LUCETTE had had her own troubles as well. Never before had such a mischance occurred as that of the previous evening in the pine-walk; and the fact that she was merely tricking Dauban in order to wheedle the truth out of him had not helped her with her lover in the least.
The thrashing administered to Dauban had relieved some of Denys’ wrath; but the hard blows for him had been followed by some equally hard words for Lucette, with many hot and bitter reproaches: none the less stinging because for once undeserved. And she had not been able to make peace with him.
Worst of all, he had ridden away that morning without so much as a word to her; and she was angry at his obduracy and wounded by his neglect, and still more angry with herself for caring so much.
Gabrielle, quick to notice the troubles of those about her, had seen Lucette’s woe-begone, doleful looks and questioned her before the Duke’s visit; but now for the moment she was wholly engrossed by the perplexity in which that visit had left her.
“What can he want of me, Lucette?” she asked again and again, until Lucette had a suggestion to make, born of her own belief of the Duke’s purpose and intended as a warning for Gabrielle.
“Why not take counsel of the Duchess? She is a true friend of yours, Gabrielle, and a good woman.”
“It is a good thought. I will go to her to-day. I would give half my wealth to do what he proposes—to have a voice even for no more than a few short years in governing the people. I could do so much good.”
“Would he keep his word, think you? I do not trust him. Truth and honour are not counted among his parts.”
“You are suspicious. Why?”
“To begin with, he is a man,” and Lucette nodded her head and stamped her foot petulantly.
“Not always a quick path to your disfavour, coz,” said Gabrielle with a smile. “Denys is a man.”
“Denys has a head of wood,” said Lucette, lapsing into her own wrongs for a moment.
“Seeing the infinite uses to which we turn wood, I know not why we always liken it to stupidity. Whatever our good Denys’ head may be, his heart is staunch and true.”
“We are not speaking of Denys but of the Duke, who has neither wooden head nor staunch heart—unless it be staunch to some cruel and treacherous purpose for his own game.”
“I fear there is truth in your words; yet he spoke me fairly.”
“Any man can do that,” exclaimed Lucette, with almost vicious emphasis. “But see the Duchess herself, tell her all that passed, and ask her. A wife should certainly know best how to interpret her husband’s words.”
The advice was given with so much eagerness that Gabrielle turned and looked searchingly into her friend’s eyes.
“Have you made a guess at his purpose and withhold it from me?” She asked so directly that Lucette winced, fearing that her own fears might be divined. She took shelter quickly in subterfuge, and lowering her eyes she dropped her head on Gabrielle’s shoulder and said with a deep sigh—
“WHAT A THING OF APRIL WEATHER, IS THIS LOVE
OF YOURS, LUCETTE”
“Oh, Gabrielle, I am not myself; I am the most miserable girl on earth.”
“What a thing of April weather is this love of yours! Smiles and tears, sunshine and drifting clouds; ever changing and plaguing, as it seems to me, coz.”
“You will know some day, Gabrielle.”
“I could hope not, indeed. It seems to me the world has sterner work for some of us women than to be plaguing our wits to please a man or pleasing ourselves by plaguing him. I would gladly give up all if I could help my people in Morvaix here. Little did the Duke think how nearly his offer touched me.”
“Did you think so sternly yesterday, Gabrielle, after that chance encounter in the market place?”
“If my thoughts wandered from my duty for an hour, a night’s reflection has corrected them,” answered Gabrielle slowly.
“The night had nothing but bitterness for me,” cried Lucette dismally. “And to-day Denys has ridden away without a word.”
“You should not provoke his anger against you so lightly.”
“There was no cause for it. He would be jealous of another man’s shadow,” said Lucette with a pout; and then with a quick change of mood, she cried: “Oh, how selfish I am; but how am I to tell you?”
“To tell me what?”
“I don’t know what name to give it, or how to speak of it. I was talking with Master Dauban, your uncle’s secretary——”
“So that was the cause of Denys’ anger! Lucette, Lucette!”
“I hate him; he is a loathsome creature.”
“Then why talk to him?”
“He made me talk to him by what he said.”
“Now of a truth you puzzle me.”
“It is true. He spoke of some danger threatening Malincourt and you, and I did but try to get it from him. That was all.”
“You should not listen to tittle-tattle, coz.”
“He spoke of your betrothal to this M. de Cobalt—that there was some sinister meaning in it; that M. de Cobalt was no true man but a villain; and that others greater than he were concerned to do you harm through him. What could I do but listen and seek the truth?”
“You could have bid him hold his tongue for a mischief-making meddler in concerns that are none of his. Tell me no more of it, Lucette.”
