an hour or two later the lieutenant awoke suddenly. he rose on his elbow, and listened. inured to a life of change which had cast him many times into strange beds and the company of stranger bed-fellows, he had not to ask himself where he was, or how he came to be there. he knew these things with a soldier's instinct, before his eyes were open. that which he did ask himself was, what had roused him.
for it was still the dead of night, and all in the chateau, and all without, save the hoarse voices of the frogs, seemed quiet. through the lattice that faced him the moonbeams fell on the floor in white, criss-cross patterns; which the pointed shape of the windows made to resemble chequered shields--the black and white escutcheons of his native province. these patches of light diffused about them a faint radiance, sufficient, but no more than sufficient, to reveal the outlines of the furniture, the darker masses of the beds, and even the vague limits of the chamber. he marked nothing amiss, however, except that which had probably roused him. the nearest lattice, that one through which he had noted the ivy growing, stood wide open. doubtless the breeze, light as it was, had swung the casement inwards, and the creak of the hinge, or the coolness of the unbroken stream of air which blew across his bed, had disturbed him.
satisfied with the explanation, he lay down with a sigh of content, and was about to sink into sleep when a low, sibilant sound caught his ear, fretted him awhile, finally dragged him up, broadly awake. what was it? what caused it? the gentle motion of the loosened ivy on the sill? or the wind toying with the leaves outside? or the stir of the ragged hangings that moved weirdly on the wall? or was some one whispering?
the last was the fact, and, assured of it, des ageaux peered through the gloom at the nearer pallet, and discovered that it was empty. then he reflected. the ivy, which grew through the window, must have held the lattice firm against a much stronger breeze than was blowing. it followed that the casement had been opened by some one; probably by some one who had entered the room that way.
it might be no affair of his, but on the other hand it might be very much his affair. he looked about the room, making no sound, but keeping a hand raised to seize his weapons on the least alarm.
he could discover neither figure nor any sign of movement in the room. yet the whispering persisted. more puzzled, he raised himself higher, and then a streak of light which the low, lumpy mass of one of the truckle-beds had hidden, broke on him. it shone under the door by which he had entered, and proceeded, beyond doubt, from a lanthorn or rushlight in the antechamber.
what was afoot? it is not as a rule for good that men whisper at dead of night, nor to say their prayers that they steal from their beds in the small hours. des ageaux was far from a timid man--or he had not been lieutenant-governor of périgord--but he knew himself alone in a strange house, and a remote corner of that house; and though he believed that he held the map of the country he might be deceiving himself. possibly, though he had seen no sign of it, he was known. his host styled himself the captain of vlaye's friend; he might think to do vlaye a kindness at his guest's expense. nor was that all. lonely travellers ran risks in those days; it was not only from inns that they vanished and left no sign. he bore, it was true, not much of price about him, and riding without attendance might be thought to have less. but, all said and done, the house was remote, the vicomte poor and a stranger. it might be as well to see what was passing.
he rose noiselessly to his feet, and, taking his sword, crept across the floor. he had lain down in the greater part of his clothes, and whatever awaited him, he was ready. as he drew near the door, the whispering on the farther side persisted. but it was low, the sound lacked menace, and before he laid his ear to the oak some shame of the proceeding seized him.
his scruples were wasted. he could not, even when close, distinguish a word; so wary were the speakers, so low their voices. then the absurdity of his position, if he were detected and the matter had naught to do with him, took him by the throat. the chamber, with its patches of moonlight and its dim spaces, was all quiet about him, and either he must rest content with that, or he must open and satisfy himself. he took his resolution, found the latch, and opened the door.
he was more or less prepared for what he saw. not so the three whom he surprised in their midnight conference. the girl whom he had seen at supper sprang with a cry of alarm from the step on which she had her seat, and retreating upwards as quickly as the cloak in which she was muffled would let her, made as if she would escape by the tower stairs. the two men--roger, the son of the house, and another, a taller youth, who leant against the wall beside him--straightened themselves with a jerk; while the stranger, who had the air of being two or three years older than roger, laid his hand on his weapon. a lanthorn which stood on the stone floor between the three, and was the only other object in the closet, cast its light upwards; which had the effect of distorting the men's features, and exaggerating looks already disordered.
