Volume Iii Part 9 (2/2)
She must not die. No, she must live--for their sakes! To stand between them and the fate they had prepared for her. She sprang from the bed, a prey to violent agitation. There was a singing in her ears--her temples throbbed as though they would crack in sunder. She reeled and clung to the curtain. Her throat was parched with thirst. Were these the first symptoms of the fatal draught? No. It was excess of emotion and anxiety that made her giddy. She would live--live--live--in spite of the executioners, and G.o.d would help, for her cause was holy!
She was alone. Mademoiselle Brunelle for some reason had left her post. The marquise stole to the door, turned the key, gently shot the bolt into its socket. Then, grasping her long hair she forced it down her throat, inducing by irritation a violent sickness, which relieved her. But how to effect escape? Some one was already rattling the handle without--the deep voice of Algae was shouting in imperious accents, ”Open! Let me in!” Despair gave strength and courage.
Gabrielle tore open the cas.e.m.e.nt and got out upon the ledge. Below was a stone-paved courtyard; opposite, the outer wall, with the postern that gave on the pleasaunce. Was it locked? No matter. She wore the key of the new lock upon a bracelet. No time to think. With an agonized cry to Heaven for succour she leapt, but was held up for a moment by two strong hands, while close to hers was the face of Algae, black and convulsed with fury. Mademoiselle, hearing a noise within, had rushed round by the boudoir, whose door the marquise had forgotten in her haste to lock. And now began a fierce and desperate tussle between the women, which, though neither knew it, was of infinite service to the victim, for it kept off drowsiness. Strong as she was, Algae could not, cramped and strained, sustain the struggling weight, which escaped from her grasp and fell, while she loudly called for help. The patient was delirious--in madness had flung herself from the window and broken her bones upon the pavement. No. She rolled over and over, and was up again; and Algae, grinding her teeth, seized one of the sculptured flower-pots of bronze and dashed it down at her. Sure the intended victim must bear a charmed life! She sped across the courtyard, succeeded in unlocking the postern, and emerged upon the garden moat.
”Well!” muttered Algae, with a philosophic headshake, ”she is in a trap, for beyond the moat is a wall she cannot pa.s.s, and the gates are closed and guarded. It was stupid of me not to wait, and the abbe will be angry. Yet the fault is his, for he distinctly said 'an hour.'”
Meanwhile, refreshed by the air and movement, the frenzied Gabrielle seemed to have wings upon her feet, as she clenched her hands and kept repeating with laboured breath, ”I will live--live--live.” Her mind was preternaturally clear--she could see with prophetic vision, and grapple with contingencies. She saw the wall and knew she could not pa.s.s it; guessed that the gates were guarded; but remembering a certain night, which seemed a century ago, when she had wickedly attempted suicide, she made with all speed for the end of the moat, at the spot where it joined the river. The wherry was there, swinging loosely and idly on its chain. She leapt into the boat and loosed the knotted links, and, accustomed to use the oars, impelled it across the river. By this happy thought she gained precious time, could take a short cut to Montbazon, and might yet be saved; for her pursuers, deprived of the boat, would have to make a circuit of a mile or more in order to reach the bridge. She would be saved--she knew she would be saved--and then there fell on her a cold and sickening fear.
Her limbs were trembling. She was growing giddy; her sight was wavering--the sky looked brown and dark. Was she doomed to sink down and perish when escape was all but certain?
She tottered along the path, and groping on for a few steps with outstretched arms like one struck blind, reeled and fell, moaning. The singing in her ears was deafening--like the howling of a hurricane through some dense forest; but through it she all at once heard something--a voice that was once familiar. Raising with an effort her heavy eyelids, she was aware of a man with a horse's bridle on his arm, who was supporting her and sprinkling water on her face. She was certainly growing blind as well as giddy. The man loomed unnaturally large, and seemed at one instant crus.h.i.+ngly close, at another a league away.
Grasping the strands of memory which, crystalline no more, was slipping, slipping, she knitted her brows in a wild effort to remember him.
”As I'm a living sinner, 'tis the marquise,” the man said, when he had recovered from his amazement. ”Poor soul! In so terrible a plight.
