CHAPTER XIX
WHAT JACQUELINE WAS FORCED TO HEAR
Indeed, to Jacqueline, even more so than to her lover, this last half-hour appeared more unreal than a dream. For a long time after Gilles had gone she remained sitting on the pile of cushions at the entrance of the arbour, gazing, gazing far away into the translucent sky, struggling with that life-problem which to the ingenuous hath so oft remained unsolved: If God gave me that happiness, why did He take it away again so soon?
Life appeared before her now as one long vista of uninterrupted dreariness. With her heart dead within her, she would in truth become the pawn in political games which her guardian had always desired that she should be. Well! no doubt it was all for the best. Awhile ago, ere she had met Messire, ere he had taught her to read in the great Book of Love, she had been headstrong and rebellious. A loveless marriage of convention, a mere political alliance would have revolted her and mayhap caused grave complications in her troubled country's affairs. Now, nothing mattered. Nothing would ever matter again. Since happiness was for ever denied her, she was far more ready to sacrifice her personal feelings to her country's needs than she had been before.
Her joy in life would for the future be made up of sacrifice, and if she could do her beloved and sorely-stricken country a permanent benefit thereby, well! she would feel once more that she had not lived her life in vain.
At this stage she was not actively unhappy. Emotion had torn at her heartstrings and left her bruised and sore, but her happiness had been too brief to cause bitter regret. She was chiefly conscious of an immense feeling of pity for her lover, whose heartache must indeed be as great as her own. But, for herself, there was nothing that she regretted, nothing that she would have wished to be otherwise. All her memories of him were happy ones—except that moment of the midnight quarrel in the Palace, when for a brief while she had wilfully misjudged him. Even the final parting from him, though it broke her heart, had been wholly free from bitterness. She was so sure of his love that she could almost bear patiently to see him go away, knowing that she could always treasure his love in her heart as something pure and almost holy.
All through life that love would encompass her, would keep her from evil thoughts and evil intent, whilst nothing on earth could rob her of the sweets of memory. She loved him and he had wanted her, even long before she knew him; he had come to Cambray in disguise, under a mask, and had wooed her in his own romantic fashion, with song and laughter and joy of living, so different to the amorous sighs and languorous looks wherewith other swains had striven to win her regard. She loved the mystery wherewith he had surrounded his person, smiled at the thought how he had led Monseigneur her guardian by the nose, and had tried vainly to hoodwink even her—her, Jacqueline, who had loved him already that night when he had flung Pierre over the wall and run to her window, singing: 'Mignonne, venez voir si la rose——'
And he had thought to hoodwink her after that! thought to throw dust in her eyes by playing a dual rôle, now masquerading as the Prince de Froidmont, now as the equerry—he, the chosen of her heart, the man whose every action, every word was fine and noble and dear.... How foolish of him to imagine that she could be deceived. Why, there was that scar upon his hand—a scar the sight of which had loosened a perfect floodgate of memories—a scar which she herself had helped to tend and bind three years ago, in the monastery of Gembloux. She could even remember the leech saying at the time: 'The rascal will be marked for life, I warrant. I've never seen such a strange wound before—the exact shape of a cross it is, like the mark on an ass's back.'
How well she remembered that night! Her own anxiety for the wounded man—a poor soldier, evidently, for he was miserably clad; his clothes were old and had been frequently darned and his pockets only contained a few sols. He had apparently fought with the French on that awful day, and had been discovered by herself, lying unconscious near the monastery wall, up on the hill, more than a league away from the field of battle. She remembered insisting that the leech should tend him, and afterwards that he should be taken back to the spot where the fighting had taken place, in case some friend or comrade be searching for him. After that, the death of her dear brother and the change in her fortunes had chased all other memories away, until that awful night in the Palace, when de Landas had behaved like a coward and she like a vixen, and the Prince de Froidmont had threaded the masks of his vanquished enemies upon his sword and thrown them at her feet. She had seen the scar then upon his hand, and the sight had troubled her, because of the mystery which it evoked. Then came the next day, when she sat in the window embrasure in wait for the Prince's equerry. At once his face had seemed so strangely familiar to her—and then there was the scar!
