Title: The Maid of Honour  (Vol. 3 of 3) - A Tale of the Dark Days of France
Author: Wingfield, Lewis
Language: English
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Transcriber's Notes:

   1. Page scan source:
      http://books.google.com/books?id=hxFLAAAAIAAJ

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

   3. Errata listed at the end of the printed edition have been
      inserted at the appropriate place in all volumes.



                          THE MAID OF HONOUR



                          THE MAID OF HONOUR


                  A Tale of the Dark Days of France


                                  BY

                       THE HON. LEWIS WINGFIELD

                              AUTHOR OF

         "LADY GRIZEL," "THE LORDS OF STROGUE," "ABIGEL ROWE"

                                 ETC.



                          _IN THREE VOLUMES_
                              VOL. III.



                                LONDON
                       RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
           Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.

                                 1891

                       [_All Rights Reserved_]



                                  TO

                        WILLIAM HENRY WELDON.

                              A TRIBUTE

                          OF OLD FRIENDSHIP.



                               CONTENTS


                             CHAPTER XX.

       Diplomacy.


                             CHAPTER XXI.

       The Spiders Spin.


                            CHAPTER XXII.

       Domestic Cookery.


                            CHAPTER XXIII.

       A Passage of Arms.


                            CHAPTER XXIV.

       Madame de Brèze is Nervous.


                             CHAPTER XXV.

       Will the Sword Fall?


                            CHAPTER XXVI.

       Will Jean Boulot Come?


                            CHAPTER XXVII.

       The Decks are Cleared for Action.


                           CHAPTER XXVIII.

       The Baron is Energetic.


                            CHAPTER XXIX.

       Noblesse Oblige.



                         THE MAID OF HONOUR.



                             CHAPTER XX.

                              DIPLOMACY.


It was a matter of imperative necessity to beat down at once the
protecting barriers within which the victim had ensconced herself, and
here was the first difficulty to be conquered. It was evident that
Gabrielle's written ultimatum called for a reply. At the suggestion,
Clovis fairly winced. Was he to grovel in the mud, and accept her
humiliating terms? Never! And in writing, too! He would rather cut off
his hand. What did Providence mean by creating marquises unfurnished
with necessary adjuncts? Are not fowls provided with plumes and polar
bears with fur? Why for years had the purse yawned for him, and then
suddenly shut itself up? Not the purse exactly, for there existed that
hateful allowance, which he would never, never soil his fingers with;
but the marital authority and position which go with unstinted means!
They had both shrivelled away, and the Marquis de Gange smarted as if
he had been tarred and feathered. What would people say when the last
whimsey of the chatelaine leaked out? She posed as a martyr, but took
good care to protect herself against martyrdom. And what was the awful
grievance? That the exigencies of his scientific studies (of which she
was too ignorant and stupid to know aught) required the professional
assistance of a diplomaed disciple of the prophet, and that the adept
selected by the prophet chanced to be a woman! Was ever anything so
low and paltry as this ridiculous assumption of jealousy? Had he,
Clovis, ever made love to Mademoiselle Brunelle? Never. Delighting in
like pursuits, they were dear and trusted friends after the manner of
male friendship, and none but a base nature could take umbrage at such
an alliance.

Judging from her absurd precautions of changed locks and newly-opened
doors, the martyr seemed to consider herself in peril--evidently meant
the country to suppose so. Her husband was an ogre--a roaring
Fee-fo-fum--would by and by serve up her tender limbs on toast, with
rich and luscious gravy. The abbé might argue till he was black in the
face, but if Mistress Gabrielle could be haughty, so could he. He
declined to answer the letter.

"Dear me! a scandal!" objected the abbé in distress, "an inevitable
scandal! Might his attached and ever-devoted brother go forth and play
the ambassador?"

Pharamond might do what he deemed right, on the clear understanding
that the head of the house would not consent to anything that should
hold him up to ridicule.

Armed thus with maimed powers, Pharamond went on his mission. He had
almost traversed the length of the long saloon, ere Gabrielle, looking
up from her embroidery, beheld the intruder. The blood rushed to her
face, then slowly ebbed. They would not accept her terms, then, but
would force their presence on her?

Bidding the girl and boy who were romping on the floor, to retire to
their school-room, she laid her work upon the table, and with crossed
hands waited.

"Madame must try and pardon this intrusion," began the abbé, meekly,
"because it could not be avoided. I am here to speak, for my brother
would not write, and it is rude not to answer a letter. Will madame be
so courteous as to hear me out?"

Gabrielle, after a moment's reflection, pointed to a seat, but
Pharamond shook his head.

"Madame does not accept me as a friend," he observed, drily, "so I
have no desire to stay a moment more than I'm obliged."

"A friend? Who has never done me anything but harm!"

"Are we to discuss all that again?" he replied. "You have yourself
admitted, more than once, that you owed much to me, and yet you
compelled me by your own conduct reluctantly to withdraw what I had
given."

"You do well to remind me!" returned Gabrielle, swelling with
contempt. "Your terms of peace were that your brother's wife was to
become your mistress! You are right to stand. Say what you have to
say, and quickly."

"I have, in the first place, to point out to Madame la Marquise the
result of her present course of action. Does a wife, think you, gain
in the world's esteem by constantly insulting her husband?"

"I have never insulted my husband."

"Not by making a fool of him before all his class--by treating him
like an ill-bred child, that may not be trusted? By driving him from
beneath the roof which should be his?"

"What?" ejaculated Gabrielle, amazed.

"That is what you have done, and, believe me, the world will be
against you, however plausible a tale you may invent."

"Is he going away?" faltered the marquise, beginning to see the
position in another light.

"Is it probable that so proud a man would stay to be made the
laughing-stock of all Touraine? Of course not. Beggary were better
than such deep disgrace as that. His name is yours, and yet to your
own shame you wilfully drag it in the mire. We are all going away, so
you will have your chateau to yourself, and when we arrive in Paris it
is you who will be the laughing-stock."

"Going away! How will you all live?" asked the marquise, pondering.

"Expelled from the home that should have been our brother's, the
chevalier and I will return to Montpelier. The marquis will retreat to
Spa, and take service with the mesmerists. He will be happy there in
congenial society, for though very poor, he will be freed from dread
of insult."

Gabrielle was bewildered. She was being held up to herself in the most
natural manner possible, as a tyrant, an insulter of the poor, in whom
dwelt neither justice nor compassion. It was not true, she knew that
right well; but perhaps without intent, she had been harsh. Yet
no--with a remembrance of the crowning outrage of that woman's return,
came renewed courage.

The abbé concluded he had gained a point and followed it swiftly with
another thrust.

"Madame will excuse me, if I remark that she is given to
hallucinations, such as are common in hysterical subjects. She suffers
from delusions, invents charges against her sorely-stricken husband,
which at expense of his private feelings must be rebutted. His
position having been rendered untenable by his wealthy wife, he is
compelled to leave her house, and in doing so refrains from the one
punishment which lies within easy reach. If he chose, he could remove
his children, but he will not, for he has learned with pain that one
of madame's chief delusions is that she has herself been divided from
her offspring. That he may not be placed in the wrong, by any more
such idle fancies, he consents to sacrifice himself, and will leave
them with madame _for the present_. I think I have followed all my
instructions, and with madame's permission will retire."

The abbé who had spoken with dispassionate calm, made a low reverence,
and without looking at the lady moved slowly down the saloon. Would
she call him back? No. Better to leave her to chew the cud of bitter
and perplexing thought. The arrow was planted, and now would fester.
Toinon would surely appear with another letter in the evening. His
fingers were on the door handle when a low, sad voice called, "Abbé!"

Did he hear aright? He turned with manifest reluctance. "Madame
deigned to speak?"

"Yes. Come back, I pray you."

With a slight but eloquent shoulder shrug of deprecation, the cunning
churchman moved up the saloon again, very slowly, as if under protest.

"Madame would wish to know," he asked, "how soon she will be quit of
us? Alas! we must crave indulgence, for my brother's scientific
instruments will take long to pack. They are brittle and expensive
articles which, under the new conditions, he could never afford to
replace."

The marquise was visibly troubled, and the abbé had some ado to keep
his countenance. The man was a human chameleon, and poor Gabrielle had
not the weapons wherewith to smite such animals. His manner was so
staid and stern, yet meek withal, that she could scarce believe that
it was over this same passionless face that she had seen pass and fade
dissolving views of such deep-dyed iniquity. Was this the satyr who
had inflicted scorching kisses; who had by turns cajoled and brutally
threatened her--the man of whom she had grown to be mortally afraid?
He had just held up for contemplation a portrait of herself, which,
though hideously distorted, was like. But was it? It was, and yet it
was not. He had made her out a monster.

So they were going away and would leave her in peace with the
children? How unexpected a _dénouement_. It never entered the simple
head of Gabrielle to suspect that the man was lying. Proud as she was
herself, she could understand and appreciate, and even applaud the
feeling which preferred independent poverty to gilded bondage. And she
had meant so well in what she had done! But put as it had just been,
it did seem wrong to make a husband--even a bad one--so dependent. A
man dependent on a woman is always a subject for ridicule. Woman
governed by her feelings is so easily misled!

Ah me! Permit me to moralize for just a minute. Why is it that the
more angelic we are--the more ready to moult our earthy plumage--we
should be the less fit to combat those of earth? The more guileless
and innocent a woman is--quite fit to soar aloft with newly-sprouted
wings--the more abjectly pitiable a victim. Perhaps it means that
earth should be left to the earthy, and that angels have no business
here at all.

The marquise, while arranging bolts and barriers was quite under the
impression that she was a martyr, that a menacing sword was dangling
overhead which would fall and pierce her skull, and now she was
told--and there seemed some truth in it--that she had been carried
away by imagination. According to the abbé she stood convicted of
hysteria! If their method of showing displeasure took the form of
retreat with bag and baggage, leaving her the solitary mistress of the
field, how could she be in danger? They would leave presently,
declaring that the heiress had flung her money in their faces in so
vulgar a fashion that self-respect compelled departure. Draped in the
picturesque dignity of rags, they, not she, would wear the auriole of
martyrdom--a consideration as new as disconcerting. It was
satisfactory to find that Clovis, bad as she knew him to be, could be
so proud. There must be much latent good in a selfish man who, to
shield his manhood from smirching, will cheerfully abandon flesh-pots.
His wife had calculated (and justly, too) that though he might whine
and grumble, he would accept any conditions which did not withdraw the
comforts which made life worth living. His wife fully intended that he
should have ample means to play ducks and drakes with, but, surrounded
as he was by a bad _entourage_, he must not be permitted to be master.
And, lo and behold, he snapped his fingers at the money, and elected
to wear the rags!

Rapidly reviewing the situation, Gabrielle's heart warmed in a tepid
manner to the man whom she had wrongly read. She approved the attitude
he had assumed, but could not allow him to retain it.

The abbé had rightly appraised the exceeding generosity of her nature
and had played on it. When she called him back he was pleased to mark
how clouded was her brow, how shaken was her fixed resolve.

"Clovis has judged me harshly," she observed. "I never wished to drive
him from his home."

Things were going well. The outraged one was apologizing for her
conduct.

"Que voulez-vous!" replied the abbé with a shrug. "He has my full
approval. It is not well to place an honourable man in a false
position."

"Nor an honourable woman either," aptly retorted the marquise.

"That brings us to the burning question," said the abbé, drawing a
step nearer, in his earnestness. "The fault, if fault it was, was
mine, not Clovis's, and I am prepared to bear the blame of my own
actions. A little more blame or less," he added, lightly, "cannot make
much difference, since I know you consider me a demon. That is all
dead and buried--blown away and done with." By a graceful gesture the
churchman blew away the past. "It was I who brought back Mademoiselle
Brunelle for prudential reasons, which I admit humbly now were
unjustifiable. I thought your objection to the lady was founded on her
interference in the nursery and nothing more, and, as you know, she
quite understands that in future she has no place there. If your
memory serves you, you will remember my pointing out once that a man
like Clovis requires to be led by a woman. You could not or would not
lead him--that is your affair; and I felt convinced that we were
fortunate in his having a leader whose relations with him were
platonic. What if, deprived of her, he had pitched on an affinity of
exactly the opposite stamp?"

This was true also. Gabrielle felt that it was.

"As it is by your line of action you lead the world to suppose that
you deem them guilty, and you know as well as I do that although she
once talked nonsense in bravado, they are innocent. You drive us from
the house and we go. Need I remark that mademoiselle goes with us?
Thus you accentuate the suggestion of impropriety which you are aware
does not exist, instead of showing by your behaviour that you are
satisfied of the innocence of both."

"Do you think to persuade me," asked the marquise, with sad wonder, in
which was a tinge of bitterness, "to accept the woman's presence? The
son of the Church calls for too lavish a display of Christian
charity."

"I call on you for nothing," returned the abbé, meekly, "since in a
week we shall be gone. The scandal of disruption will lie with you; we
are not responsible."

So the man persisted in proving her to be in the wrong!

"I do not desire that you should go away, and I will admit that I have
been precipitate. What does Clovis want? I am ready to do all I can to
meet his views, but he must not suppose that I will accept that
woman."

The marquise's barriers were tottering. Even the abbé had not expected
that she would show such feebleness of purpose. His point of
refraining to strike at her through her offspring, by removing them,
was cleverly imagined, and had told. Would it be prudent to administer
another stroke now, to attempt by a vigorous charge to carry the
citadel at once, or would it be wiser to wait? It would not do to
present the appearance of taking too much upon himself. Clovis must be
forced to come forward and play his part. The ground was well
prepared. The wife felt compunctious visitings, and so the husband
might say his say without loss of dignity. The abbé resolved,
therefore, that it was time for him to retire into shadow. So he
echoed quietly, "What does he want? Nothing, since as you yourself
wrote, 'all is over.' When you first propounded the notion to me, I
knew he would not forgive that testament."

So that was at the bottom of it all. Who could have guessed that a
dreamy man, wrapped in scientific mists, should so hotly resent an
infringement of marital authority? She appeared to have wandered
unwittingly so far into the thicket of error, that it seemed vain to
grope after the right; and yet, as she repeated to herself again and
again, she had meant so extremely well!

The presentiment was proved to be idle wind, since they were all ready
to go without a struggle. Had not M. Galland declared it to be due to
morbid fancy? The scandal of an open separation must be avoided for
the children's sake. What answer could she make to Victor when, grown
to manhood, he asked why his father was a beggar? The proposed exodus
must be stopped at all hazards. What if the white-robed marquise were
to dabble the hem of her skirt in the mire of deception for a little,
or, to put it more nicely, make use of diplomatic arts? Supposing that
she were to allow herself to be persuaded into cancelling the will,
had she not arranged for the contingency? The unlucky will had somehow
produced the worst of effects upon the marquis, and there could be no
possibility of peace till that question was set at rest. The idea of
so deceiving her husband, brought a guilty tingle to her cheek, but
there seemed no other way to cut the knot. Infatuated as he was with
the woman who had behaved so abominably, and had made her life so
wretched, she would never really consent to leave the future of the
darlings in his hands; but might she not pretend to do so? A signature
with a cross appended would speak for itself. For the sake of future
harmony, it might be judicious to appear to give way. Though it is
naughty to do wrong, we all know that the naughtiness becomes a virtue
when it is clear that it will result in good. Raising her deep blue
eyes to meet the abbé's, she remarked that she would consider all that
he had said, and let him know her decision later.

Pharamond bowed. "Decision--on what point?" he inquired.

"Oblige me," replied the marquise, "by requesting M. le Marquis to
leave things as they are until he hears again from me."

The interview had been most satisfactory, and Pharamond's face beamed
as he went down the staircase. What an admirable inspiration that had
been about their enforced departure, with bag and baggage--and with
Aglaé! And how easily the poor soul had tumbled into the specious
snare. And then he laughed aloud at the fancied picture of Clovis in
his poverty. That he of all men should sacrifice his comforts! Before
his marriage with the heiress, he had been used to a measure of it,
but since he had lain on roses, their perfume had become a necessity.
Moreover, his own heavily-cumbered estates were in one of the most
turbulent provinces, where landlords might whistle for their rents.
Were he in sober earnest to resign his position of prince consort,
black bread and a garret would be his fate. To think that Gabrielle
should be so hoodwinked! What was she going to consider? and how long
would she be about it?

As Clovis listened to his brother's report, he rubbed his nose in
perplexity, glancing askance at Algaé, who nodded her head in
approval.

"She will come to her senses, and all will be well," declared that
lady. "She will know that the vulgar _intriguante_ is a poor,
harmless, humble friend of milord's, who only asks for the opportunity
to forgive. Va! I bear no malice to jealous mad women. She hunted me
away with ignominy, yet did I not clasp her to me afterwards? It was
for monsieur's sake, for whom he knows I would spill my blood, I
forced myself to do so. What is she to me? Except for your sake,
nothing!"

Clovis bit his nails to the quick as he walked about the room. That
she had changed her mind was well, but would she not insist upon some
conditions which he could not, as a man, accept? He was not going to
kneel in the dust. They must all make up their minds to that. He was
ready to meet her half-way if she would promise to behave better in
the future, but as to any more school-boy treatment, he would submit
to nothing of the kind.

It was pitiable to see the weak, unstable man fluttering in borrowed
plumes, blown out with a proud conviction in his heroic strength of
character.

"Monsieur!" cried Algaé, in her rolling tones of thunder, "oblige me
by sitting down. Since I was so disgraced here, my nerves are not what
they were. Clovis, I was going to say--" she added, with a great roar,
clapping her large hands together in guileless glee--"Monsieur le
Marquis and I," she went on needlessly to explain to the abbé, "are
such _bons camarades_ that if I was not conscious of lowly descent,
and in terror of the jealous mad woman, I should almost think I was
his sister! But, oh! mon Dieu, what rashness! If the servants were to
hear me call him Clovis, and report the awful delinquency to the pale
nun upstairs, what shrieks and screams! When saints condescend to
human frailties, they are very much like other mortals."

"Always call me Clovis. I insist on it," observed, with benign
authority, the bird in borrowed plumes.

Algaé, with one of those impulsive movements, which in so massive a
woman were charming, because unexpected, jumped up and kissed the
marquis's hand, and pressed it to her bosom. "Clovis. To me always
Clovis--when we are alone with the abbé," she murmured, gratefully,
"but not in public--for your sake. Since you are so kind--so
kind--cannot I put up with annoyance from the nun? So far as I am
concerned, accept all, and any of her conditions. If she drives me
forth again, I can take up my residence at Blois, which is not so very
far, and you will sometimes come and see me."

