Well, there was no indication to be found in the Countess's apartments as to where she had removed to, and I thought it best not to risk being seen there. So I went down to the hall again. As I glanced through the court-yard to the outer gates, I thought of trying to leave the chateau, to see if my new liberty went so far as to permit that. But I reflected that if I were once let out I might not be let in again, and my chance of learning what had become of the Countess lay, I supposed, inside the chateau. So I resolved to stay there and await the turn that matters might take. And certainly never was any man a guest in stranger circumstances of guestship. I hated and feared my host, and was loth to accept his hospitality, yet stayed of my own will, though I knew not certainly whether I was free to go. My host hated me, yet tolerated my presence—if indeed he would not have enforced it—for the sake of having me at hand if he thought fit to crush me. When he appeared that morning, I thanked him ironically for restoring me to liberty. He only uttered his harsh crackling laugh in reply, and regarded me with a pretended disdain which failed to conceal his hatred and his longing to penetrate my mind and learn what indeed was between me and his Countess. In such men, especially when they have an evil suggester like the Captain at their ear, jealousy is a madness, and no assurances—nay, not even oaths—of innocence will be taken by them as truth. But his pride made him feign contempt for me, and he had nothing to say to me that day. Neither had the Captain, whose manner toward me merely reverted to what it had been at first. I saw my former place made ready at the table, and took it. The Count and his friend talked of their sports and the affairs of the estate, and not one word of the Countess was spoken. Having eaten, they went off to ride, leaving me to amuse myself as I might. The air of the chateau seemed the freer for their absence, but still it was to me a sinister place, and an irreligious place too, for, though the Count and his friend were Catholics, I had not seen the sign of a chaplain or of any religious observance since I had crossed the drawbridge. So I prepared myself for a dull yet anxious day, and lounged about the hall and court-yard as the places where I might best hope to find out something from the domestics of the house.

As I paced the stones of the court-yard, I became aware that a certain maidservant had been obtruding upon my view with a persistency that might be intentional. I now regarded her, as she stood in a small doorway leading to the kitchen. She was a plump, well-made thing, with a wholesome, honest face, but the sluttishness of her loose frock, and of a great cap that hung over her eyes, were too suggestive of the scullery. As soon as she saw I noticed her, she put one finger on her lip, and swiftly beckoned me with another.

I strolled carelessly over, and stopped within a foot of her, pretending to readjust my sword-belt.

"Monsieur," she said in an undertone, "you are desired to be in your chamber this afternoon at four o'clock."

I glanced at the girl in wonder.

"That is all at present," she whispered. I had the discretion to move on. There were, as usual, several armed fellows idling about the court-yard, but none seemed to have observed that any word had passed between the kitchen-maid and me.

Here was matter for astonishment and conjecture for the next few hours. In some manner or other, those hours passed, and at four I was seated in my chamber, having left the door open an inch or so. The turret clock had scarce done striking when the door was pushed wide; somebody entered and instantly closed it. I had a brief feeling of disappointment as I saw the slovenly frock and overhanging cap of the kitchen-maid. Was it she, then, who paid me the compliment of this clandestine visit?

No; for the cap was swiftly flung back from the brow, and there was the bright and comely face of Mathilde. I uttered her name in pleased surprise.

"Yes," she said quickly, "Mathilde in the guise of Brigitte. I have come from Madame the Countess."

"And where is she?" I asked eagerly.

"In the great tower."

"A prisoner?"

"Yes, and I with her. Fortunately there was nothing else to do with me, unless they killed me. So I am able to attend her."

"Faithful Mathilde! But why is this?"

"It is the fulfilment of the Count's threat in case Madame could not clear herself of that false charge."

"But the Count knew that Monsieur de Merri was coming here. I told him."

"Yes, Monsieur, but the Count would believe as much of your story as Captain Ferragant would choose to let him. Your very interest in Madame's fate has been new food for his jealousy."

"God forbid!"

"It is not your fault, Monsieur; it is the Count's madness. He locks his wife up, as much that she may be inaccessible to you and all other men, as because of anything concerning Monsieur de Merri."

"You may well call it his madness."

"Yes; for, whatever other ladies may have deserved who have been treated thus, the Countess is the most virtuous of wives. Her regard for her marriage vows—in spite of the husband she has—is a part of her religion. But his mind is poisoned. He naturally believes that a young and beautiful woman would not be faithful to an old wolf like him. And he is almost right, for there is only one young and beautiful woman in France who would be, and that is the Countess."

"Surely not because she loves him?"

"Oh, no. It is because of her religion. She was brought up at a convent school, and when the Count offered to marry her, the Mother Superior made her think it her duty and heaven's will that she should accept the high position, where her piety would shine so much further: and having become his wife, she would die rather than violate a wife's duties by a hair's breadth. But what is her reward? Not because he loves her—there's more love in a stone!—but because he can't endure the thought of any trespass on what is his—because he dreads being made a jeer of—he goes mad with jealousy and suspicion. He imitates the Prince of CondÉ by locking his wife up in a tower."