Only just in time, it seems.”
Jean! Jean Boulot! Gabrielle suddenly remembered, and tightly clutched his hand. ”Jean--dear Jean!” she gasped. ”Save me! I am poisoned, but I will not die; I must not, cannot die. They are in pursuit--will kill us both. Quick--for love of the dear saints--take me at once to Montbazon!”
Jean pursed his lips, and frowned. ”How like the wickedness of aristos!” he muttered. ”It is time their evil brood was banished from off the world. Poisoned, you say, madame. What was it?”
”Hemlock,” she answered, faintly; ”but I have got rid of most of it.”
”Hemlock,” Jean echoed; ”the children hereabouts often eat it, and are saved by tea and charcoal. Courage, madame, all will yet be well. One word more. What of Toinon?”
”She is under lock and key,” returned Gabrielle, ”but safe, for in the hue and cry for me, her existence will be forgotten.”
St.u.r.dy Jean Boulot mounted his horse, and supporting the marquise in front of him, made with all speed by the bridle path for Montbazon.
He was as surprised as shocked, and blamed himself unreasoningly. He of all men should know the depth of enormity of which the n.o.blesse were capable, for was he not always making speeches thereanent for the behoof of less enlightened lieges? Knowing how bad they were, he had abandoned the post of duty, for it was his duty to protect his love and the heiress of the family whose bread he had eaten from childhood.
Why, knowing what she must know, had Toinon so long delayed to write to him? By an unlucky circ.u.mstance he had been sent on a mission to Tours. Hence, he had not got her letter till after many days; but, having read it, had started off forthwith. And Toinon was locked up by those miscreants! Perhaps they had murdered her as they had attempted to murder her mistress. First he must obey madame, and carry her to Montbazon. That was his plain duty. Then he would raise the peasantry, who were ready and trained to arms, and, if need were, storm the chateau. And woe to all of them if Toinon indeed had perished!
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BARON IS ENERGETIC.
The wonder of the timorous inmates of Montbazon knew no bounds when they beheld Boulot--once gamekeeper, now formidable and obnoxious deputy of Blois--careering into their courtyard with a fainting woman in his arms; and astonishment was merged in dismay when Madame de Vaux recognzied the Marquise de Gange, who had been stricken down, according to report, by a virulent and malignant malady.
Since, for some time past, the Seigneurie by common consent had dwelt in a condition of siege, it was only owing to the lucky circ.u.mstance of its being Angelique's fete-day that Jean found the gate unguarded.
Things having quieted down somewhat--though not for long, as the Seigneurie knew too well, for public opinion was ever on the ebb and flow of mischief--it occurred to old De Vaux that this was the propitious moment to go a hunting. It was on the cards that the n.o.ble pastime of the chase might be stopped altogether shortly, and so he seized the opportunity to give a little party in his daughter's honour. Was it not unfeeling, then, to the last degree, that a neighbour who was not invited because she was infectious, should choose this precise moment for a morning call? The gentlemen were away, the ladies were sipping tea, _a l'Anglaise_, and munching biscuits, discussing the while the all-important topic of dress. Of course they would not demean themselves by donning the ridiculous garments of the Republic. The queen, poor martyr, was sitting in sackcloth and ashes while quaffing the cup of bitterness, and it behoved faithful subjects to don mourning. But then money was so dreadfully tight, and n.o.body had any mourning; and, besides, the truculent and abominable upstarts who ruled the roast might take umbrage at such eccentricity and be disagreeable; and when everyone's tenure of property and even life, was so precarious, it was as well to wear coats that would turn.
This proposition had been put and unanimously carried, and everyone was getting on as nicely as possible, when, all of a sudden, killjoy, Jean Boulot, dropped from the clouds with his unconscious and fever-stricken burthen.
Too anxious, and too full of contempt for the company to be polite, he strode sternly into the salon, and gently laying the marquise on the sofa, took summary possession of the teapot, while the frightened ladies stared.
”There is charcoal, no doubt, in the kitchen,” he said, quietly, ”send for some, please, directly.”
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