Book: An Enemy To The King

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What? Now that I was here, now that my capture seemed certain, would she
pretend that she had not acted for La Chatre against me? She did not know
that I had met Pierre, and what he had confessed to me.

"Mock me as you will, mademoiselle!" said I.

"Mistrust me as _you_ will, monsieur! I tell you, I would not have you
undergo the smallest harm!"

"You well sustain the jest!"

"Before God," she answered, "I do not jest!"

There was in her voice a ring of earnestness that seemed impossible to be
counterfeit. Puzzled, I looked at her, trying to read her countenance.

"Yet," I said, presently, "you were a spy upon me!"

"I was, God pity me! Scourge me with rough words as you will; I merit
every blow!"

"And you came here to see La Chatre," I went on, "perhaps because you
feared discovery, perhaps because you thought your work of betrayal was
done" (for I thought that she may have known of the midnight march of the
governor's troops), "perhaps to finish that work!"

"Now you wrong me at last!" she cried. "Thank God, I am not as bad as you
can think me!"

"Then you did not come here to see La Chatre?"

"I came to see him, I admit! I was seeking him when I met you here. But
it was not because I feared discovery that I left you, nor because I
thought my miserable work was done, nor to finish it."

I saw now that she was in great agitation. She tottered forward to the
table and put her hand on it, and leaned on it for support.

It seemed as if she were speaking the truth, as if there might be some
explanation of all, but that her inward excitement was too great, her
ideas too confused, for her to assemble the facts and present them in
proper order. It seemed that she could answer my accusations only as they
came, that she acknowledged herself guilty in part towards me, and yet
did not wish me harm.

"Mademoiselle," I said, dropping my harshness and irony, "to believe you
true would make me as happy as I now am wretched. But why is your boy
here, in the governor's service? Why did he carry from you the secret of
my hiding-place?"

Mademoiselle shuddered and gave a gesture of despair, as if there were
indeed no defence for her.

"Why are the troops away, if not in quest of me?" I asked. "We saw them
going towards Maury by the river road."

"I did not know that the troops had gone, or were going," she said. "I
swear to you, monsieur, if troops have gone to Maury this night, I had
nothing to do with their going!"

"But they knew what road to take, and how to find my hiding-place. La
Chatre knew that."

"Alas, it is true!" she moaned, while tears ran down her face. "I sent
him word!"

"You sent him word! You learned how to reach La Tournoire's hiding-place
from the man you thought his friend, and you sent the secret to the
governor, whom you knew to be his enemy? And yet you are not as bad as I
can think you!"

"I sent him word of your hiding-place; but he was not to seize you till I
had arranged a meeting with you alone and informed him of it!"

"You confess this! Oh, mademoiselle!"

"Consider! Did I arrange that meeting?"

"You had not time. It was but this afternoon you learned La Chatre was at
Clochonne."

"Yet, instead of coming here to-night I might have done it, monsieur. I
ran no risk of discovery in staying at Maury. You would still have had
faith in me had I remained there. And it was easy to do; it was all
planned. You know the old tower by the spring, to which we walked the
other day. I was to send Hugo at midnight to M. de la Chatre, with word
to have his men hidden there to-morrow at sunset. To-morrow I was to go
off into the forest with Jeannotte, and at sunset she was to come to you,
saying that I was at the tower grievously injured. You would have gone,
monsieur, without waiting to call any of your men; you would have come at
my summons on the instant, to the end of the world--"

"You knew that? Truly, the heart of man is an open page to women!"

"It was easily to be done, monsieur. Hugo could have shown the troops the
way. The place was well chosen. Neither your sentinels nor the inn people
would have seen the troops. They would have hidden there in wait for you.
So we had planned it, I and Jeannotte; but I abandoned it. I gave no
orders to Hugo. I came to Clochonne."

"Yes, knowing, perchance, that I would come after you. You thought to
make of Clochonne a trap into which to lead me! You were careful to let
it be known where you were coming, that I might find out and follow!"

"I told only my maid and Hugo, in a moment of excitement, when I scarce
knew what I said. I no more desired you to follow than I desired myself
to stay at Maury to call you to the ambush!"

"The ambush!" I echoed. "You forget one thing, mademoiselle, when you
take credit for renouncing the ambush. The troops have gone already to
Maury. Had they found me there, they would have made your ambush
unnecessary or impossible."

