CHAPTER VIII
THE PLOT THICKENS
MEANWHILE Gerard himself, without any help from Pascal’s misadventure, was finding enough embarrassments to tax his wit and resourcefulness.
De Proballe, anxious that Gerard should have the fullest opportunities to push his suit with Gabrielle, soon made an excuse to leave them together. He pleaded that he must send to the Governor to arrange for the interview between him and Gerard, and left them—a move that was not without its embarrassment to Gerard, since Gabrielle promptly took advantage of it to carry the conversation back to the point where it had been interrupted in the gardens.
“You have something important to tell me, Gerard, I know. You were about to tell me when my uncle came to us. But first, I have to make a confession and to ask your pardon.”
“I am no priest, I fear,” he said, meeting her smiling gaze.
“But this is a wrong done to you. When I was thinking over all we said to-day—and I have thought of nothing else since—I remembered to my shame, that I had never given you even a word of thanks for your help yesterday, and again to-day.”
“Please say nothing of it.”
“Oh, but you must have thought me a very miser of my gratitude. And I am not that. Indeed, indeed, I do thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she cried, warmly, her eyes on his face.
“Do you think I need more reward than the knowledge that it was you whom I could help? When I saw you yesterday, my heart leapt, and I vowed——”
“Well?” she asked, as he paused; and when he still hesitated, checked by the thought that he had no right to speak thus while the truth of his position was still unexplained, she added, with a little frown and a very winsome smile, “you break off at most irritating points, cousin.”
“I vowed myself to your service for good or ill,” he said deliberately.
“Take care what you say, cousin. Did you know who I was?”
“Not then, indeed.”
“Then was that surely a most dangerous vow.”
“How?”
She laughed merrily. “Supposing it had not been Gabrielle to whom you thus rashly vowed yourself; what would you have done?”
“I had not thought of it. No other woman would have drawn such a vow from me.”
“You turn words well—so well that I could almost be afraid of your skill. Shall we go out on the terrace? The evening air is lovely. Tell me,” she said, as they walked, “how came you to be playing trespasser so opportunely to-day in Malincourt. It has puzzled me.”
“If I tell the truth, I was lurking in the wood, hoping to catch a sight of you again.”
“You had learnt who this lady of your vow was by that time, then?”
“Else I had not been in Malincourt,” he answered, without thinking.
She glanced at him quickly, her face wrinkled with this fresh puzzle.
“Is not that a worse puzzle?” she asked. “Knowing who I was, why not have come straight to the maison?”
“Of course, I might have done so,” he replied. He saw the slip then clearly enough, and tried to cover it with a laugh. “Perhaps I ought to have come.”
“But you did not. Why? I do not mind that you did not, but why should you choose so strange a course?”
“What answer can I give, save it was a whim?”
“You would have seen me sooner had you come and would not have been one whit less welcome; and would in truth have saved me some hours of anxiety. Do you know that, yesterday, I sent high and low in search of you; and only this morning my poor Denys went riding out to Beaucamp on a veritable wild-goose chase to find you?”
Gerard smiled. “Did you at the time know who I was?” he asked.
“Should I have sent away from Morvaix to find you, had I known?”
“Then you, too, were not without interest in a stranger?”
“It is not a fair hit,” she laughed. “I would not have had even a stranger think me an ingrate for such service.”
“Then it was merely to thank me, you wished.”
“Gerard!” and she let her eyes drop to the ground.
“I should like to think that before you heard my name to-day, you——” He commenced in great earnestness, but checked himself again.
“Some day I will tell you,” she replied in a low tone, after a pause; and then, in a tone as low, he asked—
“And what if I had been other than Gerard de Cobalt?”
“Thank God, it was not so,” she cried, with a little shiver and a sigh.
“Why, Gabrielle?” He had his own strong reason for pressing the question.
For a time she kept her head bowed and remained silent; but then raising her eyes to him frankly and trustfully she said—
“I think I should like to tell you. You will not think shame of me. I fear I could never have been Gerard de Cobalt’s wife. All night I wrestled with the problem, and prayed fervently for strength to do my duty, and keep the pledge made for me by my parents. But when I knew Gerard de Cobalt would come to-day, I dreaded to meet him. Can you not guess why?” She was all blushes and sweetness as the faltered confession dropped from her lips.
“You cannot think what this means to me,” he answered with passion. “But some day you will understand.”
“Why not now, Gerard? I have betrayed all my little secret—little, do I say—if you but knew how great, how all in all it is to me! I have shown you all my heart,” she whispered.
