GABRIELLE heard Lucette’s story with intense interest, and saw that with help from Pascal outside it might be possible to get Gerard away from Morvaix without concealing him first in the Duchess’s apartments; and she resolved to go immediately to Malincourt to consult with Pascal.
But she found the Duchess opposed to this.
“If you go and then return to me, Gabrielle, it may provoke notice and start suspicion.”
“But I must see Pascal,” she urged.
“Then safer to see him here. Let him come as if to me. I have frequent messengers from friends; and his coming will cause no talk. He can come as with a message, say, from the Count and Countess d’Auvaine, and no questions will be asked.”
“He is known to some in the Castle. M. de Proballe, for instance, and others; and recognition would be ruin.”
“It would be worse, child, if a watch were set on yourself and so the way to the prison quarters blocked. If this gentleman is loath to risk coming here, let it be known that you are staying with me for a few days—as you have done before—and let Lucette carry your messages. There is reason for her passing to and fro, as you will need many things for your stay here.”
“You are right; I will go and tell Lucette.”
She was about to leave when Pauline returned.
She had seen her father, she said, and he had readily agreed to do anything that was asked of him. He advised that the best hour for making any attempt would be about ten o’clock at night; as the guard would be changed at eleven, and they were always less vigilant in their last hour of their watch.
“My father says there will be a great risk, miladi,” said Pauline; “and urges the utmost caution. He declares it will be far safer for all concerned if the prisoner makes his escape by the window and avoids the hazard of encountering any of the soldiers or servants in attempting to leave by any other way.”
“It could be done,” said Gabrielle, readily, “now that this Pascal can help from outside. I will send him word by Lucette of the time, and tell him to find means of getting to the courtyard.”
She hurried to Lucette and told her the plan and the reasons why it was not deemed prudent for her to leave the Duchess, and they were discussing this when the Governor entered.
“You will know what I shall need for a few days, Lucette,” said Gabrielle, with a swift warning glance; “and if I have forgotten anything in my haste, you can bring it or even return for it. How is Denys?”
“Much improved, but very weak, of course, and fretting at his weakness.”
“I wish to speak with you, mademoiselle,” interposed the Governor.
“I am remaining some days with the Duchess, monsieur, and am sending instructions in regard to matters at Malincourt.”
“That is good news; it is as I would have it.”
“One thing more, Lucette, and the most important of all—M. de Proballe is not to be allowed to enter the maison until my return.”
“That is a harsh injunction, mademoiselle.”
“I am the mistress of Malincourt, my lord, and am firmly resolved on the point.”
“I shall hope to change that resolve amongst others,” he replied, as Lucette went away. “It is for that I wish to speak with you.”
Gabrielle made no reply for the moment. The storm of her indignation against the Duke had passed, as he noticed with satisfaction; but he could not read her present mood; and mistook a deliberate intention to outwit him for a readiness to listen with some complacency to the alternatives he had come to propose. The hope of setting Gerard free spurred her woman’s wit to the utmost. She was, indeed, ready enough to listen to him, schooling her temper and keeping it under control, so as to learn his plans. She was fighting the cause of the man she loved against the man she hated with hate implacable; and she would fight warily and coolly, with every weapon in her armoury, and with a full knowledge of all the danger that might follow a false step.
“I have spoken with your uncle.”
“He is no longer kin of mine, my lord,” she interposed, coldly. “He has wronged me beyond endurance.”
“Well, with M. de Proballe then, and have convinced myself that he has had no motive save that of serving your best interests.”
“As head of my house, monsieur, it is for me to say whom I count upon my side and whom I deem against me. Never again will I speak to or see M. de Proballe. I hold him for my worst enemy.”
“And what of me?” he asked quickly.
“You have done a bitter injustice and a cruel wrong to an innocent and gallant gentleman—but it is in your power to repair it. Will you speak the word that will undo it?”
“Innocent?” he carped. “Was it innocent to steal among us in a false name and character. Was it gallant to act such a lie?”
“He was forced into it.”
“Need we pretend that we do not know?”
“I do not know,” he replied bluntly. “Who is he, if he be not indeed this de Cobalt? I have clear proof that he was spying in the Castle here. If he be not de Cobalt, then is he a spy. Am I to suffer my Castle to be overrun by spies?”
“He is no spy; of that I am assured.”
“Then if an honest man, why this mystery?”
Gabrielle knew the reason, recalling with a little thrill of delight how he had said it was for her sake; but she answered—
“Is every honest man who comes to Morvaix to be treated as a spy and thrown like a dog into a prison cell?”
“If you were Governor here you would see this as I do; but I am indeed almost persuaded that he is still only deceiving us.”
“I do not understand.”
“I believe he is in truth what he avowed himself at the first—Gerard de Cobalt.”
“But you yourself and M. de Proballe held it disproved.”
