"Can a woman explain her capricious doings any more than a man can understand them? It is well known that we do unaccountable things."

Not heeding this evasion, I went on:

"I sometimes fear that you imagine some other barrier between us than the one of religion. Is it that some other gentleman--?"

"Oh, no, monsieur!" she answered, quickly and earnestly, before I had time to finish the question.

"Is there, then, some vow or girlish resolution?"

She shook her head negatively in reply, but would not give me any more satisfaction.

At last I said, abruptly, "Do you, then, wish me not to love you?"

She looked at me first as if she would answer yes, and then as if she would answer no, and finally, after a sigh, she said:

"Can we cause things by wishing?"

Finally, as a last means of trying her, I said:

"Mademoiselle, I have been thinking that it might be better if I were to go on alone to Guienne, and leave Blaise and my men to conduct you when you are able to follow."

She regarded me strangely, first as if the suggestion were a welcome one, then,--while her brow darkened, and a kind of mental anguish forced itself into her expression,--as if the plan were not at all acceptable.

"But you will not do that, monsieur?" was all that she said.

I could but sigh in puzzlement, and abandon my attempt to make her tell her feelings.

Sometimes I would suddenly turn my eyes towards her, and catch her looking at me with mingled tenderness and pity, as a man condemned to die might be looked on by the woman who loved him. At those times I thought that she had some fear or foreboding that I might yet fall a victim to the vengeance of those whom I had offended. Sometimes her look quite startled me, for it contained, besides a world of grief and pity, something of self-reproach. I then supposed that she blamed herself for allowing her fatigue to delay me in my departure from the province.

But these demonstrations did not often escape her. She oftenest showed the forced cheerfulness that I have already mentioned. The moments when any kind of distress showed itself were exceptional, and many of them were caused by the persistence with which I sought a response in words to my declarations of love.

There came at last the afternoon--how well I remember it!--when we sat together on the stone bench in the sunlit part of the old courtyard.

Through the interstices of the overspreading branches we could see a perfectly clear blue sky. The slightest movement of air made the leaves rustle sleepily, dreamily. Save the chirping of the birds, no other sound emanated from the forest. The murmur of the river at the foot of the wooded steep came up to us. In a corner of the yard the two gypsies lay asleep. Some of my men were off on various employments. A few had gone for game; others to fish. One of them, Frojac, was in Clochonne disguised as a peasant, to keep a watch on the garrison there. The party of foragers had not returned. Of the men at the chateau, those who were not on guard were with Blaise Tripault in the great hall, where they had just finished eating and drinking, Hugo had gone to the stables to feed mademoiselle's horses. Jeannotte was asleep in her chamber. Mademoiselle and I sat in silence, in the midst of a solitude, a remote tranquillity, a dreamy repose that it was difficult to imagine as ever to be broken.

She seemed to yield to the benign influence of this enchanted place. She leaned back restfully, closed her eyes, and smiled.

Suddenly there came from within the chateau the sound of my men singing.

Their rude, strong voices were low at first, but they rose in pitch and volume as their song progressed. Mademoiselle ceased to smile, opened her eyes, again took on the look of dark foreboding. The song had an ominous ring. It was one of the Huguenot war hymns sung in the army of our Henri:

"With p.r.i.c.king of steel Our foe we have sped, We've peppered his heel With pellets of lead, And the battles we win are the gifts of the Lord, Who pointeth our cannon and guideth our sword.

We fire and we charge and there's nothing can bar When we fight in the track of the King of Navarre.

Then down, down, down with the Duke of Guise!

Death, death, death to our enemies!

And glory, we sing, to G.o.d and our King, And death to the foes of Navarre!"

The melody was grim and stirring. The men's voices vibrated with war-like wrath. They were impatient for battles, charges, the kind of fighting that is done between great armies on the open field, when there is the roar and smoke of cannon, the rattle of small firearms, the clash of steel, the cries of captains, the shrieks and groans of wounded, the plenteous spilling of blood. They were hungry for carnage.

"There is no cause to shudder, mademoiselle," said I, perceiving the effect that the song had on her; "we are far away from fighting. There is no danger here."

"There may be dangers of which you do not guess," she answered.

As if to verify her words, a sudden, sharp cry broke the stillness. It came from the forest path by which we had arrived at the chateau. It was the voice of one of my sentinels challenging a newcomer.

"It is I," came the reply. "I have important news for the captain."

"Oh, it is you, Marianne?" replied the man on guard. "I didn't know you for an instant, you appeared so suddenly, without any noise."

I hastened to the gate and called, "Come, Marianne, what is it?"

She came up puffing and perspiring. So breathless was she that she had to sit down on a bench in the courtyard before she could answer me.

"Oh, monsieur!" she said, when she had recovered some breath. "Look to yourself! The governor of the province is at Clochonne!"

"The devil!" I said, and turned to see the effect of this news on mademoiselle.

She was standing, trembling, as white as death, her one hand on the back of the bench for support.

"Be not alarmed, mademoiselle," I said, "Clochonne is not Maury! They do not know our hiding-place. How did you learn, Marianne, and what else do you know?"

Mademoiselle stood perfectly still and fixed her eyes on Marianne, awaiting the latter's answers with apparently as much interest as I myself felt.

"G.o.deau went to Clochonne this morning with some eggs to sell, and learned that the governor arrived last night and occupies the chateau,"

said Marianne.

"With how many men?" I asked.

"G.o.deau said that the courtyard of the chateau and the market-place of the town were full of men-at-arms, but he did not wait to find out how many there were. He knew what he would catch from me if he did not immediately bring me the news, that I might let you know. So he came home at once, and as soon as I had heard it I started for this place."

"I thank you, Marianne. You are the best of women. Yet it may not be on our account that M. de la Chatre honors Clochonne with a visit."

It was, indeed, true that the governor would naturally visit his border towns at a time when war might be expected soon to enter his province.

Yet I could not help thinking that his coming at this particular time had something to do with his plan to capture me. I remembered what course Montignac had advised him to take: to wait until his spy should have located me and sent him word of my hiding-place, then to come to Clochonne, whither the spy, on learning of his presence, should send him the information that would enable him to lay an ambuscade for me. This was a good plan, for a premature arrival of the governor at Clochonne might give me time to flee before my whereabouts should be known to the spy; but, knowing my exact whereabouts, La Chatre could first take measures for cutting off my flight, and then risk nothing by coming to Clochonne. Moreover, should the spy fail as to the ambush, the governor's acquaintance with my whereabouts would serve him in a chase that he might make with his soldiers. The ambush was but a device more likely to succeed than an open search and attack. It was, if at all possible, easier, and would cost the governor no lives.

Now, if the plan suggested by Montignac was being carried out, the governor's arrival at Clochonne meant that his spy had sent him word of my hiding-place. But could De Berquin have done so? He had previously shown some skill in secret pursuit. Had he eluded the vigilance of my sentinels, learned that we were at Maury, and sent one of his men to the governor with the information? It was improbable, yet nothing occurs more often than the improbable. So I asked Marianne:

"Have you seen anything of the five men who drank with me the night you carried wine to us from the inn?"

"Not since that night, monsieur."

"And you have no more news than you have told me?"

"Nothing more, monsieur; so, if you please, I will hurry back, for my old man is sure to have fallen asleep, and it would be a pity if the governor's men should come by the forest road without being seen. Be sure, if they come after I reach home, you shall know of it in good time."

I bade her go, and turned to mademoiselle.

She was as pale as a white lily. As soon as my eye met hers, she said, in a faint voice:

"I am going in, monsieur. I am tired. No, I can go alone. Do not be concerned about me. I shall soon feel better."