The Chevalier d'Auriac

As Madame lifted her head our eyes met, and, raising my hat, I advanced towards her, the people giving way respectfully. My ears were buzzing, and I was as shy and nervous as a schoolboy as I bowed over her gloved hand, and touched it with my lips.

'Let me welcome you back to health, Chevalier,' she said, 'and say how glad I am to be able, even for a short while, to do the honours of my poor house in person to you. News came to us that you had already left Bidache – without even a word to me;' her voice dropped a little as she said this, but the tone was cool and friendly, nothing more.

'I go to-night, madame.'

'So soon; but I understand why, and will not press you to stay – here is one who, like myself, has longed for an opportunity to thank you in person. Mon père,' and she turned to the Huguenot priest, 'this is our friend to whom we owe so much.'

'In the service of the Lord one would willingly lay down life,' said Palin, as he shook me warmly by the hand, 'nevertheless, a few hours more of the world for an old man is a grace not to be despised, and I thank the instrument that has bestowed this benefit upon me.'

D'Ayen, between whom and myself there had passed no greeting, now spoke in a voice that fairly trembled with anger.

'I was not aware that I should have the pleasure of meeting you here, M. le Chevalier. It will surprise the King,' he added, in a lower tone to Madame.

I made no answer; but the memory of his warning and my determination to settle with him came up in full force. Madame, however, spoke.

'M. d'Ayen, when, by the order of the King, you were directed to escort me to Bidache, there was nothing said about your right to dictate to me who shall be my guests. Remember, monsieur, that your company is forced upon me, and let me add that you are a trifle too paternal.'

D'Ayen paled under his rouge, and, muttering something, reined back a pace, whilst Palin, looking him full in the eyes, said:

'Will you swallow that, too, M. d'Ayen? At your age one would have thought digestion hard.'

And there was no answer.

Madame had in the meantime signalled a lackey to dismount and offer me his beast.

'I cannot allow you to walk, and we will reach the house quicker in this way, besides, I want to hear all your news. My friends,' and she turned to the people, 'come to Bidache: it is long since we have met, and I would have you to make merry as of old – come, Chevalier.'

In the cheers which followed, she touched her horse lightly on the shoulder with her whip, and galloped on, Palin and I on either hand, and the suite behind. In a little while she slackened pace, saying with a laugh, 'We are going too fast to talk, Chevalier, and I am a woman, you know, and must hear my own voice, if nothing else – so you are quite well and strong again?'

'I am, madame, thanks to your kindness, which Alban de Breuil can never forget.'

Her colour deepened slightly. 'It is the other way, Chevalier, the debt is on my side.'

'I have done nothing – and the repayment was too much.'

'I am sorry you think so,' looking straight between her horse's ears.

'I did not mean that – I have already said I can never requite your kindness, and if Madame ever needs a stout arm and a good sword, it is my hope she will call on that of Auriac.'

'Perhaps I may – some day,' she answered, 'for the blood of my fathers runs strong in me, but I think Maître Palin here will tell you that I am wrong, and that the sword is accursed.'

'Unless it be drawn in the service of God, madame,' put in the Huguenot gravely.

'Mon père Palin has been a man-at-arms in his day,' said Madame, 'and has fought at Jarnac and Moncontour. He is therefore of the church militant, as you see.'

'I am proud to meet so brave a soldier as I doubt not you were, Maître Palin. We took different sides; but all that is passed now, and Huguenot and Leaguer are merged in the common name of Frenchman.'

'Long live the King!' said Madame gaily; but Palin answered sadly:

'Would it were so. But to my eyes there are still dark clouds ahead. We have no longer Henry of Navarre, but Henry of France; no longer a prince of the true faith, but a pervert.'

'His Majesty will be delighted to hear that,' put in d'Ayen; but Madame took no more notice of him than of a fly.

'Hush! mon père,' and she raised a warning hand, 'I will have no word against the King. M. le Chevalier is right, we are all one again, as France should ever be.'

'Amen!' answered Palin; 'but too much blood has been shed for this compromise to be accepted. The way is dark – but I will say no more,' and the old croaker dropped a half length behind.

