TO Gerard the turn of events was profoundly disturbing. He had heard from both Lucette and de Proballe that Denys had suspicions of the reasons which were supposed to have brought him to Morvaix, and knew something of the unsavoury past of the man whose name he had taken; and to have all this blurted out to Gabrielle might have very ugly consequences.
Almost any other moment would have been less inopportune, as it seemed; and he would have given much to be able to silence his accuser. Yet he could not appear to shun the charge or shrink from any proofs which Denys had obtained: could do nothing in fact. It was the irony of the thing that the very interference which he would have welcomed at the fitting moment should be so embarrassing now.
Gabrielle had, however, only one thought. To her it seemed treachery even to listen further to the accusation. She was very angry, and her face mantled with colour.
“You have been a faithful friend to me, Denys,” she said, “and are ill with your wound. Were it otherwise, your present act would part us. There is no place in Malincourt, or in my service, for any one who maligns my friends. Lucette, it pains me that you are in this. Gerard, will you take me into the house?”
But Gerard’s honour and instincts of fairness forbade acquiescence in this unjust rebuke.
“Nay, Gabrielle, I believe you are too hard upon M. St. Jean and upon Mdlle. Lucette as well. It is but his zeal for you that makes him indiscreet.”
“The fool, the fool!” muttered de Proballe. “When she would have shut her own ears to the truth.”
“You hear M. de Cobalt, Denys. Take lesson by his generosity. Go back to your chamber, and when you are well, in mind and body both, I will hear you. Lucette, see to this.” She spoke with all the dignity of one who meant to be obeyed.
“I have no power to prevail with him, Gabrielle. He urged me first to come with this story to you, and when I would not, rose from his bed and insisted on seeking you for himself.”
Denys appeared to be almost spent with his effort. He stood leaning against the parapet in such desperate straits that Gabrielle was touched with deep compassion.
“I am passing, I think,” he said. His face was deadly grey as he clung to the marble with one hand while with the other he felt for a paper and drew it out. He seemed so near collapse that Gerard stepped forward to help him; but anger rallied him and he waved away the proffered help with a gesture of contempt.
“Pray God he falls before he can do more mischief, the meddling dog!” muttered de Proballe again.
“Lead him away, Lucette,” said Gabrielle, in pain at the sight. But Denys would not go; and after an effort he said slowly with much effort and many a pause—
“My last strength can have no better use than in this for you, mademoiselle. This letter—from M. de Cobalt to M. de Proballe. Read it, for the love of God, read it.”
“Denys, Denys, how can you ask such unworthiness?” cried Gabrielle indignantly, her eyes and voice full of reproach. “If it be M. de Cobalt’s letter, give it to him. Would you have me imitate you and play the spy?”
“Speak not so harshly, Gabrielle,” exclaimed Lucette.
But Denys stopped her and spoke again, moving a step toward Gabrielle.
“He would marry you but to betray you to the Duke. ’Tis my last word. He says it here.” Holding the letter in his now trembling fingers he made a great effort to reach Gabrielle with it, his staring eyes fixed earnestly and imploringly upon her. But his fever-racked strength was gone. “For God’s sake be warned,” he mumbled half-incoherently. It was his last effort. As the words dropped from his lips, he fell prone to the ground, the letter fluttering from his nerveless fingers to Gabrielle’s feet.
Lucette with a cry knelt beside him.
Gabrielle had shrunk from his approach, but now stood gazing down on him, pity, pain and distress in her eyes. And Gerard stooped and felt his heart.
“He has but fainted,” he said, looking up. “Let him be carried back to the bed he should never have left. He is a noble faithful fellow and has freely risked his life for what he deems the truth.”
“Good, Gerard! Splendidly played. Did you mark that, my lord?” whispered de Proballe, intensely relieved at Denys’ collapse. “What an actor the villain is, Duke? Said I not he was but acting with Gabrielle? You could swear that tone of his was a note of honourable innocence.”
