"Does not the news spell fortune for you?" she went on after a pause.
"All obstacles are removed by it."
"Yes. It seems so."
"Seems! What difficulty can remain?" And then she said suddenly, "You had no hand in his death, Felix?"
"No," he answered; "and yet your very question should show you something of the difficulty which still surrounds me. Others in Vayenne will ask that question, too, since the death occurs so opportunely for me."
"Why manufacture troubles?" she said. "Did ever a man yet step to a place of power without making enemies? I have always held that Maurice was not the man to reign in Montvilliers. His own father delivered the kingdom to you. Have I not urged you to take it when the time came, and chance a rising in Maurice"s favor? It would never have come.
Vayenne has looked upon you as the old Duke"s successor too long."
"The way has always seemed easy when you have pointed it out to me,"
said Felix.
"Yes. I have been strangely generous," the Countess answered. "For your sake I have made no complaint when prudence suggested your marriage with Christine de Liancourt."
"You know, Elisabeth, that it is prudence alone which suggests it."
"Yes; I have vanity enough to believe that." And there was the suspicion of a long sigh in her answer.
"Advise me, my dearest lady," he said, leaning toward her. "You are my strength, my living talisman. Shall I strike now or delay?"
"Delay! For what?"
"I have not seen Maurice dead. He may have escaped. There is always the possibility. If he were to return now, he would come wearing a halo of romance. Shall I strike or wait?"
"Strike, Felix."
"And Christine?"
"Is it necessary--now?" she asked.
"I fear so."
"Still I say strike, Felix."
"You give me courage," he said. "You give me hope. So it has ever been. An hour ago I was beset with doubts. They are gone. Love mocks at them."
He held out his arms to her, but she only gave him her hand.
"Nothing more at such a moment?" he said.
"It is a moment that there can be nothing more," she answered.
"Remember, I do not urge your marriage with Christine now."
"It is necessary; believe me, I would not marry her if I could help it."
"So we come to the parting ways."
"But you have always known that such a marriage was inevitable if I would possess the throne in peace."
"Circ.u.mstances are changed, Felix; I do not know it now. My Lord Duke has chosen his d.u.c.h.ess. He may come to me for advice if he will; he must go to her for love."
"It is sacrifice. My love is here with you."
"Think so if it helps you, but it is my hand only, Felix."
"And for the first time in my life I find it hard and cruel," he answered, raising it to his lips.
She laughed, an unexpected laugh, as one may laugh at a grim jest which cuts deep into the very soul.
"I do not understand you," he said.
"Did ever a man understand a woman yet? Let it suffice that I have deeper learning, and understand you perfectly. Go, Felix. This is no time for such riddles as trying to understand a woman. Your strong hand is wanted at the helm of affairs now."
"Good advice again, but nothing more."
"Can a man have everything for the asking?" she answered, and, laughing again, she pa.s.sed from the room.
Felix went back to the castle, her advice ringing in his ears, all else forgotten for the moment. There was a subtle affinity between this woman and himself; he felt it, recognized it, bowed to it. She understood him, perhaps, better than any one else did. He felt better in her company, yet while he told her of his ambitions, there was much in his scheming which he dared not tell her. She was a good woman, and he had perception enough to think it strange that she should love him.
Beyond that, his thoughts concerning her touched chaos, touched all that was most selfish in himself. He called it love, but there were moments when he understood himself well enough to know that such love as his, could she fully know it, might breed hate in her; and he would almost as soon have lost the crown as her good-will. Something of superst.i.tion there may have been in this; he had called her his living talisman, and the term had real meaning for him; perhaps deep down in his nature there were good inspirations which had never been granted an opportunity of rising to the surface.
To-day it was her advice that filled his thoughts. She, too, had called him my Lord Duke, even as Jean the dwarf had done. Was the spirit of prophecy in them both? Why had the dwarf called him so?
Truly he was a fool, but might there not be method in such folly? He would see the dwarf and question him. So as soon as he returned to the castle, he gave orders that Jean was to be found without delay and brought to him.
The dwarf was sought for in the castle, in the Church of St. Etienne, and in the streets, but was nowhere to be found. He had been seen in the city during the morning, but no one could tell where he had gone.
He was quite a public character in Vayenne, everybody knew him, but how he lived, or where he was to be found at any given moment, n.o.body knew. It was agreed, however, that there were times when he was not seen at all for days together. The failure to find him now only made the Count more eager to see him, and a diligent search went on throughout the day.
And all the while Jean sat in the corner of a room in the empty house by the wall, his legs doubled under him, his arms folded in his loose tunic, his head dropped forward upon his breast. He was as motionless as a squatting idol, and any one who had ever seen him thus might well believe that there was something mysterious about him. Jean was not hiding from the Count, he had no idea that he was being looked for; he had a problem to consider, and he had come into this solitude to solve it. He had heard of the death of the young Duke, had seen Barbier as he rode to and from the castle yesterday. He had heard of the Count"s orders to arrest Captain Lemasle and any priest who entered Vayenne.
Was the Duke really dead? How was friend Roger to be warned? The problem was evidently a difficult one to solve, for the dwarf sat for hours in the corner, never changing his position, scarcely making a movement the whole time.
Toward dusk, when the lights had begun to blink from windows, and the taverns and cafes were filling with men eager to discuss the news, he climbed to the roof, and clambered down the face of the wall to his boat hidden in the sunken archway. With a few vigorous strokes he sent it out into the stream, landing presently at the same spot where he had landed Herrick. He made fast the boat, and went quickly to the house among the trees.
"Farmer Jacques at home?" he said as he pushed open the door.
""Tis the limb of Satan," the farmer cried. "Come in. Art hungry?
Here"s provender."
"You call me a devil and give me the welcome of an angel," said Jean.
"There are great things afoot, Farmer Jacques."
"To dreamers like thou art there always are."
"And the river yonder separates you from the world," said Jean. "When were you in the city last?"
"A week ago."
"That"s an eternity when things are afoot," said the dwarf.