Chapter VII: Part 7

"That is not true with me. I still think my Mercedes young and lovable, and I have always loved her ever since I have been in the world. My father is old, so people say, but I enjoy myself more with him than with Clindor; and I don't see that age makes any difference between Master Lucilio and us. Do you get tired of me because I am younger?"

"No, Mario; you are much more sensible and attractive than other boys of your age, and you already know more than I do, in the studies we have together."

"Tell me, Lauriane, do you think me nicer than your other husband?"

"I must not say that, Mario. He was my husband, and you are not."

"Did you love him because he was your husband?"

"I cannot say; I did not love him much when he was only my cousin; I thought him too wild and too fond of making a disturbance. But when they took us to the Reformed Church together and said to us: 'Now you are married; you will not see each other again for seven or eight years, but it is your duty to love each other;' I answered: 'Very well;' and I prayed for my husband every day, asking God to do me the favor to make me love him when I should see him again."

"And you never saw him again! Were you grieved when he died?"

"Yes, Mario. He was my cousin, and I wept for him."

"And so if I should die, who am neither your cousin nor your husband, you wouldn't weep for me?"

"You must not talk about dying, Mario," said Lauriane; "they say that it brings bad luck when one is young. I don't want you to die, and I say again that I love you dearly."

"But you won't promise me when I shall be your husband?"

"Why, Mario, what good would it do you to have me for your wife? You do not even know whether you will want to marry when you are old enough."

"Yes, I do, Lauriane! I want nobody else for a wife but you, because you are good, and because you love everybody that I love. And as you say that a woman must love her husband, I know that you will always love me if we are married; but, if you marry someone else, you will never think about loving me. Then I shall be very unhappy, and it makes me want to cry just to think of it."

"And now you are really crying!" said Lauriane, wiping his eyes with her handkerchief. "Come, come, Mario, I tell you that you are ill to-night, and that you must have a good supper and a good night's sleep; for you are worrying about troubles that are still to come, instead of rejoicing over those that you conquered last night."

"What is past is past," said Mario; "what is to come--I don't know why I think so much about it to-day; but I do, and I cannot help it."

"You have been too much wrought up!"

"Perhaps so; but I do not feel tired; and I do not know why I thought of you all through the night, whenever my father and I were in great danger.--'If we should both die,' I said to myself, 'who will save my Lauriane?'--Really, I thought of you as much, perhaps more than of my Mercedes and all the others. And I thought of you more when I met Pilar than at any other time."

"Why did that bad girl make you think of your Lauriane?"

Mario reflected a moment, then replied:

"You see, when I was travelling with the gypsies, I used often to play and talk with that child, who knows Spanish and a little Arabic, and who made me feel sorry for her, because she always seemed sick and unhappy. Mercedes and I were always as kind to her as we could be, and she was fond of us. She called Mercedes _mother_ and me my _little husband_. And when I said: 'No, I don't want to be,' she would cry and sulk, so that I had to say to comfort her: 'Yes, yes, it is all right!' She did us a service last night, I agree; she went very promptly to give warning to Monsieur Robin and Monsieur Guillaume, as I told her to; but I had a horror of her all the same, because I knew that she was cruel and had no religion. And then that name of husband, which she had often given me against my will, made me sick, and I remembered that you and I had promised in sport to marry each other, and I saw the devil on one side of me, with her features, and my guardian angel on the other side, with yours."

As Mario concluded, a stone from the little cottage fell so near Lauriane that she had a narrow escape from being wounded.

The two children hastily departed, thinking that the cottage was falling to pieces; and they joined the marquis, who was awaiting them for dinner.

LXI

Meanwhile, Monsieur Poulain had been sought in vain to administer the sacrament to his dying parishioners; he could not be found.

His house had been pillaged by the gypsies before any others. His servant had been roughly used and was in bed, praying to heaven for the return of the rector, concerning whom she was unable to give any information. He had disappeared two days before.

At last, during the evening, just as Monsieur Robin and Guillaume d'Ars were about to retire with their men, leaving their wounded to the hospitable care of the marquis, Jean Faraudet, the farmer of Brilbault, appeared, and requested permission to make an important communication to his master.

This is what he had to tell; and we will describe at the same time the events of the previous evening at Brilbault, whither we have not as yet had leisure to follow the numerous persons who had assembled there by agreement, to surround and storm the old manor.

The arrangements had been so carefully made that no one failed to appear at the rendezvous except Monsieur de Bois-Doré, whose absence was not noticed at first, all the confederates being divided into small groups, which held communication with each other in total darkness when they approached the mysterious ruin.

The said ruin, being explored from roof to cellar, was found to be silent and empty. But they found traces of recent occupancy in that portion of the ground floor which the marquis had not dared to enter alone: hot embers in the fireplaces; rags and broken food on the floor.

They had also discovered an underground passage, with an exit at a considerable distance from the house, outside the enclosure. Such passages existed in all feudal châteaux. They were almost all filled up at the time of our narrative; but the gypsies had cleared this one and masked the opening cleverly enough.

They had carried their investigations no farther, not only because they deemed it useless, the enemy having already vanished, but because they were beginning to be alarmed about Monsieur de Bois-Doré and to scour the neighborhood for him. They were seriously alarmed when the little gypsy arrived and told her story.

