Part 4 (2/2)
She stood listening a full minute, with her hand to her bosom. Then she nodded, as if a.s.sured that all was well, and, going to the table, looked down at the things it held. Her face wore a subtle smile, her cheeks flamed softly, there was a shy sparkle in her eyes. The lamp seemed to lend her new loveliness.
Apparently she did not find what she wanted on the table, for in a moment she turned and went to the fireplace. She took the posset from the trivet, and, lifting the lid of the cup, looked in. What she saw appeared to satisfy her, for with a quick movement she carried the cup to the table and set it down open. She had her back to Jehan now, and he could not see what she was doing, though he watched her every motion and partly guessed. When she had finished whatever it was, she raised the cup to her lips, and the boy's heart stood still. Ay, stood still! He half rose, his face white. But he was in error. She only kissed the wine and covered it, and took it back to the trivet, murmuring something over it as she set it down.
[Ill.u.s.tration: HE WATCHED HER EVERY MOTION ”(p. 124).]
The boy lay still, like one fascinated, while madame, clasping two little silk bags to her bosom, stole back to her door. As she raised the curtain with one hand she turned on a sudden impulse and kissed the other towards the hearth. Slowly the curtain fell and hid her s.h.i.+ning eyes.
CHAPTER VII.
CLYTaeMNESTRA.
She had barely disappeared when the boy, listening eagerly, heard the great door below flung open, and instinctively sank down again. A breath of cold air rose from below. A harsh voice--a voice he knew--cursed someone or something in the hall, a heavy step came stumbling up the stairs, and in a moment M. de Vidoche, followed by a sleepy servant, pushed his way through the curtains. He was flushed with drink, yet he was not drunk, for as he crossed the floor he shot a swift sidelong glance at his wife's door--a glance of dark meaning; and, though he railed savagely at the servant for letting the fire go out, he had the air of listening while he spoke, and swore, to show himself at ease.
The man muttered some excuse, and, kneeling, began to blow the embers, while Vidoche looked on moodily. He had not taken off his hat and cloak. ”Has madame been out this evening?” he said suddenly.
”No, my lord.”
”Her woman is lying with her?”
”Yes, my lord.”
A moment's silence. Then, ”Trim the lamp, curse you! Don't you see it is going out? Do you want to leave me in the dark? Sacre! This might be a pigsty from the way it is kept!”
The man was used to be kicked and abused, but it seemed to him that his master's caprices were taking a fresh direction. It was not his business to think, however. He trimmed the lamp and took the cloak and hat, and was going, when Vidoche called him back again. ”Put on a log,” he said, ”and give me that drink. Nom du diable, it is cold! You lazy hound, you have been sleeping!”
The man vowed he had not, and M. de Vidoche listened to his protestations as if he heard them. In reality his thoughts were busy with other things. Would it be tonight, or to-morrow, or the next day? he was wondering darkly. And how would it--take her? Would he be there, or would they come and tell him? Would she sicken and fade slowly, and die of some common illness to all appearance, with the priest by her side? Or would he awake in the night to hear her screaming, and be summoned to see her writhing in torture, gasping, choking, praying them to save--to save her from this horrible pain? G.o.d! The perspiration broke out on his brow. He s.h.i.+vered. ”Give me that!” he muttered hoa.r.s.ely, holding out a shaking hand. ”Give it me, I say!”
The man was warming the posset, but he rose hastily and handed it.
”Put lights in my room! And, hark you--you will sleep there to-night. I am not well. Go and get your straw, and be quick about it.”
Vidoche listened with the cup in his hand while the man went down and fetched a taper and some coverings from the hall, and, coming up again, opened one of the doors on the right--not the one against which the boy lay. The servant went into the room and busied himself there for a time, while the master sat crouching over the fire, thinking, with a gloomy face. He tried to turn his thoughts to the Farincourt, and to what would happen afterwards, and to a dozen things with which his mind had been only too ready to occupy itself of late. But now his thoughts would not be ordered. They returned again and again to the door on his left. He caught himself listening, waiting, glancing at it askance. And this might go on for days. Dieu! the house would be a h.e.l.l! He would go away. He would make some excuse to leave until--until after Christmas.
He s.h.i.+vered, cursed himself under his breath for a fool, and drank half the mulled wine at a draught. As he took the cup from his lips, his ear caught a slight sound behind him, and, starting, he peered hastily over his shoulder. But the noise came apparently from the next room, where the servant was moving about; and, with another oath, Vidoche drained the cup and set it down on the table.
He had scarcely done so when he drew himself suddenly upright and remained in that position for a moment, his mouth half open, his eyes glaring. A kind of spasm seized him. His teeth shut with a click. He staggered and clutched at the table. His face grew red--purple. His brain seemed to be bursting; his eyes filled with blood. He tried to cry, to give the alarm, to get breath, but his throat was held in an iron vice. He was choking and reeling on his feet, when the man came by chance out of the bedroom.
By a tremendous effort Vidoche spoke. ”Who--made--this?” he muttered, in a hissing voice.
The servant started, scared by his appearance. He answered, nevertheless, that he had mixed it himself.
”Look at--the bottom of--the cup!” Vidoche replied in a terrible voice. He was swaying to and fro, and kept himself up only by his grip on the table. ”Is there--anything there?”
The servant was terribly frightened, but he had the sense to obey. He took up the cup and looked in it. ”Is there--a powder--in it?” Vidoche asked, a frightful spasm distorting his features.
