been good friends, you and I, since that night when I climbed forshelter to your chamber, have we not?"
"But yes, monsieur," she faltered.
"Ten days ago it is. Think of it--no more than ten days. And it seems asif I had been months at Lavedan, so well have we become acquainted.In these ten days we have formed opinions of each other. But with thisdifference, that whilst mine are right, yours are wrong. I have come toknow you for the sweetest, gentlest saint in all this world. Would toGod I had known you earlier! It might have been very different; I mighthave been--I would have been--different, and I would not have donewhat I have done. You have come to know me for an unfortunate but honestgentleman. Such am I not. I am under false colours here, mademoiselle.Unfortunate I may be--at least, of late I seem to have become so. HonestI am not--I have not been. There, child, I can tell you no more. Iam too great a coward. But when later you shall come to hear thetruth--when, after I am gone, they may tell you a strange story touchingthis fellow Lesperon who sought the hospitality of your father'shouse--bethink you of my restraint in this hour; bethink you of mydeparture. You will understand these things perhaps afterwards. Butbethink you of them, and you will unriddle them for yourself, perhaps.Be merciful upon me then; judge me not over-harshly."
I paused, and for a moment we were silent. Then suddenly she looked up;her fingers tightened upon mine.
"Monsieur de Lesperon," she pleaded, "of what do speak? You aretorturing me, monsieur."
"Look in my face, Roxalanne. Can you see nothing there of how I amtorturing myself?"
"Then tell me, monsieur," she begged, her voice a very caress ofsuppliant softness,--"tell me what vexes you and sets a curb uponyour tongue. You exaggerate, I am assured. You could do nothingdishonourable, nothing vile."
"Child," I cried, "I thank God that you are right! I cannot do what isdishonourable, and I will not, for all that a month ago I pledged myselfto do it!"
A sudden horror, a doubt, a suspicion flashed into her glance.
"You--you do not mean that you are a spy?" she asked; and from my hearta prayer of thanks went up to Heaven that this at least it was minefrankly to deny.
"No, no--not that. I am no spy."
Her face cleared again, and she sighed.
"It is, I think, the only thing I could not forgive. Since it is notthat, will you not tell me what it is?"
For a moment the temptation to confess, to tell her everything, wasagain upon me. But the futility of it appalled me.
"Don't ask me," I besought her; "you will learn it soon enough." ForI was confident that once my wager was paid, the news of it and of theruin of Bardelys would spread across the face of France like a rippleover water. Presently--
"Forgive me for havi
ng come into your life, Roxalanne!" I implored her,and then I sighed again. "Helas! Had I but known you earlier! I did notdream such women lived in this worn-out France."
"I will not pry, monsieur, since your resolve appears to be so firm. Butif--if after I have heard this thing you speak of," she said presently,speaking with averted eyes, "and if, having heard it, I judge you moremercifully than you judge yourself, and I send for you, will you--willyou come back to Lavedan?"
My heart gave a great bound--a great, a sudden throb of hope. But assudden and as great was the rebound into despair.
"You will not send for me, be assured of that," I said with finality;and we spoke no more.
I took the oars and plied them vigorously. I was in haste to end thesituation. Tomorrow I must think of my departure, and, as I rowed, Ipondered the words that had passed between us. Not one word of lovehad there been, and yet, in the very omission of it, avowal had lain oneither side. A strange wooing had been mine--a wooing that precluded thepossibility of winning, and yet a wooing that had won. Aye, it had won;but it might not take. I made fine distinctions and quaint paradoxes asI tugged at my oars, for the human mind is a curiously complex thing,and with some of us there is no such spur to humour as the sting ofpain.
Roxalanne sat white and very thoughtful, but with veiled eyes, so that Imight guess nothing of what passed within her mind.
At last we reached the chateau, and as I brought the boat to the terracesteps, it was Saint-Eustache who came forward to offer his wrist toMademoiselle.
He noted the pallor of her face, and darted me a quick, suspicion-ladenglance. As we were walking towards the chateau--
"Monsieur de Lesperon," said he in a curious tone, "do you know that arumour of your death is current in the province?"
"I had hoped that such a rumour might get abroad when I disappeared," Ianswered calmly.
"And you have taken no single step to contradict it?"
"Why should I, since in that rumour may be said to lie my safety?"
