The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Volume 3 of 3

The marquise saved her from the trouble of displaying her own diplomacy by boldly announcing to the abbé that Madame la Maréchale de Brèze would return on the morrow to the capital, and, being lonely there, would borrow, for a period, the society of her grandchildren. The abbé glanced keenly in her face, but could read nothing there. What curious fancy was this? She who so adored the cherubs, had decided on a separation! Why? What motive could underly so unexpected a project? The more the abbé reflected, the less could he fathom it, but after looking at it from every point, he made up his mind that it was some feminine whim which concerned him not. And yet it did in this much. From the moment that the second will was executed, the children were safe from any machinations of the conspirators. What happened to them was of no importance. If Algaé chose to be burthened with them, she was welcome so to do, as far as her fellow-schemer was concerned. It would be a convenience, though, to have them out of the way just now. When it was over, and the family was comfortably established at Geneva, there would be plenty of time to consider what was to be done with the infants. Perhaps it would be a harmless sop to Clovis to have them with him there, in order that he might make up for the shadiness of his marital past by systematic parental indulgence. There certainly was no possible reason why they should not journey with their grandmother to Paris on a visit, and the heart of the latter, on finding there was no opposition to the plan, was relieved of a weight as ponderous as a nether millstone.

Long before the hasty preparations were complete, Madame la Maréchale had satisfactorily convinced herself that the abbé's place was among the angelic host. It must be mischievous fudge about those cakes; a silly tittle-tattle of ignorant servants, to which Gabrielle, mopish and morbid, had given too willing an ear. Far from throwing barriers in the way of an exodus, both brothers were almost too obliging. The chevalier, who was a past master in farriery, examined the horses' shoes with minute care, while his brother superintended the inner economy of the berline. In the boot were books, and a few bottles of the choicest wines and samples of comforting cordials, wherewith an elderly traveller might be sustained under fatigue. There were pillows and cushions galore, and cunning wraps deftly-stowed in corners.

"Our dear mother," he explained, laughingly, "shall carry away with her a favourable impression of Lorge, though she is so ungrateful as to leave us with too evident alacrity. Never mind. It becomes the Church to be forgiving, and, returned to the capital, she will reward us with remembrance in her prayers."

As at last she drove away, with a darling wedged in on either side, like panniers on a donkey, the maréchale blamed herself bitterly for her unjust suspicions. How could the man have evil intentions, since he was so ready to speed upon their road those whom, if suspicions were true, it was his direct interest to keep under control? And if-as was clearly proven-he had evolved no base scheme with regard to the children and their guardian-why should he be scheming to injure Gabrielle? What could he possibly gain by injuring Gabrielle, since, after her death, her possessions would pass at once far out of his reach? It was all preposterous-impossible rather than improbable-and it behoved a wise and experienced lady of mature years to scold an hysterical daughter for nourishing injurious fancies. The nearer she was to Paris, the more jubilant did the old dame become, the more rosy grew her cogitations. It was certainly nice to have the cherubs' society in a shut-up house in the suburbs, whose safety lay in its blankness; but it was improper to be selfish. If there was a vice against which the maréchale was fond of tilting, it was selfishness. She loathed and abhorred the disfiguring leprosy. No one should ever say that she was selfish. She would keep the little ones for a few months, then pack them home again. In her odd state, it was not quite wise to leave the marquise moping. By and by she would receive them in her arms, delighted with the good that change of scene had done them, grateful for the grandmother's care. As for M. Galland-the estimable and upright, but somewhat square-toed, solicitor, to whose acumen the late maréchal had been misguided enough to trust, rather than to the wisdom of his singularly clear-brained wife, she would be able to report most favourably. He had urged, almost compelled, the journey to Touraine, being oppressed by some indefinite apprehension. Madame la Marquise, he had explained, wrote so seldom and so little, that he began to think there must be some reason for her reticence. Regardless of self, or plaguey pains and aches, the devoted mother had travelled that weary distance, and in late autumn, too, when east winds are so unpleasantly familiar. Martyr to duty and an irrepressibly conscientious solicitor, she had been, and she had come back. The tiresomely apprehensive Galland would be delighted with the assurance that the Marquise de Gange was well; that the marquis, temporarily absent on business, was likewise well; that two of the most charming and devotedly attentive men on earth were his half-brothers, on whose backs the wings were already sprouting, that they might join the hierarchy of heaven. As for the cherubs, she had brought them as specimens of the results of Touraine air. The arms of the darlings were healthily brown, and prematurely developed by boating exercise on the Loire. They were quite bursting with health and spirits, and would very likely be insulted in the streets as aggressive and reproachful examples of country versus town. M. Galland's apprehensions, clearly demonstrated to be of the most idle description, would vanish; he would sleep on his two ears, as the saying hath it; and worry the grandmother no more.

