Monsieur de Garnache was pleased with the issue of his little affair with Arsenio.

“Mademoiselle,” he told Valerie that evening, “I was right to have faith in my luck, right to believe that the tide of it is flowing.  All we need now is a little patience; everything has become easy.”

It was the hour of supper.  Valerie was at table in her anteroom, and “Battista” was in attendance.  It was an added duty they had imposed upon him, for, since her attempt to escape, mademoiselle’s imprisonment had been rendered more rigorous than ever.  No servant of the chateau was allowed past the door of the outer anteroom, now commonly spoken of as the guardroom of the tower.  Valerie dined daily in the salon with Madame de Condillac and Marius, but her other meals were served her in her own apartments.  The servants who brought the meals from the kitchen delivered them to “Battista” in the guardroom, and he it was who laid the cloth and waited upon mademoiselle.  At first this added duty had irritated him more than all that he had so far endured.  Had he Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache lived to discharge the duties of a lackey, to bear dishes to a lady’s table and to remain at hand to serve her?  The very thought had all but set him in a rage.  But presently he grew reconciled to it.  It afforded him particular opportunities of being in mademoiselle’s presence and of conferring with her; and for the sake of such an advantage he might well belittle the unsavoury part of the affair.

A half-dozen candles burned in two gleaming silver sconces on the table; in her tall-backed leather chair mademoiselle sat, and ate and drank but little, while Garnache told her of the preparations he had made.

“If my luck but holds until Wednesday next,” he concluded, “you may count upon being well out of Condillac.  Arsenio does not dream that you come with us, so that even should he change his mind, at least we have no cause to fear a betrayal.  But he will not change his mind.  The prospect of fifty pistoles has rendered it immutable.”

She looked up at him with eyes brightened by hope and by the encouragement to count upon success which she gathered from his optimism.

“You have contrived it marvellously well,” she praised him.  “If we succeed ­”

“Say when we succeed, mademoiselle,” he laughingly corrected her.

“Very well, then ­when we shall have succeeded in leaving Condillac, whither am I to go?”

“Why, with me, to Paris, as was determined.  My man awaits me at Voiron with money and horses.  No further obstacle shall rise to hamper us once our backs are turned upon the ugly walls of Condillac.  The Queen shall make you welcome and keep you safe until Monsieur Florimond comes to claim his bride.”

She sipped her wine, then set down the glass and leaned her elbow on the table, taking her chin in her fine white hand.  “Madame tells me that he is dead,” said she, and Garnache was shocked at the comparative calmness with which she said it.  He looked at her sharply from under his sooted brows.  Was she, after all, he wondered, no different from other women?  Was she cold and calculating, and had she as little heart as he had come to believe was usual with her sex, that she could contemplate so calmly the possibility of her lover being dead?  He had thought her better, more natural, more large-hearted and more pure.  That had encouraged him to stand by her in these straits of hers, no matter at what loss of dignity to himself.  It began to seem that his conclusions had been wrong.

His silence caused her to look up, and in his face she read something of what was passing in his thoughts.  She smiled rather wanly.

“You are thinking me heartless, Monsieur de Garnache?”

“I am thinking you ­womanly.”

“The same thing, then, to your mind.  Tell me, monsieur, do you know much of women?”

“God forbid!  I have found trouble enough in my life.”

“And you pass judgment thus upon a sex with which you have no acquaintance?”

“Not by acquaintance only is it that we come to knowledge.  There are ways of learning other than by the road of experience.  One may learn of dangers by watching others perish.  It is the fool who will be satisfied alone with the knowledge that comes to him from what he undergoes himself.”

“You are very wise, monsieur,” said she demurely, so demurely that he suspected her of laughing at him.  “You were never wed?”

“Never, mademoiselle,” he answered stiffly, “nor ever in any danger of it.”

“Must you, indeed, account it a danger?”

“A deadly peril, mademoiselle,” said he; whereupon they both laughed.

