Chapter 26

HOW THE CURÉ ACTED AGAINST HIS CONSCIENCE

If the old priest had come in faith at Monsieur de Sainfoy's call, not knowing, not even suspecting what was wanted of him, Angelot, who knew all, yet found it impossible to believe. Therefore he could not bring himself to give the Curé any explanation, or even to mention Hélène's name. Her father, for whom he now felt a passionate, enthusiastic reverence and love, had trusted him in the matter. He had said, resting his hand on his shoulder: "Tell Monsieur le Curé what you please. Or leave it to me to tell him all;" and Angelot had felt that the Curé must be brought in ignorance. Afterwards he knew that there were other reasons for this, besides the vagueness in his own mind. The Curé had a great sense of the fitness of things. Also, next to God and his Bishop, he felt bound to love and serve Urbain and Anne de la Marinière.

When Angelot opened the little door, which he found ajar, there was a flickering light on the damp narrow stairs that wound up in the thickness of the wall. There stood Hervé de Sainfoy, tall, pale, very calm now, with a look of resolution quite new to his pleasant features.

"You are welcome, Monsieur le Curé," he said. "Follow me."

The old man obeyed silently, and the two passed on before Angelot. When they reached the topmost winding of the staircase, Hervé led the Curé round into the corridor, still carrying his light, and saying, "A word alone with you." At the same time he motioned to Angelot to go forward into the chapel.

The altar was partly arranged for service, the candles were lighted, and one white figure, its face hidden, was kneeling there. Angelot stood and looked for a moment, with dazzled eyes. The wind moaned, the distant valse flowed on. Here in the old neglected chapel, under the kind eyes of the Virgin's statue, he had left Hélène that night, weeks ago. He had never seen her since, except in the ball-room this very evening, lovely as a dream; but she was lovelier than any dream now.

He went up softly beside her, stooped on one knee and kissed the fingers that rested on the old worm-eaten bench. She looked up suddenly, blushing scarlet, and they both rose to their feet and stood quite still, looking into each other's eyes. They did not speak; there was nothing to say, except "I love you," and words were not necessary for that. At first there was terror and bewilderment, rather than happiness, in Hélène's face, and her hands trembled as Angelot held them; but soon under his gaze and his touch a smile was born. All those weeks of desolate loneliness were over, her one and only friend stood beside her once again, to leave her no more. The horrors of that very night, the terrible ball-room full of glittering uniforms and clanking swords, the odious face and voice of Ratoneau;--her father had beckoned her away, had taken her from it all for ever. He had told her in a few words of the Prefect's letter and his resolution, without even taking the trouble to ask her if she would consent to marry her cousin. "It is the only thing to be done," he said. Neither of them had even mentioned her mother. The suspicion that his wife had had something to do with this imperial order made Hervé even more furious than the order itself, and more resolved to settle the affair in his own way.

"Now I understand," he thought, "why Adélaïde invited the brute to this ball. I wager that she knew what was coming. It is time I showed them all who is the master of this house!"

And now, when everything was arranged, when the bridegroom and the bride were actually waiting in the chapel, when every minute was of importance and might bring some fatal interruption--now, here was the excellent old Curé full of curious questions and narrow-minded objections.

"Monsieur le Comte, impossible!" he cried in the corridor. "Marry mademoiselle your daughter to Ange de la Marinière--and without any proper notice, without witnesses, at midnight, unknown to his parents! Do you take me for a constitutional priest, may I ask?"

"No, Monsieur le Curé, and that is why I demand this service of you. You, an old friend of both families, I send for you rather than for my own Curé of Lancilly."

"Ah, I dare say! But do I understand that you are disobeying an order from the Emperor? Am I to ruin myself, by aiding and abetting you? Besides--"

"No, Monsieur le Curé, you understand nothing of the kind. I explain nothing. You run yourself into no danger--but if you did, I should ask you all the more. A man like you, who held firm to his post through the Revolution--"

"Pardon--I did not hold firm. Monsieur de la Marinière protected me."

"And now I will protect you. Listen. I have had no order from the Emperor. I have heard, by means of a friend, that such an order is on its way. It would compel me to marry my daughter to a man she hates, a degrading connection for me. There is only one way of saving her. You know that she and young Ange love each other--they have suffered for it--we will legalise this love of theirs. When the order reaches me, my Hélène will be already married. The Emperor can say nothing. His General must seek a wife elsewhere. Now, Monsieur le Curé, are you satisfied? The children are waiting."

