The Maid of Honour Volume Iii Part 9

The abbe and the chevalier entered, the latter unsteady in his gait, and cowed. His dress was dusty and disordered; his hair and linen rumpled. It was evident that he had spent the night in drinking; for his bloated visage was flushed and inflamed with wine, while his mouth was convulsively contracted. His gla.s.sy eyes were red and swollen.

Their whites showed yellow and bloodshot, as he turned them with wistful apprehension on his brother.

Gabrielle saw in the abbe a new and altered man. There was about his aspect a steely look of uncompromising determination--a gleam of triumph, as of one who has toiled long, but sees his goal at last--a curl of cruelty about his thin tight lips, that stirred the hair upon her head. If the devil ever peered out of human windows he was looking down upon her now--so close, so close--looking down on the victim tied and bound, whose sacrifice he was here to consummate.

"Dear Gabrielle!" Pharamond said with a diabolical grin. "How nice of you to be up and dressed, and so save our precious time. See here what we have brought you."

The chevalier, who bore in one hand a silver chalice, had drawn his sword and ranged himself beside his brother in sullen silence, while Mademoiselle Brunelle remained by the door and turned the key in the lock.

The abbe flourished a pistol, which he playfully pointed at the trembling figure on the bed.

"Did you ever read English history?" he inquired. "No! The education of great ladies is sadly neglected. Know that there was once a fair creature as beautiful even as you, whose name was Rosamond, and a queen called Eleanor. The queen visited the fair one in her bower, and said. 'Here is a cup and here is a dagger, choose, for your time is come and you must die.' How sensible and to the purpose. See how generous am I, for I offer you three alternatives instead of two. The pistol, the sword, the poison. Make your selection quickly."

"Die!" gasped Gabrielle, pressing her fingers to her burning brow, as she looked at each, turning restlessly from one to the other of the trio, seeking for a gleam of compa.s.sion, and finding none. "Wherefore?

of what crime have I been guilty? You decree my death, and you inflict it--why?"

"Choose," repeated the abbe with impatience, dropping his tone of banter. "Sodden oaf and fool, give me the chalice," he added, fiercely. "Your palsied hand will drop it."

Indeed the chevalier seemed to be losing the control of his muscles, for he swayed to and fro, as one far gone in liquor. In his agitation his sword-hilt clattered against the metal b.u.t.tons on his coat, perceiving which the marquise seeming to see a faint ray of hope, turned her pleading face to him in agonized remonstrance.

"Phebus," she murmured, earnestly, "you once said you loved me, and tempted me to sin, and afterwards repented. You are not bad at heart.

Your nature is not cruel and inexorable, and I am yet so young! Think of the memories you are raising now--a nightmare of unavailing remorse. Think before it is too late, of the clinging s.h.i.+rt of fire, which as the years progress will send you raving, and never may be shaken off!"

"Enough, enough! It is settled," cried the abbe, "choose, or I will make the choice. In this goblet is no copper draught, since it appears you object to copper--a soothing decoction of delicious herbs, that grow beside the river. You are no botanist, I fear, or would have admired the pretty spotted leaf of the _[oe]nanthe crocata_, a useful plant without taste or smell, which possesses the additional advantage, when its work is done, of leaving no trace behind. You are so deplorably slow and undecided that I must choose for you. The [oe]nanthe, let it be, then, for it will neither stain your flesh nor mar your incomparable skin. You will lie with a peaceful smile, as of a pure unsullied babe who sleeps well and pleasantly, and drift gently on the stream of Lethe. Socrates, of whom, maybe you've heard, once quaffed a delicate tisane made of this self-same plant, and history avers that he enjoyed it very much."

The abbe approached a step nearer, and held forth the goblet. The marquise recoiled, and half-numbed by a wind that seemed to blow from out of her open grave, clasped her hands wildly, crying, "Phebus, save me!"

"You waste your breath," the abbe remarked, sternly. "His power of volition's gone, he is an automaton worked by me. Waste no more time, for we have much to do to-day. Drink, or he shall use his sword."

Gabrielle, under the scrutiny of six pitiless eyes, took the chalice in her hands and drank.

