An Enemy To The King

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Saying not a word, she set down the platter on the ground before me.

"That is well," I said. "Now go back to the inn and step often to the
door, so that I can easily summon you again without attracting the
attention of the others. And get more wine ready."

The woman nodded, and went back to the inn.

The four ruffians made an immediate onslaught on the platter. De Berquin
and Francois ignored the food, that they might the sooner dip their mugs
into the bowl of wine. The other three speedily disposed of all the
eatables, and then joined in the drinking. De Berquin, in order to grasp
his mug, had let my arm go, but he retained his dagger in his other hand,
and each of his followers used but one hand in eating or drinking,
holding a weapon in the other.

"Look you, rascals!" said De Berquin to his men, presently. "Be careful
to keep your wits about you!"

"Rascals!" repeated the tall fellow, his pride awakened by his second mug
of wine. "By the bones of my ancestors, it goes against me to be so often
called rascal!"

Barbemouche saw an opportunity to retaliate for the fun that had been
made of his pretensions to beauty. "They whom the term fits," he growled,
"ought not to complain, if I endure it, who am a gentleman!"

Instantly the bearded giant was on his feet, with his huge sword poised
in the air.

"Rascal yourself twice over, and no gentleman!" he cried, quivering with
noble wrath.

"What, you lank scarecrow!" said Barbemouche, rising in his turn, and
rushing to meet the other.

Their fat comrade now rose and thrust his sword between the two, for the
purpose of striking up their weapons. The fop ran behind a tree, to be
safe from the fracas.

At the instant when Francois was about to bring his great sword down on
Barbemouche, and the latter was about to puncture him somewhere near the
ribs, there came the sound of the Angelus, borne on the breeze from
Clochonne. The two antagonists stood as if transformed into statues,
their weapons in their respective positions of offence. Each in his way
moved his lips in his accustomed prayer until the sound of the distant
bell ceased.

"Now, then, for your dirty blood!" roared Barbemouche, instantly resuming
animation.

But his fat comrade knocked aside Barbemouche's sword, and at the same
time pushed Francois out of striking distance.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried the fat rascal, reproachfully, "would you
spoil this affair and rob me of my share of the pay? God knows we are all
gentlemen, and rascals, too!"

"Very well," said Barbemouche, relieved by his brief explosion of wrath,
"this matter can wait."

"I can wait as well as another man," said Francois, with dignity,
whereupon both men resumed their seats on the turf and their attentions
to the wine. The prudent Jacques returned to the circle, and De Berquin,
who during the squabble had employed himself entirely in holding me from
any attempt at escape, looked relieved.

The effect of the wine on him was to make him merry, so that he soon
invited me to join in the drinking, and I made a pretense of doing so.
When the bowl was empty, he went with me again to summon Marianne, which
we easily did, as she was standing at the door awaiting my reappearance.
She brought us another pot of wine, and left us as she had before done.
De Berquin became more and more gaily disposed. He put no limit to the
quantity imbibed by his men; yet he kept his eyes on me, and his dagger
dangerously near my breast.

When we heard the clock in Clochonne strike seven, he said to his men:

"Straighten up, you dogs! In another hour we shall have work to do."
Turning to me, he added, with a grin, "Either to chain that wild beast,
La Tournoire, or to send the most entertaining of valets to find out
whether all that they say of purgatory and hell is true."

But he soon became so lax under the influence of the wine that he did not
heed when the fat man and the ragged dandy dropped off to sleep and
mingled their snores with the murmurs of the forest insects. He began to
narrate his adventures, amatory, military, bibulous, and other.
Presently, for a jest, he drank the health of Henri of Navarre in return
for my drinking that of the Pope.

By this time Barbemouche and gaunt Francois had added their breathings to
the somnolent choir.

"You are a mighty drinker, monsieur," I said to De Berquin, admiringly,
at the same time refilling my own mug.

"Ask of the cabaret keepers of Paris whether the Vicomte de Berquin can
hold his share of the good red vine-juice!" he replied, jubilantly,
dipping his mug again into the pot.