More time was wasted in serious perplexity. Monsieur Robin thought that the marquis had fallen into some ambuscade, and he persisted in searching for him; whereas Monsieur d'Ars, to whom the child's statements seemed not improbable, decided to start for Briantes with his following. An hour later, Monsieur Robin concluded to do likewise.

When they had all ridden away, the farmer of Brilbault, who had received orders to continue the exploration of the château, had postponed the task to the following day, yielding to fatigue, as he said, and probably even more to a remnant of terror.

"When the day broke I was there"--it is Jean Faraudet who is speaking,--"and after turning and pulling over all the old wood and rubbish from one end of the place to the other, I spied a little hole that I hadn't seen, and there I found a man bound faster than any sheaf of grain; for his hands and feet were tied, and his mouth gagged with a bunch of straw which was very cunningly twisted around his neck like a rope. So the man seemed to be dead from head to foot. I picked him up and carried him to my house, where a little brandy brought him to after I had untied him and rubbed him."

"Who was the man?" inquired the marquis, thinking that it was D'Alvimar "you did not know him, did you?"

"Yes, indeed, Monsieur Sylvain," replied the farmer; "I had seen him many a time. It was Monsieur Poulain, the rector of your parish. It was more than four hours before he could speak a word, because he had strained himself so in trying to struggle in his bonds. At last he said to us:

"'I will not tell the authorities anything. I am not to blame for anything that may have happened; I swear by the holy oil and my baptism!'

"He had the fever all day and talked at random. This evening he felt better and wanted to go home, so I brought him behind me on my brood mare, saving your presence."

"Let us go and question him," said Guillaume, rising.

"No," said the marquis, "we will let him sleep. He needs it as much as we do ourselves. And what could he disclose that we do not know too well now? And of what could we accuse him? He went there to administer the sacrament to Monsieur d'Alvimar; that was his duty. When he learned what they were plotting there against me, if he did not threaten to betray it, he at least refused to take part in it. And that is why the gypsies bound and gagged him."

Guillaume observed that Monsieur Poulain was a dangerous rector for the parish of Briantes, and that he ought at the very least to be threatened with a charge of complicity in the affair of the _reitres_, as a means of keeping him quiet or driving him away.

The marquis absolutely refused to harass a man who seemed to him sufficiently punished already by the brutal treatment he had endured and the risk he had run of perishing in oblivion and silence in a prison.

"What!" said he, "by the grace of God, we got the better of forty _reitres_, well equipped and provided with a cannon; of a band of active and adroit thieves; of a terrible conflagration, and an execrable ambush; and we can think of such a thing as wreaking vengeance on a poor priest who can no longer injure us!"

The marquis forgot that he was not yet entirely out of danger.

Monsieur le Prince, who had set off in hot haste for the court, might not be well received there, and might suddenly return and vent his ill-humor on the nobles of his province.

It was most essential therefore that the marquis should at all events not allow a dangerous advocate of D'Alvimar's cause to intervene between the prince and himself. This consideration was suggested to the marquis on the following day by Lucilio; whereupon Bois-Doré hastened to call upon Monsieur Poulain as if to inquire for his health.

The rector, who was unable as yet to leave his easy-chair, he had suffered so intensely with cold, discomfort and fright, attempted to tell him that a fall from his horse had caused his injuries and had detained him twenty-four hours at the house of one of his confrères.

But Bois-Doré went straight to the fact, and talked to him with a mild and generous firmness; nor did he fail to show him D'Alvimar's notes and call his attention to the manner in which his deceased friend referred to himself and the prince.

Monsieur Poulain did not attempt to combat these revelations. His pride was much humbled by the atrocious perplexities in which he had suddenly become involved.

"Monsieur de Bois-Doré," he said with a sigh, wiping away the cold perspiration which stood out upon his brow at the recollection of his sufferings, "I have seen death at very close quarters. I did not think that I feared it, but it appeared to me in such hideous and cruel guise that I made a vow to retire to a convent if I ever came forth from that icy tomb in which I was buried alive. I have come forth, and it is my earnest purpose never again to take part for or against any person or any interest in this world. Henceforth I shall devote my life, in profound seclusion, to my salvation and to that alone; and if it be your pleasure to allot me a cell in the Abbey of Varennes, of which you are the fiduciary possessor, I should ask nothing more."

"So be it," replied Bois-Doré, "on condition that you inform me frankly and fully what took place at Brilbault. I will not fatigue you with useless questions; I know three-fourths of all that you know. I wish to know but one thing: whether Monsieur d'Alvimar confessed to you the assassination of my brother."

"You ask me to betray the secret of the confessional," replied Monsieur Poulain, "and I should refuse, as it is my duty to do, were it not that Monsieur d'Alvimar, who was sincerely penitent at the last, instructed me to reveal everything after his death and Sancho's, which latter he did not suppose to be so near at hand as it proved to be. I will tell you, therefore, that Monsieur d'Alvimar, descended through his mother from a noble family, and authorized, by the mystery surrounding his birth, to bear the name of his mother's husband, was, in reality, the issue of a guilty intrigue with Sancho, an ex-leader of brigands turned farmer."

