standing in the middle of the room, her closed hand resting upon a table upon which she leaned as if for support, was laure d'aumenier. the old marquis had not noticed it, nor did the young man; that is, the eye of neither took in the details, but both had been conscious of the general effect, for the young countess had dressed herself in her most becoming gown, one that had been newly made for her in paris before the journey to the south of france and that she had never worn before.
she had spent a miserable night and day. when she had talked with her uncle a short time before, the effects of her sleeplessness and anguish had been plainly apparent. but there, within that room, her color coming to her face, her eyes shining with excitement and emotion, she looked as fresh and as beautiful as the springtime without.
it was her right hand that rested on the table, and as marteau approached her left instinctively sought her heart. in his emotion he looked at her with steady, concentrated glance, so keen, so piercing, as if he sought to penetrate to the very depths of her heart, that she could scarcely sustain his gaze. he, too, had forgot cares and anxieties, anticipation, hopes, dreams; in his excitement and surprise everything had gone from him but her presence. here was the woman he loved, looking at him in such a way, with such an air and such a bearing, her hand upon her heart—was that heart beating for him? was she trying to still it, to control it, because——
his approach was slow, almost terribly deliberate, like the movement of the old guard under dorsenne—le beau dorsenne!—against the heights of pratzen on the glorious yet dreadful day of austerlitz. his advance was irresistible, but unhurried, as if there must be a tremendous clash of arms in a moment to which haste could lend nothing, from the dignity and splendor of which hurry would detract. at another time the woman might have shrunk back faltering, she might have voiced a protest, or temporized, but now, in the presence of death itself, as it were, she stood steady waiting for him. enjoying the luxury of looking upon him unrestrained, her heart going out to him as he drew nearer, nearer, nearer, she found herself tremblingly longing for his actual touch.
now his arms went out to her, she felt them slowly fold around her, and then, like a whirlwind released, he crushed her against his breast, and, as she hung there, her throbbing heart making answer to the beating of his own, he kissed her again, again, again. her heart almost stopped its beating. beneath the fire of his lips her face burned. her head drooped at last, her tense body gave way, she leaned upon him heavily, glad for the support of his strong arms.
"laure," he whispered, "my little laure, you love me. oh, my god, you love me. it was true, then. i did not dream it. my ears did not mock me."
"yes, yes," said the woman at last. "whoever you are, whatever you are, wherever you go, i love you."
"and was it to tell me this that you came?"
"yes. but not for this alone."
"what else?"
"i would have you live."
"for you?"
"for me."
"as your husband?"
"and if that were possible would you——"
"yes, yes, would i what?"
"give up the eagle?"
"my god!" said the man, loosening his clasp of her a little and holding her a little away that he might look at her. "does your love tempt me to dishonor?"
"i do not know," said the woman piteously. "i am confused. i cannot think aright. oh, marteau, jean, with whom i played as a child, think of me. i cannot bear to see you dead outside there. i cannot look upon a soldier without thinking of it. the rattling of the carts in the streets sounds in my ear like shots. don't, don't die. you must not."
"and, if i lived, would you love me?"
"so long as the good god gives me the breath of life."
"with the love of youth and the love of age?"
"aye, for eternity."
"and would you be my wife?"
"your wife?" said the woman, her face changing. "it would be joy beyond all, but i could not."
"why not?"
"i—you know i am promised to another," she went on desperately, "and but that i might see you i repeated the promise. otherwise my uncle would never have permitted me this blessed privilege. i told him that i would marry anybody if he would only let me see you—alone—for a moment, even. what difference, so long as i could not be yours? i came to tell you that i loved you, and because of that to beg you to live, to give up that eagle. what is it, a mere casting of metal, valueless. don't look at me with that hard, set face. let me kiss the line of your lips into softness again. i cannot be your wife, but at least you will live. i will know that somewhere you think of me."
"and would death make a difference? high in the highest heaven, should i be so fortunate as to achieve it, i would think of you; and, if i were to be sent to the lowest hell, i could forget it all in thinking of you."
"yes, yes, i know how you love, because——"
"because why?"
"i won't hesitate now. it may be unmaidenly, but i know, because i, too——"
"laure!" cried the man, sweeping her to him again.
"i think i loved you when we were boy and girl together," said the woman, throwing everything to the winds in making her great confession. "i know i loved you that night in the château, although i would not admit it, and i treated you so cruelly. and when they told me you were dead, then, then, my heart broke. and when you came here and i saw you two men together—oh, i had made the contrast in my imagination—but last night i saw and now i see. oh, you will live, live. what is honor compared to a woman's heart? see, i am at your feet. you will not break me. you will live. something may happen. i am not married yet. the emperor may come back."
"the boy, pierre, said last night that it was rumored——"
"yes, he gave me a message. i almost forgot it." she held out the violet crushed in her fevered palm. "he said to tell you that the violet has bloomed."
"does he mean——?"
"i know not what he means."
"it is but an assurance begot of hope," said marteau.
"and if it were so?"
"he comes too late. rise, my lady. it is not meet for you to kneel. let me lift you up, up to my heart. i cannot give up the eagle. that i have won your love is the most wonderful thing in all the world. it passes my understanding, the understanding of man, but i should forfeit it if i should permit myself this shame."
