"I saw him dismount."
"Do your men know him?"
"They all saw him on the road."
"Well, I recommend him to you."
"Shall we arrest him?"
"Certainly not; he must be allowed to go where he pleases, and act as he pleases, and he must have every opportunity to do so. If he were arrested now, he would tell nothing, and our plans would be disconcerted; no, no, these plans must hatch."
"Hatch what, monseigneur?" said Tapin, who appeared to be on confidential terms with Dubois.
"My archbishop's miter, M. Lecocq," said Dubois, "and now to your work; I go to mine."
Both left the room and descended the staircase, but separated at the door; Lecocq went along the Rue de Paris; and Dubois, slipping along by the wall, went to peep through the hole in the shutter.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE UTILITY OF A SEAL
Gaston had just supped; for at his age, whether a man be in despair or in love, nature asserts her rights. He was leaning on the table thoughtfully. The lamp threw a light over his face, and enabled Dubois to gratify his curiosity.
He looked at him with an attention almost alarming: his quick eye darted – his lip curled with a smile, which gave one the idea of a demon smiling at the sight of one of those victims who seem to have vowed their own perdition.
While looking, he murmured, "Young, handsome, black eyes, proud lips – he is a Breton, he is not corrupted, like the conspirators of Cellamare, by the soft glances of the ladies at court; – then the other spoke of carrying off, dethroning, but this one —diable, this one; and yet," continued he, after a pause, "I look in vain for traces of cunning on that open brow. I see no Machiavelism in the corners of that mouth, so full of loyalty and honor; yet no doubt all is arranged to surprise the regent on his visit to this Clisson demoiselle. Who will say again that Bretons have dull brains?
"No," said Dubois, after another pause, "it cannot be so. It is impossible that this young man with his calm sad face should be ready in a quarter of an hour to kill a man, and that man the first prince of the blood. No, I cannot believe in such sang-froid; and yet the regent has kept this amourette secret even from me; he goes out to hunt at St. Germains, announces aloud that he shall sleep at the Palais Royal, then all at once gives counter orders, and drives to Rambouillet. At Rambouillet, the young girl waits, and is received by Madame Desroches; who can she be watching for, if not for the regent? and this young girl is the mistress of the chevalier – but is she? – Ah! we must learn. We must find out how far we can depend on Owen," and Dubois left his observatory and waited on the staircase – he was quite hidden in the shade, and he could see Gaston's door in the light.
The door presently opened, and Owen appeared.
He held a letter in his hands, and after hesitating a minute, he appeared to have taken his determination, and mounted the staircase.
"Good," said Dubois, "he has tasted the forbidden fruit, and he is mine."
Then, stopping Owen: "Give me the letter which you were bringing me, and wait here."
"How did you know I had a letter?" asked Owen, bewildered.
Dubois shrugged his shoulders, took the letter, and disappeared.
In his room he examined the seal; the chevalier, who had no wax, had used that on the bottle, and had sealed it with the stone of a ring.
Dubois held the letter above the candle, and the wax melted. He opened the letter and read:
"Dear Helene – Your courage has doubled mine; manage so that I can enter the house, and you shall know my plans."
"Oh!" said Dubois, "it seems she does not know them yet. Things are not as far advanced as I supposed."
He resealed the letter with one of the numerous rings which he wore, and which resembled that of the chevalier, and calling Owen —
"Here," said he, "is your master's letter; deliver it faithfully, bring me the answer, and you shall have ten louis."
"Ah!" thought Owen, "has this man a mine of gold?" And he went off.
Ten minutes after he returned with the reply.
It was on scented and ornamented paper, sealed with the letter H.
Dubois opened a box, took out a kind of paste in which he was about to take the impression of the seal, when he observed that from the manner in which it was folded, he could read it without opening. It was as follows:
"The person who sent for me at Bretagne is coming to meet me here instead of waiting at Paris, so impatient is he, I am told, to see me. I think he will leave again to-night. Come to-morrow morning before nine. I will tell you all that has passed, and then we can arrange how to act."
