Clash of Arms

Yet once more she roused herself, the flame still flickering in the lamp of life, though, now, as she spoke, her words were incoherent and without sequence, making it difficult for him to piece them together.

"My father could not live," she whispered: "He must see me. A night's journey, at least, to Dorchester. And no horses. No horses to be had. None! Ah! what was to do? And nigh fifty leagues-nigh fifty leagues."

"What is she telling me?" Andrew wondered, gazing at her.

"Hark how their hoofs ring upon the ground," she went on, speaking rapidly, strongly also. "Hark! See, too, how the carriage sways; listen to the crack of the whips. And he will live, he tells me; will surely live till I reach him. Live to bless me, his child! Away! On! Always on! Now across a moor, a heath; now a village; and now rest. A change of horses. Ha! we grow nearer. He brings me drink and food; drink, warm and spiced. And, see, the summer dawn is coming; the rooks leave the trees. Soon-soon we shall be there. I can feel the sea breeze on my cheek-feel it, inhale it-we are on the sea. We shall be there soon, he tells me-on the sea."

"On the sea!" muttered Andrew to himself. "On the sea! To reach Dorchester!"

"Over the sea, now. Over. Away. We draw near. Yet. Yet-I do not recognize my own country, my father's land. Why do these people speak the French tongue? What plains, what mountains are these? It is not Dorset; not-not Dorset; the door opens. See, there is Clemence-how she scowls at me-and Beaujos. Ha! look, Andrew; look, he scowls too. Look! Look! Look! Where am I? My God! a prisoner. In his power. Philip! Father! Andrew! Save me. Save me. Save-"

She fell back exhausted, her hands trembling on the coverlet, plucking and clutching at it, too; her hair dank and heavy with wet, her face as marble, and her lips flecked with foam.

"Philip! Philip," she moaned. "Philip, save me!"

"Be calm, Marion, there is none can harm you. I am by your side. Here."

"And Philip?"

"He-he is not far now!"

"Thank God! Yet Philip-Andrew-oh! I cannot see your face, know not which it is; keep him away from me. Kill him rather-kill him-kill him dead. Hark he is coming up the stairs; he is outside; listen. And Clemence, too; can you not hear her? Hark how she speaks to him. Calls him coward, villain, base, vile-ah! like his mother! You hear him?"

She raised herself by some last remaining force within her, stretched out her hands, and seemed to push away some hateful form from her, whispered once-with horror unspeakable in her glazed eyes-"Marry you! Better death!" then fell back once more. Yet still again her lips moved, again she muttered "Kill him! Kill him dead!"

After these last words she lay quietly for a considerable space of time, her breathing calm and tranquil, her bosom heaving gently, the wave of life receding peacefully. Yet once or twice she murmured to herself, also uttered Philip's name and her father's, then was quiet and still again-so still that Andrew knew not at some moments whether she was sleeping or dying; whether she was asleep or dead.

But the last change came ere long; she murmured now of the fire from which she thought they were still fleeing; of the black night, and, next, the breaking dawn. Then, half rose up in her bed once more, and held out feebly, piteously, her hands.

"Andrew," she whispered, "Andrew, how dark the night is. I can scarce see your face. Will daylight never come?"

"Soon, sweet; soon, poor one," he said, standing now close by her, his arms around her, his voice deep and low. "The light is coming fast."

"And Philip. Will he not come? I shall see him?"

"Soon. Very soon."

"Never more to part?"

"Never more to part," he answered in broken tones. "We shall be happy always? Always together?"

"Always now. For ever!"

CHAPTER XXXII

MORE LIGHT

"Yes," Debrasques said, after Andrew told him of Marion's death and also of all that, in the delirium of her end, she had revealed. "I knew something of what she informed you. Knew that he had brought her to France, had run away with her from an Englishman of your name. Thought at first, when we met in Paris-after you helped me with those vagabonds-that you were he. You remember my agitation?"

"Yes. I remember." Then, reflectively-putting the fire logs together with the toe of his boot-he went on: "Yet-yet-do not be hurt with me, Valentin-but-such an affair as that is deemed in France only one of gallantry-deemed so, too, in England now, since Charles has returned. Why, therefore, was the agitation of which you speak so great? He was a good swordsman, could hold his own well-in our encounter 'twas chance as much as skill gave me the advantage. Was it fear for his life-of my vengeance-that unnerved you so?"