"Really!" exclaimed the marquis. "That explains Sancho's last words, monsieur le recteur. He declared that he sacrificed me to the memory of _his son_! But how did this fact enter into Monsieur d'Alvimar's confession, unless he felt obliged to confess the sins of others as well?"

"Monsieur d'Alvimar had to confess his connection with Sancho in order to induce me not to deliver to the secular authorities the man whom he with shame and sorrow called the author of his days. He called him also the author of his crime and his misfortunes.

"It was that heartless and wicked man who had made him an accessory to the death of your brother, to whom the idea first occurred, and who stabbed him to the heart, while D'Alvimar consented to assist him and to profit by the crime. It is only too true that the sole object of that crime, the victim of which was unknown to its perpetrators, was to obtain possession of a sum of money and a casket of jewels which your brother had imprudently allowed them to see the night before, at an inn. At that period Monsieur d'Alvimar was very young, and so poor that he doubted whether he could pay the expenses of his journey to Paris, where he hoped to find patrons. He was ambitious; that is a great sin, I know, monsieur le marquis. It is the most dangerous bait that Satan holds forth. Sancho inspired and nourished that infernal ambition in his son. He had to overcome his repugnance, but he triumphed by pointing out to him that this murder was a sure opportunity which would never be repeated, and which would place him above the need of debasing himself by imploring the compassion of others.

"When D'Alvimar made this confession, Sancho was present; he hung his head and did not seek to excuse himself. On the contrary, when I hesitated to give absolution for a sin which did not seem to me to have been sufficiently expiated, Sancho vehemently accused himself, and I must confess that there was something grand in the passionate desire of that fierce soul for his son's salvation. I believed then that I was dealing with two Christians, both guilty and both repentant; but Sancho filled me with horror and dismay as soon as his son had breathed his last.

"It was a ghastly scene, monsieur, which I shall never forget while I live! The lower room in which we were, in that ruined château, had but one fireplace; and, although it was an enormous apartment, we were much cramped in the small space where we were sheltered from the cold air that rushed down from above. Monsieur d'Alvimar had nothing but straw for his bed, and only his cloak and Sancho's for covering. He was so exhausted by two months of agony that he resembled a spectre. However, Sancho had prepared him as best he could to receive the last consolations of religion; and the spectacle presented by that gentleman of distinguished bravery, resigned to his fate, amid a horde of gypsies, heretics and villains, saddened the heart and the eyes.

"Those miscreants, displeased at having to look on at a Christian ceremony, howled and swore and shouted derisively to avoid hearing the prayers of the Holy Church, which are detestable to them. It seems that it was always so during Monsieur d'Alvimar's last days in that place. Every night Sancho tried to take advantage of their slumber to repeat to his son the prayers that he desired; but, as soon as one of the gypsies detected him, the whole band, men, women and children, joined in a frightful uproar to drown his voice and not allow their own ears to be offended by any of the blessed words of our service.

"It was therefore in the midst of this horrible tumult, in which Sancho's authority--based upon the fact that he had some money hidden, which he doled out to them little by little--sometimes succeeded in restoring silence for a moment, that I administered the sacrament to that unhappy young man.

"He died reconciled with God, I trust; for he expressed much regret for his crime and begged me to inform Monsieur le Prince of the truth, if he, being deceived as I myself had been concerning the causes and circumstances of your duel, should molest you because of it."

"And have you resolved to do it, monsieur le recteur?" asked Bois-Doré, scrutinizing Monsieur Poulain's altered face.

"Yes, monsieur," was the reply, "on condition that you return seriously and sincerely to the path of duty."

"That is to say, that now you are bargaining with me for your testimony to the truth, in the name of the supreme truth?"

"No, monsieur; for what happened after D'Alvimar's death deprived me of the hope of converting you by the example of the repentance of your enemies. Sancho leaned over his son's pallid face and remained so for an instant, without speaking or shedding a tear; then he rose, swore aloud the execrable oath to avenge him by any and every means, and placed his hand in that of a vile and brutal Huguenot who was present."

"Captain Macabre?"

"Yes, monsieur, that was the ill-omened name they gave him.

"'I have sent for you,' said Sancho, 'to deliver the treasures of Bois-Doré into your hands; I will join you, and I promise you the aid of this band of volunteer scouts and skirmishers whom you see about you. I promised you through Bellinde a chance for an excellent _coup de main_, and the rector here, who hates Bois-Doré and who stands well with Monsieur le Prince, will assure you impunity.'

"Then it was, monsieur, that I objected."

"Doubtless!" rejoined Bois-Doré with a smile. "You were well aware that Monsieur le Prince desired my alleged treasure for himself alone, and that he was not the man to allow it to pass through the hands of such trustees."

Monsieur Poulain accepted the rebuke and hung his head with an expression, sincere or feigned, of repentance and humiliation.

Being urged to continue his narrative, he told how Captain Macabre had suggested blowing out his brains without ceremony to prevent his speaking, and how the gypsies had thrown themselves upon him to secure his clothes before they were ruined by blood.