A turn in the avenue at this moment brought us in full view of the grey walls of Bidache, and on the wide stone staircase that led to the great hall we saw the servants of the household assembled. Madame waved her hand in greeting, and the cheer which broke from them was drowned in the boom of the bombard from the keep. As the blue wreaths of smoke curled upwards a little ball ran to the top of the flagstaff on the keep, and the next moment the banner of Tremouille, with the arms of Rochemars of Bidache quartered thereon, spread out its folds to the morning, and Madame was come home once more.

We dined an hour or so later than usual, Madame, d'Ayen, Palin, and myself at the high table, and the rest of the household with all Bidache at the next. Madame, who seemed in nowise fatigued by her long ride, was in the gayest of spirits and rippled with talk. As if thinking she had punished d'Ayen enough, she directed all her conversation towards him, and the old beau was in his element in discussing the intrigues of court life, and, let me add, interesting, for his memory went far back. Madame spoke of the Edict, but for which they would never have been at Bidache; of the surrender of Mercoeur, and of the betrothal of his daughter Francoise de Lorraine, the greatest heiress in France, to César Monsieur, the little Duc de Vendôme; of the Constable and his disappointment thereat; of the squabbles between M. de Bar and his wife, the King's sister; of court gossip and court scandal, until Palin's face grew sour, and I felt a disappointment within me, as she prattled on like some Paris beauty, whose sole thoughts were of masques at the Louvre and hunting parties at Vincennes. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled as she discussed with d'Ayen whether the ruff or the collar drooped in the Italian manner was the more becoming, and whether the cinque pace dance was more enjoyable than the minuet. Pardieu! Their speech was all frill and furbelows. But for a word thrown in here and there, I sipped my Romanée in silence, wondering at this flow of talk, and wondering, too, at this change of front, and if I was wrong in my estimate of Madame. As she talked, my head for a moment overcame my heart, and I began to judge her in that way, showing, in doing so, my ignorance of that complex thing – a woman.

At last the dinner came to a close, and Palin, rising, opened his lips with a long thanksgiving, to which all, Madame included, listened devoutly. Our hostess then retired, and we three were left together in an absolute silence. Had it been any other place I would have felt bound to call d'Ayen to account, and ask him to name a proxy if he was unable to meet me by reason of his age. But as it was this was impossible, and I contented myself with a frigid reserve, in which I was joined by the Huguenot. He looked from one to the other of us with a satirical smile on his thin lips, and then rising made a slight bow and left us to ourselves. As we returned to our seats from our response to his greeting, I blurted out the questions:

'Who is M. d'Ayen? Why is he here?'

'Who is he? It is enough to say he is one of those men who live on the follies of kings. And it is enough to say that his company is forced upon us.'

'I have heard that before; but Madame seemed to like him well enough at dinner.' I felt I was wrong as I said this, but the words came out.

'He is here by the King's orders, by the orders of Henry the Great,' said Palin with bitterness. 'Monsieur, you seem a man of honour, what do you think of a king who would force a marriage on a woman to – ' and he whispered words in my ear which struck me speechless.

I could not believe him. It was incredible. Was this the hero king, the gallant soldier, the father of his people? It could not be true.

Palin saw the doubt on my face.

'Even you,' he said; 'well, go to Paris and see.'

'I shall go, I am going to-day.'

'It will be at the risk of your life.'

'Maître Palin, there is the King's Peace, and even if it were not so I will go.'

He looked at me long and attentively: 'Let it be so,' he muttered to himself, and then loudly, 'Well, Chevalier, I have warned you; if you go you will want a safe lodging – seek out Pantin in the Rue des Deux Mondes, and mention my name. The house faces the Pont Neuf, you can't miss it.'

'Thank you, I will do so.'

Then after a few minutes more of talk we wished each other good-bye and parted.

