Well, there was no indication to be found in the Countess's apartments as to where she had removed to, and I thought it best not to risk being seen there. So I went down to the hall again. As I glanced through the court-yard to the outer gates, I thought of trying to leave the chateau, to see if my new liberty went so far as to permit that. But I reflected that if I were once let out I might not be let in again, and my chance of learning what had become of the Countess lay, I supposed, inside the chateau. So I resolved to stay there and await the turn that matters might take. And certainly never was any man a guest in stranger circumstances of guestship. I hated and feared my host, and was loth to accept his hospitality, yet stayed of my own will, though I knew not certainly whether I was free to go. My host hated me, yet tolerated my presence—if indeed he would not have enforced it—for the sake of having me at hand if he thought fit to crush me. When he appeared that morning, I thanked him ironically for restoring me to liberty. He only uttered his harsh crackling laugh in reply, and regarded me with a pretended disdain which failed to conceal his hatred and his longing to penetrate my mind and learn what indeed was between me and his Countess. In such men, especially when they have an evil suggester like the Captain at their ear, jealousy is a madness, and no assurances—nay, not even oaths—of innocence will be taken by them as truth. But his pride made him feign contempt for me, and he had nothing to say to me that day. Neither had the Captain, whose manner toward me merely reverted to what it had been at first. I saw my former place made ready at the table, and took it. The Count and his friend talked of their sports and the affairs of the estate, and not one word of the Countess was spoken. Having eaten, they went off to ride, leaving me to amuse myself as I might. The air of the chateau seemed the freer for their absence, but still it was to me a sinister place, and an irreligious place too, for, though the Count and his friend were Catholics, I had not seen the sign of a chaplain or of any religious observance since I had crossed the drawbridge. So I prepared myself for a dull yet anxious day, and lounged about the hall and court-yard as the places where I might best hope to find out something from the domestics of the house.
As I paced the stones of the court-yard, I became aware that a certain maidservant had been obtruding upon my view with a persistency that might be intentional. I now regarded her, as she stood in a small doorway leading to the kitchen. She was a plump, well-made thing, with a wholesome, honest face, but the sluttishness of her loose frock, and of a great cap that hung over her eyes, were too suggestive of the scullery. As soon as she saw I noticed her, she put one finger on her lip, and swiftly beckoned me with another.
I strolled carelessly over, and stopped within a foot of her, pretending to readjust my sword-belt.
"Monsieur," she said in an undertone, "you are desired to be in your chamber this afternoon at four o'clock."
I glanced at the girl in wonder.
"That is all at present," she whispered. I had the discretion to move on. There were, as usual, several armed fellows idling about the court-yard, but none seemed to have observed that any word had passed between the kitchen-maid and me.
Here was matter for astonishment and conjecture for the next few hours. In some manner or other, those hours passed, and at four I was seated in my chamber, having left the door open an inch or so. The turret clock had scarce done striking when the door was pushed wide; somebody entered and instantly closed it. I had a brief feeling of disappointment as I saw the slovenly frock and overhanging cap of the kitchen-maid. Was it she, then, who paid me the compliment of this clandestine visit?
No; for the cap was swiftly flung back from the brow, and there was the bright and comely face of Mathilde. I uttered her name in pleased surprise.
"Yes," she said quickly, "Mathilde in the guise of Brigitte. I have come from Madame the Countess."
"And where is she?" I asked eagerly.
"In the great tower."
"A prisoner?"
"Yes, and I with her. Fortunately there was nothing else to do with me, unless they killed me. So I am able to attend her."
"Faithful Mathilde! But why is this?"
"It is the fulfilment of the Count's threat in case Madame could not clear herself of that false charge."
"But the Count knew that Monsieur de Merri was coming here. I told him."
"Yes, Monsieur, but the Count would believe as much of your story as Captain Ferragant would choose to let him. Your very interest in Madame's fate has been new food for his jealousy."
"God forbid!"
"It is not your fault, Monsieur; it is the Count's madness. He locks his wife up, as much that she may be inaccessible to you and all other men, as because of anything concerning Monsieur de Merri."
"You may well call it his madness."
"Yes; for, whatever other ladies may have deserved who have been treated thus, the Countess is the most virtuous of wives. Her regard for her marriage vows—in spite of the husband she has—is a part of her religion. But his mind is poisoned. He naturally believes that a young and beautiful woman would not be faithful to an old wolf like him. And he is almost right, for there is only one young and beautiful woman in France who would be, and that is the Countess."
"Surely not because she loves him?"
"Oh, no. It is because of her religion. She was brought up at a convent school, and when the Count offered to marry her, the Mother Superior made her think it her duty and heaven's will that she should accept the high position, where her piety would shine so much further: and having become his wife, she would die rather than violate a wife's duties by a hair's breadth. But what is her reward? Not because he loves her—there's more love in a stone!—but because he can't endure the thought of any trespass on what is his—because he dreads being made a jeer of—he goes mad with jealousy and suspicion. He imitates the Prince of Condé by locking his wife up in a tower."
"But this cannot last forever."
"No, Monsieur, and for a very good reason—the Countess's life cannot last forever under this treatment—even if the Count, in some wild imagining of her guilt, conjured up by Captain Ferragant, does not murder her. It's that thought which makes me shudder. It could be done so quietly in that lonely cell, and any account of her death could be given out to avoid scandal."
"Horrible, Mathilde! He would not go to that length."
"Men have done so. You are a stranger, and have not seen the frenzies into which the Count sometimes works himself, torturing his mind by imagining actions of infidelity on her part."
