"Mademoiselle!" I cried, hastening to her side. "What is the matter?"

"'Tis but--surprise,--M. de la Tournoire!" she answered, weakly, raising her hand feebly as if to keep me from approaching her, while her eyes, which were fixed on mine as by a terrible fascination, seemed to be starting from her head. An instant later, she fell in a swoon, and I was just in time to save her from striking the ground and to pillow her head on my arm.

As for De Berquin, he had made a rush at me, but Blaise had repulsed him with such fury that, seeing no hope of being joined by his men, he soon turned and fled.

I bore the senseless body of mademoiselle into the inn, vainly asking myself why she had shown so profound a distress at my disclosure.

CHAPTER XII.

AT THE CHaTEAU OF MAURY

Presently mademoiselle recovered from her faintness and went up to her chamber, supported by Jeannotte. Her eyes met mine as she was about to go, but she immediately dropped them, and seemed by an effort to repress some kind of emotion.

With a heart saddened by the sight of mademoiselle's distress, I then made arrangements for the night. I was to lie at the front door of the inn, Blaise at the rear door, Hugo and the gypsies in the horse sheds, Marianne in the chamber with mademoiselle and Jeannotte, old G.o.deau where he chose. It happened that he chose a place before the smouldering fire in the kitchen.

Any further attempt to find Pierre that night was out of the question. I dared not leave the inn again, lest I should expose mademoiselle to possible molestation, or myself to an encounter with those from whom I had just escaped. Had mademoiselle's safety not depended on that of myself and Blaise, I might have invited such an encounter for myself or for him or for both, but I would not have her undergo the slightest risk of losing her protectors.

I had little apprehension of seeing De Berquin or his men again that night. Not that he would probably remember his promise to give me my life and liberty in return for my bringing La Tournoire before him. Even that promise, if still respected by him, did not affect him in regard to mademoiselle. But he would consider that, though I was not accompanied by any of my own men except Blaise, mademoiselle's boy, Hugo, would wield a stout arm on our side. Unless he knew something of Pierre's disappearance, he would count that active youth also with our forces. He had doubtless taken in at a glance the group composed of G.o.deau, the gypsies, and Marianne; and he would suppose that I could reckon on a.s.sistance of one kind or another from some or all of these. Thus, having no odds in his favor, and knowing that we would be on the alert, he would be little likely to make any kind of demonstration against us. Moreover, two of his men finding themselves without their weapons, and all of them angry at the manner of their awakening, they would probably receive very badly the curses that he would heap on them for their failure to come up to his support. Their att.i.tude would, for the rest of that night, be one of mutiny. It was likely that he would retreat and meditate a new plan.

He would not feel safe in the immediate vicinity of the inn, for it would occur to him that I might send one of my allies to my men with orders to take him. So he would withdraw and either give up the enterprise entirely or form a new design.

Now that he knew that I was La Tournoire, what would he do? Abandon his mission, since my knowledge of him would put me on my guard against him, and forbid his winning my confidence and betraying me in the way which, I supposed, Montignac had dictated to him? It was not likely that such a man, having found only one road by which he might regain the good things he had lost, would be turned aside from that road. He would follow it to success or death. Such men are too indolent to go about seeking opportunities. Having found one, they will pursue it wherever it may lead. Their fortunes are so desperate that they have only their lives to lose, and they are so brave that they do not fear death. If they can gain the stakes, so much the better. If not, little the worse. Meanwhile, they are occupied in a way congenial to a man who loves adventure, who has inherited the taste for danger, and finds a pleasurable excitement in risking his life. Therefore I felt that De Berquin was not yet through with me, but he would have to change his plan, and, until he should have time to compose new measures, he would not trouble us.

As I lay in the silence, my thoughts turned from De Berquin to Mlle. de Varion. Her demonstration on learning that I was La Tournoire was in harmony with the manner in which she had previously questioned me concerning my friendship for the bearer of that name. Grieved at the thought that I was his friend, relieved at my a.s.sertion that I did not so highly esteem him, she had shown the utmost horror on learning that I was the man himself. Could this be due entirely to the impression conveyed by a name to which the Catholics in Berry had attached so much dread? It was natural that one should regard with some terror a man whose deeds had been so exaggerated by vulgar report; but this fact did not explain the intensity of mademoiselle's emotion at the moment of my disclosure. Yet she had attributed that emotion entirely to surprise. Perhaps the extraordinary manifestation of that surprise was due to her fatigued and dejected condition. Or it might be, and I felt a delicious thrill at the thought, that it was her concern for me, her fear that my life might be the more imperilled by my relations with this proscribed man, that had caused the distress accompanying her first inquiries. If this was true, the discovery that I was no other than the man proscribed, and all the more in danger, would naturally have profoundly affected her.

In the morning she came down from her loft, pale and showing a calmness that seemed forced. To my greeting and my announcement that Pierre had not returned, she replied, quietly:

"He is a faithful and honest boy, and I have prayed that no harm might befall him. His disappearance must not be allowed to alter your plans, M.

de la Tournoire."