I took a gulp from my mug and pretended to choke. In one of my
convulsive movements, I threw the contents of my mug into the eyes of De
Berquin. I followed it an instant later with the mug itself, and he fell
back on the grass, half-stunned. In the moment when his grasp of my arm
was relaxed, I slipped away from him, narrowly missing the wild dagger
stroke that he made at me. A second later and I was on my feet. My first
act was to possess the weapons of Barbemouche and Francois, these two
being nearest me. I then ran towards the inn, calling at the top of my
voice, "Blaise! To arms!"

Behind me I heard De Berquin, who had risen, kicking the prostrate bodies
of his men and crying:

"Up, you drunken dogs! We have been fooled! After him!"

Then I heard him running after me on the road, swearing terribly.

From the place where he had left his men, I could hear them confusedly
swearing and questioning one another, all having been rudely awakened
from sleep, two of them being unable to find their weapons, and none
knowing rightly what had occurred or exactly where their leader had gone.

Blaise came running out of the inn, with sword drawn. When he had
joined me, I stopped and turned to face De Berquin. He was before me
ere I had time to explain to Blaise. In his rage, he made a violent
thrust at me, which Blaise turned aside. De Berquin then leaped back,
to put himself on guard.

At that instant, the first stroke of eight came from the distant tower
of Clochonne.

"Filthy cur, you have lied to me!" cried De Berquin.

"Nay, monsieur," I answered, throwing from me the weapons of Barbemouche
and Francois, "I keep my word. I promised you La Tournoire unarmed.
Behold him!"

And I stepped out from beside Blaise and stood with open arms.

"La Tournoire!" repeated De Berquin, taking a backward step and staring
at me with open mouth.

"La Tournoire!" came in a faint, horror-stricken voice from behind me.

I turned and beheld mademoiselle, who had come out from the inn on
hearing my call for Blaise. With her were Hugo and Jeannotte. Behind were
the inn-keepers and the gypsies. On mademoiselle's face, which was
lighted by a torch that Hugo carried, was a death-like pallor, and such a
look of horror, grief, and self-reproach, as I have never seen on any
other human countenance.

"Mademoiselle!" I cried, hastening to her side. "What is the matter?"

"'Tis but--surprise,--M. de la Tournoire!" she answered, weakly, raising
her hand feebly as if to keep me from approaching her, while her eyes,
which were fixed on mine as by a terrible fascination, seemed to be
starting from her head. An instant later, she fell in a swoon, and I was
just in time to save her from striking the ground and to pillow her head
on my arm.

As for De Berquin, he had made a rush at me, but Blaise had repulsed him
with such fury that, seeing no hope of being joined by his men, he soon
turned and fled.

I bore the senseless body of mademoiselle into the inn, vainly asking
myself why she had shown so profound a distress at my disclosure.

CHAPTER XII.

AT THE CHATEAU OF MAURY

Presently mademoiselle recovered from her faintness and went up to her
chamber, supported by Jeannotte. Her eyes met mine as she was about to
go, but she immediately dropped them, and seemed by an effort to repress
some kind of emotion.

With a heart saddened by the sight of mademoiselle's distress, I then
made arrangements for the night. I was to lie at the front door of the
inn, Blaise at the rear door, Hugo and the gypsies in the horse sheds,
Marianne in the chamber with mademoiselle and Jeannotte, old Godeau where
he chose. It happened that he chose a place before the smouldering fire
in the kitchen.

Any further attempt to find Pierre that night was out of the question. I
dared not leave the inn again, lest I should expose mademoiselle to
possible molestation, or myself to an encounter with those from whom I
had just escaped. Had mademoiselle's safety not depended on that of
myself and Blaise, I might have invited such an encounter for myself or
for him or for both, but I would not have her undergo the slightest risk
of losing her protectors.

I had little apprehension of seeing De Berquin or his men again that
night. Not that he would probably remember his promise to give me my life
and liberty in return for my bringing La Tournoire before him. Even that
promise, if still respected by him, did not affect him in regard to
mademoiselle. But he would consider that, though I was not accompanied by
any of my own men except Blaise, mademoiselle's boy, Hugo, would wield a
stout arm on our side. Unless he knew something of Pierre's
disappearance, he would count that active youth also with our forces. He
had doubtless taken in at a glance the group composed of Godeau, the
gypsies, and Marianne; and he would suppose that I could reckon on
assistance of one kind or another from some or all of these. Thus, having
no odds in his favor, and knowing that we would be on the alert, he would
be little likely to make any kind of demonstration against us. Moreover,
two of his men finding themselves without their weapons, and all of them
angry at the manner of their awakening, they would probably receive very
badly the curses that he would heap on them for their failure to come up
to his support. Their attitude would, for the rest of that night, be one
of mutiny. It was likely that he would retreat and meditate a new plan.
He would not feel safe in the immediate vicinity of the inn, for it
would occur to him that I might send one of my allies to my men with
orders to take him. So he would withdraw and either give up the
enterprise entirely or form a new design.