They were leaning on the marble balustrade, gazing over the lovely gardens which the risen moon was silvering with her glory.
“Why not now, Gerard?” she repeated, after a long pause, with sweet, gentle insistence. “What need of secrets between us two?”
He longed to respond to this frank confession of her feelings by telling her everything; and the impulse to speak was only curbed with great effort. But prudence stayed him, and the fear of unknown consequences which might imperil everything by forcing a disclosure to de Proballe.
“We will have no secrets one from the other, Gabrielle, when once this matter in my thoughts has been cleared up,” he said, his reluctance to refuse her plea causing him to speak with hesitation.
“Is it the same of which you spoke to-day so strangely?”
“But you were going to tell me—then.” Her pause before the word, and emphasis in speaking it, did not escape him. But even the subtle temptation implied in the sweet accent did not prevail.
“Yes, I was going to tell you. If I do not, you trust me?”
“Gerard, of course. I should trust you always. But—I am only a woman, and—curious,” she added, with a tender smile of reproachful invitation.
“And if I assure you it is for your own sake that I hold this back, you will bear with me?”
“For my sake? Now in truth you increase my perplexity, and do but whet my appetite. How can it be for my sake? You said to-day that it concerned the very purpose of your coming here; and when I spoke of that purpose as I knew it—our marriage, Gerard—you started back as if in alarm or overwhelming surprise. You pained me so that I was leaving you in anger.”
“The pain was greater on my side than yours, Gabrielle.”
“And then you suggested you had been led to deceive me in some strange way: I should not believe that, indeed; and, as if impelled by some sudden thought, you were about to tell me everything. And then my uncle came, and you whispered hurriedly that what you had to say was for my ears alone. Are we not alone now?” she asked with witching pressure; and she smiled tenderly, as she added: “You see I remember every word you said. Indeed, I could never forget them; but I cannot understand”; and she shook her head as if the puzzle were all beyond her solving.
“If you but trust me, what else can matter?” he answered, at a loss how to meet her.
“Nothing, nothing now,” she cried joyfully, moving a little closer to him so that her shoulder was against his. “Chide me if I seem too persistent. I have had so much of my own way in my life that I must be getting self-willed, I think. But don’t make the chiding too harsh, Gerard. And do not keep me too long with this secret between us; I think I shall grow jealous of it. And—another condition,” she laughed: “Do not tell any one before you tell me. I could not bear that.”
“You are even harder to resist when you yield, Gabrielle, than when you plead, I fear.”
“Am I? Then I will yield that I may plead. But I will wait your time. Of course I will. It is such delight to me to find you what you are, that all else is nothing. Besides, it is the first request you have made to me, and I should be a churl to refuse it. I did not think of that, and could be angry with myself for having forgotten it. I would not hear you now, if you were to offer to tell me.” Her laugh at this was as that of a child in its pure delight.
“I am almost constrained to tempt you,” he said, laughing in his turn.
“Nay, I have put my curiosity away—about that, but I have plenty left about you and your life and all you have done to change you from that boy Gerard whom I knew.”
“I am very different from him, I trust. I have been a soldier since the time I was big enough to shoulder a musket.”
“And have fought? Tell me, tell me. Where and with whom? I love to hear of brave deeds. I am a soldier’s daughter, you know.”
“I have been a courier of fortune, as all younger sons must be, and have carried arms under the Bourbons.”
“We Malincourts, too, claim to be of the Bourbon blood; but—how do you mean—a younger son? I had not heard you had ever a brother, Gerard.”
“All soldiers have brothers-in-arms,” he replied, hastily, and with some confusion. “I have had my own way to push—to prove that I was worthy to lead.”
“Yes, yes. And you have proved that long since, I am confident. But tell me of the fighting. Oh, I would that I had been a man to bear my part as a soldier!”
“That had been hard on me, Gabrielle.”
“True enough, too. And for that I am glad I am only a woman,” she said, gently, nestling yet closer to him. And having thus led her on to the safe topic of his career as a soldier, he told her many of his experiences. She listened eagerly to his story, hanging on his words in rare delight, until he broke off, remembering that he was to see the Governor that night.
“I am forgetting—I could forget all in your company. But M. de Proballe has arranged that I see the Duke to-night. I had best seek him.”
“You must be careful with the Governor, Gerard.”
“Why? I do not fear him.”
“He is all-powerful here in Morvaix. You saw what passed in the market place yesterday. He is a man of iron.”
“Yet what harm can he do me?”