"But I knew nothing of their going to Maury," she said, helplessly. "It
was not to have been so. You were to have been taken by an ambush, I say!
If the governor sent troops to attack you to-night, he must have changed
the plan."

Now, I could indeed believe this, for I had overheard the plan suggested
by Montignac, and her very talk about the ambush seemed to show that his
plan had been adopted without change. In that case, she might not have
known of the movement of the troops. La Chatre might have decided, at
any time, to change his plan. Perhaps he had done this, and, for lack of
means or for some other reason, had not tried to inform her, or had
tried in vain.

She stood like an accused woman before her judges, incapable of
formulating her defence, expressing her distress by an occasional low,
convulsive sob. What did her conduct mean? Was her demeanor genuine or
assumed? Why did she confess one thing and deny another? Why did she seem
guilty and not guilty?

"I am puzzled more and more," I said. "I thought that, when I saw you, I
should at least learn the truth. I should at least know whether to love
you as an angel, who had been wronged alike by circumstances and by
report, or as a beautiful demon, who would betray me to my death; but I
am not even to know what you are. You betrayed my hiding-place. So far,
at least, you are guilty; but you did not arrange the ambush that you
were to have arranged. For so much you claim credit. Whatever are your
wishes in regard to me, they shall be fulfilled. I am yours, to be sent
to my death, if that is your will. What would you have me do?"

"Save yourself!" she whispered, eagerly, her eyes suddenly aflame with a
kind of hope, as if the possibility had just occurred to her.

Was this pretence? Did she know that I could not escape, and did she yet
wish, for shame's or vanity's sake, to appear well in my eyes?

"I shall not leave you," I said, quietly.

"Hark!" she whispered. "Some one comes!"

She looked towards the door near the head of the bed, the door that was
slightly ajar. She looked aghast, as one does at the apprehension of a
great and imminent danger. "Go while there is time! Do you not hear? It
is the voice of La Chatre! I recognize it! And the other,--his secretary,
Montignac! Go, go, I pray you on my knees, flee while there is yet time!"

She did indeed fall to her knees, clutching my arm with one hand, and
with the other trying to push me from the room, all the while showing a
very anguish of solicitude on her white face. Her eyes plead with me for
my own deliverance. The voices, which I too recognized, came nearer and
nearer, but slowly, as if the speakers were impeded in their progress
through the adjoining chamber. "Save yourself, save yourself!" she
continued to whisper.

"Come what may," I whispered in reply, my hand tightening on my sword, "I
will not leave you!"

"Then," she whispered, rapidly, seeing that I was not to be moved, "if
you will court death, at least know me first as I am,--no better, no
worse! Hide somewhere,--there behind the bed-curtains,--and hear what I
shall say to La Chatre! After that, if death find you, he shall find me
with you! I implore you, conceal yourself."

There was no pretence now, I was sure. Mystified, yet not doubting, I
whispered: "I yield, mademoiselle! God knows I would believe you
innocent!" and went behind the curtains, at the foot of the bed. It was
easy to stand behind these without disturbing the natural folds in which
they fell to the floor. The curtains at the sides also served to shield
me from view, so that I could not have been seen except from within the
bed itself.

I had no sooner found this concealment, and mademoiselle had no sooner
taken her place, standing with as much composure as she could assume, a
short distance from the foot of the bed, than M. de la Chatre and his
secretary entered the chamber. Peering between the curtains, I saw that
La Chatre was lame, and that he walked with the aid of a stick on one
side and Montignac's shoulder on the other.

"To think," he was saying as he came in, "that the misstep of a horse
should have made a helpless cripple of me, when I might have led this
hunt myself!"

I assumed that the "hunt" was the expedition to Maury, and smiled to
think how far was the game from the place of hunting.

The undisturbed mien of La Chatre showed that he had not heard of the
arrival of mademoiselle or of myself, or of the brief fight in the
courtyard. He would not have worn that look of security had he known
that, of six guards at the château, three now lay dead in the courtyard,
one had fled, and two were being looked after by my man Frojac.

