CHAPTER XVI.
The Inn near Pontorson
HE moment I found myself outside the house—and I must confess that, for reasons which I have indicated, it was a relief to me to find myself there—I hastened to old Jean’s cottage. The old man was eating his breakfast; his stolidity was unshaken by the events of the night; he manifested nothing beyond a mild satisfaction that the two rascals had justified his opinion of them, and a resigned regret that Pierre had not shared the fate of Lafleur. He told me that his inquiries after Marie Delhasse had been fruitless, and added that he supposed there would be a police inquiry into the attempted robbery and the consequent death of Lafleur; indeed he was of opinion that the duke had gone to Avranches to arrange for it as much as to prosecute his search for Marie. I seized the opportunity to suggest that I should be a material witness, and urged him to give me one of the duke’s horses to carry me to Avranches. He grumbled at my request, declaring that I should end by getting him into trouble; but a few francs overcame his scruples, and he provided me with a sturdy animal, which I promised to bring or send back in the course of the day.
Great as my impatience was, I was compelled to spend the first hour of my arrival at Avranches under the doctor’s hands. He discovered to my satisfaction that the bullet had not lodged in my arm and that my hurt was no more than a flesh-wound, which would, if all went well, heal in a few days. He enjoined perfect rest and freedom from worry and excitement. I thanked him, bowed myself out, mounted again, and rode to the hotel, where I left my horse with instructions for its return to its owner. Then, at my best speed, I hastened down the hill again, reached the grounds of the convent, and approached the door. Perfect rest and freedom from excitement were unattainable until I had learned whether Marie Delhasse was still safe within the old white walls which I saw before me; for, though I could not trace how the change in me had come, nor track its growth, I knew now that if she were there the walls held what was of the greatest moment to me in all the world, and that if she were not there the world was a hell to me until I found her.
I was about to ring the bell, when from the gate of the burial-ground the Mother Superior came at a slow pace. The old woman was frowning as she walked, and her frown deepened at sight of me. But I, caring nothing for what she thought, ran up to her, crying before I had well reached her:
“Is Marie Delhasse still here?”
The Mother stopped dead, and regarded me with disapprobation.
“What business is it of yours, sir, where the young woman is?” she asked.
“I mean her no harm,” I urged eagerly. “If she is safe here, I ask to know no more; I don’t even ask to see her. Is she here? The Duchess of Saint-Maclou told me that you refused to send her away.”
“God forbid that I should send away any sinner who will find refuge here,” she said solemnly. “You have seen the duchess?”
“Yes; she is at home. But Mlle. Delhasse?”
But the old woman would not be hurried. She asked again:
“What concern have you, sir, with Marie Delhasse?”
I looked her in the face as I answered plainly:
“To save her from the Duke of Saint-Maclou.”
“And from her own mother, sir?”
“Yes, above all from her own mother.”
The old woman started at my words; but there was no change in the level calm of her voice as she asked:
“And why would you rescue her?”
“For the same reason that any gentleman would, if he could. If you want more”
She held up her hand to silence me; but her look was gentler and her voice softer, as she said:
“You, sir, cannot save, and I cannot save, those who will not let God himself save them.”
“What do you mean?” I cried in a frenzy of fear and eagerness.
“I had prayed for her, and talked with her. I thought I had seen grace in her. Well, I know not. It is true that she acted as her mother bade her. But I fear all is not well.”
“I pray you to speak plainly. Where is she?”
“I do not know where she is. What I know, sir, you shall know, for I believe you come in honesty. This morning—some two hours ago—a carriage drove from the town here. Mme. Delhasse was in it, and with her the Duke of Saint-Maclou. I could not refuse to let the woman see her daughter. They spoke together for a time; and then they called me, and Marie—yes, Marie herself—begged me to let her see the duke. So they came here where we stand, and I stood a few yards off. They talked earnestly in low tones. And at last Marie came to me (the others remaining where they were), and took my hand and kissed it, thanking me and bidding me adieu. I was grieved, sir, for I trusted that the girl had found peace here; and she was in the way to make us love her. ‘Does your mother bid you go?’ I asked, ‘And will she save you from all harm?’ And she answered: ‘I go of my own will, Mother; but I go hoping to return.’ ‘You swear that you go of your own will?’ I asked. ‘Yes, of my own will,’ she said firmly; but she was near to weeping as she spoke. Yet what could I do? I could but tell her that our door—God’s door—was never shut. That I told her; and with a heavy heart, being able to do nothing else, I let her go. I pray God no harm come of it. But I thought the man’s face wore a look of triumph.”
“By Heaven,” I cried, “it shall not wear it for long! Which way did they go?”
She pointed to the road by the side of the bay, leading away from Avranches.
“That way. I watched the carriage and its dust till I saw it no more, because of the wood that lies between here and the road. You pursue them, sir?”
“To the world’s end, madame, if I must.”
