Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

She looked me over from head to heel, and I have been told since that I made a brave appearance. Du Trémigon had displayed excellent taste in clothing, and this was his handsomest suit. I stood proudly erect, putting a bold face on the situation, with one hand upon my sword, my hat in the other, which also held the slipper, as if I were about to be presented to the King.

“Now,” she said, “you are masquerading as a gentleman.”

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” I returned, “I am a gentleman”—she put up her hand, but I would not be denied—“masquerading as a ... thief.”

I blessed her in my heart for her hesitation over that word.

“Is it because you have stolen the Marquis du Trémigon’s clothes?—for I believe, if I am not mistaken, they are his.”

“Your observation does you infinite credit, Mademoiselle.”

“I thought so. Is it for that reason you are masquerading as a thief?”

“Because I have come here without regard to clothes to—” I protested.

“To take my jewels?” she interrupted.

“Mademoiselle!” I cried, starting back, the blood flaming in my face again. “You think——”

“I think nothing, Monsieur. I discover a strange man in my apartments at night. He says that he is masquerading as a thief. What else am I to infer?”

I was dumb before her merciless logic.

“Mademoiselle,” I began desperately, “I deeply regret——”

“So, too, do I. I knew—at least I thought I knew, on that day, the day you did me such brave service—that you were a gentleman, in spite of what you wore, yet—well, I see I was deceived.”

“Don’t say that!” I protested again.

“Why not, Monsieur?”

“Mademoiselle, I am here in defiance of every rule of propriety, I will admit. You may well think me a thief,” I began, with passionate haste, “but I am only following your example.”

“How, sir?” she exclaimed.

“You, too, are not guiltless of robbery.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, indignantly drawing herself up.

Oh, how magnificent she looked! I wanted to throw myself at her feet and confess everything, but I did not—then.

“You have stolen my heart, Mademoiselle.”

“And you came to look for it in my jewel-case?” She laughed somewhat contemptuously.

“I have come for yours in exchange,” said I; although I had a neat opening in her question, I judged it best to let it pass.

“Monsieur!”

“I am a poor sailor, Mademoiselle, but I have sought you throughout the land. I babbled everywhere as I ran of blue eyes, dark hair, a witching face. I found you—nowhere!”

There was a ring of truth in these words—although of course it did not explain my presence there—that I believe influenced her.

“’Tis impossible, Monsieur—” she began at last.

“Look into the glass, Mademoiselle, and see how believable it is,” I broke in.

“That you should have come here on such an errand and——”

“I would go to the end of the world if I might find you there, Mademoiselle,” I boldly said, taking a step nearer to her.

“Monsieur!” she cried, clutching the bell-rope once more. “Pray keep your distance.”

“I am content merely to look at you,” I said, stopping short instantly.

“Monsieur, on your word of honor as a—” She paused.

“As a thief?” I questioned.

“As a gentleman,” she said softly, and I could have kissed her feet for that. “Did you come here for me?”

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is a long story. You have honored me by your conversation. You found something gentle in me on the road and in spite of appearances—that are so grievously against me now—you have reposed a certain degree of confidence in me. Will you allow me to tell you briefly who and what I am?”

“I am anxious to learn it.”

“Will you not be seated? You may release the bell-rope, on my word, without danger. I would rather die than harm you. Indeed, my greatest ambition is to devote my life to your service.”

“Fine words, Monsieur, and such as I have often heard from other cavaliers.”

“I doubt it not, Mademoiselle. Such beauty of person and grace of mind as yours cannot remain unchallenged. This shall be my excuse.”

“No more of this, if you please, but of yourself.” It was ineffable condescension, and you may imagine how I appreciated the honor.

“My name is Francis Burnham. My family on the distaff side is French—Huguenot. The blood, I believe, is noble. My great-grandfather was an English gentleman. My father met my mother in North Carolina. The acreage my father owns is equal to a French county.”

“You are an American, then?”

“I have that honor. I am also an officer in the American Navy. My country is ill provided with warships. Many naval officers have been forced to accept positions in privateers. I was a lieutenant in Captain Gustavus Cunningham’s privateer ship, the Revenge. We were captured by a British frigate and taken to a British prison-ship. I escaped thence and was on my way to Paris, to see Dr. Franklin, when I had the good fortune to be of some slight service to you. That gold piece you gave me, I have it here.” I saw her hand involuntarily move to her breast and my heart leaped as it assured me that she also had retained and cherished the coin I had forced upon her. “I have loved you ever since I saw you that day, Mademoiselle. I have sought you in vain only to find you tonight.”

“That, Monsieur,” she said quietly, “does not yet explain your presence here.”

I was dumb again.

“How did you discover my abode?”

I could make no reply.

“How did you learn my name?”

Unthinking, I answered:

“I do not know your name at this moment.”

“I am Gabrielle de Rivau, Comtesse de Villars.”

“Great heavens!” I exclaimed.

Would you believe it? It had not occurred to me for a moment that this was she! I had jumped to the conclusion that she was perhaps some friend of the Countess’s. I had never dreamed that fate could deal me so sorry a trick as to involve me in such a part against the woman I adored. “Are you the Comtesse de Villars?”

“I am.”

“I did not know.”

“Monsieur Burnham, you are full of mystery.”

“I have told you nothing but the truth, Mademoiselle.”

“Yes, but not all of it. Is it not so?”

I was silent.