"But this cannot last forever."

"No, Monsieur, and for a very good reason—the Countess's life cannot last forever under this treatment—even if the Count, in some wild imagining of her guilt, conjured up by Captain Ferragant, does not murder her. It's that thought which makes me shudder. It could be done so quietly in that lonely cell, and any account of her death could be given out to avoid scandal."

"Horrible, Mathilde! He would not go to that length."

"Men have done so. You are a stranger, and have not seen the frenzies into which the Count sometimes works himself, torturing his mind by imagining actions of infidelity on her part."

"But that disease of his mind will wear itself out; then he will see matters more sanely."

"Will he grow better, do you think, as he grows older, and drinks more wine, and falls more under the influence of the red Captain?"

To say truth, I thought as Mathilde did, though I had spoken otherwise for mere form of reassurance.

"What is her prison like?" I asked.

"A gloomy room no larger that this, with a single small window. There is no panelling nor tapestry nor plaster—nothing but the bare stones. There are a bed for Madame, a cot for me, a table, and two chairs: nothing else to make it look like a human habitation, save our crucifixes, an image of the Virgin, a trunk, and Madame's book of Hours."

"A small window, you say. Is it barred?"

"No; but our room is very high up in the tower."

"Still, if one got through the window—is it large enough for that?"

"One might get through; but the moat is beneath—far beneath."

"The window looks toward Montoire, then, if the moat is beneath."

"Yes; we can see the sunset."

"At all events, a person dropping from the window would alight outside the walls of the chateau?"

"Yes, Monsieur,—in the moat, as I said. It would be a long drop, too. I don't know how high up the room is. It seems a great many steps up the winding stairs before one comes to the landing before the door."

"Is it at the top of the tower, then?"

"No; for beyond our door the stairs begin again, and they seem to wind more steeply."

"You noticed the sunset. Then you must have been there yesterday evening."

"Yes; we were taken there shortly after noon yesterday. That was the limit to the time given the Countess in which to prove her innocence. She was summoned to the picture gallery by the Count himself, and nobody else was there but Captain Ferragant. The door was closed against me, and what passed between that saint and those two devils I know not; but after a little the door was opened, and there she was, very pale and with her eyes raised in prayer. The Count, who was blue with vindictiveness, told me to get together what things Madame should order; and when that was done, he bade us follow, and led the way down to the court-yard and to the tower, the Captain walking behind. As we climbed those narrow winding steps, I wished the Count might trip in the half-darkness and break his neck, but alas, it was only poor Madame who stumbled now and then. The Count showed us into the room, already furnished for us, and waited till a man had brought the trunk in which I had put some of Madame's clothes. The Count left without a word, and we heard the door locked outside. At first I thought we were to be left to starve, but after some hours the door was unlocked by a man on guard outside, and Brigitte appeared with our supper. She told us she was to come twice a day with our food, and for other necessary services. And when she came again this morning, I had planned how I should manage to see you."

"You are as clever as you are true, Mathilde."

"Fortunately Brigitte looks such a simple, witless creature that the man on guard on the landing has not thought to pry while she has been with us, and has allowed the door to be shut. He cannot then see in, as the grated opening has been closed, out of regard to Madame's sex. So this morning I got Brigitte's consent to my plan, for the poor girl is the softest-hearted creature in the world. And to make sure of finding you immediately when I got out, I charged her to tell you to be in your room at four o'clock."

"Which she did very adroitly."

"She is not such a fool as some take her for. Well, when she came to us awhile ago, I transferred this frock and cap from her to me, and had her call out to the guard that she had forgotten something and must return to the kitchen for it. 'Very well, beauty,' said the guard ironically, and I came out in a great hurry, and was on my way downstairs before he could take a second look at me. The landing is a dark place, and my figure so much like Brigitte's that her clothes make it look quite the same. There is another man on guard, at the bottom of the stairs, but he was as easily deceived as the one above. I ran across the two court-yards, and through the kitchen passage to the servants' stairs, and nobody glanced twice at me. Brigitte, of course, must stay with Madame till I return,—and now, Monsieur, it is time I was back, and I have said nothing of what I came to say."

"You have said much that is important. But 'tis true, you'd best say the rest quickly,—your return may be dangerous enough."

"Oh, I shall go so fast that nobody will have time to suspect me. As for the guards, it is their duty to keep me in. Should they see it is I who was out, they will be very glad to have me in again, and to hold their tongues, for the Count's punishments are not light. But as to Madame's message—she would have tried to convey it by Brigitte, had I not declared I would come at all hazards,—for the truth is, I have something to say on my own responsibility, also."

