Orrain Part 42

"As it happens, I know the writing well. It is a woman's hand------"

Both Le Brusquet and I turned on him, the same thought in our hearts.

"_She_!" I said, and half rising from my seat; but with an exclamation Le Brusquet s.n.a.t.c.hed the packet from De Lorgnac's hand. In a moment the letters were opened, and he was reading them with feverish haste. There were four letters in all, and when he had done he looked at us, and there was the light of hope in his eyes.

"Speak, man!" And I gripped him by the arm. "I cannot bear this longer!"

"It is G.o.d's providence," he said solemnly as he grasped my hand.

"Orrain, take heart! We win! Read these--and you too, Lorgnac! When you have read we must to the Queen at once."

CHAPTER XXIX

LA VALENTINOIS AND I

Monsieur de Crequy, his back to the light, stood in the embrasure of a window, deeply engaged in examining his features in a small hand-gla.s.s which he held daintily before him. The survey seemed to please monsieur, for he showed his teeth in a simper of satisfaction, and began to curl his black moustache between the forefinger and thumb of his disengaged hand. So engrossed was he that he never observed me coming up to him, and it was not until I was at his elbow that he suddenly realised my presence.

"_Morbleu_!" and he hastily slipped the gla.s.s in his pocket, "wherever did you spring from?"

"Not through the window, I a.s.sure you. I but came in the ordinary way.

Madame, I suppose, is within?" And I pointed to a closed door in front of us.

Crequy nodded. "Yes; reposing after the fatigues of the day, and will have none but a Chevalier of the Order to guard the entrance to her bower. What a day it has been! I suppose you know it will be on Sat.u.r.day?"

I could have struck the c.o.xcomb; but held myself in, and asked to see La Valentinois, adding that my affair was of vital import. At this Crequy began to hum and haw, and I had to humour him, telling him that madame would give him but small thanks for denying me, as my business concerned what was to happen on Sat.u.r.day.

"That is a different matter," he said. "I will see." And he tapped at the door. There was no answer; thereupon Crequy gently opened the door and stepped in. He came out again almost immediately.

"As I said, madame is reposing; but I have told the Syrian. Would you like to wait here?"

"Perhaps I had better get my business over as soon as possible, and save the Syrian the trouble of coming to the outer door," I said. At which Crequy shrugged his shoulders, and pointing to the door with a mock bow bade me enter.

I did as I was bidden, and found myself in a long and narrow room. The ceiling, painted to represent the sky lit up by the crescent moon, was supported by eight arabesque pillars, four on either hand. Around the bases of the pillars, and scattered here and there over the rich carpet, were seats made of huge soft cushions, covered with matchless embroidery. Near one of these luxurious seats was a low carved table upon which lay an open volume of Ronsard's poems, and close by it, thrown carelessly on the carpet, was a lute with a cl.u.s.ter of streaming ribbons, and a black and white satin sling attached to it. Behind this stood a carved ebony _prie-dieu_, and above the crucifix that surmounted it hung a shield surrounded by a wreath of flowers, and bearing upon it a tree springing out of a tomb, with the legend: "Left alone--I live in thee," upon a scroll beneath. This was the strange manner in which Diane de Poitiers kept the memory of her dead husband green--for she ever posed as the inconsolable widow, carrying her husband's soul about with her, packed in straw, like her Venetian crystal goblets and eastern pottery. In the centre of the room, upon a veined marble pedestal, stood, in strange incongruity, a replica of the great bronze of Goujou, that faced her chateau of Anet. In this Diane was represented nude, reclining upon a stag, a bow in her hand, and surrounded by dogs.

Owing to the heat of the day the windows were open; but the curtains of pale blue silk, with silver crescents gleaming on them, were drawn to keep out the afternoon glare; and the subdued, opal-tinted light fell softly on this bower of luxury, which was, however, likely to prove the den of a tigress to me.

