In the Day of Adversity

"Ay," the king said, "a fervent loyalist." Then, after musing a moment, he said: "'Twas strange she never married De Vannes; all thought she loved him in those far-off days. And, ciel! Hortense de Foy was handsome enough to suit any man's taste. I see her now as she was then, beautiful as the morning. Why, I wonder, did she marry De Vannes's cousin and friend, Roquemaure, instead of him?"

Louvois shrugged his shoulders – though as respectfully as a man must perform such an action before a superior – then he said with a slight and also respectful smile, the smile of the dependent:

"Your Majesty's royal ancestor said,'Souvent femme varie.' That may explain why Mademoiselle de Foy married one man, when the world, when even your Majesty," with subtle flattery, "thought she loved another."

"My ancestor knew what he was talking about when he discussed womankind," Louis remarked. "Well, perhaps his saying explains the caprices of Hortense. I have not seen her for years. She rests ever in her provincial manoir. It may be she has changed much – her beauty vanished."

"If so, your Majesty, at least she has transmitted it to her daughter. I have seen Mademoiselle de Roquemaure, and she is beautiful as ever her mother could have been. She was the guest of Madame de Chevreuse last summer."

"I would I had seen her, too. She would have recalled Hortense de Foy as she was in her youth; perhaps," with what seemed to the wily minister something like a sigh, "my own youth, too." Then changing his tone back to his ordinary one, he asked: "There is a son, the present Marquis de Roquemaure; why does he so rarely come to court?"

"He thinks, your Majesty, of but two things: first, the inheritance of the Duc de Vannes, of which, through his father, he is the heir on arriving at his thirtieth year; and, secondly, of his horses and hounds. But when he has attained his majority and has the duke's fortune, he proposes to present himself to your Majesty. And – "

The speaker was interrupted by a scratching at the door, which brought a smile to both their faces, while Louis, starting up from his chair, exclaimed:

"Ciel! It is the half hour, and Malice is hungry"; and, thrusting his hand into the pocket of his velvet coat, he produced come crumbs of cake, which he presented to a little spaniel that rushed in and leaped about him as Louvois opened the door.4 Then, turning to the minister, he said:

"Write to the Marquis de Roquemaure that the king desires his company at court for the fêtes of the Epiphany. Also write that he desires that Mademoiselle de Roquemaure shall accompany her brother, as the king's guests. I would see this beautiful offshoot of so fair a woman as her mother was," and, bending his head, he advanced toward the door, followed by Malice. But as he was about to leave the room, Louvois observed with great humility that "doubtless his Majesty had omitted, forgotten in his royal recollections of other days, that the letter to Monsieur St. Georges, the trustworthy officer who would bring the word from the Bishop of Lodève, and from the Marquise de Roquemaure, was still unsigned."

"Ah! Monsieur St. Georges," exclaimed the king; and taking up the pen he wrote his name at the bottom of the last sheet, leaving room only for Louvois to undersign it. Then, with many bows from the minister and amid the salutes of the two sentinels outside in the corridor, he passed to Madame de Maintenon's rooms, accompanied by the little spaniel.

Left alone by himself, Louvois worked at his papers for two hours unceasingly, reading some that were already written, signing and undersigning others – among the latter the one to the Lieutenant St. Georges – and destroying some. Also, he directed much correspondence with the marshals and generals commanding in various parts of France – working at this with two secretaries whom he summoned. But at last all his voluminous despatches were finished, closed up, and directed to the different persons for whom they were intended, some to go by the king's couriers and some by the royal post. And among all the correspondence which went forth that night from the minister were two letters, one of which was addressed to the officer commanding the Régiment de Nivernois at Pontarlier, and containing those instructions for St. Georges which bade him repair forthwith to Paris. The other was directed to the Marquis de Roquemaure, at his manoir near Troyes, and was as follows:

"He sets out for Paris the last day of the year or the first of the new one. He may take his child with him. He is ordered to rest at Phélypeaux's, at madame your mother's, and at De Riverac's."

That was all, the letter containing neither date nor signature.

CHAPTER X.