But the Duke made no reply. He was staring with pent gloomy brows at the scene.
“You bear him no grudge for this, Gerard?” said Gabrielle with a smile of confidence.
“Should I feel enmity to one whose only motive was desire to serve you and who has drawn this further proof of your trust in me? He did and said no more than he deemed both right and true. I honour him for his courage.”
“Then I will tear the letter that appears to have cheated his fevered wits, and so end the matter;” and picking up the paper she was about to tear it when he stopped her.
“Fool! Idiot! Now indeed he goes too far;” muttered de Proballe, as he saw the gesture. “Let her tear it.”
Gerard had the strongest reasons for not having the letter destroyed, however. It was the proof he needed to make de Proballe’s guilt clear.
“I should not destroy it, Gabrielle. There must be much behind this which we do not yet understand; and if it is to be cleared, this letter may be needed.”
“’Tis but the delusion born of fever madness.”
“Men do not forge letters in delirium,” answered Gerard quietly.
“You would not have me read it!” Gabrielle’s eyes were wide with astonishment.
“What will the fool do next?” murmured de Proballe, in deep agitation. “Is he aiming this at me?”
Gerard paused a moment to think, and then answered calmly and firmly.
“Yes, I would have you read it.”
“But it is designed to slander you.”
“I am too sure of your trust to fear any slander, Gabrielle. I would have you read it, whatever it be.”
“By the Cross! he plays a bold hand,” muttered the Duke, drawing his breath. “What is in the letter?”
“It will ruin everything,” whispered de Proballe.
“Then do I not understand him. He must indeed be sure of her, as he says;” and his frown grew deeper than before.
Gabrielle stood fingering the letter in hesitation some moments and then unfolded it.
“I will do your bidding, Gerard, although I had rather not.” She read it then.
“TO M. LE BARON DE PROBALLE,—
“The messenger has brought me your last communication and the sum of money I asked for. My doubts are almost satisfied. I have some troublesome matters to arrange, and some little time must pass before they can be settled. But you can count upon my reaching Malincourt by the end of June or the first days of July, if in response to this you send me a declaration under the Duke de Rochelle’s own hand that I shall receive his pardon for the affair at Cambrai. You must procure this; as without it I shall not trust myself within his province.
“You require me to state my acceptance of your proposal specifically. I now do this. I will marry Gabrielle. She shall never learn from me that her parents never expressed any such wish for our marriage as she has been told. I will use my utmost efforts to compel her, if need be, to submit to the Duke’s wishes. And I will act in every way faithfully as you may direct in any other plans you have.
“The fortune I shall receive with Gabrielle will be all I need—that and the pardon; for I seek no Court position, favour, or influence.
“Send me the written assurance of the pardon, and by the time the messenger can return hither, I may be ready to set out myself.
“GERARD DE COBALT.”
“By the God above us all, what callous infamy!” exclaimed Gerard, passionately, stirred to the depths by the letter, whose full meaning he well understood. But it was otherwise with Gabrielle, who saw in it no more than an attempt to slander him; and she mistook his burning words for indignation at the effort to ruin him in her eyes.
“Infamy indeed,” she said warmly. “Would that I knew the author of so vile a slander! If I thought for a moment that Denys——”
“No, no, Gabrielle. Don’t even speak such a thought,” cried Lucette.
“I had forgotten him,” said Gerard. “I will help bear him into the house. We will deal with this afterwards, Gabrielle.”
“Except to find the villain who forged the letter, there is no more to do in it, Gerard. They little know me who think I could be moved by so contemptible a lie. I could ask your pardon for having read it to the end—could almost be vexed with you, indeed, for having caused me to read it. Shall I tear it now?”
He was bending over Denys and looked up quickly. “No, I will keep it; and some one some day shall pay a heavy reckoning,” he answered as he took it. Then with Lucette’s help he lifted Denys and took him into the house. Gabrielle was following, when the Duke said hurriedly to de Proballe—
“Go and detain her on the terrace. I must speak with her; but first will think a space. I am on the rack.”