"But that disease of his mind will wear itself out; then he will see matters more sanely."
"Will he grow better, do you think, as he grows older, and drinks more wine, and falls more under the influence of the red Captain?"
To say truth, I thought as Mathilde did, though I had spoken otherwise for mere form of reassurance.
"What is her prison like?" I asked.
"A gloomy room no larger that this, with a single small window. There is no panelling nor tapestry nor plaster—nothing but the bare stones. There are a bed for Madame, a cot for me, a table, and two chairs: nothing else to make it look like a human habitation, save our crucifixes, an image of the Virgin, a trunk, and Madame's book of Hours."
"A small window, you say. Is it barred?"
"No; but our room is very high up in the tower."
"Still, if one got through the window—is it large enough for that?"
"One might get through; but the moat is beneath—far beneath."
"The window looks toward Montoire, then, if the moat is beneath."
"Yes; we can see the sunset."
"At all events, a person dropping from the window would alight outside the walls of the chateau?"
"Yes, Monsieur,—in the moat, as I said. It would be a long drop, too. I don't know how high up the room is. It seems a great many steps up the winding stairs before one comes to the landing before the door."
"Is it at the top of the tower, then?"
"No; for beyond our door the stairs begin again, and they seem to wind more steeply."
"You noticed the sunset. Then you must have been there yesterday evening."
"Yes; we were taken there shortly after noon yesterday. That was the limit to the time given the Countess in which to prove her innocence. She was summoned to the picture gallery by the Count himself, and nobody else was there but Captain Ferragant. The door was closed against me, and what passed between that saint and those two devils I know not; but after a little the door was opened, and there she was, very pale and with her eyes raised in prayer. The Count, who was blue with vindictiveness, told me to get together what things Madame should order; and when that was done, he bade us follow, and led the way down to the court-yard and to the tower, the Captain walking behind. As we climbed those narrow winding steps, I wished the Count might trip in the half-darkness and break his neck, but alas, it was only poor Madame who stumbled now and then. The Count showed us into the room, already furnished for us, and waited till a man had brought the trunk in which I had put some of Madame's clothes. The Count left without a word, and we heard the door locked outside. At first I thought we were to be left to starve, but after some hours the door was unlocked by a man on guard outside, and Brigitte appeared with our supper. She told us she was to come twice a day with our food, and for other necessary services. And when she came again this morning, I had planned how I should manage to see you."
"You are as clever as you are true, Mathilde."
"Fortunately Brigitte looks such a simple, witless creature that the man on guard on the landing has not thought to pry while she has been with us, and has allowed the door to be shut. He cannot then see in, as the grated opening has been closed, out of regard to Madame's sex. So this morning I got Brigitte's consent to my plan, for the poor girl is the softest-hearted creature in the world. And to make sure of finding you immediately when I got out, I charged her to tell you to be in your room at four o'clock."
"Which she did very adroitly."
"She is not such a fool as some take her for. Well, when she came to us awhile ago, I transferred this frock and cap from her to me, and had her call out to the guard that she had forgotten something and must return to the kitchen for it. 'Very well, beauty,' said the guard ironically, and I came out in a great hurry, and was on my way downstairs before he could take a second look at me. The landing is a dark place, and my figure so much like Brigitte's that her clothes make it look quite the same. There is another man on guard, at the bottom of the stairs, but he was as easily deceived as the one above. I ran across the two court-yards, and through the kitchen passage to the servants' stairs, and nobody glanced twice at me. Brigitte, of course, must stay with Madame till I return,—and now, Monsieur, it is time I was back, and I have said nothing of what I came to say."
"You have said much that is important. But 'tis true, you'd best say the rest quickly,—your return may be dangerous enough."
"Oh, I shall go so fast that nobody will have time to suspect me. As for the guards, it is their duty to keep me in. Should they see it is I who was out, they will be very glad to have me in again, and to hold their tongues, for the Count's punishments are not light. But as to Madame's message—she would have tried to convey it by Brigitte, had I not declared I would come at all hazards,—for the truth is, I have something to say on my own responsibility, also."
"But Madame's message?" I demanded eagerly.
"She begs that you will go away while you can. So brave a young gentleman should not stay here to risk the Count's vengeance."
I felt joy at this concern for my safety.
"If I am a brave man," I answered, "I can only stay and help her."
"I am glad you are of that mind, Monsieur, for it is what I think. That is what I had to say to you."
"Then the only question is, how can I be of use to the Countess? She must be released from this imprisonment."
"There I agree with you again. She ought to be taken away—far out of reach of the Count's vengeance—before he has time to make her plight worse than it is, or carry out any design against her life. But even if she remained as she is, her health would not long endure it."
"Now that matters have come to this pass, no doubt she is willing to run away."
"Not yet, Monsieur. That is for me to persuade her. But if we form some plan of escape now, I hope I can win her consent before the time comes to carry it out."
"I trust so. When she repelled the idea of escape, the day I saw her in the garden, things had not gone so far. And then she thought there was no safe place of refuge for her. But I can find a place. And she thought an attempt must be hopeless because the Count would be swift to pursue. But if we got some hours' start, going at night—"
"Yes, certainly it will have to be at night, Monsieur. The Count has the roads watched from the tower, for some purpose of his own—I think he expects some enemy."
"You still have the key to the postern?"
"It must be where I left it—buried under the rose-bush nearest the postern itself. But the first thing is, to get out of the room in the tower."
"Certainly. It would not be possible for Madame to get out as you have done—by a disguise, I mean?"
