The Portails drew her away. To them her room was a haven of rest, where they felt safe, and could pour out their grief, and let her pity and indignation soothe them. The horror of the last twenty-four hours fell from them. They seemed to themselves to be outcasts no longer.
In the afternoon Toussaint reappeared. "On with your hoods," he cried briskly, his good humor re-established. "I and half a dozen stout lads will see you to a place where you can lie snug for a week."
Marie asked timidly about her father"s funeral. "I will see to it, little one," he answered. "I will let the curate of St. Germain know.
He will do what is seemly--if the mob let him," he added to himself.
"But father," cried Madeline, "where are you going to take them?"
"To Philip Boyer"s."
"What!" cried the girl in much surprise. "His house is small and Philip and his wife are old and feeble."
"True," answered Portail. "But his hutch is under the d.u.c.h.ess"s roof.
There is a touch of _our great man_ about Madame. Mayenne the crowd neither overmuch love, nor much fear. He will die in his bed. But with his sister it is a word and a blow. And the Sixteen will not touch aught that is under her roof."
The d.u.c.h.ess de Montpensier was the sister of Henry Duke of Guise, Henry the Scarred, _Our great man_, as the Parisians loved to call him. He had been a.s.sa.s.sinated in the antechamber of Henry of Valois just a twelvemonth before this time; and she had become the soul of the League, having more of the headstrong nature which had made him popular, than had either of his brothers, Mayenne or D"Aumale.
"I see," said Madeline, kissing the girls, "you are right, father."
"Impertinent baggage!" he cried. "To your prayers and your needle. And see that while we are away you keep close, and do not venture into the courtyard."
She was not a nervous girl, but the bare, roomy house seemed lonely after the party had set out. She wandered to the kitchen where the two old women-servants were preparing, with the aid of a turnspit, the early supper; and learned here that only old Simon, the lame ostler, was left in the stables, which stood on either side of the courtyard.
This was not rea.s.suring news: the more as Madeline knew her father might not return for another hour. She took refuge at last in the long eating-room on the first floor; which ran the full depth of the house, and had one window looking to the back as well as several facing the courtyard. Here she opened the door of the stove, and let the cheery glow play about her.
But presently she grew tired of this, and moved to the rearward window. It looked upon a narrow lane, and a dead wall. Still, there was a chance of seeing some one pa.s.s, some stranger; whereas the windows which looked on the empty courtyard were no windows at all--to Madeline.
The girl had not long looked out before her pale complexion, which the fire had scarcely warmed, grew hot. She started, and looked into the room behind her nervously: then looked out again. She had seen standing in a nook of the wall opposite her, a figure she knew well.
It was that of her lover, and he seemed to be watching the house.
Timidly she waved her hand to him, and he, after looking up and down the lane, advanced to the window. He could do this safely, for it was the only window in the Toussaints" house which looked that way.
"Are you alone?" he asked softly, looking up at her.
She nodded.
"And my sisters?" he continued.
"Have gone to Philip Boyer"s. He lives in one of the cottages on the left of the d.u.c.h.ess"s yard."
"Ah! And you? Where is your father, Madeline?" he murmured.
"He has gone to take them. I am quite alone; and two minutes ago I was melancholy," she added, with a smile that should have made him happy.
"I want to talk to you," he replied gravely. "May I get up if I can, Madeline?"
She shook her head, which of course meant no. And she said, "It is impossible." But she still smiled.
There was a pipe which ran up the wall a couple of feet or so on one side of the cas.e.m.e.nt. Before she well understood his purpose, or that he was in earnest he had gripped this and was halfway up to the window.
"Oh, do take care," she cried. "Do not come, Felix. My father will be so angry!" Woman-like she repented now, when it was too late. But still he came on, and when his hand was stretched out to grasp the sill, all her fear was only lest he should fall. She seized his wrist, and helped him in. Then she drew back. "You should not have done it, Felix," she said severely.
"But I wanted to see you so much, Madeline," he urged, "and the glimpse I had of you this morning was nothing."
"Well then, you may come to the stove and warm yourself, sir. Oh! how cold your poor hands are, my boy! But you must not stay."
But stolen moments are sweet and apt to be long drawn out. She had a great deal to say, and he had a great deal, it seemed, to ask--so much to ask indeed, that gradually a dim sense that he was thinking of other things than herself--of her father and the ways of the house, and what guests they had, came over her.
