Prince Eugene and His Times Part 28

"Part us he shall not!" exclaimed Eugene, pa.s.sionately, while he flung his arm around the maiden's slender waist, and pressed her wildly to his heart. "Thou art Louvois' daughter, but my betrothed."

"I am Barbesieur's sister, but thou art my affianced!"

"Neither daughter nor sister of any man, my Laura; thou art thyself- -and being thyself--mine."

"Thine for life and death," was her reply, "and from this hour I know no will of mine."

"Then, ere thy father suspects our love, it must be sanctified before the altar of G.o.d. Our faith once plighted there, no hand of mortal can wrest thee from my side. Art ready to speak the irrevocable words that bind us together as man and wife?"

"I am ready," replied she, clasping her hands, and looking solemnly up to heaven. "If, in my eager acquiescence, I seem unmaidenly, forgive me; but I dare not be coy, Eugene; we have no time for conventional reserve, and I must act as becomes a brave and trusting woman, for every moment is fraught with danger. I am surrounded by spies, even of my own household, and, until I hear the blessing of the priest, I shall disbelieve my own happiness."

"Then hear me, dearest. I know how crafty are the spies of Louvois, and I tremble lest the whispering breeze betray our secret. Yes, we must be diligent, so diligent that Fate shall stand between our love and all contingency. For two days I shall part from thee--long days that will steep my soul in darkness! But day after to-morrow, at this same hour of the evening, I shall be here with the chaplain of the Princess de Carignan, an old and dear friend, who will bless our bridal. As witnesses, I will be accompanied by my kinsmen, the Princes de Conti, two of the worthiest n.o.bles of France. Be in readiness, my best beloved, that not a word need be spoken until we are married. Then away with me to the Hotel de Soissons, where those who love, may seek thee in thy husband's home."

"So soon?" murmured Laura, blushing. "Shall I leave my dear mistress without a word? Is she not to share our secret?"

"a.s.suredly not; for it would burden her with a painful responsibility. It would be her duty to betray you, artless child."

"Oh, I will not speak!" exclaimed Laura, eagerly. "I will be silent; and when--when we are married, we will beg so humbly for forgiveness that she will have to grant it."

"You must leave a note declaring everything; for with our marriage ends all secrecy. I will neither see you nor write until the appointed time. Dismiss your household as early as possible, and, if all is propitious, place a light in yonder window. If I see it, I will enter with the priest, and, lest there should be interruption, he will begin the ceremony at once."

"Alas, Eugene!" said Laura, looking anxiously around, "some evil spirit is about. It whispers me that this shall never be! Speak to me--in mercy speak! Let me hear thy voice, for even now its sinister threatenings are freezing the blood in my veins!"

"Nay, sweet one, fear nothing! My love shall compa.s.s thee with a charm that shall keep away all evil spirits, and make thy life a waking dream of bliss."

"How can I ever prove to thee how much I love thee?"

"Thou wilt prove it to me when, day after to-morrow, thou forsakest father and brother, to cleave to me alone; for never will my mother's son take the hand of Barbesieur Louvois."

"Nor my mother's daughter," cried Laura, vehemently,

"for she, too, has a debt of hatred to pay to the man who broke that mother's heart. And believe me, our marriage will avenge us both; for it will end his contemptible intrigues to sell my hand to whomsoever c.h.i.n.ks most gold in his. And now, dear Eugene, good- night!"

"Must I be exiled so soon, Laura? What have I done to be thus driven from paradise?"

"Nothing--nothing," stammered she. "But my mother's name has made me fear that--that I am wrong to hold such long parley with you in secret and at night. Methinks I see that mother's pleading eyes before me, and oh, Eugene! whenever they rest upon me thus, 'tis because danger threatens! Go, beloved, and G.o.d be with you!"

"I go," sighed he. "I would not stay one moment to wound your sweet scruples, my madonna. One more kiss, and then--good-night!"

They walked side by side until they stood upon the threshold. Eugene put his arm around her waist, and kissed her fair brow.

"Look," said she, "at yonder star that is just emerging from a fleecy cloud. It soars joyously upward now, and shall be to us an omen of hope and happiness. Farewell."

"Farewell!" was the sad response, and Eugene went slowly down the dark avenue, until he was lost in the gloom of night. Laura lingered for a while, listening to his footsteps, then resumed her seat at the table.