MADAME LA MARQUISE

"A manoir!" exclaimed St. Georges, as he halted his horse in front of the place. "More like a fort! Mon Dieu! Madame is well installed."

She was, indeed, judging by the building which now rose before him from the side of the road along which he had come. Unapproached by any path, unsurrounded by any out-towers or fortalices, the Manoir of Roquemaure raised a great stone wall or rampart to the road; a wall almost blank on this side of windows with the exception of some arrow-slits, and at either end of it – one looking south, the other north – two tourelles, penetrated also with oillets at regular distances from each other; and by each tourelle, on its outer side, a small, high door of antique, François Premier style, or even older, through which a mounted man might ride. Doors shut fast on this wintry night, and with no sign of life at either doorways or loopholes, except in so far as a great lantern, swinging on a rope above one of the former and emitting its dull rays, might be said to testify to the place being inhabited.

"More like a fort!" again exclaimed St. Georges as he regarded the almost blank wall, "far more; yet, unless I am spied on and watched from within, not over-well guarded, though I presume my lady has no foes to guard against. Well, here's for it," and advancing his horse to the doorway he reached out his hand, took the horn that hung on a chain close by, and sounded some notes. Then, while waiting for an answer to his summons, he backed his horse into the middle of the road which bulged out semicircularly in front of the long building, and observed it carefully. "A grim, hard place," he said to himself, regarding it under the rays of the young moon that was now stronger and clearer than when it had shed its feeble rays over the hamlet of Aignay-le-Duc, "and my enemy's stronghold, or I am mistaken. A place in which a man when once entrapped might find it difficult to fight his way out of. No exit but those doors at either side – a cat could hardly slip through the arrow-slits! – and all along beyond either side a wide moat, with palisades on the inner bank. Humph! Well, let us see. If my friend in the burganet, or volant-piece, or whatever he terms his rusty headdress, is here, the fight will be inside. So, so! May the end of it be as the other was! I am at least forearmed."

As he mused thus – firm, determined, and cool, and fearing not to enter this grim abode, since she whom he loved more than his life was safe in the city half a league away – he heard the locks being turned in the doorway and saw the door open, doubtless after he had been regarded from the grille high up in it. Then a man appeared in the open space and, shading his eyes with his hands, looked out at the cavalier sitting there on his horse – a man dressed as a servitor in some dark material, elderly, and with upon his head the serving-man's wig known as la brigadière. Behind him there stood another – almost a boy, and also evidently a servant.

"What," he asked, "may monsieur desire? He summons the house somewhat late."

"To obey the order of his Majesty the king – to wait upon Madame la Marquise de Roquemaure. Say to her, if she be in her house, that Monsieur St. Georges, of the Chevaux-Légers of Nivernois, has come by order of the king to attend upon madame as he passes on his way to Paris from Pontarlier."

The man bowed as he heard the words "by order of the king"; then he said he would carry his message. Would monsieur be so good as to wait until he returned? And monsieur answering that he would do so, the other withdrew, leaving the door open, and the younger servant standing in it, regarding St. Georges, who still continued to cast his eyes over the ancient pile.

Presently the man came back and said:

"Madame la marquise bids me say that any one ordered to visit her by his Majesty is welcome. Will monsieur be good enough to enter? Monsieur doubtless stops the night – a room shall be at his service. Madame and her daughter sup half an hour later; she trusts monsieur will honour her by joining the repast."

"Her daughter!" exclaimed St. Georges; "she has a daughter! Indeed!" Then remembering himself, he replied: "Make my compliments to madame and say that I will join her. Yet, my friend, excuse me to her, too, for the manner in which I shall appear before her. I have ridden far in rough weather; I am scarce presentable."

"Madame will understand," the servitor answered respectfully. "As will Mademoiselle Aurélie. – Gaston," to the younger servant, "take monsieur's horse."

"And," said St. Georges, "be very attentive to it, I pray you. No soldier ever had a better or a truer one." He would have liked to see it fed and littered down himself, but could hardly insist on doing so; therefore – though he feared he was in the house of a deadly enemy! – he was forced to let the trusty creature, the animal on whose fleetness and strength not only his journey, but maybe his life depended – be taken away to some unknown stable.