"But Madame's message?" I demanded eagerly.

"She begs that you will go away while you can. So brave a young gentleman should not stay here to risk the Count's vengeance."

I felt joy at this concern for my safety.

"If I am a brave man," I answered, "I can only stay and help her."

"I am glad you are of that mind, Monsieur, for it is what I think. That is what I had to say to you."

"Then the only question is, how can I be of use to the Countess? She must be released from this imprisonment."

"There I agree with you again. She ought to be taken away—far out of reach of the Count's vengeance—before he has time to make her plight worse than it is, or carry out any design against her life. But even if she remained as she is, her health would not long endure it."

"Now that matters have come to this pass, no doubt she is willing to run away."

"Not yet, Monsieur. That is for me to persuade her. But if we form some plan of escape now, I hope I can win her consent before the time comes to carry it out."

"I trust so. When she repelled the idea of escape, the day I saw her in the garden, things had not gone so far. And then she thought there was no safe place of refuge for her. But I can find a place. And she thought an attempt must be hopeless because the Count would be swift to pursue. But if we got some hours' start, going at night—"

"Yes, certainly it will have to be at night, Monsieur. The Count has the roads watched from the tower, for some purpose of his own—I think he expects some enemy."

"You still have the key to the postern?"

"It must be where I left it—buried under the rose-bush nearest the postern itself. But the first thing is, to get out of the room in the tower."

"Certainly. It would not be possible for Madame to get out as you have done—by a disguise, I mean?"

"No, Monsieur. Brigitte is the only one who comes to us, with whom she might change clothes. And Madame is not at all of Brigitte's figure—nor could she mimic Brigitte's walk as I can. She could not act a part in the slightest degree. And I know that Madame would never consent to go and leave me behind to bear the Count's wrath. We must all three go together. Besides Brigitte comes and goes in the daytime, and Madame must escape at night."

"Yes, that is certain. It is hard to devise a plan in a moment. If I could think of it over night, and you come to me again to-morrow—but no, you may not be able to play this same trick again—the guards may detect you going back."

"That is true, and I have thought of one plan, though it may be difficult."

"Let me hear it, nevertheless."

"Then listen, Monsieur. First, as to the door of our cell. It is locked with a key, which the Count himself retains, except when he goes out, as this afternoon,—it is then entrusted to the seneschal. I know this from Brigitte, for the key is given to her when she comes to us. She hands it to the guard on the landing, who opens the door and keeps the key while she is within. When she leaves us, he locks the door, and she takes the key back to the Count or seneschal. But in order to release Madame, you must have that key."

"And how am I to get it?"

"After Brigitte's last visit to us before the night we select, she will give the Count or seneschal, not the real key to our cell, but another of the same size and general shape—she has access to unimportant keys about the house. Then she will bring the real key to you."

"But poor Brigitte!—when the Count investigates in the morning, he will find she has given him the wrong key."

Mathilde thought a moment. "No; he will rather suppose you robbed him of the right key during the night and substituted the other to delay discovery. He will suspect anything rather than Brigitte, whom he thinks too great a fool for the least craft; and even if she is accused, she can play the innocent. I assure you."

"So much for that, then. There is yet the door of entrance to the tower."

"At present it has an old broken key in the lock, which is therefore useless. But no doubt that will be remedied—so we must act soon. Meanwhile, that door is guarded by the man at the foot of the stairs."

"But are the two guards on duty at night also? There is no Brigitte to be let in and out then. And surely the Count doesn't think you can break your lock."

"There are guards on duty, nevertheless. Last night I heard one call down the stairs to another, asking the time. They are there, no doubt, not for fear of our breaking out, but for fear of somebody breaking in to help Madame. I don't suppose there are ever more than two. If the rule has not been changed, the rest of the household sleeps, except a porter in the gate-house and a man on top of the tower. But this man watches the roads, as well as he can in the darkness, and the porter too is more concerned about people who might want to enter the chateau than about what goes on inside. So in the dead of night you can go silently downstairs and let yourself out of the hall—"

"But is not the hall door locked with a key?"

"Yes; but the key is left always in the lock. You have then only to cross the two court-yards to the lower, without making any noise to alarm the porter at the gate-house or to warn the guard at the tower entrance."

"Will he be inside or outside the tower door, I wonder?"

"Probably inside, where there is a bench just at the foot of the stairs. He and his comrade above will be your only real difficulty, Monsieur. If you can take them by surprise, one at a time—"

"One at a time, or two at a time," said I, beginning to walk up and down the chamber, and grasping my sword and dagger. "But the trouble will be, the noise that may be made when I encounter them,—it may arouse the chateau and spoil all."