"I shall leave orders with Marianne and G.o.deau to conduct him to Maury, should he return to this place, as he very probably will. If you do not wish otherwise, we shall ride on to Maury this morning."

"I do not wish otherwise," she replied. After a moment's pause, she added, "Alas, monsieur, your friend, M. de Launay, when he promised me your guidance across the border, engaged you to a more tedious task than you might have wished to undertake. I fear that I must ask for a delay at Maury. You see what trouble your friend has brought you into,--waiting until a poor woman, who has been overcome by fatigue, recovers her energies."

"Ah, mademoiselle," I said, with delight, "you will then hold me to the promise made for me by my friend?"

"What else can a helpless woman do?" she asked, with a pretty smile, although there was a tremor in the voice.

I was overjoyed to be a.s.sured that she had accepted the situation. I had promised that, on her becoming acquainted with La Tournoire, she should have no other protector. This had meant to her, at the time when it was spoken, that I should go from her. To me it had meant, of course, that I should continue with her. I had feared that, on learning the truth, she would banish me. She had said that we must part. But now, despite the fact that the same barrier existed between me and her, whether I was La Tournoire or De Launay, despite her horror on learning that I was the former, she had abandoned her intention of parting from me. What had caused this change of mind? Had she, now that I was known to her as La Tournoire, ceased to entertain for me those feelings which she had, on account of our difference in religion, sought by an immediate separation to destroy? This was unlikely. La Tournoire or De Launay, I was the same man. I chose a happier explanation,--none other than that, considering by night, she had come to the conclusion that a religious difference was not too great a barrier to be removed, and that La Tournoire was not a person to be regarded with any horror. Though modesty might plead against her continuing in the company of a man with whom she exchanged such feelings as had so rapidly grown up between us, yet circ.u.mstance, most imperative of all dictators, showed her no other course than to remain under my guidance and protection. So I accounted for the decision which was to keep us together for a few more days.

I was not sorry that she had asked for a delay at Maury. It relieved me of the necessity of making a pretext for r.e.t.a.r.ding her flight while I should attempt the rescue of her father. The reason to be given for the absence of myself and a party of my men need not be a strong one when there was no apparent haste to continue the flight. I was still determined to keep the attempt in her father's behalf a secret from her if it should fail, and as a surprise for her if successful.

Inwardly jubilant with the hope inspired by her change of mind, I hastened to give the innocent reasons for the concealment of my ident.i.ty from her. She listened with a changeless smile, keeping her eyes on mine.

Before she could answer, Marianne announced that breakfast was ready. No further allusion was made to the matter, nor to her now abandoned determination that we should part.

After breakfast, our party of five mounted our horses, and, led by Blaise, forced our way through the high bushes that marked the beginning of the hardly perceptible road to Maury. The two gypsies followed afoot, for, knowing that I could rely on their fidelity and secrecy, I had bade them come, that their music and tricks might amuse mademoiselle during her stay at Maury.

It was a beautiful morning, and I considered that I had many reasons for joy. Mademoiselle, too, seemed affected by the sweetness and jocundity of the early day. She had evidently nerved herself, too, against her griefs.

She seemed to have summoned a large stock of resolution to the task of facing her troubles without a tear. It appeared that she had banished dejection by an effort of the will. All the time it was evident that her manner was the result of a vigilant determination. I was, nevertheless, glad to see a smile, a steadiness of look, a set lip, though they were attained with premeditation. There was in her conversation, as we rode on our slow and difficult way, something of the woman of the world. As we had to go in single file, and so to speak loudly in order to be heard by one another, our talk could not take on the themes and tones of tenderness that I would have gladly given to it.

Presently from a bush at the side of the path a man sprang up, saluted, and stood respectfully while we pa.s.sed him. It was one of my men, Maugert, on duty as sentry, for I kept men watching every approach to our hiding-place night and day. They lay secreted among the brushwood, and would observe an intruder long before the intruder could be aware of their presence. A few minutes later we pa.s.sed another of these faithful sentinels, who rose out of his concealment to give me a look of welcome, and soon afterward we rode through the ruined gate into the old courtyard itself.

"Welcome to Maury!" said I to mademoiselle.

She looked up at the broken facade of the chateau, around at the trees that environed the walls and in some places pushed their branches through openings, then at some of my men, who had been mending their clothes or tinkering at their weapons.

"I shall feel safe at Maury, monsieur," she said, quietly.

Thus Mlle. de Varion became my guest in that wilderness fastness. I gave her the two chambers in best preservation, one of them being immediately over the chief entrance and overlooking the courtyard. My own abode was in the northern turret, looking down the steep wooded declivity that fell to the road from Clochonne to Narjec. Hugo was to sleep outside her door.

