CHAPTER VIII
THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRECAUTION
Gabriel met with no opposition to his entrance to the Louvre. Since the taking of Calais the name of the young Comte de Montgommery had been heard too often for any one to think of refusing him leave to enter the suite of apartments occupied by Madame de Castro.
Diane, with one of her women, was engaged at the moment on some fancy-work. Very frequently she involuntarily let her hands fall in her lap, and would sit and dream about her interview with Aloyse that morning.
Suddenly André entered in great bewilderment.
"Madame, Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès!" he announced. (The boy had not ceased to call his old master by that name.)
"Who? Monsieur d'Exmès! here!" Diane repeated, overwhelmed.
"Yes, Madame, he is close behind me," said the page. "Here he is."
Gabriel appeared at the door, doing his best to control his emotion. He bowed low to Madame de Castro, who, in her confusion, did not at first return his salute.
However, she dismissed the page and her maid with a gesture, and they were left alone. Then they approached, and their hands met in a cordial grasp.
For some seconds they remained with hands joined, gazing at each other in silence.
"You thought best to come to my house, Diane," said Gabriel at last, in a deep voice. "You wished to see me, to speak with me; so I have hastened to you."
"Did it need that action on my part, Gabriel, to apprise you that I wanted to see you? Did you not know it well enough without that?"
"Diane," Gabriel replied with his sad smile, "I have given sufficient proofs of courage heretofore, so I may venture to confess that in coming to the Louvre, I am afraid."
"Afraid of whom?" asked Diane, who was herself afraid of the effect of her own question.
"Afraid of you!—of myself!" replied Gabriel.
"And that is why you chose rather to forget our former affection?—I speak of the legitimate and sanctified side of it," she hastened to add.
"I should have preferred to forget everything, I confess, Diane, rather than put foot inside the Louvre. But alas! I could not. And the proof—"
"The proof?"
"The proof is that I seek you always and everywhere; that though dreading your presence I would have given anything in the world to see you a moment in the distance. The proof is, too, that while prowling about Fontainebleau, or Paris, or St. Germain, around the royal châteaux, instead of desiring what I was supposed to be on the lookout for, it has been you, your sweet and lovely face, a sight of your dress among the trees, or on some terrace, that I have longed for and invoked and coveted! Last of all the proof lies in this fact: that you had only to take one step toward me to make me forget prudence, duty, terror, everything! And here I am in the Louvre, which I ought to shun. I reply to all your questions. I feel that all this is hazardous and insane, nevertheless I do it. Have I given you proof enough now, Diane?"
"Oh, yes, Gabriel, yes," said Diane, hastily, trembling with excitement and emotion.
"Ah, would to Heaven that I had been wiser," continued Gabriel, "and had adhered to my former resolution to see you no more, to flee from you if you summoned me, and to keep silence if you questioned me! That would have been much better for both of us, Diane, believe me. I knew what I was doing. I preferred to cause you anxiety rather than real grief. Oh, my God! why am I without power to withstand your voice and your look?"
Diane began to understand that she had really been wrong in her desire to be relieved from her mortal uncertainty. Every subject of conversation was painful for them, every question concealed a danger. Between these two beings whom God had created for happiness perhaps, there was no possibility of aught but doubt and peril and misery, thanks to the machinations of man.
But since Diane had thus challenged fate, she had no desire to avoid it; quite the contrary. She would go to the bottom of the abyss to which her anxiety had exposed her, though she were to find there nought but despair and death.
After a thoughtful silence, she began thus:—
"I was desirous to see you, Gabriel, for two reasons;
"I had an explanation to make to you in the first instance, as well as one to ask at your hands."
"Speak, Diane," replied Gabriel. "Lay bare my heart, and rend it at your will. It is yours."
"In the first place, Gabriel, I felt that I must let you know why, after I received your message, I did not at once assume the veil you sent back to me, and enter some convent immediately, as I expressed my intention of doing in our last sad interview at Calais."
"Have I reproached you in the least as to that, Diane?" returned Gabriel. "I told André to say to you that I gave you back your promise, and those were no mere empty words on my part; I meant what I said."
"I also mean to become a nun, Gabriel, and be sure that I have simply postponed carrying out my resolve."
"But why, Diane,—why renounce the world in which you were made to shine?"
"Set your mind at rest upon that point, dear friend; it is not altogether to remain faithful to the oath I took, but to satisfy the secret longing of my soul as well, that I intend to leave this world where I have suffered so bitterly. I must have peace and rest, and I know not now where to find either except with God. Do not envy me this last refuge."
"Oh, but I do envy you!" said Gabriel.
"But you see," continued Diane, "I have had a good reason for not at once carrying out my unalterable purpose; I wished to be sure that you gratified the request I made in my last letter,—that you forbore to make yourself judge and executioner; that you did not attempt to anticipate God's will."
"If one only could anticipate it!" muttered Gabriel.