Algaé was vastly improved. With delighted admiration Clovis had, since
her return, become assured of it. Her spirits were more airy, her
humour more refined; and she fairly bubbled over with good nature, and
she never made remarks now that were unpleasantly pithy. What an
advantage large women have over small ones! It is given to the small
to be querulous and vixenish. The large and stout ones are conspicuous
for indulgent charity, You rarely find them speaking ill of their
neighbours. Clovis was quite convinced that Algaé was a dusky pearl,
and blamed himself severely for mistrusting her at the time of the
attempted suicide.

Gabrielle was not long in coming to a decision. Having been admittedly
precipitate, and having looked at things from their worst point of
view, it was her place to show generosity. What could she lose by
falling in with the wishes of the men, and making a new will to please
them, which, in the event of her death, would be no better than
waste-paper? Since Clovis could show a proper pride, such as became
his rank, it would not be well to torment him. It had been a noble
trait that in the same breath, he should have proposed to retire from
the scene, and yet not distress her about the children. Supposing he
had gone, along with Algaé, and had taken the dear ones with him?
Legally, she would have had no remedy. It never should be said that he
could be more generous than she. The baleful woman whose evil spells
had wrecked her content must go, of course; but she should be allowed
to take her time, and not be expelled violently, as before.
Ostensibly, she had come on a visit. Let her remain for a week or two
longer, and quietly withdraw. No harm would be done. No scandal would
arise. The acute incident would be closed, giving way to a prospect of
tranquillity.

His wife sent a short note to the marquis, begging his attendance in
the boudoir. He made a wry face, for it was terribly like a
schoolboy's summons to receive a flogging.

But Algaé, the large-hearted, placed her brown hands upon his
shoulders and shook him amicably. "You are indeed a child, my Clovis,
and deserve the flogging!" she said, cheerily. "Fi donc! A gentleman
obeys a lady's bidding. Would you have her come down here and sing
peccavi before me, whom she detests? Infant! go to her and make it up,
and if she proposes stipulations about me, be sure to accede to them
all."

Clovis obeyed with a bad grace, and entered his wife's boudoir with
the sorry air of a malefactor who pleads guilty--a condition that was
not improved by the dignified courtesy of his reception. With a serene
smile, Gabrielle bade him sit by her side.

"We seem doomed to have misunderstandings," she sighed; "and I am fain
to confess that the blame is equally divided. I unwittingly offended
you on a money question. I often wish that there was no such thing as
money."

The exordium was promising, and Clovis plucked up his spirits. With a
polite bow he remained silent.

"What would you have me do?" she asked.

"Release me from the possible prospect of being held up to ridicule by
my children."

"It shall be done--upon conditions."

Ah! There were to be conditions then? The anger of the marquis rose.
His face assumed so sullen an expression that Gabrielle felt less
compunction as to her pious fraud. Such men as her husband and his
brother were not fit to have the custody of children; as to that she
had no doubt. When she proceeded to explain that he might send for a
notary, and she would sign another will on condition that a certain
person undertook to withdraw from the circle, Clovis could scarce
contain his passion.

When the maréchal's solicitors had forced him to obedience it was bad
enough--but now--to receive peremptory orders from his wife! He was
not such a ninny as to be taken in by the little sop. That Algaé was
to be allowed to stay on for a week or two just to keep up appearances
made no difference. He had chosen to engage a female secretary and
helper concerning whose relations with himself there could be no
suspicion in any healthy mind, and he was to be deprived of her
assistance in his work through a morbid and unworthy suspicion.

"What if I refuse?" he said, sulkily. "You will play the martyr, I
suppose?"

"I will place the matter before the Seigneurie and magistrates of
Blois," Gabrielle quietly replied. "The line they counsel I will
take."

The wrath of the marquis boiled over. His hands shook, and his fingers
twitched as though he would like to strike her.

"You will do that?" he muttered, harshly. "You will wash our linen in
public to make me a fool before the province? You will deliberately
create a public _esclandre_ at so dangerous a moment?"

"Alas!" returned his wife, mournfully, "the scandal is made by you.
All I ask is to be treated with respect. Rid me for ever of her who
has been the shadow across our path, and I will carry out your wishes.
Refuse, and I will seek the protection of the Seigneurie, who shall
arbitrate between us."

"I will return you a written answer," Clovis said, abruptly rising and
making for the door. He could not and would not be ordered thus to
part with Algaé; and yet he was sorely anxious for the cancelling of
the hateful document. He was not capable of steering his bark alone
among rocks and shallows, but must seek counsel from the others. They
were awaiting him, and in a white heat of vexation he poured out to
them his woes.

Mademoiselle Brunelle laughed merrily, directing sly looks of
intelligence at the abbé, who frowned over his brother's shoulder, and
pursed his lips.

Appeal to the Seigneurie, indeed! It was well to know of such a
project in order to circumvent it. Clovis had been awkward and
unskilful; and he, the abbé, must assume henceforth more openly the
command of operations. Inopportune stiff necks are productive of no
end of worry. Why could not the silly zany have done as he was bid,
have accepted every suggestion, leaving further action to the others?
The all-important object was to secure a proper will, and that point
gained, both Pharamond and Algaé were well aware of what the next step
would have to be. Clovis, the shilly-shally, must henceforth be
excluded from a hand in the management of affairs. The lucky fellow
should reap his share of profit by and by without the sweat of labour.
His abortive interview with his wife had produced one good result. He
was more than ever exasperated against her, and swore, with needless
oaths, that he would never look on her or speak to her again.

"In that he must please himself," Pharamond remarked with
indifference; "but he must take up his pen and write. If he would
cease fretting and fidgeting, and sit down, his obliging brother would
dictate, and the epistle should be of the shortest. Would mademoiselle
kindly listen and suggest, since for her there were no secrets?"

The letter placed an hour later in the hand of Gabrielle ran thus:--


"Madame,--Your instructions shall be obeyed. I have sent to Blois for
a notary.

       "Your affectionate husband,

                                   "Clovis."



                             CHAPTER XXI.

                          THE SPIDERS SPIN.


How provoking and how unfair to be called upon to drag out the years
of our earthly pilgrimage during so stormy a period as this one! With
unexpected bombshells exploding at one's feet, what was the use of
sketching elaborate schemes which accident would most likely shiver?
The abbé had already been obliged to change his tactics several times
in consequence of untoward circumstances, and now from a clearing
heaven there rained down missiles whose unexpected proximity sharpened
his ire. "Why was I born so late?" he asked himself with muttered
curses. "Under Louis XV., _le Bien-Aimé_, everybody did what they
liked, provided that his majesty smiled. And if his own fancy was not
thwarted, that monarch must have been much addicted to smiling, for he
found the world a pleasant place. And now, just a few years later,
there seemed to be not such a thing as a smile left anywhere. They had
been so lavishly showered by the _bien-aimé_ and his lotus-eating
coterie that the stock was completely exhausted, and humanity had to
put up with execrations as a substitute."

Each time that a courier arrived with intelligence of what was passing
in the capital, the male occupants of Lorge shuddered, guessing that
the news was bad. Bad, forsooth! The ball set a rolling was tearing
down the hillside with such velocity that the sight thereof took away
the breath.

Old de Vaux, grateful ever to the marquis and his affinity for their
treatment of his sciatic nerve, came riding over with crumpled
gazettes in his pocket, his eyes goggling in his head. If the whitened
locks upon his pate had not been artificial, they would have stood up
on end. "What are we all coming to?" was the burthen of his wail. If
the world was coming to an abrupt conclusion, why did it not perform a
dignified smash and vanish into vacuum in smoke, instead of first
permitting that over-rated creation, man, to show what a base thing he
was?

Smash! Paris, beautiful Paris, had come to smash. From a paradise it
was become a pandemonium where all that was best and noblest was torn
by devils' pincers.

Sciatica? Oh, yes. It was charming well, thanks to the delightful and
indefatigable pupil of Mesmer and the enlightened marquis. A pair so
good as they would certainly be canonized--so would the prophet.
Madame and Angelique were as disgusted as the baron, but sent kindest
messages to all. Would they allow their patient to unfold the latest
budget?

Then the old gentleman would drone out before a long-suffering but
apparently appreciative audience the result of his private
lucubrations, and pour forth as well those of his lady and of
Angelique. The seigneurs, he declared, must select the strongest
fortress in the province, arm and victual it, and thus secure from the
scum, look out for better times.

Of course, the crescendo of Parisian sinfulness found its echo, of
fluctuating intensity, in the provinces. The timorous old baroness and
her daughter preferred their garden to possible insult on the roads.
Moreover, there was little to be gained by visiting at Lorge now. The
marquise since her return from the capital, had been vastly frigid and
stand-off--a stuck-up piece of goods. It was certain, now that she had
her fabulous possessions in her hands, that a mere country noble's
family were too contemptible to touch. It was equally clear that the
oaf who was called chevalier had no honourable intentions, and that it
would be more than imprudent to place so chaste a specimen as
Angelique within reach of his brandy-laden breath. And so it came
about that the only neighbours of the fair sex in the vicinity visited
less and less at Lorge, and that the old baron when he trotted over on
his prad, looked as a matter of course for the society of the
mesmerists to whom he owed so much, and ceased to ask to see the
chatelaine.

Not understanding her, the baron had always been frightened of
Gabrielle--one shade less than of the abbé. Strange! When that
gentleman first came among them, the baron and all the booby squires
voted him the most charming of acquisitions. Now, somehow, he was to
be avoided as much as might be, for his tongue was sharp and his wit
scathing, and he was no respecter of persons. The abbé would sometimes
take up the old gentleman in his claws, as it were, toy with him as
cat does with a mouse, till he was bewildered and breathless; then
turn him inside out with a gesture of contempt, and fling him aside.
This was terribly disrespectful to a Vaux of Vaux, but it certainly
was a fact, whose enormity was only revealed by slow degrees, that the
abbé was not averse to treating a Vaux de Vaux (with a thousand
quarterings) as if he were no more than a puppet. Having arrived at
and digested this stupendous fact, it stood to reason that the baron
disliked the abbé as much as he dared; but, at the same time, the
counsel of that ghostly man was so worldly-wise; he was so respected
by the mesmerists, appealed to by them on every occasion as an oracle,
that in moments of startling difficulty such as were now of frequent
occurrence, it was only natural that the baron should amble over from
Montbazon to crave the oracle's advice.

A budget, indeed! Almost every day was stamped by some inconceivable
event. History was making up for casual napping by a spell of feverish
haste. A catalogue of years was crowded into weeks. The poor old globe
was spinning round so rapidly that it would certainly be shot out of
its orbit, to the annihilation of the insects on its surface.

When, six weeks after their arrival in the country, the incidents of
the tenth of August reached far Touraine, the cunning abbé had the
gazette wherein they were chronicled laid on the table of the
marquise, whom he justly calculated would be frozen with horror. That
her innocent benefactress should be summoned by destiny in fulfilment
of prophecy, to drain so full a cup of bitterness was appalling, and
naturally set her friend reflecting upon the darkness of her own
horoscope.

The sensitive and haughty queen was indeed humbled; her defenders
massacred, her home converted into a shambles.

After the storming of the Tuileries, the populace, blood-drunk,
wreaked their insensate fury upon all alike, irrespective of age or
sex. The gentlemen-ushers, pages, doorkeepers, even the lowly
scullions of the kitchen were, without distinction, butchered. It was
impossible to move a yard over the polished floors without treading on
a corpse, stripped and horribly mutilated. Every corner of the palace
was plundered, its furniture flung out of the window. When there were
no more Royalists to kill, the rioters turned upon each other, making
the fatal day the fête of carnage and devastation. The mangled bodies
of the seven hundred murdered Swiss were covered with those of
_sans-culottes_. It was a carnival of slaughter. On the Place Louis
XV., groups of men and women amused themselves by severing the heads
of the slain and tearing their flesh like tigers. It was a relief to
know that the royal family were safe within the Temple; and yet, for
what further suffering had they been rescued? The situation was so
alarming that foreign ambassadors left Paris in a body, the last to go
milady Sutherland, who stood by Marie Antoinette in her travail till
the prison gates were closed on her.

Then came the incident, so often repeated in history, of a hopeless
combat with a spirit which, easily raised, it is found impossible to
lay. General Lafayette, perceiving, with distress, the results of his
own teaching, implored his army to rise in defence of king and
constitution, and being met with laughter, fled.

On the second of September--a Sunday, whereon time hung heavy on the
hands--the brilliant idea occurred to certain zealous citizens, headed
by one Maillard, that it would be fine fun to make hay in the prisons.
Were there not the Abbaye, the Carmelites, the Chatelet, La Force,
Salpétrière, Bicêtre, all crammed with wicked people who did not
approve of _sans-culottes?_ What a delicious amusement would it be for
the dull Sunday to teach them how bad they were. With yells, a throng,
increasing in volume at each street corner, swept towards the
Abbaye--men naked to the waist, with foaming lips and rolling eyes,
and arms clotted with gore. Knives and sharp pikes made short but
merry work. Recalcitrant maidens who refused to shout "Vive la
Nation!" were compelled to drink the blood of their relations. The
massacre continued all day and through the night. But why go into the
full details of the hideous story? France was become a dangerous
lunatic who had beaten and trampled on her keepers.

It was a desperate shock to Gabrielle when she read of the fate of her
friend, Louise, Princesse de Lamballe. That ill-starred lady had, as
she knew, been imprisoned in La Force; and it was with a thrill that
chilled her blood that she perused the details of her murder. Sure so
horrible and ferocious a deed had never been done before! The marquise
read, in the gazettes cunningly placed by the abbé, with blanched
cheek, of how the beautiful favourite of the stricken queen had been
dragged to the prison threshold, there to be slain by inches; of how
her body was stripped and mutilated and flung in derision on a
dung-heap, while her head was borne on a pike with auburn tresses
flying, and flourished at the Temple under the window of the royal
prisoners. Unhappy Louise! Unfortunate Marie Antoinette! Concerning
one the sinister prophecy was accomplished; concerning the other it
would be soon. What of the third, which concerned the Marquise de
Gange? Morbid fancy, forsooth! No, indeed. Her fate was sealed, like
theirs. What must be, must. She had lulled herself in false security.

Since Fate had decreed that the present occupants of Lorge were to
live in so unsavoury an era, it behoved the ruling spirit of the
group, Monsieur l'Abbé, to extract what advantage he could out of the
disadvantages. In the first place, outside events were so terribly
engrossing that local gossip and tittle-tattle for the time had lost
their charm. The general feeling of insecurity, too, was such that the
marquise could be taught without difficulty that this was not the
moment for aristocrats to appeal to the Seigneurie. What was a petty
bit of jealousy, or even a family misunderstanding, by the side of a
massacre of thousands? A protest at such a crisis on so paltry a
subject would be justly met with contempt.

Then as History kept plying her shuttle with lightning speed, the abbé
shook his head and marvelled, congratulating himself that the great
obstacle to his plan had been removed, since time was becoming
precious.

For the new will was now an accomplished fact, and lay safe in yonder
desk which bore the cypher of the marquis.

Mademoiselle Brunelle had intimated to the chatelaine, with a heavenly
resignation worthy of all praise, that for appearance' sake she would
accept the permission to linger on a week or two and then disappear
for ever. Her note, penned in a small and irreproachable caligraphy,
both relieved and troubled the marquise. That she had consented to
depart without a struggle was a relief, but her mild and simple
expressions of gratitude for past favours caused Gabrielle a twinge of
conscience. Of course it was inevitable that the woman should be made
to go, but the marquise would have felt more satisfied with herself if
the creature had been vulgar and played the termagant instead of
assuming the seraph. It was a million pities that she could not have
gone on behaving as at first, when her mistress, finding her useful,
had welcomed and tried to make a friend of her. The social earthquake
had so far shaken the city of Blois that professors began to find it
dangerous to cultivate aristocratic blossoms, preferring, with an eye
to a whole skin, the discharging of declamatory fireworks at clubs and
political assemblies. Of course there could be no question ever again
of bringing mademoiselle and her late charges together; and yet it was
a pity that it must be so, since the minds of the dear ones were lying
fallow.

News arrived of changes, legislative and warlike, such as would
transform the map of France. The jewels appertaining to the crown were
annexed. The National Convention, just sprung into being, decreed the
abolition of Royalty; proclaimed a Republic. The republican armies
were, contrary to expectation, crowned with victory. They conquered
Savoy, occupied Nice; swept from French territory the forces of the
Allies. The small remaining scraps of the property of emigrants, long
threatened and plucked at now and again, were actually seized _en
bloc_. A list of pains and penalties of the severest kind was launched
at such bad citizens as were gangrened with royalism.

At the present rate of progress the country would soon be no safer
than the towns. Aristocrats would be dragged from their retreats,
consigned to local jails, finished off in batches by a _noyade_ or a
_fusillade_--be drowned or shot in droves. Clearly, there was no time
for palaver or parleying, or the days would pass away when it would be
possible to emigrate. What a mercy--the abbé never wearied of
repeating the refrain--that the Maréchal de Brèze should have
transferred his wealth to Geneva, and that his obstinate and
stiff-necked daughter should have been induced to change her will!

Mademoiselle Brunelle was equally convinced with the abbé that there
was no time to squander. If she were to remain too long, the marquise
would become suspicious and insist on her departure Of course she need
not travel further than Blois, but it is well to be on the spot when
something important is to take place, especially when your coadjutor
is so double-faced as was the abbé. The susceptibilities of Clovis
must be respected. What the schemers had to do must be done speedily,
silently, and neatly. When she thought of it all the low laughter of
Algaé rumbled. How surprised and mortified would the abbé be when in
the end he found himself circumvented! She was to put out her paw for
the chestnuts and keep half the booty for her trouble? So Pharamond
had picturesquely put it. Not so. Unwittingly it was his own paw that
was to be protruded, and in his case the fable would be realized. The
excellent lady had graduated in his own school, and it is given to
clever pupils ofttimes to outstrip the master.

Sure, now that they held the necessary document, their task was of the
most infantine simplicity. It had been ascertained by cautious probing
that Clovis could be counted on not to defend his wife. He would be
politely invited to bury his head in the sand until that which must be
was accomplished. By skilful manipulation his loathing for his better
half was increasing as steadily in volume as a rolling snowball, and
was assuming the proportions of a fixed idea. Gabrielle had decreed
the banishment of the dear affinity. With many a groan he had
acquiesced, being assured by two whisperers as he wrote to their
dictation, that it was but a matter of form. "If she conquers, after
all," he had said as he flung down the pen, "I will never forgive
either of you. You have some project in your minds for the arrangement
of the situation. What it may be I cannot guess, but I would have you
know that if you fail I shall hate you both quite as much as her."

