CHAPTER XIV.

THE CHATEAU IN THE COUNTRY--THE MEETING--LE PREMIER PAS

It was a dreary autumnal evening, sixteen months after the events of the last chapter, and the twilight was fast coming upon a vast forest in the province of l’Ile de France, now known as the department of the Oise. The afternoon had been chill and depressing. The wind moaned through the high branches of the trees in a dismal and monotonous wailing, and the constant rustling of the leaves as they fell to the ground showed that the season was far advanced. There were few of the wild flowers left. Two or three, here and there, in sheltered nooks, were all that remained to remind one of the past summer. The delicate heath-bell trembled in the cold breeze, as it rose amidst the dead foliage; but there were few beside. The birds were silent; the tinkling of the cattle-bells on the patches of pasture-land was hushed, as the animals huddled together, shrinking from the first approach of cold; and no sound was heard to disturb the general torpidity into which nature seemed about to fall, except the echoing noise from the blows of the axe with which the peasants were cutting down the limbs of the trees for the winter store of firewood.

Yet was the Forêt de l’Aigue a pleasant place in summer, when the sunlight danced upon the turf of its long avenues, darting through the quivering foliage, and the ground was powdered with the bright petals of its flowers, from the primroses spangling its sunny banks, to the gentle violets clustering about the mossy bolls of the fantastic trees, adding their odour to the scent-laden air that swept so warmly through the branches. And during this season alone, it might have been conceived that the chateaux, which were built widely apart upon the forest, were inhabited; for the situation was indeed desolate at other times. But although the autumn was, as we have observed, far advanced, one of the largest of these country houses that a man could come to in a long day’s walk, had not yet been forsaken for the winter by its occupants. This was a large rambling building, with many windows and turrets, surrounded by a neglected garden, with a few mutilated stone statues, corroded by the rain of many winters, and enclosed by a rude flint wall, with a broken coping. The walks were overgrown with weeds; the ponds were either dry or covered with slime and dead leaves; and water had long ceased to come from the mouths of the misshapen dolphins that formed the fountains. It was of a class of rural buildings which, in France, always appear desolate and uncared for; but this one was especially so.

In one of the large apartments of this house, a bare, uncarpeted room, which the blazing pile of firewood upon the iron ‘dogs’ of the large hearth could not render cheerful, were two persons--an elderly man and a young female. The former was seated at an escritoire, arranging a vast mass of papers bearing official seals and signatures that lay before him. His companion was plunged in a large fauteuil at the side of the fireplace, with her hands pressed against her face, as if to shut out all impressions but her own thoughts. She might have been supposed asleep, but for an occasional rapid shudder which passed through her frame, induced by the vivid recollection of some bygone scene of suffering. These two persons were M. d’Aubray, the lieutenant-civil, and his daughter, the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.

‘The wind is blowing sharply to-night, Marie,’ said the old man, as a gust of unusual violence howled round the chateau, and shook the rattling casements. ‘We must think about returning to Paris.’

‘I have no wish to go, _mon père_,’ replied his daughter,--‘to be pointed at as an object of pity, scorn, or curiosity. I would sooner remain here with you--for ever.’

She left the fire, and sinking on a low _prie-dieu_ at her father’s side, took his hand in her own, and looked up in his face with a gaze of deep attachment.

‘You have nothing to fear in Paris,’ replied M. d’Aubray. ‘The court has had a thousand objects for its slander since you left; and you have been at Offemont long enough for the whole affair to be forgotten. Besides, you will return acknowledged by me, and with my countenance.’

‘Will the world believe that it is so, Monsieur?’

‘If I maintain it, they will, Marie. The dissolute life your husband is now leading at Paris--his desperate play--the orgies nightly held at his _hôtel_, which, if report be true, eclipse all others of the present reign in debauchery, tend to prove that there was also deep blame attached to him. The repentance--sincere, as I hope and trust it is--of more than a year should disarm all future persecution.’

‘Antoine has been very cruel to me,’ continued the daughter. ‘I should like to see my children; they must be much grown and altered. It has appeared so long a time since they were taken away.’

Her voice faltered as she spoke. She covered her face with her handkerchief, and for a few seconds remained silent, as if weeping. There was not a finer actress on the stage than Marie d’Aubray.

‘Time will effect much, Marie,’ said her father, as he fondly passed his hand over her white shoulder, and drew her towards him. ‘Your husband’s anger will be less bitter against you; be satisfied at present in knowing that your children are well and happy.’

‘And _I_ am forgotten,’ added the Marchioness sadly.

