Robert Tournay Part 12

A MAN AND A MARQUIS

Colonel Tournay accompanied the crowd of zealous Republicans who had been the followers of Gardin, until he saw them dispersed to their various homes or noisily installed in the wine-room of the village inn.

Then he rapidly retraced his steps to the chateau.

He found Mademoiselle Rochefort seated in the salon, contemplating half mournfully, half disdainfully, the evidences of the mob's incursion, which surrounded her in the shape of costly pieces of furniture from the drawing-room, now marred and broken; and bottles from the wine cellars, shattered and strewn upon the floor.

She did not make any movement as Tournay entered the room, but seemed occupied with her own thoughts; and for a few moments he stood in silence, hesitating to speak, as if the communication he had to make required more tact and diplomacy than for the moment he felt himself master of.

Finally, approaching her, he said: "Mademoiselle, the immediate danger is past. You have nothing to fear for the present. As soon as you have recovered sufficiently I would like to speak with you."

She let her hand drop from her forehead and looked up at him. Her face was very pale, but she was quite composed and the voice was firm with which she answered:--

"I am able to hear you now, Robert Tournay."

He drew a sigh of relief. "She has the de Rochefort spirit," he thought.

"All is quiet now," he said. "But when Gardin fully recovers consciousness I fear he will excite his followers to further violence.

It will be unsafe for you to remain here." As she did not answer, he continued,--"I have made arrangements, mademoiselle, to conduct you to the German frontier. Can you prepare to accompany me at once?"

"I am prepared to leave here at once--but--I cannot go with you. It is better that I go alone," Mademoiselle de Rochefort replied.

"Alone! It would be folly in you to attempt it. Do you suppose that I could stand quietly by and see you incur such a danger?"

Mademoiselle de Rochefort's eyes, at all other times so frank and fearless, did not meet his earnest gaze; she answered him hastily, as one who would have an unpleasant interview come to a speedy end:--

"You have saved me from a great danger. Believe me, I am not ungrateful.

You have already done too much. I cannot accept anything more from you.

Pray leave me now to go my own way."

"That is impossible, mademoiselle; I shall only leave you when you are across the frontier. Traveling as my wife, under the pa.s.sports that I have secured, the journey can be made in comparative safety, provided always that we start in time."

At the words "my wife" Mademoiselle de Rochefort started, but she only repeated:--

"I cannot go with you."

"But," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Tournay, "I don't understand; it was agreed"--

She looked up at him. "I agreed to permit you to tell those wretches that I was your wife, Father Ambrose, your father, and you, all protesting that it was the only way to prevent them from destroying the chateau and those within it. But you also said that the marriage would not be considered valid, and as soon as the danger was over you would go away."

"I said," answered Tournay quietly, "that I should in no way consider the marriage valid; that when I had once taken you to a place of safety I should leave you. But until then I shall remain by your side."

"Some one said you would go away at once, either your father or the priest, and so I yielded. Now you tell me I must go away with you, and"--she hesitated at the words, "be known as your wife."

"But no one will know who you are," said Tournay earnestly. "The carriage will be a closed one--you shall have Agatha with you. No one shall be allowed to intrude upon you. Three or four days will bring us to the frontier. As soon as you are there, and in the care of some of your friends who have already emigrated, I will leave you. Cannot you trust me three days?" he asked sorrowfully.

"I cannot go with you," she repeated. "You are of the Republic--I have already accepted too much from your hands. Can I forget that those hands which you now stretch out to aid me have helped to tear down a throne?

that like all the Republicans, you share the guilt of a king's murder?"

"I am only guilty of loving France more than the king. I did help to destroy a monarchy, but it was to build up a Republic."

"Then, instead of aiding, you should denounce me. I am of the Monarchy and I hate your Republic," she said defiantly. "I will accept protection from one of my own order or trust to G.o.d and my own efforts to preserve me."

"Where are those of your own order?" demanded Tournay bitterly. "They are scattered like leaves. Some have taken refuge in England or in Prussia. Some are hiding here in France. Your own cla.s.s fail you in the time of need."

"They do not fail," cried Edme. "If none are here it is because they are risking their lives elsewhere for our unhappy and hopeless cause; or languishing in your Republican prisons where so many of the chivalry of France lie awaiting death."

As if the thought goaded her to desperation she added fiercely, "Where I will join them rather than purchase my freedom at the price you propose."

"Mademoiselle," said Tournay calmly but with great firmness, "listen to reason. There is no time for lengthy explanation. I am actuated only by a desire for your safety. You must accompany me hence. I shall take you away with me."