"No, monsieur, no, I am not satisfied. I think there is more risk than you tell me, but I do not mind that. I will not, I cannot, marry young Ange to your daughter without his father's knowledge. Your cousin--God bless him!--is not a religious man, but I owe him a debt I can never repay."

Count Hervé laughed angrily. "You know very well," he said, "that if Urbain is displeased at this marriage, it will be for our sake, not his own. How could he hope for such a match for Angelot?"

"His love for you is wonderful, Monsieur le Comte. But I am not talking of his likings or dislikings. I say that I will not marry these young people without his consent."

"And I say you will. Understand, I mean it. Listen; my cousin Joseph was sending Ange to England to-night with some of his friends out of the way of the police. I will dress Hélène up as a boy, and send her with him, trusting to a marriage when they land. I will do anything to get her off my hands to-night, and Angelot will not fail me. The responsibility is yours, Monsieur le Curé."

The old man wrung his hands. "Monsieur le Comte, you are mad!" he said.

But these threats were effectual, as no fear of personal suffering would have been, and the Curé, though solemnly protesting, submitted.

The delay he caused was not yet over, however. No angry frowns and impatient words would induce him to begin the service before the two young people had separately made their confession to him. Luckily, both were ready to do this, and neither was very long; when at last the Curé, properly vested, began with solemn deliberation the words of the service, his eyes were full of tears, not altogether unhappy.

"Two white souls, madame," he told Anne afterwards. "Your son and your daughter--you may love them freely, and trust their love for you and for each other. Never did I join the hands of two such innocent children as our dear Ange and his Hélène."

He had, in fact, just joined their hands for the first time, when he looked round anxiously at Monsieur de Sainfoy and murmured, "There is no one you can trust, monsieur--no other possible witness?"

"None," the Comte answered shortly; and even as he spoke they all heard a sharp knocking in the corridor, and the opening and shutting of doors.

"Go on, go on! This comes of all your delay," he muttered, and Angelot looked round, alarmed, while Hélène turned white with fear.

Then the person in the corridor, whoever this might be, evidently saw a light through some chink in the chapel door, for the latch was lifted, and a small but impatient voice cried out, "Hélène--are you there?"

It was not the voice of Adélaïde. Angelot looked at Hélène and smiled; the Curé hesitated. Monsieur de Sainfoy walked frowning to the door, which he had locked, and flung it open.

"Come in, mademoiselle," he said. "Here is your witness, Monsieur le Curé."

Mademoiselle Moineau, flushed, agitated, in her best gown, stood on the threshold with hands uplifted.

"What--what is all this?" she stammered; and the scene that met her eyes was certainly strange enough to bewilder a respectable governess.

It had occurred to Madame de Sainfoy to miss her daughter from the ball-room. Suspecting that the stupid girl had escaped to her own room, she had told Mademoiselle Moineau to fetch her at once, to insist on her coming down and dancing. And even now, in spite of this amazing, horrifying spectacle, in spite of the Comte's presence, and his voice repeating, "Come in, mademoiselle!" the little woman was brave enough to protest.

"What is happening?" she said, and hurried a few steps forward. "Hélène, I am astonished. This must be stopped at once. Good heavens, what will Madame la Comtesse say!"

"Let me beg you to be silent, mademoiselle," said Hervé de Sainfoy.

He had already closed and locked the door. He now bent forward with an almost savage look; his pleasant face was utterly transformed by strong feeling.

"Sit down," he said peremptorily. "You see me; I am here. My authority is sufficient, remember--Monsieur le Curé, have the goodness to proceed."

Mademoiselle Moineau sank down on a bench and groaned. Her shocked, staring eyes took in every detail of the scene; the banished lover, the supposed prisoner, in his country clothes, with that dark woodland look of his; the white girl in her ball-dress, standing with bent head, and not moving or looking up, even at her mother's name. The joined hands, white and brown; the young, low voices, plighting their troth one to the other; then the trembling tones of the old priest alone in solemn Latin words, "_Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium_...."

The service went on; and now no one, not even Monsieur de Sainfoy, took any notice of the unwilling spectator. She was a witness in spite of herself. She sank on her knees and sobbed in a corner, partly from real distress at a marriage she thought most foolish and unsuitable, partly from fear of what Madame de Sainfoy might say or do. Her rage must certainly find some victim. She would never believe that Mademoiselle Moineau could not have escaped and called her in time to interrupt this frantic ceremony. As for Monsieur de Sainfoy, his brain must certainly have given way. The poor governess hoped little from him, though he showed some method in his madness by leaving her locked up in the chapel when they all went away and telling her to wait there in silence till he came back. At least that was better than being forced to go down alone to announce this catastrophe to Hélène's mother. The Comtesse would have been capable of turning her out into midnight darkness after the first dozen words.

