CHAPTER IV
THE DUKE’S PROPOSAL
THERE was one very bitter heart in the maison on the following morning. Jacques Dauban had spent a bad night, groaning over aching bones and head, brooding over his wrongs and setting his cunning wits to work to devise a scheme of revenge.
Very ill results had followed that meeting with Lucette in the pine-walk. She had kept the tryst and had wheedled out of him a part of what he knew. He had not told her much; only warned her to do her utmost to prevent the marriage between Gabrielle and Gerard de Cobalt, hinting at dark deeds of which he dared not speak, and denouncing Gerard as both an unscrupulous scoundrel and a tool in the hands of others greater and more villainous even than he.
She might have got more from him, but it chanced that Denys St. Jean had also conceived a fancy for a stroll in the wood, and had come suddenly upon the pair in close and intimate talk. His quick temper had fired instantly, and the consequences to Jacques Dauban had been serious. Denys was strong in the arm, and his cudgel, snatched hastily from a tree, thick and heavy; and there was scarcely a bone in the writhing, wriggling spy’s body which did not ache and stab and pain.
And Lucette had laughed.
The laugh was the worst of all. It was in his ears all through the paining hours of the night; maddening him, taunting him, and goading him almost to a frenzy of wrath and spite. He read it as the proof that she had fooled him; that she had laid the trap to bring the hot-headed devil upon him; and had planned his humiliation and beating.
He would be revenged; and as he twisted and turned and groaned in an anguish of mind even more than of body, a scheme came to him; and in the congenial task of working it out and maturing it, his own sufferings were more than half forgotten.
His first thought had been to lay in wait for Denys and, catching him unawares, to thrust a dagger between his ribs swiftly from behind; but there was too much risk. He might fail to strike true, and then—the horrible fear of what would happen to himself in such a case killed the plan at once.
The next thought was to hire some one in Morvaix to do what he with his own hand was afraid to attempt, but his cunning made him hesitate to place himself in any other’s power. And so that idea had in its turn to be abandoned.
But out of it had come the scheme which he saw was at once safe and sure. He would remain in the background all unsuspected even by Lucette, and might mask his work in any way he wished; and yet Denys would die as surely as if his was the hand which plunged the dagger home to his heart. Aye, much more surely.
He would tell the Baron de Proballe that Denys had in some way got scent of the scheme which had been laid against Gabrielle and that he meant to divulge it to her.
He had some ground to believe this, moreover. Earlier in the day Denys had put some searching questions to him, had hinted at ugly rumours, and asked significantly about strange letters which had passed between de Cobalt and his master. And Dauban knew the latter well enough to be sure what would happen. The Baron would tell the Duke, and the tiger of a Governor would find means to silence Denys for ever.
And when Denys was dead, he would tell Lucette that it was his hand that secretly had killed him; and that mocking laugh of hers would change to a gasp of fear of him. That would be something like a revenge, and he gloated in fancy over the picture of Lucette’s fear-stricken face when she knew.
“Let her laugh then, if she can,” he said to himself; and when the hour came for him to go to his master, he had his tale ready and told it artfully with a hundred touches which all calculated to appeal to de Proballe’s imagination and spur his alarm.
“How know you this, Jacques?” asked de Proballe, when he had heard the news.
“I overheard him last night speaking to Mademoiselle Lucette and saying he had grave news which he must tell miladi at once about M. de Cobalt.”
“That may not mean what you say.”
“I fear that it did, m’sieu. The two are lovers, it seems, and like a woman she was trying to wheedle the facts out of him. He was loath to tell her and sought to put her off; but she got something from him. He said M. de Cobalt was a scoundrel—he has a scurrilous tongue this Denys—and, saving your presence, m’sieu, he said that de Cobalt was but a tool in the hands of greater scoundrels. Shamed I am that my lips should have to speak the words, but your lordship must know the truth—he named you and His Grace the Duke de Rochelle.”
“In the devil’s name, this is serious then,” exclaimed de Proballe angrily. “How much does he know?”
“Indeed, m’sieu, I cannot say. He hinted at an intercepted letter, but he was called away soon. I can only infer he has made an important discovery. But the girl was terribly alarmed.”
“It may ruin everything. Have you breathed a whisper to a soul?”
“Have I served you all these years to betray you?” and he spread his hands out and spoke as if in sorrow that such a suspicion should even be named. “That she suspects something I know to be true indeed.”
“Tell me. Quick, Jacques, I am uneasy.”
“Purposefully I put myself in her way, m’sieu. She is a pretty girl enough and thinks, forsooth, that all men can be wheedled by her glances. She led round artfully to the subject and plied me with questions, all inspired, as I could see, by what this Denys had told her. She did not find me easy to draw, m’sieu,” and he smiled with deprecating reference to his secrecy. “But ’twas easy to see what was in her thoughts.”