My own men made their beds in the great hall and in certain sheltered portions of the wings and outbuildings. They usually ate in this hall, receiving their food on platters from the cook (happily the kitchen had remained fit for use), and bearing it thither. It was arranged that Hugo should carry the meals of mademoiselle and Jeannotte to mademoiselle's apartments.

It was more after our arrival than during our ride to Maury that mademoiselle showed the fatigue of which she had spoken. It was evident that she had reached a resting-place none too soon. Weakness was manifest in all her movements as well as in the pallor of her cheeks.

Yet, though she languished thus, she did not keep all the time to her chamber. Each morning she came down to walk about the courtyard, saying that the air and sunshine--as much as found its way through the overspreading branches of the trees--strengthened her. There was in one corner of the yard an old stone bench, which, in good weather, was for a great part of the afternoon half in sun and half in shade. Here she would sit by the hour, changing her position as sunlight or shade became preferable for the moment.

Morning or afternoon, I was never far from her. For I had had to defer from day to day the first steps towards the projected deliverance of M.

de Varion. On our arrival I had found that some of the men on whose aid I would most depend were away on a foraging expedition. Each hour I looked for their return, but in vain. Their absence had now become so prolonged as to be a cause of alarm. My anxiety about them, and my concern over other matters, took up so much of my mind that little was left in which to devise a plan for the rescue of the prisoner, and I would not make the first move until the whole design should be complete.

As days pa.s.sed, and mademoiselle's missing boy, Pierre, did not come, I ceased to hope that we should ever see him again. Had he found his way to the inn where he had left us, Marianne or G.o.deau would have brought him to Maury immediately. It was useless to speculate as to what might have become of him. He might have perished in the forest, or found his way to Clochonne, or fallen in with De Berquin and suffered for having been of our party. When his disappearance was mentioned, Jeannotte would look at mademoiselle, and mademoiselle would say:

"Poor boy! I pray that no evil may have befallen him. He was fidelity itself. He would die for me!"

But she did not give herself up to poignant sorrow on his account, or, indeed, since the night at G.o.deau's inn, on account of anything. She seemed to have set herself to bear her troubles in Spartan manner, and to find in herself, perhaps with surprise, the strength to do so.

So the days pa.s.sed, and still my plans in regard to her father remained unformed, the men on whom I relied did not appear, and mademoiselle did not speak of resuming her flight southward. There came no further sign of the existence of De Berquin. From or of the outside world we heard nothing, save occasionally, when the wind was in the right direction, the faint sound of the bell of Clochonne. We seemed to dwell apart, in a region of our own, an enchanted forest which none other might enter, a place where we were forever safe from the strife of humanity, the touch of war, the reach of the King's edicts, the power of provincial governors, the vengeance of the great. The gypsies remained with us, and sweetened the time with their songs and the music of their instruments.

My men treated mademoiselle with the utmost respect. I had caused them to know that she was a refugee, a lady most precious in my esteem, one for whose safety and happiness any other consideration must, should occasion arise, be sacrificed. The weather was dry, sunny, and, for the time of year, mild. It was like a sweet dream, and I, for one, had no premonition of the awakening that was to come.

Often during that time I spoke of my love for her. I told her that, to me, at least, religion was not so much as to drive me from the woman whom I had so long sought in vain among the beauties of our Henri's court, whom I had so long worshipped in the ideal, whom I had instantly recognized as being the embodiment of that ideal, of whose presence I could not endure to be deprived even in thought.

She would sit looking in my eyes while I told her these things. Sometimes she would seem to yield to a kind of bliss in hearing them, to forget all else than ourselves and my words. Then suddenly a look of anguish would come on her features, she would rise and press her hands to her eyes, as if to blot out the memory of my look, and say:

"Monsieur, you must not! You must not! You do not know! Oh, if you knew!"

And she would quickly glide away into the chateau, keeping her face turned from me until she had disappeared.

I began to think that there might be another obstacle than that of our difference in religion. Perhaps a promise to another or some vow! But I swore to myself that, whatever the obstacle might be, I would remove it. The only matter for present disposition was to get her consent to my doing so.

She would soon return, composed and smiling, with no sign of wishing to elude me. For the life of me, I could not long refrain from the subject that had before so strangely put her to flight.

Sometimes when I talked in the strain of love, joy and pain would succeed each other on her face, sometimes they would seem to be present at the same moment. From the look of complete abandonment to happiness that sometimes, though never for long, shone on her features, I felt that she loved me, and that eventually her love would gain the victory. I continually tried to elicit an expression of her feelings in words. Sweet to me as was the frequent confession of her looks, I sought a confession in speech also.

One afternoon, as we stood on a little spur that rose from the declivity below the chateau, and whence through a small opening between trees could be seen the river, the smiling plain, and afar the high-perched chateau of Clochonne, I asked her:

"Why is it that when I speak of what most occupies my heart you become silent or sorrowful, or go suddenly from me?"

With a.s.sumed lightness she replied: