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

"I will not go," Toinon cried, tussling with all her strength against the iron grip of Algaé. "It is Jean, by the goodness of Heaven, sent to succour us in time. Jean, Jean," she shouted; "it is I, Toinon. We are alive, but in sorest peril."

The cries of the luckless waiting maid died away in a gurgle. She was rapidly pushed along by the ex-governess, who hurriedly unwound a scarf and twisted it tight about her mouth. Toinon was fainting and half-stifled when Mademoiselle Brunelle flung her within a door, closed it, and turned the key.

With a supreme effort, Toinon freed herself from the scarf, and rising to her knees, applied an ear to the keyhole. Oh for a sound of the welcome voice of Jean! Would he be deceived by a plausible tale and go as he had come? Surely not. After what she had told him in her letter, the fact of the closed gates would make suspicion certainty. He would demand admittance or depart to rouse the neighbourhood. Perhaps he had heard her outcry before she was gagged. Toinon crouched down in profound thankfulness, and as she prayed glad tears poured down her face. Till this moment she had not quite realised the imminence of the danger, and now that she fully knew it it was past, for Jean would demand to see his betrothed and the marquise. He was a great man now, and a powerful leader of the dominant party at Blois; always fearless and honest, not now a man to dally with. Would the conspirators give way at once, confess themselves beaten, sue for mercy? or would he be compelled to rouse the country and storm the grim fortalice as the other day the Bastille had been stormed? And then Toinon wondered what would come of that. Would he climb over the smoking ruins to find the two women murdered? No, no. Toinon's prayers had been answered tardily, but they had been answered. The decree of Heaven had gone forth, and the wicked were to be discomfited.

Vainly she strained her hearing to catch a sound of the dear voice, dearer, far dearer than she had ever dreamed. She could hear a leaf of the ponderous gate revolve on its rusty hinges, a horseman ride into the courtyard. There was a colloquy in low tones. Heavens! what if she had been mistaken! Yet who could the horseman be but Jean Boulot, the deputy, or some one sent by him? She heard Mademoiselle Brunelle bid some one, in commanding tones, to go in search of the abbé. "Tell him there is important news," she said. "Here is a letter despatched in haste from Blois. M. le Marquis de Gange intends to come home to-morrow."

Not Jean, then? The marquis home to-morrow! How by his arrival would the position of the prisoners be bettered? Why was he coming home to-morrow? Had something fresh transpired? He was a tacit accessory to the villainous plot of the schemers. He was led in leash, a willing slave, by that wicked man and woman.

No hope! No hope! Heaven had abandoned the victims. Overwhelmed by the quick revulsion from nascent hope to hopelessness, Toinon gave a moan, and sank swooning on the marble floor.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE DECKS ARE CLEARED FOR ACTION

Gabrielle maintained her attitude of uncompromising dignity, until the boudoir door clanged to, and, left alone, sank back upon the cushions numbed. The sword had fallen. She had herself severed the last frayed strands. What form would the abbé's vengeance take now that he had wakened to the fact that under no circumstances whatever would she submit herself to his desires? What mattered it, so that the end was swift? The dear ones were safe in distant Paris. No cause to fear for them. Their mother had been careful in signing the second will to add the tell-tale cross. On the whole, she was to be congratulated on the approaching change, for her worldly affairs were in order, there was no motive left for lingering. To one placed as she was, death, as she truly said, would be release. Victor and Camille would grow up under the care of grandmamma, secure from the machinations of their father and the crew by which he was surrounded. Her death would be an advantage to them, for the tale of the two wills and the precautionary declaration would become public property, and a barrier be raised under the scrutiny of public opinion, which would protect the dear ones from her husband.

And yet how whimsical the situation was! In the course of charitable wanderings among the poor, she had looked with amaze on creatures lying upon their rotten straw with scarce a rag to cover them, who clung to their wretched existence with a pertinacity that was both weird and ludicrous, considering that it was but a step, and such an easy one, into the peaceful grave. Now she herself was within distance of that step, and could look calmly into the chasm, contemplate the precise spot beneath whose crust she was to sleep for ever. But was it for ever? Ah! If she only knew. She had long ago learned to smile at the mediæval absurdities, invented by naïve, ignorant churchmen, of flames and pitchforks, and demons with red-hot tongs; but now that she stood so near to Death, that she could feel the chill rustle of his garments, she felt herself drawn into the sea of idle and abortive speculation.

