A Gentleman of France

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'Ay, but M. de Bruhl?' I said, desiring to learn clearly whether
he had authority to treat for all. 'What of him?'

He looked at me impatiently. 'Come and see!' he said, with an
ugly sneer.

'No, no, my friend,' I answered, shaking my head warily. 'That
is not according to rule. You are the surrendering party, and it
is for you to trust us. Bring out the ladies, that I may have
speech with them, and then I will draw off my men.'

'Nom de Dieu!' he cried hoarsely, with so much fear and rage in
his face that I recoiled from him. 'That is just what I cannot
do.'

'You cannot?' I rejoined with a sudden thrill of horror. 'Why
not? why not, man?' And in the excitement of the moment,
conceiving the idea that the worst had happened to the women, I
pushed him back with so much fury that he laid his hand on his
sword.

'Confound you!' he stuttered, 'stand back! It is not that, I
tell you! Mademoiselle is safe and sound, and madame, if she had
her senses, would be sound too. It is not our fault if she is
not. But I have not got the key of the rooms. It is in Bruhl's
pocket, I tell you!'

'Oh!' I made answer drily. 'And Bruhl?'

'Hush, man,' Fresnoy replied, wiping the perspiration from his
brow, and bringing his pallid, ugly face, near to mine, 'he has
got the plague!'

I stared at him for a moment in silence; which he was the first
to break. 'Hush!' he muttered again, laying a trembling hand on
my arm, 'if the men knew it--and not seeing him they are beginning
to suspect it--they would rise on us. The devil himself could
not keep them here. Between him and them I am on a razor's edge.
Madame is with him, and the door is locked. Mademoiselle is in a
room upstairs, and the door is locked. And he has the keys.
What can I do? What can I do, man?' he cried, his voice hoarse
with terror and dismay.

'Get the keys,' I said instinctively.

'What?' From him?' he muttered, with an irrepressible shudder,
which shook his bloated cheeks. 'God forbid I should see him!
It takes stout men infallibly. I should be dead by night! By
God, I should!' he continued, whining. 'Now you are not stout,
M. de Marsac. If you will come with me I will draw off the men
from that part; and you may go in and get the key from him.'

His terror, which surpassed all feeling, and satisfied me without
doubt that he was in earnest, was so intense that it could not
fail to infect me. I felt my face, as I looked into his, grow to
the same hue. I trembled as he did and grew sick. For if there
is a word which blanches the soldier's cheek and tries his heart
more than another, it is the name of the disease which travels in
the hot noonday, and, tainting the strongest as he rides in his
pride, leaves him in a few hours a poor mass of corruption. The
stoutest and the most reckless fear it; nor could I, more than
another, boast myself indifferent to it, or think of its presence
without shrinking. But the respect in which a man of birth holds
himself saves him from the unreasoning fear which masters the
vulgar; and in a moment I recovered myself, and made up my mind
what it behoved me to do.

'Wait awhile,' I said sternly, 'and I will come with you.'

He waited accordingly, though with manifest impatience, while I
sent for M. d'Agen, and communicated to him what I was about to
do. I did not think it necessary to enter into details, or to
mention Bruhl's state, for some of the men were well in hearing.
I observed that the young gentleman received my directions with a
gloomy and dissatisfied air. But I had become by this time so
used to his moods, and found myself so much mistaken in his
character, that I scarcely gave the matter a second thought. I
crossed the court with Fresnoy, and in a moment had mounted the
outside staircase and passed through the heavy doorway.

The moment I entered, I was forced to do Fresnoy the justice of
admitting that he had not come to me before he was obliged. The
three men who were on guard inside tossed down their weapons at
sight of me, while a fourth, who was posted at a neighbouring
window, hailed me with a cry of relief. From the moment I
crossed the threshold the defence was practically at an end. I
might, had I chosen or found it consistent with honour, have
called in my following and secured the entrance. Without
pausing, however, I passed on to the foot of a gloomy stone
staircase winding up between walls of rough masonry; and here
Fresnoy stood on one side and stopped. He pointed upwards with a
pale face and muttered,'The door on the left.'

Leaving him there watching me as I went upwards, I mounted slowly
to the landing, and by the light of an arrow-slit which dimly lit
the ruinous place found the door he had described, and tried it
with my hand. It was locked, but I heard someone moan in the
room, and a step crossed the floor, as if he or another came to
the door and listened. I knocked, hearing my heart beat in the
silence. At last a voice quite strange to me cried, 'Who is it?'