On the evening of her arrival, the solicitor dined with her, anxious for a report as to the doings in Touraine. He hearkened to her wisdom, nor strove to stem the ocean of her prate, which babbled on unceasingly. She was provoked to observe that he was absent, and that his moody brow remained clouded despite the rosiness of her report. Of course, he did not believe her. Nobody ever had, worse luck for the world in general; but it was really just a shade too insolent to have sent her all that distance in a ram-shackle old shanderydan, and, the pilgrimage completed, to treat the result of her observations as mere draught whistling through a keyhole. The old lady was so hurt that she was unable to control her vexation. "Of course, I'm a fool," she gurgled. "If I'm so incurably imbecile, why did you not go yourself? These children, I suppose, are no evidence, with their gladsome eyes and ruddy faces!"

M. Galland did not reply at once, for he was thinking.

"It might have been as well, perhaps, madame, if I had accompanied you," he slowly said at last. "The children, thank goodness! are in perfect health. The marquis, you admit, was absent; his brothers practically in possession. One lady and two gentlemen-a cosy party of three."

"Wrong!" cried the maréchale in triumph. "Always the same. You interrupt and jump at conclusions without having the decent civility to hear me out. Some men are insufferably rude."

"How wrong?" enquired the solicitor, anxiously.

"There were two ladies in the house; but the second held so much aloof that I was hardly aware of her presence. That struck me as a little odd, for she was an invited guest-a Mademoiselle Brunelle, at one time governess to the little ones."

M. Galland started, and the cloud on his brow deepened.

That woman again! She whom he had himself expelled by the express orders of De Brèze. How had she wormed herself into the house a second time. And she held aloof, too-was not one of the family circle-sure sign that her presence there was contrary to the wish of the marquise.

"Of a certainty," reflected the solicitor, "I should have done well to go down myself. Strange as it may seem, it looks very much as if the forebodings of madame were to be realized."

M. Galland muffled himself to the eyes in his roquelaure, and preceded by a trusty servant with a lantern, walked rapidly home, exceedingly disturbed in mind. "If aught happens to her," he kept murmuring, "it will be a cause of acutest self-reproach as long as I live. And yet how could a steady-going old lawyer take a woman's romantic presentiments into account? She declared when she left Paris, that she was going to her death. A fear without solid basis founded upon fancy. And that declaration that she made before the magistrate. Did she see with prophetic vision? I've heard of such cases, but never credited them. Have I unwittingly betrayed my trust? If anything happens, how, in the next world, shall I dare to meet her father? It is strange-extremely strange."

Proceeding to his study, M. Galland took up an open letter, and with gathering frown, perused it carefully for the fourth time. It was a letter from a brother solicitor at Blois, formally enquiring for information. The Marquis de Gange, the stranger explained, was anxious to emigrate secretly with his family, and to that end desired to raise money. All Touraine knew that the beautiful marquise, his wife, was the money-bag, and it had struck him, the solicitor, as irregular that the marquise should not herself have made the request, if not in person, at least in writing. M. le Marquis had explained her absence by frankly confessing that she knew nothing of his move, she being in so nervous and over-wrought a condition through terror, that it would be dangerous to consult her on the subject. It was solely on her account that he was anxious to leave France in secret and without delay, for she was in so precarious a state of nervous prostration that only in a peaceful land could it be hoped that she would rally. As security for the sum required-nothing very considerable-the marquis had produced his wife's testament, showing that even if, unfortunately, her health succumbed on the journey, her sorrowing widower would be in condition to repay the loan.

