CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE FOREST
But I had not yet come in sight of Bonneval, when fearful misgivingsbegan to assail me as to what might befall the Countess. I awoke to afull sense of my folly in yielding to her wish. Her own apparentconfidence of safety had made me, for a time, feel there must be indeedsmall danger. I had too weakly given way to her right of command in thecase. I had been too easily checked by respect for what private reasonshe might have for wishing to go on without company. I had played theboy and the fool, and if ever there had been a time when I ought to haveused a man's authority, laughing down her protests, it had been when sherode away alone toward the forest.
I turned my horse about, resolved to undo my error as far as Imight,--to go back and take the road she had taken, and not rest till Iknew she was safe in the convent.
My fears increased as I went. What the country gentleman had said aboutrobbers came back to my mind. I arrived at the junction of the roads,and galloped to the woods. Once among the trees, I had to proceedslowly, for the road dwindled to a mere path, so grown with grass as toshow how little it was ordinarily resorted to. But there were horseshoeprints which, though at first I took them to be only those of theCountess's horse, soon appeared so numerously together that I saw theremust have been other travellers there recently. I perceived, too, thatthe wood was of great depth and extent, and not the narrow strip I hadsupposed. It was, in fact, part of a large forest. I became the moredisquieted, till at last, as the light of day began to die out of thewoods, I was oppressed with a belief as strong as certainty, that somegreat peril had already fallen upon her I loved.
I came into a little green glade, around which I glanced. My heartseemed to faint within me, for there, by a small stream that trickledthrough the glade, was a horse grazing,--a horse with bridle and saddlebut no rider. The rein hung upon the grass, the saddle was pulled awry,and the horse was that of the Countess.
I looked wildly in every direction, but she was nowhere to be seen. Thehorse raised his head, and whinnied in recognition of me and my animal,then went on cropping the grass. I rode over to him, as if byquestioning the dumb beast I might learn where his mistress was. Therewas no sign of any sort by which I might be guided in seeking her.
I called aloud, "Madame! madame!" But there was only the faint breeze ofevening among the treetops for answer.
But the horse could not have wandered far. Whatever had occurred, theremust be traces near. My best course was to search the forest close athand: any one of those darkening aisles stretching on every side, likecorridors leading to caves of gloom, might contain the secret: eachdusky avenue, its ground hidden by tangled forest growth, seemed to bidme come and discover. I dismounted, knowing I could trust my horse tostay in the glade, and, crossing the stream, explored the furtherportion of the path.
I came to a place where the underbrush at the side of the path wassomewhat beaten aside. I thought I could distinguish where some personor animal had gone from this place, tramping a sort of barely traceablefurrow through the tangle. I followed this course: it led me back to theglade. Doubtless the horse had made it.
I was about to go back along the path, when I noticed a similartrodden-down appearance along one side of the stream where it left theglade. Hoping little, I examined this. It brought me, after a few yards,to a clear piece of turf swelling up around the roots of an oak. Andlying there, on the grassy incline, with her head at the foot of theoak, was the Countess, as silent and motionless as death, with bloodupon her forehead.
My own heart leaping, I knelt to discover if hers still moved. Her bodystirred at my touch. I dipped my handkerchief in the stream, and gentlywashed away the blood, but revealed no cut until I examined beneath thehair, when I found a long shallow gash. I hastily cleansed her hair ofthe blood as well as I could, with such care as not to cause the woundto flow anew. All the time I was doing this, my joy at finding her aliveand free was such that I could have sobbed aloud.
She awoke and recognized me, first smiling faintly, but in a momentparting her lips in sorrowful surprise, and then, after glancing round,giving a sigh of profound weariness.
"Am I then still alive?" she murmured.
"Yes, Madame;--I thank God from my heart."
"It is His will," she said. "I had hoped--I had thought my life in thisworld was ended."
"Oh, do not say that. What can you mean?"
"When they surrounded me--the men who sprang up at the sides of thepath--I thought, 'Yes, these are the robbers the gentleman spokeof,--God has been kind and has sent them to waylay me: if I resist, Imay be killed, and surely I have a right to resist.' So I drew my sword,and made a thrust at the nearest. He struck me with some weapon--I didnot even notice what it was, I was so glad when it came swiftly--when Ifelt I could not save myself. The blow was like a kiss--the kiss ofdeath, welcoming me out of this life of sad and bitter prospects."
"Oh, Madame, how can you talk in this way, when you are still young andbeautiful, and there are those who love you?"
"You do not know all, Henri. What is there for me in life? I am weak tocomplain--weak to long for death--sinful, perhaps, to put myself in itsway, but surely Heaven will pardon that sin,--weak, yes; but, alas, Icannot help it,--women are weak, are they not? What is before me, then?I am one without a place in the world--without relations, withoutfortune. If I were a man, I might seek my fortune--there are the wars,there are many kinds of honourable service. But what is there for awoman, a wife who has run away from her husband?"
