Chapter XIII
It would seem indeed that Diane de Coray had come,—if come for that purpose she had,—to play hostage for life against her brother’s truth, for almost imperceptibly she slipped into her niche in the simple, family life at the Château of Mereac.
Not that her presence brought peace in its train, for it seemed that where she found peace she would fain leave a sword, and many and bitter were the tears that Gwennola shed in the solitude of her chamber as she watched her enemy gaining daily more undisputed sway over her pliable and weak-minded brother. Yes, it was tacitly agreed that it was to be warfare between these two kinswomen, yet such warfare as only women can play, the scratching of claws from velvet paws, and the sweet smile veiling bitter words. Not that Gwennola was an adept at such fencing; her nature was too straightforward, perhaps also too tempestuous, to repay veiled insult with veiled insult. She would reply hotly, even angrily, thus bringing the odium of a quarrel entirely on her own shoulders, leaving her rival to smile indulgently, as if at the stormy outburst of a child, till Gwennola could have wept for very mortification. These unequal trials of strength had, however, the effect at which Diane aimed; brother and sister grew gradually more estranged, for Yvon, hot with the infatuation with which his beautiful kinswoman had inspired him, hesitated not to rebuke his sister, ofttimes with anger, for replying indignantly to Diane’s sugared taunts. So the days wore on, and Gwennola’s heart grew ever heavier, and the hopes which summer had whispered in her ears faded before the shrill blasts of autumn.
It had been rumoured that King Charles had taken ill the refusal of the young Duchess to listen to his proposals, and was even now assembling a mighty army to march into Brittany and demand by force what could not be his by pleading.
In face of such rumours the bitter hatred of their overweening and powerful neighbours became intensified, and Gwennola knew that her rival would make use of such national indignation to crush her hopes that Yvon would allow of a betrothal between herself and Henri d’Estrailles.
Indeed, that such was in truth the case, Yvon, all too soon, took no pains to conceal, telling his sister coldly that since she so resented the thoughts of a betrothal with Guillaume de Coray, she must choose between a nun’s veil and the bridegroom her father had already designed for her, Maurice de Laferrière.
In vain Gwennola pleaded her father’s promise that, should peace at length bind the two countries together, her hand might follow the dictates of her heart. With an obstinacy which, when once aroused, was immovable, Yvon refused to listen to tears or entreaties, bidding her choose without delay, seeing that it was time that her destiny should be settled, and at the same time announcing his own betrothal to Diane de Coray.
Prepared as she was for this, still, the shock was terrible to the unhappy Gwennola. The prejudice she had conceived against the sister of de Coray had ripened during those past weeks into something akin to hatred, a feeling she felt to be heartily reciprocated by Diane herself. That young lady, however, was sufficiently mistress of her emotions to conceal her dislike under a very pretty show of friendship, which entirely deceived the love-sick Yvon, who felt that his sister only was to blame in the dissensions which rose from time to time between châtelaine and guest.
Thus matters stood that October morning, as Diane de Coray entered the hall of the château with her falcon on her wrist, and a smile of triumph in her hazel eyes.
“Come, Pierre,” she said softly, as the fool, who had been crouched shivering over the fire, at her entrance rose to his feet. “I would talk with thee yonder, on the terrace path. The Sieur de Mereac will not yet be ready for the chase, and meantime I have somewhat to say to thee. Tell me,” she added, still further lowering her voice, as she reached the broad terrace and stood facing her shivering companion, “hath thy master arrived?”
“He has been for some days past at the hut of Henri Lefroi,” muttered the lad, eyeing his interrogator curiously.
“For some days?” echoed Diane in surprise. “Nay, ’tis strange; to what purport should he linger thus?”
“I know not,” replied Pierre moodily, “that being my master’s business, and none of mine. But what is your will, lady? for methinks I hear monsieur’s voice yonder, calling your name.”
“No matter,” said Diane lightly; “he can wait for the nonce. But attend then, little knave: thou must go this day to the house of this Lefroi, and bid my brother ride hitherward as if he had come from a journey. Tell him that his welcome is assured from all, except perchance the little fool Gwennola de Mereac; but tell him on no account to delay longer, for I am at a loss how to proceed without him.” She repeated the last words emphatically, as if desirous of imprinting them on Pierre’s mind, then with a brief nod she turned from him to welcome with sunny smiles the young lord of the château, who came striding towards her, his handsome face flushed with pleasure, his blue eyes aflame with love.