Why is it, amusing paradox, that the virtuous-those, that is, who have somehow succeeded, to a creditable extent, in avoiding the rugged but fascinating path of temptation-should be tossed by doubts and shadowy tremors, while those who have wallowed in enormosities are snugly complacent as to the end? It is nearly always so. The more hopelessly heinous the crime of the murderer, the more abominably abandoned the criminal, the more glibly will the monster prate of his salvation; the more sure will he be of sleeping on Abraham's bosom. Verily, in the long course of globe-rolling, so much vermin of nauseous kind has tumbled off, vowing, as it fell, that its destiny was the bosom of Abraham, that that patriarch must by this time somewhat regret the flattering prominence of his position. The sublimely compassionate declaration, "To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise," has been so largely and freely rendered into a conviction of immunity from the results of sin by the worst of scoundrels, that a premium is offered to crime. The scarce discoloured soul goes tremulously off, conscious of tiny spots, wondering and fearing as to its reception in its next resting-place, while that one which is black and ulcered, soars aloft singing a seraphic pæan. Brethren, it is easy to cultivate contrition. There is nothing more easy than to repent when there are no more sins to commit. Let us all commit crimes of abnormal horror, that the parson may assure us on the scaffold that purged with hyssop we are clean.

Such reflections as these passed vaguely through the mind of Gabrielle as she strove to nerve herself to endure, with becoming composure, the coming ordeal. She recalled and contemplated her peccadilloes. The various naughtinesses of her brief life swept past in procession as distinct and rapid as the last vision of the drowning man. Her conscience kept whispering that she could have little to fear if God were just, for the small sins of which she could accuse herself must be balanced against her earthly woes. And then she chided herself bitterly for presumption. How dared she to conclude that she was not a terrible sinner, considering that as a chit, her father confessor had imposed fearsome pains and penalties, as punishment for childish transgressions? She was bad, very bad indeed. Had she not impiously endeavoured once to cut the thread and escape? And now that thread was to be cut for her by an alien hand. Why did she not feel the same eagerness to be away, as on that night, when she leapt out of the wherry?

It always came back to this. The same refrain was singing in her ears. So young, so rich, so beautiful-to be put away, crushed under the heel, like the rat that cumbers the earth. It was hard, very hard, and somehow the joyous careless days of Versailles and Trianon, would glitter up out of the mirage to dazzle and disturb her vision.

Some one knocked and entered with a tray.

"Madame, supper," the servant said.

Her supper! Not brought by faithful Toinon? Why? Was the episode of the cakes to be repeated?

"Where is my maid?" she asked.

"Very ill in bed-delirious," the servant answered with respect.

"Ill! Delirious! What has happened? I will go to her at once."

"As madame wishes," the lacquey replied. "I was to inform madame that Mademoiselle Brunelle has undertaken to cure the invalid, and is with her now."

Words of enquiry rose and died on Gabrielle's lips. The servant bowed and retired. Mademoiselle Brunelle closeted with Toinon? The marquise had endured overmuch, and just now could not cope with that woman.

The baleful Algaé had taken the faithful waiting-maid in hand, who under her manipulation was ill and delirious? Her last friend was taken away from her. She was alone now, quite, quite alone. They wished her also to become ill and delirious? She glanced at the supper-tray and smiled at the dainties thereon set out. No. She would not perish that way. If only she could see Toinon! To what end? The devoted girl was paying the penalty of faithfulness. If she went now to see her she could do no good; would probably not be allowed to see her at all; would be rudely turned away by that woman, as in old times she had been from the nursery.

