"And my friend?" said John d'Albret.

The girl hesitated a little, and then held out her hand. The young man took it.

"And your friend!" she said. "There in Pilate's House you must wait, you two, till I see--till I know that she is worth the sacrifice."

Once again she laughed a little, seeing a wave of joy or perhaps some more complex emotion sweep over John's face.

"Ah," she cried, with a returning trace of her first bitterness, "you are certain that she is worthy. Doubtless so for you! But as the sacrifice is mine--I also must be certain--ah, very certain. For there is no back-going. It is the end of all things for Valentine la Nina."

She laughed little and low, like one on the verge of hysterics. A nerve twitched irregularly in her throat under her chin to the right. The pink came out brighter to her cheek. It was a terrible laugh to hear in that still place. And the mirthlessness of it--it struck the Abbe John cold.

"This shall be my revenge," she said, fixing him, with flame in her honey-coloured eyes; "long after, long--oh, so--so long after"--she waved her arm--"you will know! And you will see that, however much she has loved you, hers was the love which takes. But mine--ah, mine is different. Mine is the love which gives--the only true woman's love--without scant, without measure, without bounds of good or evil, without thought of recompense, or hope of reward. Love net, unselfish, boundless, encompa.s.sing as the sea, and like a fountain sealed within the heart of a woman. And then--then you shall remember that when ye might--ye would not--ah, ye would not!"

A sob tore her throat.

"But one day, or it may be through all eternity, you shall know which is the greater love, and you shall wish--no, you are a man, you will be content with the lesser, the more comprehensible, the goodwife warming her feet by the fire over against yours. There is your ideal. While I--I--would have carried you beyond the stars!"

The Abbe John took a step nearer her. He had some vague notion of comforting--not knowing.

But she thrust her arms out furiously as if to strike him.

"Go--go!" she cried, "you are breaking my heart every instant you remain. Is it not enough, that which you have done? I would be quiet.

They are waiting for you to take you to Pilate's House. But tell me first where to find this--this Claire Agnew!"

She p.r.o.nounced the name with difficulty.

"Ah," Valentine continued, when John had told her how she was safe in Provence, "that is no great way. I shall go and soon return. Then to Madrid is farther, but easier. But if I suffer--what I must suffer--you can well abide here a little season. The hope--the future is with you.

For me there is neither--save to do the greatest thing for you that ever woman did for man! That shall be my revenge."

CHAPTER XLV.

VALENTINE FINDS CLAIRE WORTHY

The mornings are fair--yes, very sweet and very clear at the Mas of the Mountain well-nigh all the year round. However hot the day, however mosquito-tormented the nights for those who do not protect themselves, the morn is ever fresh, with deep draughts of air cool as long-cellared wine, and everywhere the scent of springy, low-growing plants--the thyme, the romarin, the juniper--making an undergrowth which supports the foot of the wanderer, and carries him on league after league almost without his knowledge.

There was great peace on the Valley of the Rhone. It was at peace even from the drive of the eternal mistral, which, from horizon to horizon, turns all things greyish-white, the trees and herbage heavy with dust, and the heavens hiding themselves away under a dry steely pall.

"Avenio ventoso, Si non ventoso, venenoso,"

muttered the Professor, as he looked at the black ma.s.s to the north, which was the Palace of the Popes. "But I thank G.o.d it is windy, this Rhone Valley of ours, with its one great, sweeping, cleansing wind, so that no poison can lurk anywhere."

He had a book in his hand, and he was looking abroad over the wide valley between the grey ridges of the Mountain of Barbentane and the little splintered peaks of the Alpilles. As on the landscape, great peace was upon the Professor.

But all suddenly, without noise of approach, Jean-aux-Choux stood before him--changed, indeed, from him who had been called "The Fool of the Three Henries." The fire of a strange pa.s.sion glowed in his eye. His great figure was hollowed and ghastly. His regard seemed to burn like a torch that smokes. On the back of his huge hand the muscles stood out like whipcords. His arms, bare beneath his shepherd's cape, were burned to brick colour.

"Jean-aux-Choux!" cried the Professor, clapping his hands, "come and see my mother--how content she will be."

The ex-fool made a sign of negation.

"No, I cannot enter," he said; "there is a woman down in the valley there who would see Claire Agnew. She hath somewhat to say to her, which it concerns her greatly to know."

"Who is the woman?" demanded the Professor.

"I will vouch for her," said Jean-aux-Choux; "her name is nothing to you or to any man."

"But Claire Agnew's name and life concern me greatly," said the Professor hotly. "Had it been otherwise, I should even now have been in my cla.s.s-room with my students at the Sorbonne!"

"In your grave more like--with Catherine and Guise and Henry of Valois!"

"Possibly," said the Professor tranquilly, "all the same I must know!"

"I vouch for the woman. She has come with me from Collioure," said Jean-aux-Choux. "Nevertheless, do you come also, and we will stand apart and watch while these two speak the thing which is in their hearts!"

"But she may be a messenger of the Inquisition," the Professor protested, whom hard experience had rendered suspicious in these latter days. "A dagger under the cloak is easy to carry!"

"Did I not tell you I would vouch for her?" thundered Jean-aux-Choux, the face of the slayer of Guise showing for the first time; "is not that enough?"

It was enough. Notwithstanding, the Professor armed himself with his sword-cane, and prepared to be of the company. They called Claire. She came forth to them with the flour of the bread-baking on her hands, gowned in white with the cook's ap.r.o.n and cap, which Madame Amelie had made for her--a fair, gracious, household figure.

She had no suspicions. Someone wanted to speak with her. There--down by the olive plant! A woman--a single woman--come from far with tidings!

Well, Jean-aux-Choux was with her. Good Jean--dear Jean!

Then, all suddenly, there sprang a vivid red to her cheek.

Could it be? News of the Abbe John. Ah, but why this woman? Why could not Jean-aux-Choux have brought the message himself?

And Claire quickened her step down towards the olives in the valley.

The two met, the girl and the woman--Claire, slender and dark, but with eyes young, and with colour bright--Valentine la Nina fuller and taller, in the mid-most flower of a superb beauty. Claire, fresh from the kitchen, showed an abounding energy in every limb. Sweet, gracious, happy, born to make others happy, the Woman of the Interior went to meet her Sister of the Exterior--of the life without a home. Valentine la Nina had her plans ready. She had thought deeply over what to say and what to do before she met Claire Agnew. She must look into the depths of the girl's soul.

"I am called Valentine la Nina," she said, speaking with slow distinctness, yet softly, "and I have come from very far to tell you that I love the Prince Jean d'Albret. I am of his rank, and I demand that you release him from any hasty bond or promise he may have made to you!"

The colour flushed to the cheek of Claire Agnew, a deep sustained flood of crimson, which, standing a moment at the full, ebbed slowly away.

"Did he send you to ask me that question--to make that request?" she demanded, her voice equally low and firm.

"I have come of my own accord," Valentine la Nina answered, "I speak for his sake and for yours. The release, which it is not fitting that he should ask--I, who am a king's daughter, laying aside my dignity, may well require!"

It was curious that Claire never questioned the truth of these statements. Had not the lady come with Jean-aux-Choux? Nevertheless, when she spoke, it was clearly and to the main issue.

"Jean d'Albret has made me no promise--I have given none to him. True, I know that he loved me. If he loves me no more, let him come himself and tell me so!"

"He cannot," said Valentine la Nina, "he is in prison. He has been on the Spanish galleys. He has suffered much----"