"No, Monsieur. Brigitte is the only one who comes to us, with whom she might change clothes. And Madame is not at all of Brigitte's figure—nor could she mimic Brigitte's walk as I can. She could not act a part in the slightest degree. And I know that Madame would never consent to go and leave me behind to bear the Count's wrath. We must all three go together. Besides Brigitte comes and goes in the daytime, and Madame must escape at night."
"Yes, that is certain. It is hard to devise a plan in a moment. If I could think of it over night, and you come to me again to-morrow—but no, you may not be able to play this same trick again—the guards may detect you going back."
"That is true, and I have thought of one plan, though it may be difficult."
"Let me hear it, nevertheless."
"Then listen, Monsieur. First, as to the door of our cell. It is locked with a key, which the Count himself retains, except when he goes out, as this afternoon,—it is then entrusted to the seneschal. I know this from Brigitte, for the key is given to her when she comes to us. She hands it to the guard on the landing, who opens the door and keeps the key while she is within. When she leaves us, he locks the door, and she takes the key back to the Count or seneschal. But in order to release Madame, you must have that key."
"And how am I to get it?"
"After Brigitte's last visit to us before the night we select, she will give the Count or seneschal, not the real key to our cell, but another of the same size and general shape—she has access to unimportant keys about the house. Then she will bring the real key to you."
"But poor Brigitte!—when the Count investigates in the morning, he will find she has given him the wrong key."
Mathilde thought a moment. "No; he will rather suppose you robbed him of the right key during the night and substituted the other to delay discovery. He will suspect anything rather than Brigitte, whom he thinks too great a fool for the least craft; and even if she is accused, she can play the innocent. I assure you."
"So much for that, then. There is yet the door of entrance to the tower."
"At present it has an old broken key in the lock, which is therefore useless. But no doubt that will be remedied—so we must act soon. Meanwhile, that door is guarded by the man at the foot of the stairs."
"But are the two guards on duty at night also? There is no Brigitte to be let in and out then. And surely the Count doesn't think you can break your lock."
"There are guards on duty, nevertheless. Last night I heard one call down the stairs to another, asking the time. They are there, no doubt, not for fear of our breaking out, but for fear of somebody breaking in to help Madame. I don't suppose there are ever more than two. If the rule has not been changed, the rest of the household sleeps, except a porter in the gate-house and a man on top of the tower. But this man watches the roads, as well as he can in the darkness, and the porter too is more concerned about people who might want to enter the chateau than about what goes on inside. So in the dead of night you can go silently downstairs and let yourself out of the hall—"
"But is not the hall door locked with a key?"
"Yes; but the key is left always in the lock. You have then only to cross the two court-yards to the lower, without making any noise to alarm the porter at the gate-house or to warn the guard at the tower entrance."
"Will he be inside or outside the tower door, I wonder?"
"Probably inside, where there is a bench just at the foot of the stairs. He and his comrade above will be your only real difficulty, Monsieur. If you can take them by surprise, one at a time—"
"One at a time, or two at a time," said I, beginning to walk up and down the chamber, and grasping my sword and dagger. "But the trouble will be, the noise that may be made when I encounter them,—it may arouse the chateau and spoil all."
"But heaven may grant that you will surprise the men inside the tower, one at the foot of the stairs, the other on our landing, as they must have been last night. In that case, if you can keep the fighting inside the tower, till—"
"Till they are dead. Yes, in that case, if I am expeditious, no noise may be heard outside. That is a thing to aim for. If they, or one, should be outside, I can rush in and so draw them after me. Well, and when I have done for them—?"
"Then you have but to unlock our door, and Madame and I will join you.—You will know our door by there being a stool in the landing before it—the guard sits there.—Well, then we must fly silently through the court-yards and the hall, let ourselves out to the terrace—there are two or three ways I know,—and run through the garden to the postern. Once out of these walls, we must hurry across the fields to the house of a certain miller—"
"Hugues? Yes."
"Yes, Monsieur. The watchman on the tower will not see us in the fields, for we shall keep close to the woods till we are at a distance. Hugues can supply two horses, at least, and you and Madame must be as far away as possible by daylight."
"And you, Mathilde?"
"Unless we can get three horses, I will lie hid at Hugues's mill till Madame finds time to send for me. It will be suitable enough—Hugues and I are to be married some day."
"But I have a horse at the inn at Montoire. If I can get it out at that hour, you can come with us—to whatever place we may decide upon."
"As to that place, you may consider in the meanwhile. There will be time to discuss the matter with Madame when she is escaping with you. The first thing is, to get as far from Lavardin as possible. And now when is all this to be done?"
"The sooner the better, for who knows when the Count may take into his head some new idea?"
"Yes, of harm to Madame or to yourself."
"Why should we not choose this very night?"
"I see no reason against it—except that I may not be able to persuade Madame. But yet there will be several hours—and surely heaven will help me!—Yes, to-night! There is nothing for me to do but persuade Madame, and see that we are dressed as suitably for travel as the clothes at hand will permit. But first, before Brigitte comes away, I must instruct her about the key. At what hour will you come, Monsieur?"
"As soon as the house is asleep."
"Fortunately, early hours are kept here, as there is never any company. But the Count and the Captain stay at their cups till ten or eleven o'clock."
"Then by that time they must have drunk enough to make them fall asleep as soon as they are in bed."
"And sometimes before they are in bed, I have heard the servants say."
"Then I will leave my room at half-past eleven, but will make sure that the hall is dark and empty before I proceed."
"And may the saints aid you, Monsieur, when you have to do with the men at the tower!"
"The men will not be expecting me, that is one advantage," said I, trying to seem calm, but trembling with excitement. "If all goes well, we should be out of the chateau soon after midnight."