"This," said Dubois, still taking Helene for the chevalier's accomplice, "makes it clearer. If this is the way they bring up young ladies at Clisson, I congratulate them and monseigneur, who, from her age, concludes her to be simple and ingenuous. Here," said he to Owen, "here is the letter, and your ten louis."
Owen took them.
At this moment ten o'clock struck, and the rolling of a carriage was heard. Dubois went to the window, and saw it stop at the hotel door.
In the carriage was a gentleman whom Dubois at once recognized as Lafare, captain of his royal highness's guards. "Well," said he, "he is more prudent than I thought; but where is he? Ah!"
This exclamation was uttered at the sight of a man dressed in the same red livery which he himself concealed under his cloak, and who followed the carriage mounted on a superb Spanish jenet, which, however, he could not have ridden long, for while the carriage horses were covered with foam, this one was quite fresh.
Lafare at once demanded a room and supper; meanwhile the man dismounted, threw the reins to a page, and went toward the pavilion.
"Well," said Dubois, "all this is as clear as a mountain stream; but how is it that the face of the chevalier does not appear? is he too much occupied with his chicken to have heard the carriage? Let us see. As to you, monseigneur," continued Dubois, "be assured; I will not disturb your tete-à-tete. Enjoy at your pleasure this commencement of ingenuity, which promises such happy results. Ah! monseigneur, it is certain that you are short-sighted."
Dubois went down, and again took up his post at his observatory. As he approached it, Gaston rose, after putting his note in his pocket-book.
"Ah," said Dubois, "I must have that pocket-book. I would pay high for it. He is going out, he buckles on his sword, he looks for his cloak; where is he going? Let us see: to wait for his royal highness's exit? No, no, that is not the face of a man who is going to kill another; I could sooner believe he was about to spend the evening under the windows of his sweetheart.
"Ah, if he had that idea it would be a means – "
It would be difficult to render the expression which passed over the face of Dubois at this moment.
"Yes, but if I were to get a sword-thrust in the enterprise, how monseigneur would laugh; bah! there is no danger: our men are at their post, and besides, nothing venture, nothing gain."
Encouraged by this reflection, Dubois made the circuit of the hotel, in order to appear at one end of the little lane as Gaston appeared at the other.
As he had expected, at the end of the lane he found Tapin, who had placed L'Eveille in the courtyard; in two words he explained his project. Tapin pointed out to Dubois one man leaning on the step of an outer door, a second was playing a kind of Jew's harp, and seemed an itinerant musician, and there was another, too well hidden to be seen.
Dubois, thus sure of support, returned into the lane.
He soon perceived a figure at the other end, and at once recognized the chevalier, who was too thoughtful even to notice that he was passing any one.
Dubois wanted a quarrel, and he saw that he must take the initiative. He turned and stopped before the chevalier, who was trying to discover which were the windows of the room in which Helene was.
"My friend," said he roughly, "what are you doing at this hour before this house?"
Gaston was obliged to bring back his thoughts to the materialism of life.
"Did you speak to me, monsieur?" said he.
"Yes," replied Dubois, "I asked what you were doing here."
"Pass on," said the chevalier; "I do not interfere with you; do not interfere with me."
"That might be," said Dubois, "if your presence did not annoy me."
"This lane, narrow as it is, is wide enough for both, monsieur; walk on one side, and I will walk on the other."
"I wish to walk alone," said Dubois, "therefore, I beg you will choose some other window; there are plenty at Rambouillet to choose from."
"And why should I not look at these windows if I choose?" asked Chanlay.
"Because they are those of my wife," replied Dubois. – "Of your wife!"
"Yes; of my wife, who has just arrived from Paris, and of whom I am jealous, I warn you."
"Diable," murmured Gaston; "he must be the husband of the person to whom Helene has been given in charge;" and in order to conciliate a person who might be useful to him —
"Monsieur," said he politely, "in that case I am willing to leave a place where I was walking without any object in view."
"Oh," thought Dubois, "here is a polite conspirator; I must have a quarrel."
Gaston was going away.
"You are deceiving me, monsieur," said Dubois.
The chevalier turned as though he had been bitten by a serpent; however, prudent for the sake of Helene, and for the mission he had undertaken, he restrained himself.