She pushed back her chair and rose slowly.  Slowly she passed from the table and stepped towards the window.  Turning she set her back to it, and faced him.

“Monsieur de Garnache,” said she, “you are a good man, a true and noble gentleman.  I would that you thought a little better of us.  All women are not contemptible, believe me.  I will pray that you may yet mate with one who will prove to you the truth of what I say.”

He smiled gently, and shook his head.

“My child,” said he, “I am not half the noble fellow you account me.  I have a stubborn pride that stands me at times in the stead of virtue.  It was pride brought me back here, for instance.  I could not brook the laughter that would greet me in Paris did I confess that I was beaten by the Dowager of Condillac.  I tell you this to the end that, thinking less well of me, you may spare me prayers which I should dread to see fulfilled.  I have told you before, mademoiselle, Heaven is likely to answer the prayers of such a heart as yours.”

“Yet but a moment back you deemed me heartless,” she reminded him.

“You seemed so indifferent to the fate of Florimond de Condillac.”

“I must have seemed, then, what I am not,” she told him, “for I am far from indifferent to Florimond’s fate.  The truth is, monsieur, I do not believe Madame de Condillac.  Knowing me to be under a promise that naught can prevail upon me to break, she would have me believe that nature has dissolved the obligation for me.  She thinks that were I persuaded of Florimond’s death, I might turn an ear to the wooing of Marius.  But she is mistaken, utterly mistaken; and so I sought to convince her.  My father willed that I should wed Florimond.  Florimond’s father had been his dearest friend.  I promised him that I would do his will, and by that promise I am bound.  But were Florimond indeed dead, and were I free to choose, I should not choose Marius were he the only man in all the world.”

Garnache moved nearer to her.

“You speak,” said he, “as if you were indifferent in the matter of wedding Florimond, whilst I understand that your letter to the Queen professed you eager for the alliance.  I may be impertinent, but, frankly, your attitude puzzles me.”

“I am not indifferent,” she answered him, but calmly, without enthusiasm.  “Florimond and I were playmates, and as a little child I loved him and admired him as I might have loved and admired a brother perhaps.  He is comely, honourable, and true.  I believe he would be the kindest husband ever woman had, and so I am content to give my life into his keeping.  What more can be needed?”

“Never ask me, mademoiselle; I am by no means an authority,” said he.  “But you appear to have been well schooled in a most excellent philosophy.”  And he laughed outright.  She reddened under his amusement.

“It was thus my father taught me,” said she, in quieter tones; “and he was the wisest man I ever knew, just as he was the noblest and the bravest.”

Garnache bowed his head.  “God rest his soul!” said he with respectful fervour.

“Amen,” the girl replied, and they fell silent.

Presently she returned to the subject of her betrothed.

“If Florimond is living, this prolonged absence, this lack of news is very strange.  It is three months since last we heard of him ­four months, indeed.  Yet he must have been apprised of his father’s death, and that should have occasioned his return.”

“Was he indeed apprised of it?” inquired Garnache.  “Did you, yourself, communicate the news to him?”

“I?” she cried.  “But no, monsieur.  We do not correspond.”

“That is a pity,” said Garnache, “for I believe that the knowledge of the Marquis’s death was kept from him by his stepmother.”

“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, in horror.  “Do you mean that he may still be in ignorance of it?”

“Not that.  A month ago a courier was dispatched to him by the Queen-Mother.  The last news of him some four months old, as you have said ­reported him at Milan in the service of Spain.  Thither was the courier sent to find him and to deliver him letters setting forth what was toward at Condillac.”

“A month ago?” she said.  “And still we have no word.  I am full of fears for him, monsieur.”

“And I,” said Garnache, “am full of hope that we shall have news of him at any moment.”

That he was well justified of his hope was to be proven before they were many days older.  Meanwhile Garnache continued to play his part of gaoler to the entire satisfaction and increased confidence of the Condillacs, what time he waited patiently for the appointed night when it should be his friend Arsenio’s turn to take the guard.