the lieutenant, we have said, was not wholly surprised. none the less the elder of the two young men was the first to find his tongue. "what do you here?" he cried, his eyes gleaming with resentment. "we came to be private here. what do you wish, sir?"
des ageaux took one step over the threshold and bowed low. "to offer my apologies," he replied, with a tinge of humour in his tone, "and then to withdraw. to be plain, sir, i heard whispering, and, half-roused, i fancied that it might concern me. forgive me, mademoiselle," he continued, directing an easy and not ungraceful gesture to the shrinking girl, who cowered on the dark stairs as if she wished they might swallow her. "your pardon also, monsieur charles."
"you know my name?" the stranger exclaimed, with a swift, perturbed glance at the others.
"your name and no more," des ageaux answered, smiling and not a whit disturbed. his manner was perfectly easy. "i heard it as i opened. but be at rest, that which is not meant for me i do not keep. you will understand that the hour was late, i found the window open, i heard voices--some suspicion was not unnatural. have no fear, however. to-morrow i shall only have had one dream the more."
"but dream or no dream," the person he had addressed as charles blurted out, "if you mention it----"
"i shall not mention it."
"to the vicomte even?"
"not even to him! the presence of mademoiselle's brother," des ageaux continued, with a keen glance at roger, "were warrant for silence, had i the right to speak."
the girl started and the hood of her cloak fell back. with loosened hair and parted lips she looked so pretty that he was sorry he had struck at her ever so slightly. "you think, sir," she exclaimed in a tone half-indignant, half-awestruck, "that this is my lover?"
his eyes passed from her to the taller young man. he bowed low. "i did," he said, the courtesy of his manner redoubled. "now i see that he is your brother. forgive me, mademoiselle, i am unlucky this evening. lest i offend again--and my presence alone must be an offence--i take my leave."
charles stepped forward. "not," he said somewhat peremptorily, "before you have assured us again of your silence! understand me, sir, this is no child's play! were my father to hear of my presence, he would make my sister suffer for it. were he to discover me here--you do not know him yet--it might cost a life!"
"what can i say more," des ageaux replied with a little stiffness, "than i have said? why should i betray you?"
"enough, sir, if you understand."
"i understand enough!" and then, "if i can do no more than be silent----"
"you can do no more."
"i take my leave." and, bowing, with an air of aloofness he stepped back and closed the door on them.
when he had done so the three looked eagerly at one another. but they did not speak until his footsteps on the chamber floor had ceased to sound. then, "what is this?" the elder brother muttered, frowning slightly at the younger. "there is something here i do not understand. who is he? what is he? you told me that he was some poor gentleman adventuring alone, and without servants, and staying here for the night with a lame horse and an empty purse. but----"
"he was not like this at supper," roger replied, excusing himself.
"but he has nothing of the tone of the man you described."
"not now," bonne said. "but at supper he was different in some way." and recalling how he had looked at her when he thought that charles was her lover, she blushed.
"he is no poor man," charles muttered. "did you mark his ring?"
"no."
"may-be at supper it was turned inward, but as he stood there with his hand on the door post, the light fell on it. three leopards passant or on a field vert! i have seen that coat, and more than once!"
"but why should not the poor gentleman wear his coat?" bonne urged. "perhaps it is all that is left of his grandeur."
"in gold on green enamel?" charles asked, raising his eyebrows. "certainly his sword was of the plainest. but i don't like it! why is he here? what is he doing? can he be friend to vlaye, and on his way to help him?"
abruptly the girl stepped forward, and flinging an arm round her brother's neck, pressed herself against him. "give it up! give it up!" she murmured. "charles! dear brother, listen to me. give it up!"
"it were better you gave me up," he replied in a tone between humour and pathos, as he stroked her hair. "but you are villeneuve at heart, bonne----"
"bonne by nature, bonne by name!" roger muttered, caressing her with his eyes.