‘I need not say,’ continued M. d’Aubray, ‘that the greatest caution in your behaviour will be necessary on your return. The cause of all this misery, M. Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, has been liberated from the Bastille, and is once more free, at Paris. You must never speak to, or recognise him again.’

‘You shall be obeyed, Monsieur: too willingly,’ replied Marie.

‘_Bien_--you understand me,’ said M. d’Aubray. ‘I have to rise early to-morrow, and shall retire. When I ring, let Gervais bring up my supper to my room. I have still some writings to arrange.’

‘I will see to it, _mon père_,’ replied the Marchioness. ‘I shall remain up some time longer. I cannot sleep if I go to rest thus early, and those long watchful nights are so terrible.’

She knelt upon the _prie-dieu_ as her father kissed her fair forehead, and then retired.

As soon as he had gone, and the sound of his departing footsteps was no longer audible, Marie took the heavy candelabrum which was on the table, and drawing aside a curtain of rustling and faded serge, placed the light in the window. Then, watching the sulky beat of a faded pendule, rich in shepherds and shepherdesses of blackened gilding that was on a slab opposite the hearth, she remained lost in thought, starting, however, at the least noise without, although but the clatter of a falling leaf against the window.

An hour wore away. And then she became restless, pacing the room with impatience, and constantly walking towards the window, in the vain endeavour to penetrate the gloom without, unenlivened by the presence of even a single star. Yet suspense was not the only feeling expressed by her countenance. Her eyes sparkled, a breathing glow of warmth and excitement flushed her face, and a slight tremor pervaded her whole frame, extending also to her very respiration. Suddenly these emotions ceased. A footstep was plainly heard without upon the terrace of the parterre: it came nearer, and then there was a light tap against the window. She rose slowly, and opened the casement: in another moment Gaudin de Sainte-Croix entered the apartment.

There was no spring--no eager rush into each other’s arms. Despite the intense passion which had the instant previous filled her silence and her thoughts, she now remained fixed, and mute as the grave. Neither did Gaudin speak a word, as he found himself before his mistress for the first time since his long and dreary immurement. But the looks on either side were those which wrapped each other in passion; and by degrees, yet still in silence and trembling, a hand or foot stole forward, until the two forms which contained those attached, but sinful souls, met in one long and clinging embrace.

‘Gaudin! my adored one!’ exclaimed Marie. But the concluding accents were hushed by the lips of her lover.

At length they broke from their waking dream with the start and unwelcome sense of reality that follows slumber. And then a sigh rose to Marie’s lips far different from the acted sorrow and penitence of the last hour. Passion stamped sincerity and truth upon it.

‘And can you mix grief, Marie, with the rapture of this moment?’ asked Sainte-Croix in tones of deprecation.

‘Gaudin!’ replied the Marchioness; ‘this must be henceforth the only manner in which we can meet--this stealthy, miserable game at hide-and-seek, the only way in which I can show my love, or repay you for your suffering.’

The habitual distrust of Sainte-Croix’s mind led him to turn one searching look upon Marie’s face. But all there was real and confiding. All natures have their minutes of truth, however drilled they may be into daily lying. He was satisfied.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Do you remain here for ever?’

‘No, Gaudin,’ answered the Marchioness; ‘but my father requires, as the price of his protection and countenance, that I should cease to know you.’

The face of Sainte-Croix contracted so suddenly and fiercely that Marie started.

‘What is it that frightens you?’ he asked suddenly.

She hesitated a moment, and then she answered slowly and somewhat sadly--

‘Nothing.’

‘And yet there should--’ retorted Gaudin; but he paused as abruptly as he had begun the sentence. ‘Have I not,’ he added in a gentler and more tranquil tone--‘have I not suffered enough yet to buy your devotion?’

There was ‘Bastille’ in his look. The wily woman was overcome by the wilier man of the world, as though she had been a girl. She clung to him, and pillowed her cheek on his bosom.

‘I will leave you, if it be your wish,’ said Sainte-Croix, as he put her arms away. ‘One word of yours, and I leave you never to return, until--’ and he paused slowly on the words, and uttered them bitterly and deliberately--‘until _his_ death!’

Again she started; but Gaudin noticed it not, or was determined not to notice it.

‘Shall we part?’ he continued, and this time passion gave eloquence to the few words--‘for ever? And yet, if what you have told me of M. d’Aubray’s determination be true, it must be so.’

‘Never! never!’ cried Marie sobbing, as her clasp grew closer and closer round his neck. Had it been possible for Exili’s soul to have been then and there present, how it would have exulted in the assurance of its second victim!

