Part 7 (2/2)
”Thank you!” she said simply. And then with an effort, as she pointed before her: ”Monsieur, there is a man lying there who gave up his life for me. I cannot leave him thus.”
And Pierrebon answered: ”There are two, lady. I have covered them with their cloaks, for they are both dead.”
”A moment,” I said, and I too went and looked at the twain.
There was no mistake. For these two the trees and the sky, the good and the bad of the world had ceased to be; and as I pulled their cloaks over their faces I muttered to myself, with a remembrance of the course of ”The Philosophy”:
”_Maximum vitae bonum mors_.”
Then I came back to the lady's side. ”Mademoiselle, for these two lying there, the honest man and the knave, what can be done at present has been done. Come, I pray you! It grows late.”
”Oh, but I cannot!” And she too went forward to where the long dark things lay stretched out on the sward, and shrinking, she looked, and then on a sudden she sank on her knees, and prayed, and because, whatever had happened, I had never lost my faith in G.o.d, without whom we are nothing, I knelt too, and Pierrebon with me, and in our own way we each sought comfort. After a while mademoiselle rose again, and with a voice half choked with tears, said:
”Monsieur, I am ready.”
We placed her on my brown horse, which Pierrebon led, I riding his, and so we took our way in silence--a silence now and again broken by a sob from the girl. I said nothing, deeming it wiser to let her be with her thoughts; but as we came to the skirts of the wood I spoke:
”Mademoiselle, I promise you that I will see to the Christian burial of your friend.”
And then she wept unrestrainedly. To tell the truth, I knew not what to do, and Pierrebon kept his head well to the front, looking neither to the right nor to the left. In sheer desperation I asked her not to weep, whereat she wept the more; and then I touched her shoulder with my hand, as one would caress a child; but she shook me off, turning a face that seemed scared with terror to me, and I could only stammer out an apology, and remain silent. At last the violence of her grief abated, and I ventured to ask who the dead man was.
”He,” she answered sadly, ”was a trusted servant, and he was taking me home. His name was Olivet.”
”Will not mademoiselle do me the honour to give me her name as well? I am called Bertrand Broussel.”
She looked up as I spoke, and a nervous laugh escaped her.
”I am glad I know your name, monsieur; it is one I shall always think upon with grat.i.tude. As for me, I--I am called Diane. I am the niece of Cujus the furrier, a citizen of Tours, who is as a father to me. I was going to rejoin him from Saumur when all this happened.”
”Have you any friends near, where I can leave you?”
”Oh yes! Near Richelieu I have friends; and, once in the house of the Bailiff of Muisson, I would be safe.”
”I will see you there, with your permission.”
”Thank you! And I want to tell you how this happened. I was going back home from Saumur, under the charge of Olivet, and we halted at Marcay to rest. About a half-hour after leaving Marcay we were set upon and taken prisoners by the men from whom you have saved me.
”Where they were taking us I cannot tell. As evening came I heard your voice singing, and, screaming for help, I slipped from my saddle, with the intention of running towards you. Olivet made a brave effort to help me--but----” And it was only with an effort that she prevented another breakdown.
”Have you any idea who these men are?”
She remained silent, as if collecting her thoughts. And I went on:
”I ask because I recognised one--the leader.”
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