'A friend,' I muttered, striving to dull my voice that they might
not hear me below.

'A friend!' the bitter answer came. 'Go! You have made a
mistake! We have no friends.'

'It is I, M. de Marsac,' I rejoined, knocking more imperatively.
'I would see M. de Bruhl. I must see him.'

The person inside, at whose identity I could now make a guess,
uttered a low exclamation, and still seemed to hesitate. But on
my repeating my demand I heard a rusty bolt withdrawn, and Madame
de Bruhl, opening the door a few inches, showed her face in the
gap. 'What do you want?' she murmured jealously.

Prepared as I was to see her, I was shocked by the change in her
appearance, a change which even that imperfect light failed to
hide. Her blue eyes had grown larger and harder, and there were
dark marks under them. Her face, once so brilliant, was grey and
pinched; her hair had lost its golden lustre. 'What do you
want?' she repeated, eyeing me fiercely.

'To see him,' I answered.

'You know?' she muttered. 'You know that he--'

I nodded.

And you still want to come in? My God! Swear you will not hurt
him?'

'Heaven forbid!' I said; and on that she held the door open that
I might enter. But I was not half-way across the room before she
had passed me, and was again between me and the wretched
makeshift pallet. Nay, when I stood and looked down at him, as
he moaned and rolled in senseless agony, with livid face and
distorted features (which the cold grey light of that miserable
room rendered doubly appalling), she hung over him and fenced him
from me: so that looking on him and her, and remembering how he
had treated her, and why he came to be in this place, I felt
unmanly tears rise to my eyes. The room was still a prison, a
prison with broken mortar covering the floor and loopholes for
windows; but the captive was held by other chains than those of
force. When she might have gone free, her woman's love surviving
all that he had done to kill it, chained her to his side with
fetters which old wrongs and present danger were powerless to
break.

It was impossible that I could view a scene so strange without
feelings of admiration as well as pity; or without forgetting for
a while, in my respect for Madame de Bruhl's devotion, the risk
which had seemed so great to me on the stairs. I had come simply
for a purpose of my own, and with no thought of aiding him who
lay here. But so great, as I have noticed on other occasions, is
the power of a noble example, that, before I knew it, I found
myself wondering what I could do to help this man, and how I
could relieve madame, in the discharge of offices which her
husband had as little right to expect at her hands as at mine.
At the mere sound of the word Plague I knew she would be deserted
in this wilderness by all, or nearly all; a reflection which
suggested to me that I should first remove mademoiselle to a
distance, and then consider what help I could afford here.

I was about to tell her the purpose with which I had come when a
paroxysm more than ordinarily violent, and induced perhaps by the
excitement of my presence--though he seemed beside himself--
seized him, and threatened to tax her powers to the utmost. I
could not look on and see her spend herself in vain; and almost
before I knew what I was doing I had laid my hands on him and
after a brief struggle thrust him back exhausted on the couch.

She looked at me so strangely after that that in the half-light
which the loopholes afforded I tried in vain to read her meaning.
'Why did you come?' she cried at length, breathing quickly.
'You, of all men? Why did you come? He was no friend of yours,
Heaven knows!'

'No, madame, nor I of his,' I answered bitterly,
with a sudden revulsion of feeling.

'Then why are you here?' she retorted.

'I could not send one of my men,' I answered. 'And I want the
key of the room above.'

At the mention of that the room above--she flinched as if I had
struck her, and looked as strangely at Bruhl as she had before
looked at me. No doubt the reference to Mademoiselle de la Vire
recalled to her mind her husband's wild passion for the girl,
which for the moment she had forgotten. Nevertheless she did not
speak, though her face turned very pale. She stooped over the
couch, such as it was, and searching his clothes, presently stood
up, and held out the key to me. 'Take it, and let her out,' she
said with a forced smile. 'Take it up yourself, and do it. You
have done so much for her it is right that you should do this.'

I took the key, thanking her with more haste than thought, and
turned towards the door, intending to go straight up to the floor
above and release mademoiselle. My hand was already on the door,
which madame, I found, had left ajar in the excitement of my
entrance, when I heard her step behind me. The next instant she
touched me on the shoulder. 'You fool!' she exclaimed, her eyes
flashing, 'would you kill her?' Would you go from him to her,
and take the plague to her? God forgive me, it was in my mind to
send you. And men are such puppets you would have gone!'

