The Chouans, Honoré de Balzac [red queen ebook txt] 📗

this woman had heaped upon his head, half grieved by the sufferings of a creature whose yoke was pleasant to him, heavy as it was.

“She loves him!” he muttered.

“Loves him!” she cried. “Ah! what are words? Corentin! he is my life, my soul, my breath!” She flung herself at the feet of the man, whose silence terrified her. “Soul of vileness!” she cried, “I would rather degrade myself to save his life than degrade myself by betraying him. I will save him at the cost of my own blood. Speak, what price must I pay you?”

Corentin quivered.

“I came to take your orders, Marie,” he said, raising her. “Yes, Marie, your insults will not hinder my devotion to your wishes, provided you will promise not to deceive me again; you must know by this time that no one dupes me with impunity.”

“If you want me to love you, Corentin, help me to save him.”

“At what hour is he coming?” asked the spy, endeavoring to ask the question calmly.

“Alas, I do not know.”

They looked at each other in silence.

“I am lost!” thought Mademoiselle de Verneuil.

“She is deceiving me!” thought Corentin. “Marie,” he continued, “I have two maxims. One is never to believe a single word a woman says to me—that’s the only means of not being duped; the other is to find what interest she has in doing the opposite of what she says, and behaving in contradiction to the facts she pretends to confide to me. I think that you and I understand each other now.”

“Perfectly,” replied Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “You want proofs of my good faith; but I reserve them for the time when you give me some of yours.”

“Adieu, mademoiselle,” said Corentin, coolly.

“Nonsense,” said the girl, smiling; “sit down, and pray don’t sulk; but if you do I shall know how to save the marquis without you. As for the three hundred thousand francs which are always spread before your eyes, I will give them to you in good gold as soon as the marquis is safe.”

Corentin rose, stepped back a pace or two, and looked at Marie.

“You have grown rich in a very short time,” he said, in a tone of ill-disguised bitterness.

“Montauran,” she continued, “will make you a better offer still for his ransom. Now, then, prove to me that you have the means of guaranteeing him from all danger and—”

“Can’t you send him away the moment he arrives?” cried Corentin, suddenly. “Hulot does not know he is coming, and—” He stopped as if he had said too much. “But how absurd that you should ask me how to play a trick,” he said, with an easy laugh. “Now listen, Marie, I do feel certain of your loyalty. Promise me a compensation for all I lose in furthering your wishes, and I will make that old fool of a commandant so unsuspicious that the marquis will be as safe at Fougeres as at Saint-James.”

“Yes, I promise it,” said the girl, with a sort of solemnity.

“No, not in that way,” he said, “swear it by your mother.”

Mademoiselle de Verneuil shuddered; raising a trembling hand she made the oath required by the man whose tone to her had changed so suddenly.

“You can command me,” he said; “don’t deceive me again, and you shall have reason to bless me to-night.”

“I will trust you, Corentin,” cried Mademoiselle de Verneuil, much moved. She bowed her head gently towards him and smiled with a kindness not unmixed with surprise, as she saw an expression of melancholy tenderness on his face.

“What an enchanting creature!” thought Corentin, as he left the house. “Shall I ever get her as a means to fortune and a source of delight? To fling herself at my feet! Oh, yes, the marquis shall die! If I can’t get that woman in any other way than by dragging her through the mud, I’ll sink her in it. At any rate,” he thought, as he reached the square unconscious of his steps, “she no longer distrusts me. Three hundred thousand francs down! she thinks me grasping! Either the offer was a trick or she is already married to him.”

Corentin, buried in thought, was unable to come to a resolution. The fog which the sun had dispersed at mid-day was now rolling thicker and thicker, so that he could hardly see the trees at a little distance.

“That’s another piece of ill-luck,” he muttered, as he turned slowly homeward. “It is impossible to see ten feet. The weather protects the lovers. How is one to watch a house in such a fog? Who goes there?” he cried, catching the arm of a boy who seemed to have clambered up the dangerous rocks which made the terrace of the Promenade.

“It is I,” said a childish voice.

“Ah! the boy with the bloody foot. Do you want to revenge your father?” said Corentin.

“Yes,” said the child.

“Very good. Do you know the Gars?”

“Yes.”

“Good again. Now, don’t leave me except to do what I bid you, and you will obey your mother and earn some big sous—do you like sous?”

“Yes.”

“You like sous, and you want to kill the Gars who killed your father—well, I’ll take care of you. Ah! Marie,” he muttered, after a pause, “you yourself shall betray him, as you engaged to do! She is too violent to suspect me—passion never reflects. She does not know the marquis’s writing. Yes, I can set a trap into which her nature will drive her headlong. But I must first see Hulot.”

Mademoiselle de Verneuil and Francine were deliberating on the means of saving the marquis from the more than doubtful generosity of Corentin and Hulot’s bayonets.

“I could go and warn him,” said the Breton girl.

“But we don’t know where he is,” replied Marie; “even I, with the instincts of love, could never find him.”

After making and rejecting a number of plans Mademoiselle de Verneuil exclaimed, “When I see him his danger will inspire me.”

She thought, like other ardent souls, to act on the spur of the moment, trusting to her star, or to that instinct of adroitness which rarely, if ever, fails a woman. Perhaps her heart was never so wrung. At times she seemed stupefied, her eyes were fixed, and then, at the least noise, she shook like a half-uprooted tree which the woodsman drags with a rope to hasten its fall. Suddenly, a loud report from a dozen guns echoed from a distance. Marie turned pale and grasped Francine’s hand. “I am dying,” she cried; “they have killed him!”

The heavy footfall of a man was heard in the antechamber. Francine went out and returned with a corporal. The man, making a military salute to