“He is bad to the heart’s core. His wife is my one intimate friend in Morvaix, an honourable, God-fearing woman, who has suffered unspeakable sorrows at his hands in her life. She is now bed-ridden, poor soul; and we have spoken freely together of the Duke.”
“He is a tyrant—that I have learnt.”
“And many worse things, I fear. I would not willingly speak ill of any man, but to you I should speak freely. He has but too well merited the term men give him—the Tiger of Morvaix. Could the grim walls and torture chambers of his castle bear witness against him, fearsome truths indeed would come to light.”
“Tell me of them.”
“Nay, not to-night. To-night we will not speak of Morvaix horrors; rather let us hope that from to-night, from your coming, Gerard, better times will dawn for the city and the unfortunate citizens. The Duke is a hard, harsh, cruel man, who tolerates but one principle of rule: blind implicit obedience to his will, to be enforced by any measure of cruelty, however violent and harsh. He has ground down the people until the yoke has become intolerable; and yet there seems no remedy. I sent tidings privately to the Duke of Bourbon, as Suzerain of the province, praying him to come or send aid to us before the people should be driven to open rebellion. But no one comes, no one heeds; and we must work out our own rescue. I have a faint hope indeed, that matters will mend.”
“How?”
“I saw the Duke to-day, and urged him to relax the severity of his rule—to take off this last cruel impost on the people’s food, for one thing; and he half promised, making his consent contingent on some sacrifice from me. God knows there is nothing I would not give in such a cause. I would strip myself of all my possessions—even of Malincourt itself, dearly as I love every stone of the old maison. But I hold the welfare of the people dearer. He would not name the condition, however, leaving it to me to do so. And I know not what he wishes.”
Gerard’s face grew dark with anger as he listened, knowing full well from de Proballe’s words what the condition was.
“We shall together find the means, Gabrielle,” he said earnestly. “My hand and oath on that; and my life the forfeit if I fail.”
“You will help me in this,” she cried, joyfully and eagerly. “Oh, Gerard, did I not say to-day how glad I was that you had come! What great issues now depend on you. With you to help me, a strong man at Malincourt, to oppose the castle; not violently I mean, but with the strength of all the people’s sympathy behind us, what may we not achieve? But when you see the Duke, be wary of him; give him no cause present offence that we may be the stronger in the future.”
“Does any one but you know that you sent to Bourbon for help? Your uncle, for instance?”
“No. I told no one; not even him. I deemed him too intimate with the Governor. He would not wittingly betray me, I know, for he has often spoken to me in sorrow of the Duke’s government. You like him, Gerard?”
“I have seen but little of him; but I have indeed found him blunt in speaking of facts,” was the cautious reply, drily spoken.
A footstep on the terrace disturbed them. It was Pascal.
“I was seeking you, monsieur, to know if you have any other commands for me,” he said aloud in a respectful tone, adding in a whisper, as they stood apart: “I must speak to you at once. There’s a devil of a mess.”
“Wait but a minute,” whispered Gerard; and then aloud: “I will you see directly, good Pascal. It is my faithful fellow in some trouble about me, Gabrielle.”
“Then let us go in. Ah, here is Lucette,” she added, as Lucette, looking very troubled, came out of the maison. “How is Denys, Lucette?”
“He was better for some time, but the fever seems to have come back upon him. The surgeon has seen him again, and given him a potion, and he is now asleep.”
“He should be carefully watched all night, never left for a moment,” declared Gerard quickly, remembering de Proballe’s threatening words. “You will see to this, mademoiselle.”
“The surgeon says he will sleep until the morning, and will need no more till then,” answered Lucette.
“Let him be watched. At need I, or Pascal here, will remain by his bedside.”
“By your leave, monsieur, that were not well;” and Lucette spoke so sharply that all looked at her.
“What mean you, Lucette?” asked Gabrielle.
“Denys has, for causes that may be plain afterward, conceived a violent dislike toward Monsieur de Cobalt; and if he woke and found him by the bedside, it might be very ill indeed.”
“But I have never set eyes on him until to-day, mademoiselle.”
“It is probably no more than a sick man’s fancy,” said Gabrielle.
“It may be so; yet it is very strong upon him, and he talks wildly and almost at random.”
“I fear his wound is more serious than you deemed, Gerard,” declared Gabrielle.
“It is the more reason for what I have urged—that he be watched closely and never left. His life itself may hang upon it.”
“I will see that it is done,” agreed Gabrielle readily.
“That what is done?” It was de Proballe who asked the question, coming out of the house in time to catch the last words.
“My poor Denys is very ill, it seems, uncle, and Gerard has just been saying that he should be watched ceaselessly.”