He wore a rich chamber-robe and was bareheaded. Montignac was attired
rather like a soldier than like a scribe, having on a buff jerkin and
wearing both sword and dagger. His breeches and hose were of dull hue,
so that the only brightness of color on him was the red of his hair and
lips. It was, doubtless, from an excess of precaution that he went so
well armed in the château at so late an hour. Yet I smiled to see
weapons on this slight and fragile-looking youth, whose strength lay in
his brain rather than in his wrist. With great interest I watched him
now, knowing that he had devised the plan for my capture, had caused
Mlle. de Varion to be sent on her mission against me, and had sent De
Berquin on his mission against her. This march of the troops to Maury,
also, was probably his doing, even though it did imply a change from the
plan overheard by me, and confessed by mademoiselle. He had, too, if De
Berquin had told the truth, resolved to possess mademoiselle. He was
thus my worst foe, this subtle youth who had never seen me, and whom I
had never injured. He still had that look of mock humility, repressed
scorn, half-concealed derision, hidden ambition, vast inner resource,
mental activity, all under a calm and thoughtful countenance, over which
he had control.

It was not until they had passed the bed that they saw mademoiselle.
Both stopped and looked astonished. Montignac recognized her at once,
and first frowned, as if annoyed; then looked elated, as if her
presence suited his projects. But La Chatre did not immediately know
her. He lost color, as if it were a spirit that he saw, and, indeed,
mademoiselle, motionless and pale, looked not unlike some beautiful
being of another world.

"Who are you?" asked La Chatre, in a startled tone.

"It is I--Mlle. de Varion."

La Chatre promptly came to himself; but he looked somewhat confused,
abashed, and irritated.

"Mlle. de Varion, indeed!" he said. "And why comes Mlle. de Varion here?"

And now Montignac spoke, fixing his eyes on La Chatre, and using a quiet
but resolute tone:

"She comes too late. La Tournoire will be taken without her aid."

"Be silent, Montignac!" said La Chatre, assuming the authoritative for
the sake of appearance. "It is true, mademoiselle; you are too late in
fulfilling your part of the agreement."

He spoke with some embarrassment, and I began to see why. Inasmuch as he
had been at Clochonne but little more than one day, no more time had
passed than would have been necessary for the arrangement of the ambush.
Therefore it could not be honestly held that she had been tardy in
fulfilling her mission; that is to say, when he told her that she was too
late, he lied. Hence his embarrassment, for he was a gentleman. Now why
did he put forth this false pretext of tardiness on her part?

"Too late in fulfilling your part of the agreement," said the governor.

"I came, monsieur," said mademoiselle, heedless of the lie and the
apparent attempt to put her at fault, "to be released from my agreement."

Montignac looked surprised, then displeased. La Chatre appeared relieved,
but astonished.

"Released, mademoiselle?" he exclaimed, assuming too late a kind of
virtuous displeasure to cover his real satisfaction.

"Released, monsieur!" said mademoiselle. "I shall no further help you
take M. de la Tournoire. It was to tell you that, and for nothing else in
the world, that I came to Clochonne this night!"

She was close to the bed-curtains behind which I stood. I felt that her
words were meant for my ears as well as for the governor's.

"I shall not need your help, mademoiselle," replied the governor, with a
side smile at Montignac. "Yet this is strange. You do not, then, wish
your father's freedom?"

"Not on the terms agreed on, monsieur! Not to have my father set free
from prison, not even to save him from torture, not even from death. I
take back my promise, and give you back your own. I gave you word of La
Tournoire's hiding-place, and so far resigned my honor. I abandon my
hateful task unfinished, and so far I get my honor back. And, now, do as
you will!"

I could have shouted for joy!

This, then, explained it all. She had undertaken to betray me, but it
was to save her father! I remembered now. They had wanted a spy "who
would have all to lose by failure." Such were Montignac's words at the
inn at Fleurier. A spy, too, who might gain a wary man's confidence, and
with whom a rebel captain might desire or consent to a meeting away from
his men. Hardly had their need been uttered when there came mademoiselle
to beg a pardon for her father. A woman, beautiful and guileless, whom
any man might adore and trust, of whom any man might beg a tryst; a
woman, whose father was already in prison, his fate at the governor's
will; a woman, inexperienced and credulous, easily made to believe that
her father's crime was of the gravest; a woman, dutiful and
affectionate, willing to purchase her father's life and freedom at any
cost. What better instrument could have come to their hands? Her anxiety
to save her father would give her the powers of dissimulation necessary
to do the work. Her purity and innocence were a rare equipment for the
task of a Delilah. Who would suspect her of guile and intrigue any more
than I had done?

