Читать книгу The Leopard and the Lily - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 8

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"An' she does not love Prince Gilles—I will be utterly undone—for the game is in the lady's hands." So thought Captain Kristopher, looking over the wide town of Rennes from the window of the fort that overhung the gates.

The emptiness, the dreariness of the room made it a cage; so it struck Kristopher as fie turned from the prospect of the gray, mist-shrouded town.

He began moodily pacing the rough flags, and his thoughts shaped themselves to half-uttered words.

"I' faith, it's not for a leader of hired soldiers to be picking and choosing—" With a laugh he checked himself and picking up his doublet, opened the door.

"Robin!" he called. "This will be needing patching," and he flung it down the corridor, and returning to the table, sat there in his shirt, his face gloomy, his eyes on the mists and the grayness without. He had not seen Montauban since he had left him that day in Koet Kandek; he had been to Court and seen the Duke's second brother, and obtained feeble promises of advancement from him—beyond that, nothing. Pointless as ever, his life dragged on, to-morrow Françoise de Dinan came to Rennes, her month of mourning over, and from more than one Kristopher had heard her betrothal spoken of lightly, as a thing easily to be broken, thinking of his promise, he grew sick at heart.

"An' Guy de Montauban is all powerful—sure, it remains with the lady herself—for nothing I can do."

That same evening in a little inn in Rennes, a mixed company of travellers sat at supper, and high in the seat of the pointed window were two "disrevellers "—strolling players and story tellers—both women. One, the older and the darker, was called Héloïse by her companion, the other was she who had given her name to Sir Valerie as Yvonne-Marie.

A minstrel in a striped dress had just finished singing, and the company, flushed and laughing, turned to the window seat and to the two who sat there—silent.

"Tell us another story, ma chérie," cried one, and raised a goblet glittering in the firelight.

The others echoed his words, pushing their chairs back over the rushes, laughing.

Yvonne-Marie turned her head and gazed down at them, wearily. She looked ill, all the rouge on her cheeks could not disguise their thinness and pallor, her dress had been white, but was now soiled and torn.

"I have told you all my stories," she said sullenly.

"Tell them again!" laughed the minstrel.

Yvonne-Marie put her hot hand in her companion's, her eyes were blazing, the brightly lit room, the laughing faces, the fire, began to swim before her.

"Ask Héloïse," she said, "if you want something to make you laugh—I have no pleasant tales."

The dark woman frowned impatiently: "'Tis our living, fool!" she whispered. "Tell them something an' you wish for shelter to-night."

Yvonne-Marie's heart was heaving under the tarnished lace—the serving man held up a glass of wine to her and she took it and drank and laughed, then she dropped the glass, spilling the rest over the rushes, drawing herself together, shivering.

"Tell us somewhat sad, then," said the man at the head of the table, good-humouredly.

As she raised her head, her eyes almost startled them; some of the wine had fallen over her dress—it looked like blood. She began talking, rapidly, feverishly, looking straight in front of her, taking no heed of her listeners.

"It was a long time ago—and yet a little while—it was in the forest of Fontainebleau and yet it was nowhere—that two people lived, alone and happy. One was a girl and the other was her father.

"He was an outlaw—for what I cannot tell—and she—she was a girl I Fontainebleau I—the beautiful forest—the strong wet leaves—the happy, unseen flowers—Fontainebleau! She knew nothing but that forest—nothing of shame and lies, hate or love—fear she knew, for their lives were not safe anywhere but there—and hope—sometimes hope of something better even than the happy present—beyond that—nothing. And one day into the forest of Fontainebleau three strangers rode—straight up to their but and dismounted.

"Two were men, they had light hair and eyes—one was dark of face, the other smiled, the third was a woman, much more beautiful than anything this girl had ever seen.

"And all three were dressed in silk and finest cloth and there were jewels in the lady's ears and on her neck. The horses were trapped with silver—the girl crept away among the trees, abashed, while they talked to her father—and she would have run away and hid—but they called her out and told her she was coming with them—she was old enough, they said, and pretty too.

"They were her brothers and her sister.