The matter was nothing very extraordinary. In these ticklish times, much stranger requests were being made each day, but it had struck the provincial firm that before complying, it would be only regular and courteous to inform the family solicitor.

"Regular and courteous, indeed!" sighed M. Galland, as he folded and locked away the letter. "It is all too plain. She has been forced, as she feared, to make another will. Her husband is trying to raise money on it. Meanwhile, she is left in the custody of his brothers and that woman. Is it coercion, or has she changed her mind? I should dearly like to know if there is a cross after the signature. Perhaps she has really changed her mind, and I am an over-anxious old donkey. Her mother declared that she is well and happy, and a mother ought to be a judge. But such a mother! cackling, silly goose. And what could have induced madame to send away the children? If well enough to deceive a mother's eye, the marquis has deliberately lied. There is a mystery that looks mighty black, and must forthwith be fathomed. This raising of funds without her knowledge shall be nipped in the bud at once; and if I turn out to be wrong, I can afford to accept the responsibility. Yes. I will fire a random shot and inform the firm at Blois by special courier that their will is mere waste paper."

CHAPTER XXV.

WILL THE SWORD FALL?

Perchance that well-meaning, but mole-like, person, Madame de Brèze, would have felt less comfortable if she had been aware of her daughter's attitude as the carriage rolled away. She stood at an upper window and strained her eyes, striving to follow the casket which contained her treasures, long after it was out of sight. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and, turning away at length with a convulsive sob, she murmured, "They at least are safe, thank Heaven for that mercy," and retired to weep in her chamber. Toinon, entering soon after, found her mistress lying on her face upon the bed in strong hysterics, with fingers tightly clasped about her neck. Honest Toinon was unable to solve the riddle of such singular behaviour. Her mistress seemed to be under some spell, her power of volition suspended, acting like a marionnette in obedience to invisible wires. If it was such agony to part from her children, why have done so? When she put the question, the answer staggered Toinon. With her head on her foster-sister's breast, her emotion calmed by contact of a loving hand, Gabrielle replied simply, "What greater anguish than to part from dear ones whom you know you will never see again?"

Exhorted to courage and hope, she only sighed and murmured, "Even my mother has deserted me in my extremity. I look beyond the world and fix my faith in God."

He or she who can bid a genuine farewell to hope is forlorn indeed. If this mental condition was to continue, the conspirators had nought to do but to sit with idle hands and wait. Either their victim would become insane, or fade and die without assistance from them. It is said that the fascinated bird feels neither pain nor fear, but looks forward with complacency to being swallowed. Toinon, being wrought of stronger stuff, had no idea of abandoning hope. She boiled with healthy wrath against the selfish old hag who was gone, and anger was a fillip to her energy. The abigail had laid herself out to be particularly agreeable during the last few days, had permitted a certain lacquey of the maréchale's sundry liberties, had even kissed him in the dark, and vowed to be his alone. This reprehensible levity served various ends. It kept up her spirits, and was a satisfactory revenge on absent Jean; passed time agreeably, and made of the man her slave. Having settled to eat humble pie with regard to the recalcitrant Boulot, and condone his enormities, a difficulty arose as to how he was to be communicated with. She knew that since the accusation about the cakes her steps had been dogged, her movements watched; and were she to openly indite epistles to the Jacobin, they would surely be intercepted by the conspirators. Gracefully grouped together on the stairs after the household were abed, the abigail and her admirer whispered fervid vows, and embraced each other tenderly. She could not leave her lady's service just at present, she explained, but would seek the earliest opportunity if the swain would promise to be true. She was full of crotchets. Never, no never, would she give her hand without the consent of her dearest brother, who was at Blois. He loved his little sister too well, however, to withhold consent where her heart was entirely given. But his consent must be obtained, and till it came, there must be no further dallying. How was his consent to be speedily obtained? She would indite a little letter to her brother, and, lest there should be delays she would not put her letter in the post. The invaluable missive should be confided to the swain, and money with it, that at the first posthouse on the road, when the maréchale's party left Lorge, he should transmit it by the hand of a horseman. Toinon was not above taking a lesson from her mistress and sending a summons to Jean on the sly, as the marquise had to her father. The old lady was gone, and the swain was gone, and naughty Toinon felt not the least compunction for fooling the simple fellow. If some day he were to make inconvenient claims, was not Jean Boulot burly enough to protect her? She had adjured the latter in the most solemn manner to leave all and come at once if he ever felt a spark of love for her or a scintilla of respect for her mistress.