“Poor fellow,” he replied in a compassionate tone; and then with an upcast glance at Gerard he asked: “And why do you think he should be watched so closely?”
“I have had some skill in sword-wounds, monsieur, and Mademoiselle Lucette here says he has been talking wildly. When delirium follows such a wound as his there is every need for care.”
It was an adroit answer, for it satisfied de Proballe and also bore out what he had said before. But Lucette’s eyes were very keen, and knowing all she did, she was watching closely enough to catch de Proballe’s glance of meaning as he answered—
“You are right then, Gerard. I will see to this, Gabrielle. Denys is too good a fellow for us to run any risks with. My man, Jacques Dauban, has had some training in surgery, and would gladly keep such a vigil.”
Lucette bit her lip and cast down her eyes.
“I think we need not trouble Master Dauban or cause him to lose a night’s rest,” she said. “My maid and I can watch, monsieur.”
“Ever kind and considerate, Lucette,” said de Proballe. “Well, we can see to it, as Gabrielle says. And now, Gerard, I have a word for your ear about the Governor. He cannot receive you to-night.”
“I am sorry; but to-morrow will do for me.”
“What is this about Denys?” asked de Proballe, eagerly, when Gabrielle and Lucette had left them. “You should not have urged that watching. If the man is alive to-morrow, everything may be ruined. What has he said to Lucette there?”
“Indeed, I neither know nor care.”
“Are you mad?”
“To-night, perhaps yes; sanity may come in the morning. I have been talking long and earnestly with Gabrielle, and her purity and innocence may have maddened me. If that be so, it is sweet madness.”
“Psh. Spare me such cant. Would you ruin everything? We are men with work to do, not fools to stuff our minds with folly.”
“Nor villains to murder sick men. If harm should come to Denys I should never forgive myself—nor you, monsieur; and I should hold you responsible.”
“Then you do not wish this marriage?”
“Not if the path to it be cold-blooded murder, Monsieur de Proballe.”
“Does it lie in your mouth to speak of murder, after Cambrai? But your head is turned because you find your cousin has a pretty face; and if it is not to be turned next on the headsman’s block, you will cease this folly.”
“So it was held to be murder at Cambrai?”
“You try my patience beyond endurance. See to it that you have more reason in the morning; and that you may find it, I will give you something to ponder in the night. I have talked with the Duke to-night, and found him with another plan half-fledged in his thoughts; and if ever it gets full-feathered you may look to yourself.”
“He seems a man quick at hatching schemes. I fear neither him nor them.”
“Fool! Do you dream to oppose him? He is now half-minded to divorce his Duchess and make Gabrielle his wife. He finds that he stands higher in the favour of the Cardinal Archbishop than he deemed; his Eminence has sent him a hundred fighting men for his army; and he now thinks he can secure a dispensation to put away his wife. He is childless, and she a bed-ridden invalid; and the Church might not willingly see so noble a line as his extinct. If you do not hurry to make Gabrielle your wife, I would not answer for your head. Ponder that to-night, and mouth of sweet madness in the morning, if you have any mind left for such folly.”
Waiting for no reply, de Proballe turned on his heel and entered the house; and as Gerard was gazing after him, Pascal approached and touched him on the arm.
“Of all the diabolical villains—What is it, man?” he broke off impatiently.
“What’s the use of wasting breath in that way when there are things to be done? This precious maison is like a nest of spies. I’ve been found out for an impostor by that pretty sharp-eyed girl whose lover lies wounded upstairs; and I was wondering how to get to you to tell you when I came on some sneaking whelp of a man with his ear jammed to the door of the chamber where she was watching.”
“Did you break his head for him?”
“Nearly; but I did better. I played spy in my turn; and your honest man can beat a rogue at his own trade when he tries, even when that trade is spying. Presently the rascal went to the door of the apartments where we are to lie, and, after listening and waiting, he knocked, at first gently, and then more boldly, and finding no one within, entered, and I caught him ransacking among our baggage. Holy Peter! but he cut a sorry figure when he saw me peeping round the door at him;” and Pascal laughed.
“What did you do? I hope you were discreet.”
“I first knocked him down and drubbed him soundly, and then tied him up with a roll of cloth for his supper, and locked him in a cupboard. Then I came for you that we may try him together.”
“Who is he?”
“I gave him no time to say. But come, or he may be smothered—for I’m a novice with the gag—and in that case we shall get nothing out of him; which would be a pity.”
“It’s a curious turn,” said Gerard uneasily, as they hurried away together.