“She may also be a source of danger. She may tell Gabrielle,” exclaimed de Proballe quickly. “By Heaven; the thing must be stopped.”
But it was not Dauban’s wish to have Lucette harmed, so he made haste to check this thought.
“Of herself she knows nothing, m’sieu; all hangs on the man’s story, and if both of them were removed from Malincourt, might not miladi herself take fright?”
“A shrewd thought, Jacques. We must deal with the man alone. Do you think he can have seen my niece yet?”
“No, m’sieu, I am sure. I watched him closely. But this morning he may seek her—nay, he will do so. He said as much.”
“He must not,” exclaimed de Proballe earnestly. “At any cost that must be prevented.”
“It will be difficult, m’sieu, but should not be impossible.”
“You have a thought, I see. Speak it.”
“It is not for me to offer counsel to you, m’sieu. But yesterday there was a cavalier who afforded some assistance to miladi in the market place. She is anxious to find him, and sent this Denys yesterday in search of him. If you could have knowledge that the stranger was to be found, say at some place a few leagues away, it might be possible to despatch Denys thither in quest of him, and thus enable time and perchance provide means and opportunity to deal with him. Miladi would appreciate any effort to find the cavalier, and some of the roads around Morvaix are not over-safe.”
“You have a cunning brain, Jacques,” exclaimed de Proballe suddenly, with a sharp glance at his secretary. “Have you aught against this Denys?”
Dauban did not shrink from the scrutiny, but answered deferentially—
“If my lord thinks I should place my feelings before my duty to him, I have served him uselessly all these years.”
“I don’t think it, Jacques. You too well know on which side your interest lies, and you know also that I should not be a pleasant man to betray.”
“I am naught if not your faithful servant, my lord,” replied Dauban. He knew he had said enough for his purpose and that his master would adopt the suggestion he had let fall. The seed he had sown would bear fruit; and he was astute enough not to appear too anxious and thus reveal his personal feelings.
His plan was carried out. De Proballe sent for Denys, and after inquiring about the guest of the previous day he said he had news that the cavalier could be found at Beaucamp, an estate some four leagues west of Morvaix. He expressed his desire to please and surprise Gabrielle by finding the stranger, and also spoke feelingly about the honour of the family being concerned to thank the stranger for the service rendered to its young head, and thus despatched Denys on the mission before he could get a word with Gabrielle.
As soon as he had seen him start, he hurried with his news to the castle, had an earnest interview with the Duke, and returned to Malincourt without Gabrielle even knowing of his absence. Thus the train was all laid when at noon the Governor, in accordance with the arrangement of the previous day, came to wait upon Gabrielle.
“You have made all arrangements?” was de Proballe’s greeting when they met for a moment and were going to Gabrielle.
“I am not likely to fail, m’sieu,” was the drily-spoken reply. “Antoine de Cavannes and Henri d’Estelle have ridden out, and know me better than to return with any mission unfulfilled. My men serve me well or do not serve me long.”
The next minute he was bowing over Gabrielle’s hand, which he would have carried to his lips had she not adroitly and with unseeming intention prevented him.
“The sun never shines for me, mademoiselle, when I have no chance to look into your eyes,” he murmured, with glances of bold, almost aggressive admiration.
Words and glance were alike detestable to Gabrielle.
“Your lordship is pleased to flatter, but flattery does not please me,” she returned with a smile.
“It is no flattery, but the truth,” he protested, his hand on his heart. “Your beauty is the fairest thing the earth holds for me.”
“The good opinion of the husband of my dear friend, the Duchess de Rochelle, must of course be ever welcome, but I beg you to burden it with less wealth of language.”
At the reference to his wife the Duke frowned, as he took a seat near her.
“We see too little of you, mademoiselle,” he said next, “and rumour says you are often to be found in many of the humble houses in Morvaix.”
“Alas! my lord, there is much distress and poverty among the people, and Holy Church requires that those who can should minister to them.”
“Holy Church should do the work more thoroughly. I hold not with this constant tending and pampering of those whose chief employment seems to be to breed discontent.”
“They have unhappily but too much cause for discontent,” said Gabrielle firmly. “You have considered the petition which I ventured to send to you?”
He smiled indulgently.
“What do you know of these things?”
“My own eyes have seen their distress, their want, their sufferings. Men workless and despairing, women hopeless and languishing, children starving and crying for the food which the parents cannot give them. We who are rich and have plenty can but scantily measure the pain of those in want. Even when we see it for ourselves we cannot realize all its misery; and those of us who never see it cannot even believe in its existence.”