She sighed and opened her lips to speak, but no words came; and without more, I turned and left her, and set my face to follow the carriage. I was, I think, half-mad with anger and bewilderment, for I did not think that it would be time well spent to ascend to the town and obtain a vehicle or a horse; but I pressed on afoot, weary and in pain as I was, along the hot white road. For now indeed my heart was on fire, and I knew that beside Marie Delhasse everything was nothing. So at first imperceptibly, slowly, and unobserved, but at the last with a swift resistless rush, the power of her beauty and of the soul that I had seemed to see in her won upon me; and that moment, when I thought that she had yielded to her enemy and mine, was the flowering and bloom of my love for her.
Where had they gone? Not to the duke’s house, or I should have met them as I rode down earlier in the morning. Then where? France was wide, and the world wider: my steps were slow. Where lay the use of the chase? In the middle of the road, when I had gone perhaps a mile, I stopped dead. I was beaten and sick at heart, and I searched for a nook of shade by the wayside, and flung myself on the ground; and the ache of my arm was the least of my pain.
As I lay there, my eye caught sight of a cloud of dust on the road. For a moment I scanned it eagerly, and then fell back with a curse of disappointment. It was caused by a man on a horse—and the man was not the duke. But in an instant I was sitting up again—for as the rider drew nearer, trotting briskly along, his form and air was familiar to me; and when he came opposite to me, I sprang up and ran out to meet him, crying out to him:
“Gustave! Gustave!”
It was Gustave de Berensac, my friend. He reined in his horse and greeted me—and he greeted me without surprise, but not without apparent displeasure.
“I thought I should find you here still,” said he. “I rode over to seek you. Surely you are not at the duchess’?”
His tone was eloquent of remonstrance.
“I’ve been staying at the inn.”
“At the inn?” he repeated, looking at me curiously. “And is the duchess at home?”
“She’s at home now. How come you here?”
“Ah, my friend, and how comes your arm in a sling? Well, you shall have my story first. I expect it will prove shorter. I am staying at Pontorson with a friend who is quartered there.”
“But you went to Paris.”
Gustave leaned down to me, and spoke in a low impressive tone:
“Gilbert,” said he, “I’ve had a blow. The day after I got to Paris I heard from Lady Cynthia. She’s going to be married to a countryman of yours.”
Gustave looked very doleful. I murmured condolence, though in truth I cared, just then, not a straw about the matter.
“So,” he continued, “I seized the first opportunity for a little change.”
There was a pause. Gustave’s mournful eye ranged over the landscape. Then he said, in a patient, sorrowful voice:
“You said the duchess was at home?”
“Yes, she’s at home now.”
“Ah! I ask again, because as I passed the inn on the way between here and Pontorson I saw in the courtyard”
“Yes, yes, what?” cried I in sudden eagerness.
“What’s the matter, man? I saw a carriage with some luggage on it, and it looked like the duke’s, and Hallo! Gilbert, where are you going?”
“I can’t wait, I can’t wait!” I called, already three or four yards away.
“But I haven’t heard how you got your arm”
“I can’t tell you now. I can’t wait!”
My lethargy had vanished; I was hot to be on my way again.
“Is the man mad?” he cried; and he put his horse to a quick walk to keep up with me.
I stopped short.
“It would take all day to tell you the story,” I said impatiently.
“Still I should like to know”
“I can’t help it. Look here, Gustave, the duchess knows. Go and see her. I must go on now.”
Across the puzzled mournful eyes of the rejected lover and bewildered friend I thought I saw a little gleam.
“The duchess?” said he.
“Yes, she’s all alone. The duke’s not there.”
“Where is the duke?” he asked; but, as it struck me, now rather in precaution than in curiosity.
“That’s what I’m going to see,” said I.
And with hope and resolution born again in my heart I broke into a fair run, and, with a wave of my hand, left Gustave in the middle of the road, staring after me and plainly convinced that I was mad. Perhaps I was not far from that state. Mad or not, in any case after three minutes I thought no more of my good friend Gustave de Berensac, nor of aught else, save the inn outside Pontorson, just where the old road used to turn toward Mont St. Michel. To that goal I pressed on, forgetting my weariness and my pain. For it might be that the carriage would still stand in the yard, and that in the house I should come upon the object of my search.
Half an hour’s walk brought me to the inn, and there, to my joy, I saw the carriage drawn up under a shed side by side with the inn-keeper's market cart. The horses had been taken out; there was no servant in sight. I walked up to the door of the inn and passed through it. And I called for wine.
A big stout man, wearing a blouse, came out to meet me. The inn was a large one, and the inn-keeper was evidently a man of some consideration, although he wore a blouse. But I did not like the look of him, for he had shifty eyes and a bloated face. Without a word he brought me what I ordered and set it down in a little room facing the stable yard.
“Whose carriage is that under your shed?” I asked, sipping my wine.
“It is the carriage of the Duke of Saint-Maclou, sir,” he answered readily enough.