"Nevertheless, monsieur, voyons. Surely you might at least relieve theanxieties the affliction, I might almost say--of those who are mourningyou."
"Ah!" said I. "And who may these be?"
He shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips in a curiously deprecatorysmile. With a sidelong glance at Mademoiselle--
"Do you need that I name Mademoiselle de Marsac?" he sneered.
I stood still, my wits busily working, my face impassive under hisscrutinizing glance. In a flash it came to me that this must be thewriter of some of the letters Lesperon had given me, the original of theminiature I carried.
As I was silent, I grew suddenly conscious of another pair of eyesobserving me, Mademoiselle's. She remembered what I had said, she mayhave remembered how I had cried out the wish that I had met her earlier,and she may not have been slow to find an interpretation for my words. Icould have groaned in my rage at such a misinterpretation. I could havetaken the Chevalier round to the other side of the chateau and killedhim with the greatest relish in the world. But I restrained myself, Iresigned myself to be misunderstood. What choice had I?
"Monsieur de Saint-Eustache," said I very coldly, and looking himstraight between his close-set eyes, "I have permitted you manyliberties, but there is one that I cannot permit any one--and, much as Ihonour you, I can make no exception in your favour. That is to interferein my concerns and presume to dictate to me the manner in which I shallconduct them. Be good enough to bear that in your memory."
In a moment he was all servility. The sneer passed out of his face, thearrogance out of his demeanour. He became as full of smiles and capersas the meanest sycophant.
"You will forgive me, monsieur!" he cried, spreading his hands, and withthe humblest smile in the world. "I perceive that I have taken a greatliberty; yet you have misunderstood its purport. I sought to sound youtouching the wisdom of a step upon which I have ventured."
"That is, monsieur?" I asked, throwing back my head, with the scent ofdanger breast high.
"I took it upon myself to-day to mention the fact that you are alive andwell to one who had a right, I thought, to know of it, and who is cominghither tomorrow."
"That was a presumption you may regret," said I between my teeth. "Towhom do you impart this information?"
"To your friend, Monsieur de Marsac," he answered, and through hismask of humility the sneer was again growing apparent. "He will be heretomorrow," he repeated.
Marsac was that friend of Lesperon's to whose warm commendation ofthe Gascon rebel I owed the courtesy and kindness that the Vicomte deLavedan had meted out to me since my coming.
Is it wonderful that I stood as if frozen, my wits refusing to work andmy countenance wearing, I doubt not, a very stricken look? Here was onecoming to Lavedan who knew Lesperon--one who would unmask me and saythat I was an impostor. What would happen then? A spy they would of acertainty account me, and that they would make short work of me I neverdoubted. But that was something that troubled me less than the opinionMademoiselle must form. How would she interpret what I had said thatday? In what light would she view me hereafter?
Such questions sped like swift arrows through my mind, and in theirtrain came a dull anger with myself that I had not told her everythingthat afternoon. It was too late now. The confession would come no longerof my own free will, as it might have done an hour ago, but would beforced from me by the circumstances that impended. Thus it would nolonger have any virtue to recommend it to her mercy.
"The news seems hardly welcome, Monsieur de Lesperon," said Roxalannein a voice that was inscrutable. Her tone stirred me, for it betokenedsuspicion already. Something might yet chance to aid me, and in the meanwhile I might spoil all did I yield to this dread of the morrow. By aneffort I mastered myself, and in tones calm and level, that betrayednothing of the tempest in my soul--
"It is not welcome, mademoiselle," I answered. "I have excellent reasonsfor not desiring to meet Monsieur de Marsac."
"Excellent, indeed, are they!" lisped Saint-Eustache, with an ugly droopat the corners of his mouth. "I doubt not you'll find it hard to offera plausible reason for having left him and his sister without news thatyou were alive."
"Monsieur," said I at random, "why will you drag in his sister's name?"
"Why?" he echoed, and he eyed me with undisguised amusement. He wasstanding erect, his head thrown back, his right arm outstretched fromthe shoulder, and his hand resting lightly upon the gold mount of hisberibboned cane. He let his eyes wander from me to Roxalanne, then backagain to me. At last: "Is it wonderful that I should drag in the name ofyour betrothed?" said he. "But perhaps you will deny that Mademoisellede Marsac is that to you?" he suggested.