"and stand by those you love, whatever come of it!" charles continued. "would you then have me leave those"--with a grimace which she, having her face on his shoulder, could not see--"whom, if i do not love, i have chosen! leave them because danger threatens? because vlaye gives the word?"
"but what can you do against him?" she answered in a tearful tone. "you say yourself that they are but a rabble, your crocans! broken men, beggars and what not, peasants and ploughboys, ill-armed and ill-fed! what can they do against men-at-arms? against vlaye? i thought when i got word to you to come, in order that i might tell you what he was planning--i thought that you would listen to me!"
"and am i not listening, little one?" he replied, fondling her hair.
"but you will not be guided?"
"that is another thing," he replied more soberly. "had i known, it is true, what i know now, had i known of what sort they were to whom i was joining myself, i might not have done it. i might have borne a little longer"--his tone grew bitter--"the life we lead here! i might have borne a little longer to rust and grow boorish, and to stand for clown and rustic in m. de vlaye's eyes when he deigns to visit us! i might have put up a little longer with the answer i got when i craved leave to see the wars and the world--that as my fathers had made my bed i must lie on it. ay, and more! if he--i will not call him father--had spared me his sneers only a little, if he had let a day go by without casting in my face the lack that was no fault of mine, i would have still tried to bear it. but not a day did he spare me! not one day, as god is my witness!"
her sorrowful silence acknowledged the truth of his words. at length, "but if these folk," she said timidly, "are of so wretched a sort, charles?"
"wretched they are," he answered, "but their cause is good. better fall with them than rise by such deeds as have driven them to arms. i tell you that the things i have heard, as i sat over their fires by night in the caves about bourdeilles where they lie, would arm not men's hands only, but women's! would spoil your sleep of nights, and strong men's sleep! poor cottars killed and hamlets burned, in pure sport! children flung out and women torn from homes, and through a whole country-side corn trampled wantonly, and oxen killed to make a meal for four! but i cannot tell you what they have suffered, for you are a woman and you could not bear it!"
bonne forgot her fears for him. she leant forward--she had gone back to her seat on the stairs--and clenched her small hands. "and m. de vlaye it is," she cried, "he who has done more than any other to madden them, who now proposes to rise upon their fall? monsieur de vlaye it is who, having driven them to this, will now crush them and say he does the king service, and so win pardon for a thousand crimes?"
but the light had gone out in charles's eyes. "ay, and win it he will. so it will go," he said moodily. "so it will happen! he has seen afar the chance of securing himself, and he will seize it, by doing what, for the time, no other has means to do."
"he who kindled the fire will be rewarded for putting it out?"
"just so!"
"but can you do nothing against him?" roger muttered.
"we may hold our own for a time, in the caves and hills about brant?me perhaps," the elder brother answered. "but after a while he will starve us out. and in the open such folks as we have, ill-armed, ill-found, with scarce a leader older than myself, will melt before his pikes like smoke before the wind!"
roger's eyes glistened. "not if i were with you," he muttered. "there should be one blow struck before he rode over us! but"--he let his chin sink on his breast--"what am i?"
"brave enough, i know," charles answered, putting his hand affectionately on the lad's shoulder. "braver than i am, perhaps. but it is not the end, be the end what it may, good lad, that weighs me down and makes me coward. it is the misery of seeing all go wrong hour by hour and day by day! of seeing the cause with which i must now sink or swim mishandled! of striving to put sense and discipline into the folk who are either clowns, unteachable by aught but force, or a rabble of worthless vagrants drawn to us as to any other cause that promises safety from the gallows. and yet, if i were older and had seen war and handled men, i feel that even of this stuff i could make a thing should frighten vlaye. ay, and for a time i thought i could," he continued gloomily. "but they would not be driven, and short of hanging half a dozen, which i dare not attempt, i must be naught!"
"do you think," roger muttered, "that if you had me beside you--i have strong arms----"
"god forbid!" charles answered, looking sadly at him. "dear lad, one is enough! what would bonne do without you? it is not your place to go forth."