"Nay. Nay," the other said. "Nay! Rather the fear of disgrace to our family if he were exposed-the fear of the punishment Louis would mete out to him for his deception. For his lie."

"His deception! His lie! To whom-Louis?"

"Ay," Debrasques answered. "Ay. And to Turenne. Barillon, our Minister to your Court, sent over a complaint that had been made by her father-it reached Louis' ears-he sent it on to the Marshal-to Turenne. Then-then-De Bois-Vallée had to give an explanation and-nothing short of his word that he and the lady were married would have saved him from disgrace-from expulsion from Turenne's bodyguard."

"And," said Andrew quickly, "he gave that word?"

"Heaven help him! Yes. So, also, did I."

"You, Valentin?"

"Yes. Believing him. He told me-told my mother-in our own house, that she came from England with him willingly enough-that they were married when they landed at Ambleteuse."

"And every word was a lie!"

"So we knew later-so I found out. And in a marvellous way."

"How?"

"From the woman now in this house-the woman who watches ever upstairs by that poor girl's body-"

"Clemence?"

"Ay, Clemence! You know her history?"

"Something of it. Also I know-heaven grant I may never forget! – that to her it is owing that I am not lying choked to death in that garret. By a chance only that I am not also lying a mass of charred ashes. As well might that wing have caught fire as the others while I still lay shackled in it, and then farewell to Andrew Vause and his opportunity for saving Marion from that death, if no other. And 'tis to Clemence that all is owing. Yet-how ever to have believed it!"

"She is the strangest creature," Debrasques said; "a vast combination of good and evil promptings. Half woman-sometimes half tigress-demoniac! She thought his father loved her-cherished the belief that he would marry her for her wild beauty-I have heard my mother say that in her youth she was as beautiful as the Queen of Night-went mad for a time when he did marry-thought my cousin was her own son. Then-for she would never quit the house-she passed her life alternately loving him and-torturing him, so that, at last, she was never allowed to see the child for fear that she would do it mortal injury. Again, later, when both his father and mother were dead, her love for him was another change in her insanity-until he brought that poor dead one upstairs to the house-"

"And then," said Andrew-"and then?"

As he asked the question the door behind them opened slightly-had not both been sitting with their backs to it and gazing into the fire, they would have seen four long, slim fingers grasping it. Would have seen, too, a moment later, the form of Clemence standing behind them. Yet, in another instant, they knew that she was there, heard her voice give the answer to Andrew's question-heard her say:

"Then she hated him."

Springing from their seats they turned and faced her-appalled almost by the change that had come over her.

The face-always pallid since Andrew had first seen it-was livid now to the lips, the eyes dim and sunken into their sockets-the full lips shook and quivered. And-was it fancy on both their parts, or was it the case? – it seemed to them that the dark hair was now doubly streaked with grey-was far whiter than it had been a day or so ago when she and the others were saved from the ruined house.

"Then-she hated him. Listen. Let me tell the story," and as she spoke she advanced to where they were, and stood before them.

"I hated him because of what he had done to this poor helpless girl-one could not help but love her! – hated him, too, because I saw another victim to the insensate passions of all his race. Told him he was a coward, a villain, to thus betray a woman, bring her a prisoner from her own land. Yet-listen-there is one thing you do not know, neither of you know. It was no fault of his that they were not man and wife-as he tricked you into believing they had become, Valentin Debrasques. He loved the woman dearly, madly-again and again he besought her to marry him. In that respect he was no villain."

"Thank God!" broke from the Marquis's lips as he heard these words-from Andrew Vause there came no utterance. In truth, he was amazed. Had he misjudged the man after all-had-? But he paused in his reflections-remembering that the allurement of the woman from her own land, the breaking thereby of Philip's heart, the long detention of Marion, were sufficient villainy. Again Clemence went on.