I trembled with horror, as much at my stupidity as at her craft.
For she was right: in another moment I should have gone, and
comprehension and remorse would have come too late. As it was,
in my longing at once to reproach her for her wickedness and to
thank her for her timely repentance, I found no words; but I
turned away in silence and went out with a full heart.

CHAPTER XXX.

STRICKEN.

Outside the door, standing in the dimness of the landing, I found
M. d'Agen. At any other time I should have been the first to ask
him why he had left the post which I had assigned to him. But at
the moment I was off my balance, and his presence suggested
nothing more than that here was the very person who could best
execute my wishes. I held out the key to him at arms length, and
bade him release Mademoiselle de la Vire, who was in the room
above, and escort her out of the castle. 'Do not let her linger
here,' I continued urgently. 'Take her to the place where we
found the wood-cutters. You need fear no resistance.'

'But Bruhl?' he said, as he took the key mechanically from me.

'He is out of the question,' I answered in a low voice. 'We have
done with him. He has the plague.'

He uttered a sharp exclamation. 'What of madame, then?' he
muttered.

'She is with him,' I said.

He cried out suddenly at that, sucking in his breath, as I have
known men do in pain. And but that I drew back he would have
laid his hand on my sleeve. 'With him?' he stammered. 'How is
that?'

'Why, man, where else should she be?' I answered, forgetting
that the sight of those two together had at first surprised me
also, as well as moved me. 'Or who else should be with him? He
is her husband.'

He stared at me for a moment at that, and then he turned slowly
away and began to go up; while I looked after him, gradually
thinking out the clue to his conduct. Could it be that it was
not mademoiselle attracted him, but Madame de Bruhl?

And with that hint I understood it all. I saw in a moment; the
conclusion to which he had come on hearing of the presence of
madame in my room. In my room at night! The change had dated
from that time; instead of a careless, light-spirited youth he
had become in a moment a morose and restive churl, as difficult
to manage as an unbroken colt. Quite clearly I saw now the
meaning of the change; why he had shrunk from me, and why all
intercourse between us had been so difficult; and so constrained.

I laughed to think how he had deceived himself, and how nearly I
had come to deceiving myself also. And what more I might have
thought I do not know, for my meditations were cut short at this
point by a loud outcry below, which, beginning in one or two
sharp cries of alarm and warning, culminated quickly in a roar of
anger and dismay.

Fancying I recognised Maignan's voice, I ran down the stairs,
seeking a loophole whence I could command the scene; but finding
none, and becoming more and more alarmed, I descended to the
court, which I found, to my great surprise, as empty and silent
as an old battle-field. Neither on the enemy's side nor on ours
was a single man to be seen. With growing dismay I sprang across
the court and darted through the outer tower, only to find that
and the gateway equally unguarded. Nor was it until I had passed
through the latter, and stood on the brow of the slope, which we
had had to clamber with so much toil, that I learned what was
amiss.

Far below me a string of men, bounding and running at speed,
streamed down the hill towards the horses. Some were shouting,
some running silently, with their elbows at their sides and their
scabbards leaping against their calves. The horses stood
tethered in a ring near the edge of the wood, and by some
oversight had been left unguarded. The foremost runner I made
out to be Fresnoy; but a number of his men were close upon him,
and then after an interval came Maignan, waving his blade and
emitting frantic threats with every stride. Comprehending at
once that Fresnoy and his following, rendered desperate by panic
and the prospective loss of their horses, had taken advantage of
my absence and given Maignan the slip, I saw I could do nothing
save watch the result of the struggle.

This was not long delayed. Maignan's threats, which seemed to me
mere waste of breath, were not without effect on those he
followed. There is nothing which demoralises men like flight.
Troopers who have stood charge after charge while victory was
possible will fly like sheep, and like sheep allow themselves to
he butchered, when they have once turned the back. So it was
here. Many of Fresnoy's men were stout fellows, but having
started to run they had no stomach for fighting. Their fears
caused Maignan to appear near, while the horses seemed distant;
and one after another they turned aside and made like rabbits for
the wood. Only Fresnoy, who had taken care to have the start of
all, kept on, and, reaching the horses, cut the rope which
tethered the nearest, and vaulted nimbly on its back. Safely
seated there, he tried to frighten the others into breaking
loose; but not succeeding at the first attempt, and seeing
Maignan, breathing vengeance, coming up with him, he started his
horse, a bright bay, and rode off laughing along the edge of the
wood.

