yes, the barriers were broken down, or were breaking.
that very night, when mademoiselle came to announce that the child gaston was more shaken than hurt, she turned at the door with one of those humble curtseys that were to me so like a blow on the face.
"when one tells a lie and is sorry, monsieur gaspard, should she go to her priest or—or—to the one she has lied to?"
the question was grave and the voice was grave, but there was a tender demure look on her face, and had her eyes been raised, i am sure there would have been that spirit of laughter in them which i had come to know so well.
"a lie, mademoiselle?"
"a lie, monsieur, a lie that hurts me to remember, for truly i am not accustomed to lie. there, on the grey leap, i was desperate, and—it was not quite the truth."
"that you trusted me?"
"yes, monsieur."
"and yet you told me once that i had shown myself true?"
"ah, monsieur! do you not know there is a faith of head and a faith of heart? in my heart i trusted you, even from the first, but my head said, 'nothing good can come out of plessis'; and so, because there was no other way, i—i—monsieur, those cowards of a hugues and a 'tuco drove me to it."
"and now?"
letting slip the latch she came forward a little.
"now? the head followed the heart even at the grey leap. but lest you should think that was the lie emotional instead of the lie desperate, i repeat it again. it was like this. once you looked up—oh! it was horrible to see you hanging there on an inch of rock with all that swimming void below. your face—monsieur, what am i to say? a man can be brave and yet love life, and the grandest courage of all is the courage that knows and resents the desperate risk, but still goes forward. you might have come back, and yet, knowing all, and clinging hungrily to life, you went forward. since then, monsieur, it was no lie; since then—though what a foolish girl thinks can matter nothing to a spirit like yours—since then i—i—do you think you understand, monsieur hellewyl?" her eyes were shining, but there were tears between the lashes, and the fingers of the hands clasped upon the breast twisted round and round each other in and out. "we who love and serve navarre, who serve even as humbly as i serve, pray, god bless you, monsieur hellewyl."
it was my opportunity perhaps, to have passed beyond the broken barrier a little nearer to her heart, but i dared not use it. that day i had found myself to be something of a coward, but i was not coward enough to trade upon a grateful woman's generous emotion, and under cover of a newly stirred gratitude try to steal more than her sober sense would be ready to give. so, instead of reaching forward and taking those shaking hands, i folded my own behind my back and forced myself to a cold answer.
"then at last you trust me, mademoiselle, and will trust, come what may?"
"oh, yes, monsieur! i and all morsigny. and to prove it, i shall never again ask you, 'has monsieur de commines' time come yet?'"
"in that, too, you may trust me; so soon as i may, i shall speak."
"i know it well, monsieur," and with a little grave curtsey, she left me.
i am not so stockish a man but that what followed was all very sweet—mademoiselle's new gaiety, a gaiety of both heart and head, the boy gaston's childish adoration, brother paul's thanksgiving overflowing in affection. of brother paul's part in the final scene on the grey leap i have said nothing, and only now say this lest that kindly, gentle-hearted servant of love and mercy should be thought cold or callous. there on the ledge he had patted and fondled me with his withered hands, his heart too full to say more than, "ah, my son, my son! god be thanked for his mercy, god be thanked! god be thanked!" and since then he had petted me like one who was a son indeed, a son long lost and newly found.
sweet? it was blessedly, perilously sweet to a lonely man at hourly odds with his conscience, so perilously sweet that the days slipped on, and though ten times the child was mine for the taking, i persuaded myself that to wait yet a little longer was wisest. solignac, jan meert, babette, old hate and old love, were alike forgotten, and i lived on through the glorious days of early august as if there was no such shadow across the sunshine as the power and vengeance of louis of france.
but as once on a day of feasting there came a hand upon the wall and wrote, so now, when my heart was a nest of song-birds, that sang of peace and love till my little world was full of the harmony, there came a warning which crashed the music to a discord with a curt, thou fool! it is hate, and there is no peace.
it was always martin's custom to meet me at the gate on the return from our daily rides, partly that all morsigny might see i was well served, but partly, and as i love to believe, chiefly that he might the sooner see his beloved master gaspard. on the day of which i write he was there as usual—brother paul was in pan, and mademoiselle would neither mount nor dismount at the chateau gate—but he was there with a difference. his bow was deeper, his swagger had a larger pride, and instead of himself leading roland to the stables, he handed him over to a groom's care with an unwonted air of authority. then with a "this way, monsieur, it you please," he led the way to my sleeping-room, and shot the bolt behind me.
"these with haste," said he, drawing a letter from an inner pocket; "and, my faith! but they must truly be in a hurry to send all the way to morsigny after us. to monsieur gaspard de helaville, at morsigny, in navarre. these in haste."
at the sight of it my heart went sick as sick as when i had hung upon the sheer face of the grey leap. and well it might. the solid earth, and that which is so much sweeter, and, at times, so much more real, the world of my own imagining, had crumbled suddenly under my feet, and the abyss below was as deep as all eternity.
"these with haste," repeated martin, rolling the words in his mouth with a relish. "all morsigny knows of it; i took care of that. the seal is monseigneur the prince's quarterings, and that, too, i took care to tell them. these louts will better understand now what is due to a hellewyl of solignac, who has letters sent him a week's journey. these with haste!"
commines' quarterings; yes, i had seen that from the first. even the flaw in the collet was there; but what did that prove? commines' quarterings, commines' colour of wax, commines' handwriting in the address, even a faint lingering of the perfume commines most affected, and yet all, so far as commines was concerned, might be as gross a lie as that which frayed its edges upon my heart.
