Had she questioned him he had discovered his mind. She did not, and she had barely passed from sight before he was outside and had got a fresh horse saddled. One thing only it was prevented his leaving the camp in advance of the Countess, whose people were not ready. His foot was raised to the stirrup when he bethought him of this thing. He left the horse in charge of a trooper and hurried back to the Duke's quarters, found him alone and put his question.
"You made a man fight the other night against his will," he said, his head high. "Tell me, my lord, how I can do the same thing."
The Duke stared, then laughed. "Is it that you want?" he answered. "Tell me first whom it is you would fight, my lad?"
"The Captain of Vlaye."
"Ah?"
"You said a while ago," Roger continued, his eyes sparkling, "that you would presently make her a widow. Better a widow before she is wed6, I say!"
The Duke smiled whimsically. "Sits the wind in that quarter?" he answered. "You have no mind to see her wed at all, my lad? That is it, is it? I had some notion of it."
"Tell me how I can make him fight," Roger replied, sticking to his question and refusing even to blush.
"Tell me how I can get the moon!" Joyeuse answered, but not unkindly. "Why should he risk his life to rid himself of you, who are no drawback to him? Tell me that! Or why should he surrender the advantage of his strong place and his four hundred spears to enter the lists with a man who is naught8 to him?"
"Because if he does not I will kill him where I find him!" Roger replied with passion. And the mode of the day, which was not nice in the punctilios of the duel9, and forgave the most irregular assault if it were successful, which cast small blame on Guise10 for the murder of St. Pol, or on Montsoreau for the murder of Bussy, justified11 the threat. "I will kill him!" he repeated. "Fair or foul12, light or dark----"
"He shall not wed her!" the Duke cried in a mocking tone and with an extravagant13 gesture. But in truth the raillery was on the surface only. The lad's spirit touched the corresponding note in his own nature. None the less he shook his head. "Brave words, brave words, young man," he continued; "but you are not Vitaux, who counted his life for nothing, and whose sword was a terror to all."
"But if I count my life for nothing?"
"Ay, if! If!"
"And why should I not?" Roger retorted, his soul rising to his lips. "Tell me, my lord, why should I count it for more? What am I, the son of a poor gentleman, misshapen, rough, untutored, that I should hold my life dear? That I should spare it, and save it, as a thing so valuable? What have I in prospect14 of all the things other men look to? Glory? See me! Fine I should be," with a bitter laugh covering tears, "in a triumph, or marching up the aisle15 to a Te Deum! Court favour? Ay, I might be the dwarf16 in a masque or the fool in motley! Naught besides! Naught besides, my lord! And for love?" He laughed still more bitterly. "I tell you my own father winces17 when he sees me! My own sister and my own brother--well, they are blind perhaps. They, they only, and old Solomon, and the woman who nursed me and dropped me--see in me a man like other men. Leave them out, and, as I live, until this man came----"
"Des Ageaux?"
"Des Ageaux--until he came and spoke18 gently to me and said, 'do this, and do that, and you shall be as Gourdon or as Guesclin!'--even he could not promise me love--as I live, till then no man pitied me or gave me hope! And shall I let him die to save my stunted19 life?"
"But it is not the saving him that is in question," the Duke replied gently, and with respect in his tone. He was honestly moved by this unveiling of poor Roger's thoughts. "She saved him."
"And I'll save her," Roger replied with fervour. "I will save her though I die a hundred deaths. For she, too----"
He paused. The Duke looked at him, a spice of humour mingling20 with his sympathy. "She, too, sees in you a man like other men," he said, "I suppose?"
"She pitied me," Roger answered. "No more; she pitied me, my lord! What more could she do, being what she is? And I being what I am?" His chin sank on his breast.
The Duke nodded kindly7. "May-be," he said. "Less likely things have happened." And then, "But what will you do?" he asked.
"Go with her and see him, take him aside, and if he will fight me, well! And if he will not, I will strike him down where he stands!"
"But that will not save des Ageaux."
"No?"
"No! On the contrary, it will be he," Joyeuse retorted somewhat grimly, "who will pay for it. Do you not see that?"
"Then I will wait," Roger replied, "until he is released."
"And then," the Duke asked, still opposing, though the man and the plan were alike after his own heart, "what of the Countess? M. de Vlaye dead, who will protect her? His men----"
"They would not dare!" Roger cried, trembling. "They would not dare!"
"Well, perhaps not," the Duke answered, after a moment's thought. "Perhaps not. Probably his lieutenant21 would protect her, for his own sake. And des Ageaux free would be worth two hundred men to us. Not that, if I were well, he would be in question. But I am but half a man, and we need him!"
"You shall have him," Roger answered, his eyes glittering. "Have no doubt of it! But advise me, my lord. Were it better I escorted her to the gate and sought entrance later, after he had released des Ageaux? Or that I kept myself close until the time came?"
"The time? For what?"
The speaker was the Abbess. Unseen by the two men, she had that moment glided22 across the threshold. The pallor of her features and the brightness of her eyes were such as to strike both; but differently. To the Duke these results of a night passed in vivid emotions, and of a morning that had crowned her schemes with mockery, only brought her into nearer keeping with the dress she wore--only enhanced her charms. To her brother, on the other hand, who now hated Vlaye with a tenfold hatred23, they were grounds for suspicion--he knew not why. But not even he came nearer to guessing the truth. Not even he dreamt that behind that mask were passions at work which, had they discovered them, would have cast the Duke into a stupor24 deeper than any into which his own mad freaks had ever flung a wondering world. As it was, the Duke's eyes saw only the perfection of womankind; the lily of the garden, drooping25, pale, under the woes26 of her frailer27 sisters. Of the jealousy28 with which she contemplated29 the surrender of her rival to her lover's power, much less of the step which that surrender was pressing upon her, he caught no glimpse.
"The time for what?" the Duke repeated, with looks courteous30 to the point of reverence31. "Ah--pardon, my sister, but we cannot take you into our counsel. Men must sometimes do things it is not for saints to know or women to witness."
"Saints!" The involuntary irony32 of her tone must have penetrated33 ears less dulled by prejudgment. "Saints!" and then, "I am no saint, my lord," she said modestly.
"Still," he answered, "it were better you did not know, mademoiselle. It is but a plan by which we think it possible that we may yet get the better of M. de Vlaye and save the child before--before, in fact----"
"Before it be too late."
"Yes. And how?"
The Duke shook his head with a smile meant to propitiate35. "How?" he repeated. "That--pardon me--that is the point upon which--we would fain be silent."
"Yet you must not be silent," she replied. "You must tell me." And pale, almost stern, she looked from one to the other, dominating them. "You must tell me," she repeated. "Or perhaps," fixing Roger with a glance keen as steel, "I know already. You would save her by killing36 him. It is of that you are thinking. It is for that your horse is waiting saddled by the gate. You would ride after her, and gain access to him--and----"
"She has not started?" Roger exclaimed.
"She started ten minutes ago," the Abbess answered coldly. "Nay37, stay!" For Roger was making for the door. "Stay, boy! Do you hear?"
"I cannot stay!"
"If you do not stay you will repent38 it all your life!" the Abbess made answer in a voice that shook even his resolution. "And she all hers! Ha! that stays you?" with a gleam of passion she could not restrain. "I thought it would. Now, if you will listen, I have something to say that will put another complexion39 on this."
They gazed expectant, but she did not at once continue. She stood reflecting deeply; while each of her listeners regarded her after his knowledge of her; Roger sullenly40 and with suspicion, doubting what she would be at, the Duke in admiration42, expecting that with which gentle wisdom might inspire her.
Secretly she was heart-sick, and the sigh which she could not restrain declared it. But at last, "There is no need of violence," she said wearily. "No," addressing Roger, who had raised his hand in remonstrance43, "hear me out before you interrupt me. How will the loss of a minute harm you? Or of five or ten? I repeat, there is no need of violence. Heaven knows there has been enough! We must go another way to work to release her. It is my turn now."
"I would rather trust myself," Roger muttered; but so low that the words, frank to rudeness, did not reach Joyeuse's ears.
"Yet you must trust me," she answered. "Do so, trust me, and follow my directions, and I will take on myself to say that before nightfall she shall be free."
"What are we to do?" the Duke asked.
"You? Nothing. I, all. I must take her place, as she has taken M. des Ageaux'."
For an instant they were silent in sheer astonishment44. Then, "But M. de Vlaye may have something to say to that!" Roger ejaculated before the Duke could find words. The lad spoke on impulse. He knew a little and suspected more of the lengths to which Vlaye's courtship of his sister had gone.
If she had not put force on herself, she had flung him a retort that must have opened the Duke's eyes. Instead, "I shall not consult M. de Vlaye," she replied coldly. "I have visited him on various occasions, and we are on terms. My appearance in Vlaye, seeing that the Abbey of Vlaye is but a half-league from the town, will cause no surprise. Once in the town, if I can enter the castle and gain speech of the Countess, she may escape in my habit."
"But if it will save her?"
"Ay, but will it?" Roger returned, shrugging his shoulders. He suspected that her aim was to save M. de Vlaye rather than the Countess. "Will it? Can you, in the first place, get speech of her?"
"I think I can," the Abbess answered quietly. "Many of the men know me. And I will take with me Father Benet, who is at the Captain of Vlaye's beck and call. He will serve me within limits, if a friend be needed. I shall wear my robes, and though she is shorter and smaller I see no reason why she should not pass out in them in the twilight46 or after dark."
"But what of you?" the Duke asked, staring much.
"I shall remain in her place."
"Remain in her place?" Joyeuse said slowly, in the voice he would have used had Our Lady appeared before him. "You will dare that for her?"
A faint colour stole into the Abbess's cheeks. "It is my expiation," she murmured modestly. "I struck her--God forgive me!"
"But----"
"And I run no risk. M. de Vlaye knows me, and this"--with a gesture which drew attention to her conventual garb--"will protect me."
The Duke gazed at the object of his adoration47 in a kind of rapture48, seeing already the wings on her shoulders, the aureole about her head. "Mademoiselle, you will do that?" he cried. "Then you are no woman! You are an angel!" In his enthusiasm he knelt--not without difficulty, for he was still weak--and kissed her hand. To him the thing seemed an act of pure heroism49, pure self-denial, pure good-doing.
But Roger, who knew more of his sister's nature and past history, and whose knowledge left less room for fancy's gilding50, stood lost in gloomy thought. What did she mean? Was she going as friend or enemy? Influence with Vlaye she had, or lately had; but, the Countess released, in what a position would she, his sister, stand? Could he, could her father, could her friends let her do this thing?
Yet the chance--to a lover--was too good to reject; the position, moreover, was too desperate for niceties. The thought that she was going, not for the sake of the Countess, but of the Captain of Vlaye, the suspicion that she was not unwilling51 to take the Countess's place and the Countess's risks, occurred to him. But he thrust, he strove to thrust the suspicion and the thought from him. Her motive52 and her meaning, even though that motive and meaning were to save the Captain of Vlaye, were small things beside the Countess's safety.
"At any rate I shall go with you," he said at length, and with more of suspicion than of gratitude53 in his tone. "When will you be ready?"
"I think it likely that he will have bidden Father Benet to be with him at sunset," she answered. "If we are at the priest's, therefore, an hour earlier, it should do."
"And for safe-conduct?"
"I will answer for that," she replied with boldness, "so far as M. de Vlaye's men are concerned."
The answer chafed54 Roger anew. Her reliance on her influence with Vlaye and Vlaye's people--he hated it; and for an instant he hesitated. But in the end he swallowed his vexation: had he not made up his mind to shut his eyes? And the three separated after a few more words relating to the arrangements to be made. The Duke, standing55 with a full heart in the doorway56, watched her to her quarters, marked the grace of her movements, and in his mind doomed57 the Captain of Vlaye to unspeakable deaths if he harmed her; while she, as she passed away, thought--but we need not enter into her thoughts. She was doing this, lest a worse thing happen; doing it in a passion of jealousy, in a frenzy58 of disgust. But she had one consolation59. She would see the Captain of Vlaye! She would see the man she loved. Through the dark stuff of her thoughts that prospect ran like a golden thread.
Roger, on the other hand, should have been content. He should have been more than satisfied, as an hour later he rode beside her down the river valley to the chapel60 beside the ford61, and thence to the open country about Villeneuve. For if things were still dark, there was a prospect of light. A few hours earlier he had despaired; he had seen no means of saving the woman he adored, save at the expense of his own life. Now he had hope and a chance, now he had prospects62, now he might look, if fortune favoured him, to be her escort into safety before the sun rose again.