It chilled her to the heart. She drew away from him, and said, suddenly, "Oh, Felix!" and looked at him.
Nothing more. But he understood her and colored; and tried to ask, but asked awkwardly, "What is the matter, dearest?"
"I know what you are thinking of," she said with grave sorrow, "Oh! it is too bad! It is base of you, cruel! You would use even me whom you love to ruin my friends!"
"Hush!" he answered, letting his gloomy pa.s.sion have vent for the moment, "they are not your friends, Madeline. See what they have done for me. It is they, or the troubles they have set on foot, that have killed my father!" And he swore solemnly--carried away by his mistaken resentment--never again to spare a Huguenot save her father and one other.
She trembled and tried to close her ears. Her father had told her a hundred times that she could not be happy with a husband divided from her by a gulf so impa.s.sable. She had said to him that it was too late.
She knew it. She had given Felix her heart and she was a woman. She could not take it back, though she knew that nothing but unhappiness could come of it.
"G.o.d forgive you!" she moaned in that moment of strained insight; and sank in her chair as though she would weep.
He fell on his knees by her with a hundred words of endearment, for he had conquered himself again. And she let him soothe her. She had never loved him more than now, when she knew the price she must pay for him.
She closed her eyes--for the moment--to that terrible future, and he was holding her in his arms, when without warning a heavy footstep rang on the stairs by the door.
They sprang apart. If even then he had had presence of mind, he might have reached the window. But he hesitated, looking in her startled eyes. "Is it your father?" he whispered.
She shook her head. "He cannot have returned. We should have heard the gates opened. There is no one in the house," she murmured faintly.
But still the footsteps came on: and stopped at the door. Felix looked round in despair. Close beside him, and just behind the stove was the door of a closet. He took two strides, and before he or she had thought of the consequences, was within it. Softly he drew the door to again; and she sank terrified on a chair, as the door of the room opened.
He who came in was a man of thirty-five, a stranger to her. A man with a projecting chin. His keen gray eyes wore at the moment of his entrance an impatient expression, but when he caught sight of her, this pa.s.sed away. He came across the floor smiling. "Pardon me," he said--but said it as if no pardon were needed, "I found the stables insupportably dull. I set out on a voyage of discovery. I have found my America!" And he bowed in a style which puzzled the frightened girl.
"You want to see my father?"" she said tremulously. "He----"
"Has gone to the d.u.c.h.ess"s. I know it. And very ill-natured it was of him to leave me in the stable, instead of intrusting me to your care, mistress. La Noue," he continued, "is in the stable still, asleep on a bundle of hay, and a pretty commotion there will be when he finds I have stolen away!"
Laughing with an easy carelessness that struck the citizen"s daughter with fresh astonishment, the stranger drew up the big armchair, which was commonly held sacred to M. Toussaint"s use, and threw himself into it; lazily disposing his booted feet in the glow which poured from the stove, and looking across at his companion with open and somewhat bold admiration in his eyes. At another time she might have been offended: or she might not. Women are variable. Now her fears lest Felix should be discovered dulled her apprehension.
Yet the name of La Noue had caught her ear. She knew it well, as all France and the Low Countries knew it in those days, for the name of the boldest and staunchest warrior on the Huguenot side.
"La Noue?" she murmured, misty suspicions beginning to take form in her mind.
"Yes, pretty one," replied he laughing. "La Noue and no other. Does Bras-de-fer pa.s.s for an ogre here in Paris that you tremble so at his name? Let me----"
But whatever the proposition he was going to offer, it came to nothing. The dull clash of the gates outside warned both of them that Nicholas Toussaint and his party had returned. A moment later a hasty tread sounded on the stairs; and an elderly man wearing a cloak burst in upon them.
His eyes swept the room while his hand still held the door, and it was clear that what he saw did not please him. He came forward stiffly, his brows knitted. But he said nothing; seeming uncertain and embarra.s.sed.
"See!" the first comer said, looking quietly up at him, but not offering to move. "Now what do you think of your ogre? And by the rood, he looks fierce enough to eat babes! There, old friend," he continued speaking to the elder man in a different tone, "spare your lecture. This is Toussaint"s daughter, and as staunch I will warrant as her father."