“Monsieur, do you not realize that I have committed a great imprudence in allowing you to converse with me here alone, under such circumstances? That my duty should be to pull the bell and hand you over to the Duke’s retainers for punishment? That you owe much to my forbearance?”

“I realize all that you say, Mademoiselle, and I am filled with shame.”

“Why, then, are you here? What are you doing in the Marquis du Trémigon’s clothing? What is that you hold?” I thoughtlessly lifted my hand. “My slipper!” she exclaimed, flushing in her turn. “You have been in my closet yonder. What does it all mean?”

“I will speak!” I replied desperately, resolved to make a clean breast of the whole affair. “I am in the power of the Marquis du Trémigon. I owe him money.”

“Heaven help you!”

“I am surprised to hear you say that!” I exclaimed in amazement.

“Monsieur,” she said quickly, disregarding my remark, “my purse is on the table. Let me discharge my obligation. Take what you will.”

“Mademoiselle, for God’s sake, think not so unkindly of me! He threatened me with imprisonment for debt. That is nothing, a mere bagatelle. I could have borne that without hesitation. I have broken prison before.”

“Well?”

“There is more. When I escaped from the British prison-ship I was penniless; alone in England. I halted the first traveler I met, thinking to despoil the enemy for my needs as an act of war. That traveler happened to be the Marquis du Trémigon. I met him afterward at—at places where they play in Paris,” I went on. “He won all my money, a ring I had taken from him and a coin which bore certain markings. These things were proofs positive. He threatened to charge me with highway robbery. The punishment is death. I pleaded with him, promising to repay him if he would give me time. Our minister is absent, Commodore Paul Jones not in Paris. I was desperate. I loved life, Mademoiselle, for it held you as a possibility.”

“But that you should come here, Monsieur? How does that——?”

“Hear me, Mademoiselle. The Marquis du Trémigon has informed me of the nature of the agreement regarding your proposed marriage.”

“And what did Monsieur du Trémigon say as to that?”

“That by the terms of the contract three people must consent willingly before the marriage can take place.”

“Three, Monsieur?”

“He said so.”

“And those are?”

“Yourself, your grandfather and himself.”

Her lip curled.

“Proceed, Monsieur. This is most interesting.”

“He said further that you were—forgive me—anxious to marry him.”

I could see Mademoiselle clench her hand. I could mark the flash of her eye.

“That he was anxious to marry you, but that your grandfather refused his consent. And that, with your approval, he had arranged to”—it was a deeply humiliating thing to say with her standing before me like an outraged goddess, but I had to go on—“to compromise you with him so that your grandfather would no longer withhold his consent.”

“And you were to be the means whereby this plan was to be carried out?”

“To my shame I admit it. I agreed to come here and take some article belonging to you of a personal character.”

“My slipper?”

“That or whatever else I could secure. I wore his clothes because he wished the servants to recognize them, and thus be prepared to swear that he was with you.”

“’Tis a pretty plot for a gentleman!”

“Mademoiselle, to my sorrow and regret, I acknowledge it. Yet I beg to assure you that not even the fear of imprisonment or death would have made me consent, had I not believed that I was doing a lady a service.”

“Do you think you do any lady a service by forcing her into the arms of Marquis du Trémigon?”

“But if she loves him?”

“Monsieur,” she said hotly, “she hates him!”

“Is it possible?”

“You have been grossly deceived. The only consent necessary to the marriage is my own. My grandfather has not withheld his consent. He has left it entirely to me.”

“You, Mademoiselle?” I exclaimed, my heart leaping at the thought that she did not love that villain.

“I have refused and shall refuse. The whole plan is an attempt to compromise me, to force my consent.”

Into what a scheme had I been betrayed! The sweat rose to my forehead.

“Mademoiselle,” I cried, “for God’s sake acquit me of any such dishonor!”

“I do, Monsieur, freely.”

“I shall go back to du Trémigon and explain my appearance to him immediately. I shall compel him to give me satisfaction for this insult—an insult to you as well as to me. Your quarrel with him shall be mine. He will trouble you no more,” I added significantly.

“Your plan is vain, Monsieur. I know the Marquis du Trémigon. You will find him surrounded by such a force as will paralyze your efforts. He will refuse to fight with you.”

“At least I shall have the satisfaction of telling him what I think, and I shall go to prison if necessary.”

“I would not have you suffer on my account, Monsieur.”

“Mademoiselle, you are kindness itself. I deserve nothing whatever at your hands. If you could only believe in me, in my love for you, a little before I go——”

“Monsieur, the circumstances are very unusual. That day you so bravely rescued me from those scoundrels and treated me with such chivalry, I knew you were not of the common people. Your dress indicated that, but my heart—my mind, that is—told me otherwise.”

Her voice faltered, but she looked at me clearly with those glorious eyes of hers.

“But when I found you here and thought you meant to degrade me, to force me into the arms of that villain——”

“Mademoiselle!” I protested, “you cannot accuse me as I do myself. At least I can make amends now.”

“But is there nothing I can do for you?” she asked.

“Nothing. The papers, the obligations, the evidence against me, are in the hands of a notary. If he does not hear from the Marquis and myself tomorrow, he has orders to hand the packet to the Chief of Police.”

“What do you propose to do, sir?”

“To warn you. Beware of du Trémigon. Although he has failed in this instance, he will surely strive again to compromise your honor. There will be one ray of comfort in my soul, that I have again been able to render some slight assistance to you. And I cherish the hope, if you think of me at all, that you will bear in mind that I love you.”