As for myself, I was on the cross with what I had heard. My mind was racked with doubt, and at last in despair I sought my own room to think over the matter. I could make nothing of it, turn it which way I would. To me Palin's story was incredible. But yet it explained and made clear so much! It was not to offer my sword only to the King that I would now go to Paris, it would be to save the woman I loved if possible. How I was to do this I had no definite idea, the one thing at present in my mind was Paris, Paris. I therefore gave the necessary orders to Jacques to make ready to start at once, and, descending the winding staircase of the tower wherein my room lay, sought the great hall with the view of either finding Madame there, or of sending some one with the request to permit my waiting on her to say good-bye. The staircase ended in a long dark corridor, hung on each side with trophies of the chase, old armour, and frayed and tattered banners. At the end of this was an arched doorway hidden by a heavy curtain, and above the arch was a half-length portrait of a man. The painter had not flattered his subject; the long pointed face with its grey beard was bent forward slightly, there was a cynical curve to the lips, and the eyes looked down on me as if with a laugh in them. I had passed this picture fifty times before, but had never stayed to examine it. Somehow I did so on this occasion, and as I read the inscription 'Antoine de la Tremouille' on the frame, the thin lips appeared to lengthen out into a grin. For a moment a chill fell on me, and then, laughing at myself for a fool, I lifted the curtain and passed into the great hall. At first I thought it was empty, but a second glance showed me Madame, seated at a small table, in the recess of the bow window that overlooked the park. Her face, leaning on her hand, was half averted from me, and I caught, a glimpse of a small foot resting on one of the lions' heads in which the legs of the table finished. The foot was beating up and down as if in unison with the impatience of Madame's thoughts, but I could see nothing of her face beyond its contour. She was, as usual, robed in black, wearing no jewels except a gold collar round her neck. For a moment I stood in silence, looking at her, half thinking that here was a chance to speak out what was in my heart, and then stilling the words by the thought of how impossible it was for a poor man to woo a rich woman.

Through the open window I could see the woods, ruddy in their autumn foliage, and ever and again came the sound of cheerful voices, marking where the good people of Bidache were holding revelry in honour of their mistress' return.

As I stood, hat in hand, Madame suddenly turned with a little start, and hastily concealed something as she caught sight of me. I went up at once, and she rose to meet me.

'I have come to say farewell, madame,' and I held out my hand.

'So soon,' she said, as she took it for a moment, her eyes not meeting mine.

'Yes – Paris is far – and it will be well for me to be there as quickly as possible.'

'Paris! You are surely not – ' and she stopped.

'Why not, madame?'

'Oh! I don't know,' and hastily, 'one sometimes says things that don't exactly convey one's meaning. But I can imagine why you go to Paris – you are tired of Bidache, and pine for the great city.'

'It is not that; but,' and I pointed to the rolling woods and wide lands that spread before us, 'I have no responsibilities like these – and Auriac, which stands by the sea, takes care of itself – besides, I have my way to make as yet.'

'You have friends?'

'One at any rate, and that was restored to me by you,' and I glanced to the hilt of my sword.

'Man does not want a better; but you have another – here at Bidache, and I shall be in Paris soon, too, and – this place is dull. It kills me.'

'And yet you have not been here for three years – madame, are all the masques at the Louvre so attractive that you can desert your home, where your name is honoured as that of the King, for the follies of the court?'

I spoke with some bitterness, for I was sore at what I had heard at dinner, and she glanced up at me in a slight surprise. Then her lips parted in a half smile. 'Chevalier, will you answer me a question or so?'

'Why not?'

'You like gaiety, cheerfulness, light, do you not?'

'Assuredly.'

'You sometimes amuse yourself by gaming, do you not – and losing more than you can afford?'

I bowed in simple wonder.

'That friend of yours at your side has not been drawn only in battle, has it?'

De Gonnor's white face rose up before me, and I felt my forehead burn. I could make no answer. Madame looked at me for a moment, and then dropped a stately little courtesy. 'Monsieur, you are very good to advise me, and I take your reproof. But surely what is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. Is not the Chevalier d'Auriac a little hasty? How is it that he is not at home at Auriac, instead of hastening to Paris as fast as he can – to the masques at the Louvre, and the salons of Zamet?'

'It is different,' I stammered.

'Ah, yes, it is different,' with a superb scorn; 'I saw you pull a half league of face as I talked at dinner. Monsieur can go here. Monsieur can go there. He may dance at a revel from curfew till cockcrow, he may stake his estates on a throw of the dice, he may run his friend through for a word spoken in jest – it is all comme il faut. But, Madame – she must sit at home with her distaff, her only relaxation a prêche, her amusement and joy to await Monsieur's return – is not that your idea, Chevalier?' She was laughing, but it was with a red spot on each cheek.

