CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE ORLÉANNAIS.
“But you fear him?”
“Fear him?” Madame St. Lo answered; and, to the surprise of the Countess, she made a little face of contempt. “No; why should I fear him? I fear him no more than the puppy leaping at old Sancho’s bridle fears his tall playfellow! Or than the cloud you see above us fears the wind before which it flies!” She pointed to a white patch, the size of a man’s hand, which hung above the hill on their left hand and formed the only speck in the blue summer sky. “Fear him? Not I!” And, laughing gaily, she put her horse at a narrow rivulet which crossed the grassy track on which they rode.
“But he is hard?” the Countess murmured in a low voice, as she regained her companion’s side.
“Hard?” Madame St. Lo rejoined with a gesture of pride. “Ay, hard as the stones in my jewelled ring! Hard as flint, or the nether millstone—to his enemies! But to women? Bah! Who ever heard that he hurt a woman?”
“Why, then, is he so feared?” the Countess asked, her eyes on the subject of their discussion—a solitary figure riding some fifty paces in front of them.
“Because he counts no cost!” her companion answered. “Because he killed Savillon in the court of the Louvre, though he knew his life the forfeit. He would have paid the forfeit too, or lost his right hand, if Monsieur, for his brother the Marshal’s sake, had not intervened. But Savillon had whipped his dog, you see. Then he killed the Chevalier de Millaud, but ’twas in fair fight, in the snow, in their shirts. For that, Millaud’s son lay in wait for him with two, in the passage under the Châtelet; but Hannibal wounded one, and the others saved themselves. Undoubtedly he is feared!” she added with the same note of pride in her voice.
The two who talked, rode at the rear of the little company which had left Paris at daybreak two days before, by the Porte St. Jacques. Moving steadily south-westward by the lesser roads and bridle-tracks—for Count Hannibal seemed averse from the great road—they had lain the second night in a village three leagues from Bonneval. A journey of two days on fresh horses is apt to change scenery and eye alike; but seldom has an alteration—in themselves and all about them—as great as that which blessed this little company, been wrought in so short a time. From the stifling wynds and evil-smelling lanes of Paris, they had passed to the green uplands, the breezy woods and babbling streams of the upper Orléannais; from sights and sounds the most appalling, to the solitude of the sandy heath, haunt of the great bustard, or the sunshine of the hillside, vibrating with the songs of larks; from an atmosphere of terror and gloom to the freedom of God’s earth and sky. Numerous enough—they numbered a score of armed men—to defy the lawless bands which had their lairs in the huge forest of Orleans, they halted where they pleased: at mid-day under a grove of chestnut-trees, or among the willows beside a brook; at night, if they willed it, under God’s heaven. Far, not only from Paris, but from the great road, with its gibbets and pillories—the great road which at that date ran through a waste, no peasant living willingly within sight of it—they rode in the morning and in the evening, resting in the heat of the day. And though they had left Paris with much talk of haste, they rode more at leisure with every league.
For whatever Tavannes’ motive, it was plain that he was in no hurry to reach his destination. Nor for that matter were any of his company. Madame St. Lo, who had seized the opportunity of escaping from the capital under her cousin’s escort, was in an ill-humour with cities, and declaimed much on the joys of a cell in the woods. For the time the coarsest nature and the dullest rider had had enough of alarums and conflicts.
The whole company, indeed, though it moved in some fashion of array with an avant and a rear-guard, the ladies riding together, and Count Hannibal proceeding solitary in the midst, formed as peaceful a band, and one as innocently diverted, as if no man of them had ever grasped pike or blown a match. There was an old rider among them who had seen the sack of Rome, and the dead face of the great Constable the idol of the Free Companies. But he had a taste for simples and much skill in them; and when Madame had once seen Badelon on his knees in the grass searching for plants, she lost her fear of him. Bigot, with his low brow and matted hair, was the abject slave of Suzanne, Madame St. Lo’s woman, who twitted him mercilessly on his Norman patois, and poured the vials of her scorn on him a dozen times a day. In all, with La Tribe and the Carlats, Madame St. Lo’s servants, and the Countess’s following, they numbered not far short of two score; and when they halted at noon, and under the shadow of some leafy tree, ate their mid-day meal, or drowsed to the tinkle of Madame St. Lo’s lute, it was difficult to believe that Paris existed, or that these same people had so lately left its blood-stained pavements.
They halted this morning a little earlier than usual. Madame St. Lo had barely answered her companion’s question before the subject of their discussion swung himself from old Sancho’s back, and stood waiting to assist them to dismount. Behind him, where the green valley through which the road passed narrowed to a rocky gate, an old mill stood among willows at the foot of a mound. On the mound behind it a ruined castle which had stood siege in the Hundred Years’ War raised its grey walls; and beyond this the stream which turned the mill poured over rocks with a cool rushing sound that proved irresistible. The men, their horses watered and hobbled, went off, shouting like boys, to bathe below the falls; and after a moment’s hesitation Count Hannibal rose from the grass on which he had flung himself.