"When he returned hastily from his post in Turenne's guard, but a little while ere you yourself came here" – and she directed her eyes towards Andrew-"it was to cast himself once more at her feet, to beg, to pray, to implore that she would pardon him for all the wrong he had done-that she would be his wife. Great God how he besought her. And, when she turned still a deaf ear to him-answering that, sooner would she linger out years here, sooner die here than grant what he demanded-ay! though she remained a prisoner till she was old and grey, he besought her in another manner. Told her that, already, he had suffered enough for his sin-that there was one who sought his life, who ere long would obtain it-was implacable-and that, now, worse even than loss of life threatened him. That this sin was known to more than one, that his honour was in peril-unless he could stand before his King with her for wife at his side, he was a ruined, broken man. That nothing could save him-even though he should abjure France and join with the Duke it would but forestall the King's vengeance for a time. Soon Louis would triumph over Lorraine, and then he would still be disgraced."

"And her answer?" asked Andrew. "Yet-what need the question! I know it." And to himself he muttered, "thank God, she was true to Philip. Even though he is in his grave, thank God for that," while, even as he so thought, another reflection ran swiftly through his mind.

"Perhaps-perhaps," he pondered, "he knows all now. Perhaps!"

"What more to tell!" Clemente went on, standing still before those two, controlling herself as best she could-mastering, as it seemed to Andrew, some terrible agony that racked her soul. "What more? You came here, entered his house as none have ever entered it before, your life hung on a thread a dozen times; you know not how nearly it was taken as you lay stretched in that hall ere you were carried to the garret-how nearly again-by-but no matter! And in your coming I saw her chance, recognized that you who feared nothing might open the way to freedom for that poor, injured lamb-show her the road back to him she loves. Alas! 'twas not to be."

"Alas!" also said Andrew, "it never could have been. He whom she loved had gone before her."

"Dead!" Clemente said, staring at him. "He is dead? Her lover-your brother?"

"Yes, dead."

"Did she know it?" the woman asked, almost hissed, as she bent forward and touched his arm, "did she know it-and die cursing him?"

"Nay, nay, she died cursing none-left the world with peace in her heart, upon her lips, believing that they would soon meet again now. As they will-as they have done," and he turned his face away from her and Debrasques so that they might not see his grief.

Later that night, when Andrew and the Marquis sat once more together in front of the fire, and while Clemence still watched above in the room where the dead girl lay-she was to be buried in the morning in a remote portion of the abbey grounds, the noble ladies of Remiremont having permitted that, in spite of her not being of their faith-the Marquis spoke to him and said:

"Is the feud ended now, Captain Vause, the task accomplished? Are you content?"

"Content?" Andrew said, looking up at him. "Content with what-failure?"

"Have you failed?"

"Ay, from first to last. See! Reflect! My brother lies in his grave unavenged-to-morrow she will lie in hers. Both victims to that man. And-he-is free."

"Free! Free! He is ruined, beggared, bankrupt in honour, too. His career is ended-he can never rejoin the army nor serve France again-even though you should spare him, he should not draw sword again for my country. I would prevent it. Would myself tell the King. Also he must fly Lorraine; they, his own countrymen, will never let him obtain another denier from his land. He must be an outcast-proscribed-a vagabond on the face of the earth. Will that not suffice?"

"No," Andrew said, bending across the table to look into the young man's eyes. "No, Valentin Debrasques, it cannot suffice. If it could-for your sake-I would be content. But-my brother is unavenged, Marion Wyatt is unavenged-De Bois-Vallée and Andrew Vause are alive. The feud ends when one or both are dead. Not before."

"He said to her-to Clemence," whispered Debrasques, "that you were implacable."

"He said true. In such a cause, Valentin, I am implacable. Listen to me, deem me pagan, bloodthirsty-what you will-but understand me. I was a vaurien from my boyhood, always in trouble, doing ever the wrong thing-yet never losing the love of two creatures on this earth. My mother-and Philip. Because of that, because when I was a man, a soldier-a bravo, some called me! – because of their love for me, because the door of our old home stood open always when I turned my wandering steps that way; because, too, there was never aught of reproach but only words of love and welcome for greeting-sweeter to the ears of him who has been homeless for weeks and months together than to any other! – I loved, I worshipped those two."

He paused a moment-and, to the younger man gazing up at him, it seemed as if the firm, strong soldier was overmastered by an emotion such as none could have ever dreamt would sway him-then went on.