"That discussion," continued Monsieur Poulain, "saved my life; for Sancho had time to suggest another plan. It was he who bound me and then imprisoned me as you have heard. But what a rescue! It seemed to me worse than a sudden and violent death, when the infamous villain, without assisting me or giving me a word of hope, left Brilbault with his gypsies, to attack your château."

"And what was done with D'Alvimar's body, I pray to know?" asked the marquis.

"I understand," replied the rector with a faint smile, wherein could be detected a trace of the old aversion, "that you are interested in finding it, in case proceedings should be instituted against you. But consider that that would not be evidence that could be used against you. If people chose to lie, they would be free to say that you buried your victim there with the help of your friend, Monsieur Robin. And so, monsieur le marquis, you must depend for your future security upon my loyalty alone, and I hereby offer you its guaranty."

"On what conditions, monsieur le recteur?"

"Conditions? I make no more conditions, my brother! From this day I am a recluse, withdrawn from the world. I have implored from your kindness the Abbey of Varennes."

"Oho!" said Bois-Doré, "the abbey? A simple cell was all that you wanted a moment ago."

"Will you allow so venerable an abbey to go to ruin, and entrust to boors the management of a community which is expected to set a noble example to the world?"

"Very good, I understand. We will see, monsieur le recteur, how you conduct yourself with respect to me, and you shall be abundantly gratified if I have reason to be. Meanwhile, I presume that you will not tell me where my brother's murderer is buried?"

"Pardon me, monsieur," replied the rector, who was too clever to appear to haggle, and who, moreover, was really striving to extricate himself from the tempests and passions of the age, provided that the penalty was not too severe; "I will tell you what I saw. Sancho seemed extremely anxious to rescue the body from any profanation on the part of the gypsies. He raised a flagstone in the centre of the floor of the room where we were, and he certainly interred his son there. For my part I saw nothing more; they dragged me to my horrible dungeon, where I languished for eighteen mortal hours, alternating between unconsciousness and despair."

The marquis and the rector parted on excellent terms, and the latter made an effort to rise and officiate at the burial of his parishioners. But after the ceremony he was so ill that he sent for Master Jovelin, whose balsams and elixirs were much extolled as miraculous in their operation.

At first he had a great dread of placing his life in the hands of one whom he looked upon as a natural enemy. But the Italian's remedies relieved him so effectually that he was conscious of a sort of gratitude, especially when Lucilio obstinately refused all compensation.

The rector was compelled to offer his sincere thanks to the Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré, who, during his illness, ministered to his comfort personally and through others, with a solicitude equal to that which they displayed for their dearest friends.

LXII

Lauriane fell asleep, on the evening of her _matrimonial_ interview with Mario, slightly disturbed concerning the undue agitation of that lovable child's heart, and his absorbing interest in the future. Inexperienced as she was, she had a somewhat clearer idea of life, and she foresaw that when Mario was old enough to distinguish between love and friendship, he would still be too young, as compared with her, to inspire her with any other sentiment than sisterly affection. She smiled sadly at the thought of a possible combination of circumstances which should require her to marry a child, after having been married when she was herself a child, and she said to herself that in that case her destiny would be a strange problem, perhaps a painful and fatal one.

She was depressed therefore, and summoned all her resolution to resist the influences which threatened to coerce her; for the marquis took his plan very seriously, and Monsieur de Beuvre in his letters evidently concealed beneath a jesting tone an earnest desire for the realization of that plan.

Lauriane did not resolutely demand love in her dreams of marriage and of happiness; but she felt vaguely that it would be too hard to marry twice without knowing love. It seemed to her therefore that a cloud, still very light, but disquieting none the less, hovered over her present tranquillity and her delightful relations with the Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré.

She was reassured however on the following day.

Mario had slept soundly; the roses of childhood bloomed anew on his soft cheeks; his lovely eyes had recovered their angelic limpidity, and a smile of trustful happiness played about his lips. He had become a child once more.

As soon as he found that his father had recovered from his fatigue, that his Mercedes was comfortable, and everybody stirring, he ran to the stable to greet his little horse, to the village to inquire for everybody's health, then to the garden to spin his top, and to the farmyard to clamber over the charred ruins.

Then he returned to wait affectionately upon his dear Moor, and he was devoted in his attention to her so long as she was obliged to keep her chamber. But as soon as all anxiety on her account was dispelled, he became once more the happy and light-hearted Mario, by turns assiduous in his studies and eager in his play, whom Lauriane could love and caress chastely as before, without fear of the morrow.

This change was most fortunate for the exceptional temperament of that sweet child. If he had been subjected much longer to the violent shocks which had succeeded each other so rapidly during that critical night, he must inevitably have been driven mad or completely broken down.

It should be said, however, that in those days rougher manners tended to make men's natures more pliant, and consequently more capable of resistance. The nervous excitement to which so many precocious natures succumb to-day, was more violent, but less general and less lasting than as we know it.

Sensibility, more frequently aroused by the emotions of external life, grew dull more quickly, and the keen emotions gave place to that intense desire to live, no matter how, which is man's salvation in times of disturbance and unhappiness.

Thus the winter passed pleasantly and cheerfully at the château of Briantes.

