"No! Has he come back?"

"Two hours ago. He has gone to Les Chouettes with your mother, to find you."

"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried Angelot, and laughed loudly.

The good old Cure was seriously frightened. He thought that this charming boy, whom he had known from his birth, was either crazy or drunk with strong wine. Yet, as he really could not be afraid to trust himself to Angelot, he did as he was told, collected all he wanted, asking questions all the time which the young man did not or could not answer, and started off with him into the dim and chilly dampness of the night.

Angelot nearly died of impatience. He had run all the way to La Mariniere, he had to walk all the way back, and slowly. For the Cure was feeble, and his sight was not good, and the lanes and fields were terribly uneven. Angelot had prudence enough not to take a light, which would have been seen a mile off, moving on those slopes in the darkness. This precaution also helped to save him from Simon, who, after waiting about for some time between Les Chouettes and La Mariniere, had seen Monsieur and Madame Urbain coming out with their lantern and had tracked them half the way, hearing enough of their talk to understand that he must lay hands on Angelot that night, or not at all. For it sounded as if the young man's protectors were more powerful than General Ratoneau, his enemy.

Simon was very uneasy, as he stole back, and turned towards Lancilly, shrewdly guessing that those bright windows had attracted Angelot. He crept through the lanes like a wolf in winter, searching for some lonely colt or sheep to devour. Furious and bewildered, worn out with his long watching, he almost resolved that young La Mariniere should have short shrift if he met him. This, it seemed now, was the only way to remove him out of the General's path. None of his relations knew exactly where he was that night. If he were found dead in a ditch, the hand that struck him would never be known. For his own sake, General Ratoneau would never betray the suspicions he might have. At the same time, Simon was not such a devil incarnate as to think of cold-blooded murder without a certain horror and sickness; and he found it in his heart to wish that he had never seen Ratoneau.

He heard footsteps in a deep lane he was approaching, and lying down, peered over the bank and saw that two men had already pa.s.sed him, walking cautiously between the ruts of the road. They carried no light, and it was so dark in the lane that he could hardly distinguish them.

One seemed taller than the other, and walked more feebly. There was nothing to suggest the idea that one of these men might be Angelot. All pointed to the contrary. He would be coming towards La Mariniere, not going from it towards Lancilly. He would certainly be alone; and then his air and pace would be different from that of this shorter figure, who, carefully guiding his companion, was also carrying some bundle or load. There was a low murmur of talk which the police spy could not distinguish, and thus, his game within shooting distance, he allowed him to walk away unharmed. He followed the two men slowly, however, till he lost them on the edge of the park at Lancilly. There Angelot took the Cure by a way of his own into the wood, and led him up by a path soft with dead leaves to the north side of the chateau.

"Monsieur Angelot!"

It was once more Martin Joubard's voice. He was much astonished, not having seen Angelot leave the chateau. He stared at the Cure and took off his hat.

"All's well, Martin; you are a good sentry--but hold your tongue a little longer," said Angelot.

"Ah! but take care, Monsieur Angelot," said the soldier, pointing with his stick to the dark, tremendous walls which towered beyond the moat.

"I don't know what is going on there, but don't venture too far. There's a light in the chapel window, do you see? and just now I heard them hammering at the little door down there in the moat. It may be a trap for you. Listen, though, seriously. I don't know what sport you may be after, but you ought not to run Monsieur le Cure into it, and so I tell you. It is not right."

The good fellow's voice shook with anxiety. He did not pretend to be extra religious, but his father and mother reverenced the Cure, and he had known him ever since he was born.

Angelot laughed impatiently.

"Come, Monsieur le Cure," he said. "We are going down into the moat, but the steps are uneven, so give me your hand."

"Do not be anxious, Martin," said the old man. "All is well, Monsieur de Sainfoy has sent for me."

The crippled sentry waited. In the deep shadows he could see no more, but he heard their steps as they climbed down and crossed the moat, and then he heard the creaking hinges of that door far below. It was cautiously closed. All was dark and still in the moat, but shadows crossed the lighted chapel window.

The wind was rising, the clouds were flying, and the stars shining out.

Waves of music flowed from the south side of the long ma.s.s of building, and sobbed away into the rustling woods. An enchanting valse was being played. Georges de Sainfoy was dancing with the richest heiress in Touraine, and his mother was so engrossed with a new ambition for him that she forgot Helene for the moment, and her more certain future as the wife of General Ratoneau.

Madame de Sainfoy had not seen her husband since he received the Prefect's letter, and was not aware of his disappearance from the ball, now at the height of its success and splendour.

CHAPTER XXV

HOW THE CURe ACTED AGAINST HIS CONSCIENCE

If the old priest had come in faith at Monsieur de Sainfoy's call, not knowing, not even suspecting what was wanted of him, Angelot, who knew all, yet found it impossible to believe. Therefore he could not bring himself to give the Cure any explanation, or even to mention Helene's name. Her father, for whom he now felt a pa.s.sionate, enthusiastic reverence and love, had trusted him in the matter. He had said, resting his hand on his shoulder: "Tell Monsieur le Cure what you please. Or leave it to me to tell him all;" and Angelot had felt that the Cure must be brought in ignorance. Afterwards he knew that there were other reasons for this, besides the vagueness in his own mind. The Cure had a great sense of the fitness of things. Also, next to G.o.d and his Bishop, he felt bound to love and serve Urbain and Anne de la Mariniere.

