Chapter III

The Conspiracy

Four leagues distant from Cambray[15] the towers of Beaurevoir Castle rise from forest-crowned heights. In selecting this spot the builders combined the useful and the beautiful, for the castle was famous both for its strength and for its attractive situation. The view from the upper windows and from the towers repaid the appreciative observer at any season of the year, but he would have lingered longest in admiration when park and gardens, wood and meadow, field and grove were decked in the beauty of early spring, when the thickly clustered villages, east, west, and north, smiled amid their luxuriant crops, or when on the southern heights the Argonne forest was clad in its most gorgeous greenery. How much more attractive the beauties of this spot must have been to a child whose greatest delight was to be among the flowers of the garden and meadow, the birds in the parks, and the varied scenery! How closely such a child must have been attached to such a spot! How strong its temptation to pass all its time with nature!

Just such a child as this had been allured to the park and gardens by the sunshine of an early April day in the year last named,—a girl blooming with color, vigorous with health. At a distance she appeared to be about eighteen years of age, but closer observation showed she could not have been much over fifteen. Of all the beautiful things in this beautiful scene she was the most attractive, as she frolicked and skipped about like a fawn, bounding over the flowery meadows for the first time. As she ran about in the sunshine she gave expression to her childish joy at each fresh manifestation of the marvellous work of spring, and broke out in most exultant exclamations when she discovered the first violets in the grass.

Two ladies slowly following her, and engaged in earnest conversation, were attracted by her outcries. “There now,” said one of them, a somewhat slender person with angular features and sharp eyes, “you see what an undisciplined creature she is. Is it proper for her to behave in such a manner? This comes of letting her have her own way. How often have I protested! But of what use is it? When you see that your talking is of no avail it is best to hold your tongue. If you do not, then they say, ‘Oh, yes, that’s the way envious old spinsters always talk.’”

The other lady, whose handsome face, beaming with good nature, was in striking contrast with that of her companion, cast an appealing glance at her. “Oh, dear Rosette, are you not mistaken? Who would dare to insult my husband’s sister by making such a remark?”

“Oh, well, you know people often think many things they do not say.”

“That is true. But even if they do, why should you conclude they are thinking things about you they do not venture to say?”

“I cannot give you any precise reason.”

“Then I must tell you it is not kind to think evil of others, especially of your own friends, unless you have sufficient cause to do so. But never mind. You were speaking of Marie. You are offended with the behavior of the poor child.”

“Child! A fine child she is,—ha! ha! You ought to have known some time ago that she is no longer a child. She is a grown-up girl.”

“Let us hope she may not discover it for a long time yet. How happy she would be if she could always preserve her childlike nature! Look at her, dear Rosette! Is it not a beautiful sight—such an innocent child, sporting in pure delight?”

The sister-in-law turned up her nose.

“But why is not her behavior proper?” continued the other. “Proper! What is proper? Are not many things proper which are called highly improper? Marie is in her own world here. She has grown up in it, is attached to it, and enjoys herself in it. You cannot imagine how delighted I am to see her thus. Poor little one! Orphaned at an early age, she has never known the comfort of a father’s or mother’s embraces, and shall I begrudge her her harmless pleasures?”

“It would be much better if she were to begin leading a more quiet and serious life right away, in preparation for her future.”

“What has the future in store for her?”

“Is she not intended for the convent?”

“Who says so? She is sole heir of Louis of Chafleur, who has left her a rich property. Why should she take the veil?”

“She will not take it voluntarily. I think it is the wish of your husband.”

“I think you are mistaken. At least, I do not know of any such plan. John simply said that a convent would be the safest retreat for Marie in case the tumult of war should invade the Argonne forest. To seek the shelter of a convent and to take the veil are two different things.”

Rosette’s eyes glistened with malicious triumph as she looked at Marie, who at that instant came bounding forward with a bunch of violets and put an end to the conversation; her look seemed to say, “I know some things better than you.”

While this was going on in the park, two men were standing at an upper window of the castle. They were considerably beyond middle age, and resembled one another in a certain cold, crafty, calculating expression of countenance. One of them wore the usual costume of a knight, the other the conventional dress of a high church dignitary. One was John of Luxemburg, lord of the castle; the other, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais.

“The girl is really a handsome child,” said the Bishop, as he looked at Marie.