Algaé and the abbé had exchanged a glance of scorn over his shoulder,
in that they were forced to work with such a sorry tool. No matter. If
we paddle in thick mud, a little elbow-grease and water will make us
clean again. Both began from opposite points of view to understand
that the removal of Clovis might perchance have to follow his
wife's. After her removal they would journey to Geneva, divide the
fortune--hush the remorseful groans which so pusillanimous an object
as Clovis was certain to indulge in--possibly drive him to drink, the
natural corollary of remorse--and so into his grave. This was the
abbé's view. Algaé went further. Arrived at Geneva, she would speedily
become the marquise, and certain of dominion over her spouse--so long
as his life was allowed to last--would secure to herself the reversion
of her predecessors' fortune, and politely dismiss the brothers.

All that, however, was as yet in the clouds, and there was no time to
lose. To a certain extent, the marquis must now be admitted to the
council, but the cautious finger of the governess must be kept upon
his pulse, to ascertain how far he could be trusted not to scream and
make an uproar. Such a task was exactly suited to a lady of such tact
and discretion as mademoiselle, and she gladly undertook the office.

Toinon, mightily displeased at the way things were going, was racked
by apprehension. It seemed to her as if she and her mistress were
being gradually enwrapped in the glutinous film of spiders, which
uncomely creatures by and by would quietly devour them. Such a
_ménage_ as that of Lorge, despite its outward calm, was abnormal. Her
dear mistress dwelt in strict retirement in her own house. A band of
harpies (among which, I regret to say, she reckoned her master) were
secretly conspiring, and the result of their machinations could not
but be harmful. They whispered in corners, deliberated with closed
doors, discussed and argued something earnestly at all times and
seasons, and if somebody approached them, they suddenly grew silent.
What could they be conspiring? For two pins, popping her insulted
vanity into her pocket, she would write to the truant Jean, of whom
she vaguely heard sometimes as being quite of importance at Blois. If
he had grown out of his love for Toinon, his blindness was to be
deplored; but righteously indignant as that damsel felt at his
neglect, she never for a moment doubted his honesty, however
deplorable his opinions. Jean respected both the marquise and her
foster-sister, and if carried away from his allegiance by politics,
she felt none the less certain that, were she to summon him, he would
come. But how could she summon him? He would laugh at her fears, and,
on the principle of "Wolf, wolf," would not obey a second summons. All
she could report was that madame was unhappy and neglected, that the
objectionable ex-governess had come and was on the point of going, and
that, meanwhile, she and the brothers were given to whispering in
corners. It was absurd, and Jean would be justified in laughing at
her. He had left his dog behind him in her care, as an unfit companion
for a deputy at Blois, and as the faithful beast followed her about,
gazing into her eyes with canine sympathy, she would suddenly
sometimes sink upon the floor, and clasping his woolly head in her
comely arms, whisper to him, "Oh, my dear! I am so sorely troubled.
How I wish you could tell me what to do!"

As to her master, he was quite different from what he used to be. In
old days, who so spick and span, so punctiliously prim in his attire?
His face used then to wear a dreamy expression of philanthropical
beatitude, which, if somewhat trying, was free of blame. Now he
neglected his dress, his shoulders were rounded. He muttered between
his teeth, as he wandered with bent head, and when he raised it, his
eyes were bloodshot, his features convulsed by passion--torn by some
secret dread. He was always brooding, and on some subject which
stirred the lees, erstwhile so undisturbed, of evil thoughts. The
marquis was changing a _vue d'[oe]il_, and the change was not for the
better.

Toinon, with her dog behind her, was slowly mounting the stair one
day, revolving for the thousandth time the pros and cons of her
perplexity, when she perceived that the outer door of the abbé's
sanctum was open--an unusual circumstance, for had he not taken to
himself this tiny chamber by reason of its double doors? The abigail
hesitated. Should she descend to prying? If she did it would be for
the best motives, and if she heard anything that concerned her not it
might as well be consigned to a tomb. She could detect the mellifluous
accents of the abbé, apparently in remonstrance, then the voice of
mademoiselle, very low and earnest, broken by something smothered from
the marquis, who spoke in tones of pain. What could they be discussing
so earnestly? Raising her finger to caution the dog to silence, she
stole down a-tiptoe, and holding her breath, listened.

Not for long, however, for the marquis of a sudden cried out, "I will
never consent to such strong measures--never--never--never. They are
too full of risk;" and was evidently moving towards the door when his
progress was arrested by the abbé.

"Leave it to us, dear brother; leave it to us," the latter was
repeating, soothingly. "If not your poor brother and your devoted
friend, who else in the wide world are you to trust? It is as plain as
daylight that we must leave France ere long, and your obstinate wife
will never consent to go with us. Well, well; she doubtless will be
safe here if we are not, and if we get into trouble, she will be
rather pleased than otherwise. Do as you are advised. Take yonder
document and raise on it at Blois or Tours a little money for present
expenses. We are out of cash, as you know, since you so properly stood
out against the allowance. You can easily raise money on that paper.
Is not everybody scraping together all they can in order to be off
while there is time? Go, dear lad, perform your portion of the task,
and leave the rest to us."

"What of her, then?" Clovis inquired in doubt.

"Meddle, meddle, meddle--why will you meddle?" retorted Pharamond,
laughing. "I daresay she will live on here for many years, or perhaps
not--who knows? Suffice it for the moment that we men must fly across
the border."

Then came something more from mademoiselle, which the eavesdropper
could not catch, and Toinon had but time to flee with all her speed to
the upper storey, ere the marquis opened the door. He was sighing and
moaning and muttering in most extraordinary fashion.

Peeping from the landing above she could see that he trembled like a
leaf, and did not fail to mark the abbé's sneer of triumph as he
looked after his departing brother.

"He has been sent away from Lorge," she murmured, with wrinkles on her
brow. "He is to go, and to take madame's testament along with him.
Those two demons are victorious, and we are at their mercy. What do
they intend to do? Nothing that bodes good to us."



                            CHAPTER XXII.

                          DOMESTIC COOKERY.


That Clovis should have thought proper to leave Lorge without notice,
or any hint of his intentions, was not a subject for vexation now to
Gabrielle. She saw the carriage disappear round the corner with a
valet and a valise in the rumble, and the eyes of the occupant fixed
steadily upon the postilion. No smile, or nod, or wave of a hand for
her to whom he owed so much. She could contemplate him now without a
wince or heartache, as calmly as we examine uncanny specimens of
beetledom in a glass case. She prayed Heaven that her son, the dear
Victor, should not grow up too like his father. One good point about
the marquis's going was that he was separated from that woman. Then
she began to wonder a little that he should have prematurely torn
himself away before the moment of her flitting. That was good. Perhaps
he had acted thus on purpose to keep up the show of appearances which
all agreed was to be maintained. Be that as it might, it was not
probable that the woman would linger on in a false position--_pour les
beaux yeux de l'abbé_--and so the chatelaine, sitting with the dear
ones in the moat garden, was prepared at any moment to witness the
departure of another carriage. And after that? Would Clovis return
when the coast was clear, or remain at a distance in dudgeon, leaving
her to the tender mercies of his brothers? What then? She had given
way, or seemed to do so, for peace' sake. They could require no more
of her, and would doubtless respect her seclusion. It was curious to
think though of the whimsicality of the situation. She, Gabrielle de
Gange, erstwhile the reigning belle, with all at her feet that the
world had to give, was living now with unruffled equanimity under the
same roof as sheltered the man whom she had learned to look on as a
devil.

It was October, and the leaves were circling over the grass in
whispering eddies. The mournful days of late autumn have a charm of
their own, as nature still peeps forth half-chilled from under the
closing slab of the tomb. The monotony of mundane existence is in tune
with the scene, and as all that is pleasant of the year slowly
vanishes, we dream and moralize in a regretful way, which is not
discontent.

Nature is dying, but will live again anon. Ah! what of us who gaze
ahead striving to peer into the unknown? Have we not learned to know
too well that the Future is the grave in which all our poor puny
ambitions are to lie, never to arise any more, and yet we would fain
examine the resting-place where Hope is to play chief mourner! Most of
us who have reached middle age have had ambition crushed out of us
long since, and we can smile with quiet amusement at the vaulting
aspirations of our youth.

Gabrielle, while tranquilly embroidering, was not averse to recalling
the past, summoning on the disc of memory the pageants of Versailles,
the innocent bucolics of Trianon, the magnificent fêtes at the
Tuileries. Where were all the gaily gilded puppets now? The Tuileries
was a Golgotha, Trianon a nest for owls. The lovely Lamballe had been
hacked to pieces by demons; their majesties were doing gruesome
penance for the sins of others; even the saintly and immaculate
Elizabeth, one of the purest and noblest women who ever trod the
earth, was also enduring long-drawn and excruciating pangs of
martyrdom.

Laying down her embroidery as she reviewed these things, Gabrielle
would clasp her hands behind her head, and marvel, as others in
similarly incongruous situations have done, whether Providence is not
a myth. Every fibre of the human soul revolts against the monstrous
doctrine that the innocent shall suffer for the guilty, and yet every
day we see that it obtains, and always has obtained from the time of
Adam downwards. Such gloomy reflections should not perplex young and
pretty heads, and yet the marquise was unable to conquer melancholy.
Perhaps it was induced by the season, perhaps by the germs of illness.
She must have dreamed too long in the moat garden without being
provided with sufficient wraps. Certainly she had caught a chill, for
when Toinon brought her as usual her morning chocolate, a few days
after the marquis's departure, she found her shivering and feverish,
with chattering teeth and laboured breath. Drawing aside the heavy
curtains of the ancestral bed, Toinon gazed long and anxiously at her
mistress, who said, turning impatiently, "You stare as if I were a
ghost!"

"Madame thinks she has caught cold?" Toinon agreed quietly. "Madame
was always too fond of sitting in the open air."

"I knew I was going to be unwell," her mistress observed drowsily,
"for last night I could scarce touch my supper. When the palate is
affected, things taste quite differently. The good Bertrand sent up
some of my favourite cakes, as light as if made by fairies, and
somehow they seemed quite coppery. Do something, Toinon; give them to
your dog, for the dish is scarcely touched, and I would not have
Bertrand think I am ungrateful."

"And you were always so partial to those cakes!" drily remarked
Toinon, with a peculiar smile. "Yes, I will give them to the dog."

"First make me some tisane," entreated Gabrielle. "I am languid and
feverish, and my throat is parched and burning."

Toinon slowly shook her head and went straight into the adjoining
boudoir, where the light refection described as supper was always laid
out on a low table. Her movement was so abrupt that had she not been
much preoccupied, she could not have failed to perceive the whisk of a
black coat-tail, as it disappeared into the long saloon. Had she
opened the door four minutes earlier, she would have seen a dapper
figure clad in black leaning over the plate that held the
confectionery, and have heard a soft voice mutter, "Only half a cake.
It must have had a peculiar taste."

As it was, Toinon saw nothing of this, but finding the room empty,
moved swiftly to the tray, took up a cake and smelt it. A thin, pale
face was watching her through a door-chink with gleaming eyes.

She again shook her head, and murmuring, "Can they be so wicked?"
carried the plate away.

Along the corridor she sped, and down the stairs, unconscious of a
dark shadow moving noiselessly, till she reached her own apartment. At
sound of the well-known footstep, an animal within, hitherto
quiescent, began to whine and yelp, and beat itself against the door.

"Patience, patience--poor hound," Toinon said aloud. "Is it wise to be
in so great a hurry? Even now, I cannot believe it!"

She turned the handle and the boisterous dog dashed the plate from her
hand with its great paws. She picked up two of the cakes which had
remained whole, and with the same peculiar smile of meaning she had
worn above, watched the hound as he ravenously devoured the fragments.
There was still a piece left--a large one--and she pushed it towards
him with her foot.

"Poor dog! Forgive me, Jean," she said, "if what I think is true."

The shadow without gazed in on the scene with craning neck. "She
suspects," the abbé muttered. "What will she do with the others?"

As though in direct answer to the question, Toinon turned rapidly from
the animal which she had been eyeing with a suspicious frown, and
carefully taking up the remaining pieces of confectionery wrapped them
in paper. Then she stood stroking her chin irresolute. The dog
approached and wagged his tail, rubbing his muzzle in her hand, as his
way was when he wanted something. "What is it, poor fellow?" she
enquired, stroking his head. "Water! I thought as much!" Filling a
basin, she placed it on the floor, and the dog drank eagerly till the
last drop was drained, then curled himself up to sleep.

Starting, the abigail took up the parcel, went to a cupboard, selected
a bottle from a row and mixed some of its contents with water.

"Mustard," murmured the abbé, slinking into the shade. "That stupid
woman said there was no especial taste. See what it is to have to deal
with bunglers."

Wearing his most unpleasant scowl, and grinding his sharp teeth, he
stole along the corridor, and moving up a step or two turned and came
down again humming a blythesome stave, just as Toinon appeared at the
bottom, holding the parcel and a glass.

"Our pretty Toinon is vastly occupied," he laughed, merrily. "But for
fear of the stalwart arm of burly Jean, I would steal a kiss from
those sweet lips."

"Maybe you will feel that arm sooner than you expect," she said,
scarce able to steady her voice; "make way, and if you dare to touch
me, I will spit in your villain's face."

This was clearly not the moment for persiflage, so with a careless
shrug of indulgence for the coarse manners of the lower classes, the
abbé stood aside. "What a dear darling little vixen," he shouted up
the stairs. "I pity poor Jean Boulot, despite his thews and sinews."

The first attempt was a failure, an egregiously contemptible and
inartistic failure, and all due to that inveterate bungler. Had not
mademoiselle's coadjutor suggested that liquid is preferable to solid,
for the purpose they both had at heart, since you only munch a
biscuit, whereas you take a preliminary sip at a liquid and then, your
mouth feeling a trifle dry, take a longer gulp before remarking that
the taste is peculiar? And the execrable Algaé had insisted on the
cakes, declaring that if you are fond of a particular cake, you will
indulge in several before any little peculiarity can manifest itself.
And the fool--the hopelessly obstinate and self-sufficient idiot--had
perpetrated another bungle, a worse one than before, since Gabrielle
had only bitten into one of her favourites, while the others had been
gobbled by the dog. The dog would die; no doubt of it, and Toinon's
suspicions would be justified. What would she do with that tell-tale
parcel? An extremely awkward mistake of mademoiselle's. There was one
way out of the dilemma. The abbé must be taken ill as well as the lady
of the house; complain of a taste of copper, make an outcry in the
kitchen, and discover that the careless cook had spread his materials
upon a copper-plate that had not been cleared of verdigris.

Toinon was busy all day with her mistress, whom she found in a half
lethargy, with burning palms and widely distended pupils. She had some
ado to force the mustard down her throat; but, this done, she soon had
the pleasure of seeing the patient revive. By evening, Gabrielle was
calm, but exhausted, and when Toinon descended to the kitchen to fetch
some bouillon (which Bertrand would have first to taste) she was
astonished to hear that the abbé was screaming with agony, kicking in
frightful convulsions.

Toinon smiled her peculiar smile again, and uttered a few common-place
words of sympathy.

"Badly played," she said to herself, "he might as well have bethought
him that the symptoms should be lethargy and coma."

M. Bertrand, the cook, was in high dudgeon. How dared anybody hint
that he had poisoned madame's biscuits? It was all owing to that oaf
of a scullion, who had laid the large square copper-plate on the
confectionery table, without remembering that it had been unused for a
week. Was he, a _cordon bleu_, a chef _de premier caliber_, to be
blamed for the stupidity of a scullion? He would be expected to clean
his own saucepans next. When the marquis returned--who always
appreciated efforts to please--he would give warning and leave this
_sale maison_, which was only fit for cockroaches and rats.

"Go back to Paris!" gibed Toinon. "Safer where you are, believe me. A
chef with so splendid a reputation for pampering the palates of the
gangrened aristocracy, would surely be strung up to a lantern! This
bouillon looks excellent," she added saucily; "but M. Bertrand will be
good enough to sip two spoonfuls, lest the scullion should have dipped
his fingers in it."

Next day, thanks to Toinon's vigilant solicitude, the marquise was
sufficiently recovered to sit at her embroidery as usual. Holding out
a hand to the abigail while tears rose to the eyes of both, "My
sister," she said, "it is worth while to be a little ill just to learn
how much we are beloved."

Alas! beloved! Poor lady. Hated by four persons without consciences,
who were panting and thirsting for her death! A target for poisoned
arrows!

After sagely considering the matter, Toinon made up her mind that if
she did not interfere, she might become in some sort an accessary to a
tragedy. In whom was faith to be placed? Honest Jean? What could he
do, if he were to come, in the face of such diabolical ingenuity? He
would learn that his favourite dog--companion of many trudgings
through the woods at all times and seasons--had died of poisoned
cakes. But then was it not admitted in the household, that the abbé as
well as the marquise had accidentally partaken, and that the abbé of
the two had been the most sick? Had not varlets and kitchen wenches
cowered and clung together at sound of his piercing screams? He was
well again, for he had had the presence of mind to swallow mustard.
The marquise had recovered, thanks to a like precaution. Toinon had
been cunning enough to keep two cakes which, when the time came should
be examined, and if the abbé were foolish enough to declare that he
had been poisoned by similar articles, it would be easy to prove that
his agonies were sham, as they were not the natural results of such a
poison as had been administered to Gabrielle.

Meanwhile, something must be done, and the question that troubled
Toinon was what that something was to be. At last she made up her mind
and broke the ice.

"Will madame pardon me for what may appear an act of presumption," she
inquired, gently rearranging the wraps about the invalid. "I have
taken something on myself which may anger madame, who will, I know,
believe that if I was guilty of an error it was made through excess of
zeal."

There was a pause, unbroken by Gabrielle, who glanced at her
foster-sister with a wan and wearied look that was full of pathos.

Presently she raised the fingers of the waiting maid to her face, and
stroked her cheek with them.

"What is this grand effort of the intellect?" she asked, cheerily. "I
know it is something well intentioned."

"I have written a letter in madame's name and sent it off by special
courier."

"Not to the marquis?" cried Gabrielle, the colour flushing over her
face and neck.

Poor soul! The marquis! Much good would it be to write to him, unless
to request him to order a coffin.

"No," Toinon said, quietly. "It cuts me to the heart to see madame so
solitary, and during a convalescence too, a time when we always brood
and consider the least pleasant subjects. I have written to the
Maréchale de Brèze, stating that you have been ill, but are out of
danger, and would be glad of a visit from your mother."