When Angelot opened the little door, which he found ajar, there was a flickering light on the damp narrow stairs that wound up in the thickness of the wall. There stood Herve de Sainfoy, tall, pale, very calm now, with a look of resolution quite new to his pleasant features.

"You are welcome, Monsieur le Cure," he said. "Follow me."

The old man obeyed silently, and the two pa.s.sed on before Angelot. When they reached the topmost winding of the staircase, Herve led the Cure round into the corridor, still carrying his light, and saying, "A word alone with you." At the same time he motioned to Angelot to go forward into the chapel.

The altar was partly arranged for service, the candles were lighted, and one white figure, its face hidden, was kneeling there. Angelot stood and looked for a moment, with dazzled eyes. The wind moaned, the distant valse flowed on. Here in the old neglected chapel, under the kind eyes of the Virgin's statue, he had left Helene that night, weeks ago. He had never seen her since, except in the ball-room this very evening, lovely as a dream; but she was lovelier than any dream now.

He went up softly beside her, stooped on one knee and kissed the fingers that rested on the old worm-eaten bench. She looked up suddenly, blushing scarlet, and they both rose to their feet and stood quite still, looking into each other's eyes. They did not speak; there was nothing to say, except "I love you," and words were not necessary for that. At first there was terror and bewilderment, rather than happiness, in Helene's face, and her hands trembled as Angelot held them; but soon under his gaze and his touch a smile was born. All those weeks of desolate loneliness were over, her one and only friend stood beside her once again, to leave her no more. The horrors of that very night, the terrible ball-room full of glittering uniforms and clanking swords, the odious face and voice of Ratoneau;--her father had beckoned her away, had taken her from it all for ever. He had told her in a few words of the Prefect's letter and his resolution, without even taking the trouble to ask her if she would consent to marry her cousin. "It is the only thing to be done," he said. Neither of them had even mentioned her mother. The suspicion that his wife had had something to do with this imperial order made Herve even more furious than the order itself, and more resolved to settle the affair in his own way.

"Now I understand," he thought, "why Adelade invited the brute to this ball. I wager that she knew what was coming. It is time I showed them all who is the master of this house!"

And now, when everything was arranged, when the bridegroom and the bride were actually waiting in the chapel, when every minute was of importance and might bring some fatal interruption--now, here was the excellent old Cure full of curious questions and narrow-minded objections.

"Monsieur le Comte, impossible!" he cried in the corridor. "Marry mademoiselle your daughter to Ange de la Mariniere--and without any proper notice, without witnesses, at midnight, unknown to his parents!

Do you take me for a const.i.tutional priest, may I ask?"

"No, Monsieur le Cure, and that is why I demand this service of you.

You, an old friend of both families, I send for you rather than for my own Cure of Lancilly."

"Ah, I dare say! But do I understand that you are disobeying an order from the Emperor? Am I to ruin myself, by aiding and abetting you?

Besides--"

"No, Monsieur le Cure, you understand nothing of the kind. I explain nothing. You run yourself into no danger--but if you did, I should ask you all the more. A man like you, who held firm to his post through the Revolution--"

"Pardon--I did not hold firm. Monsieur de la Mariniere protected me."

"And now I will protect you. Listen. I have had no order from the Emperor. I have heard, by means of a friend, that such an order is on its way. It would compel me to marry my daughter to a man she hates, a degrading connection for me. There is only one way of saving her. You know that she and young Ange love each other--they have suffered for it--we will legalise this love of theirs. When the order reaches me, my Helene will be already married. The Emperor can say nothing. His General must seek a wife elsewhere. Now, Monsieur le Cure, are you satisfied? The children are waiting."

"No, monsieur, no, I am not satisfied. I think there is more risk than you tell me, but I do not mind that. I will not, I cannot, marry young Ange to your daughter without his father's knowledge. Your cousin--G.o.d bless him!--is not a religious man, but I owe him a debt I can never repay."

Count Herve laughed angrily. "You know very well," he said, "that if Urbain is displeased at this marriage, it will be for our sake, not his own. How could he hope for such a match for Angelot?"

"His love for you is wonderful, Monsieur le Comte. But I am not talking of his likings or dislikings. I say that I will not marry these young people without his consent."

"And I say you will. Understand, I mean it. Listen; my cousin Joseph was sending Ange to England to-night with some of his friends out of the way of the police. I will dress Helene up as a boy, and send her with him, trusting to a marriage when they land. I will do anything to get her off my hands to-night, and Angelot will not fail me. The responsibility is yours, Monsieur le Cure."

The old man wrung his hands. "Monsieur le Comte, you are mad!" he said.

But these threats were effectual, as no fear of personal suffering would have been, and the Cure, though solemnly protesting, submitted.

The delay he caused was not yet over, however. No angry frowns and impatient words would induce him to begin the service before the two young people had separately made their confession to him. Luckily, both were ready to do this, and neither was very long; when at last the Cure, properly vested, began with solemn deliberation the words of the service, his eyes were full of tears, not altogether unhappy.

"Two white souls, madame," he told Anne afterwards. "Your son and your daughter--you may love them freely, and trust their love for you and for each other. Never did I join the hands of two such innocent children as our dear Ange and his Helene."

He had, in fact, just joined their hands for the first time, when he looked round anxiously at Monsieur de Sainfoy and murmured, "There is no one you can trust, monsieur--no other possible witness?"

"None," the Comte answered shortly; and even as he spoke they all heard a sharp knocking in the corridor, and the opening and shutting of doors.

"Go on, go on! This comes of all your delay," he muttered, and Angelot looked round, alarmed, while Helene turned white with fear.