"then i will do it, i will betray you," said the little countess desperately. "i alone know where that eagle is. i will get it. i will bargain with my uncle for your life. marteau, listen. do you wish to condemn me to death? i will not, i cannot, survive you. i will not be thrust into that other's arms. i did not know, i did not realize what it was—before. but since i have been here, since you have held me to your heart, since you have kissed me—no, i cannot. it would be desecration—horror. let me go. i will tell."
"dearest laure," said the man, holding her tighter, "think, be calm, listen. it needs not that i assure you of my love. i have proved it. i lie here with the stigma of shame, the basest of accusations in the hearts of those who know of our meeting at night, to save you from suspicion even."
"not my uncle, not the marquis. he says there is something back of it all. he knows you are not a thief."
"it takes a d'aumenier to understand a marteau," said the young man proudly.
"and i am a d'aumenier, too," said the woman.
"then strive to comprehend my point of view."
"i can, i will, but——"
"what binds you to that englishman?"
"my word, my uncle's word."
"exactly. and what else binds you to keep my secret?"
the woman stared at him.
"oh, do not urge that against me," she pleaded. "i must tell all."
"i have your word. that eagle must remain hidden there until the emperor comes back. then you must give it to him and say that i died that you might place it in his hand."
"there must be a way, and there shall be a way," said the agonized woman. "i love you. i cannot have you die. i cannot, i cannot."
her voice rose almost to a scream in mad and passionate protest.
"why," said the man soothingly, "i am the more ready to die now that i know that you love me. few men have ever got so much out of life as that assurance gives me. that i, peasant-born, beneath you, should have won your heart, that i should have been permitted to hold you to my breast, to feel that heart beat against my own, to drink of the treasures of your lips, to kiss your eyes that shine upon me—— oh, my god, what have i done to deserve it all? and it is better, far better, having had thus much and being stopped from anything further, that i should go to my grave in this sweet recollection. could i live to think of you as his wife?"
"if you will only live i will die myself."
"and could i purchase life at that price? no. we have duties to perform—hard, harsh words in a woman's ear, common accustomed phrase to a soldier. i have to die for my honor and you have to marry for yours."
"monsieur," broke in the sharp, somewhat high, thin voice of the old marquis standing by the door, "the court-martial brands you as a traitor. captain yeovil and those who were with me last night think you are a thief and worse. but, by st. louis," continued the old noble, fingering his cross, as was his wont in moments in which he was deeply moved, "i know that you are a soldier and a gentleman."
"a soldier, yes; but a gentleman?—only 'almost,' my lord."
"not almost but altogether. there is not another man in france who could withstand such a plea from such a woman."
"you heard!" exclaimed marteau.
"only the last words. i heard her beg you to live because she loved you."
"and you did not hear——"
"i heard nothing else," said the marquis firmly. "would i listen? i spoke almost as soon as i came in. laure, these marteaux have lived long enough by the side of the d'aumeniers to have become ennobled by the contact," he went on naïvely. "i now know the young man as i know myself. it is useless for you to plead longer. i come to take you away."
"oh, not yet, not yet."
"go," said the young officer. "indeed, i cannot endure this longer, and i must summon my fortitude for to-morrow."
"as for that," said the marquis, "there must be a postponement of the execution."
"i ask it not, monsieur. it is no favor to me for you to——"
"thank god! thank god!" cried the woman. "every hour means——"
"and i am not postponing it because of you," continued the marquis coolly. "but he who must not be named——"
"the emperor."
"so you call him—has landed."
"yes, yes; for god's sake, tell me more."
"i have no objection to telling you all. he is on the march toward grenoble. he will be here tomorrow night. troops have been sent for and will assemble here. he will be met in the gap on the road a few miles below the town. he will be taken. if he resists he will be shot."
"yes, the violets have bloomed again."
"and they shall draw red nourishment from the soil of france," was the prophetic answer.
"the emperor!" cried the young man in an exultant dream, "in france again! the emperor!"
"and so your execution will be deferred until we come back. the emperor may take warning from it when he witnesses it," continued the imperturbable old royalist.
"i shall see him once more."
"as a prisoner."
marteau started to speak, checked himself.
"for the last time," said the girl, "i beg——"
"it is useless."
"let me speak again. my uncle has a kind heart under that hard exterior. he——"
"a kind heart, indeed," said the old man, smiling grimly, as marteau shook his head at the girl he loved so well. "and, to prove it, here."
he extended a sealed paper. marteau made no effort to take it. he recognized it at once. for a moment there flashed into the woman's mind that it was a pardon. but the old man undeceived her.
"do you give it to him, laure," he said. "it is that patent of nobility that he gave up. acting for my king, who will, i am sure, approve of what i have done, i return it to him. as he dies with the spirit and soul of a gentleman, so also shall he die with the title. monsieur le comte d'aumenier, i, the head of the house, welcome you into it. i salute you. farewell. and now," the old man drew out his snuff box, tendered it to the young man with all the grace of the ancient régime. "no?" he said, as marteau stared in bewilderment. "the young generation has forgot how, it seems. very well." he took a pinch himself gracefully, closed the box, tapped it gently with his long fingers, as was his wont. "monsieur will forgive my back," he said, turning abruptly and calling over his shoulder, "and in a moment we must go."
ah, he could be, he was a gentleman of the ancient school, indeed. it seemed but a second to youth, although it was a long time to age, before he tore them apart and led the half-fainting girl away.