“But, Monsieur——”

“Mademoiselle, if I had met you under happier circumstances, I should have made it my prayer to live for you. Now at least I can die for you, and I trust that my death will redeem this disgrace upon my name.”

I laid the little slipper softly on the table. I kissed it tenderly, reverently, before I put it down. I stepped nearer to her. She stood, as if paralyzed, gazing upon me. There was a flush in her cheeks; her bosom heaved. I sank at her feet and took her hand. It was icy cold. Mine was burning. I kissed it fervently and rose.

“Farewell,” I said, and then heard sounds, footsteps in the hall, a knock at the door of the anteroom through which I had to pass in order to make my escape.

IV

THE SLIPPER IS BESTOWED

I made a swift movement toward the door, intending to rush to the window, no matter who barred the way. I reached for my sword as I did so. Quick as I was, Mademoiselle was quicker. Although her face had gone white at the noise, she had instantly begun to sing—strange action, for which I could then see no excuse. Still lilting lightly a charming little air, she stood between me and the door.

“Not that way!” she whispered in the breaks of the song. “It would be death. In there.”

She pointed toward her bedroom. The knocking was resumed, this time more loudly. A voice cried:

“Countess Gabrielle!”

Her check of me had spoiled my chance. There was nothing but obedience. I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door. The song broke off suddenly. I could hear distinctly all that was said. Mademoiselle raised her voice, crying:

“Who is there?”

“Your grandfather,” was the answer.

“Enter, Monsieur.”

“The door is locked.”

How I blessed that lock! So, I doubt not, did Mademoiselle. She went slowly to the antechamber, fumbled at the lock a few moments, and opened the door. I heard two people enter.

“Wait, Messieurs!” cried Mademoiselle as she caught sight of the second visitor. “I was preparing to retire.” With marvelous quickness she had taken off her bodice after I had entered the bedroom, and was bare-necked and armed before her grandfather. She hastily slipped on a dressing-robe and once more turned to him.

“’Tis only Éspiau,” said the Duke quickly.

“I am very glad indeed,” said Mademoiselle, with a gay little laugh, “for you caught me quite unaware.”

“Was I mistaken or was there a tremble in her voice? Her situation was grave. Had the Duke discovered me, he would have killed me out of hand, unless I inflicted a like penalty upon him, which, under the circumstances, never entered my mind.

“I thought,” continued the old Duke as he entered the boudoir, “that I heard voices.” He looked around suspiciously.

“You did, Monsieur,” answered the Countess.

“Great heavens!” thought I, “are you about to betray me?”

“Whose?” went on the old man again.

“Mine; I was singing.”

She began that little song, the music of which I shall never forget, although I am no great hand at carrying a tune.

“Humph!” said the old man. “You did not go to the masked ball?”

“No, Monsieur, I was tired. I have been reading in the library and have but recently come here.”

“There was no one in the anteroom when you entered?”

“No one, sir.”

“Have you been in the room beyond since you came up?”

“Not yet.”

“Éspiau!”

“Monsieur le Duc!”

“Examine yonder chamber. It may be some thief has concealed himself there.”

The Duke turned his head away to survey the room and Mademoiselle shot one glance, pregnant with agony and entreaty, at the old servant. He had been as a father to her from childhood—indeed, he had been her father’s foster-brother.

“Very well, Monsieur le Duc,” answered the servant.

I heard him crossing the room. What should I do? There was no place of concealment. The window happened to be barred, else I should have thrown myself from it. Should I fall upon him and run my sword through him? I drew the weapon, without making a sound, and waited. The door opened slowly and only partially, Éspiau saw me at once. He put his finger to his lips and closed his eyes.

“I see no one, Monsieur le Duc,” he said, turning his head.

“Examine thoroughly,” returned the old man.

Éspiau stepped into the room, looked under the bed, shook the curtains, making a deal of noise as he moved about, managing to say to me:

“Silence, as you value your life!”

Presently he returned to the others. I breathed a long sigh of relief. I remember wiping the sweat from my brow.

“Monsieur le Duc was doubtless mistaken,” said the old man quietly.

“Yes,” said the Duke; “I’m glad of it. Times are in such disorder. There are many masterless men about, and your apartment is easy of access from the garden. I must change it, Countess.”

“At your pleasure, grandfather,” said Mademoiselle, and then she actually began to sing that little love song again. The courage of that girl was superb! It made me love her more madly than before.

“I am glad to find you home,” said the Duke, “for I have brought you some papers which require your signature. I intended to leave them until morning, but unless you feel inclined to retire——”

“No, Monsieur, I never felt so wide awake in my life,” answered Mademoiselle.

“Good! I will leave them here then. Éspiau will explain them to you, and we can finish the discussion in the morning. I am tired and feel the need of rest. Good night.”

“Good night, grandfather,” said Mademoiselle; “may you rest well.”

“Good night, my child,” said the old man, relaxing for the moment the formality of his address as he took her hand, drew her toward him, pressed a kiss upon her forehead, bowed to her as to a queen and walked away.

The two left within the boudoir moved not until the echo of the Duke’s footsteps died away in the distance of the corridor.

“Mademoiselle,” at last began Éspiau in a voice in which sorrow and affection strove for the mastery.

“Judge me not,” said Mademoiselle quickly.

“Who is that man?”

I thought now it was time for me to make my entrance. I opened the door, therefore, and presented myself.

“My name is Francis Burnham, my good fellow. I am an officer in the American Navy.”

“How came you here and what would you do?”

“That scoundrel du Trémigon sent him here to compromise me,” the Countess interposed.