“The letter may have been but a trick, like other things. He had deceived us as to the flagrancy of that act of his at Cambrai; and knowing it to be too vile to be pardoned, had this further lie enacted, meaning to pass for some one else and so save his head. But he will not save it.”
“You mean he will be tried for the crime?”
“I mean he’ll lose his head for it,” was the blunt answer.
“You will not do this foul injustice,” said Gabrielle, with a touch of indignation.
“Who murders, dies, mademoiselle; that at least is law all over France; and Morvaix is no city of shelter.”
“He must not die; you cannot be so cruel.” Half protest, half entreaty was in her tone; and the Governor paused and bent his eyes upon her before he replied.
“For your sake more than any other’s, it is best that he should.”
“I do not understand you,” cried Gabrielle, with a catch of the breath as in fear.
“He has impressed you so deeply that, were his life spared and his liberty given to him, you would never be safe from him. He is a murderer, a man of the vilest life, who would never cease to persecute you, after what has passed.”
There was an even deeper depth of vileness in this man than she had deemed, was Gabrielle’s thought; and for a moment it cost her a supreme effort to remain calm. But the thought of Gerard’s peril came to her aid.
“Do you mean you would kill him out of consideration for me?” she asked, as if incredulous.
“I would do anything for you—either kill or pardon, but you will not let me,” he answered, with the first touch of passion.
He had led round to his object cunningly; but not so cunningly that she did not understand him.
“Yet I may ask you,” she replied. “Prove to me his unworthiness first; and then——” she stopped.
“What then?”
“You cannot prove it, monsieur,” she cried, as though she had first wavered in her faith and then rallied it. And so he read her words. “He is what I have said, an innocent and gallant gentleman.”
“If he be Gerard de Cobalt he is a murderer of the vilest and most treacherous type. I have the fullest proofs.”
“But if he be not M. de Cobalt?”
“Then he has shown himself a spy; and spies when they are caught must take their chances. But he is more than a spy.”
“He has deceived you with specious lies, has won upon you until the scene below to-day showed your feelings. You are the head of a noble house, mademoiselle, whose influence here in Morvaix is too great to be at the mercy of either a treacherous scoundrel or a hireling spy. And while you remain unmarried and at his mercy, because of your gentle trustful heart and of the feeling he has stirred within you, such a man cannot be at large. The interests of all in Morvaix render it impossible.”
“Again you make the strange suggestion that this is done for my sake,” said Gabrielle.
“And it is true, Gabrielle. Were it not for you, the prisoner might go free this moment.” Every word spoken was now chosen to bring him nearer to his object.
“But if he be the unworthy man you say, do you hold me for a thing too feeble and weak to withstand his evil influence?”
“Worthy or base, it is as I say. His freedom rests on you.”
“In plainer words?”
“Consent to do as I have asked you, and the man’s fate is for you to determine. As my wife, Gabrielle, your lightest wish would be my law.”
“And if I still refuse?”
His answer was a shrug of the shoulders and a lifting of the hands. He looked for another storm to burst; and was surprised when Gabrielle remained quiet, cold and thoughtful. He read the sign to be favourable to him. Hitherto she would not even listen. He felt the strength of the weapon he wielded, and was glad.
She paused as if in deep distress and fear, and sighed as she asked—
“Do you think such a union as you suggest could bring happiness to either of us, or having such a beginning could end in aught but ruin to all?”
“I love you, Gabrielle; that will suffice for all,” he declared passionately.
“Spare me that, I beg of you,” she cried quickly and very earnestly. “When you spoke of this to me before, I answered you out of my indignation. I am cooler now; but can you not think how such a declaration sounds to me? It is not one jot less terrible because I school myself to listen without temper. Can you not feel what treachery it is to my dearest friend, your wife—surely the purest wife ever given to a man?”
“She is willing for our marriage to be dissolved.”
“Does that make my treachery to her less ignoble? If the thing stood on any other ground than where you put it by these words, it would still be wrong—a cruel, cowardly wrong to her; but to plead for it no more than mere passion, is to clothe it with its vilest dress.”
“There are other reasons—many,” he said sullenly. “You wish to wield influence in the rule of the people; I give you a chance. ’Twas but yesterday I put the matter so to you.”
“The baseness of the act is not lessened by wrapping it about with specious pleas. And I will be frank with you; for frankness in such a crisis is best. I could never feel to you as a wife should feel toward her husband. The shame of this wrong to my friend would ever be a canker to blight all other thoughts, and make my life—our lives—one lengthened monotone of remorse and pain.”
“I would leave that issue to time and my love. You did not think thus until within the last few hours.”
