repeated to him and he would
avenge it. I have shamed you," she
continued, distressed by his silence, "I
deserve your blame."
And she broke the vial by flinging it on the floor
violently.
"Do not come," she said, "my husband sleeps
lightly; my duty is to
wait for the help of Heaven--that will I do!"
She tried to leave the
chapel.
"Ah!" cried the young man, "order me to do so and I will kill him. You
will see me to-night."
"I was wise to destroy that drug," she said in a voice that was faint
with the pleasure of
finding herself so loved. "The fear of awakening
my husband will save us from ourselves."
"I
pledge you my life," said the young man, pressing her hand.
"If the king is
willing, the pope can annul my marriage. We will then
be united," she said, giving him a look that was full of delightful
hopes.
"Monseigneur comes!" cried the page, rushing in.
Instantly the young
nobleman, surprised at the short time he had
gained with his
mistress and wondering at the celerity of the count,
snatched a kiss, which was not refused.
"To-night!" he said, slipping
hastily from the
chapel.
Thanks to the darkness, he reached the great
portalsafely, gliding
from
column to
column in the long shadows which they cast athwart the
nave. An old canon suddenly issued from the
confessional, came to the
side of the
countess and closed the iron
railing before which the page
was marching
gravely up and down with the air of a watchman.
A strong light now announced the coming of the count. Accompanied by
several friends and by servants
bearing torches, he
hurried forward, a
naked sword in hand. His
gloomy eyes seemed to
pierce the shadows and
to rake even the darkest corners of the cathedral.
"Monseigneur, madame is there," said the page, going forward to meet
him.
The Comte de Saint-Vallier found his wife kneeling on the steps of the
alter, the old
prieststanding beside her and
reading his breviary. At
that sight the count shook the iron
railingviolently as if to give
vent to his rage.
"What do you want here, with a drawn sword in a church?" asked the
priest.
"Father, that is my husband," said the
countess.
The
priest took a key from his
sleeve, and unlocked the railed door of
the
chapel. The count, almost in spite of himself, cast a look into
the
confessional, then he entered the
chapel, and seemed to be
listening attentively to the sounds in the cathedral.
"Monsieur," said his wife, "you owe many thanks to this venerable
canon, who gave me a
refuge here."
The count turned pale with anger; he dared not look at his friends,
who had come there more to laugh at him than to help him. Then he
answered curtly:
"Thank God, father, I shall find some way to repay you."
He took his wife by the arm and, without allowing her to finish her
curtsey to the canon, he signed to his servants and left the church
without a word to the others who had accompanied him. His silence had
something
savage and
sullen about it. Impatient to reach his home and
preoccupied in searching for means to discover the truth, he took his
way through the tortuous streets which at that time separated the
cathedral from the Chancellerie, a fine building recently erected by
the Chancellor Juvenal des Ursins, on the site of an old fortification
given by Charles VII. to that
faithful servant as a
reward for his
glorious labors.
The count reached at last the rue du Murier, in which his dwelling,
called the hotel de Poitiers, was
situated. When his
escort of
servants had entered the
courtyard and the heavy gates were closed, a
deep silence fell on the narrow street, where other great seigneurs
had their houses, for this new quarter of the town was near to
Plessis, the usual
residence of the king, to whom the courtiers, if
sent for, could go in a moment. The last house in this street was also
the last in the town. It belonged to Maitre Cornelius Hoogworst, an
old Brabantian merchant, to whom King Louis XI. gave his utmost
confidence in those
financial transactions which his
crafty policy
induced him to
undertake outside of his own kingdom.