"these with haste," said martin again, but this time testily, for his curiosity was at bursting point. "what is the use of a man foundering a horse, as i'll wager he who brought this foundered his, if you don't open it, and see what's inside?"
"brought it?" said i. "who brought it, and where is he?"
"god knows," and martin's face fell, the pride dying out of him like the wind from a ripped bladder. "it was pushed in at the porter's window, and yet the guard at the gate swear that no one but a goatherd or two passed morsigny all day. but," he added, brightening up, "there it is, all the same; there it is, 'these with haste,' and with monseigneur's seal to back it."
"and all morsigny knows of it? a messenger comes in secret to your master, comes like a thief, and all morsigny knows of it? you fool! oh, you fool! remember, if harm comes of this, it is your doing."
"oh! monsieur gaspard, monsieur gaspard! i never thought——"
"there, the mischief's done," said i, softening as i saw the rueful sorrow on his face. after all, it was the zeal of his love that had been indiscreet. he had thought to glorify his monsieur gaspard in the eyes of morsigny, never looking to the consequences. "we shall see what monseigneur has to say," and tearing off the silk that, running through the wax, bound the packet, i ripped open the outer cover.
the enclosure was both thick and crisp, as if of several folds, and across the face of the paper this was written, the writing being undoubtedly that of monseigneur.
i am bid send you what is within. what it is i know not, but, dear lad, for god's sake see to yourself. to say so much does the king no wrong.
the folded paper was again fast sealed, as was that within it, but in each of these latter cases with a plain device. inside the third wrapping was a foot of thin cord, and at the end of the cord a noose. across the paper was written, so saith tristan.
taking out the cord by its end i thrust a finger-tip through the noose, and dangled it in martin's face.
"these with haste, so saith tristan," said i, and laughed in a grim contempt of my own helplessness.
"tristan of the house of nails?"
"tristan of the house of nails," i answered, and laughed again. through the laughter there came a knocking at the door. "see who is there."
screwing his neck as a man does who swallows his spittle to moisten a dry throat, martin shot back the bolt, opening the door an inch or two, and peering through the crack as if behind whoever knocked he looked to find tristan himself, with a dangle of ropes in his hand.
"it is mademoiselle suzanne."
mademoiselle suzanne! already she had heard of the letter, already she knew that it came from commines, and that knowledge forced a crisis. in these few seconds thought travelled fast. should i trust her? should i say: here, in the yielding of the boy, is the peace of navarre, here is france turned friend; louis, gaston's protector. give him to me, and there is a final end to your fear. but swift on the heels of the question came the reply: that is to throw your responsibility on to her. she is accountable to jean de narbonne. before she dared say yes, she must send to pamplona. that meant negotiations, pour-parlers, and above all, publicity, and what publicity stood for; a warning to the adverse party in navarre, a threat to spain, even a confession of france's weakness. and would louis wait? unconsciously i tightened the noose upon my finger, and in the pain of the pinch found an answer—louis would neither wait nor forgive. what then? our only safety, the boy's, my own, mademoiselle's even, lay in instant action, and crumpling the letter out of sight, i motioned to martin to fling open the door.
as the light broke upon her, mademoiselle shrunk still further from it across the passage.
"monsieur, they said—oh! i know i promised, and indeed, i trust you—but they said there was a letter, and that monsieur de commines had written. have you—that is, is it good news, monsieur?"
"have no fear; good news, mademoiselle," lied i, with the string swinging from my finger. "i was just about to search for you, and—oh, yes, good news, good news indeed, only all is not yet quite clear."
"must we still wait, monsieur?"
at the disappointment in her tone i winced, but there was nothing for it but to brazen out my part as best i could.
"that is just it, we must wait. but this time, not for long, and to shorten the waiting i think that to-morrow i shall ride into la voulle, perhaps with gaston?"
"to la voulle with gaston? that is a long ride for the child."
"long? surely not. he rides as far every day, but he rides as a dog runs, up and down, here and there, so that we lose count of distance. i thought it would please brother paul to meet him in la voulle. you know he returns to-morrow from pau."
"but,"—and in the shadow i saw a touch of colour flush her cheeks—"i do not think i can go to la voulle, at least not to-morrow. once all is clear between us, and brother paul is home, it will be different."
"is not all clear now, mademoiselle?"
"oh, monsieur!" she replied, dropping me the curtsey i so hated; "i mean between france and navarre."
how i cursed martin in my heart for a tactless, blundering booby. here was my chance to say: and must it be always and only france and navarre? may it never be suzanne d'orfeuil and gaspard hellewyl? always kingdom and kingdom, and never man and maid as lover and lover? the peace of one's country is very well, very splendid and much to be desired; but we are men and women as well as patriots, and the heart has a peace of its own that is sweeter and dearer and yet more to be desired than that of france and navarre. but with that leathern-faced idiot standing at my elbow, staring open-mouthed, how could i say all that, or any part of it? ten chances to one, if i had, he would have reminded me of brigitta under the beech tree, and poured his contempt upon mademoiselle suzanne as he had upon her.
"for a hellewyl of solignac, you have a strange taste," he would have said. "first it was a swineherd's daughter you chose for your philandering, and now it is——" and he would have blown out his cheeks with an exploding puff that left the suggestion worse than plain words.
and how would mademoiselle have looked at such a tale? i did not dare consider that point, so answered soberly:
"to-morrow will make all clear, mademoiselle; i can promise you that."