Jacqueline remembered how deeply she pondered over the puzzle then. The Prince de Froidmont and his equerry were one and the same person; that was evident, of course. And both these personalities were also merged in that of the poor soldier whom she had helped to tend in the monastery of Gembloux. But, unlike most women, she had never tried to pry into his secrets. Somehow the mystery—if mystery there was—seemed to harmonize with his whole personality. She loved him as he was—rough at times, at others infinitely gentle; and oh! the strength of his love and its ardour when he held her in his arms! She would be quite satisfied if the mystery remained for ever unsolved. It was a part of him, not by any means the least amongst his many attractions in her sight.
Now he had gone, never to return, leaving her alone with only memory for company—memory and a huge longing to rest once more in the safe fold of his protecting arms.
'Come back to me, Messire!' she called out to him in her heart. 'Take no heed of what I said when in my blind folly I vowed that it could never be. It shall and must be if you'll only come back to me—just once—only once—and I should be content. God never meant that you and I should part before we had each drained the cup of Love to the end. The world is ours, our Love shall conquer it. Not the world of riches and of pomp; not even the world of glory. Just a little kingdom of our own, wherein no one shall dwell but you and I—a little kingdom bound for me by the span of your arms, my throne your heart, my crown your kiss.’
Dreaming, sighing, longing, Jacqueline sat on in the arbour, unmindful of time. It was only when the cathedral bell boomed the midday hour that she awoke—vaguely, still—to the actualities of life. Of a truth, it seemed difficult to conceive that life in the future must go on just the same: the daily rounds, the conventionalities, the social flummeries must all go on, and she—Jacqueline—would have to smile, to speak, to live on—just the same.
And yet nothing, nothing on earth could ever be quite the same again. It is impossible to delve deeply into the Book of Passion, to have mastered the lesson which God Himself forbade His children to learn, and then to look on Life with the same vacant, ignorant eyes as before. The daily rounds would certainly go on; but life itself would henceforth be different. The girl—a mere child—had in one brief half-hour become a woman. Love had transfigured the world for her.
But she tried to think of life as he—her knight—would have wished her to do, to fulfil her destiny so that from afar he might be proud of her. Above all, she would show a serene face to her world. Her fellow-citizens here in Cambray had quite enough sorrow to behold, without having the sight of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart's tear-stained face constantly before them. There would be much to do in the near future—much grief to console, many troubles to alleviate. What was one solitary heartache beside the sufferings of an entire nation?
She rose to her feet, feeling more valiant and strong. One last look she gave round the little arbour which had sheltered her short-lived happiness. The pale sun peeped in shyly through the interstices of the woodwork, and threw a shaft of honey-coloured light upon the couch where he had lain unconscious, after she and her servants had saved him from the mob. With an impulsive movement which she did not try to check, she ran up to the couch, and, kneeling down beside it, she buried her face in the pillows whereon his head had rested. A few more tears, one long convulsive sob, a heart-broken sigh; then nothing more. That was the end! the last word in the final chapter of her romance, the lifelong farewell to her girlish dream.
Then she dried her eyes resolutely, rose to her feet, and prepared to return to the Palace.
But at the entrance of the arbour she was met by de Landas. He was standing there, looking at her, with a hideously evil sneer upon his face.
She had not spoken with him since that day when she had for ever cast him out of her heart, had always succeeded in avoiding him when the exigencies of their mutual social position forced her to be in the same room with him. To-day she felt as if his very presence was an outrage. How long he had been there she could not say; how much of her soul agony he had witnessed caused her a sense of intolerable humiliation. For the moment he had trapped her, obviously had lain in wait for her, and was not like to let her go without forcing his company upon her. There was no other exit to the little arbour, and she, unable to avoid him, yet loathing the very sight of him, could only take refuge in an attitude of haughty indifference and of lofty scorn.