But it was hard to bear-oh, hard, very hard to bear; thus to be left without a friend-without a tender hand, the crisis past, lovingly to close her eyes! And yet how pitifully foolish to be disturbed about such petty details! When the soul is freed, what matters if the glassy eyes whose glory has faded away are closed or not; and if they are, by whom they are closed? What childish folly to care, and yet, as Gabrielle sought her gloomy bedchamber, she felt more solitary than ever before in her existence. The dingy ancestors peering down from out their dusty frames-they who had long passed the rubicon and knew the secret, if secret there be to know-seemed in the fitful glare of the smouldering fire to laugh and mow at her folly. What a pother over a few years of suffering. The dead only are at peace-the dead only enjoy rest. Oh, blessed dead and fortunate! And here was a storm-tossed mortal on the very threshold of freedom, clinging to and hugging her chains. Oh, pitiable and laughter-moving spectacle! Poor, silly, straining little shallop on the immeasurable ocean of destiny! Summon thy waning courage, oh, nerve racked atom of humanity, tossed on the waves of time. Courage, shrinking coward, and be thankful that thy corroding gyves will so soon be broken.

The marquise, though faint from lack of food and many emotions, refused to eat. How cruel of Toinon to fall ill at such a time! and yet not so; for it must be the band of wretches who had made her ill. Her mistress would go to bed and forget her misery in sleep. Sleep! With nerves stretched to tightest tension, how could she hope to sleep? Wearily she threw herself upon the bed, dressed as she was, and gnawed the pillow in her travail.

It has been mercifully ordered that the human organism cannot endure more than a given strain. Either we go mad and forget, or drop exhausted and unconscious. Ere the smouldering logs had whitened to ashes, Gabrielle had forgotten her troubles, plunged in dreamless slumber. Such sleep as this brings no refreshment, though it serves as anodyne-a filter of short-lived oblivion. She must have slept long and heavily, for, waking with leaden lids and throbbing brow, she was aware of a shadowy woman drawing back the window curtains to let in the day.

Toinon had recovered then. That was fortunate.

"Toinon," she murmured; "thank Heaven, you are well again, my only friend!"

The woman stood at the foot of the bed with crossed arms, slowly wagging a head shrouded in a silken handkerchief. Her robust figure loomed preternaturally large, her laughter was low and muffled.

"Your only friend," she remarked gaily, "is safe under lock and key."

The marquise sat up and surveyed the intruder with a look of fear, vaguely dreading something that was imminent.

"Mademoiselle Brunelle!" she exclaimed, with a shudder. "You have dared to force your way into my bed-chamber?"

"That have I," returned the ex-governess, affably; "for I have business here. There is a little account to settle."

"An account?"

"Oh! not money. There will be plenty of money by and by, no thanks to generosity of yours. I offered you the hand of friendship and you scorned it-I, who am the stronger, though for a time you obtained the mastery. You chased me with ignominy from the house-insulted and humiliated me by striving to drive me hence a second time. Do you think I am one to forgive? You made my life wretched, treating me as if I were a leper, out of jealousy of your nincompoop husband, as if I ever cared a fig for him! Now my turn has come. Insult for insult shall you have again. Vainly-you craven-will you implore mercy. There shall be none for you. I have made up my mind to take your place. You cumber the earth, you useless bit of trumpery, and this day shall rid us of your presence."

"I never did you wrong. You know it!" Gabrielle said, slowly. Her own voice seemed strange, deadened by a singing in the ears. "On that score I stand acquitted." A curious fancy flitted through her brain and faded. In how brief a while might she be standing before another tribunal, to answer for the manner of her life?

Mademoiselle Brunelle was provoked in that the arrows of her spite fell short. The craven did not sue for mercy. By the waxen pallor of her cheeks and lips, and the deep circles round her dark blue eyes, it was evident that the marquise was in mortal terror. Her aspen fingers twitched the bedclothes nervously; but she gave vent to no reproach or outcry.

There was an impatient tapping at the door. Algaé moved swiftly across the room and opened it.

"You may come in, gentlemen," she said. "Madame la Marquise is fully dressed, prepared to receive company."

The abbé 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 glassy 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 abbé 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 abbé 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 compassion, and finding none. "Wherefore? of what crime have I been guilty? You decree my death, and you inflict it-why?"

"Choose," repeated the abbé 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 buttons 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 shirt of fire, which as the years progress will send you raving, and never may be shaken off!"

"Enough, enough! It is settled," cried the abbé, "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 œnanthe 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 œnanthe, 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 abbé 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!"