Hélène, her dearest wish and wildest dream fulfilled in this strange fashion, seemed to be walking in her sleep. She obeyed her father's orders without a word to him or to Angelot, threw on a cloak, and followed them and the Curé down the steep blackness of the winding stairs. At the door her father put out his light, and it was his hand that guided her through the long grass and bushes in the moat, while Angelot gave all his care to the old priest. At the top of the steps, as the four hastily crossed into the deeper shadows of the wood, the tall and strange figure of Martin Joubard appeared out of the gloom. A few hurried words to him, and he readily undertook to see the Curé safely home. The sight of Monsieur de Sainfoy impressed him amazingly; it was evident that Monsieur Angelot had not been acting without authority. Martin stared with all his eyes at the cloaked woman's figure in the background, but promised himself to have all details from the Curé on their way through the lanes.

Hervé de Sainfoy again gave his arm to his daughter, leading her down into the darkness of the wood. Angelot, more familiar with the ways, walked a yard or two in front of them. Several times--his sporting instinct not dulled by the wonderful thing that had happened--he was aware of a slight rustling in the bushes on the right, between the path where they were and the open ground of the park beyond the wood. He listened to this with one ear, while the other was attentive to his father-in-law. It did not strike Monsieur de Sainfoy, once away from the house, that caution and silence might be necessary; he talked out of the relief and gladness of his heart, while affectionately pressing Hélène's hand in his arm.

"Make my compliments to your uncle, Angelot. Ask him to forgive me for taking his nephew and sending him back a niece. He will see that your duty lies in France now. As to that dear father of yours, I shall soon make my peace with him."

"Papa!" Hélène spoke for the first time, and Angelot forgot the rustling in the bushes. "Cannot we--may not we go to La Marinière?"

"Not at first," said Hervé, more gravely. "Ange must make sure of a welcome there--and he knows his uncle Joseph."

"There is another reason," Angelot said eagerly. "My uncle is expecting me. He has made arrangements for me--this very night--I must come to an understanding with him. You know--" he said, looking at Hélène, "my uncle has risked much for me. To-morrow--or to-day, is it? my mother shall welcome you. You are not displeased?"

"No, no. Take me anywhere--I will go anywhere you like," Hélène answered a little faintly; the thought of Angelot's mother, slightly as she knew her, had been sweet and comforting.

For she was a timid girl, and these wild doings frightened her, though she loved Angelot and trusted him with all her heart.

Her father laughed.

"Certainly, my poor girl," he said, "no daughter of Lancilly was ever before married and smuggled away in such a fashion."

"I am satisfied, papa," said Hélène; and they passed on through the wood and came to the crossing of the roads, where he kissed her, and once more laid her hand in Angelot's.

"Take care of your wife," he said to him; and he stood a minute in the road, watching the two young figures, very close together, as they turned into a hollow lane that wound up into the fields and so on towards Les Chouettes.

The Curé and Martin Joubard started away from the château by a path that crossed the park and reached the bridge without going through the village. They were not yet clear of the park, walking slowly, when a man came out of the shadows of the wood to the north, and crossed their path, going towards the south side of the château. He passed at some yards' distance in the confusing darkness of the low ground, where mists were rising; but Martin Joubard had the eyes of a hawk, and knew him.

"Pardon, Monsieur le Curé!" he said, dropped the bundle he was carrying at the Curé's feet, and sped away at his wooden leg's best pace after the man.

"_Hé_, police!" he said, as he came up with him, "what are you spying about here? Looking after the Emperor's enemies?"

"You are not far wrong," said Simon. "And you--what are you doing here, soldier?"

"My fighting days are done. I look out for amusement now. Did you see some people just now, going down through the wood? A young gentleman you want--who gave you the slip--was he there?"

"I saw and heard enough to interest me," Simon answered drily. "It is time to finish off this business. I can't quite see what is going on, but I shall find out at the château. I have been following that young man all night, but I shall catch him up now."

"I might help you with a little information," Martin said.

The police agent looked at him suspiciously. "Tell me no lies," he said, "or"--he pointed to his carbine.

"Oh, if that is your game--" Martin said.

His heavy-headed stick swung in the air. "Crack!" it came down on the side of Simon's head and laid him flat on the turf. Martin stood and looked at him.

"Now the saints grant I have not killed him," he said piously, "though I think he might very well be spared. But he won't go and catch Monsieur Angelot just at present."

He left Simon lying there, and went quietly back to join the Curé.