And I, forgetting for the moment the part I played and the man whoseidentity I had put on, made answer hotly: "I do deny it."
"Why, then, you lie," said he, and shrugged hits shoulders with insolentcontempt.
In all my life I do not think it could be said of me that I had evergiven way to rage. Rude, untutored minds may fall a prey to passion,but a gentleman, I hold, is never angry. Nor was I then, so far as theoutward signs of anger count. I doffed my hat with a sweep to Roxalanne,who stood by with fear and wonder blending in her glance.
"Mademoiselle, you will forgive that I find it necessary to birch thisbabbling schoolboy in your presence."
Then, with the pleasantest manner in the world, I stepped aside, andplucked the cane from the Chevalier's hand before he had so much asguessed what I was about. I bowed before him with the utmost politeness,as if craving his leave and tolerance for what I was about to do, andthen, before he had recovered from his astonishment, I had laid thatcane three times in quick succession across his shoulders. With a cry atonce of pain and of mortification, he sprang back, and his hand droppedto his hilt.
"Monsieur," Roxalanne cried to him, "do you not see that he is unarmed?"
But he saw nothing, or, if he saw, thanked Heaven that things were insuch case, and got his sword out. Thereupon R
oxalanne would have steppedbetween us, but with arm outstretched I restrained her.
"Have no fear, mademoiselle," said I very quietly; for if the wrist thathad overcome La Vertoile were not with a stick a match for a couple ofsuch swords as this coxcomb's, then was I forever shamed.
He bore down upon me furiously, his point coming straight for my throat.I took the blade on the cane; then, as he disengaged and came at melower, I made counter-parry, and pursuing the circle after I had caughthis steel, I carried it out of his hand. It whirled an instant,a shimmering wheel of light, then it clattered against the marblebalustrade half a dozen yards away. With his sword it seemed that hiscourage, too, departed, and he stood at my mercy, a curious picture offoolishness, surprise, and fear.
Now the Chevalier de Saint-Eustache was a young man, and in the youngwe can forgive much. But to forgive such an act as he had been guiltyof--that of drawing his sword upon a man who carried no weapons--wouldhave been not only a ridiculous toleration, but an utter neglect ofduty. As an older man it behoved me to read the Chevalier a lesson inmanners and gentlemanly feeling. So, quite dispassionately, and purelyfor his own future good, I went about the task, and administered him athrashing that for thoroughness it would be hard to better. I was notdiscriminating. I brought my cane down with a rhythmical precision, andwhether it took him on the head, the back, or the shoulders, I heldto be more his affair than mine. I had a moral to inculcate, and theinjuries he might receive in the course of it were inconsiderabledetails so that the lesson was borne in upon his soul. Two or threetimes he sought to close with me, but I eluded him; I had no mind todescend to a vulgar exchange of blows. My object was not to brawl,but to administer chastisement, and this object I may claim to haveaccomplished with a fair degree of success.
At last Roxalanne interfered; but only when one blow a little moreviolent, perhaps, than its precursors resulted in the sudden snapping ofthe cane and Monsieur de Eustache's utter collapse into a moaning heap.
"I deplore, mademoiselle, to have offended your sight with such aspectacle, but unless these lessons are administered upon the instanttheir effect is not half so salutary."
"He deserved it, monsieur," said she, with a note almost of fiercenessin her voice. And of such poor mettle are we that her resentment againstthat groaning mass of fopperies and wheals sent a thrill of pleasurethrough me. I walked over to the spot where his sword had fallen, andpicked it up.
"Monsieur de Saint-Eustache," said I, "you have so dishonoured thisblade that I do not think you would care to wear it again." Sayingwhich, I snapped it across my knee, and flung it far out into the river,for all that the hilt was a costly one, richly wrought in bronze andgold.
He raised his livid countenance, and his eyes blazed impotent fury.
"Par la mort Dieu!" he cried hoarsely, "you shall give me satisfactionfor this!"
"If you account yourself still unsatisfied, I am at your service whenyou will," said I courteously.
Then, before more could be said, I saw Monsieur de Lavedan and theVicomtesse approaching hurriedly across the parterre. The Vicomte'sbrow was black with what might have appeared anger, but which I rightlyconstrued into apprehension.
"What has taken place? What have you done?" he asked of me.