"Loved, worshipped them. Became at last, through that love, I think, a better, more thoughtful man. Grew careful of my reputation, did naught that should bring discredit to them, to the old name I bore. Do you wonder, therefore, that, when I saw my brother lowered to his grave-knowing well what had driven him to it-I took the vow I did, swore that the man who was the primary cause of all should himself find his grave at my hands?"

"I do not wonder," Valentin Debrasques replied softly-"I understand."

"And," Andrew went on, "there is one other thing. I owe this man an opportunity of crossing swords with me again-villain though he is-and he shall have it."

"Yet he seeks not that reparation. Has escaped, fled. What will you do? Follow him across the world-perhaps never to find him even then?"

"No. Again listen. I do not believe I shall have far to go. Valentin, it is borne in on me that De Bois-Vallée is at no very great distance from here now."

"What!"

"I believe that he is secreted somewhere in that house of his at this moment."

"At Bois-le-Vaux?"

"Yes. At Bois-le-Vaux."

"It is impossible."

"Nay-it is most probable. Let me repeat to you what I have said happened at the moment when he escaped from my grasp. The garret was full of smoke-dense, black smoke-none could see an inch beyond themselves. Then-in an instant, he was gone. Yet-where? Not backwards to the corridor; that was impossible. There, even if he had regained it, he could not have lived ten minutes-in the garret itself, we should have been suffocated in the same space of time had I not been able to get the trap open-moreover, he could not have passed behind us. We were all together-Marion's form extended along the floor. That was impossible."

"And the roof? Might there be no way down from that?"

"There may be, yet it seems unlikely. For, see. Even though there were some opening, some descent-'tis possible-I searched not the leads as carefully as afterwards I searched the garret floor! – to where would it lead him? Back into that burning house again."

"And the shaft?"

"Ay! the shaft. The oubliette. 'Tis in truth there, I do believe, that he escaped."

"Yet you have said you probed it as far as you were able, flung down the link of chain to test its depth, and found nothing. How, therefore, is it likely that he can have escaped by that road?"

"That, I purpose to once more seek out. At best my examination was but hasty. A second search may reveal more."

"A second search. You intend to make one? In that ruined house-the walls likely enough to fall at any moment and overwhelm you, bury you beneath them. You will do that?"

"I will-and ere many hours are passed. To-morrow, when-she-has been laid in her grave I make my way to Bois-le-Vaux again. And," he continued-speaking now in a tone that, almost unknowingly to Debrasques, carried conviction to his mind, "the clue will be there to his whereabouts. The end will not be far off then."

"Let us go together."

"You wish to go? Remember, it is not the end itself-but the beginning of the end only. If he has escaped down that oubliette it may be that he is a hundred leagues away ere now, that I may have far to go ere I come up with him. Your road lies towards Paris and your mother's house, Valentin-mine leads I know not where."

"No matter. At least let me accompany you to Bois-le-Vaux."

"So be it. We will set out together."

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE LAST MEETING

Marion Wyatt lay in her grave under the west wall of the burying ground belonging to the Abbey of Remiremont-she was at rest for ever now.

And, on the road to Bois-le-Vaux, to the house which had been her prison for so long, Andrew Vause and the Marquis Debrasques rode together, bent upon finding out, if possible, the manner in which De Bois-Vallée had eluded the grasp of the former on that night of horror.

Strapped to their saddles they carried with them some implements which they thought might be of considerable assistance in enabling them-or at least one of them-to descend into that yawning oubliette, since down it Andrew Vause was determined to go, even though it sank into the bowels of the earth. These implements consisted of, first, a solid iron bar which would stretch easily across the diameter of the oubliette's mouth, also a couple of lanterns, then some grappling hooks which would be of use in catching hold of any projection, or side of the shaft, in their descent, if necessary, and next, a coil of rope strong as that which Andrew had previously used in his flight across the chasm, and of the same length, namely, thirty metres.

"For," said he, when overnight they made these purchases in Plombières, "the house is but half that height; therefore, by the time I have descended some fifteen mètres I shall be on the level of the earth. And, if the shaft goes below the earth as much again, and then ceases not-which is scarce likely-why, the rope must be got down, and I go on still."