“The dastard!” exclaimed the servant.

“But Monsieur did not think it was I,” continued Mademoiselle. “You remember when I went on that errand for Her Majesty the Queen?” I started at this. Éspiau nodded. “This gentleman had the good fortune to save me from capture then. I should have been robbed of those papers. I found him here this evening. He had abjured his errand and was upon the point of departure when——”

“My friend,” I interrupted, “what Mademoiselle says is absolutely true, and I believed, furthermore, that I was doing her a service.”

“I need not your assurance for that, Monsieur,” said the old man proudly; “the house of de Rivau does not lie.”

“I wish the same might be said of the house of du Trémigon; but be that as it may, I am not anxious to forfeit any man’s good-will.”

“Not even that of a servant?” he interrupted.

“Not even that. It was a case of life or death for me. I am in du Trémigon’s power. Not knowing that it was Mademoiselle—for I did not learn until this evening that she was Comtesse de Villars—I came. I am sorry. I am going back to give myself up to the Marquis. You may guess what that will mean.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Before I go, allow me to express my gratitude for your forbearance. You have saved my life. The Duke would have killed me, for I should have made no resistance.”

“It was death for me to see you there, to suspect—but Mademoiselle will forgive me——”

“There is no need, my good Éspiau,” said the Countess, extending her hand.

The old man kissed it like a gentleman. Indeed, I dare say, compared to du Trémigon, and others that I had met in Paris, he was as fine a gentleman as any of them.

“I should like to shake you by the hand,” I said.

“Monsieur honors me,” said Éspiau.

I didn’t know whether there was sarcasm in his voice or not, but we shook hands vigorously.

“Mademoiselle,” I continued, turning to her, “there is but one thing for me to do.”

“What is that?”

“To wish you farewell and to go as I came.”

“Wait,” said Mademoiselle, her hand on her breast. “I have something to say to you.”

“At your service, Mademoiselle.”

“Éspiau, can you trust me further?”

“In everything, Mademoiselle,” said the old man.

He was a well-trained fellow, with as much tact as discretion. He bowed to me, and I swear I couldn’t help it, I returned his bow as if he had been an equal, and he marched out of the room as stately as a grenadier.

“Is there no way,” began the Countess hastily, “for you to escape du Trémigon?”

“None.”

“I have money.”

“Mademoiselle,” I cried, “I shall take nothing from this room but the recollection of your kindness, the consciousness of your worth, the sense of your beauty.”

“But you will be imprisoned!”

“I have had this hour of freedom. The rest is nothing.”

“They will put you to death.”

“Without you, I do not care to live.”

“_Mon Dieu_, what shall I do?”

“If you could say—if you could let me believe—it will be but for a short time—that, were the circumstances other than they are, you might perhaps have cared for me, it will lighten the hours and give me something sweet to dwell upon. It will make me indifferent to any fate.”

“Monsieur—I—I—” she faltered, her face aflame. She buried it in her hands.

I sank on my knee and seized the hem of her gown. Then I felt her hands upon my head. I rose to my feet. I don’t know how or why, but I swept her to my breast in an embrace. Her lips met mine.

“No more,” she said, pushing me away. “I have gone too far already. You must not go to him now.”

“I am in heaven already, Mademoiselle, and death cannot alter the fact that you return my love.”

“But you will not go to him?”

“I must.”

“No!”

She stooped, and before I knew what she was about, she took off one of her dainty slippers—warm from her little foot—and placed it in my hand.

“Give that to him,” she said; “you will be free and I shall know how to protect myself.”

“Mademoiselle!”

“In pity leave me! Go!”

I could not resist that. Besides, after a warning cough Éspiau thrust his head through the door and said quickly:

“Someone comes! You must hasten!”

I kissed her hand, and with one backward glance tore myself away.

V

THE SLIPPER IS RETURNED

To scramble down the ivy was the work of a few seconds. The faithful Bucknall was waiting. Without a word we bounded across the park and the bribed turnkey let us out. As for me I was treading on air. I had never been so happy since I was a boy. Never would she have given me that little slipper, against which my heart throbbed madly, if I had been indifferent to her. Did I intend to give it to du Trémigon? Never! I should let him do his worst. Something would happen. I should get out of it in some way.

When we reached the inn we found our horses ready. After we were safely mounted old Bucknall broke the silence.

“Did ye git it, yer honor?” asked the old sailor.

“Get it, Bucknall? Do you remember me telling you of the lady whom I saved from highwaymen on the road to Paris?”

I had to tell someone. It would have killed me not to have been able to confide in a soul, and Bucknall was faithful and devoted beyond the ordinary.

“I remembers it well, sir.”

“She was the lady in the house yonder.”

“You don’t say so, sir!”

“I love her, Bucknall!”

“Then ye didn’t git it?” said the old salt coolly.

“Get it? Of course, I got it. It’s in my waistcoat, over my heart.”

“You’ll give it to the Markis?”

“Never! I’ll keep it until the day of my death.”

“That’s likely to be pretty soon, yer honor, if wot ye say is true.”

“I can’t help that. I wouldn’t give it to that lying hound to purchase my life. When I die I wish it buried with me.”

And then I told him squarely what a scoundrel the Marquis was and how he had befooled me about Mademoiselle’s desires.

“Wot are ye goin’ to do, ef I might ax yer honor?”

“I’m going to du Trémigon and tell him I refuse to do his bidding and let him do his worst.”

“Wot’ll he do?”