“Oh, yes,” slowly assented the lord of the castle. “But,” he added with a peculiar twinkle of the eye, “I know something that is more beautiful.”

The prelate understood. “Hm! I won’t dispute that. These are fine possessions. It would be a pity to have them pass into the hands of strangers.”

“You have echoed my very thought, your reverence. So I think we are agreed on the general point.”

“You mean that in these times of disturbance there is no place where Marie will be so secure as in the cell of a convent.”

“Exactly, and unless I am mistaken that is also what you mean.”

“In a general sense, yes; but we have not yet considered the most important point.”

“Let us come to it.”

“The question arises, How is the girl to be secured for the convent? and next, How is she to be taken there?”

“I will see that she is taken there. As to the rest of the business, I appeal to the experience of your reverence.”

“Hm! a difficult task when, as in this case, the novice has the utmost aversion to a convent.”

“It is not so difficult as appears at first sight. I know of similar cases where the task has been successfully accomplished.”

“Yes, but under peculiar circumstances.”

“The circumstances in our case are similar.”

The Bishop’s face wore a crafty expression. “That is truly quite another thing. Let us hear about it.”

“Of course Marie’s property remains in possession of her guardian until she reaches legal age, when it is at her disposal.”

“That is clear. But what will the Church get?”

“Patience, your reverence. If she should not reach that age—and that is not impossible—”

“Well?”

“I understand that in such a case the property is legally mine.”

“That is also clear. But what will the Church get?”

“In that case we can make an agreement as to how much the Church shall have.”

“We understand each other, noble knight. But supposing she reaches legal age?”

“Then the Church must see to it that the legal requirements are not binding. I say ‘legal requirements.’ You understand me, holy father?”

“Perfectly, my noble friend. Sometimes we have had to grant exemptions from requirements which afterwards were shown to have been void because of irregularities.”

“I am glad we understand each other so well.”

“Yes, but what will the Church get?”

“The same as in the other case, namely, a share of the property, only the Church will not come into actual possession until after the death of the testatrix.”

“Hm! It seems to me, my noble friend, that you not only propose to take the lion’s share, but the entire prize. The Church would have the first claim in case of death.”

“You haven’t let me finish, your reverence. Until the death of the heir I will secure you, as the representative of the Church, a yearly income of three hundred pounds.”

The Bishop’s eyes glistened. “And the security?” he said, stretching out his hand.

“My word, the word of a nobleman;” and they shook hands.

A pause ensued. Each of the men, in the stillness, seemed to be studying whether he might not find eventually that he had been overreached and had not received his proper share. The Bishop was the first to come to a decision, and asked, “When shall we begin our work, noble friend?”

“At once, if you are ready.” Thereupon he rang a bell, and ordered the servant who answered it to call Mademoiselle de Chafleur.

It was not long before Marie came running into the room, full of joyous exultation. “Dear uncle, see these beautiful violets,” she cried. “Oh, what delicious perfume!”

“Very beautiful indeed. They are messengers sent by Spring to the other flowers.”

“It must be so. Oh, you cannot imagine how beautiful the park is already! Tell me quickly what I am to do, so that I can return soon.”

“So you find it very pleasant in the park?”

“Oh, I could stay there always.”

“I am all the more sorry, then, that you will have to leave it soon.”

“What! Leave! Uncle, I do not understand you.”

“Yes, child. The tumult of war approaches nearer and nearer.”

“What of that? Is not the castle safe? Let the Englishmen come. We will send those long-nosed gentlemen home again. Yes, ‘we,’ I say, for you know I am a Chafleur.”

“I have the highest respect for your courage, my little Amazon, but the English will not be greatly scared by it. No, child, I must find a safer place for you.”

“And my aunts?”

“Oh, that is a different matter. My wife and sister must submit to the inevitable.”

“And I can also.”

“No, child. Your father sacredly intrusted you to me. I should not be keeping my word if I exposed you to the dangers of war.”

“But I say again, uncle, and you have said yourself, that the castle is safe enough.”

“Still it can be taken; but no enemy will dare to attack the sacred walls of a convent.”

“A convent! What do you mean? Do you intend to make me a nun? Me! A nun! Ha! ha! ha! I shall die a-laughing.”

“It is not always nuns who find shelter in a convent.”

“Nevertheless, uncle, and once for all, I say I will have nothing to do with a convent.”

