CHAPTER XIV

Victorine Makes End

The Abbé de Bernis did not keep a regular body-servant, for the excellent reason that his somewhat slender means did not admit of one. This fact was wont to pique his vanity not a little, and numberless had been his unheard sighs of envy when Monseigneur This and Monsieur That raised their voices in lofty protestation that a perfect valet was worth more than a perfect woman, but that no valet in the kingdom, save Bachelier himself, deserved butter for his bread. There are, however, certain times when solitude is a boon to every one. Such a time to de Bernis were the last hours of this last night of winter, after his return from the brilliant evening at the Hôtel de Ville. He was in a mood that did not admit of company. His swift walk homeward had, in some way, stirred his blood more than all the dancing had done; and when he reached his rooms he found himself in no mood for sleep. Leisurely, then, by the flickering light of the two candles on his table, he removed the black satin suit which he had worn beneath his domino, took the wig from his aching head, put on a somewhat worn dressing-gown, and seated himself before the mirror of his dressing-table.

A very different man was this François de Bernis from what he appeared to be in company. The affectation, the disguise, were dropped. Here, at last, was the actual man, whom only one other besides himself had ever seen: the peculiar head, with its clipped crop of bristling black hair encircling the tonsure; the dark, Southern face, with its straight brows, keen eyes, long nose, and firm, straight, stubborn mouth, with an anomalous curve of weakness somewhere lurking in it. And his hands, unpowdered and unsoftened now by the falling ruffles of lace, showed for what they were--bony, dark, long-fingered, and cruelly strong. Not so handsome, not so elegant a man, after all, was M. François _en négligé_.

For some time he sat looking at himself, thinking--less of himself, for once, than of the woman who had so easily accepted her dismissal. After all, the want of a scene had hurt his vanity. Could she be as weary of him as he was of her? Was there some other--to her? The night outside grew blacker. It lacked more than an hour to dawn. The candle-flames flickered in the darkness. The hour was dreary enough. It were as well to get to bed. De Bernis rose slowly, intending to finish his laggardly preparations for the night. He had not yet taken a step when there came a light, quivering knock on the door of the outer room, his salon. He stood perfectly still, listening. The knock was not repeated, however, and he decided that it had been a mistake. Ah! What was this? The handle of his bedroom door was being turned; the door was pushed slowly open. There, in the space, stood a slight figure, cloaked, hooded, and masked in black. Two white hands were raised to the stranger's face. The mask dropped to the floor.

"Victorine!" muttered the man.

"That goes without saying."

"_Grand Dieu_! Did you think that I expected you?"

"Why not?" The lips parted slightly, and he caught a gleam of teeth. "You could not have imagined that that--at the ball--was the last?"

"So I did think. Well, what do you come for?"

"Not that tone, please. You have no right to use it--to me."

"What do you come for?"

She made a sound in her throat which he took for a laugh. Afterwards, shivering slightly, she moved nearer to him, and at sight of her face he started back into an attitude of defence. He would have repeated his question, when suddenly she answered it.

"You gave me to-night. 'After to-night,' you said. Well, it is not morning yet. We shall finish to-night."

"What do you mean?" He stared at her figure, at her working hands, as though he expected to discover weapons about her.

Then her voice and her face both changed from reckless hardness to a kind of pitiful, childlike pleading: "Why, François, are you so unkind? You gave me this time. You must not be cruel yet--till I am ready."

In spite of himself he softened before the helplessness of the little, delicate creature. "What do you want, Victorine?" he asked, gently.

She was silent for some time, till he thought she had not heard him. When he was about to repeat his words, however, she said, with the faintest hesitation: "I want--to pray--here, if you will listen. I can never pray alone, because I need you--I need you when I am before God." She saw him shudder, and went on, imploringly: "Oh, François, let me pray here, once, for the last time! Is it so much to ask? Let me set myself a little more right--before you."

"Will you not be setting yourself more wrong? Can you pray?" he asked, sternly, after a troubled pause.

