Then the person in the corridor, whoever this might be, evidently saw a light through some c.h.i.n.k in the chapel door, for the latch was lifted, and a small but impatient voice cried out, "Helene--are you there?"

It was not the voice of Adelade. Angelot looked at Helene and smiled; the Cure hesitated. Monsieur de Sainfoy walked frowning to the door, which he had locked, and flung it open.

"Come in, mademoiselle," he said. "Here is your witness, Monsieur le Cure."

Mademoiselle Moineau, flushed, agitated, in her best gown, stood on the threshold with hands uplifted.

"What--what is all this?" she stammered; and the scene that met her eyes was certainly strange enough to bewilder a respectable governess.

It had occurred to Madame de Sainfoy to miss her daughter from the ball-room. Suspecting that the stupid girl had escaped to her own room, she had told Mademoiselle Moineau to fetch her at once, to insist on her coming down and dancing. And even now, in spite of this amazing, horrifying spectacle, in spite of the Comte's presence, and his voice repeating, "Come in, mademoiselle!" the little woman was brave enough to protest.

"What is happening?" she said, and hurried a few steps forward. "Helene, I am astonished. This must be stopped at once. Good heavens, what will Madame la Comtesse say!"

"Let me beg you to be silent, mademoiselle," said Herve de Sainfoy.

He had already closed and locked the door. He now bent forward with an almost savage look; his pleasant face was utterly transformed by strong feeling.

"Sit down," he said peremptorily. "You see me; I am here. My authority is sufficient, remember--Monsieur le Cure, have the goodness to proceed."

Mademoiselle Moineau sank down on a bench and groaned. Her shocked, staring eyes took in every detail of the scene; the banished lover, the supposed prisoner, in his country clothes, with that dark woodland look of his; the white girl in her ball-dress, standing with bent head, and not moving or looking up, even at her mother's name. The joined hands, white and brown; the young, low voices, plighting their troth one to the other; then the trembling tones of the old priest alone in solemn Latin words, "_Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium_...."

The service went on; and now no one, not even Monsieur de Sainfoy, took any notice of the unwilling spectator. She was a witness in spite of herself. She sank on her knees and sobbed in a corner, partly from real distress at a marriage she thought most foolish and unsuitable, partly from fear of what Madame de Sainfoy might say or do. Her rage must certainly find some victim. She would never believe that Mademoiselle Moineau could not have escaped and called her in time to interrupt this frantic ceremony. As for Monsieur de Sainfoy, his brain must certainly have given way. The poor governess hoped little from him, though he showed some method in his madness by leaving her locked up in the chapel when they all went away and telling her to wait there in silence till he came back. At least that was better than being forced to go down alone to announce this catastrophe to Helene's mother. The Comtesse would have been capable of turning her out into midnight darkness after the first dozen words.

Helene, her dearest wish and wildest dream fulfilled in this strange fashion, seemed to be walking in her sleep. She obeyed her father's orders without a word to him or to Angelot, threw on a cloak, and followed them and the Cure down the steep blackness of the winding stairs. At the door her father put out his light, and it was his hand that guided her through the long gra.s.s and bushes in the moat, while Angelot gave all his care to the old priest. At the top of the steps, as the four hastily crossed into the deeper shadows of the wood, the tall and strange figure of Martin Joubard appeared out of the gloom. A few hurried words to him, and he readily undertook to see the Cure safely home. The sight of Monsieur de Sainfoy impressed him amazingly; it was evident that Monsieur Angelot had not been acting without authority.

Martin stared with all his eyes at the cloaked woman's figure in the background, but promised himself to have all details from the Cure on their way through the lanes.

Herve de Sainfoy again gave his arm to his daughter, leading her down into the darkness of the wood. Angelot, more familiar with the ways, walked a yard or two in front of them. Several times--his sporting instinct not dulled by the wonderful thing that had happened--he was aware of a slight rustling in the bushes on the right, between the path where they were and the open ground of the park beyond the wood. He listened to this with one ear, while the other was attentive to his father-in-law. It did not strike Monsieur de Sainfoy, once away from the house, that caution and silence might be necessary; he talked out of the relief and gladness of his heart, while affectionately pressing Helene's hand in his arm.

"Make my compliments to your uncle, Angelot. Ask him to forgive me for taking his nephew and sending him back a niece. He will see that your duty lies in France now. As to that dear father of yours, I shall soon make my peace with him."

"Papa!" Helene spoke for the first time, and Angelot forgot the rustling in the bushes. "Cannot we--may not we go to La Mariniere?"

"Not at first," said Herve, more gravely. "Ange must make sure of a welcome there--and he knows his uncle Joseph."