He had been profoundly moved by the scene and was intensely agitated. He had let the letter be read without interference—involving though it did both de Proballe and himself—in the belief that the revelation of Gerard’s baseness would change her feelings; and the unshaken confidence she had shown in Gerard’s honour was to his jealousy as biting acid to an open wound.
With a bitterness beyond words to describe and far too galling for his selfish soul to endure, he saw now that in causing Gerard to be brought to Morvaix for his own purpose with Gabrielle, he had but plunged a sword into his own heart. The villain had played his part so well that he had won her love; and the wound burned and stabbed and maddened him with its pain.
But he would have his revenge. No man should be suffered to come between him and his desires. If this de Cobalt had won her love, he should pay the price. His rival’s life lay in the palm of his hand; and in Morvaix at least there was none to step between him and the object of his hate.
It was a treacherous betrayal; nothing else. Pretending to keep the letter of his pledge, Gerard had broken the spirit, and should be trusted no more. The pardon for the murder at Cambrai should be withheld, unless—and his eyes gleamed dangerously at a fresh thought and he smiled with a cunning pleasure.
Gabrielle loved this de Cobalt; and the love would put a weapon in his hands powerful enough to break her to his purpose.
His new resolve was quick to take shape. She should be his wife; and the price of her consent should be her new lover’s life. The old scheme should be laid away; and with it would go at a stroke all need for de Cobalt’s services. His next move was soon decided; and he stepped out and joined Gabrielle and her uncle.
“I make no apology for thus breaking upon you suddenly, because the reason for it is your own welfare,” he began, speaking deliberately.
“I trust your lordship does not deem an apology necessary for visiting Malincourt,” replied Gabrielle, courteously, but wondering at his manner.
“This is no ordinary visit of courtesy, mademoiselle; and if the manner of it is unusual and displeasing, as it may well be, the purpose will, I hope, prove its excuse. We have been close observers of the scene which has just occurred here—as M. de Proballe has perhaps told you.” But de Proballe had done nothing of the kind, and he started in some dismay at the words. His start was lost by Gabrielle, however, in her intense surprise.
“Observers, my lord? I fear I do not understand,” she replied with dignity.
“Yet my words explain my meaning. Very evil intelligence has reached me concerning this M. de Cobalt; and in my zeal for your welfare I came this morning to confer with M. de Proballe; and we arranged the scene that this man’s character might be tested openly.”
“I should prefer that M. de Cobalt be present, my lord.” Gabrielle took fire instantly, and she made no attempt to disguise her indignation.
“It is not necessary. His presence or absence is a matter of no concern. What you have heard of him to-day and read in that letter of his is true.”
“Do you mean——” she began hastily, then checked herself and said proudly: “But I will not deign to ask a question. Your lordship must be entirely in error. I have unbounded faith in M. de Cobalt’s honour. It is a matter your lordship must excuse my declining to discuss.” The Duke frowned, but repressed his anger.
“I can understand your feelings,” he said calmly. “Would that the man were worthy of it! I honour you for this attitude and would gladly spare you the pain which the truth must cause you; but it must be told, mademoiselle.”
Gabrielle would not answer, and the Duke turned to de Proballe.
“You will tell your niece, monsieur, that that letter was written to you by M. de Cobalt himself in reply to others from you to him.”
“I think you and I had better discuss this further,” said de Proballe, in a desperate shift at the new position.
“It is my wish, monsieur,” replied the Duke coldly, with a glance of menace.
“Even my uncle himself will not shake my confidence in M. de Cobalt, although he may change my feelings toward himself,” declared Gabrielle, firmly.
“M. de Proballe,” said the Duke.
“I know not your intentions,” he answered, in a fever of disquiet. “I—I scarcely heard what the letter contained; and—and before I can say so much I—ought to see it—to examine it.” He stumbled and hesitated over the words.
