Part 29 (1/2)

”Can a woman explain her capricious doings any more than a man can understand them? It is well known that we do unaccountable things.”

Not heeding this evasion, I went on:

”I sometimes fear that you imagine some other barrier between us than the one of religion. Is it that some other gentleman--?”

”Oh, no, monsieur!” she answered, quickly and earnestly, before I had time to finish the question.

”Is there, then, some vow or girlish resolution?”

She shook her head negatively in reply, but would not give me any more satisfaction.

At last I said, abruptly, ”Do you, then, wish me not to love you?”

She looked at me first as if she would answer yes, and then as if she would answer no, and finally, after a sigh, she said:

”Can we cause things by wis.h.i.+ng?”

Finally, as a last means of trying her, I said:

”Mademoiselle, I have been thinking that it might be better if I were to go on alone to Guienne, and leave Blaise and my men to conduct you when you are able to follow.”

She regarded me strangely, first as if the suggestion were a welcome one, then,--while her brow darkened, and a kind of mental anguish forced itself into her expression,--as if the plan were not at all acceptable.

”But you will not do that, monsieur?” was all that she said.

I could but sigh in puzzlement, and abandon my attempt to make her tell her feelings.

Sometimes I would suddenly turn my eyes towards her, and catch her looking at me with mingled tenderness and pity, as a man condemned to die might be looked on by the woman who loved him. At those times I thought that she had some fear or foreboding that I might yet fall a victim to the vengeance of those whom I had offended. Sometimes her look quite startled me, for it contained, besides a world of grief and pity, something of self-reproach. I then supposed that she blamed herself for allowing her fatigue to delay me in my departure from the province.

But these demonstrations did not often escape her. She oftenest showed the forced cheerfulness that I have already mentioned. The moments when any kind of distress showed itself were exceptional, and many of them were caused by the persistence with which I sought a response in words to my declarations of love.

There came at last the afternoon--how well I remember it!--when we sat together on the stone bench in the sunlit part of the old courtyard.

Through the interstices of the overspreading branches we could see a perfectly clear blue sky. The slightest movement of air made the leaves rustle sleepily, dreamily. Save the chirping of the birds, no other sound emanated from the forest. The murmur of the river at the foot of the wooded steep came up to us. In a corner of the yard the two gypsies lay asleep. Some of my men were off on various employments. A few had gone for game; others to fish. One of them, Frojac, was in Clochonne disguised as a peasant, to keep a watch on the garrison there. The party of foragers had not returned. Of the men at the chateau, those who were not on guard were with Blaise Tripault in the great hall, where they had just finished eating and drinking, Hugo had gone to the stables to feed mademoiselle's horses. Jeannotte was asleep in her chamber. Mademoiselle and I sat in silence, in the midst of a solitude, a remote tranquillity, a dreamy repose that it was difficult to imagine as ever to be broken.

She seemed to yield to the benign influence of this enchanted place. She leaned back restfully, closed her eyes, and smiled.

Suddenly there came from within the chateau the sound of my men singing.

Their rude, strong voices were low at first, but they rose in pitch and volume as their song progressed. Mademoiselle ceased to smile, opened her eyes, again took on the look of dark foreboding. The song had an ominous ring. It was one of the Huguenot war hymns sung in the army of our Henri:

”With p.r.i.c.king of steel Our foe we have sped, We've peppered his heel With pellets of lead, And the battles we win are the gifts of the Lord, Who pointeth our cannon and guideth our sword.

We fire and we charge and there's nothing can bar When we fight in the track of the King of Navarre.

Then down, down, down with the Duke of Guise!

Death, death, death to our enemies!

And glory, we sing, to G.o.d and our King, And death to the foes of Navarre!”

The melody was grim and stirring. The men's voices vibrated with war-like wrath. They were impatient for battles, charges, the kind of fighting that is done between great armies on the open field, when there is the roar and smoke of cannon, the rattle of small firearms, the clash of steel, the cries of captains, the shrieks and groans of wounded, the plenteous spilling of blood. They were hungry for carnage.

”There is no cause to shudder, mademoiselle,” said I, perceiving the effect that the song had on her; ”we are far away from fighting. There is no danger here.”