They worked at the frames of the new farm buildings, awaiting the time when the weather would allow the masons to work. The moat was cleared and the wall repaired provisionally with stones laid without mortar; Adamas had finally succeeded in reëstablishing subterranean communication with the open country, and the marquis had purchased his future peace with the provincial courtiers and churchmen by restoring divers precious objects to certain chapels in the province, in the shape of voluntary gifts. He had begged Madame la Princesse de Condé to accept a number of jewels for herself, and Adamas had artfully concealed those which in his mind were destined to adorn Mario's future bride.

The greater part of the gold and silver coin which the marquis had in reserve was expended in rebuilding, and in renewing his stock of grain for his household and his poor vassals. He had also to replace the cattle they had lost; for the Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré could not endure poverty in their neighborhood.

Lastly, the famous _treasure_, the value of which had been so exaggerated, and which had been the moving cause of such great calamities and such odious persecution, ceased to cause scandal by ceasing to be kept in hiding. The doors of the mysterious apartment were opened and remained open, in the sight and knowledge of all the world.

They tried to make sure of Monsieur Poulain by offering him a part of the booty; but he was shrewd enough to refuse; indeed, it was not material wealth that he coveted, but power and influence. He desired, he said, not _to possess_, but _to be_. That is why he insisted upon having the Abbey of Varennes, a far from wealthy institution, situated in a veritable hollow of verdure, on the small river Gourdon.

He desired no more land than was required to support himself and two or three brethren of the order. What he coveted was the title of abbot, and an apparent withdrawal from the world, which would relieve him from the daily duties of the rectorship.

Within a month he was fully cured of his desire to renounce the world, and it was his most cherished dream to make sure of his title and his daily bread, so that he might have leisure to insinuate himself into the confidence of those in high station and bear a part in diplomatic affairs, as so many other men, less capable and less patient than he, had done.

Bois-Doré understood his variety of ambition, and gratified it with a good grace. He felt sure that monsieur le prince, who was a great secularizer of abbeys to his own profit, would sooner or later force the surrender of this one on ungenerous terms, and he could not hope for a better opportunity to set the prince's autocratic disposition and Monsieur Poulain's personal interests against each other.

So the rector was invested with the abbey in consideration of an exceedingly modest tribute, and he departed to obtain his bishop's permission to give up his living.

Thus Monsieur Poulain saw the first phase of his dream of the future realized. What he had predicted to D'Alvimar was beginning to come to pass. He made his way by artfully exploiting the question of dissent in religious matters in his neighborhood. D'Alvimar, starving for money and revenge, had fallen without profit and without honor; Monsieur Poulain, on the watch for discontent and for means of acquiring influence, exempt from other passions and quick to sacrifice his hatreds to his interests, entered the road by what he called the right gate. It was, at all events, the surest.

The non-appearance of little Pilar caused surprise. The marquis, being informed of the important commission which she had faithfully executed, would have been glad to reward her, and Lauriane said that she longed to rescue the wretched creature from her evil life. But no one knew what had become of her; they presumed that she had rejoined those of the gypsies who had escaped from the _basse-cour_.

The captured _reitres_ had been transferred to Bourges. Their cases were summarily dealt with. Captain Macabre was sentenced to be hanged as a highwayman, rebel and traitor.

The marquis took pity on Bellinde, who was driven frantic by the hardships of her life in prison; he refused to testify against her, that is to say, he declared that she was not in her right mind. She was banished from the city and province, and forbidden ever to reappear there under pain of death.

The Moor was cured, and Lucilio, having witnessed her fortitude in suffering, which she endured with a sort of exalted joy, began to become very deeply attached to her. But he feared lest he should seem mad if he told her so, and their mutual affection, carefully concealed on both sides, spent itself on _the children_, Mario and Lauriane, with a sort of rivalry.

Madame Pignoux was handsomely rewarded, as was her faithful maid-servant. They had escaped harsh treatment by flight. The _Geault-Rouge_ had escaped burning, thanks to the eagerness of the enemy to pursue their expedition.

At long intervals they received news of Monsieur de Beuvre. Those intervals were very painful to his daughter. It was the period when the people of La Rochelle and the nobles who had joined them became corsairs on the sea, and formed the audacious project of blockading the mouths of the Loire and the Gironde, in order to levy tribute on all the commerce of those streams. De Beuvre had hinted at a purpose to accompany Soubise in this perilous undertaking.

In her moments of grief Lauriane did not lack loving consolation; but none was so wonderfully ingenious and so untiring as Mario's. His loving heart and his delicate tact found comforting words whose sweet artlessness compelled Lauriane to smile through her tears; she could not resist the temptation to call Mario when the others failed to divert her mind from gloomy thoughts.

She would say to Mercedes:

"I do not know what spirit of light God has bestowed upon that child; but a trivial word from him does me more good than all the kind words of those who are more mature than he.--He is a mere child, however," she would add mentally, "and I am not old enough to love him with a mother's love. Ah! well, I know not how it happens that I cannot endure the thought of ceasing to live with him."

Early in April--1622--they received better news.