"Is it," said he, "because I was polite that you disbelieve my word?"
"You spoke politely because you were afraid; but it is none the less true that I saw you looking at that window."
"Afraid – I afraid!" cried Chanlay, facing him; "did you say that I was afraid?"
"I did," replied Dubois.
"Do you, then, seek a quarrel?"
"It appears so. I see you come from Quimper – Corentin."
"Paques-Dieu!" said Gaston, drawing his sword, "draw!"
"And you, off with your coat," said Dubois, throwing off his cloak, and preparing to do the same with his coat.
"Why so?" asked the chevalier.
"Because I do not know you, monsieur, and because those who walk at night frequently have their coat prudently lined with a shirt of mail."
At these words the chevalier's cloak and coat were thrown aside; but, at the moment when Gaston was about to rush on his adversary, the four men appeared and seized him.
"A duel, monsieur," cried they, "in spite of the king's prohibition!" and they dragged him toward the door.
"An assassination," murmured Gaston, not daring to cry out, for fear of compromising Helene; "cowards!"
"We are betrayed, monsieur," said Dubois, rolling up Gaston's cloak and coat, and putting them under his arm; "we shall meet again to-morrow, no doubt."
And he ran toward the hotel, while they shut up Gaston in the lower room.
Dubois ran up the staircase and into his room, where he opened the precious pocket-book. He found in one pocket a broken coin and a man's name. This coin was evidently a sign of recognition, and the name was probably that of the man to whom Gaston was addressed, and who was called Captain la Jonquiere. The paper was oddly folded.
"La Jonquiere," said Dubois; "we have our eyes on him already."
He looked over the rest of the pocket-book – there was nothing.
"It is little," said Dubois, "but it is enough."
He folded a paper like the other, took the name, and rang the bell.
Some one knocked; the door was fastened inside. "I forgot," said Dubois, opening it, and giving entrance to Monsieur Tapin.
"What have you done with him?"
"He is in the lower room, and watched."
"Take back his cloak and coat to the place where he threw them; make your excuses, and set him free. Take care that everything is in his pockets, so that he may suspect nothing. Bring me my coat and cloak."
Monsieur Tapin bowed low, and went to obey his orders.
CHAPTER IX.
THE VISIT
All this passed, as we have said, in the lane under Helene's windows. She had heard the noise; and, as among the voices she thought she distinguished that of the chevalier, she ran anxiously to the window, when, at the same moment, Madame Desroches appeared.
She came to beg Helene to go into the drawing-room, as the visitor had arrived.
Helene started, and nearly fell; her voice failed her, and she followed, silent and trembling.
The room into which Madame Desroches led her was without any light, except what was thrown on the carpet by the last remains of a fire. Madame Desroches threw some water over the flame, and left the room entirely dark.
Begging Helene to have no fear, Madame Desroches withdrew. The instant after, Helene heard a voice behind the fourth door, which had not yet opened.
She started at the sound, and involuntarily made a few steps toward the door.
"Is she ready?" said the voice.
"Yes, monseigneur," was the reply.
"Monseigneur!" murmured Helene; "who is coming, then?"
"Is she alone?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Is she aware of my arrival?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"We shall not be interrupted?"
"Monseigneur may rely upon me."
"And no light?"
"None whatever."
The steps approached, then stopped.
"Speak frankly, Madame Desroches," said the voice. "Is she as pretty as they said?"
"More beautiful than your highness can imagine."
"Your highness! who can he be?" thought Helene, much agitated.
At this moment the door creaked on its hinges and a heavy step approached.
"Mademoiselle," said the voice, "I beg you to receive and hear me."
"I am here," said Helene, faintly.
"Are you frightened?"
"I confess it, mon – Shall I say 'monsieur' or 'monseigneur'?"
"Say 'my friend.'"
At this moment her hand touched that of the unknown.
"Madame Desroches, are you there?" asked Helene, drawing back.
"Madame Desroches," said the voice, "tell mademoiselle that she is as safe as in a temple before God."
"Ah! monseigneur, I am at your feet, pardon me."
"Rise, my child, and seat yourself there. Madame Desroches, close all the doors; and now," continued he, "give me your hand, I beg."