"Have no fear, monsieur," said the old man. "Gaston loves animals better than his own kind. Even though you were his most hated foe, your beast would be sacred to him."

"I am glad to hear it," replied St. Georges, as the youth, with a smile, led the horse away. Then to himself he said, "I only hope that, should he know I am his master's enemy, he will be equally good to it!"

And now, as he followed the old man it was revealed to him how inappropriate was the name of manoir to this place, it having indeed been, if it was no longer altogether so, a strongly fortified residence, and doubtless had served as such in bygone ages. An outer court led into a second or inner one, which seemed to constitute a hall, since it was roofed and more or less furnished. On the walls hung arms of all kinds, both ancient and of the period of the day, and ranging from battle-axes, maces and two-handled swords, boar-spears, halberds, and crossbows to more modern rapiers, pikes, musketoons, pistols, and blunderbusses. Also about this court or hall there was much armour, plate, mail, both gambeson and chain, and many headpieces, gantlets, shields, etc.

"Doubtless," thought St. Georges as he followed the old man past all these and up a broad staircase leading to the first floor; "it was from this choice armoury that my friend of the burganet drew his protection. Faith! he had enough to choose from!"

Escorted along a passage on this flight, the old man showed him into a room comfortably furnished as a sleeping apartment – vastly different from that of Phélypeaux at Dijon – and informed him that he would return later, in a quarter of an hour, to escort him to the presence of madame la marquise, who would receive him for supper – after which and having proffered his services as valet, which St. Georges said he had no need for, he left the room.

The toilet made by the cavalier was necessarily short, since a soldier en route in those days had to depend upon any attentions to his appearance which he might be able to pay by whatever opportunities came in his way. There were, however, in this room all the articles generally to be found in a country house of the time – a large metal basin and ewer of fresh water, some brushes, and a mirror – and with these he was able to attend to his hands, face, and hair, to remove some of the stains of travel from his clothes and long brown boots, and to make himself sufficiently presentable. At first, because he was a gentleman and could not suppose that treachery might be intended him, at least before ladies, he had thought to leave his sword behind, but a second reflection prompted him to take it with him. It was true no attack was likely to be made while he sat at meat with the woman whose hospitality he was receiving, but a sword, he reflected, was part of a soldier's dress and therefore not out of place, and – it was, perhaps, not safe to leave it behind!

Having decided thus and the servitor not being yet returned, he made a slight inspection of his room, as became one who was in a stranger's house, and that stranger a person whose friendliness toward him might – if he knew as much as he suspected of his history – be doubtful. The room itself was a fairly large one, hung with tapestry representing, as he supposed, scenes from the ancient romancists, and lit by a window let into the upper part of the wall, so high up that no one could see out of it except by standing on the table. Of doors he could perceive no other but the one by which he had entered; nor on the floor, which was of polished wood or parquet, was there any sign that entrance could be made thereby – such entrance being a not uncommon thing in ancient houses of the type of this manoir. On the walls, let in between the tapestry and either lightly fastened to the panelling or painted thereon, were two full-length pictures – one of a man in full armour with his visor up and showing a stern, heavily mustached face; the other of a young woman in antique costume.

Satisfied by this inspection – made as best might be by the feeble rays of the lamp which the old man had left behind for his use – St. Georges sat down upon the chair by the bed and waited for the servitor to come and escort him to his hostess, and meditated – a little anxiously, perhaps – on what his interview with her and her daughter might bring forth.

"Is she, I wonder," he thought, "the she-wolf I have pictured her to myself as being? Does she know, for truth, who and what I am – who and what I believe myself to be? She may! It may indeed be so. If all reports are true that I have been able to gather and piece together in my remote life, far away from Paris and the world, she loved De Vannes once – was his affianced wife. What may she not therefore have known of his past? May know that I stand between this son of her husband and his desire, his succession; may stand, indeed, between her and the enjoyment for her lifetime of what her husband would have enjoyed had he lived. And more – far more – does she know of the attack on me three nights ago? Did she encourage – perhaps prompt – that attack? I must watch her, study her for myself! The time is at hand, surely."