"She saw them give some money to their father—and he laughed, bidding her God-speed—the soldiers had found him out at last—he was leaving Fontainebleau—and France.

"Afterward she heard he was dead, killed before he reached the coast, and she did not weep much for other troubles lay heavy on her heart—but often she would wake in the night and weep to think of Fontainebleau and the spotted deer.

"They took her to a country chateau, her brothers and her sister, and for a year she lived there, learning many things—but not that they were liars and robbers and she a`poor dupe in their hands!

"They told her she was al countess and all the lands they looked at from the chateau theirs...

"By and by they sent her to England with her youngest brother—to the English—and she was called Countess and he Count and the name they used was not their own—but she did not know it. She was young and pretty—she grew happy—she did not question why or wherefore she, an outlaw's daughter, was living as a high-born dame—she was weak and foolish-hearted.

"There was a young knight at the court, wealthy and a noble—the king's favourite and pleasant to all men.

"He was a soldier and held a high post, his comings and goings were triumphs of magnificence, he lived in royal state, twenty gentlemen waited on him—fifty serving men rode behind him, his largesse was greater than the king's—of three counties he was the lord and his name through the land one with honour.

"And she loved him.

"One day her brother found her with his picture—and she told him—weeping, poor soul!

"And he—her brother—used her to bait his trap, dangling her before the young knight's eyes...

"And she loved him with her whole soul.

"Her brother had letters from the French court, and influence.

"In the end the young knight married her.

"Then, not a month after her wedding-day her brother came and spoke to her telling her she was not what her husband thought her, and if he knew the truth he would cast her off—and she clung to him, weeping, and begged him to be silent forever—for she was living in Paradise!

"And then he told her to find out things from her husband—listen when others talked to him—take his papers and bring them to him to copy. If she did this he would not tell.

"She—poor fool! she promised—only too gladly and her life went on happily—cleverly she did her spying and stealing—for ah! she was afraid of losing him!

"Only she noticed her husband began to grow graver—and some people would look coldly on him.

"And they were called before the king, both of them—and she heard it put to him that suspicion lay on him, of betraying his country—but so proudly and calmly did he deny it and so high stood his honour, they believed him.

"'And your wife,' they said to him—'is French.'

"And he answered hotly before she could speak 'My wife is my wife and I answer for her honour with my own.'

"And again they believed him, and to show trust, gave him a paper—writing on it—and limning.

"When they reached home she crept away into the dark and wept—and presently her brother came and she thought the Devil must look as he did...

"He asked her for that paper—for a little while:

"'Give it me or I tell him,' he said.

"She knew where it was—she went and fetched it—and gave it him. He promised it back, she tried to stifle her heart with that.

"Two days after she sat alone in the dusk—she heard him coming up the stairs—stumbling.

"When he came into the room she saw his face was the colour of paper, he went to the window and leaned there, silent. He did not speak to her or she to him. A long time seemed to go by, then he looked up and told her the English had been defeated—and some islands lost to the French.

"She said nothing—there were other feet on the stairs and the room filled with the great court lords.

"They asked him for that paper, he vowed on his honour it had never left his hands, and turned proudly to give it them.

"She sat frozen, she could have laughed in anguish—there was no paper I they shrugged their shoulders at his dismay—he was the only man who knew the English plans—this had been a test and proved him false.

"His face was as white as the lace round his throat—they left her alone—she had not spoken, she did not tell.

"Presently he came back—up to where she sat, laid his dear head on her shoulder and wept. 'I'm ruined,' he said, 'penniless and banished—dishonoured—can you love a dishonoured man, dear heart?'

"She loved him more than all the world—she could not tell—she could not save his honour and lose his love.

"All his splendour was taken from him—all his lands—they took the sword from his side and the orders from his neck and broke them.

"Still she did not speak.

"They were banished—in a few hours they would start for France.

"For one whole long night an angry crowd surged outside the windows and called him vile names.

"Still she did not tell.

"Half mad, she sat crouching in the dark when her brother came again.

"'Leave me now,' he said, 'come back to France with me—he is penniless and I've made more gold than you've ever seen by that piece of paper.'