"But Madame, the convent,--you have a right to be maintained there. Youcan at least live there, till time annuls the Count's claims upon you.And then who knows what the future may bring?"
"The convent--I have told you I should be safe there, and so no doubt Ishould if I took the veil--"
"Nay, Madame, not that, save as a last resort!"
"Alas, I may not though I would. Do you think I should hesitate if Iwere free? How gladly I would bury myself from this world, give myselfat once to Heaven! But that resource--that happiness--is forbidden me.My mother, as she neared death, saw no security for me but as alife-guest at a convent. Our small fortune barely sufficed to make theprovision. But she did not wish me to become a nun, and as she fearedthe influence of the convent might lead that way, she put me under apromise never to take the veil. So I am without the one natural resourceof a woman in my position."
"But do you mean that you will not be safe at the convent merely as aguest?"
"The Count may claim the fulfilment of his rights as a husband. He mayuse force to take me away. The Mother Superior cannot withhold me fromhim; and indeed I fear she would be little inclined to if she could,unless I consented to take the veil. Before the possibility of mymarriage came up, she was always urging me to apply for a remission ofthe vow to my mother, so that I might become a nun. But that I wouldnever do."
"But, Madame, knowing all this, how could you select the convent as yourrefuge, and let me bring you so far toward it?"
"Ah, Monsieur, what place in the world was there for me? And yet I hadto go somewhere, that your life might be saved, and Mathilde's, and thehappiness of poor Hugues. There was no other way to draw you far fromthat chateau of murder, no other way to detach Mathilde from one whocould bring her nothing but calamity. And to-day, when I left you, Ithought all this was accomplished, and I was free to go my way in searchof death."
"Oh, Madame, if I had known what was in your mind! Then you did not meanto go to the convent?"
"I meant to go toward the convent. It is further away than I allowed youto suppose. I felt--I know not why--that death would meet me on the way.I felt in my heart a promise that God would do me that kindness. Atfirst I had no idea of what form my deliverer would take. Perhaps, Ithought, I might be permitted to lose my way in the forest and die ofhunger, or perhaps I might encounter some wild beast, or a storm mightarise and cause me to be struck by lightning or a falling bough, or Imight be so chilled and weakened by rain that I must needs lie down andd
ie. I knew not what shape,--all I felt was, that it waited for me inthe forest. And when the gentleman spoke of robbers, I rejoiced, for itseemed to confirm my belief."
"And that is why you would not let me come with you?"
"Yes, certainly; that you might not be present to drive death away fromme, or meet it with me. I hoped you would go on to Paris, thinking mesafe, and that you would soon forget me. You see how I desire you tolive, and how you can please me only by doing so."
"And so, when you were at last in the forest--?"
"At last in the forest, yes--I knew not how long I should have to ride,but I made no haste,--sooner or later it would come, I thought. Thebirds hopping about on the branches seemed to be saying to one another,'See this lady who has come to meet death.' I crossed a glade, andsomething seemed to whisper to my heart, 'Yonder it lies waiting, yonderin the shades beyond that little stream.' So I went on, and true enough,before I had gone far, five or six rough men sprang out from the bushes.Two caught my reins, and one raised a weapon of some kind and bade medeliver up my purse. I had no purse to deliver, and I feared they mightlet me go as not worth their trouble. Then I thought they might hold mefor ransom, or rob me of my clothes, and discover I was a woman. SurelyI was justified in resisting such a fate; so I drew the sword you gaveme, and made a pass at the man with the weapon. He struck instantly,before I could turn my head aside, and I had time only for a flash ofjoy that God had indeed granted me deliverance. I scarce felt the blow,and then all went out in darkness. I knew nothing after. How did I comehere? This is not the place where I met the robbers."
"It is very strange," said I. "This is where I found you, only a littlewhile before you came to life. I had searched the path, but I saw norobbers. They did not take your horse,--I found it in the glade yonder,where I have left mine with it. That must be the glade you crossedbefore they appeared."
"But how came you to be here? Ah, did you disregard my wish and followme?"
"Not at first. No; I went on toward Paris as you bade me. But afterawhile I too had a feeling of danger befalling you in this forest. Itwas so strong that I could not force myself to go on. So I rode back,hoping to come in sight of you and follow at a distance. I could not dootherwise."
"Ah, Henri, perhaps it is to you I owe the ill service of bringing meback to life. Who knows?--I might have passed quietly away to death herehad you not come and revived the feeble spark left in me. I must havebeen unconscious a long time."
"Yes; thank God I arrived no later than I did. But why should therobbers have brought you here? They have not even taken any of yourclothes. See, here is your sword, replaced in its scabbard; even yourcap is here, beside your head--look where the villain's weapon cutthrough,--it must have been a sort of halberd. Why should they havebrought you here? Do they mean to return, I wonder?"