It was, indeed, for at that moment a knocking at the door told him that the old man had come back for him. And so he went forth, prepared to meet his hostess.

His conductor led him down the great stairs and back into the great hall; then he knocked at a door on the left, and, on being bidden to enter, opened the door and ushered St. Georges into the room.

A room large and vast, hung with great tapestries – representing here battle and hunting scenes – with, at the end, a great oriel window over which more tapestry was drawn, but beneath which could be seen the brackets, or corbels, supporting it. Near this was the great marble chimney-piece, the jambs richly carved with figures, the mantel six feet from the floor, and in the grate a huge wood fire burning. And by a table in front of this there sat, as he saw by the light of a large clear lamp, two women, one almost old and the other young.

Coming in out of the sombre hall, the light of the fire and lamp dazzled him so that at first he could see nothing beyond the fact that they were two female forms which rose at his entrance; then, while he advanced to meet them as they came forward, he heard a soft voice say:

"Monsieur St. Georges visits on behalf of his Majesty. He is very welcome. – Monsieur, let me present you to my daughter, Mademoiselle de Roquemaure."

In the instant that he was bowing with easy grace before them, and while they in their turn observed the tall, gallant form of the soldier, his long, curling hair, long mustaches, and somewhat weather-worn riding dress, there flashed through his mind the thought: "Can this be the she-wolf who sends her whelp forth to midnight murder? Can she have had a hand in that foul attack?" Then, aloud, he murmured his thanks for her reception, and looking his hostess straight in the face, observed the features of the woman who, as he believed, his father had once loved.

Her hair was almost white now, yet rich and beautiful, and still with some of the original brown left in it, her eyes soft and clear, her features delicate and telling plainly of the beauty that had been. And as he gazed at the daughter standing by her side – a girl but just entering womanhood, a girl whose hazel eyes looked out at him from under her dark lashes, and whose colour came and went as she returned his bow with stately courtesy – he knew what her mother had once been like.

"Monsieur has ridden far," the marquise said, as she motioned him to a seat by the fire where they had been sitting, and regarded him with interest; "has come a long, perhaps perilous, voyage from Pontarlier? The roads at this season are none too safe, they say, in spite of the Maréchausse. Yet, monsieur is a soldier."

St. Georges bowed in reply – though swift as lightning there flashed through his mind the thought that the words "perilous voyage" showed that she knew, doubtless, of one great danger to which he had been exposed. Then he replied:

"As madame remarks, it was long and has been somewhat eventful. Yet, as I have said, I ride in the king's service. It may be that you know that, madame?"

"I know," she replied, "that you were to call at the Bishop of Lodève's – ce Phélypeaux! – and take from him one word to the king, or to Louvois. Also that you are charged to take another word, perhaps a similar one, from me. Is it not so?"

Remembering what the bishop had said, recalling his utterance – "There is no need of secrecy; you may frankly tell her" – he answered: "It is so, madame. The bishop has sent the word. It may be that you will send the same by me when I ride forth to-morrow."

Her glance rested on him ere she answered. It seemed as if her reply depended on some unknown, subtle something pertaining to his mind or face which she was endeavouring to decipher or understand. Then she let her eyes fall upon the logs burning in the grate, and said:

"How can I say? You do not as yet tell me the word the bishop has sent."

Again he recalled Phélypeaux's remark that there was no need of secrecy. Therefore he answered, "The word that the bishop has sent, madame, is 'Yes.'"

"Ah!" she said, and again her glance scanned his face half eagerly, half wistfully, while now he noticed that Mademoiselle de Roquemaure's hand stole into hers as she sat by her side.

"Ah! It is as I thought: the word is 'Yes.'"

"That is it, madame."

"Come," she said, moving from her seat as the old servitor appeared in the shadows far down the room – "come; supper is served. Monsieur St. Georges, I pray you give me your arm"; and she placed her hand on it, and, her daughter following, went with him to the door. Then, ere they reached the corridor, she, looking up into his face, said quietly:

"It would be best – I – I – have not the same word to send as Phélypeaux. The one that I shall ask you to carry will be 'No.'"