"But heaven may grant that you will surprise the men inside the tower, one at the foot of the stairs, the other on our landing, as they must have been last night. In that case, if you can keep the fighting inside the tower, till—"

"Till they are dead. Yes, in that case, if I am expeditious, no noise may be heard outside. That is a thing to aim for. If they, or one, should be outside, I can rush in and so draw them after me. Well, and when I have done for them—?"

"Then you have but to unlock our door, and Madame and I will join you.—You will know our door by there being a stool in the landing before it—the guard sits there.—Well, then we must fly silently through the court-yards and the hall, let ourselves out to the terrace—there are two or three ways I know,—and run through the garden to the postern. Once out of these walls, we must hurry across the fields to the house of a certain miller—"

"Hugues? Yes."

"Yes, Monsieur. The watchman on the tower will not see us in the fields, for we shall keep close to the woods till we are at a distance. Hugues can supply two horses, at least, and you and Madame must be as far away as possible by daylight."

"And you, Mathilde?"

"Unless we can get three horses, I will lie hid at Hugues's mill till Madame finds time to send for me. It will be suitable enough—Hugues and I are to be married some day."

"But I have a horse at the inn at Montoire. If I can get it out at that hour, you can come with us—to whatever place we may decide upon."

"As to that place, you may consider in the meanwhile. There will be time to discuss the matter with Madame when she is escaping with you. The first thing is, to get as far from Lavardin as possible. And now when is all this to be done?"

"The sooner the better, for who knows when the Count may take into his head some new idea?"

"Yes, of harm to Madame or to yourself."

"Why should we not choose this very night?"

"I see no reason against it—except that I may not be able to persuade Madame. But yet there will be several hours—and surely heaven will help me!—Yes, to-night! There is nothing for me to do but persuade Madame, and see that we are dressed as suitably for travel as the clothes at hand will permit. But first, before Brigitte comes away, I must instruct her about the key. At what hour will you come, Monsieur?"

"As soon as the house is asleep."

"Fortunately, early hours are kept here, as there is never any company. But the Count and the Captain stay at their cups till ten or eleven o'clock."

"Then by that time they must have drunk enough to make them fall asleep as soon as they are in bed."

"And sometimes before they are in bed, I have heard the servants say."

"Then I will leave my room at half-past eleven, but will make sure that the hall is dark and empty before I proceed."

"And may the saints aid you, Monsieur, when you have to do with the men at the tower!"

"The men will not be expecting me, that is one advantage," said I, trying to seem calm, but trembling with excitement. "If all goes well, we should be out of the chateau soon after midnight."

"And at Hugues's house before one o'clock. You should be on horseback—the Countess and you—by half-past one. Have you money, Monsieur?"

"Yes,—this purse is nearly as full as when I left home."

"That is well, for Madame has none, and I don't know how much Hugues could get together in ten minutes. I have ten crowns in his strong-box, which Madame shall have."

"They shall stay in Hugues's strong-box, and his own money too. I have enough."

"Then I believe that is all, Monsieur, and I'd better be going back. Be on the watch for Brigitte with the key. Do you think of anything else?"

We went hurriedly over the various details of the plan, and then she took her leave, darting along the passage as swiftly as a greyhound and as silently as a ghost. I sat down to think upon what I had undertaken, but my mind was in a whirl. Strangely enough, I, the victor of a single duel, did not shrink from the idea of killing the two guards—or as many as there might be. Perhaps this was because they were sure to be rascals whose lives one could not value very highly, especially as against that of the Countess. Nor did I feel greatly the odds against me, in regard both to their number and to my inexperience in such business. Perhaps the apparent confidence of Mathilde in my ability to dispose of them—a confidence based on my being a gentleman and they underlings—infected me. And yet I chose not to go too deeply into the probabilities. My safest course, for my courage, was not to think too much, but to wait for the moment and then do my best.

It seemed but a short time till there was a tap at my door, and in came the real Brigitte.

"Mathilde got back safe, Monsieur; she was not detected," she said, and handed me a large key.

Ere more could pass, she was gone. I put the key in my breast pocket. It was now time I should show myself to the Count and his friend at table; which I proceeded to do, as boldly as if I had entertained no design against them. They were just back from their ride. It was strange with what outward coolness I was able to carry myself, by dint of not thinking too closely on what I had undertaken. For observe that, besides the immediate task of the night, there was Madame's whole future involved. And how precipitately Mathilde and I had settled upon our course, without pausing to consider if some more prudent measures might not be taken to the same end! But I was hurried by my feeling that I ought to save Madame, the more because no one could say how far the present situation was due to my having killed De Merri, and to my advent at the chateau. Even though she might choose not to escape, it was for me to give her the opportunity, at least. And to tell the truth, I longed to see her again, at any cost. As for Mathilde, there were her pressing fears of a worse fate for her mistress, to excuse her haste. And we were both young, and thought that any project which goes straight and smoothly in the telling must go straight and smoothly in the doing; and we looked not far ahead.