“Guard that for me, Madame,” he said. And he dropped a packet, bravely sealed and tied with a silk thread, into the Countess’s lap. “’Twill be safer than leaving it in my clothes. Ohé!” And he turned to Madame St. Lo. “Would you fancy a life that was all gipsying, cousin?” And if there was irony in his voice, there was desire in his eyes.
“There is only one happy man in the world,” she answered, with conviction.
“By name?”
“The hermit of Compiégne.”
“And in a week you would be wild for a masque!” he said cynically. And turning on his heel he followed the men.
Madame St. Lo sighed complacently. “Heigho!” she said. “He’s right! We are never content, ma mie! When I am trifling in the Gallery my heart is in the greenwood. And when I have eaten black bread and drank spring water for a fortnight I do nothing but dream of Zamet’s, and white mulberry tarts! And you are in the same case. You have saved your round white neck, or it has been saved for you, by not so much as the thickness of Zamet’s pie-crust—I declare my mouth is beginning to water for it!—and instead of being thankful and making the best of things, you are thinking of poor Madame d’Yverne, or dreaming of your calf-love!”
The girl’s face—for a girl she was, though they called her Madame—began to work. She struggled a moment with her emotion, and then broke down, and fell to weeping silently. For two days she had sat in public and not given way. But the reference to her lover was too much for her strength.
Madame St. Lo looked at her with eyes which were not unkindly.
“Sits the wind in that quarter?” she murmured. “I thought so! But there, my dear, if you don’t put that packet in your gown you’ll wash out the address! Moreover, if you ask me, I don’t think the young man is worth it. It is only that what we have not got—we want!”
But the young Countess had borne to the limit of her powers. With an incoherent word she rose to her feet, and walked hurriedly away. The thought of what was and of what might have been, the thought of the lover who still—though he no longer seemed, even to her, the perfect hero—held a place in her heart, filled her breast to overflowing. She longed for some spot where she could weep unseen; where the sunshine and the blue sky would not mock her grief; and seeing in front of her a little clump of alders, which grew beside the stream, in a bend that in winter was marshy, she hastened towards it.
Madame St. Lo saw her figure blend with the shadow of the trees.
“Quite à la Ronsard, I give my word!” she murmured. “And now she is out of sight! La, la! I could play at the game myself, and carve sweet sorrow on the barks of trees, if it were not so lonesome! And if I had a man!”
And gazing pensively at the stream and the willows, my lady tried to work herself into a proper frame of mind; now murmuring the name of one gallant, and now, finding it unsuited, the name of another. But the soft inflection would break into a giggle, and finally into a yawn; and, tired of the attempt, she began to pluck grass and throw it from her. By-and-by she discovered that Madame Carlat and the women, who had their place a little apart, had disappeared; and affrighted by the solitude and silence—for neither of which she was made—she sprang up and stared about her, hoping to discern them. Right and left, however, the sweep of hillside curved upward to the skyline, lonely and untenanted; behind her the castled rock frowned down on the rugged gorge and filled it with dispiriting shadow. Madame St. Lo stamped her foot on the turf.
“The little fool!” she murmured pettishly. “Does she think that I am to be murdered that she may fatten on sighs? Oh, come up, Madame, you must be dragged out of this!” And she started briskly towards the alders, intent on gaining company as quickly as possible.
She had gone about fifty yards, and had as many more to traverse when she halted. A man, bent double, was moving stealthily along the farther side of the brook, a little in front of her. Now she saw him, now she lost him; now she caught a glimpse of him again, through a screen of willow branches. He moved with the utmost caution, as a man moves who is pursued or in danger; and for a moment she deemed him a peasant whom the bathers had disturbed and who was bent on escaping. But when he came opposite to the alder-bed she saw that that was his point, for he crouched down, sheltered by a willow, and gazed eagerly among the trees, always with his back to her; and then he waved his hand to some one in the wood.
Madame St. Lo drew in her breath. As if he had heard the sound—which was impossible—the man dropped down where he stood, crawled a yard or two on his face, and disappeared.
Madame stared a moment, expecting to see him or hear him. Then, as nothing happened, she screamed. She was a woman of quick impulses, essentially feminine; and she screamed three or four times, standing where she was, her eyes on the edge of the wood. “If that does not bring her out, nothing will!” she thought.
It brought her. An instant, and the Countess appeared, and hurried in dismay to her side.
“What is it?” the younger woman asked, glancing over her shoulder; for all the valley, all the hills were peaceful, and behind Madame St. Lo—but the lady had not discovered it—the servants who had returned were laying the meal. “What is it?” she repeated anxiously.