“Clap me into prison, I suppose.”

“Hadn’t we better cut an’ run fer it right now?”

“I can’t. He has my word of honor that I would report the success or failure of my mission.”

“I guess he ain’t troublin’ hisself about honor, is he?”

“I suppose not.”

“W’y should you, sir?”

“That’s the disadvantage a gentleman labors under in dealing with a scoundrel.”

“I see. Hev ye thought that ye’ll be sarched by the police an’——?”

“By Jove!” I interrupted. “That’s so.”

“An’ wot ye’ve got’ll be tuk from ye?”

This was a new complication. I had no doubt in that case that the slipper would eventually fall into the hands of du Trémigon and my sacrifice would avail nothing. What was to be done? I could think of nothing. I had no friends in Paris whom I could trust except this humble sailor. Unless I gave the slipper to him I should have to throw it away. In truth I should never have taken it. It was a mad impulse that possessed the Countess to give it me.

“Bucknall,” I said at last, “you are right. I cannot keep this slipper.”

“I think not, sir.”

“There is no one that I know in Paris to whom I can intrust it but you.”

“I reckon not, sir.”

“Here it is,” I said. I am not ashamed to say that I kissed it before I gave it to the sailor. It was dark and he could not see, but if it had been broad daylight I should not have cared.

“Wot am I to do with it, sir?”

“I want you to do it up carefully in a package. Put the best wrappings about it and tie it up shipshape. Leave it at the American minister’s for Dr. Franklin when he comes back, which should be tomorrow or next day. You can get someone there to address it to my father’s plantation.”

I gave him the address and made him repeat it many times until he had it letter-perfect.

“Now,” I said, “you must leave me and shift for yourself. Here”—I reached my hand in my pocket and took out the money that du Trémigon had given me. I might as well be hanged for an old sheep as a lamb, I reasoned, and I passed it all over to the faithful sailor. “You speak passable French,” I continued—he had picked up enough of the language in his Mediterranean cruises to make himself understood—“keep yourself close until you see the American minister. Tell him of my plight and perhaps he may be able to do something. At any rate see that he forwards the package. You need not say what’s in it.”

“What about my hoss, sir?”

“Give me the rein.”

“An’ I thanks God to get off’n him,” returned Bucknall, sliding to the ground with great alacrity. “And, harkee, Master Burnham, ye ain’t seen the last of me, yet, sir. I’ve got a few idees in my ol’ head, sir, an’ don’t you git ready for death too suddint like.”

He turned and was gone.

A short time brought me to du Trémigon’s house. He was waiting for me, wellnigh consumed with anxiety and curiosity. I do not care to go into the details of our interview that night. Suffice it to say, I felt entirely free to express my opinion of him and that I did so without let or hindrance. Of course, he carried out his part of the program, and at daybreak I found myself in prison facing charges of highway robbery and debts amounting to many thousand francs.

But I was happy. I had hope of the love of the Countess and I didn’t care a rap for anything else. I felt that somehow, in some way, I should manage to get out. I was the most cheerful prisoner under such a heavy charge that ever occupied a cell.

Confinement, I will admit, was a little wearing upon me. The first day passed, and then a second, without a sign from anybody. My examination was set for the morrow. The turnkey who brought me my supper slipped me a note. I was hungry enough—for the prison fare was scanty—but the note claimed my attention. It was in a woman’s hand, of course, and could come only from her, although it bore no crest and was not signed.

The turnkey and the under-governor of the jail are bribed.
Tonight, after supper, you will be removed to another cell.
This overlooks the street. The bars of the window have been
arranged so that they will come out at a touch. When the
clock in the nearby church strikes twelve, a messenger and
a horse will await you in the alley.

The note stopped there, and then a few words had been added apparently as an afterthought:

These presents from one who cares much what happens to you.

If you have been in a like situation you can guess what happened then. When I was calmer I put the note carefully in my pocket and fell to my supper. I knew that I should need all my strength, and I was of a practical turn of mind even in the midst of my most romantic dreams. I had scarcely finished the poor provender when the turnkey re-entered. He was followed by a couple of other officials. The turnkey in a harsh manner, as if to impress the others, although he winked knowingly at me, said:

“By the order of the commandant you are to be transferred to another cell.”

“I do not wish to be transferred,” I returned hotly, to keep up the deception; “this cell suits me very well, and I am satisfied to remain here.”

“Your wishes are not consulted in this matter,” he returned roughly.

“You villain!” I cried, menacing him.

“Have a care,” he answered; “if you don’t go peaceably we’ll have to take you by force. Here, men!”

His two assistants stepped forward. I concluded that I had done enough, so, grumbling mightily, and giving evidence of my displeasure, I suffered them to lead me to the other cell, where I was soon locked in for the night. With what impatience I waited for the appointed hour!

At the first stroke of the bell I was at the window. The bars came out in my hand. Someone had chiseled out the mortar and replaced it with putty. I gained the sill and dropped. It was a long fall, but I was delighted when I alighted upon a truss of hay, which had evidently been thrown at the foot of the wall on purpose to receive me. I scrambled up and looked about. A man approached me. He had a weapon. I was without arms, and although I stood ready to spring, I had no doubt he was a messenger.

“Monsieur Burnham?” he asked.

“The same.”

“Come with me.”