”There is--something,” the man answered, his teeth chattering. ”But let me fetch help, my lord. You are not well. You are----”
”A dead man!” the baffled murderer cried, his voice rising in a scream of indescribable despair and horror. ”A dead man! I am poisoned! My wife!” He reeled with that word. He lost his hold of the table. ”Ha, mon Dieu! Mercy! Mercy!” he cried.
In a moment he was down, writhing on the floor, and uttering shriek on shriek: cries so dreadful that on the instant doors flew open and sleepers awoke, and in a twinkling the room--though the lamp lay quenched, overturned in his struggles--was full of lights and frightened faces and huddled forms, and women who stopped their ears and wept. The doorways framed more faces, the staircase rang with sounds of alarm. Everywhere was turmoil and a madness of hurrying feet. One ran for the doctor, another for the priest, a third for the watch. The house seemed on a sudden alive; nay, the very courtyard, where the porter was gone from his post, and the doors stood open, was full of staring strangers, who gaped at the windows and the hurrying lights, and asked whose was the hotel, or answered it was M. de Vidoche's.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”IN A MOMENT HE WAS DOWN, WRITHING ON THE FLOOR” (p. 133).]
It had been. But already the man who had gone up the stairs so full of strength and evil purpose lay dying, speechless, all but dead. They had lifted him on to a pallet which someone drew from a neighbouring room, and at first there had been no lack of helpers or ready hands. One untied his cravat, and another his doublet, and two or three of the coolest held him in his paroxysms. But then the magic word ”Poison!” was whispered; and one by one, all, even the man who had been with him, even madame's woman, drew off, and left those two alone. The livid body lay on the pallet, and madame, stunned and horror-stricken, hung over it; but the servants stood away in a dense circle, and looking on with gloom and fear in their faces, some mechanically holding lights, some still grasping the bowls and basins they were afraid to use, whispered that word again and again.
It seemed as if the tell-tale syllables pa.s.sed the walls; for the first to arrive, before doctor or priest, was the captain of the watch. He came upstairs, his sword clanking, and, thrusting the curtains aside, stood looking at the strange scene, which the many lights, irregularly held and distributed, lit up as if it had been a pageant on the stage. ”Who is it?” he muttered, touching the nearest servant on the arm.
”M. de Vidoche,” the man answered.
”Is he dead?”
The man cringed before him. ”Dead, or as good,” he whispered. ”Yes, sir.”
”Then he is not dead?”
”I do not know, sir.”
”Then why the devil are you all standing like mutes at a funeral?” the soldier answered, with an oath. ”Leaving madame alone, too. Poison, eh? Oh!” and he whistled softly. ”So that is why you are all looking on as if the man had got the plague, is it? A pretty set of curs you are! But here is the doctor. Out of the way now,” he added contemptuously, ”and let no one leave the room.”
He went forward with the physician, and, while the latter knelt and made his examination, the captain muttered a few words of comfort in madame's ear. For all she heard or heeded, however, he might have spared his pains. She had been summoned so abruptly, and the call had so entirely snapped the thread of her thoughts, that she had not yet connected her husband's illness with any act of hers. She had absolutely forgotten the enterprise of the evening, its antic.i.p.ations and hopes. For the time she was spared that horror. But this illness alone sufficed to overwhelm her, to sink her beyond the reach of present comfort. She no longer remembered her husband's coldness, but only the early days when he had come to her in her country home, a black-bearded, bold-eyed Apollo, and wooed her impetuously and with irresistible will. All his faults, all his unkindnesses, were forgotten now: only his beauty, his vigour, his great pa.s.sion, his courage were remembered. A dreadful pain seized her heart when she recognised that his had ceased to beat. She peered white-faced into the physician's eyes, she hung on his lips. If she remembered her journey to the Rue Touchet at all, it was only to think how futile her hopes were now. He, whom she would have won back to her, was gone from her for ever!
The doctor shook his head gravely as he rose. He had tried to bleed the patient, without waiting, in this emergency, for a barber to be summoned; but the blood would not flow. ”It is useless,” he said. ”You must have courage, madame. More courage than is commonly required,” he continued, in a tone of solemnity, almost of severity. He looked round and met the captain's eyes. He made him a slight sign.
”He is dead?” she muttered.
”He is dead,” the physician answered slowly. ”More, madame--my task goes farther. It is my duty to say that he has been poisoned.”
”Dead!” she muttered, with a dry sob. ”Dead!”
”Poisoned, I said, madame,” the physician answered almost harshly. ”In an older man the symptoms might be taken for those of apoplexy. But in this case not so. M. de Vidoche has been poisoned.”
”You are clear on the point?” the captain of the watch said. He was a grey-haired, elderly man, lately transferred from the field to the slums of Paris, and his kindly nature had not been wholly obliterated by contact with villainy.
”Perfectly,” the doctor answered. ”More, the poison must have been administered within the hour.”
Madame rose s.h.i.+vering from the dead man's side. This new terror, so much worse than that of death, seemed to thrust her from him, to raise a barrier between them. The soft white robe she had thrown round her when she ran from her bed was not whiter than her cheeks; the lights were not brighter than her eyes, distended with horror. ”Poisoned!” she muttered. ”Impossible! Who would poison him?”
”That is the question, madame,” the captain of the watch answered, not without pity--not without admiration. ”And if, as we are told, the poison must have been given within the hour, it should not be difficult to answer it. Let no one leave the room,” he continued, pulling his moustachios. ”Where is the valet who waited on M. de Vidoche?”
The man stood forward from the rest, shaking with alarm, and told briefly all he knew; how he had left his master in his usual health, and found him in some kind of seizure; how Vidoche had bidden him look in the cup, and how he had found a sediment in it which should not have been there.
”You mixed this wine yourself?” the captain of the watch said sharply.
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