Helene's hand again met that of the stranger, and this time it was not withdrawn.
"He seems to tremble also," murmured she.
"Tell me are you afraid, dear child?"
"No," replied Helene; "but when your hand clasps mine, a strange thrill passes through me."
"Speak to me, Helene," said the unknown, with an expression of tenderness. "I know already that you are beautiful, but this is the first time I have heard your voice. Speak – I am listening."
"But have you seen me, then?" asked Helene.
"Do you remember that two years ago the abbess had your portrait taken?"
"Yes, I remember – an artist came expressly from Paris."
"It was I who sent him."
"And was the portrait for you?"
"It is here," said the unknown, taking from his pocket a miniature, which Helene could feel, though she could not see it.
"But what interest could you have in the portrait of a poor orphan?"
"Helene, I am your father's friend."
"My father! Is he alive?"
"Yes."
"Shall I ever see him?"
"Perhaps."
"Oh!" said Helene, pressing the stranger's hand, "I bless you for bringing me this news."
"Dear child!" said he.
"But if he be alive," said Helene, "why has he not sought out his child?"
"He had news of you every month; and though at a distance, watched over you."
"And yet," said Helene, reproachfully, "he has not seen me for sixteen years."
"Believe me, none but the most important reasons would have induced him to deprive himself of this pleasure."
"I believe you, monsieur; it is not for me to accuse my father."
"No; it is for you to pardon him if he accuses himself."
"To pardon him!" cried Helene.
"Yes; and this pardon, which he cannot ask for himself, I ask in his name."
"Monsieur," said Helene, "I do not understand you.'"
"Listen, then, and give me back your hand."
"Here it is."
"Your father was an officer in the king's service; at the battle of Nerwinden, where he charged at the head of the king's household troops, one of his followers, called M. de Chaverny, fell near him, pierced by a ball. Your father wished to assist him, but the wound was mortal, and the wounded man, who knew that it was so, said, 'Think not of me, but of my child.' Your father pressed his hand as a promise, and the man fell back and died, as though he only waited this assurance to close his eyes. You are listening, are you not, Helene?"
"Oh! need you ask such a question?" said the young girl.
"At the end of the campaign, your father's first care was for the little orphan. She was a charming child, of from ten to twelve years, who promised to be as beautiful as you are. The death of M. de Chaverny, her father, left her without support or fortune; your father placed her at the convent of the Faubourg Saint Antoine, and announced that at a proper age he should give her a dowry."
"I thank God," cried Helene, "for having made me the child of a man who so nobly kept his promise."
"Wait, Helene," said the unknown, "for now comes the time when your father will not receive your praises."
Helene was silent.
The unknown continued: "Your father, indeed, watched over the orphan till her eighteenth year. She was an adorable young girl, and his visits to the convent became longer and more frequent than they should have been: your father began to love his protegée. At first he was frightened at his own love, for he remembered his promise to her dying father. He begged the superior to look for a suitable husband for Mademoiselle de Chaverny, and was told that her nephew, a young Breton, having seen her, loved her, and wished to obtain her hand."
"Well, monsieur?" asked Helene, hearing that the unknown hesitated to proceed.
"Well; your father's surprise was great, Helene, when he learned from the superior that Mademoiselle de Chaverny had replied that she did not wish to marry, and that her greatest desire was to remain in the convent where she had been brought up, and that the happiest day of her life would be that on which she should pronounce her vows."
"She loved some one," said Helene.
"Yes, my child, you are right – alas! we cannot avoid our fate – Mademoiselle de Chaverny loved your father. For a long time she kept her secret, but one day, when your father begged her to renounce her strange wish to take the veil, the poor child confessed all. Strong against his love when he did not believe it returned, he succumbed when he found he had but to desire and to obtain. They were both so young – your father scarcely twenty-five, she not eighteen – they forgot the world, and only remembered that they could be happy."
"But since they loved," said Helene, "why did they not marry?"
"Union was impossible, on account of the distance which separated them. Do you not know that your father is of high station?"
"Alas! yes," said Helene, "I know it."