Gabrielle remained thoughtful, still stroking Toinon's fingers. Why
not? The maréchale owed a visit, and the absence of her husband on
business would account for the seclusion of his wife. Moreover, it
would be a splendid thing to lure the old dame from dangerous Paris,
where Mother Guillotine was commencing to display a Catholic taste in
the way of food. Yes; from all points of view it was an admirable idea
to induce Madame de Brèze to visit Lorge. Why! it was a thousand years
at least since she had set eyes upon the darlings! Her own and only
grandchildren! How shockingly reprehensible. How she would joy in
marking each trait of genius, and how proud their mother would be to
show how cultured were their minds! The maréchale's mind was
considerably less stored than her daughter's, but she would appreciate
with greater awe the progress of their climb up Parnassus. Did they
not write each other poems and moral essays, after the manner of the
Scuderi, and of the encyclopædist ladies!--such prodigiously clever
verses, and such heavenly prose sermons! The more she considered it
the more enchanted was she that Toinon should have taken this move
upon herself. Had it been left to her, she would have doubted, have
written a dozen letters only to tear them up, weighing in that tender
and over-scrupulous conscience of hers whether it was right or wrong
to drag an old lady to the wilds of Touraine at such a troublous
moment. She would have considered whether it was not her duty to have
unselfishly exhorted the ancient dame never to stir out of her modest
abode; never even to open her window, lest by the act she should be
drawn into the maw of Mother Guillotine.

The more she thought over it the more delighted was she with the idea,
and, opening her arms, clasped Toinon to her breast.

"My dear, my dear," she murmured, fondly, "what should I do without
you? Let the dear mother come. Together we will make her welcome."



                            CHAPTER XXIII.

                          A PASSAGE OF ARMS.


Mademoiselle Algaé Brunelle was not on a bed of roses, and her growing
impatience took the form of tartness. If Clovis could have looked on
his affinity in his absence her prospects of becoming some day
Marquise de Gange might have been less promising. In truth, she was
very cross, and took no trouble to conceal her mood from Pharamond or
Phebus. It was not her fault, but that of the silly Bertrand, that the
cakes should have had a metallic flavour. She therefore soundly rated
that worthy for his clumsiness, and threatened him with pains and
penalties. The chef glanced at her with two pig's-eyes set close
together, and replied, "I was engaged in Paris by Monsieur l'Abbé, not
by mademoiselle, who should undertake her dirty work herself." He had
no personal feeling against the recluse upstairs, but man must live,
and with the present he was to receive he intended to escape from the
French caldron, and make up for a trifling lapsus in another land by a
future of exemplary virtue.

Energetic mademoiselle was all for taking the bull by the horns and
acting with decision. Why beat about the bush in this provoking way,
she argued, since the chatelaine was completely in their power? The
domestics were the abbé's creatures, drafted one by one, and dropped
each into his place. Madame de Vaux and Angelique were too much
alarmed to leave their own precincts; and now that the marquis was
gone, the old gentleman had no motive for ambling over from Montbazon,
since he had never understood Gabrielle, and instinctively disliked
the brothers. He was grateful to Algaé in that matter of the sciatic
nerve, but it was not his place as a seigneur to make morning calls on
a dependant. To prevent prying from without, it was easy to spread a
report that Madame la Marquise de Gange had been attacked by typhus
fever. The rustics of Touraine had a wholesome dread of the disease.
Madame had none on whom she could rely except her faithful abigail.
Would it not be the most natural thing in the world if the devoted
foster-sister were likewise to succumb to the malady? There was
nothing whatever to stop the prosecution of their plans, and it has
long been an axiom that what has to be done is best done quickly.
There was nothing to cause the delay but the abbé's tortuous method.
It is said that each of us has been an animal in a previous phase, and
that a shade of likeness, physical or moral, or both, yet clings to us
in this. Mademoiselle was convinced that in his last existence the
abbé had been a serpent. It was his nature to wriggle and twist, and
he could not for the life of him move straight. If he beheld a dove
upon a branch he must needs coil himself elaborately to fascinate it,
instead of protruding a tongue and gobbling it up at once.

These and other views, did she propound to Pharamond, marching up and
down the room as her wont was, when much in earnest, with elephantine
tread, while the chevalier blinked at her in fear. A wonderful woman,
an awful and terrible woman! It was not surprising that Clovis should
have sunk under her thrall. She dared to beard, and even flout the
still more awful Pharamond, and the two crossed swords sometimes with
such a clash of arms that Phebus shivered in alarm. What two such
strong ones willed, would certainly take place. No doubt about it. The
poor thing upstairs was doomed. No effort that he, Phebus, could make,
might stay her doom. Why, then, make any effort? He could only shed
maudlin tears and wish her well through her misery. He quite agreed
with Algaé, that the inevitable should take place at once.

Now lecturing and advice that looked too like command, was by no means
palatable to Pharamond, and he had much ado to maintain the suavity of
his temper. The idea of typhus was not bad, but it would entail
certain consequences. Nearly everybody at this time, both in France
and England, was seamed with smallpox, and dreadful as the scourge
was, familiarity had paled its terrors. The report of a spread of
typhus, on the other hand, was enough to depopulate a district.
Happily, since the period which occupies us, advancing science has
done much to mitigate its horrors, but in the eighteenth century, the
sickening details of its course were enough to appal the bravest. The
Marquise de Gange and her abigail having succumbed to the scourge, the
inmates of the chateau must flee, or endure ostracism--they would be
banned like lepers.

Though by the terms of the new will, the marquis would quietly
inherit, it would not do for him and his brothers, after assisting at
a typhus deathbed, to stay at Blois to transact necessary business.
Unluckily the unstable legatee could not be trusted to do much
unaided. As had been decided he was to raise money on his
expectations, sufficient to waft the party to Geneva, and keep them in
proper style during tedious but necessary negociations. It was
obvious, therefore, that mademoiselle's impatience was vexatious and
ill-advised. When Clovis wrote to say that the sum was raised, then
they would perform their one act drama, and, bowing, retire behind the
scenes.

"Surely there ought to be no difficulty about raising the necessary
sum," grumbled Algaé, with arms crossed, and moody brow. "Clovis is so
reprehensibly tardy. What can he be doing all this while! I would have
settled the matter myself in half-an-hour, if the mission could have
been confided to me."

Phebus blinked more than usual. Oh! A wonderful woman, who appeared to
him as a vision of fate in a violent hurry. Could she who had been
sprightly and kittenish, be so athirst for another woman's blood?

"You deem yourself vastly clever," sneered Pharamond, waxing wroth.
"Can you not remember that every mistake has been due to your
stupidity? Half-an-hour, forsooth! Do you not know that bullion is as
rare a commodity as diamonds? that to refuse payment in assignats is
to risk the guillotine, and that beyond the border, such things are
but dirty paper? A pretty figure we should cut if we rattled into the
courtyard of the Etoile d'Or, and attempted to pay the Swiss
postilions with dead leaves! One cannot, of course, expect common
sense from a woman, any more than grapes from thistles. Your querulous
importunity is wearying. You must keep your promise and be content to
be led by me."

Even Pharamond was disconcerted, and Phebus cowered, when Algaé dashed
into the breakfast-room one day like a whirlwind, her eyes aflame, her
dusky visage black with fury. She moved swiftly up and down, unable to
articulate, upsetting the chairs in her career. What could have
happened to enrage her thus? Verily, she was becoming a deplorable,
insufferable nuisance, and it would be well to make an end of it.

"Patience," she blurted out at last, thumping into her accustomed
seat, and scattering the glasses. "You never weary of exhorting me to
patience. Perhaps you will yourself remember the elementary fact that
events will not stand still while you are parleying."

"What now?" Pharamond asked calmly.

"This now," retorted mademoiselle. "The Maréchale de Brèze has just
arrived with an army of domestics, and is closeted upstairs with her
daughter."

This was news; unwelcome and unexpected news. Had the old lady arrived
on an errand similar to that of the family solicitor? Hardly. If
Gabrielle had again secretly sought protection, M. Galland would have
come himself. And an army of servants, too! Servants are argus-eyed
and uncharitable in their conclusions. These people could not be
wheedled or cajoled like those selected by the abbé. Algaé's wrath,
though coarsely expressed, was justified. The irruption of a foreign
element, just at this juncture, was unfortunate.

"We must frighten them away," Pharamond observed, quietly peeling a
pear.

Mademoiselle snorted in scorn, while the abbé sat wrapped in thought.
Why was the maréchale here now? Had anything fresh occurred in Paris,
which had impelled flight? If that had been so, she would not have
travelled with a retinue. She was timid and nervous, and fearful of
bandits on the road. She could scarcely have been summoned by
Gabrielle, since the latter had no suspicion of the cakes. Pharamond
had satisfied himself of that, by knocking humbly and inserting a
head, while ostentatiously remaining on the threshold. "Pardon my
intrusion," he had meekly purred, "but anxiety compels me to ask after
your health. In Clovis's absence I feel responsible. Tell me that you
have recovered, as I have, from the untoward incident due to a stupid
cook?"

Gabrielle politely declared herself to be well, deplored the abbé's
illness, and intimated with a slight inclination that the interview
was over. Chilly, not to say icy. But there was no symptom of
suspicion in her clear blue eyes. She declined to say more than was
necessary to a man whom she detested, that was all. But Toinon, the
abbé was convinced, knew all about it. Why had she kept her knowledge
from her mistress? What had she done with the parcel? She had allowed
him clearly to understand, that she was not taken in by his comedy.
Did she not always make a parade, to the scandal of the household, of
having every article tasted that was to be consumed by her mistress or
herself?

He had seen her wrap up the cakes which the dog had not devoured--to
what end? It would be well to have those cakes and to destroy them;
was it worth the trouble of finding and purloining them? It had been
generally admitted that through carelessness there had been an
accident which was not followed by a fatal result. In every household
such accidents occur since the culinary genius is not infallible. Were
the things to be analysed, it might transpire that the quantity of
verdigris or subacetate on the copper plate had been excessive, so
great as to look like deliberate purpose. Did Toinon propose to open a
judicial inquiry under the presidency of Madame La Maréchale; produce
her _pieces de conviction_; accuse a respectable ghostly man of
attempted murder? The idea was so ludicrous that Pharamond laughed
aloud. Let her do as she liked. Bother the cakes! The inquiry would be
very funny. He quite hoped that she would ventilate her suspicions for
the amusement of the assembled household, and give him the chance of
victory.

It behoved a son of the Church, brought up in a good school, to pay
due and ceremonious respect to the mother of their chatelaine. He
accordingly indited a sweet note expressive of joyous surprise, and
requesting the honour of an interview.

Gabrielle was about to seize the note and tear it into fragments, but
the hand impulsively raised fell by her side, and the words she would
have spoken died upon her lips. Why worry the venerable dame with her
own peck of troubles? She had gone through such paroxysms of terror on
the journey that she was still all of a twitter. "You've not the
smallest idea! My pet--" she began in her high treble, "what the
villages and towns were like. Where such crowds of forbidding
tatterdemalions could have sprung from I cannot understand. And when
they saw my coach and armed servants, they pursued us with yells and
stones, actually flints! A sharp one nearly struck me in the face. I
was so indignant that I felt inclined to stop and say, 'You curs! Do
you know I am the widow of one who spilt his best blood for his
country and his king?' but now I am rather glad I did not."

"Dearest mother!" the marquise murmured, clasping the old lady to her
bosom, "I am so glad you did not! Alas! even to name our martyr king
is to rouse a volley of curses."

And then the old lady, enchanted to have found a listener who would
not interrupt her flow, gabbled on interminably about the condition of
the capital. Before daring to decide on a journey she had called in
good M. Galland who, contrary to her own views, had considered it an
admirable suggestion that the mother should visit the daughter. "If I
had known all, wild horses would not have moved me. The threatening
attitude of your rustics is more menacing than our mob at home." She
failed to add that as she rarely stepped outside the door, she knew
but little of the Paris rabble.

"The abbé--how nice it must be to have him," she went off at a
tangent. "A most engaging man. I remember that when he visited us
in Paris I said to your dear father--ah, deary me--he's with the
blessed--that it was a miracle to find such breeding in a provincial.
You must excuse me, pet, if I seem rude to your husband's brother, but
he was brought up in the south somewhere, he told me, where they
cannot be expected to assume the polish of the capital. Well, well--he
must be a very clever and cultivated man as well as a most delightful
one!"

How could the marquise divulge what she knew of the abbé to this
garrulous and purblind old woman? Toinon, who hung about the room and
knew more than did her mistress could scarce contain herself. Had it
been worth while to summon such a silly harridan? Her contingent of
domestics, however, was a safeguard, during whose stay a taster could
be dispensed with. Suffice it, she was here, and must be detained as
long as possible, though she always detested Lorge. Toinon had made up
her mind what steps she intended to take--the very steps which the
abbé had guessed. She intended formally to impeach the abbé and
Mademoiselle Brunelle; to unveil the past and the present for the
shocked old lady's benefit, and solemnly adjure her on her return to
the capital, to take steps for her daughter's safety, or make up her
mind till her dying day to be persecuted by vengeful ghosts. In face
of such an impeachment, and on the production of the cakes, the guilty
abbé would quail. At any rate, his claws would be cut, so far as
extreme measures were concerned.

The reception of the brothers by the maréchale was most cordial. The
chevalier quite won her heart, for his watery gaze would remain fixed
on her for hours, while, knitting in hand, she furbished up for him
the legends of the chateau. He was like a wistful eyed, cosy,
lapdog--with an ever-wagging tail. If he spoke little, he was an
excellent listener, and when she grew weary of chattering, the abbé
could talk enough for both. On the whole, much as she disliked the
place, she was quite glad to have come, for the house in the suburbs
of Paris was deadly dull; there was no society at present, since her
old friends were in prison or had emigrated.

It was charming, too, with Gabrielle and the cherubs, to forget the
hurly-burly of the Revolution. The perfect peace and majestic repose
of the chateau were soothing to the nerves, while there was sufficient
liveliness to prevent boredom. There never was so attentive a cavalier
as that delightful abbé who seemed to guess everything by intuition.
Was she chilly, the devoted soul was sure to come round the corner in
answer to a wish, armed with a wrap and an umbrella. For her he
selected the choicest pears and apples at breakfast, indited
complimentary sonnets--as though she were not silver-haired and
wrinkled. As the evenings were drawing in he would improvise games and
pastimes to pass the hours in which the children could join, and made
himself so agreeable to all that the guest was enchanted. "Really,
pet, it is quite arcadian," the worthy dame would remark to her
daughter. "I'd no notion this horrid place could be made so nice. I
can imagine myself at Trianon again in the good old days. Ah, well,
well, well!" And then with a big sigh she would burst into tears,
remembering what had been and what was.

The individual who did not at all appreciate the sudden _volte-face_
was, as may be imagined, Mademoiselle Brunelle. Fortune was in an
elfish mood. For her mother's sake the marquise had tacitly permitted
the brothers to resume the place they had once occupied, promising
herself--when the visit was over--to hold them at arms' length again;
but with Algaé it was different. On no pretence could she be permitted
to join the circle. Indeed, it was hinted to her in a politely worded
note that she was delaying her departure over long.

The abbé had declared that the marplot must be frightened away, and
yet he was sparing no pains to make the visit pleasant. It was evident
that he and his brother avoided their ally lest she should fall on
them with just upbraiding. If she beheld them in the distance, it was
but to see them whisking round a corner. Oblivious of feelings she was
left alone to brood and mope; her meals were served apart as though
she were infectious; and now she had received the curtest of summonses
to make herself scarce forthwith. Oh! how she hated the lot of them!

In truth she was in a dilemma, and did not know what to do. Clovis had
been got rid of while something was being done which might revolt his
squeamish nature; and though he said nothing, she was certain that he
had more than a vague suspicion of what was going forward. But
supposing that nothing were to take place after all? Supposing that
when he had raised the necessary sum, and called on the others to join
him, they were to do so, and cross the frontier, leaving Gabrielle
behind? What he was able to raise could not be very much, and one
cannot live in luxury at Geneva or elsewhere on expectations. They
would have to report that the marquise was charming well, instead of
dead, and that, unmolested, she might live on for years. Why should
she not, in their absence, make another will, or a dozen others,
whereby even the shadowy expectations would be reduced to thinnest
air?

Was the abbé scheming to gain time? It struck Algaé with a gush of
impotent wrath that perchance the coming of the maréchale had been his
own device, arranged so as to tide over the days until mademoiselle
should have no excuse for lingering, that he might then have the
heiress to himself! Perhaps his recently developed hatred of her was a
snare to deceive the governess? If it turned out that this was so,
what course would it behove her to pursue? Should she seem to accept
her fate, drive quietly away, and joining Clovis, unfold the
machinations of his brother? Would Clovis believe, and if he did, how
would he act--he who had fullest confidence in his brother? Were the
suspicions that racked her justified or not? Meanwhile, she was
treated like a social Pariah, and the precious hours waned.

The abbé guessed her thoughts, and laughed. Women are so nimble witted
that when they enter the labyrinth of scheming they frequently wander
too far and lose themselves. Pharamond was quite as anxious to be rid
of the old lady as the younger one could be, but he was far-seeing and
cautious, while his coadjutor was culpably impatient.

It was one night when the family sat at supper in the boudoir that
Toinon struck her blow. There had been a splendid bout of blind man's
buff in the grand saloon. The cherubs had been seized by Toinon and
carried off to bed, flushed, out of breath, and happy. The pursy
chevalier, who had been very active, puffed and blew, and looked like
to have a fit. Madame la Maréchale had been frisking after a fashion
that surprised herself. The abbé mopped his face with a dainty
kerchief, and flung himself at Gabrielle's feet, as in the departed
days.

"You are our prisoner, maréchale," he cried gaily--"a prisoner for
life in this ancient fortress, and shall never go hence alive. You add
such a charm to our circle that we positively can't do without you. Is
it not so, dear Gabrielle? Tell our mother that she is here for good."

Pharamond glanced up, with a yellow light glinting through half-closed
lids, and lips drawn tightly over teeth: attitude and expression
recalled vividly scenes she would gladly have forgotten, and
Gabrielle, she knew not why, was frightened.

Toinon, re-entering, marked his familiar gesture and her lady's fear,
and her gorge rose till she felt choking. A venomous, slimy snake was
coiling itself about the feet of the marquise, fouling her with its
tainted breath. The abnormal, loathsome reptile! Was he slowly to
enwrap her in his glittering coils and crush her bones, while Toinon
stood by, unaiding? Her brain in a whirl of indignation, the abigail
blurted out, "For good or evil, which? You dare not poison _her_--that
is a comfort--lest her domestics should report the fact."

The suddenness of the attack startled even Pharamond, while the
maréchale stared bewildered, and Gabrielle turned a shade more
pale. With anxious and surprised inquiry the marquise gazed at her
foster-sister. What was this? Full well she knew of what the abbé was
capable, and that her maid would not bring false charges.

The ice broken, Toinon felt better, refreshed as by a douche of
water. Leaning against the door, hands firmly planted upon hips, she
turned to the amazed maréchale and plainly told her tale. She told of
the marquise's symptoms, of her own suspicion but too soon verified;
of how she had found Jean's dog stretched dead upon the floor, with a
green liquor running from its mouth; how by prompt action she had
saved her mistress, who had luckily taken but a mouthful; how she had
found the abbé in perfect health some hours after (if his tale were
true), he had swallowed a strong dose of poison; how she, Toinon, had
then sent for Madame de Brèze, that in the future she might shield her
daughter.