“Do I understand, M. le Baron, that you give me the lie?” and the cold cutting words were accompanied by a look that no one could misunderstand.
“God forfend; but I wash my hands of the whole affair,” he cried, with a gesture of profound agitation and a sigh. “It is true, Gabrielle. The letter was written by Gerard to me some time since. It is one of several that have passed between us.”
“I do not believe it;” and Gabrielle drew herself up in proud repudiation of the further attack upon the man she loved and trusted.
“On my honour it is so, mademoiselle,” declared the Duke. “And now I must make my confession of the part I have played in this. It is no humour of mine to seek others’ forgiveness, but for what I have done in all this distressful error, I do beg yours. It was at my instance that this de Cobalt was brought to Morvaix.”
“Then do I thank you, my lord, and, believe me, I see nothing in the act which calls for forgiveness,” interposed Gabrielle swiftly, as he paused. He took no notice of the interruption; he was too deeply engrossed in thinking how to put his case most plausibly.
“My motive you will at least admit was worthy—it was the good of the people of Morvaix. Next to myself, the House of Malincourt is the most potent influence here, and thus the subject of your marriage has given me much thought. It would have been a disaster had you fallen under the sway of some unworthy man and been prevailed upon to marry him, and so let the influence of your house pass into evil hands. To prevent this, we—for your uncle has shared my views and acted with me throughout—we planned to arrange your marriage with a man who would place himself under our guidance in all matters.”
“And your lordship and you, monsieur, chose a man whose life was so evil—if this lying letter were to be credited—that he only dared to come hither when he had been assured under your lordship’s own hand of a pardon for some foul offence. Surely you would not have me credit this of you! I do not. I will not. For it involves a cruel slander upon my true and gallant cousin.”
“What the Duke says is true in every word, Gabrielle,” declared de Proballe, much relieved at the astute line the Governor was taking.
“We did not know the evil history of this man,” continued the Duke in the same quiet deliberate tone; “or he would never have been brought here. I have but learned it within the last few hours. The affair at Cambrai was mistold to us; and I have but just gathered the full details of what I find to have been a foul and most treacherous murder.”
A contemptuous smile of disbelief was Gabrielle’s only answer to this; but it was more eloquent than many words of her unshaken and unshakable faith in Gerard. The Duke paused, and after a moment resumed—
“We had heard that he had repented of his old excesses and wrong living, and when we sent for him, believed this to be the case. But when we found that his repentance was but acted lying—in which he is an adept—there seemed no course open but to put him to the proof by confronting him with his own writing, so that your eyes might be opened and yourself convinced of the impossibility of a marriage with him.”
“I have yet to be convinced, my lord; and know no power or means on earth strong enough to convince me. My parents’ wishes——”
“Were but M. de Proballe’s invention, mademoiselle,” interposed the Duke, in the same cold deliberate tone. “The story was designed to influence you to agree. That is all. In that we did wrong—grievous wrong, no doubt; for deceit with whatever motive used must always be wrong; and in this case it has ended disastrously. For that, as well as for the pain which, with all zeal for your real welfare, I have caused you, I crave your pardon.”
“Had you indeed done the harm you fear, I would never forgive you. I never could,” answered Gabrielle, firmly; then breaking into a smile she added: “but if indeed you have brought my cousin here, then do I thank you, as I say. Aye, thank you with all my heart.”
“You do but jest in a very grave issue, mademoiselle. This marriage is impossible.” There was less deliberateness and more sternness in the Duke’s tone now, and it provoked Gabrielle’s pride. Unmistakable defiance was in her look and mien as she answered:
“By your lordship’s leave, I am head of my house; and if that part of what you have said be true—that my parents have expressed no wish for my marriage—I am free to choose without let or hindrance from any man. But here comes my cousin. He will know how to answer for himself.”
As Gerard came out of the house he started at seeing who was present, and then came on with firm step and confident bearing, and smiled to Gabrielle as he reached her side.