“Then tell me what you will do, for you cannot stay here.”

“Are you in earnest, uncle?”

“Absolutely so.”

The tears came to the girl’s eyes. Sobbing, and throwing her arms around his neck, she exclaimed: “Uncle, you cannot send me away from you.”

“It is for your safety, my child.”

“But I do not wish any special safety. Where my aunts can stay, I can stay.”

“It is of no use. No use. My decision is final.”

The girl stood erect. She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at the knight with a strange and distressed expression. Gradually her look became colder and more fixed, and at last he realized her undaunted determination.

“My decision is made too, uncle. I will not go to a convent. I would rather fall into the hands of the English. But the situation is not so desperate as that. I will let my kinsman La Hire know. He will protect me. Let me have a messenger, uncle. In an hour I will have a letter ready.” Thereupon she left the room.

“Well, what do you think now, noble knight?” began the Bishop.

“Pah!” he replied, “I will send her a messenger who will throw her letter into the first forest brook he comes to, and return without seeing La Hire.”

On the morning of the fourteenth day after this scene, a heavy travelling carriage stood in the castle yard with an escort of six armed men. Marie lay sobbing in the arms of Madame de Luxemburg. Still sobbing, she at last followed the impatient lord of the castle to the carriage. Nothing had been heard from La Hire, and when, as John of Luxemburg had said, an attack upon the castle was likely to be made, he told Marie he would accompany her to her kinsman. At the first inn they met the Bishop of Beauvais, apparently by accident. As he was journeying in the same direction he accepted the knight’s invitation to take a seat in the carriage.

Overcome with grief, and not expecting any trickery, Marie at first did not notice the road they were taking. After passing three or four inns, however, she saw that they were going west instead of south. Not even then did she suspect treachery. They easily satisfied her inquiries by pretending they must take a circuitous route to avoid encountering the English. When, however, they kept on in the same direction the next day, her suspicions were fully aroused.

“Uncle,” she said, “you cannot deceive me any longer; you are not taking me to Chinon. What are you going to do with me?”

“I will not deceive you, child,” replied the knight, for pretense was useless any longer. “I cannot carry out my plan to take you to Chinon. The whole district of the Loire is in the hands of the English. I cannot even get back to Beaurevoir, so nothing remains but—”

“But what?” she piteously exclaimed.

“The convent.”

She uttered a scream of terror.

“Be quiet,” said the knight, harshly. “If you scream again I will silence you in a way that may not be agreeable.”

They were in a forest where fugitive peasants might be in hiding. Even at a distance from it, he had been fearful lest the girl might attract some one’s attention. He wished to reach his destination without being observed, and was particularly anxious no one should even suspect where he was or what he was doing.

Marie was not frightened by his threat, but a quick glance showed her they were in a forest where no help of any kind could be expected. In despair she sank back into a corner of the carriage. Anger, desperation, and scorn raged by turns in her breast, until at last, overcome by exhaustion, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

The vigorous “halt” of a manly voice aroused her from her wretched condition. In an instant she was at the carriage door. Her first glance fell upon a handsome youth who was advancing courageously toward the carriage. The reader knows who he was.

“Help! help!” she involuntarily cried. “They are taking me to a convent.”

Her guardian pulled her back, and silenced her cries by holding his handkerchief over her mouth. She tried desperately to release herself,—but what availed her weakness against the strength of a trained knight? In her anguish the image of the brave youth rose before her, and her anxiety about his fate made her forget her own. She listened intently to all that was going on outside. She trembled when it seemed impossible for her to escape, but at last she exulted when she knew that he was safe.

It was late at night when the carriage came to a stop. Marie knew by the call of a watchman that they were either before a city or a castle. The Bishop gave his name, and the creaking gate opened. The carriage passed through several dark streets, and stopped at last before a large, gloomy building. Here also the Bishop’s name was an Open Sesame; the heavy bolts were pushed back, the carriage rolled over a paved yard, and with a hollow, fateful sound the gate was closed and locked.