Never in her whole life before had the poor old woman been placed
in a position of responsibility, and she could only murmur in angry
fear--"Why me--why send for me?" Indeed she was a ludicrous example of
the broken reed, and the abbé waved airy thanks to Toinon with white
fingers, in that she was so kindly playing into his hands.

"Why, indeed," he echoed, "if half were true of what that naughty minx
accuses me. I poison our darling Gabrielle! The idea would be
intensely comic if it were not offensive. It is a fact, madame, of
which Gabrielle is well aware, that an accident occurred, owing to a
scullion's carelessness. I myself nearly succumbed, for I had a
desperate battle for life, and when I recovered, sent up a hymn of
thanks to Heaven in that Gabrielle should have but suffered slightly."

"You knew so little of your poison that you assumed wrong symptoms!"
remarked Toinon, in disdain.

"Not so. It is you who know not the poison," retorted Pharamond, with
a malignant flash that was instantly suppressed. "Spite and fatuous
ignorance misled you. The symptoms vary according to quantity imbibed.
I unluckily ate a cake and half before I was aware of anything
peculiar, and any doctor will tell you that whereas a small dose of
subacetate of copper will produce coma, a large one will bring about
griping pains and tetanic convulsions, which, without aid from above,
lead to paralysis and death."

"A large dose acts on the system quickly--within an hour," scoffed the
abigail. "When I told you that the cakes were poisoned you were in
perfect health."

"I had but just partaken----"

"A clumsy liar! I asked Bertrand if he had more of his confectionery,
and he answered with a searching look of suspicious inquiry that all
he had made were served to the marquise."

"Upon my word, the wench is very erudite," laughed the abbé, lightly.
"How come you to know so much?"

"There was an ancient book on poisons in the library. I turned up the
article 'Copper,' and studied it."

"Was?"

"Yes, was. The book is hidden now where you will never find it."

There was a pause, during which the combatants studied each other
warily. Then the abbé, shrugging his shoulders, in disgust drawled
out, "Have we not had enough of this low comedy?"

"I ascertained," pursued the undaunted maiden, "that the necessary
quantity of verdigris so to affect one little cake out of many as
almost to produce coma in one who had taken a single bite must be so
large that a copper cooking-plate would have to be thickly buttered
with it. Now Bertrand excused himself on the plea that the plate in
use was found to be 'not quite clean.' If he had buttered it then was
your 'accident' not due to inadvertence."

"What proof have you that the cakes were so heavily loaded?"

"The fact that the dog died within half-an-hour; that I retained two
which I intend presenting to madame that she may have them analysed in
Paris."

"A pretty story, ingenious as wicked. No one saw the dog perish but
yourself. What evidence is there, except your own, that the cakes in
your possession are in the same condition as when placed on the table?
Are you sure you have any cakes at all?"

There was such an air of mischievous satisfaction underlying the tone
of banter that Toinon's heart stood still. "How are you sure--" she
began, then sped swiftly from the room, to return in a few moments
white as a sheet and breathless.

"They are gone," she panted, "gone! You discovered where they were
concealed, you wicked man, and have destroyed them!"

The abbé rose leisurely from the floor and broke into a shout of
laughter. "Dear ladies," he apologised, "you must forgive so vulgar a
display of merriment, but the jest is too, too good. What subtle
forms, nowadays, will not the malice of the enemy assume! Unfortunate
noblesse! Unjust and cruel age! The inscrutable powers permit us to be
hauled to prison, conducted to the shambles, but allow us to leave the
world with characters unstained. The mob would trump up charges
against us now to justify their deeds; but the charges are so shallow
and so foolish that they defeat their ends. Poisoned cakes! Pah!
Unhappy girl, you who have received a superior education should have
soared above such folly. It was the rumour that spread from Paris
about the king and queen and the poisoned food at the Tuileries that
put this absurd notion in your head. Madame de Brèze, I grieve that so
untoward an incident as this should have occurred during your stay
among us, which we have all striven to make a pleasant one. We have
kept it from you, but it is true, to our misfortune, that the spirit
of the province is menacing. There is nothing that the peasants will
not believe against an aristo. If you sallied forth and announced that
I, the Abbé Pharamond, am specially partial to boiled baby, served
_aux choux_, there is not one who would not believe you. This girl is
betrothed to Jean Boulot, the gamekeeper, who deliberately left a
respectable service to make himself notorious at Blois as the most
rabid of all the Jacobins, and it is obvious that she acts now under
his influence, regardless of long service under the marquise and of
the many benefits received. Alack! the ingratitude of those who rend
the hand that caresses them is very hard to bear."

"Madame, you do not believe him?" cried Toinon, throwing herself at
Gabrielle's feet and anxiously searching her face. "You know that the
man is lying!"

"Yes, I know," Gabrielle whispered as she bent to kiss her brow. "I
know you have spoken truth, but we are powerless."

She leaned back, supporting her head wearily upon her arm, perfectly
composed in demeanour, while Toinon, her face buried in her lap,
sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

The aged Madame de Brèze turned from one to the other of the group,
utterly mystified, with a growing grudge against some one, at present
she could not tell whom. A gulf had suddenly yawned in front, and from
its depths arose a faint sickening fume of death. Although she had a
foot in the grave she mightily objected to the smell of death. Which
of these two spoke truth? The dear delightful abbé could not have--oh,
no, that was absurd and ridiculous, and yet why should Gabrielle sit
so stonily with that woful look of pain? It was plainly her place to
rise up and take his part, exonerate him at once from even the
slightest shadow of this dreadful thing; at least to declare her
conviction that the abigail was mad, was suffering from some unhealthy
fancy. It was not the poor girl's fault. Were not current events a
more than sufficient excuse for any amount of hysteria? And yet,
Gabrielle was plainly not of her opinion. There was the accuser
nestling her head upon her lap, and the gentle hand was stroking it in
caress and not in chiding. Did Gabrielle--could Gabrielle be keeping
secrets from her parent? Was it the old story of the unappreciated
mentor?

The blessed maréchal, who was to be congratulated as out of the
turmoil, had established a deplorable precedent in the matter of
Madame de Brèze as an oracle. One of the pleasantest points of the
present _séjour_ was the consideration in which her words were held.
Her views and opinions were treasured up, as they should be, like
flies in amber. Could it--oh, no, horrid thought, it could not
be--that Virginie, Maréchale de Brèze, aged, never mind how much, _was
deliberately being made a fool of?_ Much as she was disinclined to
believe anything so preposterous, it did look extremely like it. The
husband away, the brother-in-law was openly accused of attempting to
murder his brother's wife, and that lady being present, made no sign
except by affectionately caressing the accuser. Madame de Brèze did
not like this new complexion of things at all. How she did and always
had hated mysteries! Why will people be mysterious? Unless conscious
of guilt, there is no cause for crawling in shadow. There could not be
anything between Gabrielle and the abbé? Shocking idea! And yet in
Paris such things often were. Could there also be something between
the abbé and Toinon which rendered the latter jealous? Just like a
woman, Madame de Brèze ambled off into the labyrinth of conjecture.
growing each moment more involved in prickly briars, plunging about
and tumbling down in pursuit of Will-o'-the-wisp.

When--Toinon's agitation calmed--everybody went to bed, and Gabrielle
impressed on her mother's brow the chilly kiss of a statue, the
maréchale shivered, and there and then resolved that Lorge was a
hateful place fit only for owls and ghouls.



                            CHAPTER XXIV.

                  MADAME DE BRÈZE IS NERVOUS.


That night Gabrielle and her foster-sister slept together, or rather
lay in the same bed, for Toinon had much to tell and Gabrielle to
hear. In the morning, the chatelaine looked much the same as usual,
but for the circle of bistre round her eyes, which had grown deeper,
giving an air of lassitude.

Virginie, Maréchale de Brèze, never slept a wink; but groaned and
tossed in a fever, mumbling Ave Marias, and when she appeared at
déjeuner, the abbé shook a reproachful finger at her. "Yellow!" he
declared, mournfully, "absolutely and undeniably yellow! How dare you,
after all our care, look so jaded, when yesterday you were as blooming
as a rose? I know what it is. Try this pear--it absolutely melts in
the mouth. No. I won't offer it, for I am afraid it smells of copper.
Or is it brimstone? How provoking! I have tucked my hoofs and tail
under my chair, but I cannot conceal the brimstone! Look at your
lovely daughter. She knows better than to believe _cancans_, and has
slept the sleep of the angels. Alas--dearest mother--you have
permitted me to call you mother--I shall have to administer a severe
and terrible lecture. I told you last night you were our prisoner, but
I won't have birds that injure their delightful plumage. If you beat
your wings against the bars I shall open the cage-door, I warn you,
and dismiss you into space!"

Turned out into space among the ravening wolves without, or kept in
the gilded cage to be slowly done to death? What an alternative! Why
could not somebody tell her what to do, instead of leaving her all
night stretched upon the rack of her uncertainty? Evidently, unless
candidates for an asylum, they must all have some motive for acting in
the odd way they did, but what was it? It was so rude and
inconsiderate to be plotting, and scheming, and lying, and charging
each other with all kinds of horrible offences, under the nose of an
innocent stranger, of whom they were making a butt. Madame made up her
mind to upbraid Gabrielle severely for her inhuman and unfilial
conduct. If there was any nasty skeleton about, she had no business to
summon an aged parent to contemplate it.

Toinon, plunged into a slough of anguish, could only wring her hands
and moan. It is not every David who can get the better of Goliath; and
is it not wiser to flee before the great towering monster, instead of
hurling our puny stone at him--only to be trodden in a trice under his
ponderous splay foot?

The abigail had got the worst of the encounter, her proofs as well as
her accusation were rendered ridiculous, even in her own eyes,
although she knew the accusation to be true. She was held up to
obloquy as a Jacobin, one of the anarchists steeped to the lips in
crime, ready to destroy by false witness the family to which she owed
everything. Next, she would develop into a tricoteuse, sitting under
shadow of the guillotine. It was intolerable. Toinon was not meek and
lowly as some of her betters were. On the contrary, there ran through
her veins a current of pugnacity of which honest Jean had tasted. She
was not prepared to sit down like Gabrielle, wearing a crown of thorns
and bearing a cross, the while pretending to enjoy them. Certainly
not. She was one of those who have no respect for crowns of thorns,
and consider crosses irksome wear. But what could she do to unwind her
mistress and herself from the present tangle? The maréchale was an
imbecile old doll. The abject terror of her mien last night had
something about it that was full of pathos. It is pitiful to see so
battered and helpless a thing as that in the bubbling whirlpool of our
world. Jean--Jean Boulot was the one rock to which the two women might
cling in their danger. Jean must leave his Jacobin clubs and come to
them. Would it be well for Toinon herself to proceed to Blois, seek
him out, and explain? He would not think her forward and unmaidenly,
for she would find words to convince him as she had her mistress. No.
The maréchale having proved herself to be a broken reed, it would not
do to go to Blois, for her mistress would be left with no rampart,
however unsatisfactory and weak, between herself and the insidious
foe. What if, on her return, she were to find that the deed was
accomplished? Jean must be written to, and implored by the past to
come to the rescue of two women in grievous peril. And they were in
extreme danger; he would see that for himself when he arrived. Toinon
knew it full well. She had read the abbé's eyes last night, and was as
much aware as Gabrielle, that for those who stood athwart his path,
there was no more mercy within his breast than conscience or religion.

Poor Madame de Brèze! Yellow, forsooth! The more she pondered the more
troubled she became. Her wrinkled old face was turning green. Was the
abbé a monster or an angel? If only somebody would clear up this
point. He made her blood run cold with his facetiousness, for is it
not creepy to be openly informed by a person, that he wears a tail and
hoofs, and to be more than half assured that it is true? He danced
round her fears with elfin gambols, till she felt her frail wits
tottering; and then, grown of a sudden serious, he would relate what
he called facts, which only increased her terrors. Why had no one
informed her before that Madame de Vaux hardly, and her daughter
Angelique, were practically in a state of siege; that various chateaux
in the neighbourhood had been demolished, their inhabitants drowned
or strangled; that she had not been wrong on her way thither, as to
the threatening attitude of the peasantry? Of course, she had been
right--was she not always right though people would not believe her?
She had been lured hither to this dismal fortalice to perish like a
rat in a trap. Danger from without and from within. Goodness gracious!
What if that story of the cakes were true? Gabrielle, strangely
enough, seemed to consider that it was neither new nor surprising that
her life should be in peril. What should they want to kill her for?
Was it something connected with money? All evil springs from that.
Then a thrill of horror surged over the selfish heart of the unlucky
dame, when she remembered her daughter's will. To her, the old mother,
the money was bequeathed--in trust, it is true; but to her. If they
wished to compass Gabrielle's death, of course, her own would follow.
What a silly will it was. She protested at the time, but had been
overruled by M. Galland. It was an absurd thing for a young woman to
bequeath a fortune to an old one--worse--it was a cruel and dastardly
thing to do, if unscrupulous schemers were after it. Why must they mix
up a harmless and venerable and justly respected lady in their plots
and squabbles? Madame de Brèze worked herself up into a white heat of
indignation, and set herself to see how she could get out of the trap
with promptitude, and such decency as might be.

She propounded her views to Gabrielle, who gravely and calmly
aquiesced. "Nothing detains you here, dear mother," she kept
repeating, with monotonous persistency, "except your own fancy. I
hoped you had taken to our quiet life; but if not, it is better you
should go."

"I have so few years left to live, you know," apologetically whimpered
the maréchale, "that I grudge the time away from entrancing Paris."

When her daughter elected courteously to consider that this was
natural, her conscience pricked, and she was annoyed at feeling
ashamed. Indeed, the excuse was of the lamest, since the beloved
capital was, at this juncture, a prey to devils whose goddess was
Mother Guillotine. In the retirement of her secluded dwelling,
however, she could feel comparatively safe. She quite longed for the
little house, which she was always complaining of as dismal. At all
events, she could nibble a cake there without dread of poison.

"I will stay, of course, if you say you really wish it," she went on,
plaintively, as salve to the inner monitor, "but the air of Touraine
never did agree with me any more than with your blessed father; and if
I were to be taken ill, I should only be an extra worry."

A smile flitted over the sad face of the marquise, as she took her
mother's hands and kissed them. "My dear," she said, "I would not have
you stay for worlds a moment longer than you fancy. Go back to Paris,
and I will pray Heaven that your journey may be prosperous. I would
like you to go at once, because I am sure it is for the best, since
you are nervous, and at the same time I would beg of you a favour.
Take the children with you, for I should feel happier if they were
safe under your care. I will give orders now," she added, rising
briskly, "in order that they may be ready by to-morrow."

The old lady ruefully rubbed her nose with her spectacles, being
ashamed to speak her thoughts. It occurred to her that if the abbé
really was nourishing designs of a nefarious nature, he might
endeavour to prevent her from departing. If she proposed to remove the
children, there would be extra inducement to interfere, considering
the uncomfortable prominence given to all three by that deplorably
ill-advised testament. Gabrielle had kept her lips sealed with regard
to the second document. Indeed, she was unaccountably and provokingly
reticent on most points in her dealings with the maréchale, who
resented her silence hotly. She never could be got to talk of her
affairs--to give an opinion as to the characters of Pharamond or of
Phebus; declined to discuss the absence of her husband, or to explain
the presence of the quondam governess, who, from time to time, was
meteorically visible, hovering. Under the circumstances, what object
would be gained by lingering at Lorge, since all seemed alike agreed
to withhold from the sage their confidence? If she were allowed, she
would gladly turn her back on the ill-omened place, and thank her
stars when quit of it.

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."

What was to prevent him? Nothing. Reluctantly the abigail obeyed, and
while he stood waiting, the abbé considered her words. "Jean Boulot!
Remembered still? If she sent for him it might prove awkward. I must
see that they do not communicate."

Toinon earnestly begged for permission to tell the abbé that the
marquise refused to see him; but the latter shook her head and smiled
her dreary smile. "Go to," she sighed, "if the man wishes me evil how
shall I protect myself? If he has aught to say it is better that I
should hear it."

The visitor found Gabrielle sitting on a low sofa, and as, unbidden,
he sank into the place by her side, a thrill passed along his nerves,
for the statuesque composure of her mien was exactly suited to her
beauty.

"Dear Gabrielle," he murmured, "you are more beautiful than ever."

"You have intruded here to-day to tell me so?" she inquired, coldly.

"Take care! You burn and freeze at the same time. Such loveliness as
yours may account for any rashness."

Alas! how ghastly a mockery had this same beauty been! The
fairest woman of her time--her affections withered, her heart
broken--deserted, friendless, desolate. At thought of it Gabrielle
smiled, and the abbé considered himself encouraged.

"Gabrielle," he said, taking her unwilling hand, "in what I am about
to say you must not deem me harsh. It is sometimes for the best to
speak quite openly. I am a very forgiving man, as you shall have cause
to know. You flouted, scorned, insulted me, and yet, though you
deliberately chose my hate, I have nothing but deep love for you."

Again! The marquise wondered in a hazy way what could be the motive
for this comedy.

"Love," she observed, reflecting, quite unruffled. "A strange form of
love, is it not, which injures the object that is adored? Wherein lies
the difference betwixt such love and the hate you promised?"

"An ardent, hot-headed man may be goaded by desperation to acts that
he afterwards deplores in sackcloth and in ashes."

"An odd form of love that kills and crushes!"

"Hear me out quietly, and you will be convinced that I have striven in
vain to hate you--that my carefully barbed darts have fallen blunted.
Your position here is desperate. It is, believe me; and yet, though
you are walled about by triple barriers, against which it would be
idle to buffet, yet there is a loophole by which you may escape."

Gabrielle turned her deep blue eyes upon the speaker, and raised her
brows inquiringly.

"Your case is desperate because all are combined against you; all are
resolved upon your death--all, except me, and why? Because my love
stands between you and them, a saving plank in the approaching
hurricane. Your husband and his friend are bent on your destruction.
He has left the house until it is accomplished. You are hemmed about
with foes. Every servant in this household is suborned. They are men,
carefully selected, who know no pity--on whose shoulders, were they
bared, you would see the galleys-brand--men who would one and all look
on your death struggle with indifference--as callous as the bravo of
romance. I have before told you, and it is more true than ever now,
that my love is your only safeguard. I hold the door ajar to Hope.
Yield to my suit and grant me the boon I ask, and I swear that the
shackles will fall from off your limbs; that your troubles will cease,
for you'll be free. Free to depart with me to a distant land where in
freshly-flowing happiness, the past shall be as a dream. Sorceress!
What is this witchcraft that you exert over me? I love you all the
more ardently for the long siege. Be mine the grateful task to rescue
you from the clutches of these wretches. Say the word. We will quit
France secretly together, and leave _them_ to the fate which they
deserve."