"In short, I hoped," Diane went on, "that I might be able, in case of need, to throw myself between the two men whom I love, but who abhor each other; and who can say that I might not thus prevent a disaster, or a crime? Surely you do not blame me for such a thought as that, Gabriel?"
"I cannot blame an angel for doing what the angelic nature prompts, Diane. You have been very generous, but it is easy to understand it of you."
"Ah!" cried Madame de Castro, "how can I know that I have been generous, or to what extent I am generous now? I am wandering in darkness and at hazard! Besides, it is upon that very point that I wish to question you, Gabriel; for I desire to know my destiny in all its horror."
"Diane, Diane, it is a fatal curiosity!" said Gabriel.
"No matter!" replied Diane, "I will not live in this fearful perplexity and anxiety another day. Tell me, Gabriel, have you become convinced that I am really your sister, or have you absolutely lost all hope of ever learning the truth as to that strange secret? Tell me, I ask,—nay, I implore you!"
"I will tell you," said Gabriel, mournfully. "Diane, there is an old Spanish proverb which says that we must always be prepared for the worst. I have, therefore, accustomed myself, since our parting, to look upon you in my thoughts as my sister. But the truth is that I have obtained no new proof; only, as you say, I have no more hope, no more means of acquiring proof."
"God in Heaven!" cried Diane. "The—he who might furnish these proofs, was he no longer alive when you returned from Calais?"
"He was, Diane."
"Ah, I see, then, that the sacred promise made to you was not redeemed? Who, then, told me that the king had received you with wonderful favor?"
"All that was promised, Diane, was strictly performed."
"Oh, Gabriel, with what an ominous expression you say that! What fearful puzzle still underlies all this, Holy Mother of God!"
"You have asked me, Diane, and you shall know the whole," said Gabriel. "You shall share equally with me in my awful secret. And, indeed, I shall be glad to know what you think of what I am about to disclose to you,—whether, after you have heard it you will still persist in your clemency, and whether your tone and your features and your movements will not in any event belie the words of forgiveness which may come to your lips.—Listen."
"I listen in fear and trembling, Gabriel."
Thereupon, Gabriel, in a breathless, quivering voice, told Madame de Castro the whole sombre story: of the king's reception of him, and how Henri had again reaffirmed his promise; the remonstrances which Madame de Poitiers and the constable had seemed to be making to him; of the night of feverish anguish that he had passed; of his second visit to the Châtelet, his descent into the bowels of the pestilence-laden prison, and the lugubrious narrative of Monsieur de Sazerac,—in short, everything.
Diane listened without interrupting him, without an exclamation or a movement, as mute and rigid as a statue, her eyes fixed in their sockets, and her very hair fairly standing on end.
There was a long pause when Gabriel had finished his gloomy story. Then Diane tried to speak, but could not, for her tongue refused to perform its office. Gabriel seemed to feel a dreadful species of pleasure as he observed her anguish and her terror. At last, she succeeded in ejaculating,—
"Mercy for the king!"
"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "do you ask for mercy for him? Then you, too, must judge him guilty! Mercy? Ah, your very appeal is a condemnation! Mercy? He deserves death, does he not?"
"Oh, I did not say that," replied Diane, in dismay.
"Indeed you did say it, in effect! I see that you agree with me, Diane. You think and feel as I do. But we come to different conclusions in accordance with the difference in our natures. The woman pleads for mercy, and the man demands justice!"
"Ah!" cried Diane, "rash, insane creature that I am! Why did I tempt you to come to the Louvre?"
As she said these words some one rapped softly at the door.
"Who is there? What is wanted? Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Madame de Castro.
André partially opened the door.
"Excuse me, Madame," said he, "a message from the king."
"From the king!" echoed Gabriel, whose face lighted up.
"Why do you bring me this letter now, André?"
"Madame, they told me it was urgent."
"Very well, give it me. What does the king want of me? You may go, André. If there is any reply, I will call you."
André left the room. Diane broke the seal of the king's letter, and read in a low tone, and with increasing terror, what follows:—
MY DEAR DIANE,—I am told that you are at the Louvre; do not go out, I beg you, until I have visited you in your apartments. I am at a sitting of the council which is likely to end at any moment. When I leave the council-chamber I will come immediately to you. Expect me very soon.
It is a long while since I have seen you alone! I am in low spirits, and feel that I must have a few moments' talk with my beloved daughter. Farewell for the moment.
HENRI.
Diane, with colorless cheeks, crumpled the letter in her hands when she had read it.
What should she do?
Dismiss Gabriel at once? But suppose on his way out he should meet the king, who might arrive at any moment!
Should she keep the youth with her? The king would find him there when he came in.
To warn the king would excite his suspicion, while on the other hand to warn Gabriel would simply arouse his anger by seeming to dread it.