Edme arose and confronted him with a look of scorn. "I stood here a short time ago," she said, "and before all that rabble heard myself proclaimed your wife; I, Edme de Rochefort, called a wife of a Republican--one of their number. Oh, the shame of it! What would my father have said if he had heard that I owed my life to a man steeped in the blood of the Revolution? That his daughter consented to be called the wife of her steward's son! a man of ign.o.ble birth, a servant"--

"Stop!" cried Tournay, the blood mounting to his forehead. "Stop! It is true that those of my blood have served your family for generations. It was one of my blood, I have heard it told, who in days gone by gave up his life for one of your ancestors upon the field of battle. Was that ign.o.ble? My father served yours faithfully during a long life; was that ign.o.ble? So have I, in my turn, served you. I was born to the position, but I served you proudly, not ign.o.bly. In speaking thus, you wrong yourself more than you do me, mademoiselle."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "STOP!" CRIED TOURNAY]

The suddenness of his outburst silenced her. He saw that her bosom heaved convulsively. He could not guess the conflicting emotions in her breast; her pride struggling with her grat.i.tude; her horror and detestation of the Republic contending with her admiration for his brave bearing in the face of danger; but as he looked at her, slight and girlish, standing there before him with flushed cheeks, as he saw the fire flash in her eyes although her hands trembled, he realized keenly how young, how defenseless she was, and his sudden burst of anger subsided. Her very pride moved him to pity by its impotence, and his heart yearned to be permitted to protect her from all the dangers which threatened her.

In a voice that trembled with emotion he went on:--

"Mademoiselle, I have known you since you were a child, and I have served you faithfully. Your wishes, your caprices have been my law. It was no galling servitude to me, mademoiselle, for mine was a service of love." He uttered the last words almost in a whisper, then stopped suddenly, as if the avowal had slipped from his lips unwittingly.

Mademoiselle de Rochefort started; while he spoke she had turned away; so he could not see her face, but he could imagine the look of disdain and scorn with which she had listened.

"Yes, I dared to love you," he continued. "I never meant to tell you, but now that the avowal has slipped from my lips I would have you know that I always loved you. That is why I am here now, pleading with you, not for your love, for that I know never can be mine, but for your safety, your life." She remained silent, and he continued, speaking rapidly,--"You have said that a king's blood is upon my hands. His death was necessary and I do not regret it." Edme shuddered and letting herself sink back into a chair sat there with her head resting on her hand, while she still kept her face turned from him. "I do not regret it, because it has given us the Republic. I glory in the Republic which has made me your equal." Bending over her, he said in a low voice, "I love you and am worthy of your love. Mademoiselle, listen to me. Come with me while there is yet time. Give me but the right to be your protector. I will protect you as the man guards the object of his purest, his deepest affection." In his fervor he bent over her until his lips almost touched her hair. "I will win a name that even you will be proud to own. Edme, come with me. It is the love of years that speaks to you thus--Come!" and he took her hand in his. As his fingers closed upon hers she sprang to her feet.

"Do not touch me," she cried, with a tone almost of terror. "I will hear no more. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see you. Go! for the love of heaven, leave me."

For a moment Tournay stood still. Her words wounded him to the quick, yet as they stabbed deepest, he loved her the more. Without speaking again he turned and left her. As he descended the stairs and pa.s.sed out through the broken doorway he vowed within himself that despite her pride, despite what she might say or do, he would yet find means to save her.

An hour pa.s.sed, and Edme remained in the salon where Tournay had left her. The spirit she had shown a short time before seemed much subdued.

Darkness had settled down over the room, and she felt herself alone and deserted. A current of air, coming through the broken doorway, swept up the stairs into the apartment, chilling her with its cold breath. She wondered what had become of Father Ambrose and old Matthieu, and whether Agatha had deserted her. Yet she did not seek for them. Indeed, she did not know where to find them, for the house had all the silence of emptiness.

She tried to plan what she should do in case she had been entirely abandoned, but her brain, usually so active, seemed benumbed. She could not think. Conscious that she must shake off this feeling of helplessness, she was about to rise and go in search of a light, when she heard a footstep outside in the corridor. "Agatha has come back,"

she thought, and stepped forward to meet her maid. The sound of footsteps approached until they reached the door of the salon; there they seemed to hesitate.

Edme was on the point of calling Agatha by name, when the door was pushed open and a man entered and pa.s.sed stealthily across the floor of the salon into the ante-chamber without noticing her presence. Edme thrust her hand over her mouth to stifle the cry that was upon her lips.

The man was evidently familiar with the surroundings, for almost immediately the light of a candle shone out from the ante-room, throwing a faint glow upon the polished floor of the salon. Edme had seen him very imperfectly in the darkness. She was uncertain whether he was one of the mob, returned alone for plunder, or one of the lackeys of her household who had got the better of his terror and returned to the chateau.

Unable to bear the suspense, she advanced toward the door of the ante-room. Her heart beat rapidly as she placed her hand upon the door, which had been left ajar. She hesitated one moment, then summoning up the courage that had sustained her during the whole of that terrible afternoon, she boldly pushed the door open and looked into the room. To her amazement she saw, bending over a cabinet, her cousin, the Marquis de Lacheville. The marquis held a candle in one hand while he searched hurriedly for something in the drawer of the cabinet. In his haste and anxiety he threw out the contents of each drawer as he opened it till the floor was littered with papers. So intent was he upon his search that he did not hear Edme's approach.

"Monsieur de Lacheville!" she said in a low tone. Upon hearing his name, the marquis uttered a cry like that of a hunted animal, and turning, confronted her.

"Mademoiselle de Rochefort, you here! How you startled me!" he exclaimed, endeavoring to control himself; but his knees shook, and his lips twitched nervously.

"Your coming gave me a start also, monsieur. You glided across the floor of the salon so like a phantom, I did not know who it was, nor what to think."