Now that he knew that I was La Tournoire, what would he do? Abandon his
mission, since my knowledge of him would put me on my guard against him,
and forbid his winning my confidence and betraying me in the way which, I
supposed, Montignac had dictated to him? It was not likely that such a
man, having found only one road by which he might regain the good things
he had lost, would be turned aside from that road. He would follow it to
success or death. Such men are too indolent to go about seeking
opportunities. Having found one, they will pursue it wherever it may
lead. Their fortunes are so desperate that they have only their lives to
lose, and they are so brave that they do not fear death. If they can gain
the stakes, so much the better. If not, little the worse. Meanwhile, they
are occupied in a way congenial to a man who loves adventure, who has
inherited the taste for danger, and finds a pleasurable excitement in
risking his life. Therefore I felt that De Berquin was not yet through
with me, but he would have to change his plan, and, until he should have
time to compose new measures, he would not trouble us.

As I lay in the silence, my thoughts turned from De Berquin to Mlle. de
Varion. Her demonstration on learning that I was La Tournoire was in
harmony with the manner in which she had previously questioned me
concerning my friendship for the bearer of that name. Grieved at the
thought that I was his friend, relieved at my assertion that I did not so
highly esteem him, she had shown the utmost horror on learning that I was
the man himself. Could this be due entirely to the impression conveyed by
a name to which the Catholics in Berry had attached so much dread? It was
natural that one should regard with some terror a man whose deeds had
been so exaggerated by vulgar report; but this fact did not explain the
intensity of mademoiselle's emotion at the moment of my disclosure. Yet
she had attributed that emotion entirely to surprise. Perhaps the
extraordinary manifestation of that surprise was due to her fatigued and
dejected condition. Or it might be, and I felt a delicious thrill at the
thought, that it was her concern for me, her fear that my life might be
the more imperilled by my relations with this proscribed man, that had
caused the distress accompanying her first inquiries. If this was true,
the discovery that I was no other than the man proscribed, and all the
more in danger, would naturally have profoundly affected her.

In the morning she came down from her loft, pale and showing a calmness
that seemed forced. To my greeting and my announcement that Pierre had
not returned, she replied, quietly:

"He is a faithful and honest boy, and I have prayed that no harm might
befall him. His disappearance must not be allowed to alter your plans, M.
de la Tournoire."

"I shall leave orders with Marianne and Godeau to conduct him to Maury,
should he return to this place, as he very probably will. If you do not
wish otherwise, we shall ride on to Maury this morning."

"I do not wish otherwise," she replied. After a moment's pause, she
added, "Alas, monsieur, your friend, M. de Launay, when be promised me
your guidance across the border, engaged you to a more tedious task than
you might have wished to undertake. I fear that I must ask for a delay at
Maury. You see what trouble your friend has brought you into,--waiting
until a poor woman, who has been overcome by fatigue, recovers her
energies."

"Ah, mademoiselle," I said, with delight, "you will then hold me to the
promise made for me by my friend?"

"What else can a helpless woman do?" she asked, with a pretty smile,
although there was a tremor in the voice.