Fully content with the result--for our carelessness might have
cost us very dearly--I was about to turn away when I saw that
Maignan had mounted and was preparing to follow. I stayed
accordingly to see the end, and from my elevated position enjoyed
a first-rate view of the race which ensued. Both were heavy
weights, and at first Maignan gained no ground. But when a
couple of hundred yards had been covered Fresnoy had the ill-luck
to blunder into some heavy ground, and this enabling his pursuer,
who had time to avoid it, to get within two-score paces of him,
the race became as exciting as I could wish. Slowly and surely
Maignan, who had chosen the Cid, reduced the distance between
them to a score of paces--to fifteen--to ten. Then Fresnoy,
becoming alarmed, began to look over his shoulder and ride in
earnest. He had no whip, and I saw him raise his sheathed sword,
and strike his beast on the flank. It sprang forward, and
appeared for a few strides to be holding its own. Again he
repeated the blow but this time with a different result. While
his hand was still in the air, his horse stumbled, as it seemed
to me, made a desperate effort to recover itself, fell headlong
and rolled over and over.

Something in the fashion of the fall, which reminded me of the
mishap I had suffered on the way to Chize led me to look more
particularly at the horse as it rose trembling to its feet, and
stood with drooping head. Sure enough, a careful glance enabled
me, even at that distance, to identify it as Matthew's bay--the
trick-horse. Shading my eyes, and gazing on the scene with
increased interest, I saw Maignan, who had dismounted, stoop over
something on the ground, and again after an interval stand
upright.

But Fresnoy did not rise. Nor was it without awe that, guessing
what had happened to him, I remembered how he had used this very
horse to befool me; how heartlessly he had abandoned Matthew, its
owner; and by what marvellous haps--which men call chances--
Providence had brought it to this place, and put it in his heart
to choose it out of a score which stood ready to his hand!

I was right. The man's neck was broken. He was quite dead.
Maignan passed the word to one, and he to another, and so it
reached me on the hill. It did not fail to awaken memories both
grave and wholesome. I thought of St. Jean d'Angely, of Chize,
of the house in the Ruelle d'Arcy; then in the midst of these
reflections I heard voices, and turned to find mademoiselle, with
M. d'Agen behind me.

Her hand was still bandaged, and her dress, which she had not
changed since leaving Blois, was torn and stained with mud. Her
hair was in disorder; she walked with a limp. Fatigue and
apprehension had stolen the colour from her cheeks, and in a word
she looked, when I turned, so wan and miserable that for a moment
I feared the plague had seized her.

The instant, however, that she caught sight of me a wave of
colour invaded, not her cheeks only, but her brow and neck. From
her hair to the collar of her gown she was all crimson. For a
second she stood gazing at me, and then, as I saluted her, she
sprang forward. Had I not stepped back she would have taken my
hands.

My heart so overflowed with joy at this sight, that in the
certainty her blush gave me I was fain to toy with my happiness.
All jealousy of M. d'Agen was forgotten; only I thought it well
not to alarm her by telling her what I knew of the Bruhls.
'Mademoiselle,' I said earnestly, bowing, but retreating from
her, 'I thank God for your escape. One of your enemies lies
helpless here, and another is dead yonder.'

'It is not of my enemies I am thinking,' she answered quickly,
'but of God, of whom you rightly remind me; and then of my
friends.'

'Nevertheless,' I answered as quickly, 'I beg you will not stay
to thank them now, but go down to the wood with M. d'Agen, who
will do all that may be possible to make you comfortable.'

'And you, sir?' she said, with a charming air of confusion.

'I must stay here,' I answered, 'for a while.'

'Why?' she asked with a slight frown.

I did not know how to tell her, and I began lamely. 'Someone
must stop with madame,' I said without thought.

'Madame?' she exclaimed. 'Does she require assistance? I will
stop.'

'God forbid!' I cried.

I do not know how she understood the words, but her face, which
had been full of softness, grew hard. She moved quickly towards
me; but, mindful of the danger I carried about me, I drew farther
back. 'No nearer, mademoiselle,' I murmured, 'if you please.'

She looked puzzled, and finally angry, turning away with a
sarcastic bow. 'So be it, then, sir,' she said proudly, 'if you
desire it. M. d'Agen, if you are not afraid of me, will you lead
me down?'