'Madame,' I replied, 'when I was but fifteen I joined the Cardinal de Joyeuse, and from that time to now my life has been passed in the field; I am therefore but a soldier, rough of speech, unused to argument, apt to say what is in my mind bluntly. I was wrong to make the remark I did, and ask your pardon; but, madame, brush away the idea that in this case the sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose – I use your own words – think what it would be if all womankind acted on what you have preached – think what would happen if the illusions that surround you, and which are now your strength, are dispelled. The worst of men have some memory of a home made happy by a woman, sister, mother, or wife, and the return to which was like a glimpse into heaven – the thought of which often made them better men – do not destroy this. And, madame, there is yet another thing – man is a fighting animal, and the final issues of an affair come to the sword – where would a struggle between this hand and mine end? – 'in my eagerness I took her small white fingers in mine as I spoke, and shut them within my palm – 'Madame,' I continued, 'rest assured that the glory and strength of a woman is in her weakness, and when she puts aside that armour she is lost. Think not that you have no mission – it is at a mother's knee that empires have been lost and won, that generations have, and will be, cursed or blessed.'

I stood over her as I spoke; I was a tall man then and strong, and whether it was my speech or what I know not, but I felt the hand I held tremble in mine, and her eyes were turned from me.

'Let me say good-bye now,' I continued, 'and thank you again for what you have done.'

She shook her head in deprecation.

'Very well, then, I will not recall it to you; but I can never forget – life is sweet of savour, and you gave it back to me. We will meet again in Paris – till then good-bye.'

'At the Louvre?' As she glanced up at me, trying to smile, I saw her eyes were moist with tears, and then – but the wide lands of Bidache were before me, and I held myself in somehow.

'Good-bye.'

'Good-bye.'

I turned, and without another look passed out of the hall. As I went down the stairway I saw on the terrace to my right the figure of d'Ayen. He had changed his costume to the slashed and puffed dress which earned for the gay gentlemen of Henry's court the nickname of 'Bigarrets,' from M. de Savoye's caustic tongue, and his wizened face stood out of his snowy ruff in all the glow of its fresh paint. With one foot resting on the parapet, he was engaged in throwing crumbs to the peacocks that basked on the turf beneath him. I would have passed, but he called out.

'M. le Chevalier – a word.'

'A word then only, sir, I am in haste.'

'A bad thing, haste,' he said, staring at me from head to foot; 'these woods would fetch a good price, would they not?' and he waved his hand towards the wide-stretching forest.

'You mistake, M. d'Ayen, I am not a timber merchant.'

'Oh! a good price,' he went on, not heeding my reply. 'M. le Chevalier, I was going to say I will have them down when I am master here. They obstruct the view.'

I could have flung him from the terrace, but held myself in and turned on my heel.

'Adieu! Chevalier,' he called out after me, 'and remember what I have said.'

I took no notice. The man was old, and his gibing tongue his only weapon. I ran down the steps to where Jacques was, ready for me with the horses. Springing into the saddle, I put spurs to the beast, and we dashed down the avenue, but as I did so I yielded to an impulse, and glanced up to the window – it was empty.

CHAPTER V

A GOOD DEED COMES HOME TO ROOST

We dashed through the streets of Bidache, arousing the village dogs asleep in the yellow-sunlight to a chorus of disapprobation. About a dozen sought to revenge their disturbed slumbers, and, following the horses, snapped viciously at their heels; but we soon distanced them, and flinging a curse or so after us, in dog language, they gave up the pursuit, and returned to blink away the afternoon. It was my intention to keep to the right of Ivry, and after crossing the Eure, head straight for Paris, which I would enter either by way of Versailles or St. Germains; it mattered little what road, and there was plenty of time to decide.

I have, however, to confess here to a weakness, and that was my disappointment that Madame had not stayed to see the last of me. Looking back upon it, I am perfectly aware that I had no right to have any feeling in the matter whatsoever; but let any one who has been placed similarly to myself be asked to lay bare his heart – I would stake my peregrine, Etoile, to a hedge crow on the result.