I was overjoyed to be assured that she had accepted the situation. I had
promised that, on her becoming acquainted with La Tournoire, she should
have no other protector. This had meant to her, at the time when it was
spoken, that I should go from her. To me it had meant, of course, that I
should continue with her. I had feared that, on learning the truth, she
would banish me. She had said that we must part. But now, despite the
fact that the same barrier existed between me and her, whether I was La
Tournoire or De Launay, despite her horror on learning that I was the
former, she had abandoned her intention of parting from me. What had
caused this change of mind? Had she, now that I was known to her as La
Tournoire, ceased to entertain for me those feelings which she had, on
account of our difference in religion, sought by an immediate separation
to destroy? This was unlikely. La Tournoire or De Launay, I was the same
man. I chose a happier explanation,--none other than that, considering by
night, she had come to the conclusion that a religious difference was not
too great a barrier to be removed, and that La Tournoire was not a person
to be regarded with any horror. Though modesty might plead against her
continuing in the company of a man with whom she exchanged such feelings
as had so rapidly grown up between us, yet circumstance, most imperative
of all dictators, showed her no other course than to remain under my
guidance and protection. So I accounted for the decision which was to
keep us together for a few more days.

I was not sorry that she had asked for a delay at Maury. It relieved me
of the necessity of making a pretext for retarding her flight while I
should attempt the rescue of her father. The reason to be given for the
absence of myself and a party of my men need not be a strong one when
there was no apparent haste to continue the flight. I was still
determined to keep the attempt in her father's behalf a secret from her
if it should fail, and as a surprise for her if successful.

Inwardly jubilant with the hope inspired by her change of mind, I
hastened to give the innocent reasons for the concealment of my identity
from her. She listened with a changeless smile, keeping her eyes on mine.
Before she could answer, Marianne announced that breakfast was ready. No
further allusion was made to the matter, nor to her now abandoned
determination that we should part.

After breakfast, our party of five mounted our horses, and, led by
Blaise, forced our way through the high bushes that marked the beginning
of the hardly perceptible road to Maury. The two gypsies followed afoot,
for, knowing that I could rely on their fidelity and secrecy, I had bade
them come, that their music and tricks might amuse mademoiselle during
her stay at Maury.

It was a beautiful morning, and I considered that I had many reasons for
joy. Mademoiselle, too, seemed affected by the sweetness and jocundity of
the early day. She had evidently nerved herself, too, against her griefs.
She seemed to have summoned a large stock of resolution to the task of
facing her troubles without a tear. It appeared that she had banished
dejection by an effort of the will. All the time it was evident that her
manner was the result of a vigilant determination. I was, nevertheless,
glad to see a smile, a steadiness of look, a set lip, though they were
attained with premeditation. There was in her conversation, as we rode on
our slow and difficult way, something of the woman of the world. As we
had to go in single file, and so to speak loudly in order to be heard by
one another, our talk could not take on the themes and tones of
tenderness that I would have gladly given to it.

Presently from a bush at the side of the path a man sprang up, saluted,
and stood respectfully while we passed him. It was one of my men,
Maugert, on duty as sentry, for I kept men watching every approach to our
hiding-place night and day. They lay secreted among the brushwood, and
would observe an intruder long before the intruder could be aware of
their presence. A few minutes later we passed another of these faithful
sentinels, who rose out of his concealment to give me a look of welcome,
and soon afterward we rode through the ruined gate into the old
courtyard itself.

"Welcome to Maury!" said I to mademoiselle.

She looked up at the broken facade of the chateau, around at the trees
that environed the walls and in some places pushed their branches through
openings, then at some of my men, who had been mending their clothes or
tinkering at their weapons.

"I shall feel safe at Maury, monsieur," she said, quietly.

Thus Mlle. de Varion became my guest in that wilderness fastness. I gave
her the two chambers in best preservation, one of them being immediately
over the chief entrance and overlooking the courtyard. My own abode was
in the northern turret, looking down the steep wooded declivity that fell
to the road from Clochonne to Narjec. Hugo was to sleep outside her door.
My own men made their beds in the great hall and in certain sheltered
portions of the wings and outbuildings. They usually ate in this hall,
receiving their food on platters from the cook (happily the kitchen had
remained fit for use), and bearing it thither. It was arranged that Hugo
should carry the meals of mademoiselle and Jeannotte to mademoiselle's
apartments.

It was more after our arrival than during our ride to Maury that
mademoiselle showed the fatigue of which she had spoken. It was evident
that she had reached a resting-place none too soon. Weakness was
manifest in all her movements as well as in the pallor of her cheeks.
Yet, though she languished thus, she did not keep all the time to her
chamber. Each morning she came down to walk about the courtyard, saying
that the air and sunshine--as much as found its way through the
overspreading branches of the trees--strengthened her. There was in one
corner of the yard an old stone bench, which, in good weather, was for a
great part of the afternoon half in sun and half in shade. Here she would
sit by the hour, changing her position as sunlight or shade became
preferable for the moment.