"During a year," continued he, "their happiness surpassed their hopes; but at the end of that time you came into the world, and then – "
"Well?" asked the young girl, timidly.
"Your birth cost your mother's life."
Helene sobbed.
"Yes," continued the unknown, in a voice full of emotion, "yes, Helene, weep for your mother; she was a noble woman, of whom, through his griefs, his pleasures, even his follies – your father retains a tender recollection; he transferred to you all his love for her."
"And yet," said Helene, "he consented to remove me from him, and has never again seen me."
"Helene, on this point pardon your father, for it was not his fault. You were born in 1703, at the most austere period of Louis XIV.'s reign; your father was already out of favor with the king, or rather with Madame de Maintenon; and for your sake, as much or more than for his, he sent you into Bretagne, confiding you to Mother Ursula, superior of the convent where you were brought up. At length, Louis XIV. being dead, and everything having changed through all France, it is decided to bring you nearer to him. During the journey, however, you must have seen that his care was over you, and when he knew that you were at Rambouillet, he could not wait till to-morrow – he is come to you here, Helene."
"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried Helene, "is this true?"
"And in seeing, or rather in listening to you, he thinks he hears your mother – the same accent in the voice. Helene, Helene, that you may be happier than she was is his heartfelt prayer!"
"Oh, heavens!" cried Helene, "this emotion, your trembling hand. Monsieur, you said my father is come to meet me."
"Yes."
"Here at Rambouillet?"
"Yes."
"You say he is happy to see me again?"
"Oh yes, very happy!"
"But this happiness was not enough, is it not so? He wished to speak to me, to tell me himself the story of my life – that I may thank him for his love – that I may fall at his feet, that I may ask his blessing. Oh!" cried Helene, kneeling, "oh, I am at your feet; bless me, father!"
"Helene, my child, my daughter!" cried the unknown, "not at my feet, but in my arms!"
"My father, my father!" was Helene's only reply.
"And yet," continued he, "I came with a different intention, prepared to deny all, to remain a stranger to you; but having you so near me, pressing your hand, hearing your voice, I had not the strength; but do not make me repent my weakness, and let secrecy – "
"I swear by my mother's grave," cried Helene.
"That is all I desire," cried the unknown. "Now listen, for I must leave you."
"What, already!"
"It must be so."
"Speak, then, my father. I am ready to obey you."
"To-morrow you leave for Paris; there is a house there destined for you. Madame Desroches will take you there, and at the very first moment that I can do so, I will come there to see you."
"Soon, I hope, for do not forget that I am alone in the world."
"As soon as possible;" and pressing his lips to Helene's forehead, the unknown imprinted on it one of those kisses as sweet to the heart of a father as a kiss of love to the heart of a lover.
Ten minutes later Madame Desroches entered with a light. Helene was on her knees praying; without rising, she signed to Madame Desroches to place the light on the chimney-piece, which that lady did, and then retired.
Helene, after praying for some time, rose, and looked around her as though for some evidence that the whole was not a dream; her own emotion, however, assured her that it was really a great event in her life which had taken place. Then the thought of Gaston rose to her mind; this father whom she had so dreaded to see – this father, who himself had loved so ardently and suffered so deeply, would not do violence to her love; besides, Gaston was a scion of an ancient house, and beyond all this, she loved him, so that she would die if she were separated from him, and her father would not wish her death.
The obstacles on Gaston's side could be but the right, and would doubtless be easily overcome, and Helene fell asleep to dream of a happy and smiling future.
Gaston, on his part, set at liberty with many apologies from those who pretended to have mistaken him for another person, went back to fetch his coat and cloak, which he was overjoyed to find where he had left them; he anxiously opened his pocket-book – it was as he had left it, and for greater safety he now burned the address of La Jonquiere. He gave his orders for the next day to Owen and retired.
Meanwhile, two carriages rolled away from the door of the Tigre-Royal; in the first were two gentlemen in traveling costume, preceded and followed by outriders.
In the second was a single traveler, wrapped in a large cloak; this carriage followed close behind the other as far as the Barriere de l'Etoile, where they separated, and while the first stopped at the Palais Royal, the other drew up at the Rue de Valois.