"And at Hugues's house before one o'clock. You should be on horseback—the Countess and you—by half-past one. Have you money, Monsieur?"
"Yes,—this purse is nearly as full as when I left home."
"That is well, for Madame has none, and I don't know how much Hugues could get together in ten minutes. I have ten crowns in his strong-box, which Madame shall have."
"They shall stay in Hugues's strong-box, and his own money too. I have enough."
"Then I believe that is all, Monsieur, and I'd better be going back. Be on the watch for Brigitte with the key. Do you think of anything else?"
We went hurriedly over the various details of the plan, and then she took her leave, darting along the passage as swiftly as a greyhound and as silently as a ghost. I sat down to think upon what I had undertaken, but my mind was in a whirl. Strangely enough, I, the victor of a single duel, did not shrink from the idea of killing the two guards—or as many as there might be. Perhaps this was because they were sure to be rascals whose lives one could not value very highly, especially as against that of the Countess. Nor did I feel greatly the odds against me, in regard both to their number and to my inexperience in such business. Perhaps the apparent confidence of Mathilde in my ability to dispose of them—a confidence based on my being a gentleman and they underlings—infected me. And yet I chose not to go too deeply into the probabilities. My safest course, for my courage, was not to think too much, but to wait for the moment and then do my best.
It seemed but a short time till there was a tap at my door, and in came the real Brigitte.
"Mathilde got back safe, Monsieur; she was not detected," she said, and handed me a large key.
Ere more could pass, she was gone. I put the key in my breast pocket. It was now time I should show myself to the Count and his friend at table; which I proceeded to do, as boldly as if I had entertained no design against them. They were just back from their ride. It was strange with what outward coolness I was able to carry myself, by dint of not thinking too closely on what I had undertaken. For observe that, besides the immediate task of the night, there was Madame's whole future involved. And how precipitately Mathilde and I had settled upon our course, without pausing to consider if some more prudent measures might not be taken to the same end! But I was hurried by my feeling that I ought to save Madame, the more because no one could say how far the present situation was due to my having killed De Merri, and to my advent at the chateau. Even though she might choose not to escape, it was for me to give her the opportunity, at least. And to tell the truth, I longed to see her again, at any cost. As for Mathilde, there were her pressing fears of a worse fate for her mistress, to excuse her haste. And we were both young, and thought that any project which goes straight and smoothly in the telling must go straight and smoothly in the doing; and we looked not far ahead.
I left the table early, and went to my room. I tore two strips from the sheet of my bed, and wrapped them around my boots so as to cover the soles and deaden my footsteps. Slowly the night came, with stars and a moon well toward the full. But we could keep in shadow while about the chateau, and the light would aid our travelling later. At half-past ten o'clock, the house seemed so still I thought the Count must have gone to bed before his usual time. I stole noiselessly from my room, feeling my way; and partly down the stairs. But when I got to the head of the lower flight, I saw that the hall was still lighted. I peered over the railing. The Count and the Captain were alone, except for two knaves who sat asleep on their bench at the lower end of the hall. The Count lounged limply back in his great chair at the head of the table, unsteadily holding a glass of wine; and the Captain leaned forward on the board, narrowly regarding the Count. Both were well gone in wine, the Count apparently the more so. There was a look of mental torment on the Count's face.
"Yes, I know, I know," he said, wincing at his own words as if they pierced him. "There was opportunity enough with that De Merri. I was blind then. And with this new puppy! Women and lovers have the ingenuity of devils in devising opportunities. And they both admit their interview in the garden. But that he could have his way so soon—is that entirely probable?"
He looked at the Captain almost beseechingly, as if for a spark of hope.
The Captain spoke with the calm certainty of wisdom gained through a world of experience:
"Young blood is quickly stirred. Young lips are quickly drawn to one another. Young arms are quick to reach out, and young bodies quick to yield to them."
The Count uttered a cry of pain and wrath, his eyes fixed as though upon the very scene the Captain imagined.
"The wretches!" said the tortured Count, staggering to his feet. "And I am the Count de Lavardin!"
"The greater nobleman you, the greater conquest for a young nobody to boast of. It is a fine thought for adventurous youth.—'A great lord, and a rich, but it is I, an unknown stripling, who really have possessed what he thinks his dearest treasure.'"
The Count gave a kind of agonized moan, and went lurching across the hall, spilling some wine from his glass. "And a man of my years, too!" he said, with an accent of self-pity.
"The older the husband, the merrier the laugh at his expense," said the Captain.
The Count ground his teeth, and muttered to himself.
"It is always their boasting that betrays them," went on the Count. "When I was young, they used to tell of a famous love affair between the Bussy d'Amboise of that day and the Countess de Montsoreau, wife of the Grand-huntsman. It came out through Bussy's writing to the King's brother that he had stolen the hind of the Grand-huntsman. That is how these young cocks always speak of their conquests.
"Ah, I remember that. He did the right thing, that Montsoreau! He forced his false wife to make an appointment with Bussy, and when Bussy came, it was a dozen armed men who kept the appointment, and the gay lover died hanging from a window. Yes, that Montsoreau!—but he should have killed the woman too! The perfidious creatures! Mon dieu!—when I married her—when she took the vows—she was the picture of fidelity—I could have staked my soul that she was true; that from duty alone she was mine always, only mine!"
