“What a thing it is to be alive!” he thought. “Still young, a member of the old nobility, a multi-millionaire: what could a man want more?”
At a short distance, he saw against the darkness the yet darker outline of the chapel, the ruins of which towered above the path. A few drops of rain began to fall; and he heard a clock strike nine. He quickened his pace. There was a short descent; then the path rose again. And suddenly, he stopped once more.
A hand had seized his.
He drew back, tried to release himself.
But someone stepped from the clump of trees against which he was brushing; and a voice said; “Ssh! … Not a word! …”
He recognized his wife, Angélique:
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She whispered, so low that he could hardly catch the words:
“They are lying in wait for you … they are in there, in the ruins, with their guns. …”
“Who?”
“Keep quiet. … Listen. …”
They stood for a moment without stirring; then she said:
“They are not moving. … Perhaps they never heard me. … Let’s go back. …”
“But. …”
“Come with me.”
Her accent was so imperious that he obeyed without further question. But suddenly she took fright:
“Run! … They are coming! … I am sure of it! …”
True enough, they heard a sound of footsteps.
Then, swiftly, still holding him by the hand, she dragged him, with irresistible energy, along a shortcut, following its turns without hesitation in spite of the darkness and the brambles. And they very soon arrived at the drawbridge.
She put her arm in his. The gatekeeper touched his cap. They crossed the courtyard and entered the castle; and she led him to the corner tower in which both of them had their apartments:
“Come in here,” she said.
“To your rooms?”
“Yes.”
Two maids were sitting up for her. Their mistress ordered them to retire to their bedrooms, on the third floor.
Almost immediately after, there was a knock at the door of the outer room; and a voice called:
“Angélique!”
“Is that you, father?” she asked, suppressing her agitation.
“Yes. Is your husband here?”
“We have just come in.”
“Tell him I want to speak to him. Ask him to come to my room. It’s important.”
“Very well, father, I’ll send him to you.”
She listened for a few seconds, then returned to the boudoir where her husband was and said:
“I am sure my father is still there.”
He moved as though to go out:
“In that case, if he wants to speak to me. …”
“My father is not alone,” she said, quickly, blocking his way.
“Who is with him?”
“His nephew, Jacques d’Emboise.”
There was a moment’s silence. He looked at her with a certain astonishment, failing quite to understand his wife’s attitude. But, without pausing to go into the matter:
“Ah, so that dear old d’Emboise is there?” he chuckled. “Then the fat’s in the fire? Unless, indeed. …”
“My father knows everything,” she said. “I overheard a conversation between them just now. His nephew has read certain letters. … I hesitated at first about telling you. … Then I thought that my duty. …”
He studied her afresh. But, at once conquered by the queerness of the situation, he burst out laughing:
“What? Don’t my friends on board ship burn my letters? And they have let their prisoner escape? The idiots! Oh, when you don’t see to everything yourself! … No matter, it’s distinctly humorous. … D’Emboise versus d’Emboise. … Oh, but suppose I were no longer recognized? Suppose d’Emboise himself were to confuse me with himself?”
He turned to a wash-hand-stand, took a towel, dipped it in the basin and soaped it and, in the twinkling of an eye, wiped the makeup from his face and altered the set of his hair:
“That’s it,” he said, showing himself to Angélique under the aspect in which she had seen him on the night of the burglary in Paris. “I feel more comfortable like this for a discussion with my father-in-law.”
“Where are you going?” she cried, flinging herself in front of the door.
“Why, to join the gentlemen.”
“You shall not pass!”
“Why not?”
“Suppose they kill you?”
“Kill me?”
“That’s what they mean to do, to kill you … to hide your body somewhere. … Who would know of it?”
“Very well,” he said, “from their point of view, they are quite right. But, if I don’t go to them, they will come here. That door won’t stop them. … Nor you, I’m thinking. Therefore, it’s better to have done with it.”
“Follow me,” commanded Angélique.
She took up the lamp that lit the room, went into her bedroom, pushed aside the wardrobe, which slid easily on hidden castors, pulled back an old tapestry-hanging, and said:
“Here is a door that has not been used for years. My father believes the key to be lost. I have it here. Unlock the door with it. A staircase in the wall will take you to the bottom of the tower. You need only draw the bolts of another door and you will be free.”
He could hardly believe his ears. Suddenly, he grasped the meaning of Angélique’s whole behaviour. In front of that sad, plain, but wonderfully gentle face, he stood for a moment discountenanced, almost abashed. He no longer thought of laughing. A feeling of respect, mingled with remorse and kindness, overcame him.
“Why are you saving me?” he whispered.
“You are my husband.”
He protested:
“No, no … I have stolen that title. The law will never recognize my marriage.”
“My father does not want a scandal,” she said.
“Just so,” he replied, sharply, “just so. I foresaw that; and that was why I had your cousin d’Emboise near at hand. Once I disappear, he becomes your husband. He is the man you have married in the eyes of men.”
“You are the man I have married in the eyes of the Church.”
“The Church! The Church! There are means of arranging matters with the Church. … Your marriage can be annulled.”
“On what pretext that we can admit?”
He remained silent, thinking over all those points which he had not considered, all
