Читать книгу The Leopard and the Lily - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 7

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It was the first hour of the next dawn, a fair morning that held the promise of one of those perfect autumn days, slipped, as a rose into the pages of a dusty book, between the wet, gray weeks.

A white light lay over the wide, low landscape, mellowing the bare, wet trees, transfiguring the forlorn weeds and flowers, and, tinted like a great shell, flushed and pure, the sky was reflected in many still pools, that the breeze was not strong enough to ruffle.

Kristopher Fassiferne, standing at the door of the old inn, was conscious of a great peace in the infinite calmness of the sky, the sense of largeness and space, the freedom of that gray country rolling to the horizon.

Behind him were the sounds of footsteps, and the jingle of a horse's bridle, the low patter of a dog's feet and some one speaking French softly.

And presently Amedée Estercel rode out of the court-yard, his dog and squire beside him.

Kristopher, saluting, watched till the figure was lost in the distance, then turned into the inn.

Valerie Estercel was there, torn between grief at his brother's departure and the one fixed thought to find the idol of his quest. Kristopher's comfort (though given as if humouring a child) called forth passionate gratitude and praises of his lady in high fantastical terms, which his listener forgot as soon as they were uttered.

Half an hour later the two were on the road, and before midday had parted at the gates of Rennes, Kristopher to the fort above the gates where he was quartered, Valerie Estercel to the inn: "The Sign of the Rising Sun."

Disheartened at his brother's desertion, forlornly eager on his search, Valerie, as soon as his horse was stabled, wandered out beyond the walls of Rennes, aimlessly, too full of his thoughts to heed how far he went, or whither he bent his way. Several people passed him on the road, merchants, soldiers, travellers; in particular he noticed a knight, a lady and their servant, noticed them because the lady's face, angry and tear-stained, reminded him of the dancing girl he sought.

And when the knight drew rein, asked him something of the direction of the road and the inns in Rennes, he answered with his eyes upon the lady, courteously as was his wont, his chivalrous heart touched by her seeming trouble.

He told them of "The Sign of the Rising Sun" and was rewarded with a smile from the lady, who, lifting her weary eyes to his, told him gently they came travelling from the coast of France, and as they rode away and he turned with another smile to hope that they might meet again in Rennes, as she drew her orange mantle round her with the air of a great dame, yet smiled again beneath discreetly lowered lids.

"A successor to Enguerrand, think you?" asked the knight of the lady as they rode on; he made a gesture of gloomy scorn toward Valerie Estercel. "Has he money, think you, Denise? Judging by his face he has little wit."

The lady turned furious eyes on him. "We have quarrelled with Enguerrand—your fault, my brother," she said stormily. "Will it please you not to speak of him? As for this man we have met, we have need of any who will speak to us—fool or knave."

"La Rose Rouge has left you sore," remarked her brother. "But 'tis I should be the one angered at you who had so little hold on him that at the first difference he cast us off like dogs!"

"Oh, silence!" cried the lady passionately. "Have we not lived on him, the three of us for months, do we not carry away gold enough? And—you to talk! What had you ever gained from La Rose Rouge without my face to catch his fancy?"

The brother shrugged his shoulders.

"Shall we go to the inn of our gentleman's advising, Denise?" he asked.

She nodded angrily, and lapsing into silence they passed through the gates of Rennes.

Meanwhile, Valerie Estercel, still walking slowly onward along the great road, was suddenly aware of two figures approaching. Two women in gray cloaks mounted on little palfreys. One was the dancing girl.

As they drew nearer and the first vague tremor of a doubt was confirmed into a certainty, the Chevalier stood still and dumb.

It was she—she at last, the lady of his dreams, she round whom all his fantastic devotion clustered, it was the dancing girl.

She came on unsuspecting, talking to her companion. The little Frenchman could neither speak nor move.

It seemed almost as if they might pass each other. He could find no words, but if he could only step forward and let his eyes rest upon her!—There seemed no need of speech. He turned toward her.

Then, glancing round she saw him and drew up her palfrey with fear and some anger in her look.

"The mad Frenchman!" whispered her companion. "Ride on!"

But Valerie had caught her bridle, stammering he knew not what.

"Monsieur!" she said flushing, "what do you want—mean? Are you following me?"

She was fair, truly, only her prettiness had faded, her thick hair was ash colour, under her dark cloak her white dancing-dress was showing.

"Yes, I have followed you," stammered the Chevalier. "Did I not assure you I would follow you—always, madame? Tell me why you fly from me?"

"Monsieur," she answered, "let go my palfrey—I am beneath your notice—and above it, too—I know not what you mean and will not ask, only I pray you, let me go."

But his hand only tightened on the bridle. At last!—it seemed 'twould be enough to merely gaze upon her face.

"I adore you!" he said simply. "I would take you from this life—"

"You insult me," she interrupted sharply, her gray eyes filling with tears. "I am a poor dancer—let me go, I want nothing from you—a year ago I said so, Monsieur, let me go—"

"I am Valerie Estercel," he said quickly. "Of a great name and fortune—I will use both freely in winning you for my wife."

She seemed startled by his earnestness, touched, too; glancing at her companion, she laughed almost wildly.

"Mon Dieu! you are mad, I think!" she said. "That is if you are sincere—I believe you are sincere, Monsieur—"

"Sincere!" cried Valerie fervently. "God knows you are the one dear thing on the earth to me!"

"You know not what you say," she answered. "Monsieur, this is folly," and her companion broke in impatiently:

"Monsieur, let us go—we have no wish to stay."

"Nor any will," added the dancing girl more gently. Her sad eyes fell on the Chevalier. "I pray you cease this fantasy and follow us no more.

"You were not born to this—you are not happy!" cried Estercel earnestly. "Mon Dieu! I know it. Why will you not leave this world for the one where you belong?"

"I am what I was born," she answered bitterly. "A churl—of the dust, the gutter—leave me there. Happy? I do not ask for so much—only, Monsieur, to be left alone, unspied upon, unfollowed."

She drew her cloak round her and gathered the reins up with a gesture that was his dismissal, but Estercel would not take it, he caught the rein, he pleaded with her to heed him and to listen.

"I need neither protection nor sympathy," she broke in suddenly, "nor am I a woman to be made an idol of. What heart I have is not mine to give. Once more I say I believe you are sincere, Monsieur, and will heed me when I ask you—go and waste no more time in following me."

He dropped her bridle with a piteous face.

"I cannot put you from my heart," he said slowly. "Through long weeks have I—hoped—but since you ask—"

"You'll laugh at this to-morrow," she said, quickly, then at the sight of the misery in the large, childlike eyes she added: "You are an honest gentleman, Monsieur—and—so young!" Smiling a little wistfully, she held out her hand, but with a sad gesture Valerie stepped back.

"Will you not tell me your name?" he said. "You have asked me, and my love shall trouble you no more, only tell me your name."

"I have many names," she answered. "I hardly know which I may call my own—the dearest one—to me—is Yvonne-Marie—"

"Yvonne-Marie—" the Chevalier murmured it. "My dear thanks for this favour," he added simply.

"Will you not add to it? Is there not some service I may do—thee?" His voice fell softly to the word.

"None—save promising to follow no more."

"I promise," he answered, his staring, tear-blinded eyes on her face. He paused a moment as if about to say more, then turned away, adding simply; "Farewell, Yvonne-Marie."

She smiled between bitterness and sadness, and glanced at her companion, then touched up her palfrey without a word and the two rode on toward Rennes.