"if i were straight!"
the girl leaned forward and took his hand. "you are straight for me," she said softly. "straight for me! more precious than the straightest thing in the world!"
he sighed and bonne echoed the sigh. it was the first time the three had met since charles's flight; since, fretted by inaction and stung beyond patience by the gibes of the father--who, while he withheld the means of making a figure in the world, did not cease to sneer at supineness--he had taken a step which had seemed desperate, and now seemed fatal. for if this crocan rising were not a jacquerie in name, if it were not stained as yet by the excesses which made that word a terror, it was still a peasant-rising. it was still a revolt of the canaille, of the mob; and more indulgent fathers than the vicomte would have disowned the son who, by joining it, ranged himself against his caste.
the younger man had known that when he took the step; yet he had been content to take it. the farther it set him from the vicomte the better! but he had not known nor had bonne guessed how hopeless was the cause he was embracing, how blind its leaders, how shiftless its followers, how certain and disastrous its end! but he knew now. he knew that, to the attack which m. de vlaye meditated, the mob of clods and vagrants must fall an easy prey.
young and high-spirited, moved a little by the peasants' wrongs, and more by his own, he had done this thing. he had rushed on ruin, made good his father's gibes, played into m. de vlaye's hands--the hands of the man who had patronised him a hundred times, and with a sneer made sport of his rusticity. the contempt of the man of the world for the raw boy had sunk into the lad's soul, and he hated vlaye. to drag vlaye down had been one of charles's day-dreams. he had pined for the hour when, at the head of the peasants who were to hail him as their leader, he should tread the hated scutcheon under foot.
now he saw that all the triumph would be m. de vlaye's, and that by his bold venture he had but added a feather to the hated plume. and bonne and roger, mute because their love taught them when to speak and when to refrain, gazed sadly at the lanthorn. the silence lasted a long minute, and was broken in the end, not by their voices, but by the distant creak of a door.
bonne sprang to her feet, the colour gone from her face. "hush!" she cried. "what was that? listen."
they listened, their hearts beating. presently roger, his face almost as bloodless as bonne's, snatched up the lanthorn. "it is the vicomte!" he gasped. "he is coming! quick, charles! you must go the way you came!"
"but bonne?" his brother muttered, hanging back. "what is she to do?"
roger, his hand on the door of the tower chamber, stood aghast. charles might escape unseen, there was still time. but bonne? if her father found the girl there? and the stranger was in the tower room, she could not retreat thither. what was she to do?
the girl's wits found the answer. she pointed to the stairs. "i will hide above," she whispered. "do you go!" it was still of charles she thought. "do you go!" but the terror in her eyes--she feared her father as she feared no one else in the world--wrung the brothers' hearts.
charles hesitated. "the door at the top?" he babbled. "it is locked, i fear!"
"he will not go up!" she whispered. "and while he is in the tower room i can escape."
she vanished as she spoke, in the darkness of the narrow winding shaft--and it was time she did. the vicomte was scarce three paces from the outer door when the two who were left sprang into the tower chamber.
the lieutenant was on his feet by the side of his bed. he had not gone to sleep, and he caught their alarm, he had heard the last hurried whispers, he had guessed their danger. he was not surprised when charles, without a word, crossed the floor in a couple of bounds, flung himself recklessly over the sill of the window, clung an instant by one hand, then disappeared. a moment the shoot of ivy that grew into the chamber jerked violently, the next the door was flung wide open, and the vicomte, a gaunt figure bearing a sword in one hand, a lanthorn in the other, stood on the threshold. the light of the lanthorn which he held above his head that he might detect what was before him, obscured his face. but the weapon and the tone of his voice proclaimed the fury of his suspicions. "who is here?" he cried. "who is here?" and again, as if in his rage he could frame no other words, "who is here, i say? speak!"
roger, on his feet, the tell-tale lanthorn in his hand, could not force a word. he stood speechless, motionless, self-convicted; and had all lain with him, all had been known. fortunately des ageaux took on himself to answer.
"who is here, sir?" he said in a voice a tone louder and a shade easier than was natural. "the devil, i think! for i swear no one else could climb this wall!"
"what do you mean?"