I followed him down the narrow street on tiptoe. So far as I could see it was entirely deserted. The street opened upon a little park or square. Under the trees I made out horses. There were three of them. A figure sat upon one. My heart leaped into my mouth as I discerned it to be a woman. One of the horses was turned over to me. My conductor took the third, first handing me a hat and cloak. Then he turned and, indicating that we should follow, made his way into the street. On account of the lateness of the hour, and the fact that the jail was in a remote and unfrequented portion of the town, the street was dark and empty. We passed a lantern presently and its rays fell upon the woman who had persistently avoided conversation with me. Under this light, although she wore a mask and was shrouded in a cloak, I knew that it was the Countess. Nothing could stop me then. I swung my horse in toward hers and laid my hand on her arm.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is to you that I owe my freedom.”

“Not yet,” she replied, but she did not shake off my hand, and we rode side by side, the horses going at a good pace.

“First, you gave me something to live for—” I said.

“That was?”

“Yourself. Now you give me life to enjoy you.”

“Monsieur,” she said, dodging the issue, “we have but little time to converse. I learned of your plight——”

“How, Mademoiselle?”

“From your servant, an ancient sailor. He followed you, learned where you were imprisoned, and immediately sought me.”

“How did he get access to you?”

“He had a—talisman, Monsieur, that insured him an immediate hearing.”

I was completely puzzled, but Mademoiselle gave me no time for thought. She went on hurriedly:

“I bribed the commandant and turnkey. I provided these horses. The man ahead of us is——”

“Éspiau!” I exclaimed.

“Yes. He will conduct you out of France.”

“And you came, Mademoiselle——??”

“To say farewell.”

“Never!” I cried. “I will leave France, Mademoiselle, but not alone.”

“You mean?”

“I take you with me.”

“Impossible!”

“But do you not love me?” She was silent. “Would you have done all this for me if you had not?” I persisted.

“Gratitude, Monsieur, for services rendered, and——”

“Nonsense!” I said, laughing, “you know that you care. Why, I have lived in the prison upon the memory of that——”

“You are cruel, Monsieur.”

“Is it cruel for a man who loves a woman to take the woman, if she loves him, away with him?”

I was young and reckless. I didn’t care what happened. I swung my horse in closer to hers and slipped my arm around her. She struggled, but in despite of her struggles I kissed her. Her head sank on my shoulder.

“Don’t!” she whispered. “You are so strong. I cannot let you go——”

That was a wise pair of horses, for they stopped while I poured out my soul to her there and then. What her answer might have been I know not. Yet I was prepared to take her away by force when we were suddenly alarmed by Éspiau. He had ridden ahead a few paces; now he came back on the run.

“Soldiers!” he said hastily. “The King’s guard! We must flee!”

“Monsieur,” said the Countess, quickly releasing herself and thrusting a little parcel into my hand, “here is the talisman. Go! unless you wish to disgrace me. Éspiau and I will remain here.”

She had right on her side. We must not be found together. To assist in the escape of a prisoner, charged with a capital offense, was a serious matter. I swerved my horse and started away. But I had not gone ten paces before a heavy hand seized my horse’s bridle and a stern voice bade me stand in the King’s name. Lights appeared on the instant and I saw that I was surrounded. I cast one glance backward at the Countess and Éspiau. They, too, had been arrested. It was a trap! The whole party had been caught. Back of the men who had stopped us I noticed a single horseman.

“Have you got him?” he said as he drew near.

“Yes, Monsieur le Duc.”

I recognized his voice. It was Mademoiselle’s grandfather!

“Take him to my house,” said the old man shortly.

The next moment du Trémigon spurred through the throng. It was he who with the remainder of the King’s guard had apprehended Mademoiselle and Éspiau. He shot one venomous glance at me, in which triumph was mingled with hate, and approached the Duke, whispering a few words. I saw the old man start violently; a look of anger and dismay crossed his face—the Marquis spoke earnestly for a moment or two. The Duke nodded—unwillingly, I thought. The next moment he left us and rode forward with du Trémigon to the side of his granddaughter. I stared after them in despair.

“Where am I to be taken?” I asked one of the officers commanding the escort that had seized me.

“Back to prison.”

“And not to the Duke’s house?”

“An oubliette will doubtless be safer and more comfortable quarters for Monsieur,” said the captain politely, giving the order to march.

* * * * *

Fortune had been both kind and unkind to me once more. On the whole I judged, as I lay in the darkness of the damp, wretched dungeon from which no escape seemed possible, that the balance was on the side of kindness. I had had a breath of fresh air. I had further evidence that the woman I loved loved me. I had come near to freedom with her. And I had the talisman which Bucknall had shrewdly used to gain access to her. I could feel it in the darkness, for I had unwrapped it. It was the slipper—my lady’s slipper that had caused all the trouble! As I pressed it passionately to my lips I felt the crackle of paper inside. A letter! What would I have given for a light by which to read it!

Ah, yes, things looked black to me, but I blessed fortune nevertheless—on my own account, that is. I was filled with anxiety as to what would happen to the Countess between her grandfather and du Trémigon. There was one other matter, which gave me grave concern. When du Trémigon rode up to the Duke he had been followed by a servant on horseback, a particularly vicious-looking man with one eye. The light was not clear and I was not able to see distinctly. Yet I recognized him. Where I had met him, under what circumstances, I could not at first decide, but in the darkness of that dungeon all came back to me. He was the man whose wrist I had broken with my cudgel, when Mademoiselle had been attacked. He was evidently the leader of that assault upon her. She had spoken of the Queen’s despatch. Could it be that du Trémigon had instigated the attack? It must have been the case. I decided that the fact itself was of great importance, and that possibly I might use it in case of necessity.