He lamented not as one hurt in his love, but as one outraged in his right of possession and in his dignity and pride. And curiously enough, his last words caused a look of jealousy to pass across the face of the Captain. This look, unnoticed by the Count, and speedily repressed, came to me as a revelation. It seemed to betray a bitter envy of the Count's mere loveless and unloved right of possession; and it bespoke the resolve that, if the Captain might not have her smiles, not even her husband might be content in his rights. Such men will give a woman to death rather than to any other man. As in a flash, then, I saw his motive in working upon the Count's insane jealousy. Better the Count should kill her than that even the Count should possess her. I shuddered to think how near to murder the Count had been wrought up but a moment since. At any time his impulse might pass the bounds. I now understood Mathilde's apprehensions, and saw the need for haste in removing the Countess far from the power of this madman and his malign instigator.
The Count, exhausted by his rush of feelings, drained his glass, and almost immediately gave way to the sudden drowsiness which befalls drinkers at a certain stage. He staggered to his seat, and fell back in a kind of daze, the Captain watching him with cold patience. Thinking they would soon be going to bed, I slipped back to my room.
A little after eleven, I went forth again. The hall was now dark, and its silence betokened desertion. I groped my way to the door. The key turned more noisily than I should have wished, and there was a bolt to undo, which grated; but I heard no sound of alarm in the house. I stepped out to the court-yard, closing the door after me. The court-yard was bathed in moonlight. Keeping close to the house, so as not to be visible from any upper window, I gained the shadow of the wall separating the two court-yards. As noiselessly as a cat, I followed that wall to its gateway; entered the second court-yard, and saw that the door to the tower was open, a faint light coming from it. The tower itself, obstructing the moon's rays, threw its shadow across the paving-stones. I stepped into that shadow, which was only partial; drew my sword and dagger, and darted straight for the tower entrance, stopping just inside the doorway. By the light of a lantern hanging against the wall, I saw a kind of small vestibule, beyond which was an inner wall, and at one side of which was the beginning of a narrow spiral staircase, that ran up between walls until it wound out of sight. On a bench against the inner wall I have mentioned, sat a man, who rose at sight of me, with one hand grasping a sword, and with the other a pike that was leaning against the bench.
He was a heavy, squat fellow, with short, thick legs and short, thick arms.
"I give you one chance for your life," said I quickly. "Help me to escape with your prisoner, and leave the Count's service for mine."
After a moment's astonishment, the man grunted derisively, and made a lunge at my breast with his pike. I caught the pike with my left hand, still holding my dagger therein, and forced it downward. At the same time I thrust with my rapier, but he parried with his own sword. I thrust instantly again, and would have pinned him to the wall if he had not sprung aside. He was now with his back to the stairs, and neither of us had let go the pike. His sword-point darted at me a second time, but I avoided, and thrust in return. Not quite ready to parry, he escaped by falling back upon the narrow stone steps. Before I could attack, he was on his feet again, and on the second step. We still held to the pike, which troubled me much, both as an impediment to free sword-play and as depriving me of the use of my dagger. I suddenly fell back, trying to jerk it from his grasp; but his grip was too firm. He jerked the pike in turn, and I let go, thinking the unexpected release might cause him a fall.
He did not fall; but I pressed close with sword and dagger before he could bring the pike to use, and he backed further up the stairs. He caught the pike nearer the point, that he might wield it better at close quarters; but the long handle made it an awkward weapon, by striking against the wall, which continually curved behind him. We were sword to sword, and against my dagger he had his pike, but the dagger was the freer weapon for defence though not so far-reaching for attack.
The man was very strong, but he had the shorter thrust and offered the broader target. We continued at it, thrust and parry, give and take. All the time he retreated up the winding staircase, which was so narrow that we had little elbow room, and this was to his advantage as he needed less than I. Another thing soon came to his advantage: the stairs curved out of the light cast by the lantern below, so that he backed into darkness, yet I was still visible to him. I cannot tell by what sense I knew where to meet his sword-point, yet certainly my dagger rang against it each time it would have stung me out of the dark. As for his pike, I now kept it busy enough in meeting my own thrusts. Whether or not I was drawn by the knowledge that the Countess was above, I continued to attack so incessantly, and with such good reach, that my antagonist still retreated upward. I followed him into the darkness; and then the advantage was with me, as being slender.
Hitherto I had offered him my full front, but now I half turned my back to the wall, so that his blade might scarce find me at all, and that I might stand less danger of being forced backward off my feet. Well, so we prodded the darkness with our steel feelers in search of each other's bodies on those narrow stairs, striking sparks from the stone walls which our weapons were bound to meet by reason of the continual curvature.
At last the broad form of my adversary was suddenly thrown into faint light by a narrow window in the wall. I staked all upon one swift thrust. It caught him full in the belly, and ran how far up his body I know not. With a cry he fell forward, and I was hard put to it to save my sword and avoid going down with him. But I got myself and my sword free, and went on up the stairs as fast as I could feel my way.
In a few moments I heard steps coming from above, and a rough voice shouting down, "Ho, Gaspard, did you call? What the devil's up?" It was the other guard, who must have been asleep to have been deaf to the clash of our weapons, but whom his comrade's death-cry had roused. I trusted that the walls of the tower had confined that death-cry from the chateau; fortunately, the narrow window was toward the open fields.
I stopped where I was. When the man's steps sounded a few feet from me, I said "Halt!" and, telling him his comrade was dead, proposed the terms I had offered the latter. There was a moment's silence: then a clicking sound, and finally a great flash of fiery light with a loud report, and the smell of smoke. By good luck I had flattened myself against the wall before speaking, and the charge whizzed past me. Thinking the man might have another pistol in readiness, I stood still. But he turned and ran up the stairs. I stumbled after him.