"and climb it," des ageaux persisted, disregarding the question, "very nearly to this sill! i heard him below five minutes ago. and if i had not been fool enough to rouse your son and bid him light we had had him safe by now on this floor!"
the vicomte glared. the story was glib, well told, animated; but he doubted it. he knew what he had expected to find. "you lit the lanthorn?" he snarled. "when?"
"two minutes back--it might be more," des ageaux replied. "now he is clean gone. clean gone, i fear," he added as he stepped into the embrasure of the window and leant forward cautiously, is if he thought a shot from below a thing not impossible. "i hear nothing, at any rate."
the vicomte, struggling with senile rage, stared about him. "but i saw a light!" he cried. "in the outer room!"
"the outer room!"
"under the door."
"shone under both doors, i suppose," des ageaux replied, still intent to all appearance on the dark void outside. "i'll answer for it," he added carelessly as he turned, "that he did not go out by the door."
"he will not go out now," the vicomte retorted with grim suspicion, "for i have locked the outer door." he showed the key hung on a finger of the hand which held the lanthorn.
the sight was too much for roger; he understood at once that it cut off his sister's retreat. a sound between a groan and an exclamation broke from him.
the vicomte lifted the lanthorn to his face. "what now, booby?" he said. "who has hurt you?" and, seeing what he saw, he cursed the lad for a coward.
"i did not feel over brave myself five minutes ago," the lieutenant remarked.
the vicomte turned on him as if he would curse him also. but, meeting his eyes, he thought better of it, and swallowed the rage he longed to vent. he stared about him a minute or more, stalking here and there offensively, and trying to detect something on which to fasten. but he found nothing, and, having flung the light of his lanthorn once more around the room, he stood an instant, then, turning, went sharply--as if his suspicions had now a new direction--towards the door.
"good-night!" he muttered churlishly.
"good-night!" the lieutenant answered, but in the act of speaking he met the look of horror in roger's eyes, remembered and understood. "she is still there," the lad's white lips spelled out, as they listened to the grating noise of the key in the lock. "she could not escape. and he suspects. he is going to her room."
des ageaux stared a moment nonplussed. the matter was nothing to him, nothing, yet his face faintly mirrored the youth's consternation. then, in a stride, he was at his bedside. he seized one of the horse-pistols which lay beside his pillow, and, before the lad understood his purpose, he levelled it at the open window and fired into the night.
the echoes of the report had not ceased to roll hollowly through the tower before the door flew wide again, and the vicomte reappeared, his eyes glittering, his weapon shaking in his excitement. "what is it?" he cried, for at first he could not see, the smoke obscured the room. "what is it? what is it?"
"a miss, i fear," des ageaux answered coolly. he stood with his eyes fixed on the window, the smoking weapon in his hand. "i fear, a miss--i had a notion all the time that he was in the ivy outside, and when he poked up his head----"
"his head?" the vicomte exclaimed. he was shaking from head to foot.
"well, it looked like his head," des ageaux replied more doubtfully. he moved a step nearer to the window. "but i could not swear to it. it might have been an owl!"
"an owl?" the vicomte answered in an unsteady tone. "you fired at an owl?"
"whatever it was i missed it," des ageaux answered with decision, and in a somewhat louder tone. "if you will step up here--but i fear you are not well, m. le vicomte?"
he spoke truly, the vicomte was not well. he had had a shock. cast off his son as he might, hate him as he might--and hate him he did, as one who had turned against him and brought dishonour on his house--that shot in the night had shaken him. he leant against the wall, his lips white, his breath coming quickly. and a minute or more elapsed before he recovered himself and stood upright.
he kept his eyes averted from des ageaux. he turned instead to roger. whether he feared for himself and would not be alone, or he suspected some complicity between the two, he signed to the lad to take up the lanthorn and go before him. and, moving stiffly and unsteadily across the floor, he got himself in silence to the door. with something between a bow and a glance--it was clear that he could not trust his tongue--he was out of the room.
the lieutenant sat on his bed for some time, expecting roger to return. but the lad did not appear, and after an interval des ageaux took on himself to search the staircase. it was untenanted. the girl, using the chance he had afforded her, had escaped.