I stood and watched them go down the hill, comforting myself with
the reflection that to-morrow, or the next day, or within a few
days at most, all would be well. Scanning her figure as she
moved, I fancied that she went with less spirit as the space
increased between us. And I pleased myself with the notion. A
few days, a few hours, I thought, and all would be well. The
sunset which blazed in the west was no more than a faint
reflection of the glow which for a few minutes pervaded my mind,
long accustomed to cold prospects and the chill of neglect.

A term was put to these pleasant imaginings by the arrival of
Maignan; who, panting from the ascent of the hill, informed me
with a shamefaced air that the tale of horses was complete, but
that four of our men were missing, and had doubtless gone off
with the fugitives. These proved to be M. d'Agen's two lackeys
and the two varlets M. de Rambouillet had lent us. There
remained besides Simon Fleix only Maignan's three men from Rosny;
but the state in which our affairs now stood enabled us to make
light of this. I informed the equerry--who visibly paled at the
news--that M. de Bruhl lay ill of the plague, and like to die;
and I bade him form a camp in the wood below, and, sending for
food to the house where we had slept the night before, make
mademoiselle as comfortable as circumstances permitted.

He listened with surprise, and when I had done asked with concern
what I intended to do myself.

'Someone must remain with Madam de Bruhl,' I answered. 'I have
already been to the bedside to procure the key of mademoiselle's
room, and I run no farther risk. All I ask is that you will
remain in the neighbourhood, and furnish us with supplies should
it be necessary.'

He looked at me with emotion, which, strongly in conflict with
his fears as it was, touched me not a little. 'But morbleu! M.
de Marsac,' he said, 'you will take the plague and die.'

'If God wills,' I answered, very lugubriously I confess, for pale
looks in one commonly so fearless could not but depress me. 'But
if not, I shall escape. Any way, my friend,' I continued, 'I owe
you a quittance. Simon Fleix has an inkhorn and paper. Bid him
bring them to this stone and leave them, and I will write that
Maignan, the equerry of the Baron de Rosny, served me to the end
as a brave soldier and an honest friend. 'What, MON AMI?' I
continued, for I saw that he was overcome by this, which was,
indeed, a happy thought of mine. 'Why not? It is true, and will
acquit you with the Baron. Do it, and go. Advise M. d'Agen, and
be to him what you have been to me.'

He swore two or three great oaths, such as men of his kind use to
hide an excess of feeling, and after some further remonstrance
went away to carry out my orders; leaving me to stand on the brow
in a strange kind of solitude, and watch horses and men withdraw
to the wood, until the whole valley seemed left to me and
stillness and the grey evening. For a time I stood in thought.
Then reminding myself, for a fillip to my spirits, that I had
been far more alone when I walked the streets of St. Jean
friendless and threadbare (than I was now), I turned, and
swinging my scabbard against my boots for company, stumbled
through the dark, silent courtyard, and mounted as cheerfully as
I could to madame's room.

To detail all that passed during the next five days would be
tedious and in indifferent taste, seeing that I am writing this
memoir for the perusal of men of honour; for though I consider
the offices which the whole can perform for the sick to be worthy
of the attention of every man, however well born, who proposes to
see service, they seem to be more honourable in the doing than
the telling. One episode, however, which marked those days
filled me then, as it does now, with the most lively pleasure;
and that was the unexpected devotion displayed by Simon Fleix,
who, coming to me, refused to leave, and showed himself at this
pinch to be possessed of such sterling qualities that I freely
forgave him the deceit he had formerly practised on me. The fits
of moody silence into which he still fell at times and an
occasional irascibility seemed to show that he had not altogether
conquered his insane fancy; but the mere fact that; he had come
to me in a situation of hazard, and voluntarily removed himself
from mademoiselle's neighbourhood, gave me good hope for the
future.

M. de Bruhl died early on the morning of the second day, and
Simon and I buried him at noon. He was a man of courage and
address, lacking only principles. In spite of madame's grief and
prostration, which were as great as though she had lost the best
husband in the world, we removed before night to a separate camp
in the woods; and left with the utmost relief the grey ruin on
the hill, in which, it seemed to me, we had lived an age. In our
new bivouac, where, game being abundant, and the weather warm, we
lacked no comfort, except the society of our friends, we remained
four days longer. On the fifth morning we met the others of our
company by appointment on the north road, and commenced the
return journey.

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