In the eagerness of his pleading, the abbé had edged close to
Gabrielle. She could feel his hot breath--the beating of his heart
against her arm--and she shivered from top to toe, as Toinon outside
was shivering, her eyes distended by alarm.

The frayed string was about to snap. The long-expected moment was
come. Thank God that suspense was over.

"I thank you for your engaging candour," Gabrielle said in a voice
that was clear and steady. "I had learned to know you for a villain,
but had not gauged the deeps of your rascality. False to the core.
True to nothing but your own devilish passions. A Judas even to your
confederates!"

There was so sharp a ring of scorn in the tone in which she spoke--a
flash of such unmeasurable contempt in the dark blue eyes--that
Pharamond, though he had smarted under the lash before, felt his
withers wrung, while Toinon without was torn by fear and admiration.
Was he, before whose fascinations many a fair dame had willingly
succumbed, so vile a reptile as to warrant the storm of disgust that
racked this haughty woman? She loathed him worse than death since,
seeing her impending fate with crystalline vision, she cheerfully
preferred its chill embrace to his ardent one. And now with eyes
flashing and delicately chiselled nostrils distended, and a tinge of
rose on either pallid cheek, her beauty had gained once more the
animation that it so frequently lacked. She was lovelier at this
moment than he had ever seen her--and in her direful plight she shrank
from his touch as though he were hideously diseased. It was written
then, that he was never to attain the full measure of revenue for the
rebuffs he had endured at her hands? He was not to sully this fair
form, suck the orange dry then fling its rind into the gutter? What a
pity! How complete the triumph would have been if she, at this
eleventh hour could have been persuaded to seek safety with him in
flight. He would have carried off for his own use alone the goose that
laid golden eggs. How he would have snapped his fingers at Clovis and
Algaé--mean grovelling worms--with their ridiculous testament which
was not to be the last! What a refined pleasure it would have been,
when sated, and weary of the toy, to break it slowly! He would have
carried the maréchal's heiress to some secure and distant spot, have
forced her by famine or other torment to execute yet another will--in
his sole favour this time--and then he would have gloated over her
suffering and degradation as he compelled her to sink to the lowest
depths of female infamy and shame, ere, drop by drop, he squeezed away
her life! And it was not to be--actually might never be, this
exhilarating programme--he realized that now as he gazed in her proud
face, each string of his evil nature tingling. Baffled and
disappointed, he must even be content to share with the others, to
carry out the plan as previously arranged, to sweep her from the path.
Oh, what a grievous pity, for the other arrangement would have been
deliciously complete and satisfactory.

There was nothing to be gained by continuing the interview, since it
had fallen to his lot to play the _rôle ridicule_. He rose, therefore,
flinging the hand from him which he had so ardently been pressing with
a movement of muffled fury.

"On your own head be the consequences," he growled. "You have spoken
your own sentence. Amen!"

"My life," replied Gabrielle, drearily, "has been fraught with pain
and overlong, although I'm not five and twenty! The death you threaten
me withal, I will accept with thanks as a release."

"You shall be released, nor will you have long to wait," the abbé
remarked with a dry laugh. "You, who are alive, may count yourself as
dead and buried." With that he left her to her reflections, banging
the door behind him.



                            CHAPTER XXVI.

                        WILL JEAN BOULOT COME?


Two persons, from entirely opposite motives, were thinking about
Jean Boulot. Toinon, her wits sharpened by eavesdropping, saw plainly
that not a moment must be lost if she and her mistress were to be
saved. It stood to reason that if the marquise was doomed, so was her
foster-sister, in order that the voice of the accuser might be
silenced. The daring of the poor harassed lady had been admirable--she
had conspicuously shown the moral courage which in extreme peril goes
with breeding; but it would have been more prudent to have temporised.
What use is there in making of oneself a sublime spectacle of defiant
virtue if there is no public to applaud? How many malefactors have
made "fine exits" sustained by the murmurs of a sympathetic mob, who,
if executed in private, would have died screeching? Truth is a nice
thing in theory, but the practice of it in our sinful sphere too often
leads to complications which would be avoided by appropriate
mendacity.

Toinon, much as she adored her mistress, had frequently deplored her
blunt and uncompromising truthfulness. Knowing that she had a noose
about her neck, which only required a pull from the abbé to tighten to
strangulation point, it was vastly foolish to cry out, "Do your
worst." She ought to have pondered and asked for time, have argued and
implored, have even shown signs of yielding, have trembled and
blushed--have murmured in one breath that she would, yet wouldn't.
Where is the man, however cunning, who cannot be hoodwinked by a woman
if she seriously sets about the operation? Precious hours might thus
have been gained--nay, days, by a skilful display of comedy. Boulot
might be even now upon the road, and arrive too late to be of use,
owing to the inopportune sublimity of the too artless chatelaine.
Having defied the arch-conspirator, he would certainly act promptly.
If Jean Boulot was to come to the aid of the two women, it must be at
once, or there was no use in his coming at all. The anxious abigail
felt that they were in precisely the same harrowing position as Sister
Anne and Fatima. Was there nobody coming? The sand in the glass was
dripping all too swiftly. Was there no sound of approaching hoofs, no
curl of dust upon the way? Quite idly, in obedience to a whimsical
fancy due to restlessness, Toinon put on her hood, resolved to take a
stroll upon the road that led to Blois. She would see the cloud of
dust and rush towards it, cry out to honest Jean to use his spurs,
chide him for his culpable delay.

But Toinon, while deploring the mistakes of her mistress, was unaware
that she had herself been guilty of an error. It had been an act of
gross imprudence to threaten the abbé with Boulot as she had done when
she met him on the landing. It set the abbé thinking of Boulot, whose
existence he had well-nigh forgotten. Though there had been a tiff or
an estrangement, the gamekeeper and the abigail were lovers. They had
been, and possibly still were, betrothed. It struck the abbé as not at
all improbable that Mademoiselle Toinon had written to him anent the
cake fiasco, and that her lover might inopportunely arrive to look
after her safety. It was most obliging of the young woman to have
vouchsafed a hint suggestive of such a contingency, and he would be
guilty of gross ingratitude if he failed to act on it forthwith.
Hence, when in pursuance of her fancy she moved across the yard to the
archway, where of old a portcullis used to hang, she was surprised to
perceive that the ponderous entrance gates were closed, and that the
key had been removed from the lock. The concierge was leaning against
the stonework smoking pensively, his hands plunged deep into his
breeches pockets.

"What does this mean?" cried the abigail, with an imperious frown
which served to mask a new-born terror.

"It means that the gates are locked, and will remain so," was the
composed answer.

"But I want to go out--I have a mission from madame to one of the
cottagers hard by."

"So sorry," returned the concierge, smiling roguishly. "Mademoiselle
must remain within--a pretty little bird within a cage. Nay, I but
obey my orders. If mademoiselle will deign to discuss the point,
yonder is the porter's room. We shall be quite alone and undisturbed,
and I will make myself agreeable to mademoiselle."

There was a studied insolence about the man's manner--he had been
engaged quite recently--which made Toinon tremble. The fowler's net
was closing in; she already fluttered in the toils, but would attempt
another struggle to make assurance sure.

"This castle is the property of the Marquise de Gange," she said,
haughtily, "and the lacqueys who dwell therein eat her bread. I have
warned you that I am sent by her. Open that door immediately."

The man puffed slowly at his pipe and gave a long reflective whistle
that spoke volumes. "Bread? Ah yes," he observed, abstractedly. "The
bread is excellent, but it is not hers. Such, at least, are my
instructions."

"Impudent brute!" cried Toinon, stamping her foot. "I will report you
instantly to our mistress, and you will be dismissed at once. A pretty
pass, indeed! when I, her confidential maid, am to stand by and hear
her insulted."

"What is all this about?" demanded a big base voice behind, at sound
of which the man put away his pipe and assumed an obsequious attitude.

"It means, Mademoiselle Brunelle," retorted Toinon, trembling with
ire, "that Madame la Marquise is reaping the earthly reward of divine
forbearance. But you can goad even her too far, as you had cause to
know when you were ignominiously expelled from the chateau."

The dusky face of Algaé darkened a shade, and her heavy mobile brows
lowered over her eyes with menace. She crossed her arms over her chest
and gave vent to a rumbling laugh.

"Circumstances alter cases," she observed, with exasperating
composure. "You always did me the honour to dislike me. When I am
mistress here, it is you who will be expelled. You are silent?
Come--that is better. Go to your room and mind your business, and
perhaps no harm will come to you."

"I will send over to Montbazon," returned Toinon, striving hard to
conceal her growing terror. "M. de Vaux and the Seigneurie will
interfere for madame's protection."

"Do you think so?" inquired Algaé, with interest. "The de Vaux are
nice people, if timid, who were always kind to me. I hardly think they
are likely to interfere."

"What have you done?" asked Toinon, her heart sinking within her.

"I had the honour to send a messenger to Montbazon this morning to
announce with deep regret that Madame la Marquise de Gange had been
seized with a malignant fever."

"You did that?" gasped the abigail. "You know, you wicked woman, that
the marquise is in perfect health."

The concierge had withdrawn discreetly out of hearing, and with sturdy
legs straddled apart, was softly whistling.

No help was to be hoped for from that quarter, or from any other,
apparently. The possibility of a casual visit from the inhabitants of
Montbazon had been skilfully prevented. The household was on the side
of the conspirators, just as this concierge was, no doubt of it.

What sound was that? A horse's hoofs. Jean Boulot at last! The heart
of the abigail gave such a leap that she staggered and would have
fallen but for Algaé's sustaining hand.

The latter had also heard the ominous ring of hoofs, and seizing
Toinon roughly, began to push her towards the house.

"Go in, you little fool," she hissed. "Cannot you see that you are a
prisoner, and that your treatment depends upon your conduct."

"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 _[oe]nanthe crocata_, a useful
plant without taste or smell, which possesses the additional
advantage, when its work is done, of leaving no trace behind. You are
so deplorably slow and undecided that I must choose for you. The
[oe]nanthe, let it be, then, for it will neither stain your flesh nor
mar your incomparable skin. You will lie with a peaceful smile, as of
a pure unsullied babe who sleeps well and pleasantly, and drift gently
on the stream of Lethe. Socrates, of whom, maybe you've heard, once
quaffed a delicate tisane made of this self-same plant, and history
avers that he enjoyed it very much."

The 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!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There will be much to see to," he observed, "for those who
unfortunately perish of malignant fevers, must be speedily put away.
Within an hour there will be delirium and giddiness, followed by coma
and death. Keep the patient quiet, and make her comfortable. We will
leave for Blois at midday, and meet the marquis on the road." With
this he playfully executed another deep reverence, and dragging the
chevalier after him, left the room.

Mademoiselle Brunelle was enchanted that matters should at last have
been brought to a satisfactory pass with becoming decorum. No
ungenteel screaming, no bloodshed; only a palatable tisane which
tasted a little like celery. In a few hours they would intercept the
marquis on his ill-judged return, and when he knew that he was a
widower, he would be as anxious as they to leave the neighbourhood.
Events that seem untoward are often for the best. His sudden change of
plans had driven the conspirators to promptitude. The tortuous and
shilly-shally abbé had been compelled to action, and he had really
acted very well.

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

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

She was alone. Mademoiselle Brunelle for some reason had left her
post. The marquise stole to the door, turned the key, gently shot the
bolt into its socket. Then, grasping her long hair she forced it down
her throat, inducing by irritation a violent sickness, which relieved
her. But how to effect escape? Some one was already rattling the
handle without--the deep voice of Algaé was shouting in imperious
accents, "Open! Let me in!" Despair gave strength and courage.
Gabrielle tore open the casement and got out upon the ledge. Below was
a stone-paved courtyard; opposite, the outer wall, with the postern
that gave on the pleasaunce. Was it locked? No matter. She wore the
key of the new lock upon a bracelet. No time to think. With an
agonized cry to Heaven for succour she leapt, but was held up for a
moment by two strong hands, while close to hers was the face of Algaé,
black and convulsed with fury. Mademoiselle, hearing a noise within,
had rushed round by the boudoir, whose door the marquise had forgotten
in her haste to lock. And now began a fierce and desperate tussle
between the women, which, though neither knew it, was of infinite
service to the victim, for it kept off drowsiness. Strong as she was,
Algaé could not, cramped and strained, sustain the struggling weight,
which escaped from her grasp and fell, while she loudly called for
help. The patient was delirious--in madness had flung herself from the
window and broken her bones upon the pavement. No. She rolled over and
over, and was up again; and Algaé, grinding her teeth, seized one of
the sculptured flower-pots of bronze and dashed it down at her. Sure
the intended victim must bear a charmed life! She sped across the
courtyard, succeeded in unlocking the postern, and emerged upon the
garden moat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was as surprised as shocked, and blamed himself unreasoningly. He
of all men should know the depth of enormity of which the noblesse
were capable, for was he not always making speeches thereanent for the
behoof of less enlightened lieges? Knowing how bad they were, he had
abandoned the post of duty, for it was his duty to protect his love
and the heiress of the family whose bread he had eaten from childhood.
Why, knowing what she must know, had Toinon so long delayed to write
to him? By an unlucky circumstance he had been sent on a mission to
Tours. Hence, he had not got her letter till after many days; but,
having read it, had started off forthwith. And Toinon was locked up by
those miscreants! Perhaps they had murdered her as they had attempted
to murder her mistress. First he must obey madame, and carry her to
Montbazon. That was his plain duty. Then he would raise the peasantry,
who were ready and trained to arms, and, if need were, storm the
chateau. And woe to all of them if Toinon indeed had perished!



                           CHAPTER XXVIII.

                       THE BARON IS ENERGETIC.


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

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

Things having quieted down somewhat--though not for long, as the
Seigneurie knew too well, for public opinion was ever on the ebb and
flow of mischief--it occurred to old De Vaux that this was the
propitious moment to go a hunting. It was on the cards that the noble
pastime of the chase might be stopped altogether shortly, and so he
seized the opportunity to give a little party in his daughter's
honour. Was it not unfeeling, then, to the last degree, that a
neighbour who was not invited because she was infectious, should
choose this precise moment for a morning call? The gentlemen were
away, the ladies were sipping tea, _a l'Anglaise_, and munching
biscuits, discussing the while the all-important topic of dress. Of
course they would not demean themselves by donning the ridiculous
garments of the Republic. The queen, poor martyr, was sitting in
sackcloth and ashes while quaffing the cup of bitterness, and it
behoved faithful subjects to don mourning. But then money was so
dreadfully tight, and nobody had any mourning; and, besides, the
truculent and abominable upstarts who ruled the roast might take
umbrage at such eccentricity and be disagreeable; and when everyone's
tenure of property and even life, was so precarious, it was as well to
wear coats that would turn.

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

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

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

Charcoal? Was the man crazy? Infectious, too, perhaps. How shocking!
But it was not politic to offend one of the rising stars. Madame de
Vaux rang the bell for charcoal, and waited for an explanation.

Jean ground a piece of it with a poker, on the hearth, and dribbled
the powder into the tea-pot. What devil's broth was he brewing? The
man must be very mad. If the gentlemen would only return. Having
satisfied himself with regard to the decoction, the deputy, instead of
insisting that the baroness should drink it, carefully poured a few
drops down the throat of the marquise, and presently she sighed deeply
and opened her weary eyes.

"She is saved!" he cried with satisfaction. "Now, ladies, if you can
think of anyone except yourselves, complete the work. Ply her with
draughts of this, and see that she does not sleep. She has been
poisoned by two miscreants; but God has protected the innocent against
their villainy."

"Poisoned!" exclaimed Angelique, interested; "we were told it was a
fever."

"Villains who murder innocent women can also lie," retorted Jean in
scorn. "This lady, I tell you, after undergoing endless outrage at
their hands, which is noted above in detail, has been cruelly poisoned
by the two half-brothers of her husband. Providence, in its
inscrutable wisdom, has chosen me as the humble instrument of
rescue--and also of revenge. As there are stars above us, those
wretches shall be terribly punished. I go now to execute their
sentence."

The habit of leading others had made another man of Jean. He spoke
simply, but with a stern native dignity that enforced respect. The
ladies looked with awe on his tall retreating figure, about which
there were none of the petty airs of courtliness, and never for a
moment doubted that he spoke the truth.

This poor, pitiful, dishevelled heap of soiled clothing was not
infectious. The Marquise de Gange had been singled out as victim of an
appalling tragedy, which, had it been consummated, would have set the
whole province aflame with fury. What was he about to do, this
formidable deputy? Pray Heaven he would not raise such a tornado about
their ears as would bring ruin on an entire class. Given that many of
the class had sinned grievously and often, that was no reason for
confounding the guiltless with the guilty. The peasantry were so
crassly ignorant and so oafishly benighted--so ready in these days to
believe the worst--that they might choose to look on old De Vaux as an
accomplice of the Lorge people, and wreak vengeance on him and his. It
had not been his business to interfere in the private affairs of other
persons, and had, moreover, been deliberately misinformed.

His wife, as she turned it all over, grew very much alarmed and gave
vent to shrillest jeremiads. What a stroke of ill-luck it was that the
baron should have chosen this especial morning to sally forth on a
fool's errand, leaving his family to be fooled by fickle Fortune! The
baroness felt convinced that there was something dreadful imminent,
and there was not a single male upon the premises. Even the tottering
old domestics had gone forth to act as _piqueurs_. If the gentlemen
would only return and settle what was to be done; but if they met with
success in sport they would not be back till nightfall. Meanwhile, it
was evident that the orders of the obnoxious Jean must be obeyed, and
that the ladies must succour the marquise.

Hark! What was that? Voices in altercation in the passage, and a
screaming of terror-stricken maids.

Hatless, with dress disordered and wild mien, Pharamond and Phebus
dashed into the room.

"Where is our darling Gabrielle?" the former cried in agitation,
undisguised. "Poor soul! Poor suffering angel! She has gone mad;
escaped raging through a window, distraught by the delirium of fever."

Madame de Vaux was speechless from fright. The abbé whom she had been
accustomed to see all smiles and compliments, wore the aspect of some
malignant demon, as he eagerly scanned the company. His lips were
bloodless, his pale face convulsed, while his brother mechanically
followed his lead, like one under influence of Mesmer.

Angelique, who was bending with solicitude over Gabrielle, turned on
the pair, no whit afraid. "The Marquise de Gange," she said, "has been
committed to our custody, and for the present will remain under our
care."

"Not so, not so!" replied the abbé, in vehement haste, "We will
bear her home to the chateau. It would be unseemly to permit our
sorely-stricken relative to be looked on by the curiosity of
strangers. The poor soul raves, suffers from distracting delusions.
You can see for yourselves that she is mad."