And now, having gone as far as she had in the task, she had abandoned it.
Even to save her father, she would no more play the traitress against me!
Against _me_! She loved me, then! Her task had become intolerable. She
must relieve herself of it. Yet as long as La Chatre still supposed that
she was carrying it out, she would feel bound by her obligation to him.
She must free herself of that obligation. She had made a compact with
him, she had given him her word. Though she resolved not to betray me,
she would not betray him either. He must no longer rely on her for the
performance of a deed that she had cast from her. She must not play false
even with him. All must hereafter be open and honest with her. The first
step towards regaining her self-respect was to see the governor and
renounce the commission. Then, but not till then, would she dare confess
all to me. I saw all this in an instant, as she had felt it, for people
do not arrive at such resolutions slowly and by reason, but instantly and
by feeling.

And all that she had done and suffered had been to save her father! Had I
but told her at once of my intention to deliver him, if possible, all
this, and my own hours of torment, might have been avoided. From what
little things do events take their course!

I rejoiced, I say, behind the curtains, on learning the truth. What
matter if we met death together in the enemy's stronghold, now that she
was pure and loved me? And yet, if we could but find a way out of this,
and save her father as well, what joy life would have!

La Chatre cast another jubilant smile at Montignac. The governor was
plainly delighted that mademoiselle herself had given up the task, now
that he had changed his plans and had no further use for her in them. It
relieved him of the disagreeable necessity of making her an explanation
composed of lies. He was really a gallant and amiable gentleman, and
subterfuge, especially when employed against a lady, was obnoxious to
him. As for Montignac, he stood frowning meditatively. He surely guessed
that mademoiselle's act was inspired by love for me, and the thought was
not pleasant to him.

Suddenly the governor turned quite pale, and asked quickly, in
some alarm:

"Did you speak the truth when you sent word of his hiding-place?"

It would, indeed, have been exasperating if he had sent his troops on a
false scent.

Mademoiselle hesitated a moment, then turned her eyes towards the
bed-curtains, and said:

"Yes, monsieur."

Her look, as I saw it, expressed that my position was not so bad, after
all, as long as the troops were away, and La Chatre supposed that I was
at Maury being captured by them.

La Chatre, reassured by her tone, which of course had the ring of truth,
again breathed freely.

"Then I release you from your agreement, mademoiselle," he said, and
added slowly and with a curious look at Montignac, "and your father may
languish in the château of Fleurier. But note this, mademoiselle: you
withdraw your aid from our purpose of capturing this traitor. Therefore,
you wish him freedom. For you, in the circumstances, not to oppose him is
to aid him. That is treason. I must treat you accordingly, mademoiselle."

"I have said, do with me as you will," she answered. For a time, relieved
of the burden that had weighed so heavily on her, she seemed resigned to
any fate. It was not yet that her mind rose to activity, and she began to
see possibilities of recovering something from the ruins.

And now the demeanor of La Chatre became peculiar. He spoke to
mademoiselle, while he looked at Montignac, as if he were taking an
unexpected opportunity to carry out something prearranged between him
and the secretary; as if he were dissembling to her, and sought
Montignac's attention and approval. His look seemed to say to the
secretary, "You see how well I am doing it?" Montignac stood with folded
arms and downcast eyes, attending carefully to La Chatre's words, but
having too much tact to betray his interest.

"And yet," said La Chatre, "you have been of some service to me in this
matter, and I would in some measure reward you. You sent me information
of La Tournoire's whereabouts, and for so much you deserve to be paid.
But you leave unfinished the service agreed on, and of course you cannot
claim your father's release."

"Yet, if I have at all served you in this, as unhappily I have, there is
no other payment that you possibly can make me," said mademoiselle.

"The question as to whether you ought to be rewarded for what you have
done, or held guilty of treasonable conduct in withdrawing at so late a
stage," said La Chatre, "is a difficult matter for me to deal with. There
may be a way in which it can be settled with satisfaction to yourself. It
is your part, not mine, to find such a way and propose it. You may take
counsel of some one--of my secretary, M. Montignac. He is one who, unlike
yourself, is entitled to my favor and the King's, and who may, on
occasion, demand some deviation from the strict procedure of justice.
Were he to ask, as a favor to himself, special lenience for your father,
or even a pardon and release, his request would have to be seriously
considered. Advise her, Montignac. I shall give you a few minutes to talk
with her."

And La Chatre, aided by his stick, made his way to the window, where he
stood with his back towards the other two.

