ARREST
So it had come! And come in such a fashion that I saw no way of escape. The sergeant was between us, and I could not strike him. And I found no words. A score of times I had thought with shrinking how I should reveal my secret to Mademoiselle, what I should say, and how she would take it. But in my mind it had always been a voluntary act, this disclosure. It had been always I who had unmasked myself, and she who listened-alone; and in this voluntariness and this privacy there had been something which seemed to take from the shame of anticipation. But here-here was no voluntary act on my part, no privacy, nothing but shame. I stood mute, convicted, speechless-like the thing I was.
Yet if anything could have braced me, it was Mademoiselle's voice, when she answered him. "Go on, Monsieur," she said, with the perfect calmness of scorn. "You will have done the sooner."
"You do not believe me?" he replied hotly. "Then, I say, look at him! Look at him! If ever shame-"
"Monsieur!" she said abruptly-she did not look at me. "I am ashamed myself!"
"Why, his very name is not his own!" the lieutenant rejoined jerkily. "He is no Barthe at all. He is Berault the gambler, the duellist, the bully-"
Again she interrupted him. "I know it," she said coldly. "I know it all. And if you have nothing more to tell me, go, Monsieur. Go!" she continued, in a tone of infinite scorn. "Enough that you have earned my contempt as well as my abhorrence!"
He looked for a moment taken aback. Then, "Ay, but I have more!" he cried, his voice stubbornly triumphant. "I forgot that you would think little of that! I forgot that a swordsman has always the ladies' hearts. But I have more. Do you know, too, that he is in the Cardinal's pay? Do you know that he is here on the same errand which brings us here, – to arrest M. de Cocheforêt? Do you know that while we go about the business openly and in soldier fashion, it is his part to worm himself into your confidence, to sneak into Madame's intimacy, to listen at your door, to follow your footsteps, to hang on your lips, to track you-track you until you betray yourselves and the man? Do you know this, and that all his sympathy is a lie, Mademoiselle? His help, so much bait to catch the secret? His aim, blood-money-blood-money? Why, morbleu!" the lieutenant continued, pointing his finger at me, and so carried away by passion, so lifted out of himself by wrath and indignation, that in spite of myself I shrank before him, – "you talk, lady, of contempt and abhorrence in the same breath with me! But what have you for him? What have you for him, the spy, the informer, the hired traitor? And if you doubt, if you want evidence, look at him. Only look at him, I say!"
And he might well say it! For I stood silent still; cowering and despairing, white with rage and hate. But Mademoiselle did not look. She gazed straight at the lieutenant. "Have you done?" she said.
"Done?" he stammered. Her words, her air, brought him to earth again. "Done? Yes, if you believe me."
"I do not," she answered proudly. "If that be all, be satisfied, Monsieur. I do not believe you."
"Then tell me," he retorted, after a moment of stunned surprise, "why, if he was not on our side, do you think we let him remain here? Why did we suffer him to stay in a suspected house bullying us, and taking your part from hour to hour?"
"He has a sword, Monsieur," she answered, with fine contempt.
"Mille diables!" he cried, snapping his fingers in a rage. "That for his sword! No. It was because he held the Cardinal's commission; because he had equal authority with us; because we had no choice."
"And that being so, Monsieur, why are you now betraying him?" she asked keenly.
He swore at that, feeling the stroke go home. "You must be mad," he said, glaring at her. "Mad, if you cannot see that the man is what I tell you he is. Look at him! Listen to him! Has he a word to say for himself?"
Still she did not look. "It is late," she replied, coldly and irrelevantly. "And I am not very well. If you have quite done, perhaps you will leave me, Monsieur."
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders; "you are mad! I have told you the truth, and you will not believe it. Well, on your head be it then, Mademoiselle. I have no more to say. But you will see."
He looked at her for a moment as if he thought that she might still give way; then he saluted her roughly, gave the word to the sergeant, turned, and went down the path. The sergeant went after him, the lanthorn swaying in his hand. We two were left alone in the gloom. The frogs were croaking in the pool; the house, the garden, the wood, – all lay quiet under the darkness, as on the night when I first came to the Château.
And would to Heaven I had never come! That was the cry in my heart. Would to Heaven I had never seen this woman, whose nobility and faith and singleness were a continual shame to me; a reproach, branding me every hour I stood in her presence, with all vile and hateful names. The man just gone, coarse, low-bred, brutal soldier as he was, man-flogger, and drilling-block, had yet found heart to feel my baseness, and words in which to denounce it. What, then, would she say when the truth some day came home to her? What shape should I take in her eyes then? How should I be remembered through all the years-then?
Then? But now? What was she thinking, now, as she stood, silent and absorbed, by the stone seat, a shadowy figure with face turned from me? Was she recalling the man's words, fitting them to the facts and the past, adding this and that circumstance? Was she, though she had rebuffed him in the body, collating, now he was gone, all he had said, and out of these scraps piecing together the damning truth? The thought tortured me. I could brook uncertainty no longer. I went nearer to her and touched her sleeve. "Mademoiselle," I said, in a voice which sounded hoarse and forced even in my own ears, "do you believe this of me?"
She started violently and turned. "Pardon, Monsieur," she answered. "I had forgotten that you were here. Do I believe-what?"
"What that man said of me," I muttered.
"That!" she exclaimed; and she stood a moment gazing at me in a strange fashion. "Do I believe what he said, Monsieur! But come, come," she continued, "and I will show you if I believe it. But not here."
She led the way on the instant into the house, going in through the parlour door, which stood half open. The room inside was pitch dark, but she took me fearlessly by the hand, and led me quickly through it, and along the passage, until we came to the cheerful lighted hall, where a great fire burned on the hearth. All traces of the soldiers' occupation had been swept away. But the room was empty.
She led me to the fire, and there, in the full light, no longer a shadowy creature, but red-lipped, brilliant, throbbing with life, she stood opposite me, her eyes shining, her colour high, her breast heaving. "Do I believe it?" she said. "I will tell you. M. de Cocheforêt's hiding-place is in the hut behind the fern-stack, two furlongs beyond the village, on the road to Auch. You know now what no one else knows, he and I and Madame excepted. You hold in your hands his life and my honour; and you know also, M. de Berault, whether I believed that tale."
"My God!" I cried. And I stood looking at her, until something of the horror in my eyes crept into hers, and she shuddered and stepped back.
"What is it? What is it?" she whispered, clasping her hands. And with all the colour gone from her cheeks she peered trembling into the corners and towards the door. "There is no one here. Is there any one-listening?"
I forced myself to speak, though I shook all over, like a man in an ague. "No, Mademoiselle, there is no one here," I muttered. And then I let my head fall on my breast, and I stood before her, the statue of despair. Had she felt a grain of suspicion, a grain of doubt, my bearing must have opened her eyes. But her mind was cast in so noble a mould, that having