Her answer was to fall upon her knees before a chair near which she had been standing. The seat of this she grasped painfully with both her thin, delicate hands. When she began to speak her voice was so low that the man could barely hear it. Gradually, however, it became more distinct:

"O God! merciful Father! Mary, Mother of Jesus!--our Saviour--Christ--behold, I am come to you! Look down upon me where I am, and, in the name of Justice, no more, judge me! You, who know all things, know also my heart. You know my sin, but you know its reason. Oh, Thou who hast said, in pity, '_Because she has much loved, much shall she be forgiven_,' behold me, pity me, also! "O God, thou knowest this French Court, thou knowest its life, how they take us, who do not yet know, into the midst of it. We are children at first--so young!--so young! And we cannot foresee the end. We do not know the prices here for--happiness. Is it, then, true that happiness is never to be found on earth? If we find it for a little while, are we not punished enough after to--expiate? Why were we not told all at first? We heard that such a thing as happiness there was. We wanted it--we hoped for it--we thought we found it. But we pay too high. Why do you ask so much for so little? Will you condemn us for our youth, our ignorance? Why must we pay? Why should we pay--with those years and years and endless years of sorrow? If I say that I _will not_ pay--what then?

"God, thou art called merciful. Hast thou mercy for me, who have wronged none but myself? Ah, why was I decreed to be born and grow to womanhood? It has been useless. You will see. I--I--will not--I can--" She was beginning to gasp, sobbingly. The abbé, who had heard her in silence, came forward.

"Victorine, rise. This is a useless blasphemy."

"I know. I know. I cannot pray. God--will not--let me!" Her words came convulsively, and she shivered with cold. He picked her up in his arms and carried her over to the largest chair in the room. Here she remained, helpless and passive; and he left her, to return presently with a glass of cordial. In obedience to a look from him she took it, without protest. When he had set aside the empty glass, he turned to her and spoke:

"Madame, it is nearly morning. You must go."

Looking up at him, she smiled--as she had sometimes used to do. "Not yet," she said, with pretty decision.

"Not yet! _Mon Dieu!_ what can you do? Why do you stay?"

"Because in my last hours I wish to be with you," she said, softly and lightly, with old-time playful tenderness.

In spite of himself this manner influenced him as no other would have done. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and returned, with a gallant air: "Madame, I should wish to assist you with your cloak and mask; but if you have anything to ask of me, first--"

She sprang lightly to her feet, went to him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. He felt the force in her merely by her touch. It seemed as though fire from her fingers were trickling down through his flesh to his heart.

"Yes, you are right; I have something to ask, something to tell. You have heard it before, but this last time you must learn it well, and must remember it. François--I love you. In heaven or in hell, wherever I go, I shall love you. I will not forget--and you shall not. This is the last night here. But--out, somewhere--in the infinite--I wait for you. Now, sit here."

She pushed him, gently, inflexibly, over to the chair whence she had risen. Then she passed to the table, where stood the two candles that lighted the room. Her great gray eyes fastened themselves burningly, steadily, upon those of de Bernis. Under the gaze he sat still, fascinated. "Victorine--you are mad," he murmured once, vaguely.

Hearing the words, she smiled at him, but never moved her eyes. At length, when he had become passively expectant, she lifted her hand. "Remain there--do not move--" she whispered. Then her fingers moved over the candle-flames. They flared and went out. There was a sound of rustling garments, a faintly murmured word from the man, a long breath, and then silence, heavy, absolute, in the thick darkness.

It lasted long. All about that room, for miles in the blackness, the great city lay sleeping through the hour before dawn. The lights of the Hôtel de Ville were out. King and valet alike rested. Mme. d'Etioles and Marie Leczinska had forgotten triumph and trouble. Richelieu, devil and monk, lay abed like an honest man. And Deborah de Mailly, under her canopy, dreamed, in the Versailles apartment, of the fresh quiet of her room at Trevor Manor, the golden dawn over the Chesapeake, and the lapping of the river against the banks that were lined with drooping willows and peach-trees.