Marie shook as in an ague fit. She realized that she was a prisoner, and perhaps was cut off from all the pleasures of life; but not a sound escaped her lips. Her mute sorrow alone reproached her persecutors. She did not know she was in the Ursuline Convent at Rouen, but she had no doubt it was some convent in the Bishop’s diocese. Evidently they were ready to receive an exalted guest, whom they had expected, in a manner befitting her station. The abbess, a lady of middle age, who, judging by her speech and manners, might have been of high rank, was awaiting her in the parlor. After the Bishop had exchanged a few words with her, the abbess turned to Marie and said: “May your entrance among us be blest, Mademoiselle de Chafleur. I hope these sacred walls will furnish you both the outward security which you need, and your heart that peace which the world cannot give.”

There was something so cordial, and withal so winning, in the tone with which she spoke these words, that Marie pressed her extended hand to her lips with the utmost sincerity, and covered it with kisses. She longed to throw herself into the arms of this gracious lady, and weep away her sorrow as she would on a mother’s breast. Her longing was so overpowering that she sank upon her knees and moistened the abbess’s hand with her tears.

“Save me, gracious lady, save me,” she implored. “I am the victim of a conspiracy. They have deceived me, brought me here by force, and torn me from all that is dear and sacred to me.”

The astonished abbess cast an inquiring glance at the Bishop. “The novice,” he said in reply to it, “is here because it is the wish of her guardian, a lord of Luxemburg, who alone has authority to act for her. Therefore it is idle to talk of force. To your—”

“I am not a novice,” cried Marie, rising. “I am Marie of Chafleur. My guardian has control of my property, but he has no right arbitrarily to dispose of my person.”

“I trust your ability,” resumed the Bishop, “to remove these worldly ideas, which are unbecoming within these sacred walls, and to implant in this perverse soul the spirit of quiet resignation and Christian humility. I authorize you to employ all the means which are at your command to produce this result, and I have no doubt of their efficacy.”

The last words were spoken with a peculiar intonation which was in the nature of a command to the abbess, but of the significance of which the poor child had not the most remote idea. The abbess, who understood well enough what was expected from her, made a quiet sign of assent, and the two men took their leave, firmly convinced that their work was completed successfully.

Marie was assigned to the usual cell and left alone. She first went to the grated window. It looked out only upon the yard. With a pitiful sob she threw herself upon the hard couch. Her tears flowed, and she gave vent to her anguish in melancholy ejaculations. At last she knelt before the crucifix and poured out her aching heart in long and fervent prayer. Again she quietly sought her couch. She was now able to think calmly over recent events. As she was ignorant of what was in store for her, she was still buoyant with the hopefulness of youth. She thought of La Hire, whom she had known as an honorable knight. The image of the young man also mingled pleasantly in her thoughts of the future. She decided she would write again to La Hire. He could not have deserted her. Thus consoling herself, she sank into kindly slumber. Poor child! Little she knew that her letters could not find their way into the outside world without first being read by the superior.

One day two nuns, commissioned to acquaint her with the rules of the Ursuline order, visited her. Her declaration that she did not wish to know them made no impression upon the sisters. They performed their duty, and then withdrew to make their report. Shortly afterwards another sister entered, and summoned the novice to prepare herself by prayer and fasting for the vow which she was shortly to take.

“What means this farce?” said Marie. “I am not a novice. I will not join your order. I will not take a vow.”

“Our wishes are useless within these walls,” replied the sister. “We must do what the superior, the abbess, and the rules of the order command.”

“What is that to me? I am not one of you.”

“You will do well, sister, to submit to the inevitable.”

“And what if I do not?”

“Then they will force you to submit.”

“Force me, Marie of Chafleur! I should like to hear how they propose to do it.”

“I can tell you, sister. They will lock you in your cell and let you go half starved.”

“Well, I would rather wholly starve than take the vow.”

“They will thrust you into a gloomy prison.”

“Go on.”

“They will come daily to your prison and punish you without mercy.”

Marie shrieked aloud. She clenched her fists. Her lips quivered. “Woman,” she at last exclaimed, “the devil has sent you to tempt me! Leave me. Go and report that I will suffer death rather than consent.”

“I must first do what I have been ordered, sister.” Thereupon the nun knelt before the crucifix and repeated aloud the prayers which were prescribed as a preparation for the vow. When she had finished she withdrew. What she had said came to pass. Marie first was locked in her cell and given only a scanty bit of bread. When that proved of no avail she was put into the prison. It was her loud laments which Jean had heard while praying in the church of Saint Ursula, for the prison was only separated from the church by a single wall.