“But he swore it was true, and that——”
“Peace, child; I will hear no more.”
“Gabrielle, you must,” cried Lucette, looking up. “It is true, and you must find out what it means.”
“Shall I give my hand to a man not trusting him?”
“Can you marry him knowing he is not true?”
“Lucette, you will make me lose patience. Would you have me deign to fret myself over the worrying of an idle gossip-monger?”
“Oh, it is terrible.”
“You are not yourself, child, and are frightened because you have angered Denys more deeply than usual. Come, let us go out into the bright sunshine and shake off these fretting fancies. You are always the slave of passing moods, Lucette,” she said, as they crossed the terrace and passed down the broad steps into the garden. “But out here in the sunshine you can most easily recover your spirits.”
“I am plagued with a fear of—I know not what,” answered Lucette, sighing dismally. “I wonder where Denys has gone.”
“He will come back, and as you are always telling me, all will come right, again.” She smiled but the smile ended in something like a sigh.
She was indeed sorely perplexed by the course matters were taking, and although she would not acknowledge it, Lucette’s recital of Dauban’s warning had moved her considerably.
It fitted closely with her own feelings in regard to giving herself to a man she had never seen. Her pride of place and family had alone induced her to think of accepting the husband whom her mother had chosen for her; but it was not in human nature to acquiesce without murmurs and qualms and doubts and hesitation.
Moreover, the scene in the market place on the previous day had disturbed her profoundly, despite her stout assertion that the night’s reflection had restored her. Her couch had been the ground of a fierce battle between certain wild new-springing emotions and the set and sober thoughts of duty; and the fight had raged through the whole of a sleepless night.
In vain she had told herself over and over again that the stranger cavalier was nothing to her and could be nothing; that it was treachery to her dead mother even to let a thought of him force itself upon her; that it was unworthy, unmaidenly, and cowardly to be moved by the remembrance that a man had looked kindly into her eyes and that she had faltered before his glance; and this at the very moment when he to whom she was betrothed was coming to her.
She upbraided herself bitterly for her weakness, and rising from her couch had passed an hour or more on her knees in fervent prayer for strength to overcome the temptation which she found so alluring, and for power to subdue these new feelings as subtly sweet as they were strange and exciting.
Her heart would not be denied, however, and despite her most resolute efforts the recollection of the strong handsome face, with the clear steadfast blue eyes would force itself back upon her again and again and yet again, despite her most earnest efforts.
In the morning when her uncle told her that he had heard of the stranger’s presence at Beaucamp and had despatched Denys in search of him, she was conscious that her heart fluttered almost wildly for the moment, and she had been compelled to turn her face away lest some of the emotion might make itself evident there.
“He must not think us thankless, uncle,” she had replied, calmly enough in tone; but in her heart she was driven to hope he would not be found and that never would she have to undergo the ordeal of meeting him face to face. What might then happen she did not dare to think.
But all this emotion she had hidden from even the sharp eyes of her companion, so that, although for her own secret reasons she was as eagerly impatient as Lucette herself for Denys’ return, her secret was locked away under an outward demeanour as calm and self-possessed as usual.
Twice she sent to inquire if he had come; pretending, even while despising herself for the pretence, that it was for Lucette’s sake; and when noon came and passed and he had not returned, she masked her own disappointment under a concern for Lucette.
But he did return at length, despite the Duke’s plans against him. Unconscious of the danger in which he rode he had by a mere chance change of direction evaded the two men sent to waylay him, and they had only ascertained the fact in time to admit of their following him to Malincourt in hot haste and mortal fear of the Governor’s anger.
They had wandered into a distant part of the grounds when Gabrielle caught sight of him pricking fast toward the maison, and she was at great pains to conceal the start she gave on seeing he was alone. She told herself that she was glad he brought no one with him; but a little stinging stab of disappointment deep down in her heart and an eager, hungry desire to learn the news he brought, told a very different story.
Then Lucette caught sight of him.
“Look, Gabrielle, look. There rides Denys,” she cried excitedly.
“Where?” asked Gabrielle in a calm tone, feeling like a wicked hypocrite for her small pretence.
“There, there. I hope he will not see us,” exclaimed Lucette, pointing in his direction and making herself as conspicuous as possible.
“You are showing yourself plainly, Lucette.”
“Then he will know where not to come, if he is not in a better temper than this morning.”
Denys had seen Lucette. Gabrielle saw him turn and look toward them and then ride on toward the house without making a sign.
“He might have waved a hand,” said Lucette, pouting and shrugging her shoulders. “But I will punish him. Let us go away from here.”