"Mad or sane," returned Angelique, bluntly, "here the marquise stays
until my father and the gentlemen return. She is exhausted and unfit
to travel."

Prudence! It would not do to offer too obstinate a resistance. Time
must be gained by parley that the potion might do its work. Resuming
with an effort something of his other self, the abbé bowed and bit his
lip and scrutinized the patient.

Why, what was this? The victim exhibited none of the symptoms that
were to be expected. Yet the poison must have circulated long ago.
Surrounded by ministering women, Gabrielle had recovered
consciousness, and lay, clinging for protection to Angelique, gazing
with dread upon her butcher. Inert and numb, her limbs, half
paralysed, were moved with difficulty; but it was plain that the
intellect was clear. Ere now, she should have been foaming in frenzy,
or, that phase past, be plunged in the stertorous slumber from which
she would wake no more.

Intelligence shone from the haggard eyes of the victim. Had Providence
worked a miracle on her behalf? Was she to escape him after all? A
vapour as of blood swam before the sight of Pharamond and drenched his
brain. With a fierce curse he drew a pistol from his breast, The women
shrieked and implored mercy. Angelique, who was nearest to him struck
the weapon up and the bullet lodged in the ceiling. In a whirl of
frantic unreason he unsheathed his sword, and reckless now of
consequences to himself, battled towards the marquise through the
group of cowering women. There was that about him which suggested the
red-eyed rat at bay that springs at the throat of his tormentor,
inflicts what harm he can before he is crushed himself. Pharamond knew
he was undone, and cared not, provided he might hack and slash that
tender body which never might be his. The brave Angelique closed with
him, and her fingers were cut to the bone in the effort to wrest away
the sword. At the sight of her daughter bleeding, her aged mother sent
up a scream and attacked the abbé with her nails.

A hubbub in the courtyard--a clatter of many hoofs--a confused babble
of voices. The hunters had returned in haste, for a rumour was
speeding with swift wings, bearing over the land the fiery cross of
vengeance--shouting of a tragedy at Lorge, which concerned the White
Chatelaine.

A woman's scream of agony--here at quiet Montbazon! What could have
happened. M. de Vaux staggered, and dreading he knew not what, made
for the salon as fast as his old legs would carry him, while a posse
of country gentlemen remained on their horses irresolute. But not for
long. Two frantic men with hair untied and streaming, and bloody
swords in their hands, dashed from the salon window and endeavoured to
escape out of the gate. Though it was hopeless to struggle against
overwhelming numbers, they fought with clenched teeth the fight of
desperation, but speedily found themselves disarmed, tied roughly back
to back.

"Grand Dieu! It must be true then!" exclaimed a booby round-eyed
squire, for here was the suave and polished churchman by whose
condescensions he had been wont to be flattered, torn by the passions
of the beast, soiled with dirt and blood.

The game was up--no doubt of it--but the abbé was not one to bow under
adverse fate and play the penitent. How to explain away an onslaught
upon women. The situation was awkward, but might even yet be brazened
out, if the devil would only help, since, while there is life there is
hope.

"She is mad--quite mad--poor suffering soul," he mechanically
murmured; "we came to take her home."

Danger past, Madame de Vaux did what many a worthy dame has done
before. She sank on a seat and fainted, while Angelique rapidly
related the tragical details of the last half-hour.

The baron's brow grew cloudy as he listened. A terrible scandal this,
such as in more halcyon days would have caused a violent commotion,
but which at a critical moment like the present might start an
overwhelming conflagration.

The hunting party had come upon a howling mob armed with such bucolic
weapons as were handy, running along the road with incoherent threats.
One who lagged behind was stopped, and being questioned, declared that
he knew not what had chanced, but stout Jean Boulot was back again and
furious, and that was enough for him. Under the circumstances it was
prudent to return to Montbazon and resume the state of siege.

M. de Vaux was a gentleman to the backbone, if not endowed with wits,
and could in a moment of peril prove as calmly firm and quietly
undaunted as the procession of Parisian nobles who were wearing out
with steady and unflinching footfall the steps of the guillotine. He
recognized the gravity of his position, but accepted it without a
murmur, for it never should be said that the last baron of the house
of de Vaux had blenched in face of duty. The Marquis de Gange and
his villainous brothers had happily been baulked in an attempted
crime--that the absent marquis was less guilty than the rest he was
not prepared to believe; and if he, the baron, could help it, they
should not escape their punishment.

It was unlucky for him and his that the scene should have been
transferred to his own tranquil hearth, for no good would accrue to
the inhabitants of Montbazon by the sheltering of unsavoury company.
Two of the peccant brothers were here, and here they should remain,
_advienne que pourra_, until their unwilling host could hand them to
the myrmidons of justice. If it could be prevented, there should be no
lynch law at Montbazon. The miscreants had earned their doom, which,
doubtless would be breaking on the wheel; and yet, who could tell what
would be the lot of persons who were reckoned amongst the gangrened,
and who were guilty of such heinous sin?

The mob would learn ere long the facts of the case, and their fury
would not be lessened by the discovery that the one member of the
hated class whom they all revered for her goodness had been chosen as
the intended victim.

There would be a rush to Lorge, which would be found to be an open and
empty cage, and after that there would be a scouring of the country in
all directions in search of the dastardly criminals. They would be
found here at Montbazon; there was no help for it, and the lord of
Montbazon would loyally do his best to protect them from mob violence.
But Montbazon was not a strong fortress like Lorge, which could afford
to smile grimly down on a crowd of excited pigmies. The gates must be
closed, and if the mob did come he would explain his just intentions,
parley with and endeavour to persuade them.

Cheerfully determined to obey orders, the young men of the hunt were
closing the gates when a horseman dashed in at a gallop, and the
exhausted beast sank panting on the stones. M. de Vaux looked up and
sighed, and again commanded that the doors should be closed and
locked.

Here was the missing scoundrel, the marquis himself, as agitated as
the other two. Verily the will of Heaven was startlingly clear, for
the missing culprit had, of his own free will, delivered himself into
the net.

The eyes of Clovis fell on a group in the angle of the courtyard, and,
blushing, he hung his head. His brothers, unkempt and bound, none the
better for rough usage, tied back to back like common malefactors,
while a young seigneur whom all three knew well was mounting guard on
them.

"M. de Vaux," he stammered, "things look black, I know, but I implore
you not to condemn me in your mind unheard. I swear to you that I did
not know of this. I was coming home from an absence due to business,
and was as horrified as you could be when I was informed of the
terrible story."

"You will all three be broken on the wheel," was the pithy answer of
the baron.

The chevalier, with chin sunk upon his breast, saw and heard nothing;
his weak brain was in a daze. But the abbé glanced quickly at the
marquis and smiled with profound disdain. He had always felt for his
elder brother a contempt so deep that it approached near to loathing.
Worldly prudence alone had cloaked his feelings, for he knew him to be
of the mean sort that, too feeble for independent action, will, while
prating virtue, glibly accept the fruit of another's wickedness, or
denounce him in case of failure. The aspect of this sorry apologetic
craven acted on the abbé's nerves like a dash of refreshing spray. The
old gleam glittered for a moment from under half-closed lids. He shook
himself, raised his head proudly, and pointing a finger at Clovis,
harshly laughed aloud--

"Remember that, unluckily, we are related," he sneered; "and spare me
this humiliating spectacle. We have all three played our game and
lost, and must pay the stakes with resignation."

"I assure you, Monsieur le Baron, that he lies malignantly," the
hapless Clovis began; but his words died away in confusion, for his
flesh quivered under the abbé's words and scathing looks as under a
whip.

"Believe him not," scoffed Pharamond. "We are guilty of lamentable
failure, for which I am honestly ashamed, due in part to the
pusillanimity of yonder cur; and failure, as we all know, is the one
sin that never may hope for pardon. He knew perfectly well the
intended programme, and having given his tacit consent was despatched
on a mission, which he apparently has bungled, that we might not be
hampered by his cowardice. We failed, as better and stronger men have
failed, and I am sorry for the mistake. It would have been shorter and
safer to have made away with him as well as his puling wife. Speak,
chevalier--you are a drunken sot, but not a craven--is not this the
truth?"

Urged by the sharp elbow of his brother, lustily applied, Phebus
raised his head and looked dreamily around; then saying simply "Yes;
what you say is truth," relapsed into stupid reverie.

The abbé was growing lively, for now, thanks to Clovis's ineptitude,
he no longer played the ridiculous role. The marquis hoped to
whitewash himself by steady lying at the expense of his more brilliant
confederate. That should never be. None but a fool would have deemed
such a _denouément_ possible. But for the advent of the new-comer,
Pharamond might have stuck to his guns, and have adroitly wriggled out
of the meshes of the law, delightfully pure and unsullied, though for
a moment stained by calumny; for though the marquise had for some
unaccountable reason recovered, there was nothing but her word for the
absurd story of the goblet, sword, and pistol. Even had she died no
trace of the herb would have been found. Mademoiselle Brunelle and the
servants of the chateau would with one accord have sworn--as they
aspired to an edifying end and a cosy seat in Heaven--that madame had
suffered from a serious complaint, accompanied by delirious
hallucination. That she was better now was in the nature of things,
due partly to tenderest solicitude on the part of her affectionate
family, and an additional proof, if any still were wanting, that the
story of the poison was a dream. But Clovis, by his own dastardly and
execrable meanness, had cut the ground from under the feet of the
suspected trio; for the abbé had been goaded for once to forget
himself and his own interests in order, with a pretty display of
scornful protest, to inflict revenge upon another. In sober truth, the
abbé felt outraged in his best feelings by the move of Clovis.

Pharamond had confessed with easy nonchalance to an attempt of
superior wickedness, and was rather flattered than otherwise by the
silent horror depicted on the bovine countenances of the Seigneurie.
They appeared to gaze, face to face, on the Satanic one, and were
abashed by his unexpected propinquity.

It was time the painful scene should end, for nothing could come of it
but unworthy recrimination. Two had freely and publicly confessed, the
third stood cowering like a beaten hound that dares not even whine. In
every curved line of his bent figure there was confession.

The baron observed gravely to the company assembled, "We are
responsible, gentlemen, for the guarding of these persons, till they
can be safely removed to Blois. For the present, if you please, we
will lock them in the dining-hall, as the strongest and safest room."

"By all means," exclaimed the abbé, heartily, "and I hope there will
be something on the board. The good baron was always hospitable. Owing
to press of _business_, hem! I had no time for breakfast, and vow I am
plaguy hungry."

It was a day of ill-luck and penance for our esteemed churchman, for
no single wish of his was to be gratified, even in so small a matter
as a meal. The three brothers were pushed with scant ceremony into the
one imposing chamber of the chateau, whose walls were tolerably thick
and windows placed too high for escape to be possible, and there they
were left, gruesomely to contemplate one another, uncomely spectacle
enough, for in truth, they looked like boon companions, whose night
had been spent in orgies. The abbé was so blythe in the knowledge that
his fate was sealed, and that he had in his recklessness given himself
as it were with his own foot, the final kick out of the world, that he
overflowed with amiability.

To behold Clovis, the selfish and heartless, the superficially
plausible scientific humbug, sobbing like a woman, with tears
showering through dirty fingers, was a joy and a triumph, for whatever
might befall the abbé though only a half brother with no prospect of
ever blossoming into a full-blown marquis, he never, no, never, under
any stress whatever, could fall so low as this grovelling male Niobe,
who had been privileged by Destiny to wear the glittering thing called
coronet. Not that that particular covering was in vogue as a
fashionable hat just now, but the absurd era of topsyturvydom, would
no doubt be smothered shortly by somebody with an uncompromising will
and iron fist, and the saturnalia of plebeian folly be suppressed.
Then coronets would rise in the market again, and this gibbering thing
would come strutting back from exile--a worm on end--with other
emigrants, to enjoy again the sweets of life. He would be free and
rich, while his brothers bore the brunt. He would possibly speak now
and again with reticence of his unfortunately shady family
connections, who had tried to commit murder in his absence, and swear
with seraphic gaze fixed upon æther, that he was well quit of such
surroundings. Ah! It was a satisfaction to think that a sturdy spoke
had been placed in the wheel of the heaven-bound chariot, which had
brought it down to earth with a thump, as helpless as a hamstrung
horse. If the half-brothers were to bear the burthen of their
misdeeds, so should the elder one. He should not escape scot-free.
"If," swore the abbé to himself, "we are to be broken on the wheel, as
de Vaux so genially suggests, the only boon I will crave shall be that
Clovis the coward shall suffer first, and that I may be present as eye
witness." Such being his somewhat decided views with regard to the
head of the family, it was rather odd that he should be so agreeable
and frolicsome and, metaphorically, skip around his brother.

After a while, the contemplation of the weeping Clovis and the dazed
Phebus became irksome, and there being no signs of prospective
breakfast, Pharamond turned his attention to another matter.

"Tell me," he demanded of a sudden, "why did you delay at Blois so
long, and what brought you so quickly home?"

"The testament was useless," answered Clovis, sulkily. "While we were
yet in Paris, she saw through your plans and took measures to render
them abortive. Such plans! We are undone--I, too--through your
presuming and insensate folly."

"She did!" exclaimed Pharamond, clasping his hands in admiration.

"She solemnly declared that she knew her life to be in peril--that if
ever she made another will, it would be under compulsion, and arranged
for some private mark to show that this was so. Justice was put on the
alert, and I came back in hottest haste to stop your action, but
arrived, alas! too late."

"She did that? the crafty, cunning baby-face!" cried Pharamond.

"I ought to have known," growled Clovis, with rueful self-reproach,
"that reserved baby-faced women are always cunning. But I trusted
so much in you as to allow myself to be persuaded, and now I am
undone--undone!"

In spite of his discomfiture, the artistic instinct of the abbé could
not but keenly appreciate the still long-suffering woman who had
braved and circumvented him. And they had all been stupid enough to
look upon her as a foe unworthy of their steel. That they should have
done so was due to one of the many errors in judgment of the
abominable Algaé. Well, well--she was a wondrous creature, as well as
a beautiful. Gifted with second sight, had she been able to foresee
what precise poison he would employ and provide herself with an
antidote? Hardly. Therein lay a mystery.

Meanwhile, conjectures fill no stomachs, and nature was beginning to
assert herself aggressively. It was brutal of the baron to starve his
cage-birds. To play with his brother, or to snarl and gird at him was
mighty well as a pastime, but it grew more than annoying that, after
the hints that had been thrown out, the baron should be so
disgustingly inhospitable.

By dint of straining and muscular artfulness, the two, who had been
unwillingly made one with ropes, managed to escape from their bonds;
and the abbé persuasively arguing through the keyhole, endeavoured to
coax the guardian marching without to discuss the question of food. It
was barbarous to lock three men in a room and leave them to starve,
specially when it had been pointed out that there had been no time
that morning to partake of even the lightest refection. Is not
_déjeuner_ the most important meal in France--now as in the past; and
is it not deliberately fiendish to place famishing humanity in a
dining-hall without the necessary and expected adjuncts? It had
nothing to do with the case that the engrossing _business_ which had
engrossed the early hours had been to supply a lady with a special
breakfast for which she had no appetite. At any rate, she had been
provided with a breakfast of a sort, and that she didn't like it was
beside the question, for is it not well known that capricious ladies
affect to live on butterfly wings and flower nectar--rare victuals
that cannot always be supplied--while here were three ravenous men who
had gone through much emotion and were proportionately empty, and who
would be content--nay, grateful--for a commonplace, vulgar,
substantial paté and a bottle of sound Burgundy. Thus the sportive
abbé through the keyhole, whose sallies received no response.

By and by the monotonous tramp in the stone passage ceased; hasty
footsteps hurried away--there were muffled cries and exclamations,
followed by--it could be nothing else--a volley of musketry. There was
something going forward, then, that was serious. The abbés humour
changed from banter to gloomy wrath, and a sensation came over him
akin to that which Gabrielle had experienced in her bedchamber. He
would not die--no--he would live! But how? He ground his teeth and
gnawed his fingers with a baffled sense of degrading helplessness.
Here was he, an unappreciated genius, whose wits were as nimble as
ever, who was prepared to start off at a tangent on any project which
promised to bring grist to his mill, incarcerated in a place intended
for festivity, from which there was no outlet, and in which could be
found no crust of bread or glass of water. The windows were
inaccessible, the oaken door locked without. But the sentry was
withdrawn, which was something; and three men, strong and young,
should shame to lie down content to wallow in the mud and groan.
Something of a serious and important nature was going on outside, as
could be judged by the noise. If the door could be forced in the
confusion, the muffled sounds of which were evident to acute ears,
what should prevent successful evasion even at this eleventh hour?
Clovis was strongly built, the thews and broad shoulders of Phebus had
ofttimes been a subject for sport--and there the two sat like waxen
effigies, both refusing to be roused. In his exasperation Pharamond
seized Phebus by the shoulders and shook him like a sack, but the
latter merely opened his watery eyes for a moment and then blinked
them to again like one who has done with daylight. As for Clovis, the
gorge of his brother rose, and he exhaled himself in ingenious curses.
If there was a hell, to which both were bound, a large item of his
punishment would consist in his brother's presence as a neighbour.

Oh! It was too bad--too bad! There was some commotion going on
outside--a rush of feet, a shouting, a calling out of names--something
or another that occupied the entire attention of the garrison. The
three of them, if they would exert united strength, could, with a
portion of yonder massive dining-table, easily force the door, since
the hubbub outside was sufficient to distract attention from any noise
within. The door forced, they could lose themselves in the crowd. The
smiling world would be open. Life--precious life--would commence
again. And there the two idiots crouched--the one in a daze, the other
drowned in unavailing grief--while the golden moments dripped. At
thought of what ought to be, and that which loomed as more likely to
obtain, Pharamond was devoured by an access of the old frenzy, which
earlier in the day had toppled over reason, and tore in idle impotence
at the ponderous table with his delicate white hands till the blood
gushed from beneath the nails and his lips were white with foam.



                            CHAPTER XXIX.

                           NOBLESSE OBLIGE.