“Nay, sweetheart,” he cried reproachfully, “didst not hear me call? See, I grow jealous even of a fool, who is thus overwhelmed with honour at receiving one smile from those sweet lips.”
Perhaps Pierre the fool, slipping back to his corner by the fire, found the honour less burdensome than his lord supposed, seeing that he sat there chuckling at the merry flames that blazed and leapt on the open hearth. It was manifestly an effort to drag himself away from the warm glow, out once more into the keen air, yet, so pleasant seemed his thoughts, that he still chuckled softly, as he trotted along the forest path with Petit Pierre perched on his shoulder, chattering and scolding in unison.
The hut of Henri Lefroi bore almost as ill a reputation as the ruined chapel of the Brown Friar, for, folk said, this was the habitation of a wizard whose powers in the occult science were so great as to defy both heaven and hell, wherefore at the name men and women crossed themselves and repeated an ave, for very fear of incurring the wrath of so dread a personage.
But it was not to the hut of old Lefroi that Pierre turned his steps, but rather to the little dwelling-place where Gabrielle, his sister, would be sitting spinning.
It was two weeks since that her brother had also started spinning, but not in his case from flaxen thread, but the woof of romance, which had been born suddenly in his cunning mind. Why should Monsieur de Coray, he asked himself, come so many days before the time appointed by his sister? And why, instead of acquainting her with the fact of his presence, should he strive to conceal it? And also, why should he daily steal away from Henry Lefroi’s dismal abode to spend the long hours of the autumn days beside the pretty Gabrielle? Aha! a pretty romance that was, which the little fool watched, safe hidden from prying eyes, amongst the undergrowth of the thicket. Yes, he told himself, without doubt Monsieur de Coray had lost his heart to Gabrielle, his sister, and without doubt the day would come when Gabrielle should be the mistress of a noble château, and he, Pierre the fool, would for ever doff the motley and play the rôle of Monsieur Laurent. Ah! how grand it sounded, how distinguished! Yet for all that he kept jealous guard over those two, for not altogether did he trust the honour of Monsieur de Coray, although he marked shrewdly with what respect he spoke to the little sister, such respect as he had surely not even shown Mademoiselle de Mereac, the proud, haughty demoiselle of the château yonder.
And Pierre, for all his foolishness, was right, for the passion of a bad and evil man had become purified in the presence of this child of the forest. He loved her, not as he had loved others, but with a reverence, such as one has for saints, combined with the passion he felt for the woman, and, as he sat there, day by day, watching her as she span, or listening entranced when she sang to him a sweet, simple ballad of Brittany, filled with the romance and sadness of her land, in a voice such as the birds might have envied, he swore to himself that this peasant girl should be his wife, and that for her sake he would do all things. But the snake of old ever lurks in the fairest garden of dreams, and so the very purpose of his presence in these forests became one that he swore to fulfil, evil and cruel as it was, for the sake of this beautiful child, whose guileless glances had won his sin-hardened heart. So the devil tempts us. For the sake, we say, of one we love, however pure and good, we will do evil so that we may lavish its fruits on the object of our devotion, who, forsooth! would shrink back appalled if it knew from whence those fruits came.
So in the autumn woods three souls dreamed out their dreams. Pierre the fool strutting, in his mind’s eye, in a suit of velvet and chain of gold, no longer the jester or object of jest, but “Monsieur Laurent,” brother, honoured and esteemed, of Madame la Châtelaine. Guillaume de Coray clasping in his arms the lovely girl whose image had blotted out so many and so varied dreams of ambitions, and leading her with proud and triumphant steps to his Château of Mereac, won at last by means to which he involuntarily closed his eyes. And Gabrielle Laurent, seeing only the face of the man to whom she had given her heart, and whom she must love for all time, indifferent to whether he were great lord or simple peasant, with all the pure tenderness of her young heart. Whilst at night, as she knelt in prayer within her lonely hut, she would thank the good God and all her guardian saints, with child-like simplicity and gratitude, for sending into her life one so noble and so good as Guillaume de Coray, repeating the name softly and reverently to herself, as though it possessed some charm to drive away all dreams of ill, as she lay in her wooden bed, watching the flickering moonlight as it fell across the threshold—the white, beautiful moonlight, which was no purer than her thoughts as she fell to sleep murmuring her lover’s name. Alas! the poor little Gabrielle!