De Beuvre had happily thought better of his purpose to accompany Soubise, who had had very bad luck at the Isle of Rié, against the king in person. De Beuvre had confined himself to privateering on the coast of Gascogne--with profit and excellent health, he said.

But this same affair of the Isle of Rié was destined none the less to result unhappily for Lauriane and her friends at Briantes.

The Prince de Condé had hoped that the king would follow his advice and rush madly into danger. The king did not fail to do so; personal courage was the only virtue he had inherited from his father. But Condé was unfortunate: no bullet reached the king; his horse passed the shallows at low tide without encountering quicksands, and his majesty fought valiantly against the Huguenots with no resulting illness or even fatigue.

Moreover, while wielding his sword with ardor, Louis XIII., being wisely advised by his mother, who was wisely advised by Richelieu, opened his ears to suggestions of conciliation and to negotiations tending to put an end to the civil war.

Thus monsieur le prince, whose only desire was to mix up the cards, was sorely annoyed and discontented, and he replied to the letters he received from his government of Berry by honeyed letters overflowing with gall.

Among other acts of retaliation against the Huguenots in his province, although they had, as a general rule, been perfectly quiet, he ordered Monsieur de Beuvre's property to be sequestered, unless he should return to Berry within three days after the publication of the order.

It would have been very difficult for Monsieur de Beuvre, then at Montpellier, to reach his château in three days. At that epoch it would have required at least twice that length of time to advise him of the measures taken against him.

The lieutenant-general and Mayor of Bourges, Monsieur Pierre Biet, whose habit it was throughout his life to side with the strongest, and who had been a zealous Leaguer in his youth, determined to display his zeal, and decreed, on his own authority, that, Monsieur de Beuvre having failed to appear and explain his absence within the time allowed for such appearance, mademoiselle his daughter, Dame de Beuvre, de la Motte-Seuilly, etc., should be removed from her château and taken to a convent at Bourges, there to be instructed in the religion of the State.

LXIII

It was on a delightful evening in spring that Mario and Lauriane were strolling about the enclosure at Briantes, laughing together in tones as melodious as those of the nightingale, when they saw Mercedes running toward them in consternation.

"Come, come, my beloved lady," she said, throwing her arms about her young friend; "let us try to escape; they shall not take you until they have killed me."

"And what of me?" cried Mario, picking up his little rapier, Which he had thrown on the ground in order to play more freely. "But what is the matter, Mercedes?"

Mercedes had no time to explain. She knew that the outer tower was guarded by the provost's troops; she wished to try to return to the château with Lauriane hidden under her cloak, so that she could escape by the secret passage.

But it was an impossible undertaking, and Mario opposed it when he saw that the inner tower also was guarded.

While they were deliberating, the marquis was in dire distress: he had informed the provost's agents, who exhibited their commissions in proper form, that Madame de Beuvre had gone out in the saddle with his son. But when they demanded his word of honor and he pretended to be insulted by their suspicions, in order to avoid taking a false oath, their suspicions increased, and, while humbly asking his pardon, they stationed guards in the towers in the king's name, and proceeded to make a minute search of the house.

The provost's guard of La Châtre was not so numerous or so well equipped that a large force could be sent to Briantes. Moreover, officers and men alike obeyed their orders with reluctance and were very much averse to offending worthy Monsieur de Bois-Doré. But they were afraid of being denounced to monsieur le prince, who was much dreaded in the city and throughout the province.

So they did their duty conscientiously, hoping that Monsieur de Bois-Doré would threaten and resist; in which case, as _perhaps_ they were not in sufficient force, they were all prepared and fully disposed to withdraw,--a not infrequent result of the differences between the provincial executive and recalcitrant provincial nobles.

The marquis realized the situation, and Aristandre gnawed his fists with impatience, awaiting the signal to fall upon the backs of the officers of the law. But Bois-Doré felt that it was a serious emergency, and that it was not simply a matter of thrashing the watch in some trivial dispute.

Monsieur de Beuvre was so deeply compromised that to take up his defence would inevitably be considered an act of rebellion against the royal authority; and under the circumstances, those gates were more effectually guarded _in the king's name_, in the eyes of every patriotic châtelain, than they would have been by a whole army.

Bois-Doré, despite his belligerent disposition, and despite the fact that he was an incorrigible Protestant at heart, had always, since the extinction of the Valois line, looked upon the king as the personification of France; and at this time, when the last efforts of the Reformed religion were on the point of betraying us to external enemies, unintentionally, doubtless, but inevitably, Bois-Doré was inspired by the genuine sentiment of nationality.

However he was resolved not to abandon his friend's daughter at any cost. He knew how the children of Protestant families were persecuted in the convents, and that Lauriane's courageous resistance would doubtless aggravate the harshness of that persecution. This new disaster must be averted by adroit management, and he appealed, by a furtive glance, to the fertile genius of Adamas.

Adamas went to and fro, heaping courtesies on the archers and scratching his head when no one was looking.

It occurred to him to flood the courtyard by opening the gates of the pond on that side, or to set fire to the château by means of a small quantity of firewood piled in the shed, at the risk of having to singe his beard a little in extinguishing it, when he had succeeded in frightening the enemy away; but in the midst of his perplexities Lauriane appeared, calm and haughty, leaning on the arm of the pale and pensive Mario.

