Part 50 (1/2)
For one moment Angelot hesitated. Who or what could this be? Some one was in trouble, some woman, and probably a woman he knew. Or could it be a child, hurt by some animal? One of the bulls at La Mariniere was very fierce; there had been trouble with him before now. Ah! he must turn his back on Helene and see what it meant, this cursed interruption. What were they doing to let that beast roam about alone? And even as he turned the shriek tore the air again, and now he could hear a man's voice, rough and furious, a confusion of voices, the stamping of a horse, the creaking of harness. No! Bellot the bull was not the aggressor here.
Angelot loosened his hunting knife as he ran along the lane. It turned sharply once or twice between its banks, dipping into the hollow, then climbing again to La Mariniere. At its lowest point it touched the elbow of a stream, winding away under willows to join the river near Lancilly, and overflowing the lane in winter and stormy weather. Now, however, the pa.s.sage was dry, and at that very point a group of figures was struggling. Angelot had the eyes of a hawk, and at that distance knew them all.
General Ratoneau was on horseback; his gold lace flashed in the sunlight. Before him on the horse's neck lay a girl's white figure, flung across the front of the saddle, struggling, shrieking, held down by his bridle hand which also clutched her dress, while with the b.u.t.t-end of a pistol he threatened Marie Gigot, who screamed for help as she hung to the horse's head. He, good creature, not being one of the General's own chargers, but a harmless beast borrowed without leave from the Lancilly stables, backed from Marie instead of pus.h.i.+ng and trampling her down in obedience to his desperate rider. Little Henriette did her best by clinging tightly to the white folds of her cousin's gown as they fell over the horse's shoulder, and was in great danger of being either pushed down or kicked away by Ratoneau, as soon as he should have disposed of Marie.
”Let go, woman!” he shouted, with frightful oaths. ”Let go, or I'll kill you! Do you see this pistol? A moment more, and I'll dash your brains out--send you after your master, do you hear?--Ah, bah! keep still, beauty!” as Helene almost struggled away from him. ”I don't want to hurt you, but I will have what is my own. Get away, child, we don't want you.
Morbleau! what's that?”
It was a sound of quick running, and Riette's keen ears had heard it already. It had, indeed, saved Ratoneau from being shot dead on the spot, for the child had let go her hold on her cousin's dress with one hand and had clutched the tiny, beautiful pistol with which her father had trusted her, and which she had hidden inside her frock. True, she was shaking with the terrible excitement of the moment, she was nearly dragged off her feet by the horse's plunging backwards, and a correct aim seemed almost impossible--but her father had told her to defend Angelot's wife, and Riette was very sure that this wicked man should not carry away Helene, as long as she had life and a weapon to prevent it.
And if she could have understood those words to Marie,--”send you after your master”--there would have been no hesitation at all.
At the same moment, she and the General turned their heads and looked up the lane. Something wild and lithe, bright and splendid, came flying straight down from the east, from the heart of the sunrise. The swiftness with which Angelot darted upon them was almost supernatural.
He might have been a young G.o.d of the Greeks, flas.h.i.+ng from heaven to rescue his earthly love from an earthly ravisher.
Ratoneau was not prepared for such a sudden and fiery onslaught. It was easy, the work he expected--to tear Helene from the company of a woman and child, to carry her off to Sonnay. He considered her his own property, given to him by the Emperor, stolen from him by her father and Angelot. It would be easy, he told himself, to have the absurd midnight ceremony declared illegal; or if not, he would soon find means to put Angelot out of his way. By fair means or by foul, he meant to have the girl and to marry her. If his method was that of the ancient Gauls--well, she would forgive him in time! Women love a hero, however roughly he may treat them. He thought he had learnt that from experience; and if Helene de Sainfoy thought herself too good for him, she must find her level. The man swore to himself that he loved her, and would be good to her, when once she was his own. As he lifted her on the horse he knew he loved her with all the violent instincts of a coa.r.s.e and unrestrained nature.
And now came vengeance, darting upon him like a bolt from the s.h.i.+ning sky. Before his slower senses even knew what was happening, before, enc.u.mbered with his prey, he could fire a pistol or draw his sword, Helene had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from him into Angelot's arms. No leave asked of Ratoneau; a spring and a clutch; it might have been a tiger leaping at the horse's neck and carrying off its victim. The girl screamed again and again, as Angelot set her on the ground, and trembled so that she could not stand alone. As her lover supported her for an instant, saying to Marie Gigot, who ran forward from the horse's head, ”Take her--take her home!” Ratoneau fired his pistol straight at the two young heads so near together. The bullet pa.s.sed actually between them, touching Helene's curls. Then the st.u.r.dy peasant woman threw a strong arm round her, and dragged her away towards La Mariniere.
Angelot, with a flushed face and blazing eyes, turned to the General, who sat and glared in speechless fury. Then the young fellow smiled, lifted his hat, and set it jauntily on again. He had not drawn his hunting knife, and stood empty-handed, though this and a pair of pistols were in his belt.
”And now, Monsieur le General!” he said, a little breathlessly.
Ratoneau stared at him, struck, even at that moment, by his extraordinary likeness to his uncle. There was the same easy grace, the same light gaiety, the same joy in battle and fearless confidence, with more outward dash and daring. Ah, well! as the other insolent life had ended, so in a few minutes this should end. It would be easy--a slip of a boy--it was fortunate indeed, that it happened so.
”Mille tonnerres! you can be buried together!” said Ratoneau.
”Merci, monsieur, I hope so--a hundred years hence,” Angelot answered with a laugh.
”You are mistaken--I am not talking of your wife,” growled Ratoneau.
”She will be a widow in ten minutes, and married to me in a month. I mean that you and your precious uncle can be buried together.”
”Indeed! Is my uncle going to die?” Angelot said carelessly; but he looked at the madman a little more steadily, with the sudden idea that he was really and literally mad.
”He is dead already. I have killed him,” said Ratoneau.
Angelot turned pale, and stepped back a pace, watching him cautiously.
”When? Where? I don't believe it,” he said.
”We had a disagreement,” said Ratoneau. ”It was about you that we quarrelled, a worthless cause. He chose to take your part, and to insult me. I ran him through the body.”
Saying this, he slowly dismounted and drew his sword. Angelot stood motionless, looking at him. The words had stunned him; his heart and brain seemed to be gripped by icy hands, crus.h.i.+ng out all sensation.
Henriette, who had not followed the others, came up and stood beside him, her great dark eyes, full of horror, fixed upon General Ratoneau.
She was motionless and dumb; under the folds of her frock, her fingers gripped the little pistol. As long as she remained silent, neither of the men saw that she was there.
”Look!” said Ratoneau. He held out his sword, red and still wet, as he had thrust it back into the scabbard after killing Monsieur Joseph.
”Give up the girl to me or you follow your uncle,” he said, after a moment's frightful pause.