CHAPTER XI.

THE MARQUISE TELLS A STORY

It was a vastly different repast from that of the Bishop of Lodève's which was offered to St. Georges, although the difference consisted more, perhaps, in the manner of cooking and serving than in aught else. The wine, which was excellent – though no better than that last bottle from the old Clos – did not come in at the end, but cheered the fasting and wayworn man from the commencement; the viands were in good condition and properly prepared; the soup was not dishwater, but of a good, sufficient quality. Moreover, here, as in the great salon, a cheerful fire blazed on the hearth, instead of the spluttering, snow-soaked logs that had hissed and smoked in Phélypeaux's house. Also, he had for company two women, each beautiful according to her time of life – women soft, gentle, and well bred – instead of the cynical bishop of whom all France told strange tales.

Sitting there, his eyes resting sometimes on the budding loveliness of Aurélie de Roquemaure, sometimes on the mellowed sweetness of the face of the marquise, St. Georges forced himself to discard from his mind the thought which he had now come to deem unworthy – the thought that treachery lurked in their bosoms against him – that, though the present marquis might be the man who had led the foul and despicable attack on him in the graveyard at Aignay-le-Duc, they had had part or share in it. For, he told himself, to believe this was to believe that there was no faith nor honesty in womankind.

Yet one thing, at the commencement of the meal, and when the old servant and another had withdrawn from the room, had almost served to keep his suspicions alive. The marquise – as far as a woman of rank and high breeding might do so – had asked him many questions about himself, while Aurélie, following the rigidness which prevailed in French life of the time, sat by, a silent listener, scarce joining in the conversation at all.

And St. Georges, moved perhaps by the company in which he found himself, and, soldier-like, scorning to conceal any part of his history except that which he deemed absolutely necessary – he making no reference whatever to the name of De Vannes – told them much of his existence. His career in Holland until the peace; his lonely life in garrison; his marriage with a young girl, a daughter of the middle classes; her death, and the little child she had left to his care, were all touched upon by him and listened to attentively – indeed, absorbingly. And so, at last, he came to the summons to Paris, to his setting forth, to his stay at Dijon, and the attack made upon him and Boussac.

To both women this portion of his narrative caused great excitement. For, stately as the marquise was, environed, so to speak, by all the dignity of the haute noblesse of the days of the Great King, she could not prevent her agitation from being apparent to him. Her white, jewelled hand quivered as she raised it to her breast; her eyes sparkled as they might have sparkled when she was her daughter's age; while, as for that daughter, her bosom rose and fell with her rapid breathing, her colour came and went – once she was as pale as death, the next moment her face suffused.

"The cowards!" exclaimed the marquise; "the base, cowardly dogs, to attack two men thus, and one hampered with a defenceless child! Quel tour de lâche! Oh! sir, I would to God your brand or that of your brave companion had struck the poltroon, the craven who sheltered himself behind his visor, his death blow! I would to God one of your swords had found out his heart as they found out the hearts of his mercenaries!"

The sympathy of this graceful woman – sympathy that roused her from the well-bred calmness which was her natural state, to one of almost fury – earned the deepest respect and gratitude of St. Georges; yet he looked at her almost with amazement as he bowed and murmured some words of appreciation. For there was no acting here, he knew; yet she was De Roquemaure's stepmother, the kinswoman of the man whom he believed to be his and his child's attempted assassin!

And Aurélie de Roquemaure, too – what of her? A glance from under his eyes showed him that still the beauteous face was agitated as it had been before, that all which her mother had said was re-echoed by her.

Again the marquise spoke, though now she rose from the table as she did so.

"Sir," she said, "never rest until that man and you stand face to face, point to point; since, until that happens, your child's life will not be safe. For you, a man, a soldier, it matters not – is best, indeed, that you should meet him and end his miserable existence forever. I pray you may do ere long. And, when you do meet him, slay him like a dog! It is the only way."