The Moor followed them, weeping bitterly. Four of the provost's guards escorted them with due respect.

This is what had happened.

Lauriane had insisted upon being told what the matter was. She had realized at once that any resistance for the purpose of saving her would lay her friends open to the charge of high treason. She was well aware that her father had risked his head, and, when he went away, she had foreseen that her own liberty would be threatened one day or another. She had never mentioned the subject; but she was ready to submit to any fate rather than deny her opinions.

In vain did Mario and Mercedes passionately implore her to say nothing and to remain where she was: she raised her voice, declaring vehemently that she proposed to give herself up; and when the guards who were seeking her drew near the garden, she had already left it and was walking straight toward them.

They hesitated to take her into custody, her self-possession causing them to doubt if it were really she. But she named herself, saying:

"Do not put your hands upon me, messieurs; I give myself up voluntarily. Kindly permit me to go and bid my host adieu; please accompany me."

The marquis was deeply distressed by her appearance; yet he could not but admire the noble girl's great courage.

"Monsieur," he said to the lieutenant of the provost's guard, "you see that I am resigned to the necessity of obeying your commands, since such is madame's desire; but you surely will not be less honorable than she. You will permit me to drive her to Bourges in my carriage, with my son and his governess. I will take but two or three servants, and you can escort us and watch us as closely as you deem best."

So reasonable a request was readily granted, and the family had an hour in which to make their preparations for departure.

Lauriane gave her attention to that duty with wonderful self-possession. Mario, dismayed and dazed, as it were, allowed Adamas to dress him without a word. He was seated when his boots were put on, and seemed not to have sufficient strength to raise his little legs. Lucilio went to him and showed him these words, written in Italian:

"Be brave, follow the example of that brave heart."

"Yes," cried Mario, throwing his arms about his tutor's neck, "I am doing all I possibly can, and I realize what _she_ is doing. But don't you think that my father will find a way to set her free."

"If it can be done, do not doubt it, monsieur," said Adamas. "Thank God! Adamas will not leave you, and will think about it every moment. If monsieur le marquis is resigned, it is because there is still some hope."

The marquis took Adamas and Mercedes in his great carriage. Clindor took his seat on the box with Aristandre.

It was agreed that Lucilio, concerning whom the marquis did not feel altogether at ease, should go to Bourges secretly.

"I have it, monsieur," said Adamas to the marquis, when they had passed La Châtre.

"What, my good fellow? What have you?"

"My idea! When we reach Etalié, we will ask leave to rest a moment at Madame Pignoux's. She has a goddaughter of Madame Lauriane's age. We will have them change clothes, and we will take her with us in place of madame."

"But is this god-daughter certain to be there at this time?"

"If she isn't there," said Mario, whose spirits were revived by Adamas's project, "I will put on Lauriane's skirt and scarf and hood; then you can say that I have remained at the inn, whereas she will remain in my place, and she can easily escape from there to Guillaume's or Monsieur Robin's, when we have gone a little way."

"Do everything for the best, my children," said the marquis, "but say nothing to me about it; for it will be very embarrassing not to be able to deny on my word of honor all knowledge of the substitution, and they will certainly require me to do so when it is discovered. So try something else and speak low. I am not listening to you."

"You forget," said Lauriane, "that I will not assent to any plan for my escape. Do not try to invent one, Adamas; and do you yield to the inevitable, Mario. I have sworn to accept my fate."

Lauriane did, in fact, refuse to alight at the _Geault-Rouge_, where the projected substitution might have been effected with some chance of success.

Mario hoped that, when they had gone a little farther, she would change her mind and assent to some scheme; but to no purpose did they argue that the affair might be arranged without compromising the marquis. She was inflexible.

"No, no," she said, "no one will believe that the marquis did not close his eyes voluntarily. Who knows, my poor Mario, that they would not keep you as a hostage until they had recaptured me? And, as for Adamas, he would surely go to prison. That is what I will not have, and I will not consent to escape, willingly or unwillingly; for, if you persist, I will shriek and make an outcry to make sure that I am taken again."

Lauriane's resolution could not be shaken. It was necessary to abandon all hope of rescuing her from captivity, and they arrived at Bourges more discouraged and downcast than when they had left Briantes.

The result of this submissive conduct was most favorable. The lieutenant-general, Monsieur Biet, who had confidently expected that the marquis would ruin himself by rebelling against Lauriane's arrest, was greatly surprised when he appeared before him with her, and requested for her an honorable reclusion, and such consideration as her dignified conduct entitled her to expect.

Monsieur Biet had no choice but to adopt a mild tone, to express his great regret at the rigorous measures adopted, which he attributed to secret orders from the prince, and to consent that Lauriane should be taken to the Convent of the Annunciation, founded by Jeanne de France, aunt of her illustrious ancestress, Charlotte d'Albret. Lauriane had several friends there, and she was allowed to keep Mercedes to wait upon her.

This convent was one of those to which the fiery Jesuit propaganda had not penetrated. The nuns, vowed to a life of meditation, did not threaten Lauriane with a too severe proselytism.