A half hour went by, and Laura sought her chamber. To her surprise she found her waiting-woman stretched at full length on the carpet, in a deep sleep, so deep that her mistress had much trouble to waken her. When, at last, she had been made to rise, she seemed scarcely to know where she was, or to whom she was speaking.

"I beg your ladyship's pardon," said she drowsily, "I was dreaming.

I thought I heard robbers in the house, and when your ladyship spoke, I was struggling."

"G.o.d be thanked, there are no robbers here!" returned Laura, kindly.

"Perhaps you heard the sentry's step in the park, and you ought to know that the Palais Royal is strictly guarded. But why are you not in bed with the rest? I dismissed you all."

"I have no right to retire before my mistress," returned the girl, obsequiously. "Therefore, I sat in your ladyship's room. to await you, but sleep overcame me, and I humbly crave your pardon. Shall I close the door that leads to the garden?"

"What! still afraid of robbers, Louise?" laughed Laura. "Well--close the door, if you will--good-night."

"Can I do nothing for your ladyship?"

"Thank you--yes. Open the door of Madame Dupont's room, and let me feel that I am within hearing of my dear old Cerberus. That is all."

The waiting-woman did as she was bidden, and then retired to her room, but not to sleep. She seated herself before a table, drew out her portfolio, and began to write. Now and then she paused and looked up, when the sinister light that shone in her eyes streamed through the room like the phosph.o.r.escent glow of the lichen that moulds in the churchyard.

She wrote the whole night long, and day dawned before she rose from her task.

"Ah," sighed she, "for such a service surely he will return to me! I have repeated their conversation, word for word, not a sigh or a kiss have I forgotten. Who but his poor Louise would have served him so faithfully! 'Tis a vile trade, that of a spy; nor would I have accepted such a mission for all the gold in the king's treasury; but, for love of Barbesieur Louvois, I would sell my own sister to infamy--why not his?"

While thus soliloquizing, she had left her own room and crossed the corridor that led to the men's apartments. She opened the door of one of the rooms without knocking, and going directly up to a bed she touched the sleeper, and having wakened him, whispered:

"George, awake--awake!--rouse up quickly!"

"What is it?" mumbled George, stretching himself.

"Hist!--It is I, Louise. Dress yourself as speedily as you can, and away with this packet to your master. Give it to no messenger, but place it in his own hands, and he will reward you magnificently, for you will have done him a great service."

She glided away and returned to her own room, leaving the door open.

In less than fifteen minutes George stood before her, equipped for secret service. "Mademoiselle Louise," whispered he, "I shall be with Monsieur de Louvois in ten minutes; for I have the key of the postern, and can slip out and back again without anybody being the wiser for my little excursion."

"So much the better. Away with you, and the sooner the better!"

George went on his way, and Louise stood in her doorway until she heard him softly open and close the outer door below; then she threw herself upon her bed to sleep. Her last words were these:

"Oh, faithless but loved--now can I dream that thine arms are around me once more!"

CHAPTER IX.

THE BETRAYAL.

The sun was high in the heavens when Laura awoke, and rang for her waiting-woman. Mademoiselle Louise, fresh, smiling, and officious, came at once from the anteroom, and began the toilet of her mistress. She seemed to take more pleasure than usual in gathering her magnificent dark coils into a net of gold and pearls, and to linger more admiringly than ever over the last little touches given to the lace that bordered Laura's neglige of spotless white mull.

She certainly was one of the loveliest of created beings, and so thought good Madame Dupont, as her ex-pupil came into the dining- room, and imprinted two hearty kisses on her withered old cheeks.

They sat down together to breakfast, and George, looking as innocent as if he had just awaked from the sleep of the righteous, came in with their morning chocolate. All went on as usual, except with the young marchioness, who, instead of laughing and chatting of Italy, and Bonaletta, as she was accustomed to do with her "dear Dupont,"

sipped her chocolate in silent abstraction. Breakfast had long been over, and still she sat in her arm-chair, looking dreamily into the garden, her head leaning on her hand, her lips sometimes rippling with a smile, sometimes opening with a gentle sigh.

She had been plunged in her blissful reverie for almost an hour, when the door was opened, and George appeared before her.