I rose and looked around, peering through the dusky spaces between thetrunks of the trees, and straining my ears. Suddenly, amidst the chatterof the birds returning to their places for the night, I made out a soundof distant hoof-beats.
"Horsemen!" I said. "But these robbers were on foot, were they not?"
"Yes; I did not see any horses about."
"Who can these be? There must be several!"
They were apparently coming from that part of the forest toward whichthe Countess had been riding. On account of the brushwood I could notsee them yet.
"Well," said I, "we had best keep as quiet as possible till they pass.But they will see our horses in crossing the glade. No, that must notbe. Wait."
I ran back to the glade, and finding the horses close together, caughtthem both, led them down the bed of the stream to where the Countesswas, and made them lie among the underwood, trusting to good fortunethat they would be quiet while the others were passing.
Soon I could see, above the underbrush that extended to the path beyondthe brook, a procession of steel head-pieces, bearded faces,breastplates over leather jerkins, and horses' heads. There were six orseven men in all, one after another. I lay close to the earth and heardthem cross the stream. And then, to my astonishment, they came directlyalong the stream by the way I had first come; I rose to my feet just intime to face the leader as he stopped his horse within a yard of me.
He gazed over the neck of his steed at me, and the Countess, and our twoanimals. He was a tall, well-made, handsome man, seasoned but stillyoung, with a bronzed, fearless face.
"Good evening," said he, in a rich, manly voice. "So the youngster hascome to his senses,--and found a friend, it appears."
"I don't exactly understand you, Monsieur," said I.
"You are not to blame for that," he replied good-humouredly. "It is trueI met your young friend awhile ago, but as he was more dead than aliveat that time, he couldn't have told you much. How is it with him now?"
"I am not much hurt, Monsieur," replied the Countess for herself.
"I scarce knew how I should find you when I returned," said thenewcomer.
"Then you saw him here before, Monsieur?" said I.
"Yes; it was I who brought him here,--but, faith! he was in no conditionto see what was going on. We were searching this forest on the King'sbusiness, when I heard something a little ahead, which made me gallopforward, and there I saw half-a-dozen ruffians around a horse, and oneof them dragging this youth from the saddle. I shouted to my comradesand charged at the robbers. They dropped the lad, and made off along thepath. I stopped to see to the young gentleman, and ordered my companionsto pursue the rascals. The youngster, let me tell you, seemed quite donefor. He had been struck, as you see, evidently just before he was pulledfrom the horse."
"Yes, Monsieur," said the Countess; "and I knew nothing after the blow."
"So it appeared," replied the horseman. "I saw that water was needed,and remembering this stream we had crossed, I carried you to this placeand did what I could for you. But I had to go and recall my men,--Ifeared they might be led too far, or separated by the robbers running indifferent directions. That explains my leaving you alone. We have apiece of work in hand, of some importance, and dare not risk anythingfor the sake of catching those knaves."
"I suppose they are part of the band that haunts this forest," said I.
"No doubt. But this forest is at present the haunt of larger game. Thosescoundrels escaped us this time--they were favoured by the dusk and theundergrowth. I was longer in catching up with my comrades than I hadthought. But I see all has gone well with that young gentleman in themeantime."
"Yes, Monsieur. I, his brother, ought never to have allowed him to go onalone. But I was riding after, expecting to overtake him, when I cameupon his horse; I supposed he must be near, and I was fortunate enoughto seek in the right place. He shall not leave me again; and for us bothI thank you more than my tongue can ever express."
"Pouf!--I did nothing. The question is, what now? My comrades and I haveaffairs to look after in the forest. We shall continue on the path whereyour brother met his accident, till we come to a certain forester'shouse where we may pass the night. Your direction appears to be thesame, and you will be safe with us."
"Again I thank you, Monsieur," I said, "but we shall give up our journeythrough the forest. As soon as my brother feels able to ride, we shallgo back to the highway and pass the night at some inn. I think we shallbe safe enough now that you have frightened the robbers from this partof the forest."
The horseman eyed me shrewdly, and glanced at the Countess. It occurredto me then that he had known her sex from the first, and that he nowtrusted me with wisdom enough to judge best what I ought to do. So hedelicately refrained from pressing us, as he had all along from tryingto learn our secret. For a moment he silently twirled his moustaches;then he said:
"In that case, I have but to wish you good-night, and good fortune.I think you will be safe enough between here and the highway.Please do not mention that you have seen any of the King's guardhereabouts,--though I fear that news is already on the wing."
"What, Monsieur?--are you, then, of the
King's guard?"
"We have the honour to be so."
"But I thought their uniform--"
"Faith, we are in our working clothes," said he, with a laugh. The nextmoment he waved us adieu, turned his horse about, and, his companionsalso turning at his order, followed them out of our sight.
"A very charming gentleman," said I, as the sound of their horsesdiminished in our ears.