The marquis had a conference with the superior, wherein he was able to predispose her in the young recluse's favor, and he secured permission to see her every day, with Mario, in the parlor, in presence of one of the sisters.

Despite this hopeful prospect, Mario's heart was broken when the heavy door of the convent closed between him and his dear companion. It seemed to him that she would, never come forth again, nor was he free from anxiety concerning Mercedes, who strove to smile when she left him, but who was like a madwoman for a moment when she no longer saw him, and realized that she was doomed, for the first time in her life, to sleep under a different roof.

The result was that she hardly slept at all, nor did Lauriane. They talked almost all night, and wept together, being no longer restrained by the fear of distressing Mario by their grief.

"My dear Mercedes," said Lauriane, as she kissed the Moor, "I know what a sacrifice you make for me by parting from your child for my consolation."

"My daughter," replied the Moor, "I confess that in consoling you I console Mario, since he loves you perhaps more than he loves me. Do not say no; I have seen it; but I am not jealous of you, for I feel that you will make his life happy."

It was impossible to shake the Moor's conviction that that improbable marriage would take place, and Lauriane dared not contradict her, especially at that moment.

Bois-Doré had some doubts concerning the orders said to have been given by the prince with regard to Lauriane. The prince was naturally treacherous, grasping and ungrateful; but he was not cruel, and his aversion to women did not go so far as persecution. Moreover, the marquis had fancied that he could detect some symptoms of confusion in the lieutenant-general's manner when he questioned him concerning the prince's alleged secret orders. He hoped to induce him, by gentle persuasion, to revoke his decree.

He sent a messenger to Poitou to try to find Monsieur de Beuvre and urge him to return at the earliest possible moment, and he took up his abode at Bourges, in order to follow up his plan with respect to Monsieur Biet, and also to keep his eye upon his dear ward.

The messenger was unable to find Monsieur de Beuvre; he had gone to sea again, no one knew where. At the end of two months they had not heard from him.

Lauriane wept for him as for the dead. She was not deceived by the tales the marquis told her to persuade her that he had been seen and that he was well. He pretended to be embarrassed by the presence of the sister, who slept all the time, and to be afraid to show her the letters which supported his statements.

Lauriane adopted the course of remaining calm, in order to tranquillize Mario, whose eyes were constantly fixed upon her with an anxious expression.

LXIV

The year 1622 passed in this way, and the marquis was unable, by prayers or threats, to obtain the prisoner's release on parole.

Monsieur Biet, fearing that he had made a mistake, had obtained authority to imprison Madame de Beuvre, after it was done.

The situation was made much worse by her father's prolonged absence and silence. It became quite useless to deny the reasons therefor. No one could retain any doubt as to what had happened; and Monsieur Biet replied, with a bitter smile, to the marquis's urgent entreaties and reproaches:

"But why does not the gentleman come and get his daughter? She will be restored to him instantly, and so will the management of her property."

Lucilio had settled at Bourges, in the suburb of Saint-Ambroise, under a false name. He saw no one but Mario, who came alone, simply dressed and without ostentation, to take his lessons.

Mercedes, who was allowed to go in and out, served his meals, to which the philosopher probably would not have given a thought, absorbed as he was by his work.

At this juncture it became evident that Monsieur Poulain had changed greatly for the better. He was still at Bourges, engaged in obtaining permission to become an abbot, when Lucilio found himself face to face with him one day in the little garden appurtenant to his humble apartment.

On accosting each other, he and the future abbé discovered that they lived under the same roof.

Lucilio expected to be denounced and harassed. Nothing of the sort happened. Monsieur Poulain took pleasure in his society, and displayed great interest in Mario when he came to take his lessons.

Monsieur Poulain was too shrewd a man not to have reflected profoundly on his past experience, and he realized how little dependence could be placed on the Prince de Condé, for the Archbishop of Bourges refused to make him abbot until monsieur le prince should authorize him, and monsieur le prince seemed in no haste to do so.

Thus our friends led a reasonably peaceful life during this species of exile at Bourges. Indeed, they enjoyed more real security than they had enjoyed at Briantes during their last weeks there.

But the marquis was sadly distressed to have broken up all his luxurious, comfortable and active habits. He lived very simply and quietly, in order not to attract attention to Lauriane in a city where the spirit of the League was by no means extinct, and where the brief but violent reign of the Reformers had left unpleasant memories.

Mario strove to be cheerful in order to divert him, but the poor child was far from cheerful himself; and when he read _Astrée_ aloud to him in the evening, he was always thinking of something else, or sighing over those pictures of streams, gardens and bosky groves which intensified the tedium and confinement of his present situation.

So Mario's cheeks were pale, and he became pensive. He worked desperately to perfect his education, and it was a great pleasure to him to keep Lauriane informed concerning his studies, imparting to her his most recently acquired scraps of knowledge. It was an excellent way of killing time in their daily interviews; for there is no more painful restraint than that caused by the impossibility of talking freely before witnesses with the persons one loves.

The Jesuits, who were already to be found everywhere with their fingers in every pie, tried to persuade the marquis to entrust that charming child's education to them. He so contrived his reply as to give them some ground for hope, realizing that it would not be well to have an open rupture with them.