Morning or afternoon, I was never far from her. For I had had to defer
from day to day the first steps towards the projected deliverance of M.
de Varion. On our arrival I had found that some of the men on whose aid I
would most depend were away on a foraging expedition. Each hour I looked
for their return, but in vain. Their absence had now become so prolonged
as to be a cause of alarm. My anxiety about them, and my concern over
other matters, took up so much of my mind that little was left in which
to devise a plan for the rescue of the prisoner, and I would not make the
first move until the whole design should be complete.

As days passed, and mademoiselle's missing boy, Pierre, did not come, I
ceased to hope that we should ever see him again. Had he found his way
to the inn where he had left us, Marianne or Godeau would have brought
him to Maury immediately. It was useless to speculate as to what might
have become of him. He might have perished in the forest, or found his
way to Clochonne, or fallen in with De Berquin and suffered for having
been of our party. When his disappearance was mentioned, Jeannotte would
look at mademoiselle, and mademoiselle would say:

"Poor boy! I pray that no evil may have befallen him. He was fidelity
itself. He would die for me!"

But she did not give herself up to poignant sorrow on his account, or,
indeed, since the night at Godeau's inn, on account of anything. She
seemed to have set herself to bear her troubles in Spartan manner, and to
find in herself, perhaps with surprise, the strength to do so.

So the days passed, and still my plans in regard to her father remained
unformed, the men on whom I relied did not appear, and mademoiselle did
not speak of resuming her flight southward. There came no further sign of
the existence of De Berquin. From or of the outside world we heard
nothing, save occasionally, when the wind was in the right direction, the
faint sound of the bell of Clochonne. We seemed to dwell apart, in a
region of our own, an enchanted forest which none other might enter, a
place where we were forever safe from the strife of humanity, the touch
of war, the reach of the King's edicts, the power of provincial
governors, the vengeance of the great. The gypsies remained with us, and
sweetened the time with their songs and the music of their instruments.
My men treated mademoiselle with the utmost respect. I had caused them to
know that she was a refugee, a lady most precious in my esteem, one for
whose safety and happiness any other consideration must, should occasion
arise, be sacrificed. The weather was dry, sunny, and, for the time of
year, mild. It was like a sweet dream, and I, for one, had no premonition
of the awakening that was to come.

Often during that time I spoke of my love for her. I told her that, to
me, at least, religion was not so much as to drive me from the woman whom
I had so long sought in vain among the beauties of our Henri's court,
whom I had so long worshipped in the ideal, whom I had instantly
recognized as being the embodiment of that ideal, of whose presence I
could not endure to be deprived even in thought.

She would sit looking in my eyes while I told her these things. Sometimes
she would seem to yield to a kind of bliss in hearing them, to forget all
else than ourselves and my words. Then suddenly a look of anguish would
come on her features, she would rise and press her hands to her eyes, as
if to blot out the memory of my look, and say:

"Monsieur, you must not! You must not! You do not know! Oh, if you knew!"

And she would quickly glide away into the chateau, keeping her face
turned from me until she had disappeared.

I began to think that there might be another obstacle than that of our
difference in religion. Perhaps a promise to another or some vow! But I
swore to myself that, whatever the obstacle might be, I would remove
it. The only matter for present disposition was to get her consent to
my doing so.

She would soon return, composed and smiling, with no sign of wishing to
elude me. For the life of me, I could not long refrain from the subject
that had before so strangely put her to flight.

Sometimes when I talked in the strain of love, joy and pain would succeed
each other on her face, sometimes they would seem to be present at the
same moment. From the look of complete abandonment to happiness that
sometimes, though never for long, shone on her features, I felt that she
loved me, and that eventually her love would gain the victory. I
continually tried to elicit an expression of her feelings in words. Sweet
to me as was the frequent confession of her looks, I sought a confession
in speech also.

One afternoon, as we stood on a little spur that rose from the declivity
below the chateau, and whence through a small opening between trees could
be seen the river, the smiling plain, and afar the high-perched chateau
of Clochonne, I asked her:

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