The room was empty when I entered, and after looking around me I picked up the volume of Ronsard. It was open at his ode to La Valentinois:

"Seray-je seul, vivant en France de vostre age, Sans chanter vostre nom, si criant et si puissant?

Diray-je point l'honneur de vostre beau croissant?

Feray-je point pour vous quelque immortel ouvrage?"

So far I read, and then flung the book with its fulsome verses down on the cushions. As I did this, I heard a little burst of laughter, followed by the harsh, chuckling scream of a parrot, and then a voice:

"Here! Vert-Vert! Here! To my shoulder!"

I stepped back behind a pillar, the curtains covering a door leading into an inner apartment were set aside, and La Valentinois entered, bearing on her left shoulder a large green parrot, whose plumage she caressed with her right hand. She was clad in a loose robe of some soft, clinging material that shimmered like cloth of gold. It was fastened at her throat by a jewelled star, and a golden zone clasped her waist. Her abundant hair hung loose in black, curling ma.s.ses, and her little feet were thrust into gemmed and embroidered slippers.

Madame had apparently come forth in some haste I could see.

"Orrain," she said, her face half turned from me, for she was looking at her bird, "whatever brings you here? Is it anything from Sire Grosse-Tete?" And then an exclamation broke from her, and she stopped short, for she saw me.

"You!" she said. "I thought it was the Vidame d'Orrain."

"A mistake, madame, in announcing me, perhaps, which I regard as the most fortunate in my life." And I bowed before her.

So bad, so worthless was this woman, that she utterly mistook my speech.

"True! Leila said Monsieur d'Orrain--but I thought it was your brother."

I made no answer, and she glanced at me, the colour rising to her cheeks, and a smile on her lips, as she went on:

"'Tis a thousand pities, Monsieur le Chevalier, that you have taken the wrong side; and by rights I should strike that gong there and call my guards, for you are dangerous, they say; but," and she sank languorously down in the cushions, her pet now on her wrist, "'tis a warm day, and I feel bored. Do I not, Vert-Vert? Perhaps monsieur here will amuse me." And she stroked the feathers of the bird, and bending down kissed it.

"Madame," I began; but she glanced up, and stayed me with a laugh.

"What a voice! As severe as my dear De Mouchy's when he delivers a judgment; but, Chevalier, Leila, my Syrian maid, always tells me 'tis easier to sit than to stand, and there is room on these cushions--come!" And stretching out a shapely white arm she let it rest on the amber-hued silk of the cushions by her side.

As I gazed on the temptress lying at my feet the thought came to me to slay her in her sin; and perhaps she saw the sombre light in my eyes, and read my heart, for she drew her arm back swiftly, and half rose; but mastering myself I gave her her chance.

"Madame, I have come to beg your mercy----"

"You!" And she sank back again on her cushions.

"Yes, madame! I have come to ask for a life."

"Not yours, surely? It never was Orrain's way." And she smiled.

"Ay; it is my life ten times over, as well as another's; but you know whom I mean, madame! She is innocent, and a word from you will save her."

"Oh, monsieur, you overrate my power! And this is not amusing. It is too hot to talk of such things."

"Madame, be merciful! Spare her! She never harmed you."

"What!" And tossing the bird from her she rose to her feet, lithe as a pantheress. So perfectly was she formed that one did not realise how tall she was until she came near; and she was close enough to me now, her eyes flashing with a hundred evil, angry lights.

"She never harmed me? Never hurt me? She! That white-faced provincial, with her airs of virtue, who tried to shame me in public!

Look you, I hate that woman! Do you hear? I hate her--hate her! If by the lifting of my little finger I could save her, do you think I would? Never! Let her die! And she shall die, as Philippine de Lune did----"

"Madame!"

"And you!" she burst in, "insolent that you are!--you! who have dared to come here! Think you that you will go free?"

"Enough, madame! I no longer appeal to your pity."

She had half turned from me, and made a step towards the gong as if to strike it, but faced back like lightning, womanlike determined to have the last word.