Presently the stairway curved into light such as we had left at the bottom. The guard ran on in the light, and finally stepped forth to a landing no wider than the stairs; where there hung a lantern over a three-legged stool, beyond which was a door. At sight of this my heart bounded.
At the very edge of the landing the man turned and faced me, pointing a second pistol. As the wheel moved, I dropped forward. The thing missed fire entirely, and, flinging it down with a curse, the man drew his sword and seized a pike that stood against the wall. I charged recklessly up the steps, bending my body to avoid the pike. It went through my doublet, just under the left armpit. Ere he could disencumber it I pressed forward upon the landing. I turned his sword with my dagger, and thrust with my own sword under the pike, piercing his side. Only wounded, he leaped back, drawing the pike from my clothes. He aimed at me again with that weapon. In bending away from it, I fell on my side, but instantly turned upon my back.
The man moved to stand over me. I let go my sword, and caught the pike in my hand as it descended. He then tried to spit me with his sword, but I checked its point with the guard of my dagger. I thought I was near my end. He had only to draw up his sword for another downward thrust; but there was a sudden faltering, or hesitation, in his movements, probably a blindness of his eyes, the effect of his wound. In that instant of his uncertainty, I swung my dagger around and ran it through his leg. He fell forward upon me, nearly driving the breath out of my body. My dagger arm, extended as it had been, was fortunately free. I crooked my elbow, embraced my adversary, and sank the dagger deep into his back. I felt his quiver of death.
After I had rolled his body off me, and sheathed my sword and dagger, I took out the key and unlocked the door. Inside the vaulted room of stone, which was lighted by a candle, stood the Countess and Mathilde.
The Countess, beautiful in her pallor, and looking more angel than woman in the plain robe of blue that clothed her slight figure, met me with a face of mingled reproach, pity, and horror. Mathilde was in tears and utterly downcast. I could see at a glance how matters stood, and ere I had made two steps beyond the threshold, I stopped, abashed.
"Oh, Monsieur, the blood!" cried the Countess sadly, pointing to my doublet.
"It is that of your two guards," I said. "I am not hurt."
"I am glad you are not hurt. But oh, why did you put this bloodshed upon your soul?"
"To save you, Madame."
"Alas, I know. It is not for me to blame you—but could you think I would escape—leave the house of my husband—become a fugitive wife?"
I saw how firm she was in her resolution for all her fragility of body, and I scarce knew what to say.
"Madame, think! He is your husband, yes,—but your persecutor. Where you should have protection, you receive—this." I waved my hand about her prison. "Where you should find safety, you are in mortal danger."
"I know all that, Monsieur,—have known it from the first. But shall I play the runaway on that account? Think what you propose—that I, a wedded wife, shall fly from my husband's roof with a gentleman who is not even of kin to me! Then indeed would my good name deserve to suffer."
"But Madame, heaven knows, as I do, that you are the truest of wives."
"Then let me still deserve that title as my consolation, whatever I may have to endure."
"But to flee from such indignity as this—such slander—such peril of death—"
"It is for me to bear these things," she interrupted, "if he to whom I vowed myself in marriage inflicts them upon me. If they be wrongs, it is I who must suffer but not I who must answer to heaven for them! I may be sinned against, but I will not sin. Though he fail in a husband's duty, I will not fail in a wife's. Do you not understand, Monsieur, it is not the things done to us, but the things we do, that we are accountable for?"
"But I can see no sin in your fleeing from the evils that beset you here, Madame."
"Nay, even if it were not a violation of my marriage vow, it would have the appearance of sin, and that we are to avoid. And it would be to throw away my one hope, that my husband's heart may yet be softened, and his eyes opened to my innocence."
"Alas! I trust it may turn out a true hope, Madame," said I sadly.
"Heaven has caused such things to occur before now," she replied. "As for you, Monsieur, I must never cease to thank you for your chivalrous intent, as I shall thank my good Mathilde for her devotion. And I will ever pray for you. And now, if you would make my lot easier—if you would remove one anxiety from my heart, and give me one solace—you will leave this chateau immediately. Save yourself, I beg. Monsieur: let there be no more blood shed on my account, and that blood yours! Mathilde can let you out at the postern—she knows where the key is hidden. She tells me you have a horse at Montoire. Go, Monsieur—lose not another moment—I implore—nay, if you will recognize me as mistress of this house, I command."
I bowed low. She offered me her hand: I kissed it.
"It will not be necessary for Mathilde to come to the postern," said I. "I know another way out of the chateau. Adieu, Madame!" It was all I could manage to say without the breaking of my voice. I turned and left the room, closing the door that the Countess and Mathilde might be spared the sight of the body on the landing. I then, for a reason, took the key, leaving the door unlocked. I groped my way down the stairs, taking care not to trip over the body below. I crossed the court-yards without any care for secrecy, entered the hall, and sat down upon a bench near the door.
When I had told the Countess I knew another way out of the chateau, I meant only the front gateway. But I did not intend immediately to try that way. I intended, for a purpose which had suddenly come into my head, to wait in the hall till morning and be the first to greet the Count when he appeared.
What I stayed to do was something the Countess herself could do, and probably would do one way or another, if indeed mere circumstances would not do it of themselves: though I felt that none could as I could. But to tell the truth, even if I could not have brought myself to turn my back on that place while she was in such unhappy plight there.
After I had sat awhile in the hall, I went to my room, lighted a candle, and cleansed myself and my weapons, and my clothes as well as I could, of blood. Having put myself to rights, though the rents in my doublet were still gaping, I went back to the bench in the hall, and passed the rest of the night there, sleeping and awake by turns.