VI

THE SLIPPER GOES TO COURT

I got through the night somehow. The next morning—I knew it was morning, because some faint light had filtered through a slit near the roof, the most eventful day in my life, which had not been without its surprising incidents—was ushered in by a visit from the commandant of the prison. Why he honored me with his personal attention was not obvious, though I learned later that it was on account of an order of the Queen. Curtly enough he bade me follow him, which I did, nothing loth. Anything was better than the cursed oubliette.

I fancy that I must have presented rather a sorry figure, for he was good enough to show me into a small room where there were some toilet conveniences, and I made myself as presentable as possible. Fortunately, my clothes—I had resumed my own, when I returned to du Trémigon—were of good material and a perfect fit, and I was rather proud of my figure, too. While there I read the note in the slipper. It was small, like the container, but very sweet to me:

Monsieur, [it said], to see you again I come with Éspiau
tonight. I bid you an eternal farewell and write what I
dare not speak—I love you!

An eternal farewell, eh? I would have something to say about that, I was resolved.

My hat and cloak—that Mademoiselle had provided me with the night before—were fetched, and after a good breakfast, which seemed to have been brought from his own table, he conducted me to a closed carriage and I was driven a long distance through the country, arriving at last at a place that I afterward found to be Versailles.

I tried several times to converse with my guards, but neither would talk to me. I resigned myself to whatever was coming, therefore, and busied myself with thoughts of Mademoiselle. I had been to Versailles seeking Dr. Franklin, but had never seen the royal palace. Consequently I did not recognize it when the carriage stopped and I was led forth. I supposed that it might be one of the residences of the great Duc de Rivau-Huet.

Before I had time to speculate, however, I was blindfolded and led through numberless corridors, up and down flights of stairs, in rooms and out in bewildering succession. I made no resistance. It would have been useless, and the officers who brought me thither informed me that no harm was intended. Finally we stopped, hands fumbled at the bandage, and I opened my eyes to find myself in a magnificent apartment—an antechamber of some sort, evidently. It was void of people, save ourselves and a sentry in the uniform of the Swiss Guards at the door at the farther end.

Running my hand through my hair with the natural instinct of a young man, and shaking myself as if to free my person by the motion, at a gesture from my guide I stepped boldly to the door. The Swiss presented arms, the official tapped on the door and stepped back, a voice I recognized bade me enter, and in another moment I was in the presence of Mademoiselle. She was standing near the door. I took one step toward her and fell on my knees, when a scandalized voice exclaimed in my ear:

“Monsieur, do you not see the Queen?”

“I do,” I answered, without taking my eyes off Mademoiselle, “and I kneel to her with all the homage of my heart.”

Mademoiselle blushed vividly and stepped aside.

“She means the Queen of France, Monsieur,” she said softly.

As I knelt there, my eyes fell upon a young woman—she was only twenty-four—seated farther off at the opposite side of the room, a beautiful woman with a fresh, sweet, innocent face, with nothing especially regal about her, that I could see. I knew in a moment that this was Marie Antoinette. Such was my astonishment, however, that I remained kneeling, my mouth open, in great surprise. Her Majesty was pleased to laugh. She laughed as merrily as a girl.

“Make your homage to the Queen of France, Monsieur,” exclaimed the elderly woman who had spoken to me first, evidently one of the great ladies of the Court.

“Your Majesty,” I replied, finding my wits at last, “I knelt as every gentleman should, to the queen of his heart, and when she stepped aside and revealed to me the queen of all hearts, I was unable to rise.”

“Perhaps, Monsieur, you have sufficiently recovered now to approach more nearly the throne,” she said, pleased at my compliment.

She extended her hand to me. I got to my feet, knelt again before her and kissed it. Queens are always beautiful, but I swear I would rather have kissed Mademoiselle’s hand at any hour. However, I reflected that the honor of America was in a measure committed to me, and I think I bore myself worthily.

“Rise, Monsieur,” said the Queen graciously; “the Comtesse de Villars”—I suppose it is bad manners to look at one woman when another woman is speaking to you, especially if that woman be of royal blood, but I could not help turning my head at her words.

There stood Mademoiselle more beautiful than ever. Indeed, I have observed that she always looks better the more beautiful her background, and Marie Antoinette might be Queen of France, but she was only a background to Mademoiselle that morning.

“Mademoiselle de Villars tells me that you have rendered me a great service.”

“If to love Mademoiselle de Villars,” I began, “with all my heart and soul, be to render Your Majesty a service——”

“Nay, nay, not that way. I fear you would fain rob me of my fairest maid of honor.”

“It ill becomes a gentleman to contradict a lady,” I replied quickly.

Again the Queen laughed. I was lucky evidently.

“What I meant, Monsieur, was that Mademoiselle de Villars tells me that you saved her from assault, capture, I know not what, on the highroad some ten days ago.”

“Your Majesty, I had that good fortune.”

“Mademoiselle de Villars was on my errand. There were papers I did not care to intrust to any save the most intimate hand, which she was bringing back to me.”

“I perfectly understand, Your Majesty.”

“I will not disguise the fact that had these papers fallen into the possession of an enemy——”

“The Marquis du Trémigon?” I interrupted.

“Du Trémigon?” cried Mademoiselle.

“Why he, Monsieur?” asked the Queen.

“It was he who instigated the assault upon Mademoiselle, I am convinced.”

“How know you this?”