Surely, then, he should have been content; yet he was not. Not even when after a journey of four hours the two, having passed Villeneuve, gained without misadventure the summit of that hill on the scarped side of which the Countess had met with her first misfortune. From that point, they and the two armed servants who followed them could look down upon the wide green valley that framed the town of Vlaye, and that, somewhat lower, opened into the wide plain of the Dronne. They could discern the bridge over the river; they could almost count the red roofs of the small town that crept up from the water to the coronet of grey walls and towers that crowned all. Those walls and towers basking63 in the sunshine were the eyrie that lorded it over leagues of country seen and unseen--the hawk's nest, the plebis flagellum, as the old chronicler has it. They might, in sight of those towers, count the preliminaries over and all but the supreme64 risk run.
For quite easily they might have fallen in with Vlaye's people on the road and been taken; or with M. de Vlaye himself, and with that there had been an end of the plan. But they had escaped these dangers. And yet Roger was not content; still he rode with a gloomy brow and pinched lips. The longer he thought of his sister's plan, the more he suspected and the less he liked it. There was in it a little which he did not understand, and more which he understood too well. His sister and M. de Vlaye! He hated the collocation; he hated to think that she must be left, willingly and by her own act, in the adventurer's power; and this at a moment when disappointment would aggravate65 a temper tried by the attack on him and by the part which the Vicomte had played in it. On what did she depend for her safety, for her honour, for all that she put wantonly at stake? On his respect? His friendship? Or his love?
"I will take her place," she had said. Could it be that she was willing, that she desired, to take it altogether? Was she, after the rebuffs, after the scornful and contumelious slight which M. de Vlaye had put upon her, willing still to seek him, willing still to be in his power?
It seemed so. Certainly it could not be denied that she was seeking him, and that he, her brother, was escorting her. In that light people would look upon his action.
The thought stung him, and he halted midway on the woodland track that descended66 the farther side of the hill. His face wore a mixture of shame and appeal--with ill-humour underlying67 both. "See here, Odette," he said abruptly68, "I do not see the end of this."
"I thought," she replied, "that the end was to save this little fool who is too weak to save herself!"
"But you?"
"Oh, for me?" contemptuously. "Take no heed71 of me. I am of other stuff, and can manage my own affairs."
"You think so," he retorted. "But the Captain of Vlaye, he, too, is of other stuff."
"Do you fancy I am afraid of M. de Vlaye?" she answered. And her eyes flashed scorn on him. "You may be! You should be!" with a glance which marked his deformity and stabbed the sense of it deep into his heart. "How should you be otherwise, seeing that in no circumstances could you be a match for him! But I? I say again that I am of other stuff."
"All the same," he muttered darkly, "I would not go on----"
"Would not go on?" she retorted in mockery. "Not with your sweet Countess in danger? Not with the dear light of your eyes in Vlaye's arms? Not go on? Oh, brave lover! Oh, brave man! Not go on, and your Countess, your pretty Countess----"
"Be silent!" he cried. She stung him to rage.
"Ah! We go back then?"
But he could not face that, he could not say yes to that; and, defeated, he turned in dumb sullen41 anger and resumed the road.
Necessarily the danger of arrest increased as they approached the town. The last mile, which brought them to the bridge over the river, was traversed under the eyes of the castle; it would not have surprised Roger had they been met and stopped long before they came to the town gate. But the Captain of Vlaye, it seemed, held the danger still remote, and troubled his followers72 with few precautions. The place lay drowsing in the late heat of the summer afternoon. It was still as the dead, and though their approach was doubtless seen and noted73, no one issued forth74 or challenged them. Even the men who lounged in the shade of the low-browed archway--that still bore the scutcheon of its ancient lords--contented themselves with a long stare and a sulky salute75. The bridge passed, a narrow street paved and steep, and overhung by ancient houses of brick and timber, opened before them. It led upwards76 in the direction of the castle, but after pursuing it in single file some fifty paces, the Abbess turned from it into a narrow lane that brought them in a bow-shot--for the town was very small--to the wall again. This was their present destination. For crowded into an angle of the wall under the shadow of one of the old brick watch-towers stood the chapel and cell that owned the lax rule of M. de Vlaye's chaplain, Father Benet.
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scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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winces
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| 避开，畏缩( wince的名词复数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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frailer
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| 脆弱的( frail的比较级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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