"He has brutally assaulted the Chevalier," cried Madame shrilly,her eyes malevolently set upon me. "He is only a child, this poorSaint-Eustache," she reproached me. "I saw it all from my window,Monsieur de Lesperon. It was brutal; it was cowardly. So to beat a boy!Shame! If you had a quarrel with him, are there not prescribed methodsfor their adjustment between gentlemen? Pardieu, could you not havegiven him proper satisfaction?"
"If madame will give herself the trouble of attentively examiningthis poor Saint-Eustache," said I, with a sarcasm which her virulenceprompted, "you will agree, I think, that I have given him very properand very thorough satisfaction. I would have met him sword in hand, butthe Chevalier has the fault of the very young--he is precipitate; he wasin too great a haste, and he could not wait until I got a sword. So Iwas forced to do what I could with a cane."
"But you provoked him," she flashed back.
"Whoever told you so has misinformed you, madame. On the contrary, heprovoked me. He gave me the lie. I struck him--could I do less?--and hedrew. I defended myself, and I supplemented my defence by a caning, sothat this poor Saint-Eustache might realize the unworthiness of what hehad done. That is all, madame."
But she was not so easily to be appeased, not even when Mademoiselle andthe Vicomte joined their voices to mine in extenuation of my conduct. Itwas like Lavedan. For all that he was full of dread of the result andof the vengeance Saint-Eustache might wreak--boy though he was--heexpressed himself freely touching the Chevalier's behaviour and thefittingness of the punishment that had overtaken him.
The Vicomtesse stood in small awe of her husband, but his judgment upona point of honour was a matter that she would not dare contest. Shewas ministering to the still prostrate Chevalier who, I think,remained prostrate now that he might continue to make appeal to hersympathy--when suddenly she cut in upon Roxalanne's defence of me.
"Where have you been?" she demanded suddenly.
"When, my mother?"
"This afternoon," answered the Vicomtesse impatiently. "The Chevalierwas waiting two hours for you."
Roxalanne coloured to the roots of her hair. The Vicomte frowned.
"Waiting for me, my mother? But why for me?"
"Answer my question--where have you been?"
"I was with Monsieur de Lesperon," she answered simply.
"Alone?" the Vicomtesse almost shrieked.
"But yes." The poor child's tones were laden with wonder at thiscatechism.
"God's death!" she snapped. "It seems that my daughter is no betterthan--"
Heaven knows what may have been coming, for she had the most virulent,scandalous tongue that I have ever known in a woman's head--which ismuch for one who has lived at Court to say. But the Vicomte, sharingmy fears, perhaps, and wishing to spare the child's ears, interposedquickly "Come, madame, what airs are these? What sudden assumptionof graces that we do not affect? We are not in Paris. This is notthe Luxembourg. En province comme en province, and here we are simplefolk--"
"Simple folk?" she interrupted, gasping. "By God, am I married to aploughman? Am I Vicomtesse of Lavedan, or the wife of a boor of thecountryside? And is the honour of your daughter a matter--"
"The honour of my daughter is not in question, madame," he interruptedin his turn, and with a sudden sternness that spent the fire of herindignation as a spark that is trampled underfoot. Then, in a calm,level voice: "Ah, here are the servants," said he.
"Permit them, madame, to take charge of Monsieur de Saint-Eustache.Anatole, you had better order the carriage for Monsieur le Chevalier. Ido not think that he will be able to ride home."
Anatole peered at the pale young gentleman on the ground, then he turnedhis little wizened face upon me, and grinned in a singularly solemnfashion. Monsieur de Saint-Eustache was little loved, it seemed.
Leaning heavily upon the arm of one of the lacqueys, the Chevalier movedpainfully towards the courtyard, where the carriage was being preparedfor him. At the last moment he turned and beckoned the Vicomte to hisside.
"As God lives, Monsieur de Lavedan," he swore, breathing heavily inthe fury that beset him, "you shall bitterly regret having taken sidesto-day with that Gascon bully. Remember me, both of you, when you arejourneying to Toulouse."
The Vicomte stood beside him, impassive and unmoved by that grim threat,for all that to him it must have sounded like a death-sentence.
"Adieu, monsieur--a speedy recovery," was all he answered.
But I stepped up to them. "Do you not think, Vicomte, that it werebetter to detain him?" I asked.
"Pshaw!" he ejaculated. "Let him go."