"France has sufficient champions without you," she concluded; "and you will never regret having been the means of saving two innocent helpless women."

Though she chose to gibe and be mighty indignant over Jean's defection, she never felt the smallest doubt that, the political fever past, he would return to his allegiance. She had despatched an urgent summons, and she knew that he would come; and this being so, she was inclined to be cheerful, keeping a wary eye on the conspirators.

Now it was a grievous thing that her mistress should collapse, commend her soul to Heaven, await the impending stroke with the air of a sacrificial lamb. Resignation is the attribute of slaves unendowed with the holy birthright of freedom. Our natural condition is that of contest, the form of which but varies according to the thickness of the civilized veneer. He who cannot gird his loins for the fray goes to the wall, and he who has gone to the wall is a deserving object for contempt. Toinon could fight, and would, with teeth and nails if need were, and she was prepared to do battle with the conspirators whilst awaiting the advent of Jean.

It behoved her to show that she was not afraid of them, and she accordingly tripped into the kitchen on the day of the maréchale's departure, and scornfully announced that, considering what wretches they all were, former precautions must be resumed. Madame would take her meals in her apartments. Toinon would carry the plateau with her own hands, and M. Bertrand would be good enough to taste of every dish under her close inspection before confiding it to her care. Vainly that worthy blew himself out and beat his chest, and gesticulated, and talked of honour.

"Pooh!" scoffed the abigail, "you may spare your breath. I choose to take the precaution, though I have no dread of your attempting to poison us. A dirty cooking-plate may serve as an excuse for once. A second mistake of the sort would go hard with you, for I would have you remember that the maréchale and all her servants know the story of the cakes, and a secluded lady is not poisoned twice by accident!"

Toinon prattled gaily of these things to the marquise, but could not succeed in raising her spirits. The latter, to please her devoted friend, summoned up a ghostly smile, which resembled moonlight on a tomb.

"Fate is fate," she sighed. "For some inscrutable reason we are doomed. Madame de Lamballe first; the queen or I, who knows which of us will be the second?"

It is hard work being always cheery when others groan in the doldrums. It is not easy to shake off the grip of fatalism in the society of a fatalist. Toinon, despite her efforts, receiving no encouragement-feeding as it were on her own fuel-in spite of brave resolutions, grew jaded and despondent. Flirtations were not to be thought of with any members of the existing household. Firstly, because the doughty Jean was to be expected at any moment, and untoward consequences might ensue; secondly, because the young lady knew, for certain, that many of the domestics were creatures of the abbé, if not all of them. There are few feelings less pleasant than a conviction that you are surrounded by spies, that you are always under observation like a struggling insect under a microscope. Common rough malefactors in gaol suffer more from unsleeping surveillance than would be supposed possible in persons with low-strung nerves.