“Who was it?” Madame St. Lo asked curtly. She was quite calm now.
“Who was—who?”
“The man in the wood?”
The Countess stared a moment, then laughed. “Only the old soldier they call Badelon, gathering simples. Did you think that he would harm me?”
“It was not old Badelon whom I saw!” Madame St. Lo retorted. “It was a younger man, who crept along the other side of the brook, keeping under cover. When I first saw him he was there,” she continued, pointing to the place. “And he crept on and on until he came opposite to you. Then he waved his hand.”
“To me?”
Madame nodded.
“But if you saw him, who was he?” the Countess asked.
“I did not see his face,” Madame St. Lo answered. “But he waved to you. That I saw.”
The Countess had a thought which slowly flooded her face with crimson. Madame St. Lo saw the change, saw the tender light which on a sudden softened the other’s eyes; and the same thought occurred to her. And having a mind to punish her companion for her reticence—for she did not doubt that the girl knew more than she acknowledged—she proposed that they should return and find Badelon, and learn if he had seen the man.
“Why?” Madame Tavannes asked. And she stood stubbornly, her head high. “Why should we?”
“To clear it up,” the elder woman answered mischievously. “But perhaps, it were better to tell your husband and let his men search the coppice.”
The colour left the Countess’s face as quickly as it had come. For a moment she was tongue-tied. Then—
“Have we not had enough of seeking and being sought?” she cried, more bitterly than befitted the occasion. “Why should we hunt him? I am not timid, and he did me no harm. I beg, Madame, that you will do me the favour of being silent on the matter.”
“Oh, if you insist? But what a pother”
“I did not see him, and he did not see me,” Madame de Tavannes answered vehemently. “I fail, therefore, to understand why we should harass him, whoever he be. Besides, M. de Tavannes is waiting for us.”
“And M. de Tignonville—is following us!” Madame St. Lo muttered under her breath. And she made a face at the other’s back.
She was silent, however. They returned to the others and nothing of import, it would seem, had happened. The soft summer air played on the meal laid under the willows as it had played on the meal of yesterday laid under the chestnut-trees. The horses grazed within sight, moving now and again, with a jingle of trappings or a jealous neigh: the women’s chatter vied with the unceasing sound of the mill-stream. After dinner, Madame St. Lo touched the lute, and Badelon — Badelon who had seen the sack of the Colonna’s Palace, and been served by cardinals on the knee — fed a water-rat, which had its home in one of the willow-stumps, with carrot-parings. One by one the men laid themselves to sleep with their faces on their arms; and to the eyes all was as all had been yesterday in this camp of armed men living peacefully.
But not to the Countess! She had accepted her life, she had resigned herself, she had marvelled that it was no worse. After the horrors of Paris the calm of the last two days had fallen on her as balm on a wound. Worn out in body and mind, she had rested, and only rested; without thought, almost without emotion, save for the feeling, half fear, half curiosity, which stirred her in regard to the strange man, her husband. Who on his side left her alone.
But the last hour had wrought a change. Her eyes were grown restless, her colour came and went. The past stirred in its shallow — ah, so shallow — grave; and dead hopes and dead forebodings, strive as she might, thrust out hands to plague and torment her. If the man who sought to speak with her by stealth, who dogged her footsteps and hung on the skirts of her party, were Tignonville — her lover, who at his own request had been escorted to the Arsenal before their departure from Paris — then her plight was a sorry one. For what woman, wedded as she had been wedded, could think otherwise than indulgently of his persistence? And yet, lover and husband! What peril, what shame the words had often spelled! At the thought only she trembled and her colour ebbed. She saw, as one who stands on the brink of a precipice, the depth which yawned before her. She asked herself, shivering, if she would ever sink to that.
All the loyalty of a strong nature, all the virtue of a good woman, revolted against the thought. True, her husband—husband she must call him—had not deserved her love; but his bizarre magnanimity, the gloomy, disdainful kindness with which he had crowned possession, even the unity of their interests, which he had impressed upon her in so strange a fashion, claimed a return in honour.
To be paid—how? how? That was the crux which perplexed, which frightened, which harassed her. For, if she told her suspicions, she exposed her lover to capture by one who had no longer a reason to be merciful. And if she sought occasion to see Tignonville and so to dissuade him, she did it at deadly risk to herself. Yet what other course lay open to her if she would not stand by? If she would not play the traitor? If she
“Madame,”—it was her husband, and he spoke to her suddenly,—“are you not well?” And, looking up guiltily, she found his eyes fixed curiously on hers.
Her face turned red and white and red again, and she faltered something and looked from him, but only to meet Madame St. Lo’s eyes. My lady laughed softly in sheer mischief.
“What is it?” Count Hannibal asked sharply.
But Madame St. Lo’s answer was a line of Ronsard.