"Your command, Monsieur de Guyon—would you buy that at such a price?"
"Ma foi!" said he; "but you do not know; I am poor and without friends; the king trusts me in this——"
She laughed loudly.
"Well," said she, "you are but a simpleton after all. Come, you have eaten no breakfast. And since you must remain with me some days, 1 must see that you preserve your appetite. We will talk of this again. Let us think of going homeward now."
For a moment he sat looking into her laughing eyes. He seemed about to answer her, but minutes passed before the words came to his lips. At last he said quite suddenly—
"Madame de Vernet, there is no need to talk of this again. I will take your message."
"And resign hopes of a command?"
"If it must be."
"But you have said that it must be."
"Very well then, I will resign hopes of a command."
"You are a brave man, Monsieur de Guyon."
"But I have my reward," said he.
The look which he gave her betrayed all his admiration and growing love. For the first time she was embarrassed in his presence, and made haste to be put upon her horse. Nor did she speak again while they rode through glade and meadow to the château, turning her head away from him, and answering him with monosyllables. She had begun to believe that de Guyon was a man after all. And in this, her womanhood was conquering her.
CHAPTER VII
THE ABBÉ GONDY WRITES A SERMON.
The Abbé Gondy sat in his study on the morning of the Friday following the coming of de Guyon. His swollen feet were wrapped in woollen slippers; the violet girdle round his waist was loosened for the morning was hot, and thunder hung over the forest. Before him on the great carved oak table there were rough notes of a sermon he was to preach at the Mass on Sunday; by his side, a basin of Mocha coffee was steaming.
"Brethren, love one another," wrote the Abbé, and then he put his pen down. "She is not going to the palace," he thought, "because de Guyon has bungled it. The man is little better than a fool. I believe he is in love with her himself. Mother of God, if she were to marry again I should have no room here. That smooth-faced soldier would take a pipe in his hand and go playing to the sheep. But if she were at the palace and like the others, she would hardly return."
"Even as I have loved you," wrote the Abbé, but again his thoughts wandered. "This life is very pleasant," he said to himself, "and I find myself well in this air. There is abundance for all, while in villages and hamlets not ten leagues from here, holy priests are starving. A new master might come here with other views. He might even deny the faith; be unprepared to tread that narrow way to which I am leading my children. In any case, I should have to give up these apartments. But if she went to the palace it might even be that I should remain master to my death. There is virtue in an 'if,'" thought the Abbé.
The reflection deepened the gloom of his depression. Since the death of the Comte de Vernet, who had been stricken down by small-pox five weeks after his marriage to Gabrielle, the Abbé had lived in close communication with the young mistress of the château; had come to know her well as a creature of noble if quick impulses, of a belief in God at any rate, of a strong will and of a warm heart. Married while a mere child to the count, life had not scattered the bloom of her girlhood, nor awakened in her those instincts which might have been at once her safeguard and her peril. A wife but not a mother, she had something of the innocence of the maid and of the mind of the woman. The Abbé said to himself that no temptation could be found sufficiently strong to taint this innocence or break this will. He was only an utterly selfish man. The fall of Gabrielle de Vernet would have been a deep sorrow to him. It was just because he knew that she was of mind enough to cope with danger successfully that he wished her at the palace. When a voice whispered to him that the peril to her honour was terrible, he said that the devil spoke. He called to mind the words of the apostle, that no soul should be tempted beyond that which it could bear. And at this, he drank his coffee with relish.
"Brethren, to-day I would set before you some consideration of this holy counsel, that we love one another," wrote the Abbé quickly, and with some fine flourishes of his goose quill. He was well started now, and he did not put his pen down until he had filled four pages with closely-written notes. Nevertheless was the thought of de Guyon hovering about his mind, and of a sudden it presented itself in an aspect so alarming that he sat back in his chair, and let the wind scatter the treasured pages upon the soft carpet at his feet.
"Dieu!" said he, "this man leaves us to-morrow—but what message is he taking to the king? What excuse will he make for her? Will he urge that my counsels prevented her? Saints and angels! that would send me to the Bastille. And he would be rewarded and return to marry her. She is in love with his pretty face, if I know anything of women. The way she speaks of him, too—a good man to be snatched from wickedness and made honest by example. Bah! a fop and a farceur to be reckoned with. I must think of this. I have an account to settle."
The Abbé thought of it, long and earnestly. So absorbing was the problem that twelve o'clock struck and he forgot to say the Angelus. Far from it—for he was then unlocking a drawer in his bureau, and occupying himself with an exquisite miniature which he laid upon his table and gazed at with affection. The man was a fine judge of art, and the painting staring at him from the dainty gold frame was art in her highest perfection. It was the portrait of Gabrielle de Vernet, painted on ivory by Richard Cosway, when that master was the guest of Claude Vernet in Paris. The countess had given it to the Abbé as an Easter gift just a year ago, and it was with a bitter struggle that he had made up his mind to part with it. Only, in fact, when he had convinced himself that some bold step must be taken to save his own skin, did he return it to its case, and strike the gong at his side.
"Dominique."
"Monsieur."
"Is the guide Pepin in the courtyard?"
"He is sleeping in the pavilion by the lake, monsieur."
"Tell him I wish to see him."
The man left, and the Abbé turned again to his desk, taking from it that identical bag which he had held under Pepin's nose three days before. When the guide entered the room, the first thing that he saw were the ten gold pieces he had lusted for spread out on the table.
"Bon jour, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Pepin gaily.
"Bon jour, Monsieur Pepin."
"You sent for me?"
"Sit down, my son. I wish to talk to you, since you leave us to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" cried Pepin, casting his eyes about to see where the Burgundy might be.
"Your master has not told you, then?"
"The devil he hasn't."
"You know that madame does not accompany you?"
"That's common gossip, my father."
"Exactly. But what say the men?"
"Oh, they say anything. They wag their tongues like cows' tails. A shabby lot, on my word."
"Yes; but when they wag their tongues what do you hear?"
"Anything—everything. Some say that when next they come back they will leave yonder lieutenant where light is dear and air costs money—in a cell, mon père. "
The Abbé reflected for a moment.
"Would you like a glass of wine, Monsieur Pepin?"
"Aye—what wine it was!" murmured Pepin, rolling his eyes and his tongue.
The Abbé struck