Madame knew I loved her. She must have seen the hunger in my eyes, as I watched her come and go, in the days when I lay at Ste. Geneviève, wounded to death. She must have felt the words I crushed down, I know not how, when we parted. She knew it all. Every woman knows how a man stands towards her. I was going away. I might never see her again. It was little to have waved me Godspeed as I rode on my way, and yet that little was not given.

In this manner, like the fool I was, I rasped and fretted, easing my unhappy temper by letting the horse feel the rowels, and swearing at myself for a whining infant that wept for a slice of the moon.

For a league or so we galloped along the undulating ground which sloped towards the ford near Ezy; but as we began to approach the river, the country, studded with apple orchards, and trim with hedgerows of holly and hawthorn, broke into a wild and rugged moorland, intersected by ravines, whose depths were concealed by a tall undergrowth of Christ's Thorn and hornbeam, whilst beyond this, in russet, in sombre greens, and greys that faded into absolute blue, stretched the forests and woods of Anet and Croth-Sorel.

In the flood of the mellow sunlight the countless bells of heather enamelling the roadside were clothed in royal purple, and the brown tips of the bracken glistened like shafts of beaten gold. At times the track took its course over the edge of a steep bank, and here we slackened pace, picking our way over the crumbling earth, covered with grass, whose growth was choked by a network of twining cranesbill, gay with its crimson flowers, and listening to the dreamy humming of the restless bees, and the cheerful, if insistent, skirl of the grass crickets, from their snug retreats amidst the yarrow and sweet-scented thyme.

As we slid rather than rode down one of these banks, my horse cast a shoe, and this put a stop to any further hard riding until the mishap could be repaired.

'There is a smith at Ezy, monsieur,' said Jacques, 'where we can get what we want done, and then push on to Rouvres, where there is good accommodation at the Grand Cerf.'

'I suppose Ezy can give us nothing in that way?'

'I doubt much, monsieur, for the place sank to nothing when Monseigneur the Duc d'Aumale was exiled, and the King, as monsieur is aware, has given the castle to Madame Gabrielle, for her son, little César Monsieur– the Duc de Vendôme.'

'Morbleu! It is well that Madame de Beaufort has not set eyes on Auriac – eh, Jacques?' and I laughed as I saw the huge grey outlines of Anet rising in the foreground, and thought how secure my barren, stormbeaten rock was from the rapacity of the King's mistress.

Jacques came of a rugged race, and my words roused him.

'But M. le Chevalier would never let Auriac fall into the hands of the King or his Madame? We could man the tower with a hundred stout hearts and – '

'Swing on the gibbet at the castle gates in two weeks, Jacques. But remember, we are loyal subjects now, and are going to Paris to serve the King.'

'As for me,' answered Jacques, obstinately, 'I serve my master, the Chevalier de Breuil d'Auriac, and none besides.'

In this manner we jogged along, making but slow progress, and the sun was setting when we came in view of the willow-lined banks of the Eure, and entered the walnut groves of the outlying forest in which Ezy lay. As we approached we saw that the village was three parts deserted, and the ruined orchards and smokeless chimneys told their own tale. Turning a bend of the grass-grown road we came upon a few children shaking walnuts from a tree, about two hundred paces from us, whilst a man and a woman stood hard by observing them. At the sight of us the woman turned to the man with an alarmed gesture, and he half drew a sword – we saw the white flash, and then, changing his mind, ran off into the forest. The children followed suit, sliding down the trunk of the tree, and fleeing into the brushwood, looking for all the world like little brown rabbits as they dashed into the gaps in the thorn.

As for the woman, she turned slowly and began to walk towards the village.

'They are very bashful here, Jacques,' I said, quickening my pace.

'Except the lady, monsieur,' and then we trotted up alongside her.

Reining in, I asked if she could direct me to the blacksmith's, for there seemed no sign of a forge about. She made no answer but stopped and stared at us through her hair, which fell in thick masses over her forehead and neck. As she did this I saw that she appeared to be of the superior peasant class, but evidently sunk in poverty. She was young, and her features so correct that with circumstances a little altered she would have been more than ordinarily good-looking. At present, however, the face was wan with privation, and there was a frightened look in her eyes. I repeated my question in as gentle a tone as I could command, and she found tongue.