“One of the ruffians who menaced the lady was one-eyed. He wore a patch over his face. I was lucky enough to break his wrist with my cudgel.”

“A strange weapon for a gentleman,” said Her Majesty.

“It is honored above my sword, in that it hath served Mademoiselle,” I answered.

“You have a French twist to your tongue,” said the Queen. “Proceed.”

“I recognized the man in the Marquis du Trémigon’s following last night, Your Majesty.”

“I know whom he means, Madame; I saw him, too,” said Mademoiselle. “I heard Monsieur du Trémigon call him Babin. Strange to say, I did not recognize him before.”

“That agrees perfectly with my recollection, Madame. I remember that the man who ran away that day on the road called him by that name.”

“And you think the Marquis du Trémigon wanted these papers?” continued the Queen.

“I am sure of it, Madame.”

“But why?”

“Your Majesty knows that he is a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle de Villars. He hoped doubtless that if he could get the papers he might—” I hesitated. It was an ugly word to say, yet the Marquis du Trémigon had shown himself to me in his true colors, and I knew there was no knavery he would stop at. “He hoped to influence you, and, through you, Mademoiselle. By the terms of her father’s will she must consent willingly to the marriage, else the contract is void.”

“You seem to know a great deal about the affairs of Mademoiselle, Monsieur.”

“I intend, with your permission, Madame, to know everything about them in the future.”

The Queen smiled.

“He is droll, this cavalier. He speaks like a Frenchman, and wooes like an American.”

“Have I your permission, Madame?” asked Mademoiselle.

“Certainly, my dear.”

“It was the Marquis du Trémigon who betrayed us last night,” she said, turning to me.

“Another score to be settled between us,” I said under my breath.

“He has a creature in his pay in my grandfather’s house, and through him he learned my plan. He laid a very clever trap. Although he could have stopped me at any time, he allowed us to go on, that we might be caught in the act. Now he hopes to win my grandfather’s consent to this marriage, and perhaps by that means force it upon me.”

“You shall never marry him,” I said, utterly oblivious of everything, everybody, except Mademoiselle and that fact.

“And why not, pray, Monsieur?” asked the Queen.

“Because, Your Majesty, I shall marry her myself.”

“Indeed!”

“The word of a gentleman, Madame,” I said.

“But are you a gentleman?” asked Marie Antoinette. There was an accent of raillery in her voice that robbed the question of its sting. “One day you masquerade as a sailor. The next day you enter Mademoiselle’s apartments”—she knew all, then!—“as a thief. Today you stand before me as a criminal.”

“I plead guilty to every charge, Madame. I am a sailor, I am a thief. Last night I would have stolen——”

“What, Monsieur?”

“Mademoiselle.”

“From her grandfather?”

“From the throne itself, Your Majesty,” I replied fervently.

Again the Queen smiled.

“Enough, Monsieur,” she said, rising; “I have exerted myself in your favor. I had an order from the King to bring you here. I have requested the Duc de Rivau-Huet to consign Mademoiselle to my care. I wished to thank you for the service you have done me—to ask you to wear this in memory of my gratitude.”

She drew a rarely beautiful diamond ring from her finger and extended it to me. I kissed the hand and slipped the ring upon my little finger.

“Your Majesty overwhelms me,” I said.

“The reward scarcely equals your merit, Monsieur, and it does not even approach your assurance.”

“Mademoiselle would make a craven bold, Madame.”

“Doubtless,” said the Queen. “And now we have the honor to wish you a safe return to America.”

I looked at Mademoiselle. She had turned deathly pale. Her eyes were filled with tears. Before my glance she lowered her head. My resolution was taken at once.

“But, Your Majesty, I am not going back to America.”

“How, Monsieur! You contradict the Queen?”

“At least, I am not going back alone,” I added respectfully.

“Monsieur, believe me,” the Queen rejoined earnestly, “it is impossible. The Duc de Rivau-Huet would never consent. He is one of the great nobles of France. You——”

“I am a criminal, Madame, and respect no conventions save those dictated by my own heart.”

I could swear that Mademoiselle gave me one grateful glance.

“Is that the custom of America?” asked the Queen.

“Of the world, Madame. When one loves as I, there is but one custom.”

“That is?”

“To give oneself to one’s mistress and to take her for his own.”

The situation was becoming impossible. It was fortunately saved for me by the entrance of an equerry.

“Your Majesty”—he stopped and bowed low—“Monsieur le Marquis du Trémigon would like the honor of an audience.”

“Monsieur,” said the Queen, turning to me, “you still persist in this mad resolution?”

“Madame, I am determined in it. There is but one voice that can send me to America—alone.”

“And that voice.”

“Is Mademoiselle’s.”

“Speak to him, Gabrielle,” said the Queen.

Mademoiselle turned and looked at me. Her lips formed a word; she drew her breath sharply in, but no sound came.

“With reverence to Your Majesty, that word Mademoiselle cannot say.”

“Why not, Monsieur?”

“Because she loves me,” I answered confidently.

The Queen looked from one to the other of us. I only looked at Mademoiselle. She could not sustain the concentrated force of two such stares as ours. She hid her face in her hands.

“_Ma foi_,” said Marie Antoinette, with one of those quick changes of mood which made her so fascinating, “it is even so. Before two such lovers, I may be pardoned if I forget that I am a queen and remember only that I am a woman.”

“May God bless Your Majesty for that!” I cried enthusiastically. “Does it mean——?”

“That I am on your side, Monsieur? Satisfy me of what has been told me of yourself this morning and we shall see.”