The weather grew too cold for sitting-out, even if wrapped in furs, and Toinon had much ado to coax her wan mistress to take the air at all, for was not the favourite pleasaunce, called the moat-garden, redolent of distracting memories; did not each flower-bed recall some prank of the absent ones, each bush re-echo with the laughter, which was to be heard no more at Lorge? It was even disagreeable to gaze from the balconies of the long saloon, for the Loire flowed on in silent placidity, its bosom no longer ruffled by the eccentric movements of the wherry propelled by infant hands. The wherry swung in the tide, a useless bit of lumber, for no one dreamed of using it, of unknotting its rusty chain.

Gabrielle sat day by day in a low causeuse, intent on some embroidery like a fading Penelope, who works on and weaves, a dull machine, though she has learned that Ulysses is no more. The earth is steady underfoot, the sky above; the soul yet beats against its chain-how long? Some kind of mechanical occupation is imperative to keep overwrought nerves from twanging-to maintain on the lips the bit of silence, and hold back the wailing of despair. When all illusions are gone-every one-when, search as carefully as we will, there is no grain of comfort left to make existence bearable, we long for death in any hideous shape, well knowing that if the Pilgrim came, we should involuntarily shrink from him. Love of life, for the sake of living, is a phenomenon which orientals do not share with the white races, happily for them; whether they go or stay is a matter of indifference, from which they may thank their faith, since death means to them but a change of envelope, a single stage upon a journey.

It is not uncommon in the east for men who are cast for execution to sit by the wayside, almost unguarded, awaiting the advent of the executioner, while the ease and cheapness with which a substitute may be bought in China is notorious. By a strange paradox, it is reserved for the disciples of Christ, the Prince of Peace, to live in terror of death. No doubt there are many whose burthens are so disproportionate to their strength that, coûte que coûte, they are impelled to shake them off, but students of statistics are surprised at the small number of sane suicides, slowly and deliberately carried out, compared to those brought about by passion.

Gabrielle knew, or thought she knew, as surely as that night follows day, that the frayed string which held the sword was worn almost through, and that at any moment it might fall.

When on waking she saw Toinon fling back the heavy curtains of a morning to let in the light, she wondered that she should be alive and well. What object did her existence fulfil upon the earth? Why was she spared to crawl on aimlessly? Without husband, without children, without a friend in the world except this simple foster-sister, why did she linger thus? Surely her fitting place was in the fragrant earth, sheltered by waving grass from carking cares. The string was worn through, and yet it would not break. Day followed day, night followed night, nothing new occurred. She went her dismal way, and no one troubled her or seemed to know or care whether she were alive or dead, or well or dying. Algaé was still in the chateau, but made no sign. Toinon looked forth in vain for Jean Boulot. He neither wrote nor came; what if the letter had miscarried?

The conspirators were quiescent because they were in a quandary. There was no news of Clovis, or of what he was doing at Blois. His continued silence was incomprehensible. Had any hitch occurred in the negociations? Surely not, or he would have communicated with his brother. Kept in suspense, the latter knew not what course to adopt, and had much ado to endure the persistent girding of Algaé. The ex-governess found the situation quite intolerable, and was for grappling with it at all hazards, and at once. Clovis had made some muddle, which might place the heads of all of them in jeopardy. He was not a man to be despatched on any mission requiring delicacy or tact. What he was pleased to call his feelings (mere pusillanimity) had been too much considered. It should have been carried out to the end, if not actually in his presence, at least while he was dwelling in the chateau. What was to prevent him now, supposing that anything went wrong, from declaring that his brothers had acted entirely without his knowledge or consent? It was a grand mistake to have let him fly off alone, and the abbé, who plumed himself so much on his astuteness, and who was for ever finding fault with others, had been guilty of the biggest blunder of all.