"He showed her some of the money, laughing, he had the paper in his hand—she took it from him and struck him across the face with it—shaking with fury and dashed out of the room...

"Outside she met her husband, his hand on the door...

"After a while he spoke.

"'I've heard,' he said, and drew the paper out of her hand spreading it out under the light.

"When he turned, his face was quite different.

"'It's strange to think I ever loved you,' he said in a strained voice, and he turned away, leaving her there—alone.

"This is only a story I am telling—I can't say what she felt—I do not know—I only know she was sure of this—that he would not tell the truth—for he had answered for her honour before them all. Ah I me!

"'I will clear him myself,' she said, but the doors were locked on her, and at the next day's gray dawn, they started for France.

"The shame was still over him—he had not told.

"All the long, weary journey he never spoke to her—never looked at her.

"And this she knew however great her sin, her punishment was greater—in all the world could be no greater bitterness than this—to lose his love.

"He took her to a convent in France and left her there with the nuns. She was a miserable impostor, of a disgraced family, with spies and thieves for her brothers—she deserved it—but she loved him.

"This is a foolish story, is it not? but I am, reaching the end—what became of him do not know, she never saw him again—as he was going he spoke to her again: 'Thou hast done that,' he said, 'that has severed us two forever. Teach thine own soul to forgive thee—no curse of mine shall drag thee down.'

"Alas! alas!

"She lived there for a year, a whole weary year—she tried to pray, to bring repentance to her heart—but it was a stranger to her, as sin had been—it did not ease her heart to pray—she had no thought of any but him—she was dying, slowly, not because of the stern life—not because of remorse, but of love.

"Then she escaped—one of the sisters helping her and coming too—she had a gold cross on her dress and she sold it and bought a mummer's outfit.

"And so she went in quest of him—with nothing but her love for her guide.

"She sought three years in vain—singing and dancing for her livelihood—she sought in vain!

"There is no more to say."

Yvonne-Marie brought her gray eyes from staring in front of her, and looked at the ring of listeners held silent by her words, and laughed unhappily and changed the dull, level tones of her voice.

"Thank you for your patience," she said wildly, putting her hands to her burning forehead, "you have listened to a true tale, Messires!"

Her companion dragged at her sleeve, but she shook her off, laughing again.

"Tell us the names!" cried one of the company, and as Yvonne sprang down into the rushes he held out a piece of money.

She did not seem to see, she leaned against the wall, her cheeks hotly bright with colour under her rouge, her eyes shining.

The other woman went round the table collecting coins in the corner of her gold scarf and those that gave it were subdued and quiet. There was something painful both in the tale and the teller.

Yvonne-Marie looked round at them, flinging her hood over her head.

"She doesn't want to find him now," she said. "That is the worst of it—what is she now? A beggar living on charity!"

Without waiting for the other she ran to the door, but one of the men put out his hand and caught her by the wrist as she passed.

"Was it you?" he said with a smile in his eyes.

Yvonne-Marie wrenched her hand away with a reckless laugh.

"I?" she cried. "I am a poor 'disreveller'—nothing more. She I tell you of, passed under the name of Diane d'Esperon; her real name was Yvonne-Marie; and he, the Englishman, was Verdun of Valence, and Lord of Coventry—should you ever meet him, Messire, exiled as a traitor, you will know it was his wife, his wretched wife, for whom he bears the blame and to whom he never casts a thought!"

She lurched forward and caught at the door, leaving the company silent behind her—then out into the oak passage and the dark.

Héloïse crept out after her and took her hot hand.

"Yvonne—Yvonne-Marie—are you mad?"

There was no answer. They drew back the bolt and stepped into the night, the keen air making them shiver in their thin dresses. Héloïse was knotting the coins into the corner of her dress; Yvonne-Marie looking at her, saw she was crying quietly.

"Poor thing!" she said dully, quietly. "You are sorry you ever came with me—you wish you were in the convent again."

The rain had dried, but it was damp and cold. They walked on rapidly toward the house where they had lodgings, splashing through tie mud that covered the streets.