"Yet, how for that?" asked Debrasques. "How to do it? I am resolved to follow you, even though 'tis into the bowels of the earth-how shall it be lowered, therefore, from above? We want a third, and one who is trustworthy, in our company."

"Nay," replied Andrew, "we want no third, and we will have none-trustworthy or not. Laurent was trustworthy, and he died in keeping his pledge. Jean has disappeared, dispersed into air with all the other besiegers of the ill-fated house. There is none other. Nor, if there were, would we enlist him. The work shall be done alone by us."

Marion had been laid to rest at daybreak of this wintry morning, therefore it was still very early when they drew near the half-demolished mansion, and, as they entered the estate, saw its blackened walls in which yawned the great gaps where the wings had partly fallen, and observed the still larger gap where the whole of one side was gone. Also, they saw the gable chimneys still standing on that portion of the roof to which Andrew and the women had escaped from the garret-the stack of chimneys to which he had fastened that first rope after he had taken his flight across.

The desolation was complete-was penetrating to the senses of those who now regarded it-yet this very desolation seemed an appropriate monument to the downfall of the race which had so long been known and feared as "The Wolves of Lorraine." For the family was gone, extinct now-the last member of it, Camille De Bois-Vallée, could never build it up nor restore it again, any more than he could build up and restore the house which had sheltered that family for generations-'twas perhaps well, therefore, that it should go too. In years to come, these now blackened walls would tell the tale of how the vengeful Lorrainers had swept away at last those who had used their power to trample on and ill-treat them.

Against the side of the building, under the shattered window from which the three had eventually escaped, they found the logs and billets of wood piled up precisely as they had been left-there were none to disturb them now! – and, leaving their horses in the very outhouse where the wood had been discovered, they entered at once the ruined mansion.

"'Twill take but little time to reach the roof," Andrew said, "and as little to see if by chance he found a passage that way. Come, Valentin." Whereon, each carrying some of the necessaries they had brought with them, they entered by the window.

To the younger man the scene of ruin and devastation on which he gazed was appalling-also, it was saddening. For, as a child, and even later in his still short existence, he had been here often-had run up and down those huge staircases which were now torn from their settings and lying in ruins below; in those rooms by which they passed swiftly-and in one of which the dead body of Beaujos was stretched, as Andrew knew-he had slept many a night; from that great yawning doorway, now open to the cold wind that blew up from the west and whistled through the empty vastness of the hall, he had issued forth often enough, bent on a hawking or a hunting party.

And now-what a scene to gaze upon! What desolation and silence-what an atmosphere of death and ruin, and the decay that time would bring, prevailed over all!

They stood at last upon the roof of this remaining wing, arriving at it by the way the others had left a few nights ago, their feet embedded in the dank, decaying leaves blown on it by the autumn winds-leaves now becoming skeletons under the winter rain and frost-and made inspection of the whole to see what outlet there might be for the fugitive. Yet there was none. Upon those leads there was no opening beneath all that rotting mass-as they found quickly enough-nothing except the trapdoor leading to the garret, to which they now returned.

"As for the chimney stacks," said Andrew, "they are impossible. Observe their height; he could never have reached their summit alone and unaided-and-even though he had-what then? Come-'tis time to inspect the oubliette."

In the dull, dim light that penetrated to the garret from the open trapdoor above, they made their preparations swiftly-indeed, there were but few to make. A turn or two of the rope (already previously knotted at intervals of four feet to aid in the descent) around the iron bar was made by Andrew, he fastening it by what is known to sailors as a bowline knot, and he was ready to descend.

Then he sat down upon the edge of the oubliette, grasped the bar, and, with his two hands, worked himself immediately over the middle of it, the rope being between his legs.

"Now, Valentin," he said, "the search begins. What shall I find below?" and as he spoke he ignited his tinder, communicated the flame to the lamp attached to his belt, and peered down into the depths beneath him.

But the rays of the lamp showed nothing-nothing beyond the bare walls of the shaft, built, as was the lower part of the house itself, of stone. And from up that shaft there came a cool, damp air, that made itself perceptible even as he sat dangling over it.