A meeting between these two men, each of whom was so threatening to the other, now appeared inevitable, and it was she herself, Diane, who would gladly shed her own blood to save them, who had brought about the fatal encounter!
"What does the king write to you, Diane?" asked Gabriel, with an assumed tranquillity which was belied by the trembling of his voice.
"Nothing, nothing, really," replied Diane. "A reminder of the reception this evening."
"Perhaps I discommode you, Diane," Gabriel remarked. "If so, I will go."
"No, no, don't go!" cried Diane, hastily. "But then," she continued, "if you have any business which demands your immediate attention elsewhere, I should not like to detain you."
"That letter has troubled you, Diane. I fear that I have wearied you, and will take my leave."
"You weary me, my friend! Can you believe it?" said Madame de Castro. "Was it not I who went in search of you, in some measure? Alas! I fear, very imprudently. I will see you again, but not here—at your own house. The first opportunity that presents itself for me to get away, I will come to see you, and resume this sweet though painful interview. I promise you. Rely upon me. At the moment, you are right, I confess; I am somewhat preoccupied and in pain. I feel as if I were in a burning fever—"
"I see, Diane, and I will leave you," replied Gabriel, sadly.
"We shall meet again soon, my friend," said she. "Now go, go!"
She accompanied him as far as the door.
"If I keep him here," she thought, "it is certain that he will see the king; if he goes away at once, there is at least a chance that they may not meet."
Yet she hesitated still, and was anxious and tremulous.
"Pardon me, Gabriel," said she, quite beside herself, as they stood on the threshold; "just a word more. Mon Dieu! Your narrative has upset me so that it is hard for me to collect my thoughts. What was I about to ask you? Ah, I know! Just one word, but one of much importance. You have not yet told me what you intend to do. I begged for mercy, and you cried, 'Justice!' Pray tell me how you hope to obtain justice!"
"I do not know yet," said Gabriel, gloomily; "I trust in God for the event and the opportunity."
"For the opportunity!" repeated Diane, with a shudder. "For the opportunity,—what do you mean by that? Oh, come back, come back! I cannot let you go, Gabriel, until you have explained to me that word 'opportunity;' stay, I implore you!"
Taking his hand, she led him back into the room.
"If he meets the king elsewhere," thought poor Diane, "they will be quite alone,—the king without attendants, and Gabriel with his sword at his side; whereas if I am present, I can at least throw myself between them, and implore Gabriel to withhold his hand, or intercept his blow. Yes, he must remain.
"I feel better now," said she, aloud. "Remain, Gabriel, and let us renew our conversation, and do you give me the explanation I ask. I am much better."
"No, Diane; you are even more excited than you were," replied Gabriel. "Do you know what has come into my mind as an explanation of your alarm?"
"No, indeed, Gabriel. How should I know?"
"Well," said Gabriel, "just as your cry for mercy was an avowal that the crime was patent in your eyes, so your present apprehensions show that you believe the chastisement would be legitimate. You dread my vengeance for the culprit; and since you appreciate the justice of it, you are keeping me here to warn him of possible reprisals on my part, which, though they might terrify and afflict you, would not astonish you,—which would, on the other hand, seem quite natural to you. Am I not right?"
Diane was startled, so truly had the blow struck home. Nevertheless, collecting all her force, she said,—
"Oh, Gabriel, how can you believe that I could conceive such thoughts of you? You, my own Gabriel, a murderer! you deal a blow from behind at one who could not defend himself! Impossible! It would be worse than a crime; it would be dastardly. Do you imagine that I am trying to keep you? Oh, no, far from it; go whenever you please, and I will open the door for you. I am perfectly calm; mon Dieu, yes!—perfectly calm upon this point at least. If anything worries me, it is no such idea as that, I assure you. Leave me, leave the Louvre, with your mind at rest. I will come again to your house to finish our conversation. Go, my friend, go! You see how anxious I am to keep you!"
As she spoke she had led him into the anteroom, where the page was in attendance. Diane thought of ordering him to stay with Gabriel until he had left the Louvre; but that precaution would have betrayed her suspicion.
However, she could not resist the impulse to call André to her side by a sign, and whisper in his ear,—
"Do you know if the council is at an end?"
"Not yet, Madame," replied André, beneath his breath. "I have not yet seen the councillors leave the hall."
"Adieu, Gabriel," resumed Diane, aloud, with much animation. "Adieu, my friend. You almost force me to send you away, to prove that I have no such object as you allege in keeping you here. Adieu!—but for only a short time."
"For only a short time," said the youth, with a melancholy smile, as he pressed her hand.
He left her: but she stood looking after him until the last door had closed behind him.
Then returning to her room, she fell upon her knees before her prie-Dieu, weeping bitterly, and with palpitating heart.
"O mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she prayed, "in Jesus' name, watch over him who is perhaps my brother, as well as over him who is perhaps my father! Preserve the two beings whom I love, O my God! Thou alone canst do it now.”