Part 4 (1/2)

”So it is,” madame replied, moving on again, but more slowly. ”Of course; it is four days to Christmas. Don't they call him the Apostle of Faith, Margot?”

”Yes, madame.”

”To be sure,” madame rejoined thoughtfully. ”To be sure; yes, we should have faith--we should have faith.” And with that she buoyed herself up again (as people will in certain moods, using the strangest floats), and went on gaily, her feet tripping to the measure of her heart, and her hand on the precious packet that was to change the world for her. On the foullest mud gleams sometimes the brightest phosph.o.r.escence: otherwise it were not easy to conceive how even momentary happiness could come of the house in the Rue Touchet!

The two women had nearly reached the Church of St. Gervais by the Greve, when the sound of a swift stealthy footstep coming along the street behind them caught the maid's ear. It was not a rea.s.suring sound at night and in that place. The dark square of the Greve, swept by the icy wind from the river, lay before them; and though a brazier, surrounded by a knot of men belonging to the watch, burned in the middle of the open, the two women were reluctant to show themselves where they might meet with rudeness. Margot laid her hand on her mistress's arm, and for a few seconds the two stood listening, with thumping hearts. The step came on--a light, pattering step. Acting on a common impulse the women turned and looked at one another. Then slipping noiselessly into the shadow cast by the church porch, they pressed themselves against the wall, and stood scarcely daring to breathe.

But fortune was against them, or their follower's eye was keen beyond the ordinary. They had not been there many seconds before he came running up--a stooping figure, slight and short. He slackened speed abruptly, and stopped exactly opposite their lurking-place. A moment of suspense, and then a pale face, rendered visible by a gleam from the distant fire, looked in on them, and a thin, panting voice murmured timidly, ”Madame! Madame de Vidoche, if you please!”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'MADAME! MADAME DE VIDOCHE, IF YOU PLEASE!'” (p. 112)]

”Saint Siege!” madame's woman gasped, in a voice of astonishment. ”I declare it is a child!”

Madame almost laughed in her relief. ”Ah!” she said, ”how you frightened us! I thought you were a man d.o.g.g.i.ng us--a thief!”

”I am not,” the boy said simply.

This time Margot laughed. ”Who are you, then?” she asked, briskly stepping out, ”and why have you been following us? You seem to have my lady's name pretty pat,” she added, sharply.

”I want to speak to her,” the boy answered, his lip trembling. In truth, he was trembling all over with fear and excitement. But the darkness hid that.

”Oh!” Madame de Vidoche said graciously. ”Well, you may speak. But tell me first who you are, and be quick about it. It is cold and late.”

”I am from the house where you have been,” Jehan answered bravely. ”You saw me at Les Andelys, too, when you were at supper, madame. I was the boy at the door. I want to speak to you alone, please.”

”Alone!” madame exclaimed.

The boy nodded firmly. ”If you please,” he said.

”Hoity-toity!” Margot exclaimed; and she was for demurring. ”He only wants to beg,” she said.

”I don't!” the boy cried, with tears in his voice.

”Then it is a present he wants!” she rejoined, scornfully. ”They expect their vales at those places. And we are to freeze while he makes a tale.”

But madame, out of pity or curiosity, would hear him. She bade the woman wait a few paces away. And when they were alone: ”Now,” she said kindly, ”what is it? You must be quick, for it is very cold.”

”He sent me after you--with a message,” Jehan answered.

Madame started, and her hand went to the packet. ”Do you mean M. Notredame?” she murmured.

The boy nodded. ”He--he said he had forgotten one thing,” he continued, halting between his sentences and s.h.i.+vering. ”He--he said you were to alter one thing, madame.”

”Oh!” Madame answered frigidly, her heart sinking, her pride roused by this intervention of the boy, who seemed to know all. ”What thing, if you please?”

Jehan looked quickly and fearfully over his shoulder. But all was quiet. ”He said he had forgotten that your husband was dark,” he stammered.

”Dark!” madame muttered in astonishment.

”Yes, dark-complexioned,” Jehan continued desperately. ”And that being so, you were not to take the--the charm yourself.”

Madame's eyes flashed with anger. ”Oh!” she said, ”indeed! And is that all?”

”But to give it to him, without telling him,” the boy rejoined, with sudden spirit and firmness.

Madame started and drew a deep breath. ”Are you sure you have made no mistake?” she said, trying to read the boy's face. But it was too dark for that.

”Quite sure,” he answered hardily.

”Oh,” madame said, slowly and thoughtfully; ”very well. Is that all?”

”That is all,” he replied, drawing back a step; but reluctantly, as it seemed.