On that fateful Wednesday “Battista” sought out ­as had now become his invariable custom ­his compatriot as soon as the time of his noontide rest was come, the hour at which they dined at Condillac.  He found Arsenio sunning himself in the outer courtyard, for it seemed that year that as the winter approached the warmth increased.  Never could man remember such a Saint Martin’s Summer as was this.

In so far as the matter of their impending flight was concerned, “Battista” was as brief as he could be.

“Is all well?” he asked.  “Shall you be on guard to-night?”

“Yes.  It is my watch from sunset till dawn.  At what hour shall we be stirring?”

Garnache pondered a moment, stroking that firm chin of his, on which the erstwhile stubble had now grown into a straggling, unkempt beard ­and it plagued him not a little, for a close observer might have discovered that it was of a lighter colour at the roots.  His hair, too, was beginning to lose its glossy blackness.  It was turning dull, and presently, no doubt, it would begin to pale, so that it was high time he spread his wings and took flight from Condillac.

“We had best wait until midnight.  It will give them time to be soundly in their slumbers.  Though, should there be signs of any one stirring even then, you had better wait till later.  It were foolish to risk having our going prevented for the sake of leaving a half-hour earlier.”

“Depend upon me,” Arsenio answered him.  “When I open the door of your tower I shall whistle to you.  The key of the postern hangs on the guardroom wall.  I shall possess myself of that before I come.”

“Good,” said Garnache, “we understand each other.”

And on that they might have parted there and then, but that there happened in that moment a commotion at the gate.  Men hurried from the guardhouse, and Fortunio’s voice sounded loud in command.  A horseman had galloped up to Condillac, walked his horse across the bridge ­which was raised only at night ­and was knocking with the butt of his whip an imperative summons upon the timbers of the gate.

By Fortunio’s orders it was opened, and a man covered with dust, astride a weary, foam-flecked horse, rode under the archway of the keep into the first courtyard of the chateau.

Garnache eyed him in surprise and inquiry, and he read in the man’s appearance that he was a courier.  The horseman had halted within a few paces of the spot where “Battista” and his companion stood, and seeing in the vilely clad Garnache a member of the Condillac household, he flung him his reins, then got down stiffly from his horse.

Fortunio, bristling with importance, his left hand on the hilt of his rapier, the fingers of his right twirling at his long fair mustachios, at once confronted him and craved his business.

“I am the bearer of letters for Madame the Dowager Marquise de Condillac,” was the reply; whereupon, with an arrogant nod, Fortunio bade the fellow go with him, and issued an order that his horse should be cared for.

Arsenio was speaking in Garnache’s ear.  The man’s nature was inquisitive, and he was indulging idle conjectures as to what might be the news this courier brought.  Garnache’s mind, actuated by very different motives, was engaged upon the same task, so much so that not a word heard he of what his supposed compatriot was whispering.  Whence came this courier?  Why had not that fool Fortunio asked him, so that Garnache might have overheard his answer?  Was he from Paris and the Queen, or was he, perchance, from Italy and Florimond?  These were questions to which it imported him to have the answers.  He must know what letters the fellow brought.  The knowledge might guide him now; might even cause him to alter the plans he had formed.

He stood in thought whilst, unheeded by him, Arsenio prattled at his elbow.  He bethought him of the old minstrel’s gallery at the end of the hall in which the Condillacs were dining and whither the courier would be conducted.  He knew the way to that gallery, for he had made a very close study of the chateau against the time when he might find himself in need of the knowledge.