"There is another reason," Angelot said eagerly. "My uncle is expecting me. He has made arrangements for me--this very night--I must come to an understanding with him. You know--" he said, looking at Helene, "my uncle has risked much for me. To-morrow--or to-day, is it? my mother shall welcome you. You are not displeased?"

"No, no. Take me anywhere--I will go anywhere you like," Helene answered a little faintly; the thought of Angelot's mother, slightly as she knew her, had been sweet and comforting.

For she was a timid girl, and these wild doings frightened her, though she loved Angelot and trusted him with all her heart.

Her father laughed.

"Certainly, my poor girl," he said, "no daughter of Lancilly was ever before married and smuggled away in such a fashion."

"I am satisfied, papa," said Helene; and they pa.s.sed on through the wood and came to the crossing of the roads, where he kissed her, and once more laid her hand in Angelot's.

"Take care of your wife," he said to him; and he stood a minute in the road, watching the two young figures, very close together, as they turned into a hollow lane that wound up into the fields and so on towards Les Chouettes.

The Cure and Martin Joubard started away from the chateau by a path that crossed the park and reached the bridge without going through the village. They were not yet clear of the park, walking slowly, when a man came out of the shadows of the wood to the north, and crossed their path, going towards the south side of the chateau. He pa.s.sed at some yards' distance in the confusing darkness of the low ground, where mists were rising; but Martin Joubard had the eyes of a hawk, and knew him.

"Pardon, Monsieur le Cure!" he said, dropped the bundle he was carrying at the Cure's feet, and sped away at his wooden leg's best pace after the man.

"_He_, police!" he said, as he came up with him, "what are you spying about here? Looking after the Emperor's enemies?"

"You are not far wrong," said Simon. "And you--what are you doing here, soldier?"

"My fighting days are done. I look out for amus.e.m.e.nt now. Did you see some people just now, going down through the wood? A young gentleman you want--who gave you the slip--was he there?"

"I saw and heard enough to interest me," Simon answered drily. "It is time to finish off this business. I can't quite see what is going on, but I shall find out at the chateau. I have been following that young man all night, but I shall catch him up now."

"I might help you with a little information," Martin said.

The police agent looked at him suspiciously. "Tell me no lies," he said, "or"--he pointed to his carbine.

"Oh, if that is your game--" Martin said.

His heavy-headed stick swung in the air. "Crack!" it came down on the side of Simon's head and laid him flat on the turf. Martin stood and looked at him.

"Now the saints grant I have not killed him," he said piously, "though I think he might very well be spared. But he won't go and catch Monsieur Angelot just at present."

He left Simon lying there, and went quietly back to join the Cure.

CHAPTER XXVI

HOW ANGELOT KEPT HIS TRYST

For Helene, the next wonder in that autumn night's dream was the arrival at Les Chouettes, the mysterious house which bore the character of a den of Chouans, but the thought of which had always pleased her, as the home of Angelot's most attractive uncle.

Angelot hurried her through the lanes, almost in silence. At last he stopped under a tall poplar, which gleamed grey in the starlight among the other lower trees. It was close to the spot where, coming from Les Chouettes in the evening, he had been irresistibly drawn by the lights of Lancilly. Here he took Helene in his arms and kissed her for the first time since the Cure had joined their hands.

"Mine!" he said. "My love, Helene! you are not unhappy, you are not afraid, my own?"

"I am with you," the girl said, very low.

"Ah! if only--anyhow, I am the happiest man in the world. Come, dearest!"

Helene wondered at him a little. He was changed, somehow, her gay, talkative, light-hearted, single-minded Angelot. He had become grave.

She longed to ask him many things--how had he escaped or been released from prison?--was it his father's doing?--would his father and mother be displeased at his marriage?--but in spite of the rapture of knowing that they belonged to each other, she felt strangely shy of him. In that silent, hurried walk she dimly realised that her boy friend and lover had grown suddenly into a man. There was keen anxiety as well as joy in the quick, pa.s.sionate embrace he allowed himself before bringing her to his uncle's hands.

They walked up to the house, over the gra.s.s and the spreading sand. All was silent and dark, except a gleam of light from Monsieur Joseph's window. A dog came up and jumped on Angelot, with a little whine of welcome; another pressed up to Helene and licked her hand. She was standing between the dog and Angelot when Monsieur Joseph, hearing footsteps, suddenly opened the window and stepped out with his gun.

He stared a moment in astonished silence--then: "It is you, Anne! He has been home, then, the good-for-nothing! You have seen your father, Ange?

Well, I told him, and I tell you, that you must go all the same--yes, my nephew does not break promises, or fail to keep appointments--but come in, Anne! What is the use of racing about the country all night? How did you miss him, the worthless fellow?"

"This is not my mother, Uncle Joseph," Angelot said, laughter struggling with earnestness, while his arm slid round Helene. "Let me present you to my wife."