'I will not pollute you with my touch,' he said coolly, seeing that at sight of him she had retreated a step or two, as she would have done had she encountered a noisome reptile. He remained standing in the doorway, leaning against the woodwork, with arms folded and legs crossed and an insolent leer in his dark eyes.
'Then I pray you to let me pass,' was her calm rejoinder.
'Not,' he riposted, 'till you have allowed me to say something to you, which hath weighed on my heart these past three weeks.'
'There is nothing that you can wish to say to me, M. le Marquis, that I would care to hear.'
'You are severe, Jacqueline,' he said. Then, as she made no reply save an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, he added with well-feigned humility: 'Not more so than I deserve, I know. But I was delirious on that day. I did not know what I was saying. Jealousy had completely obscured my brain. You would not make a madman responsible for his ravings!'
'Let us leave it at that, M. le Marquis,' she rejoined calmly. 'But you will understand that I do not care to listen to that same madman's ravings again.'
'How cold you are!' he murmured, sighed dolefully like one in utter grief. His whole attitude suddenly betokened contrition and overwhelming sentiment; his fine dark eyes even contrived to fill themselves with tears. 'Have you forgotten so soon, Jacqueline?' he asked, 'all that you and I have meant to one another in the past; how oft your golden head hath rested against my heart!'
But she was not like to be taken in by this mood, the falseness of which was transparent enough.
'An' you do not cease to insult me with your ramblings,' she said, with all the scorn which his contemptible ruse deserved, 'I will call to my servants to rid me of your presence.'
'Your servants are too far away to hear you,' he retorted with a cynical laugh. 'And if you do not listen to me to-day, Jacqueline, you will put it out of my power to save you from humiliation and your lover from death.'
'How dare you!' she exclaimed aloud, roused at last out of her indifference by his wanton insolence. Whereupon he, seeing that she was not to be won by honeyed words, threw down the mask in an instant, appeared in his true colours—false, vengeful and full of venom, his face distorted by jealous rage, breathing greed and spite as he spoke.
'Oh!' he said with a sneer. 'A man who has been flouted and scorned and who sees a hated rival assuming a position which once was his, is not like to mince his words. I have nothing to lose at your hands—remember that, my fine Madame. The full measure of your hate and of your scorn are my portion now, it seems; while Messire le Prince de Froidmont is the recipient of your smiles.'
Outraged to her innermost being by hearing that name, which to her was almost sacred, profaned by that vile creature's lips, Jacqueline would readily now have forgotten her dignity, and fled from his presence if she could, as she would from that of a spirit of evil. But he divined her wish to flee, feared that she might succeed in slipping past him; so he seized her by the wrist just as she meditated a dash past him, and held her so fast and with such a brutish grip, that but for her courage and sense of dignity, she could have screamed with pain.
'Listen to me, Jacqueline,' he said menacingly. 'You must listen! Think you I will stand by any longer and see the man whom I hate worse than any man I have ever hated in all my life before, in the full enjoyment of what I have lost—of your fortune, my winsome Flemish scrub, the only thing about you which is worth a Spanish gentleman's while to covet? Oh! but I know more about your love intrigue, my proud lady, than you think! I knew something of it before to-day, when, half an hour ago I saw the noble Prince de Froidmont stealing unmasked out of the postern gate. Unmasked, my tricksy lady,' he continued with a harsh laugh, 'in more senses than one; for though he was dressed in the rich clothes affected by the master, the man who stole out of the postern gate had the features of the equerry. A pretty story, indeed, this would make for Monseigneur the governor! Madame Jacqueline de Broyart meeting clandestinely, like a flirtatious kitchen wench, some nameless adventurer who hath captured her fancy!'
'M. de Landas,' she said quite calmly, as soon as he gave her a chance of making herself heard, 'an you have a spark of manhood left in you, you will cease these insults and let me go.'
'What else was it but a clandestine meeting?' he riposted savagely. 'Your flaming cheeks and tear-filled eyes proclaim it loudly enough. I saw him, I tell you; then I searched for you, but I did not know of this arbour. Such private trysting-places were never granted me!'