‘Nay, this is weak, Marie. Let us bear the yoke which the world imposes with something like courage,’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix, with a malignant expression strangely at variance with the silken accents of his tongue.

‘You may, Gaudin, if you choose,’ said the Marchioness, ‘but I cannot.’ And the tears were dried in her eyes as she spoke, as if by the fire that blazed in them. ‘If it tramples upon me, I turn: if it spurns me, I return loathing for loathing.’

‘And what good will that do you?’ asked Sainte-Croix, as a sneer came to his lips, but vanished almost in its birth. Step by step he was leading her on to his purpose. ‘See here,’ he continued, as he took a packet from his cloak; ‘sixteen months ago I explained to you the power of this paper’s contents; had you been then guided by me, you could have averted my long and dreary imprisonment.’

‘Gaudin!’

‘You have deceived me, Marie. I imagined--fool--idiot that I was!--that I was more to you than aught beside in the world; I now see how we stand towards each other. Farewell!’ he added, with studied unconcern; ‘Paris is wide, and its beauties at present require but little courting. I release you from all ties--our liaison is over.’

He advanced towards the window as he spoke. The Marchioness started forward, and caught him by the arm, exclaiming--

‘Oh! this is cruel, Sainte-Croix! Stop--but an instant. We have arrived at the brink of a fearful precipice--a dark gulf is yawning at our feet, whose depth we may not penetrate. We are doomed to fall into it, but it shall be together. Give me the packet.’

Sainte-Croix placed it in her fevered hand as she spoke. And then for some seconds not a word passed between them, and each remained gazing at the other as if they would have looked through each other’s eyes to discover what dark passions were rising in their minds.

‘Hark!’ exclaimed the Marchioness, first breaking the silence in a low hurried voice. ‘The servant is coming. You must leave me, Gaudin. Leave all to me,--in a few days we shall be once more in Paris.’

There was a hurried but intense embrace, as though their two souls sought to merge into one form, and Gaudin left the apartment in the same manner that he had entered it. The Marchioness retired from the window, pale, and tottering in her step, and had scarcely gained her seat by the fire when Gervais, her father’s attendant, entered the apartment.

‘M. d’Aubray has rung for his wine, madame,’ said the man. ‘You have the tankard in the chiffonier.’

‘I will give it to him myself, Gervais,’ replied the Marchioness, with an assumption of indifference that was almost spasmodic. ‘You can go to bed. Nothing more will be wanted.’

‘I have told Michel to watch the _terrain_ to-night, madame,’ continued the man. ‘He noticed some one prowling round the walls just as it was getting dusk.’

‘There is no occasion for that,’ replied Marie. ‘There is nothing out of doors worth their stealing, and very little within. Good-night.’

The retainer departed; and the Marchioness took the jug which the man had brought in, and poured it into an old cup of thin silver, embossed with figures, which might have been the

[image: img_08.jpg caption: Le Premier Pas]

work of Benvenuto Cellini, that stood on the chiffonier. And then, with a hurried glance round the room, she broke the seals of the packet Sainte-Croix had left in her hand, and shook a few grains of its contents into the beverage. No change was visible; a few bubbles rose and broke upon the surface, but this was all.

Taking the tankard with her, she left the large room and went to her father’s chamber. M. d’Aubray had retired to rest, and it was evident that sleep had just surprised him, as the lamp was still burning at the side of his bed, and a deed was in his hand that he had been reading. The Marchioness gazed at it for a few seconds with fixed regards. The traces of the late conflict with her feelings had departed, and her face had assumed once more that terrible and unfathomable expression which has been before alluded to, although a close observer might have seen the pupils of her eyes dilated, and a strange light coruscating in them.

She touched her father lightly, and he awoke with the exclamation of surprise attendant upon being suddenly disturbed from sleep.

‘Is it you, Marie?’ he asked. ‘What brings you here?’

‘I have brought your wine, _mon père_,’ she replied. ‘The servants were up early this morning at work, and are tired. I have sent them to rest.’

‘Thanks--thanks, my good girl,’ said the old man, as he raised himself up in bed, and took the cup from the Marchioness.

‘We want no taster,’ he continued, ‘to bear the attacks of hidden poison, with such a Hebe as yourself, Marie; and my old blood cannot spare a drop of this vitalising draught.’

A convulsive exclamation broke from the lips of the Marchioness, but it was not observed by her father. He drank off the contents of the cup, and then, once more bestowing a benediction upon his daughter, turned again to his pillow.