My heart gave a great bound – a great, a sudden throb of hope. But as sudden and as great was the rebound into despair.
“You will not send for me, be assured of that,” I said with finality; and we spoke no more.
I took the oars and plied them vigorously. I was in haste to end the situation. Tomorrow I must think of my departure, and, as I rowed, I pondered the words that had passed between us. Not one word of love had there been, and yet, in the very omission of it, avowal had lain on either side. A strange wooing had been mine – a wooing that precluded the possibility of winning, and yet a wooing that had won. Aye, it had won; but it might not take. I made fine distinctions and quaint paradoxes as I tugged at my oars, for the human mind is a curiously complex thing, and with some of us there is no such spur to humour as the sting of pain.
Roxalanne sat white and very thoughtful, but with veiled eyes, so that I might guess nothing of what passed within her mind.
At last we reached the chateau, and as I brought the boat to the terrace steps, it was Saint-Eustache who came forward to offer his wrist to Mademoiselle.
He noted the pallor of her face, and darted me a quick, suspicion-laden glance. As we were walking towards the chateau–
“Monsieur de Lesperon,” said he in a curious tone, “do you know that a rumour of your death is current in the province?”
“I had hoped that such a rumour might get abroad when I disappeared,” I answered calmly.
“And you have taken no single step to contradict it?”
“Why should I, since in that rumour may be said to lie my safety?”
“Nevertheless, monsieur, voyons. Surely you might at least relieve the anxieties the affliction, I might almost say – of those who are mourning you.”
“Ah!” said I. “And who may these be?”
He shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips in a curiously deprecatory smile. With a sidelong glance at Mademoiselle–
“Do you need that I name Mademoiselle de Marsac?” he sneered.
I stood still, my wits busily working, my face impassive under his scrutinizing glance. In a flash it came to me that this must be the writer of some of the letters Lesperon had given me, the original of the miniature I carried.
As I was silent, I grew suddenly conscious of another pair of eyes observing me, Mademoiselle’s. She remembered what I had said, she may have remembered how I had cried out the wish that I had met her earlier, and she may not have been slow to find an interpretation for my words. I could have groaned in my rage at such a misinterpretation. I could have taken the Chevalier round to the other side of the chateau and killed him with the greatest relish in the world. But I restrained myself, I resigned myself to be misunderstood. What choice had I?
“Monsieur de Saint-Eustache,” said I very coldly, and looking him straight between his close-set eyes, “I have permitted you many liberties, but there is one that I cannot permit any one – and, much as I honour you, I can make no exception in your favour. That is to interfere in my concerns and presume to dictate to me the manner in which I shall conduct them. Be good enough to bear that in your memory.”
In a moment he was all servility. The sneer passed out of his face, the arrogance out of his demeanour. He became as full of smiles and capers as the meanest sycophant.
“You will forgive me, monsieur!” he cried, spreading his hands, and with the humblest smile in the world. “I perceive that I have taken a great liberty; yet you have misunderstood its purport. I sought to sound you touching the wisdom of a step upon which I have ventured.”
“That is, monsieur?” I asked, throwing back my head, with the scent of danger breast high.
“I took it upon myself to-day to mention the fact that you are alive and well to one who had a right, I thought, to know of it, and who is coming hither tomorrow.”
“That was a presumption you may regret,” said I between my teeth. “To whom do you impart this information?”
“To your friend, Monsieur de Marsac,” he answered, and through his mask of humility the sneer was again growing apparent. “He will be here tomorrow,” he repeated.
Marsac was that friend of Lesperon’s to whose warm commendation of the Gascon rebel I owed the courtesy and kindness that the Vicomte de Lavedan had meted out to me since my coming.
Is it wonderful that I stood as if frozen, my wits refusing to work and my countenance wearing, I doubt not, a very stricken look? Here was one coming to Lavedan who knew Lesperon – one who would unmask me and say that I was an impostor. What would happen then? A spy they would of a certainty account me, and that they would make short work of me I never doubted. But that was something that troubled me less than the opinion Mademoiselle must form. How would she interpret what I had said that day? In what light would she view me hereafter?
Such questions sped like swift arrows through my mind, and in their train came a dull anger with myself that I had not told her everything that afternoon. It was too late now. The confession would come no longer of my own free will, as it might have done an hour ago, but would be forced from me by the circumstances that impended. Thus it would no longer have any virtue to recommend it to her mercy.
“The news seems hardly welcome, Monsieur de Lesperon,” said Roxalanne in a voice that was inscrutable. Her tone stirred me, for it betokened suspicion already. Something might yet chance to aid me, and in the mean while I might spoil all did I yield to this dread of the morrow. By an effort I mastered myself, and in tones calm and level, that betrayed nothing of the tempest in my soul–
“It is not welcome, mademoiselle,” I answered. “I have excellent reasons for not desiring to meet Monsieur de Marsac.”
“Excellent, indeed, are they!” lisped Saint-Eustache, with an ugly droop at the corners of his mouth. “I doubt not you’ll find it hard to offer a plausible reason for having left him and his sister without news that you were alive.”
“Monsieur,” said I at random, “why will you drag in his sister’s name?”
“Why?” he echoed, and he eyed me with undisguised amusement. He was standing erect, his head thrown back, his right arm outstretched from the shoulder, and his hand resting lightly upon the gold mount of his beribboned cane. He let his eyes wander from me to Roxalanne, then back again to me. At last: “Is it wonderful that I should drag in the name of your betrothed?” said he. But perhaps you will deny that Mademoiselle de Marsac is that to you?” he suggested.
And I, forgetting for the moment the part I played and the man whose identity I had put on, made answer hotly: “I do deny it.”
“Why, then, you lie,” said he, and shrugged hits shoulders with insolent contempt.
In all my life I do not think it could be said of me that I had ever given way to rage. Rude, untutored minds may fall a prey to passion, but a gentleman, I hold, is never angry. Nor was I then, so far as the outward signs of anger count. I doffed my hat with a sweep to Roxalanne, who stood by with fear and wonder blending in her glance.
“Mademoiselle, you will forgive that I find it necessary to birch this babbling schoolboy in your presence.”
Then, with the pleasantest manner in the world, I stepped aside, and plucked the cane from the Chevalier’s hand before he had so much as guessed what I was about. I bowed before him with the utmost politeness, as if craving his leave and tolerance for what I was about to do, and then, before he had recovered from his astonishment, I had laid that cane three times in quick succession across his shoulders. With a cry at once of pain and of mortification, he sprang back, and his hand dropped to his hilt.
“Monsieur,” Roxalanne cried to him, “do you not see that he is unarmed?”
But he saw nothing, or, if he saw, thanked Heaven that things were in such case, and got his sword out. Thereupon Roxalanne would have stepped between us, but with arm outstretched I restrained her.
“Have no fear, mademoiselle,” said I very quietly; for if the wrist that had overcome La Vertoile were not with a stick a match for a couple of such swords as this coxcomb’s, then was I forever shamed.