At dawn I heard steps and voices in the court-yard as of early risen dependents starting the day. Silence returned for a few minutes, and then came the noise of hurrying feet, and of shouts. There was rapid talk between somebody in the court-yard and somebody at an upper window. I knew it meant that the bodies of the two guards had been discovered, doubtless by the men who had gone to relieve them. In a short time, down the stairs came the Count de Lavardin, his doublet still unfastened, followed by two body-servants. He came in haste toward the front door, but I rose and stood in his path.
"A moment, Monsieur Count. There's no need of haste. You'll find your prisoner safe enough."
"What do you mean?" he asked, having stopped in sheer wonder at my audacity.
"Madame the Countess has not flown, though it is true her guards are slain—I slew them. And Madame the Countess will not fly, though it is true her prison door is unlocked—I unlocked it—with this key, which I borrowed from you last night."
He took the key I handed him, and stared at it in amazement. He then thrust his hand into his doublet pocket and drew out another key, which he held up beside the first, looking from one to the other.
"Yes," said I, "that is a different key, which I left in place of the right one so that you might not discover the loan too soon."
He gazed at me with a mixture of fury and surprise, as at an antagonist whose capacity he must have previously underrated.
"By the horns of Satan," he exclaimed, "you are the boldest of meddling imps."
"I have meddled to good purpose," said I, "though my meddling has not turned out as I planned. But it has turned out so as to bring you peace of mind, at least in one respect."
"What are you talking of?"
"You see that I possessed myself of that key; that I fought my way to the prison of the Countess; that I threw open her prison door."
"And believe me, you shall pay for your ingenuity and daring, my brave youth."
"All that was but the beginning of what I was resolved and able to do. I had prepared our way of escape from the chateau."
"I am not sure of that."
"You may laugh with your lips, Count, but I laugh at you in my heart. Don't think Monsieur de Pepicot is the only man who can get out of the Chateau de Lavardin."
The reminder somewhat sobered the Count.
"I had the means, too," I went on, "to fly with Madame far from this place. We might indeed have been a half-day's ride away by this time. I assure you it is true. Let what I have done convince you of what more I could have done. You don't think I should have gone so far as I have, unless I was sure of going further, do you?"
The Count shrugged his shoulders, pretending derision, but he waited for me.
"And why did I not go further?" I continued. "Because the Countess would not. Because she is the truest of wives. Because, when I opened her door, she met me with a stern rebuke for supposing her capable of flying from your roof. Ah, Monsieur, it would have set your mind at rest, if you had heard her. She bows to your will, though it may crush her, because you are her husband. Never was such pious fidelity to marriage vows. Her only hope is that your mind may be cleared of its false doubts of her."
The Count looked impressed. He had become thoughtful, and a kind of grateful ease seemed to show itself upon his brow. I was pleasing myself with the belief that I had thus, in an unexpected way, convinced him of the Countess's virtue, when a voice at my side broke in upon my satisfaction. I had so closely kept my attention upon the Count that I had not observed Captain Ferragant come down the stairs. It was he that now spoke, in his cool, quiet, scoffing tone:
"Perhaps the Countess had less faith in this gentleman's power to convey her safely away than he seems to have had himself. Perhaps she saw a less promising future for a renegade wife than he could picture to her. Perhaps she, too, perceived the value of her refusal to run away, as evidence of virtue in the eyes of a credulous husband."
The Count's forehead clouded again. I turned indignantly upon the Captain, but addressed my words to the Count, saying:
"Monsieur, you will pardon me, but it seems to a stranger that you allow this gentleman great liberties of speech. Men of honour do not, as a rule, even permit their friends to defame their wives."
"This gentleman is in my confidence," said the Count, his grey face reddening for a moment. "It is you, a stranger as you say, who have taken great liberties in speaking of my domestic affairs. But you shall pay for them, young gentleman. Your youth makes your presumption all the greater, and shall not make your punishment the less. I will trouble you, Captain, to see that he stays here till I return."
At this the Count, motioning his attendants to follow, who had stood out of earshot of our lowered voices, passed on to the court-yard, and thence, of course, to the prison of the Countess.
The Captain stood looking at me with that expression of antipathy and ridicule which I always found it so hard to brook. I had some thought of defying the Count's last words and walking away to see what the Captain would do. But I reflected that this course must end in my taking down, unless I made good a sudden flight from the chateau by the gate; and if I made that I should be fleeing from the Countess. So the best thing was to be submissive, and not bring matters, as between the Count and me, to a crisis. Perhaps a way to help the Countess might yet occur, if I stayed upon the scene to avail myself of it. And in any case by continuing there in as much freedom as the Count might choose to allow me, I might have at least the chance of another sight of her.
So, while we waited half an hour or so in the hall, I gave the Captain no trouble, not even that of speech, which he disdained to take on his own initiative.
The Count returned, looking agitated, as if he had been in a storm of anger which had scarce had time to subside. His glance at me was more charged with hate and menace than ever before. He beckoned the Captain to the other end of the hall, and there they talked for awhile in undertones, the Count often shaking his head quickly, and taking short walks to and fro; sometimes he clenched his fists, or breathed heavy sighs of irritation, or darted at me a swift look of malevolence and threat. I could only assume that something had passed between the Countess and him during his visit to her prison—perhaps she had shown anxiety as to whether I had fled—which had suddenly quickened and increased his jealousy of me.
At last the Count seemed to accept some course advised by his friend. He came towards me, the Captain following with slower steps. In a dry voice, well under control, the Count said to me:
"Permit me to relieve you, Monsieur, of the burden of those weapons you carry. I am annoyed that you should think it desirable to wear them in my house, as if it were the road."