“I will deal with you frankly, as I said. I understand you; and in some part you are right. I love this man who is in your power. I believe him good and true and noble; I am not ashamed of my love. Love comes to every woman at some time in her life, and she is powerless to resist it. That is our nature. This has come to me. Could I then wed another man while yet the love for him burns like a fever, filling my heart with thoughts of him, gladdening it with hopes for him; and forming already more, far more, than half my life?”
“You are frank, as you say; but such frankness is ill hearing.”
“If it be ill to hear me speak of it—and I am calm enough to speak without temper and say this not to anger but to prevail with you—if it be ill for you to hear me speak of it, what would it be in the after time to live ever with the knowledge of it? Think you that happiness lies that way? You with the knowledge that my heart is given to another man; I with the bitterness of remorse for the wrong you would have me do, relieved only by the ever aching sorrow of a broken heart?”
“I wish to hear no more.”
“Nay, but you must hear me. Only a coward would shut his ears to the truth; and you at least are no coward. You have not thought what kind of thing this really is that you would do. Were I to wed you as you now wish, we should grow to hate one another. Your passion would cool and you would come to feel the bitterness of the mistake, the galling yoke of the load on your life and would look on me as the cause.”
“You little know me, Gabrielle.”
“Then at least I know myself. I am but a girl and very human; and in the long dark hours of my misery and unavailing remorse, my spirit, unbroken—for we Malincourts are not easily broken—would revolt against you as the cause. Would yours be happier? Have you thought what life would be to be mated with a woman who hated you, as we Malincourts can hate?”
“I love you. I think of naught else,” he said doggedly.
“Love! Love! What sort of love is that which would blight and destroy the object that has kindled it? What is it in me you think you love? My face? My form? Would these retain their comeliness in your eyes when you knew that beneath them burnt the fire of hate? When I could never suffer you, without a shudder, even to look into my eyes? When at your approach you found me shrink; when your lightest touch would seem to be repugnant? Oh, put this cowardice away from you, and understand the truth as it is. If there be this feeling for me that you deem, have courage to see that it is wrong and evil. If it were love it would be selfless, and you would seek my happiness, not your own mere desires. The flame will burn out and die down; and if you will but act as a man should act, you will grow to hate the thing you now desire, and thank me for having kept you true to a man’s better part.”
“Do you mean you would have me see you marry this man? I would see you dead sooner. And he shall die,” he cried fiercely. “My mind is made up. If you will not save him, his blood will be on your head.”
Gabrielle had not hoped to move him, and his decision stirred no surprise. She had pleaded urgently and sweetly; but with another thought than that of prevailing with him. She had to disarm his suspicion so that time might be gained, and now began to let her alarm make itself evident.
“He must not die; he must not,” she said, after a pause.
“You can save him by a word.”
“I must have time. I have told you I love him; and I swear to you that if he were to die now I could not—nay, I would not survive him. I would take my own life. My God! I could not bear it yet,” she cried, wildly and vehemently.
He had not looked for this; and the thought, impressed as it was by the conviction that she was in deadly earnest, alarmed him and kept him silent. Before he could find any words to reply, she continued with equal vehemence.
“Yes, yes, it shall be so. You are right, you are right. His blood will be on my head. I shall be his murderess. His murderess!” She changed her almost hysterical passion to a low tone of intense earnestness as she repeated the words. “His murderess! Then it is right that I should die. Who kills, dies. It is the law of the universe. And how I should welcome death! Do this thing. Kill him; kill him. Do not stay to give me time to learn that he is unworthy; and let me die, loving him, trusting him, and believing him to be the noblest and best man in all fair France. Then indeed can I die happy and be happy to die.”
The outburst prompted just the thought she designed.
“If I prove him first to be the scoundrel that he is?”
“You cannot. That you cannot do. Oh, I can bear no more,” she cried in a voice vibrating with pain and distress. “He is in your power to do with as you please. Do what you will and so let me free. If he be the man I believe, he will welcome death before my dishonour; and if he be not, at least you can spare me the pain of knowing it. You will not be merciful in one way, then, for the sake of God, be merciless in all. The sooner the end, the more welcome death in such a case.”
“I must think of this,” he said sullenly.
“What would you do?” Eyes and face and manner all full of fear.
“You shall know this man for the scoundrel he is. You must not cast your life away for a worthless villain. I will have the truth made plain to you.”
“Ah, now I see how you hate him,” she cried distractedly. “You would blacken his name even in my memory. How hard and harsh a man you are!”
“It is right you should know the truth.”
“I do not seek to know it. Spare me. I cannot bear the suspense. My very courage to die may be killed by delay; already I can feel it waning. A week of suspense and I should be coward enough even to wish to live.”
“You shall know the truth. I will find it out; and when his rank unworthiness is proved to you, you will see the folly and madness of this last wild resolve. You will live to thank me yet, Gabrielle.”
“Oh, why did I speak it, fool and coward that I am!” she cried, despairingly.
“It is well you did,” he answered; and with this he left her.