'M. de Landas,' she reiterated for the third time, 'I desire you to be silent and to let me go.'
'So you shall, my dear,' he riposted with his insolent leer. 'So you shall! You shall be free in a moment or two—free to go quietly back to your own room and there to ponder over one or two questions which I am going to put to you, and which mayhap have never occurred to you before. Who is this Prince de Froidmont? Where did he spring from? Why does he masquerade, now as the master, anon as his own equerry? What unavowable secret doth he hide beneath that eternal mask of his? Can you answer that, my specious lady, who are still fresh from that enigmatic person's arms? Was it the Prince who kissed you in this arbour, or was it his servant?'
Then, as she drew herself up to her full height, looking a veritable statue of lofty disdain, a world of withering contumely in her fine eyes, he went on more insidiously:
'Let me tell you one thing, Jacqueline, of which you obviously are ignorant. There is no Prince de Froidmont inscribed in France's book of Heraldry. There is an out-at-elbows Seigneur de Froidmont, whose fortunes are at so low an ebb that he sells his sword to the highest bidder. He was last seen in the company of the Duc d'Anjou, the most dissolute scion of an abandoned race. And those who knew him then, say that he is tall and broad-shouldered, hath a martial mien and the air of a soldier. They also say that he has a curiously shaped scar on the back of his hand. Now, I warn you, Jacqueline, that when next I meet Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, I shall ask him to give me his hand in friendship, and if he refuses, which he certainly will do, I shall challenge him to take off his glove ere I smite him in his lying face with mine.'
'When you have finished with those vile calumnies, Messire...' began Jacqueline coldly.
'Calumnies!' he exclaimed. 'Calumnies, you call them? Then Heaven help you, for your infatuation has indeed made you blind! But take care, Jacqueline, take care! The eyes of hate are keener than those of love.'
'The eyes of some miserable informant, you mean!' she retorted.
'Informant? I had no need of an informant to tell me that if a man shuns the gaze of his fellow-creatures it is because he hath something unavowable to hide. Beware the man who conceals his face behind a mask, his identity behind an assumed name! He has that to conceal which is dishonourable and base. Think on it all, Jacqueline. 'Tis a friendly warning I am giving you. The path which you have chosen can only lead to humiliation. Already the people of Cambray are enraged against the mysterious stranger. Take care lest Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, duchesse et princesse de Ramèse, be found bestowing her favours upon a common spy!'
He released her wrist, having had his say, felt triumphant and elated too because she had been forced, in spite of herself, to listen to him. Hers was an intensely mobile face, with sensitive brow and lips that readily betrayed her thoughts and emotions; and, as he had said very pertinently, the eyes of hate are sharper than those of love. He had studied her face while he was pouring the pernicious poison into her ear. He saw that poison filtrating slowly but surely into her brain. For the moment she looked scornful, aloof, dignified; but she had listened; she had not called to her servants; she had not even made a second attempt to escape. Eve once listened to the smooth persuasion of the serpent; Elsa heard to the end what Ortrude had to say, and Jacqueline de Broyart, her soul still vibrating in response to Gilles de Crohin's passionate love, had not closed her ears to de Landas' perfidy.
The serpent, having shed his venom, was content. He was subtle enough not to spoil the effect of his rhetoric by any further words. Obviously Jacqueline no longer heard him. Her thoughts were already far away, wandering mayhap in those labyrinthine regions to which a miscreant's blind hatred had led them. He turned on his heel and left her standing there, still dignified and scornful. But there was that in her pose, in the glitter of her eyes and the set of her lips, which suggested that something of her former serenity had gone. She still looked calm and indifferent, but her quietude now was obviously forced; there was a tell-tale quiver round her lips, the sight of which gave de Landas infinite satisfaction. In her whole person there was still determination, valour and perfect faith; but it was militant faith, the courage and trust of a woman fighting in defence of her love—not the sweet tenderness of childlike belief.
And with an inward sigh of content, the serpent wriggled quietly away.