The abbe--determined this time to do his work effectually--perceiving a sediment left, gathered it carefully in a spoon, and bringing it to the goblet's brim, offered it once more with a courteous smile to the quivering lips of his victim. Then, remembering, he withdrew the spoon, and said, "No! the stalks and fibres can be traced."

The victim lay panting on her pillows. The executioner remarked with a low bow, "We will leave you to make your peace with Heaven," and was preparing to withdraw when the marquise gasped out, "In Heaven's name, do not destroy my soul. Send for a confessor that I may die as a Christian should."

"You forgot I am a priest," returned the abbe, smiling, "and now, as ever, at your service."

Perceiving that she did not appreciate his merry conceit, for she covered her face with shuddering hands, he motioned to his brother to follow, and bade Algae remain with the victim.

"There will be much to see to," he observed, "for those who unfortunately perish of malignant fevers, must be speedily put away.

Within an hour there will be delirium and giddiness, followed by coma and death. Keep the patient quiet, and make her comfortable. We will leave for Blois at midday, and meet the marquis on the road." With this he playfully executed another deep reverence, and dragging the chevalier after him, left the room.

Mademoiselle Brunelle was enchanted that matters should at last have been brought to a satisfactory pa.s.s with becoming decorum. No ungenteel screaming, no bloodshed; only a palatable tisane which tasted a little like celery. In a few hours they would intercept the marquis on his ill-judged return, and when he knew that he was a widower, he would be as anxious as they to leave the neighbourhood.

Events that seem untoward are often for the best. His sudden change of plans had driven the conspirators to prompt.i.tude. The tortuous and s.h.i.+lly-shally abbe had been compelled to action, and he had really acted very well.

She glanced now and then at the figure on the bed, who lay as motionless as if all were already over, and walked up and down reflecting. What a provoking man the marquis was, who had to be served despite himself. Left alone, unpropped, he had tumbled down, the unstable creature; had repented, and was coming back to whine and to entreat and bite his nails in indecision. Well. No excuse for whining now. The die was cast. In a few days they would have crossed the frontier never to revisit Lorge. The jewels. They must not be left behind, since they were of exceeding value--love gifts from the doting marechal, who deemed naught too good for his darling. There was a diamond parure somewhere, of purest water, which would become the new marquise amazingly. With greedy hands Algae dived into drawers, ferreted in the cabinet of ebony, searched the silver knickknacks on the toilet table. Where were the jewels kept? Doubtless, in the garderobe on the opposite side of the corridor. Yes. Here was the bunch of keys labelled. Mademoiselle would be a veritable ninny were she to neglect her chance of reaping all that could be reaped. As the prospective wife of Clovis the jewels were her own or soon would be, and with this plaguy revolution going on, to leave France was to be condemned to exile. The property of _emigres_ was confiscated. When it became known that the Marquise de Gange was dead, and the marquise flown, the state would pounce upon the chateau, and take possession of everything within it. It clearly behoved the second wife to rummage in the cupboards of the first. There was no time to lose. Casting one hasty glance at the bed, and perceiving no change, Mademoiselle hastily left the room in search of treasure.

With fingers still clasped over her eyes Gabrielle lay still, each minute pa.s.sage in her melancholy life flitting across her brain. She had distinctly heard the brutal fiat of the abbe. Giddiness, delirium, coma, death. Within an hour the symptoms would commence--to last how long? No sign as yet of giddiness. On the contrary, that cold gust from out the grave appeared to have stimulated her mind, quickening its action, magnifying each thought in crystal clearness. It would soon be over. The release for which she had prayed so long and earnestly was close at hand. Her fretted spirit would find peace--she would be freed from the corroding bonds of harsh humanity. Not five and twenty, and the world was beautiful. Now, that she stood on the threshold, on the point of closing the door which may never be re-opened, Gabrielle found herself filled with a strange longing and regret. She knew not that it was the force of young and healthy life that was bubbling up in protest. Hope would not thus be slain. An overwhelming desire to live arose and possessed her being. An idea that was new and draught with horror flooded her mind, and she sat up panting. Her children! Why had she not thought of it before? A reason for welcoming death had been that they would be the better protected by her flitting. But was it indeed so? Had not her mother deserted her in a grievous plight through selfish cowardice? Alarmed for herself she had fled with a pretence that all was well. A fitting guardian for two children, truly. How clear it was--how dreadfully clear! The conspirators would work upon her fears--obtain possession of Victor and Camille. By securing their fortune she had imperilled their lives, for those who could do her to death with such cold barbarity, would stick at nothing when they found themselves foiled by her precautions.