The Chevalier's eyes met mine in a look of terror. Perhaps alreadythat young man repented him of his menace, and he realized the folly ofthreatening one in whose po
wer he still chanced to be.
"Bethink you, monsieur," I cried. "Yours is a noble and useful life.Mine is not without value, either. Shall we suffer these lives--aye,and the happiness of your wife and daughter--to be destroyed by thisvermin?"
"Let him go, monsieur; let him go. I am not afraid."
I bowed and stepped back, motioning to the lacquey to take the fellowaway, much as I should have motioned him to remove some uncleanness frombefore me.
The Vicomtesse withdrew in high dudgeon to her chamber, and I did notsee her again that evening. Mademoiselle I saw once, for a moment,and she employed that moment to question me touching the origin of myquarrel with Saint-Eustache.
"Did he really lie, Monsieur de Lesperon?" she asked.
"Upon my honour, mademoiselle," I answered solemnly, "I have plighted mytroth to no living woman." Then my chin sank to my breast as I bethoughtme of how tomorrow she must opine me the vilest liar living--for I wasresolved to be gone before Marsac arrived--since the real Lesperon I didnot doubt was, indeed, betrothed to Mademoiselle de Marsac.
"I shall leave Lavedan betimes to-morrow, mademoiselle," I pursuedpresently. "What has happened to-day makes my departure all the moreurgent. Delay may have its dangers. You will hear strange things of me,as already I have warned you. But be merciful. Much will be true, muchfalse; yet the truth itself is very vile, and--" I stopped short, indespair of explaining or even tempering what had to come. I shrugged myshoulders in my abandonment of hope, and I turned towards the window.She crossed the room and came to stand beside me.
"Will you not tell me? Have you no faith in me? Ah, Monsieur deLesperon--"
"'Sh! child, I cannot. It is too late to tell you now."
"Oh, not too late! From what you say they will tell me, I should think,perhaps, worse of you than you deserve. What is this thing you hide?What is this mystery? Tell me, monsieur. Tell me."
Did ever woman more plainly tell a man she loved him, and that lovinghim she would find all excuses for him? Was ever woman in better case tohear a confession from the man that loved her, and of whose love she wasassured by every instinct that her sex possesses in such matters?Those two questions leapt into my mind, and in resolving them I all butdetermined to speak even now in the eleventh hour.
And then--I know not how--a fresh barrier seemed to arise. It was notmerely a matter of telling her of the wager I was embarked upon; notmerely a matter of telling her of the duplicity that I had practised,of the impostures by which I had gained admittance to her father'sconfidence and trust; not merely a matter of confessing that I was notLesperon. There would still be the necessity of saying who I was. Evenif she forgave all else, could she forgive me for being Bardelys thenotorious Bardelys, the libertine, the rake, some of whose exploits shehad heard of from her mother, painted a hundred times blacker than theyreally were? Might she not shrink from me when I told her I was thatman? In her pure innocence she deemed, no doubt, that the life of everyman who accounted himself a gentleman was moderately clean. She wouldnot see in me--as did her mother--no more than a type of the best classin France, and having no more than the vices of my order. As a monsterof profligacy might she behold me, and that--ah, Dieu!--I could notendure that she should do whilst I was by.
It may be--indeed, now, as I look back, I know that I exaggerated mycase. I imagined she would see it as I saw it then. For would you creditit? With this great love that was now come to me, it seemed the idealsof my boyhood were returned, and I abhorred the man that I had been. Thelife I had led now filled me with disgust and loathing; the notionsI had formed seemed to me now all vicious and distorted, my cynicismshallow and unjust.
"Monsieur de Lesperon," she called softly to me, noting my silence.
I turned to her. I set my hand lightly upon her arm; I let my gazeencounter the upward glance of her eyes--blue as forget-me-nots.
"You suffer!" she murmured, with sweet compassion.
"Worse, Roxalanne! I have sown in your heart too the seed of suffering.Oh, I am too unworthy!" I cried out; "and when you come to discover howunworthy it will hurt you; it will sting your pride to think how kindyou were to me." She smiled incredulously, in denial of my words. "No,child; I cannot tell you."
She sighed, and then before more could be said there was a sound at thedoor, and we started away from each other. The Vicomte entered, and mylast chance of confessing, of perhaps averting much of what followed,was lost to me.