Margot, who had been all the time moving a little nearer and a little nearer, came right up at this. ”Now, my lady,” she said sharply, ”I beg you will have done. This is no place for us at this time of night, and this little imp of Satan ought to be about his business. I am sure I am peris.h.i.+ng with cold, and the sound of those creaking boats on the river makes me think of nothing but gibbets and corpses, till I have got the creeps all down my back! And the watch will be here presently.”

”Very well, Margot,” madame answered; ”I am coming.” But still she looked at the boy and lingered. ”You are sure there is nothing else?” she murmured.

”Nothing,” he answered.

She thought his manner odd, and wondered why he lingered; why he did not hurry off, since the night was cold and he was bareheaded. But Margot pressed her again, and she turned, saying reluctantly, ”Very well, I am coming.”

”Ay, and so is Christmas!” the woman grumbled. And this time she fairly took her by the arm and hurried her away.

”That is not a good retort, Margot!” madame said presently, when they had gone a few paces, and were flitting hand-in-hand across the Greve, with heads bent to the wind, ”for it wants only four days to Christmas. You had forgotten that!”

”I think you are fey, my lady!” the woman replied, in an ill-temper. ”I have not seen you so gay these twelve months; and what with the cold, and fear of the watch and monsieur, I am ready to sink. You must have heard fine news down there.”

But madame did not answer. She was thinking of last Christmas. Her husband had gone to the revels at the Palais Cardinal, which was then in building. She had offered to go with him, and he had told her, with an oath, that if she did she should remember it. So she had stopped at home alone--her first Christmas in Paris. She had gone to ma.s.s, and then had sat all day in the cold, splendid house, and cried. Half the servants had played truant, and her woman had been cross, and for hours together no one had gone near her.

This Christmas it was to be different.

Madame's eyes began to s.h.i.+ne again, and her heart to beat a pleasant measure. If she had her will, they would go to no pageants or merry-makings. But then he liked such things, and showed to advantage in them. Yes, they would go, and she would sit quiet as a mouse; and listening while they praised him, would feed all the time on the sweet knowledge that now he was hers--her own.

She had not done dreaming when they reached the house. The porter was drowsing in his lodge, the gate was ajar. They slipped into the dark silent courtyard, and, flitting across it, entered the house. Two servants lay stretched asleep in the hall, and in a little room to the left of the door they could hear others talking; but no one looked out. Fortune could not have aided them better. With a little laugh of relief and thankfulness madame tripped up the grand staircase and under the great lamp which lit it and the hall.

Marmot followed, but neither she nor her mistress saw who followed them: who had followed them across the windy Greve, through street and lane and byway; even, after a moment's hesitation, over the threshold of the court and into the house. A servant who heard the stairs creak as they went up, and looked out, fancied he saw a small black figure glide out of sight above; but as there were no children in the house, and this was a child, if anything, he thought his eyes deceived him--he was half-asleep--and, crossing himself, went back, yawning.

The boy could never quite explain--though often asked in after-years--what led him to run this risk. It is true he dared not return to the Rue Touchet; and he was only twelve years old, and knew nowhere else to go. But---- However, that is all that can be said. He did follow them.

He paused at the head of the stairs, and stood s.h.i.+vering under the great lamp. In front of him hung a pair of heavy curtains. After a moment's hesitation he crept between them and found himself in a splendid apartment, s.p.a.cious though sparely furnished, lit from the roof, and in character half-hall, half-parlour. A high marble chimney-piece in the new Italian mode faced him, and on either hand were two lofty doorways screened by curtains. The floor was of parquet, the walls were panelled in chestnut wood. On each side of the fire, which smouldered low between the dogs and was nearly out, a long bench, velvet-covered, ran along the wall. A posset-cup stood on a tripod on the hearth, and in the middle of the room a marble table bore a dish of sweetmeats and a tray of flasks and gla.s.ses. In that day, when people dined at eleven and supped at six, it was customary to take les epices et le vin du coucher before retiring at nine.

The boy stood cowering and listening--a strange, pale-faced little figure, reflected in a narrow mirror which decked one wall. It was very cold even here; outside he must die of cold. He heard the two women moving and talking in one of the rooms on the left; otherwise the house was still. He looked about, hesitated, and at last stole on tip-toe across the floor to one of the doors on his right. The curtain which hid it trailed a yard on the ground. He sat down between it and the door, and, winding one corner of the thick heavy stuff round his frozen limbs, uttered a sigh of relief. He had found a refuge of a kind.

He meant to sleep, but he could not, for all his nerves were tense with excitement. Not a sound in the house escaped him. He heard the soft ashes sink on the hearth; he heard one of the men who slept in the hall turn and moan in his sleep. At last, quite close to him, a door opened.

Jehan moved a little and peered from his ambush. The noise had come from madame's room. He was not surprised when he saw her face thrust out. Presently she put the curtain quite aside and came out, and stood a little way from him, listening intently. She wore a loose robe of some soft stuff, and he fancied she was barefoot, for she moved without noise.