With a hurried excuse to Arsenio he moved away, and, looking round to see that he was unobserved, he was on the point of making his way to the gallery when suddenly he checked himself.  What went he there to do?  To play the spy?  To become fellow to the lackey who listens at keyholes?  Ah, no!  That was something no service could demand of him.  He might owe a duty to the Queen, but there was also a duty that he owed himself, and this duty forbade him from going to such extremes.  Thus spake his Pride, and he mistook its voice for that of Honour.  Betide what might, it was not for Garnache to play the eavesdropper.  Not that, Pardieu!

And so he turned away, his desires in conflict with that pride of his, and gloomily he paced the courtyard, Arsenio marvelling what might have come to him.  And well was it for him that pride should have detained him; well would it seem as if his luck were indeed in the ascendant and had prompted his pride to save him from a deadly peril.  For suddenly some one called “Battista!”

He heard, but for the moment, absorbed as he was in his own musings, he overlooked the fact that it was the name to which he answered at Condillac.

Not until it was repeated more loudly, and imperatively, did he turn to see Fortunio beckoning him.  With a sudden dread anxiety, he stepped to the captain’s side.  Was he discovered?  But Fortunio’s words set his doubts to rest at once.

“You are to re-conduct Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye to her apartments at once.”

Garnache bowed and followed the captain up the steps and into the chateau that he might carry out the order; and as he went he shrewdly guessed that it was the arrival of that courier had occasioned the sudden removal of mademoiselle.

When they were alone together ­he and she ­in her anteroom in the Northern Tower, she turned to him before he had time to question her as he was intending.

“A courier has arrived,” said she.

“I know; I saw him in the courtyard.  Whence is he?  Did you learn it?”

“From Florimond.”  She was white with agitation.

“From the Marquis de Condillac?” he cried, and he knew not whether to hope or fear.  “From Italy?”

“No, monsieur.  I do not think from Italy.  From what was said I gathered that Florimond is already on his way to Condillac.  Oh, it made a fine stir.  It left them no more appetite for dinner, and they seem to have thought it could have left me none for mine, for they ordered my instant return to my apartments.”

“Then you know nothing ­save that the courier is from the Marquis?”

“Nothing; nor am I likely to,” she answered, and her arms dropped limply to her sides, her eyes looked entreatingly up into his gloomy face.

But Garnache could do no more than rap out an oath.  Then he stood still a moment, his eyes on the window, his chin in his hand, brooding.  His pride and his desire to know more of that courier’s message were fighting it out again in his mind, just as they fought it out in the courtyard below.  Suddenly his glance fell on her, standing there, so sweet, so frail, and so disconsolate.  For her sake he must do the thing, repulsive though it might be.

“I must know more,” he exclaimed.  “I must learn Florimond’s whereabouts, if only that we may go to meet him when we leave Condillac to-night.”

“You have arranged definitely for that?” she asked, her face lighting.

“All is in readiness,” he assured her.  Then, lowering his voice without apparent reason, and speaking quickly and intently, “I must go find out what I can,” he said.  “There may be a risk, but it is as nothing to the risk we run of blundering matters through ignorance of what may be afoot.  Should any one come ­which is unlikely, for all those interested will be in the hall until the courier is dealt with ­and should they inquire into my absence, you are to know nothing of it since you have no Italian and I no French.  All that you will know will be that you believe I went but a moment since to fetch water.  You understand?”

She nodded.

“Then lock yourself in your chamber till I return.”

He caught up a large earthenware vessel in which water was kept for his own and mademoiselle’s use, emptied it through the guard-room window into the moat below, then left the room and made his way down the steps to the courtyard.

He peered out.  Not a soul was in sight.  This inner courtyard was little tenanted at that time of day, and the sentry at the door of the tower was only placed there at nightfall.  Alongside this there stood another door, opening into a passage from which access might be gained to any part of the chateau.  Thrusting behind that door the earthenware vessel that he carried, Garnache sped swiftly down the corridor on his eavesdropping errand.  Still his mind was in conflict.  At times he cursed his slowness, at times his haste and readiness to undertake so dirty a business, wishing all women at the devil since by the work of women was he put to such a shift as this.