I was not too dull to see that all this was but a clumsy way of
throwing mademoiselle's fate and her father's into the hands of
Montignac. The governor's manner, as I have indicated, showed that he
had previously agreed to do this on fit occasion, and that he now
perceived that occasion.

A new thought occurred to me. Had Montignac, coming more and more to
desire mademoiselle, and doubting the ability of his hastily found
instrument, De Berquin, sought and obtained the governor's sanction to
his wishes? Had he advised this midnight march to Maury in order that I
might be caught ere mademoiselle could fulfil her mission; in order,
that is to say, to prevent her from earning her father's freedom by the
means first proposed; in order that La Chatre might name a new price for
that freedom; in order, in fine, that herself should be the price, and
Montignac the recipient? Montignac could persuade the governor to
anything, why not to this? It was a design worthy alike of the
secretary's ingenuity and villainy. Circumstance soon showed that I was
right, that the governor had indeed consented to this perfidy.
Mademoiselle's unexpected arrival at Clochonne had given excellent
occasion for the project to be carried out. The governor himself had
recognized the fitness of the time. No wonder that he had at first
falsely charged her with tardiness, pretended that her delay had caused
the alteration of his plans. He had needed a pretext for having sent his
troops to capture me so that he might cheat her of her reward. I burned
with indignation. That two men of power and authority should so trick a
helpless girl, so use her love for her father to serve their own
purposes, so employ that father's very life as coin with which to buy
her compliance, so cozen her of the reward of what service she had done,
so plot to make of her a slave and worse, so threaten and use and cheat
her! No man ever felt greater wrath than I felt as I stood behind the
curtains and saw Montignac lift his eyes to mademoiselle's in obedience
to the governor's command. Yet, by what power I know not, I held myself
calm, ready to act at the suitable moment. I had taken a resolution, and
would carry it out if sword and wit should serve me. But meanwhile I
waited unseen.

Mademoiselle drew back almost imperceptibly, and on her face came the
slightest look of repugnance. From her manner of regarding him, it was
evident that this was not the first time she had been conscious of his
admiration and felt repelled by it. The meeting in the inn at Fleurier
had left with her a vastly different impression from that which it had
left with him.

Without smiling, he now bowed very courteously, and placed a chair for
her near where she stood.

"Mademoiselle," he said, with great tenderness, yet most respectfully, "a
harder heart than mine would be moved by your gentleness and beauty."

And here my own heart beat very rapidly at sound of another man speaking
so adoringly to my beloved.

She looked at him questioningly, as if his tone and manner showed that
she had misjudged him. His bearing was so gentle and sympathetic that she
could not but be deceived by it. She ceased to show repugnance, and sat
in the chair that he had brought.

"Monsieur," she said, "in my first opinion I may have wronged you. If
your heart is truly moved, you can demonstrate your goodness by asking
for my father's freedom. M. de la Chatre will grant it to you. You have a
claim on his favor, as he says, while I have none. Free my father, then,
and make me happy!"

Poor Julie! She thought not of herself. She knew that it would be
useless to ask anything for me. Yet there was one thing that might be had
from the situation--her father's freedom. So she summoned her energies,
and devoted them to striving for that, though she was in terror of my
being at any moment discovered.

"I would make you the happiest of women," said Montignac, in a low,
impassioned tone, falling on one knee and taking her hand, "if you would
make me the happiest of men."

Apprehension came into her eyes. She rose and moved towards the
bed-curtains, and, in the vain hope of turning him from his purpose by
pretending not to perceive it, said, with a sad little smile:

"Alas! it is out of my poor power to confer happiness!"

She half-turned her head towards where I stood behind the curtains,
partly at thought of the happiness that it seemed impossible for her to
confer on me, partly in fear lest Montignac's words might bring me forth.

"It is easily in your power to confer more than happiness," said
Montignac.

"How, monsieur?" she faltered, trembling under two fears, that of
Montignac's ardor and that of my disclosing myself. "I am puzzled to
know."

"By conferring your hand, mademoiselle," said Montignac, following her
and grasping her wrist. "Your father will be glad to give his consent for
his liberty, if he knows that you have given yours. But we can arrange to
proceed without his consent. Do not draw back, mademoiselle. It is
marriage that I offer, when I might make other terms. My family is a good
one; my prospects are the best, and I have to lay at your feet a love
that has never been offered to another, a love as deep as it is fresh--"

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