She must not die. No, she must live--for their sakes! To stand between them and the fate they had prepared for her. She sprang from the bed, a prey to violent agitation. There was a singing in her ears--her temples throbbed as though they would crack in sunder. She reeled and clung to the curtain. Her throat was parched with thirst. Were these the first symptoms of the fatal draught? No. It was excess of emotion and anxiety that made her giddy. She would live--live--live--in spite of the executioners, and G.o.d would help, for her cause was holy!

She was alone. Mademoiselle Brunelle for some reason had left her post. The marquise stole to the door, turned the key, gently shot the bolt into its socket. Then, grasping her long hair she forced it down her throat, inducing by irritation a violent sickness, which relieved her. But how to effect escape? Some one was already rattling the handle without--the deep voice of Algae was shouting in imperious accents, "Open! Let me in!" Despair gave strength and courage.

Gabrielle tore open the cas.e.m.e.nt and got out upon the ledge. Below was a stone-paved courtyard; opposite, the outer wall, with the postern that gave on the pleasaunce. Was it locked? No matter. She wore the key of the new lock upon a bracelet. No time to think. With an agonized cry to Heaven for succour she leapt, but was held up for a moment by two strong hands, while close to hers was the face of Algae, black and convulsed with fury. Mademoiselle, hearing a noise within, had rushed round by the boudoir, whose door the marquise had forgotten in her haste to lock. And now began a fierce and desperate tussle between the women, which, though neither knew it, was of infinite service to the victim, for it kept off drowsiness. Strong as she was, Algae could not, cramped and strained, sustain the struggling weight, which escaped from her grasp and fell, while she loudly called for help. The patient was delirious--in madness had flung herself from the window and broken her bones upon the pavement. No. She rolled over and over, and was up again; and Algae, grinding her teeth, seized one of the sculptured flower-pots of bronze and dashed it down at her. Sure the intended victim must bear a charmed life! She sped across the courtyard, succeeded in unlocking the postern, and emerged upon the garden moat.

"Well!" muttered Algae, with a philosophic headshake, "she is in a trap, for beyond the moat is a wall she cannot pa.s.s, and the gates are closed and guarded. It was stupid of me not to wait, and the abbe will be angry. Yet the fault is his, for he distinctly said 'an hour.'"

Meanwhile, refreshed by the air and movement, the frenzied Gabrielle seemed to have wings upon her feet, as she clenched her hands and kept repeating with laboured breath, "I will live--live--live." Her mind was preternaturally clear--she could see with prophetic vision, and grapple with contingencies. She saw the wall and knew she could not pa.s.s it; guessed that the gates were guarded; but remembering a certain night, which seemed a century ago, when she had wickedly attempted suicide, she made with all speed for the end of the moat, at the spot where it joined the river. The wherry was there, swinging loosely and idly on its chain. She leapt into the boat and loosed the knotted links, and, accustomed to use the oars, impelled it across the river. By this happy thought she gained precious time, could take a short cut to Montbazon, and might yet be saved; for her pursuers, deprived of the boat, would have to make a circuit of a mile or more in order to reach the bridge. She would be saved--she knew she would be saved--and then there fell on her a cold and sickening fear.

Her limbs were trembling. She was growing giddy; her sight was wavering--the sky looked brown and dark. Was she doomed to sink down and perish when escape was all but certain?

She tottered along the path, and groping on for a few steps with outstretched arms like one struck blind, reeled and fell, moaning. The singing in her ears was deafening--like the howling of a hurricane through some dense forest; but through it she all at once heard something--a voice that was once familiar. Raising with an effort her heavy eyelids, she was aware of a man with a horse's bridle on his arm, who was supporting her and sprinkling water on her face. She was certainly growing blind as well as giddy. The man loomed unnaturally large, and seemed at one instant crus.h.i.+ngly close, at another a league away.