“But just now you implied that he would not come here.”
“I will not forgive him easily if he does,” said Lucette, with a shake of the head and a little stamp of the foot.
“I will leave you to meet him, coz; and take my advice, cease to play this foolish game with him.”
“There are two other cavaliers riding this way,” said Lucette suddenly, “and spurring hard in urgent haste, it would seem.”
Had they not been so intent in watching these and speaking of Denys, they would have seen yet another cavalier who stepped for a moment from a belt of trees, looked eagerly in their direction, and then hurriedly hid himself.
Gabrielle, quite unconscious of this, continued to urge Lucette to wait alone for Denys and seek to make her peace with him. But Lucette was obstinate; and when at length she caught sight of Denys in the distance, dust-stained with his long ride, walking in their direction, she drew Gabrielle hurriedly behind a clump of trees into hiding.
“We will see what he does,” she whispered excitedly. “I shall know by his face what mood he is in.”
When Denys reached the spot where they had been he paused and looked about him.
“It was here I saw her, I’ll swear,” he said aloud to himself. “I marked that old chestnut tree,” and he glanced at it. “Which way can she have gone? Lucette,” he called in a loud voice. “Lucette.” As he looked about him he backed close to the low trees behind which the two girls stood. “She can’t have wandered far. Lucette—Lucette,” he called again, and waited for his voice to come echoing back.
Then Lucette, whose face had brightened at hearing him call for her, plucked a rose from her bosom and tossed it so that it fell upon him in its course to the ground. He picked it up and smiled.
“A rose from an almond tree,” he said aloud. “Surely something of a strange portent. Where are you, Lucette; little witch, that changes the natural blooms of a tree?”
Lucette had stepped on a low bough of a tree and now looked through the bushes.
“I have dropped my rose, m’sieu. May I trouble you? Ah, M. Denys, is it you?” with a start of pretended surprise.
“Lucette,” he said passionately.
“Monsieur!” This distantly.
“Come, Lucette. Let the rose make our peace. I have been thinking of you through all my long ride.”
She came slowly toward him, parting the bushes and playing at indifference.
“It is my rose, if you please, m’sieu.”
“But you meant it for me,” and he kissed it and then tried to take her hands. But she drew back.
“Do we know each other, m’sieu?”
His answer was a smile and an attempt to take her in his arms. But she would not let him. Seeing his mood, she could not resist a chance to tease him further.
“Have you forgotten what you said last night? Did you not ride off this morning without a word—a single word? Do you think I forgive so easily, and forget?”
“I can answer that, Denys,” said Gabrielle, stepping out now from her place of concealment. She was anxious to end the quarrel and learn the news he brought. “She has forgiven you and is sorry for what she did. She has been heart-broken all the morning at your absence.”
“Gabrielle, I——” began Lucette in protest.
“It is true, Denys, every word. So make your peace with her. Come, Lucette, be true to yourself.”
“Peacemaker as usual, mademoiselle,” cried Denys, with a happy, grateful smile.
“Indeed, indeed, it is nothing of the sort. Denys said last night that——”
“Never mind what I said in my anger, Lucette; I am sorry.”
“But it was so causeless, so unjust, so—so horrible,” and she put her hands to her ears as if in horror at the mere recollection.
Denys captured them then in his strong hands and held her a prisoner, while Gabrielle turned away.
“Let me go, Denys, let me go; how dare you!” cried Lucette, as if in anger, and commenced to struggle, tapping her foot and averting her head as he strove to kiss her. “Let me go I say.”
“Not till you say all that foolish quarrel is over, and you have kissed me.”
“I will not. I will not. Let me go,” she cried, keeping up the pretence of anger.
“Kiss me then.”
“I will not. How dare you force me like this?”
And they were struggling in this way when a wholly unexpected and unwelcome interruption came.
“How dare you treat a girl like that?” demanded a man’s voice; and Antoine de Cavannes, followed by Henri d’Estelle, who had dogged Denys’ footsteps, rushed up and laid violent hands on his shoulder. “Oh, it’s you, Lucette,” continued Antoine, in anger and surprise. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Denys frowned darkly. He released Lucette, who fell back a step or two in disconcerted amazement.
“This is no concern of yours, gentlemen,” said Denys.
“Indeed, but it is. No cowardly cur shall maltreat a girl in our presence, eh, d’Estelle?” The two men exchanged meaning glances.
“Be careful of your words, m’sieu, if you please,” said Denys, his hand going involuntarily to his sword-belt.
“Careful with a blackguardly girl-beater like you. Be off about your business and leave mademoiselle with me.”