Thus mademoiselle querulously droning with increasing fretfulness, and the wrath of her fellow-conspirator was kindled against her. In his heart he could admit that there had been a grave mistake, but was that a reason for bearing taunts from Algaé? She had been called in to act as conscience keeper to the marquis, and a pretty way she had carried out the task. Instead of bringing him round to active co-operation, she had only so far blinded him as to procure the tacit consent of convenient temporary absence. It had been a foolish plan, too, to raise money on the will, during the marquise's life. Better far to have announced her sudden and much-to-be-regretted demise, to have performed decorous obsequies, and then quietly have taken possession. But then Clovis was so untrustworthy. He was just the sort of provoking man to veer round suddenly, to place obstacles instead of adding all his weight to keep the wheel revolving. Then the visit of the Marplot Maréchale had so altered the complexion of affairs, and swallowed precious time. Were the marquise to succumb suddenly, the story of the unlucky cakes might be raked up again, unpleasant questions be asked. The schemers must fall back upon the idea of typhus, and that brought the scheme round in a circle to the original starting point-the providing of necessary funds in specie to tide over a period of months.

The complaints and jeremiads of Algaé overshot their mark, and so stirred the ire of the abbé that his active mind went off at a tangent, and his wits began to weave another pattern. Oh! if by some cunning device it were possible to circumvent that odious woman-alone to carry off the prize, leaving her and her weak-kneed admirer to gnash their teeth in vain. How sweet a vengeance-how savoury a triumph! Revolving the matter in a brain quickened to activity by spite, Pharamond made up his mind once more, at the eleventh hour, to attempt to carry the citadel. The mental and physical condition of the marquise was vastly different now from what it was when last he failed to storm the outworks. To mark her listless movements, her hopeless heaviness of gait, was to be assured that the ramparts were crumbling, that the walls were insufficiently manned. The armour of the warrior was worn into holes, through which it would surely be possible to insert an arrow. At all events it was worth trying, for success would mow down the hopes of Algaé, and thus punish her presumption and impertinence.

Having decided to try again, the abbé donned his most becoming suit of violet silk with gold embroidered buttonholes, arranged his hair with extreme nicety, and placed a patch close to his favourite dimple. This done, he surveyed himself in the mirror, contemplated with approval the harmonious contour of his leg, and sallied forth satisfied, armed cap-à-pie for conquest. Swiftly he sped up the stairs, and meeting Toinon on the landing, well-nigh choked that damsel with indignation by playfully chucking her chin. "It is too bad," he cried, "that so ripe a cherry should yet hang upon the bough. You must leave this dull house and seek more congenial society. There are sweethearts galore waiting for you beyond the frontier."

"Are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?" gasped Toinon. "Whatever happens to us, my place is beside my mistress."

"Of course it is, you suspicious little fool!" laughed René. "If she travels, you will not wish to be left behind?"

If she travels! What new phase of the complication was this? It was distracting. Whatever it might be she was sure it boded injury to both the foster-sisters.

"Travel, poor soul!" the abigail observed, sourly. "It was a long journey the other day that you strove to send her on!"

Pharamond frowned, then seizing the buxom figure before him, he pressed upon the lips a kiss. "There!" he said; "that is your punishment for unworthy and unjust suspicions of one who means you well. I promise that the dose shall be repeated twentyfold if you presume to talk such nonsense any more."

Toinon struggled and recoiled, crimson to the roots of her hair, her dark eyes flashing. "How dare you-how dare you!" she panted. "Two helpless women are a fit butt for outrage. I am not so friendless as you think. Jean Boulot shall know of this."

"Oho! Jean Boulot, the terrible Jacobin. Are we to be threatened with that bugbear? You can have but little pride, mistress, to prate of one who toyed with and then deserted you."

Scalding tears welled into the eyes of Toinon, and rolled in great drops upon her cheeks. Alas! it was too true. He was an idle bugbear, a stuffed bogey to frighten babes withal. Had she not sacrificed her vanity and besought him to come at once, and he had never deigned to answer? The abbé might do what he chose, the two women were indeed defenceless.

"I wish to speak to the marquise upon an urgent matter. Go and say that I await her pleasure," commanded Pharamond.

Toinon glanced askance at him, and answered shortly, "She will not see you."

"Will she not? If you will not take a civil message, I will enter her boudoir unannounced."