Grasping the strands of memory which, crystalline no more, was slipping, slipping, she knitted her brows in a wild effort to remember him.

"As I'm a living sinner, 'tis the marquise," the man said, when he had recovered from his amazement. "Poor soul! In so terrible a plight.

Only just in time, it seems."

Jean! Jean Boulot! Gabrielle suddenly remembered, and tightly clutched his hand. "Jean--dear Jean!" she gasped. "Save me! I am poisoned, but I will not die; I must not, cannot die. They are in pursuit--will kill us both. Quick--for love of the dear saints--take me at once to Montbazon!"

Jean pursed his lips, and frowned. "How like the wickedness of aristos!" he muttered. "It is time their evil brood was banished from off the world. Poisoned, you say, madame. What was it?"

"Hemlock," she answered, faintly; "but I have got rid of most of it."

"Hemlock," Jean echoed; "the children hereabouts often eat it, and are saved by tea and charcoal. Courage, madame, all will yet be well. One word more. What of Toinon?"

"She is under lock and key," returned Gabrielle, "but safe, for in the hue and cry for me, her existence will be forgotten."

St.u.r.dy Jean Boulot mounted his horse, and supporting the marquise in front of him, made with all speed by the bridle path for Montbazon.

He was as surprised as shocked, and blamed himself unreasoningly. He of all men should know the depth of enormity of which the n.o.blesse were capable, for was he not always making speeches thereanent for the behoof of less enlightened lieges? Knowing how bad they were, he had abandoned the post of duty, for it was his duty to protect his love and the heiress of the family whose bread he had eaten from childhood.

Why, knowing what she must know, had Toinon so long delayed to write to him? By an unlucky circ.u.mstance he had been sent on a mission to Tours. Hence, he had not got her letter till after many days; but, having read it, had started off forthwith. And Toinon was locked up by those miscreants! Perhaps they had murdered her as they had attempted to murder her mistress. First he must obey madame, and carry her to Montbazon. That was his plain duty. Then he would raise the peasantry, who were ready and trained to arms, and, if need were, storm the chateau. And woe to all of them if Toinon indeed had perished!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE BARON IS ENERGETIC.

The wonder of the timorous inmates of Montbazon knew no bounds when they beheld Boulot--once gamekeeper, now formidable and obnoxious deputy of Blois--careering into their courtyard with a fainting woman in his arms; and astonishment was merged in dismay when Madame de Vaux recognzied the Marquise de Gange, who had been stricken down, according to report, by a virulent and malignant malady.

Since, for some time past, the Seigneurie by common consent had dwelt in a condition of siege, it was only owing to the lucky circ.u.mstance of its being Angelique's fete-day that Jean found the gate unguarded.

Things having quieted down somewhat--though not for long, as the Seigneurie knew too well, for public opinion was ever on the ebb and flow of mischief--it occurred to old De Vaux that this was the propitious moment to go a hunting. It was on the cards that the n.o.ble pastime of the chase might be stopped altogether shortly, and so he seized the opportunity to give a little party in his daughter's honour. Was it not unfeeling, then, to the last degree, that a neighbour who was not invited because she was infectious, should choose this precise moment for a morning call? The gentlemen were away, the ladies were sipping tea, _a l'Anglaise_, and munching biscuits, discussing the while the all-important topic of dress. Of course they would not demean themselves by donning the ridiculous garments of the Republic. The queen, poor martyr, was sitting in sackcloth and ashes while quaffing the cup of bitterness, and it behoved faithful subjects to don mourning. But then money was so dreadfully tight, and n.o.body had any mourning; and, besides, the truculent and abominable upstarts who ruled the roast might take umbrage at such eccentricity and be disagreeable; and when everyone's tenure of property and even life, was so precarious, it was as well to wear coats that would turn.

This proposition had been put and unanimously carried, and everyone was getting on as nicely as possible, when, all of a sudden, killjoy, Jean Boulot, dropped from the clouds with his unconscious and fever-stricken burthen.

Too anxious, and too full of contempt for the company to be polite, he strode sternly into the salon, and gently laying the marquise on the sofa, took summary possession of the teapot, while the frightened ladies stared.

"There is charcoal, no doubt, in the kitchen," he said, quietly, "send for some, please, directly."