Startled, I put my hands on the hilts of my sword and dagger, and took a step backward.
"Your annoyance is somewhat strange, Monsieur," said I, "considering that you and the Captain wear your swords indoors as well as out. I thought it was the custom of this house."
"If so," replied the Count, with his ghastly smile, "it is a custom that a guest forfeits the benefit of by killing two of my dependents. Come, young gentleman. Don't be so rude as to make me ask twice."
The Captain now stepped forward more briskly, his hand on his own sword. Taking his motion as a threatening one, and scarce knowing what to do, I drew my weapons upon impulse and presented, not the handles, but the points. But ere I could think, the Captain's long rapier flashed out, it moved so swiftly I could not see it, and my own sword was torn from my grip and sent whirring across the hall. In the next instant, the guard of the Captain's sword was locked against the guard of my dagger, and his left hand gripped my wrist. It was such a trick as a fencing master might have played on a new pupil, or as I had heard attributed to my father but had never seen him perform. It showed me what a swordsman that red Captain was, and how much I had yet to learn ere I dared venture against such an adversary. And there was his bold red-splashed face close to mine, smiling in derision of my surprise and discomfiture. He was beginning to exert his strength upon my wrist—that strength which had choked and flung away the great hound. To save my arm, I let go my dagger. The Captain put his foot on it till an attendant, whom the Count had summoned, stooped for it. My sword was picked up by another man, whereupon, at the Count's command, it was hung upon a peg in the wall, and the dagger attached to the handle of the sword. The two men were then ordered to guard me, one at each side. They were burly fellows, armed with daggers.
"Well, Monsieur, what next?" said I in as scornful a tone as I could command.
"Patience, Monsieur; you will see."
There was a low, narrow door in the side of the hall, near the front. At the Count's bidding, an attendant opened this, and I was marched into a very small, bare room, the ceiling of which was scarce higher than my head. This apartment had evidently been designed as a doorkeeper's box. It's only furniture was a bench. A mere eyehole of a window in the corner looked upon the court-yard.
"Remember," I called back to the Count, "you cannot put injuries upon me with impunity. An account will be exacted in due time."
"Remember, you," he replied with a laugh, "that you have murdered two men here, and are subject to my sentence."
My guards left me in the room, and stationed themselves outside the door, which was then closed upon me. There was no lock to the door, but it was possible to fasten the latch on the outside, and this was done, as I presently discovered by trial.
I sat on the bench, and gazed out upon as much of the court-yard as the window showed. Suddenly the window was darkened by something placed against it outside,—a man's doublet propped up by a pike, or some such device. I could not guess why they should cut off my light, unless as a mere addition to the tediousness of my restraint. I disdained to show annoyance, though I might have thrust my arm through the window and displaced the obstruction. Later I saw the reason: it was to prevent my seeing who passed through the court-yard.
It seemed an hour until suddenly my door was flung open. In the doorway appeared the Captain, beckoning me to come forth. I did so.
Half-way up the hall, a little at one side, stood the Count. Near him, and looking straight toward me, sat the Countess in a great arm-chair. Besides the Captain and myself, those two were the only persons in the hall. Even my guards had disappeared, and all doors leading from the hall were shut.
The Countess, as I have said, was looking straight toward me. Her eyes had followed the Captain to my door, she wondering what was to come out of it. For assuredly she had not expected me to come out of it. She had still trusted that I had gone away in the night—the Count had not told her otherwise. Her surprise at seeing me was manifest in her startled look, which was followed by a low cry of compassionate regret.
The Count had been watching her with a painful intentness. He had not even turned his eyes to see me enter, having trusted to his ears to apprise him. At her display of concern, the skin of his face tightened; though that display was no more than any compassionate lady might have given in a similar case. Even the Count, after a moment, appeared to think more reasonably of her demeanour.
I bowed to her, and stood waiting for what might follow, the Captain near me.
The Count, turning toward me for an instant to show it was I he addressed, but fixing his gaze again upon his wife and keeping it there while he continued speaking to me, delivered himself thus, with mocking irony:
"Monsieur, I will not be so trifling or so churlish as to keep you in doubt regarding your fate. In this chateau, where the right of doom lies in me, you have been, by plain evidence and your own confession, guilty of the murder of two men. As to what other and worse crimes you have intended, I say nothing. What you have done is already too much. There is only one sufficient punishment. You may thank me for granting you time of preparation. I will give you two days—a liberal allowance, you will admit—during which you shall be lodged in a secure place, where in solitude and quiet you may put yourself in readiness for death."
The Countess rose with a cry, "No, no!" Her face and voice were charged with something so much more than mere compassion, that I forgot my doom in a wild sweet exultation. At what he perceived, the Count uttered a fierce, dismayed ejaculation. The Captain looked at once triumphant and resentful.
"It is enough!" cried the Count hoarsely. "The truth is clear!"
He motioned me away, and the Captain pushed me back into the little room, quickly fastening the door. But my feeling was still one of ecstasy rather than horror, for still I saw the Countess's tender eyes in grief for me, still saw her arms reaching out toward me, still heard her voice full of wild protest at my sentence. It was to surprise her real feelings that she had been brought to hear, in my presence, my doom pronounced; and my window had been obstructed that our confrontation might be as sudden to me as to her, lest by a prepared look I might put her on her guard. This it was that the Captain had suggested, and excellently it had served. That moment's revelation of her heart, though it brought such sweetness into my soul, could only make her fate worse and my sentence irrevocable.