The baron's apprehensions were soon justified. Having placed his
prisoners under lock and key, he hastily assembled the gentlemen in a
council of war, explaining his fears and difficulties. The peasantry
would, of course, be wild with indignation, and, all things
considered, there was plenty of excuse for excess. It was as though
some one had deliberately flung a lighted fuse into an open barrel of
gunpowder. Montbazon could not withstand a serious assault, for it
consisted of an agglomeration of clustering rooms, chiefly built of
wood and plaster around a small stone pleasure house in the centre. Of
course, there was a courtyard with imposing gates, necessary adjuncts
to the dignity of a dwelling that called itself a chateau, but, in
sooth, the walls were thin and tottery--more suitable for the support
of pear trees _en espalier_ than for withstanding an armed attack.
Duty must be done, however. The Seigneurie of Touraine would one and
all be smirched with the disgrace, if members of their order were
handed over without a struggle to the vengeance of bucolic bumpkins.
No doubt, no doubt--all the gentlemen agreed, but those who had
brought their womenfolk over with them to enjoy this ill-omened fête
day were unable to mask their anxiety. The peasantry all over France
had, during the last few years, been guilty of raids upon the
chateaux, had pillaged some, burnt others, inflicted outrages on the
inhabitants. Was it likely that, though their province had hitherto
been quieter than most, the people, justly exasperated by a dreadful
crime, would hearken to the voice of reason? It was, of course,
right and proper that the marquis and his brethren should be fairly
tried and sentenced, but really---at least, so thought one of the
assembly--it would be better to abandon them to their fate than risk
the safety of the ladies.

His neighbour, who was given to seeing things in an unpleasant light,
shook his pate and sighed. "You forget," he said, "that these
mooncalves neither think nor reason. They are buffeted by impulse, led
by the nose by the first comer. Whether we give up the culprits or no,
they will want to retaliate on all of us. It is class against class,
and has been all along." This was true enough, and gloom descended on
the company.

"What they will do," suggested one of the party, "will depend upon the
man who is their leader."

There was the case in a nutshell. When the people arrived at
Montbazon, the Baron de Vaux must interpellate the leader, and be
guided by that person's attitude.

The distance between the two dwellings was so short; the rustics had
spread helter-skelter in so many directions, that the movements of
their betters were rapidly ascertained. One party, which had made for
Lorge, found the gates wide open, the mansion apparently deserted, and
were about to prosecute the search elsewhere, when Jean Boulot
appeared upon the scene, declaring that his love was a prisoner. A
further search was made, and lying in her bed they found Toinon, a
prey to stony despair. Brave girl as she was, she had given way to
despondency, for what could two women do against such a close and
small-meshed network of foes--absolutely friendless and forlorn?

But here was Jean at last, faithful and true, at the head of a
rabblement. With a cry she fell upon his breast, and sobbed there as
if her heart were broken, while he thanked Heaven for her safety.

The servants had one and all decamped with such valuables as were
easily carried. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Brunelle. To linger
here was wasting time. Somebody had seen the abbé and the chevalier
spurring like maniacs in the direction of Montbazon. "To Montbazon--to
Montbazon," was the general shout, and as the crowd moved rapidly
thitherward, its numbers were each moment augmented by newcomers armed
with scythes and staves, who each had something to tell. The Marquis
de Gange had been seen galloping to Montbazon, the baron and many of
the Seigneurie also. Montbazon, by will of avenging Providence, had
become a vermin trap which was full, and, please Heaven, not one
should escape.

Deputy Jean Boulot did not approve of such sentiments. To yell "Ça
Ira" in discordant chorus--to gambol in the mazes of a dance which
bore some distorted rustic resemblance to the Carmagnole--these were
safe and harmless outlets for feverish activity. But honest Jean had
the cause of the people too deeply at heart to allow his adherents to
disgrace it. Before reaching Montbazon, therefore, he got on a great
stone in the middle of a field, and harangued his little army. He
would have no unnecessary violence, he roundly declared. Whatever the
conduct of the towns had been, the country parts of Touraine had been
conspicuous for decency. Unless his hearers promised to obey, he would
shake the dust from off his feet and leave them. The three wretches
had been delivered by God into their hands. The sovereign people
should do what they chose with the at-present-offending vermin, but
the innocent should be protected. The de Vaux family knew nothing of
the tragedy, had instantly succoured the suffering marquise, when he,
Jean, had placed her under their protection, and it would be an evil
and disgraceful thing if their reward was to be the destruction of
their property. The people hearkened and applauded. Brave Jean, honest
clearheaded Jean, an honour to the province, and to France! Of course
he should be obeyed, provided he did not strive to shelter his late
master. "Ça ira, Ça ira! Quick, quick, no more delay." Jean looking
round was satisfied, for with Heaven's help, he saw his way to save
Montbazon from pillage.

It was with some relief that on mounting by means of a ladder to the
top of the gateway, and surveying the vast seething sea of heads
below, and the forest of glinting scythes, the baron beheld a man come
forward whom he had personally known for years. He had disliked the
man, and somewhat dreaded him for his treasonable preachings to the
rustics. "A dangerous firebrand," he had always declared, "who will do
a deal of mischief;" but as the sanguinary chronicle of history
unrolled itself, marked with many smears, he had been compelled to
admit that the whilom gamekeeper in authority at Blois had shown both
discretion and forbearance. A Collot d'Herbois or a Marat might have
headed this vast concourse. There was hope in the fact that the
presiding chief was one who could listen to reason.

"I am sorry to see you, Jean Boulot," the baron began, curtly, "at the
head of a menacing throng. Are you here as a patron of grave-diggers?"

"You know what we are here for, and what we justly demand," returned
Boulot, as shortly.

The sturdy knave! A queer dignity sat upon him like that which is worn
by a successful general who has risen from the ranks.

"Demand! H'm!" echoed the baron. "A strange word as addressed by you
to me."

"Citizen! You are foolishly playing with the lives of all within your
walls," Jean said, earnestly. "Do you think to terrify us by striking
an attitude draped in the ragged frippery of your rank? A word from
me, and a thousand scythes will cut your baron's robe to ribbons. Look
around. The news is still spreading. The indignant people are rushing
hitherward. If in your folly you delay too long, they may pass beyond
control."

"Do you war with your thousand scythes against a bevy of innocent
women?"

"No. We protect them when we can against the wickedness of the
Touraine nobility."

The baron bit his lip. He was not gaining ground.

"Speak plainly. Tell me what you want."

"I demand the instant delivery to me of the three miscreants you are
harbouring."

Some of the gentlemen who had crowded up the ladder to hear the
colloquy began to shift uneasily and murmur. "The man is right," one
whispered--"far more sensible than I expected."

But the baron had no intention of giving way--of bending before a
rustic.

"You ask what I cannot grant," he replied, haughtily. "I cannot
deliver nobles to the canaille."

The clustering throng that pressed about Boulot were losing patience.
"These aristos are infatuated," one yelled, with threatening fist.
"You are wasting breath, Boulot. The vile insects must be crushed
wholesale."

"Have a care!" Jean cried, in warning. "If innocent blood is spilled,
Baron de Vaux, the crime will be on your head. Insolent vaunting words
fall back on those who launch them. We are honest men, and----"

"Are you?" scoffed the baron. "You said just now that you protected
women. You prate now of innocent blood; the blood of our ladies is
destined, I presume, to join that of the Princesse de Lamballe and the
rest?"

"I did not think that even the Seigneurie would seek to shelter behind
petticoats!" cried Jean, with rising choler.

"Impudent varlet!" cried the baron, losing temper. "I would fain
shield a bevy of women from massacre. Does the canaille decree their
slaughter?"

Toinon had kept close to Jean, at whom she gazed with gladsome eyes,
and a hectic spot of excitement upon either cheek.

"If you love me, Jean," she whispered, "let the women pass. Our
chatelaine, remember, is among them."

Boulot reflected for a moment, and the advice seemed good. "I made a
demand just now," he said, "which I see that those behind you consider
just, and you treat me and this assembly with insult. Learn that the
canaille can teach such as you a salutory lesson in behaviour. That
the lives of many ladies are at stake gives us an immense advantage,
but more generous than you we are prepared to waive it. Bring forth
your women folk. Under my own charge they shall be conducted to a
place of safety, the chateau of Lorge hard by. After that I will
return, and man to man, repeat my just demand. If you then persist in
refusing it, I shall wash my hands of the results."

An important point was gained, and there was a movement of relief
among the gentlemen. But stiff-necked old De Vaux could not bring
himself civilly to accept a boon from what he considered the low scum.

"I rejoice," he said, gruffly, "that you should save yourself from the
stigma of slaying women. We take your word that your mob will remain
without and that the ladies shall pass unharmed. But I suppose you are
not such a fool as to expect that I shall give up the marquis and his
brothers?"

"This man who stands beside me, alas, is right," Jean replied,
sternly. "Your vulture class is infatuated and doomed to ruin, and
calls down its own destruction. The besotted arrogant nobles must
indeed be crushed--trodden down wholesale."

"Sir, you forget yourself," stiffly remarked the baron.

"A last warning! You are playing with both property and life."

"Advice from you? Merci! A peasant Jack in office!"

"I would save you if I could, but you are as vapouring and saucy as
the rest."

The gentlemen within disapproved highly of the conduct of old De Vaux.
What he deemed heroic--worthy of a Bayard or a Conde--they considered
stupid and imprudent. What was to be gained by angering this man with
so vast a concourse at his back? Some of the country squires, audibly
expostulating, pulled at his legs and coat tails, to end a foolish
colloquy.

The baron, therefore, brought his ill-timed taunts to an undignified
conclusion, and declared that if the mob would make a way the ladies
were ready to come forth.

Boulot removed his hat and bowed, and the baron, not to be outdone in
the outward forms of courtesy, removed his own with a flourish and
performed a low obeisance.

Meanwhile those at the back of the far-spreading throng who, unable to
hear, considered that there was too much parleying, waxed savage. Was
an hour to be wasted over a simple negociation which should not occupy
six minutes? The deputy from Blois was being cozened, was not
displaying sufficient firmness, was reprehensively lacking in
decision. The women backed up the men, and, convinced by their own
cackle, were garrulous. They were unanimous as to storming the place,
displaying to the world by a signal example that the people were the
real masters whose will was to be obeyed. Then there was a sway, and a
scuffle, and a hubbub, as those in front were pushed back as those
behind, and the wooden gates revolved upon their hinges. The
miscreants at last! Ah! Now for it! Every hand was eager to take part
in the coming vengeance--the trio should be torn into such tiny shreds
that they should seem to have vanished into air. There was a forward
rush which recoiled upon itself. Those who pushed behind could not
comprehend what was passing. Some twenty trembling women of the
superior class, judging by their flaunting garments, were being
marshalled two and two, and Jean Boulot at their head on horseback was
exhorting the people to make way. A long, low, growl of angry
disappointment swept like a wind over the concourse, which might have
swelled into a menacing roar, followed by the mischief of a hurricane,
if a diversion had not been caused by the forlorn appearance of the
White Chatelaine of Lorge, moving with obvious effort supported by her
faithful foster-sister. How changed she was--how sadly wrecked her
beauty. Her big long-lashed blue eyes wore the startled look of one
who has seen a horror--the pupils were prominent and fixed--her motion
was that of an old old woman partly paralysed. Her haggard features
bore an eloquent impress of what she had undergone, and there was a
pathos in her wandering groping movement that drew sobs from many a
breast.

"There she is--there she is," passed from one to another in an
awe-stricken whisper. "God bless her, poor martyr! The kindest,
noblest woman in all the country round!"

Some, remembering kindly acts, stooped to kiss her robe as she
tottered by--a mother whose dying infant she had saved by timely
help--a wife whose husband she had tended.

It was well that Jean headed the cortège, exerting all his wit and his
authority to force a safe passage for the timid cohort. There was a
rough fellow with a cart of firewood, who, from his eminence,
contemplated the spectacle, broadly grinning. He and his cart Jean
requisitioned, and packed the more weakly in it, for it occurred to
him that the progress to Lorge would be far from rapid, and that he
was leaving a dangerous element behind.

What an odd scene the open space in front of Montbazon presented when
Jean and his cortège were out of sight.

Being fairly pulled down from his heroic eminence by disapproving
hands, De Vaux had mopped his brow, though the weather was chilly,
observing, "For a peasant, he's remarkably advanced. If all were so
reasonable--but no--that is ridiculous."

The ladies gone, their husbands and brothers asked their host what he
proposed to do. Sentiment was sentiment, and all that, and duty,
doubtless, was duty; but then there are a variety of ways of reading
duty, which is not to be confounded with Quixotism.

Stout-souled De Vaux, who, in his excitement, felt quite young--wholly
oblivious of a sciatic nerve--declared doggedly that he would not give
up the miscreants. That peasant fellow was so amenable to argument on
the part of a superior, that, on his return, he, the superior, would
condescend to illuminate the situation. He would affably deign to
explain that he could not for a moment pretend to approve of the trio.
The point of their dreadful wickedness was conceded. But he, De Vaux,
could not, and would not, hand them over to lynch law, and it was,
without a shadow of doubt, the duty of the Deputy of Blois to assist
him in upholding the law. He, Jean Boulot, being so amenable to
sensible argument, would at once fall in with his views. As he had
escorted the ladies to Lorge, so would he succeed in piloting the
baron and his prisoners to Blois, where, with decorum and order, the
latter would be delivered to the authorities, that Justice might
fulfil her office. To the baron it was as clear as ditchwater, and he
was as steadfast as obstinacy could make him, ignoring the remark of a
seigneur that this particularly enlightened peasant had made it a
_sine quâ non_ that the culprits should be handed to him.

"Oh, pooh! pooh!" laughed De Vaux, quite enchanted with the success of
his diplomacy. "When I insisted that the women should go out, he gave
way at once, and will again."

It did not occur to him that the idea was Toinon's, and that Jean had
given way to her.

"It may be necessary," went on the baron, "to make a show of force--to
make it understood, I mean, that we are not to be terrorised by
that useful implement, the scythe. You will please load your
fowling-pieces, gentlemen, and we will let them understand that we
have gunpowder."

And so it came about that when the doors opened for the ladies'
exodus, a glint was seen of muskets which fairly exasperated the
crowd. If muskets, why not concealed cannon? The firebrands who had
stood near to him during the colloquy, were dissatisfied by Jean's
moderate tone and perfect temper. He had said a harsh thing or two,
certainly; but should not have allowed that pouter-pigeon fool to
suppose that he had made a score. The latter had retired in somewhat
undignified fashion, pulled by leg and coat; but his feathers were all
out notwithstanding, and he assumed the airs of a cock that was master
of his dunghill. Now this was manifestly absurd. The mob had but to
raise its myriad horny hands, and over would go the dunghill burying
the cock. Why that display of firearms? The baron had without a doubt
got the better of honest Jean; he had cheated him and achieved thereby
an invaluable period of delay, during which his domestics were
probably throwing up earthworks or doing something nefarious to baulk
the sovereign people.

If this was the feeling in the front how much more did it dominate the
rear. Jean's strong personality withdrawn--the White Chatelaine's
piteous figure gone--those who had wept tears became the most frantic
for vengeance.

The females became m[oe]nads, and loudly taunted the males. Reports
filtered from the front with the usual distortion, to the effect that
the garrison had gained time by shrewd diplomacy, for running up works
of defence; that Jean on his return would be laughed at; that the wily
baron would snap his fingers in his face. A rumour even rose, nobody
knew how, that there was a secret subway leading somewhere, and that
the miscreants were at this very moment effecting an escape, laughing
in their sleeves at the pursuers. And the sovereign people was to
remain inactive to be fooled before all Europe? How the fugitive
_emigrés_ would laugh when the three ruffians joined them, and
explained their clever ruse!

"Jean Boulot is too straight and upright," some one declared "to deal
with such slippery cattle. When he returns anon, let him find the work
accomplished. If he does not approve, he can say with truth, that he
had nothing to do with the matter; but, if I mistake not, right sorry
will he be to be deprived of his share of vengeance."

A squire was unlucky enough at this juncture to crawl up to the
ladder-top, drawn thither by idle curiosity, and to miss his footing
there. The fowling-piece in his hand struck the coping of the gateway
and went off. A yell as of two thousand maniacs pealed heavenward.
"They have fired on the sovereign people," rose in a mighty shout; and
with one accord the sea that had been lashing quietly towered in a
huge wave, encompassed the chateau and overwhelmed it. It was one of
those sudden things which, like the phenomena of earth, strangles the
breath and leaves men palsied. When the ground rocks and yawns in
fissures, and the mountains tumble and the forests fall in heaps,
lookers on can only marvel. The luckless denizens of Montbazon had
scarcely time for that. The gun discharged by accident acted as a
signal. For an instant the gates groaned and rattled under a rain of
missiles. The walls were black with human atoms who swarmed and buzzed
like flies, coming on and on in myriads. The seigneurs huddled
mechanically together in a small knot, and fired one futile volley ere
they were trodden under foot. A young fellow, bleeding from a deep
gash inflicted by a scythe, leaned for support against an angle, and
in answer to a question as to the brothers' whereabouts, pointed in
the direction of the dining-hall. Ere his life-blood ebbed away, he
saw with dimmed sight three wavering figures tossed hither and
thither, like corks upon a boiling stream--was aware of a whirl of
feet ascending a winding stair, amid yells of "à la lanterne,"--of
three writhing human creatures dangling at the ends of ropes.

Jean Boulot, hieing back from Lorge, was alarmed by a strange light
and a curious sound of menace like the distant shouting of vast
crowds. When he reached the open, from whence the chateau was visible,
he pulled his horse up sharply. The concourse he had left so
quiescent, were dancing like fiends around a mighty bonfire. Montbazon
was aflame from end to end. Its wooden tenements had caught, and
blazed like touchwood. As he gazed tranquilly upon the lurid
spectacle, the ropes that held three black masses swinging aloft in
space were licked by forked flames and parted, and the figures dropped
into the furnace that seethed white hot below.

"God's will be done!" Jean muttered. "They have well merited their
fate."


Winter and spring went by. The king was dead; the queen lingered yet
in the Conciergerie. Jocund summer-time had come round again, and a
quiet group clad in deep mourning enjoyed the balmy air in the
secluded moat-garden of Lorge.

A tall lady on whose still beautiful face were ploughed hard lines of
suffering, was contemplating with a subdued smile of settled sadness,
the romps of two children on the green.

"Angelique!" she called in mild reproof, "you must not let them tire
you;" whereupon an old lady sitting close at hand leaning on an ebony
crutch said, "Let be. It does me good to hear Angelique laugh again
after that awful day."

"Hush!" replied Madame de Gange, "you must not brood over that
misfortune. The baron died as a French noble should, in doing what he
believed to be his duty. Montbazon is rising from its ashes, a much
more commodious dwelling."

"Thanks to your liberality," sighed Madame de Vaux, "but I can never
endure to live in it."

"Nor shall you," returned Gabrielle, quickly. "We settled long ago
that you and Angelique were to make your home with me."

There was a silence, while the ladies reviewed the past, which had
been so terrible a nightmare to both. Then Madame de Vaux, drying her
eyes, observed, "How strange it is that the baleful woman was never
after heard of."

"Nor my jewel-case," replied Gabrielle, slyly. "I doubt if those
stolen gems will bring good fortune to the thief!"



                               THE END.



                          *   *   *   *   *
         SIMMONS & BOTTEN, PRINTERS, LONDON.   _G. C. & Co_.





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