The first sound that broke the stillness in the room of the Rue Bailleuls was the same as that on which silence had fallen--the long-drawn sigh of a woman. Then de Bernis whispered, imperatively: "Madame--you must go. Morning dawns."

A second after came the gentle reply: "Yes, François. Have no fear. I go."

As the gray dawn came up at last over the eastern horizon, a coach rattled through the city streets upon its way to the Sèvres barrier. Inside, upon the cushions, her reclining figure covered with a heavy velvet robe, her drawn face showing paler than the day in its frame of disordered hair, covered with the black hood, lay Mme. de Coigny. Her eyes wandered aimlessly from one window of the coach to the other. Without thought, without feeling of any kind, she beheld the tall, narrow houses with their wooden galleries and crazy, outer staircases; the shuttered shops, the narrow, lifeless streets. As they neared the barrier they passed the first market carts, laden with butter, milk, eggs, cheese, and meat. There were no green things at this time of year. And yet--it was the first day of March, the first day of spring. The long winter was at an end. Summer would presently be back.

The panelled coach passed out of the city without difficulty, and entered, upon the country road. The pale yellow light along the end of the distant horizon grew brighter. Victorine regarded it dully. The coach jolted and jarred over the frozen ruts in the road. Bare-branched trees swayed in the biting morning wind. The inhabitants of the rude houses and taverns along the way still slept. The sweet, frosty air of very early morning came gratefully to the lips of the woman; but, as she breathed it in, she shivered, and drew her coverings a little closer. Presently they drew near to Versailles, and smoke began to rise lazily from the chimneys of the houses and to drift slowly upward. A few moments more, and the cumbrous vehicle stopped before a house of stone. It was Victorine de Coigny's "home." A footman leaped from the back of the coach to the ground and opened the door for her. With a strong effort she alighted, leaning heavily on the servant's arm.

At her knock the _concierge_, just dressed for the day, bowed her into the house, looking sharply the while at her pinched, expressionless face. She did not see him. Before her were the stairs. By the strength of her will she ascended them, and was presently admitted to the apartment on the first floor. To the slight surprise of the waiting valet, she forbade him to call her maid; and then, without further commands, passed into her own room. Here she flung off her hood and pelisse. Then, with quiet, stealthy steps, she crossed the passage into her husband's room.

Marshal Coigny, weary with the long night at Paris, whence he had returned an hour or two since, conscience-free, careless, from long training, of his wife's whereabouts, lay in a sound sleep, dreaming of her, perhaps. He had not heard her return to the house; and he was perfectly unaware of her quiet entrance into his room.

She passed him without a look, and went straight to the cabinet where he kept papers, orders, medals, trophies of the last campaign, his sword, and his duelling pistols. One of these last, silver-mounted weapons, loaded for possible use, Victorine took, weighing it in her hand a second before she began her retreat. She could not leave the room as she had entered it, without a glance at him whose name she had borne for three years. For an instant she paused beside his bed, looking a little wistfully at the face that was half turned from her.

"Jules," she said, so softly that de Coigny, had he been awake, could not have heard her, "Jules, I have been very wicked, very cruel to you. May God put it into your heart that I tell you so--now. Perhaps, somewhere, some time, you will find a good woman who will love you as I did--him. When that time comes, Jules, try to think a little kindly of me--sometimes."

Then, with a faint, tired sigh, she turned from him and went back into her own room.

Three or four minutes later the Marquis de Coigny was roused from his sleep by the sharp crack of a pistol-shot. Opening his eyes dreamily for an instant, he rolled over again, murmuring, "Magnificent--your Majesty!"

Then there came the sounds of a man's sharp cry and a hurrying of feet in the passage, and the Maréchal started up as a lackey rushed into his room.

"_Nom de Dieu_, Gérome, what--"

"Monsieur--monsieur--madame--madame la Maréchale--"

"What is it? Speak, fool!"

"It was--madame's--shot!"