“By God!” cried Denys under his breath. “You shall eat those words, or I am no man.”
“Out on you for a braggart,” said Antoine, while his companion gave Denys a violent thrust.
“Be off with you, I say,” he exclaimed roughly.
In a moment Denys’ sword was out of its scabbard.
“No, no, Denys, you must not,” cried Lucette, now in dire consternation at the turn matters had taken.
“You’ve often told me of this fellow’s blackguard ways,” said Antoine. “It’s time he had a lesson how to behave.”
“Gabrielle, Gabrielle,” cried Lucette, catching sight of her. “Come here. Come here.”
“Another petticoat for the coward to skulk behind,” said d’Estelle, with a coarse laugh.
“Gentlemen, you have made a great mistake,” cried Gabrielle, hastening forward. “This is not what you think. M. St. Jean is betrothed to Mademoiselle de Boisdegarde.”
“It had small appearance of it just now,” said d’Estelle.
“And I know it to be false,” declared Antoine.
“Monsieur!” exclaimed Gabrielle, drawing herself up.
“Mademoiselle!” answered d’Estelle, with insolent imitation of her tone.
The words were scarcely out of d’Estelle’s mouth before Denys strode forward and struck him a swinging left-handed blow across the mouth.
“You dog!” he said fiercely.
The two men drew then and were for attacking him together, but Lucette threw herself before him. Her wits, at first dazed by the dread of trouble to herself from the meeting of Antoine and Denys, were now sharpened by her fear for Denys’ sake from the unequal combat, and by a rapid intuition she jumped to the conclusion that the meeting was designed for her lover’s hurt.
“It shall not be. It is not fair—two to one. You cowards!” she cried, facing the couple angrily.
“Stand aside, Lucette,” said Denys, putting her away. “The thing has gone too far,” and choosing a spot which he deemed most to his advantage he put himself in an attitude of defence. “Now, messieurs, if you will.”
Lucette wrung her hands distractedly.
“They will kill him. They have come to do it. I know—I know,” she cried, until Gabrielle bade her run to the house and get help, when she set off with the speed of fear.
Denys was a good swordsman, and, having chosen his ground well, fought warily against the pair, who, over-eager to finish the thing before any help could come, hampered each other, so that d’Estelle, getting in Antoine’s way, tripped and fell. His sword flew out of his hand and rolled close to Gabrielle, who instantly set her foot upon it.
The man scrambled quickly to his feet and ran to his sword.
“It is not fair, monsieur, two to one,” said Gabrielle angrily.
“Take your foot from my sword, mademoiselle,” he answered, a menace in both tone and look.
“I will not,” she answered as firmly as before.
“Then take the consequences,” he cried fiercely, and with a thrust he pushed her away, and snatching up his weapon, ran to the assistance of Antoine, whom Denys was now pressing fiercely in single combat.
“Help, help!” called Gabrielle in a loud voice. “Will no help come?”
But help was unexpectedly at hand, for another’s eyes had seen the dastardly attack of d’Estelle.
The stranger who had been in the wood had witnessed the last part of the quarrel, and when the two men commenced the attack upon Denys, he had started at a rapid run toward the scene.
A loud angry shout now proclaimed his arrival.
“You villain, to strike a woman. Two swords to one, gentlemen! This is murder, not fighting. Have a care, monsieur; that rascal is getting behind your back. Ah, a foul, treacherous stroke,” he exclaimed next, as d’Estelle, having crept up behind Denys, ran his blade into his back.
As Denys fell, the stranger gave another loud cry and leapt forward. Antoine was about to deliver another thrust while Denys lay on the ground, when his sword was parried by that of the newcomer.
“To me, messieurs, to me,” and the two men found themselves the objects of a rapid and vehement attack by a swordsman vastly more skilful than themselves. In a minute d’Estelle was wounded with a slash on the sword-arm, and facing Antoine, the cavalier cried in a voice of thunder: “Now, you assassin, it is your turn.”
But Antoine, deserted by his comrade, who ran off as soon as he was wounded, had no heart to face the blade which played round him, threatening death at every flashing turn, gave ground and with a cry of terror, broke away and fled as fast as his legs would carry him.
His antagonist was following him, when there came a cry from Gabrielle.
“Monsieur—monsieur!”
He stopped at the words, turned, bared his head and bowed.
“Your pardon, mademoiselle. In my haste to punish a treacherous coward I was forgetting you were alone.”
“Monsieur,” said Gabrielle, now lowering her eyes in blushing confusion.
It was the cavalier who had rescued her the previous day in the market place; and the rush of thoughts held her tongue-tied in embarrassment.