“Would you have me don a monk’s garb, then, and turn bread carrier to a set of worthless wastrels?” asked the Governor half in anger, half in sardonic humour.
“Nay, my lord, it is in no such spirit I would approach you. But you have the power to administer relief which all others lack. I would but have you recognize the evil and apply the remedy.”
“You make a beautiful advocate, Mistress Gabrielle, and you, if anyone, can work your will with me. I would gladly see these things with your eyes—to please you,” he said with a meaning glance.
“I am but of small account, and to please me is a very little thing, and at best a poor motive for doing right.”
“It would be my only motive, poor or rich. But I fear you understand the art of government but ill. We must have money to administer the town. We must have troops, and troops must be paid and fed, fair advocate.”
“Why? Is force in the hand of the ruler a surer foundation of rule than content and prosperity among the ruled?”
“The world cannot wag without soldiers, mademoiselle, and Morvaix can only be ruled by force.”
“Must a populace be starved that the soldiers may be fat? If I seem to speak boldly, it is because I feel deeply. And if I offend, I crave your pardon, monsieur.”
“Nothing you could say or do could ever offend me, Mademoiselle Gabrielle. With you I am as clay in the hands of the potter.”
“Nay, if you put it merely on grounds personal to myself, I can urge nothing,” said Gabrielle, sadly and reluctantly.
“Yet they are the only grounds that will prevail with me,” he answered. “The lot of these people is much to you, you say; then you would of a surety make sacrifices to help them? Is it not so?”
“I would do anything in my power,” she said warmly.
“That remains to be proved,” he retorted, smiling as he looked searchingly at her. “Perhaps I may take that as a challenge and put you to a test. Your petition here”—he drew it out and opened it. “You urge me to recall this last ordinance of mine and take off the new imposts on food.”
“The people will starve if you do not, monsieur.”
“Well, let them starve, then. I must have money, and money can only be raised by such means. But if I were to grant you this favour, make this sacrifice for you, what sacrifice would you make in your turn, what favour would you grant me?”
His eyes were glowing as he turned them upon her while waiting for her reply.
“I do not understand your lordship,” said Gabrielle, meeting his glance with her calm innocent gaze.
“Or is it that you will not?” he asked insolently. “Supposing I agree that your influence shall prevail with me and that in the government of Morvaix you and I shall act together: you inspiring with your lofty motives, I executing with the powers at my command. If we try it for a year, two years, three years—any time you like to fix—what would be my reward?”
“The rich gratitude of a contented people, the respect of every man in Morvaix; hope in place of despair, prosperity instead of want, love where fear now lurks.”
“Pshaw! I do not seek the love of such canaille, a mouthing mob as ready to shout ‘Crucify’ as ‘Hosanna!’ What reward would you yourself grant?”
“I should for ever bless and admire you.”
“For ever is a long, indefinite time, and blessings and admiration may be but cold emotions. What would you do?” and he once more fixed his bold eyes upon her face.
“Again I say I do not understand what your lordship would have me say.”
He paused in thought and then laughed abruptly, almost grimly.
“It is enough,” he exclaimed, with a wave of the hand. “The thought pleases me, for I would gladly please you; believe that I will grant your petition——”
“Oh, I thank you—” she burst in, when he checked her.
“Wait. I will grant it if you will fall in with my plan, will lend me your aid in the perilous task of government; will work with me and inspire me with your sweet counsel; and if you will consider what favour you will grant me in return. I will have my answer in a week from now, and until then we speak no more of this. Now I have to offer you my congratulations upon your approaching marriage, in which I take deep interest.”
He rose shortly afterwards, and when Gabrielle held her hand to him he carried it to his lips.
“Remember,” he said, retaining her hand and looking up, his face quite close to hers. “Remember, we have made a compact, and you must make the offer worthy of my acceptance—or it may mean fresh and heavier imposts for your favourites in place of lighter ones,” and with that smiling, half-jesting menace he went away, calling the Baron de Proballe to attend him.
Gabrielle stood gazing after him sorely bewildered by what had passed, distracted by doubts and striving earnestly to fathom the meaning of the question he had pressed with such insistence.
When he had gone she went to an inner room, accompanied by Lucette who had been present at the interview but out of earshot, and had followed the strange proceedings, watching the Duke intently and reading there something of the purpose which was hidden from Gabrielle’s unsuspecting nature.
Lucette was skilled in reading love in the eyes of men, and with quaking heart and fearsome curiosity she waited now to hear what words the Duke had spoken to Gabrielle to inspire the looks which she had seen him cast upon her. And when she heard them, Lucette felt her cheeks alternately flame with rage and chill with deadly fear for Gabrielle’s sake.