“The duke is here, then?”
“Have you business with him, sir?”
“I did but ask you a simple question,” said I. “Ah! what’s that? Who’s that?”
I had been looking out of the window, and my sudden exclamation was caused by this—that the door of a stable which faced me had opened very gently, and but just wide enough to allow a face to appear for an instant and then disappear. And it seemed to me that I knew the face, although the sight of it had been too short to make me sure.
“What did you see, sir?” asked the inn-keeper. (The name on his signboard was Jacques Bontet.)
I turned and faced him full.
“I saw someone look out of the stable,” said I.
“Doubtless the stable-boy,” he answered; and his manner was so ordinary, unembarrassed, and free from alarm, that I doubted whether my eyes had not played me a trick, or my imagination played one upon my eyes.
Be that as it might, I had no time to press my host further at that moment; for I heard a step behind me and a voice I knew saying:
“Bontet, who is this gentleman?”
I turned. In the doorway of the room stood the Duke of Saint-Maclou. He was in the same dress as when he had parted from me; he was dusty, his face was pale, and the skin had made bags under his eyes. But he stood looking at me composedly, with a smile on his lips.
“Ah!” said he, “it is my friend Mr. Aycon. Bontet, bring me some wine, too, that I may drink with my friend.” And he added, addressing me: “You will find our good Bontet most obliging. He is a tenant of mine, and he will do anything to oblige me and my friends. Isn’t it so, Bontet?”
The fellow grunted a surly and none too respectful assent, and left the room to fetch the duke his wine. Silence followed on his departure for some seconds. Then the duke came up to where I stood, folded his arms, and looked me full in the face.
“It is difficult to lose the pleasure of your company, sir,” he said.
“If you will depart from here alone,” I retorted, “you shall find it the easiest thing in the world. For, in truth, it is not desire for your society that brings me here.”
He lifted a hand and tugged at his mustache.
“You have, perhaps, been to the convent?” he hazarded.
“I have just come from there,” I rejoined.
“I am not an Englishman,” said he, curling the end of the mustache, “and I do not know how plain an intimation need be to discourage one of your resolute race. For my part, I should have thought that when a lady accepts the escort of one gentleman, it means that she does not desire that of another.”
He said this with a great air and an assumption of dignity that contrasted strongly with the unrestrained paroxysms of the night before. I take it that success—or what seems such—may transform a man as though it changed his very skin. But I was not skilled to cross swords with him in talk of that kind, so I put my hands in my pockets and leaned against the shutter and said bluntly:
“God knows what lies you told her, you see.”
His white face suddenly flushed; but he held himself in and retorted with a sneer:
“A disabled right arm gives a man fine courage.”
“Nonsense!” said I. “I can aim as well with my left;” and that indeed was not very far from the truth. And I went on: “Is she here?”
“Mme. and Mlle. Delhasse are both here, under my escort.”
“I should like to see Mlle. Delhasse,” I observed.
He answered me in low tones, but with the passion in him closer to the surface now and near on boiling up through the thin film of his self-restraint:
“So long as I live, you shall never see her.”
But I cared not, for my heart leaped in joy at his words. They meant to me that he dared not let me see her; that, be the meaning of her consent to go with him what it might, yet he dared not match his power over her against mine. And whence came the power he feared? It could be mine only if I had touched her heart.
“I presume she may see whom she will,” said I still carelessly.
“Her mother will protect her from you with my help.”
There was silence for a minute. Then I said:
“I will not leave here without seeing her.”
And a pause followed my words till the duke, fixing his eyes on mine, answered significantly:
“If you leave here alive to-night, you are welcome to take her with you.”
I understood, and I nodded my head.
“My left arm is as sound as yours,” he added; “and, maybe, better practiced.”
Our eyes met again, and the agreement was sealed. The duke was about to speak again, when a sudden thought struck me. I put my hand in my pocket and drew out the Cardinal’s Necklace. And I flung it on the table before me, saying:
“Let me return that to you, sir.”
The duke stood regarding the necklace for a moment, as it lay gleaming and glittering on the wooden table in the bare inn parlor. Then he stepped up to the table, but at the moment I cried:
“You won’t steal her away before—before”
“Before we fight? I will not, on my honor.” He paused and added: “For there is one thing I want more even than her.”
I could guess what that was.
And then he put out his hand, took up the necklace, and thrust it carelessly into the pocket of his coat. And looking across the room, I saw the inn-keeper, Jacques Bontet, standing in the doorway and staring with all his eyes at the spot on the table where the glittering thing had for a moment lain; and as the fellow set down the wine he had brought for the duke, I swear that he trembled as a man who has seen a ghost; for he spilled some of the wine and chinked the bottle against the glass. But while I stared at him, the duke lifted his glass and bowed to me, saying, with a smile and as though he jested in some phrase of extravagant friendship for me:
“May nothing less than death part you and me?”
And I drank the toast with him, saying “Amen.”