(1)

it was not until valentine’s letter of resignation had gone that she realised what, in the heat of her anger, she had done. she had shut herself out of mirabel for ever. to-morrow would probably be the last day she should ever spend there. was it really only a week ago that, fresh from the shock of the comte’s news, she had wondered how she could possibly have put herself into such a position? well, she had still more indignant reason for wonder at herself to-day, yet—she had suddenly discovered that she did not want to quit mirabel. but it was too late now.

next afternoon a messenger brought her a letter addressed in camain’s large, sprawling hand. out of it fell a spray of young ivy. mme de trélan looked at it distastefully—some sentimental afterthought, no doubt, of her bourgeois wooer’s—and letting it lie on the table read his regrets at her decision to resign, his surprise at the resentment aroused by his “deeply respectful addresses”—and his reminder that by the terms of her appointment she had agreed to give thirty days’ notice of resignation, and that she was not therefore legally free to leave mirabel till the 27th of thermidor next. but the rejected suitor pledged his word that, unless obliged, he would not enter the chateau again during her stay, so that she might feel at liberty from the menace of a devotion which was evidently distasteful. “and perhaps,” the letter concluded, “in that period the rest of this torn ivy, which you will no doubt recognise, may have time to grow again over the little door near the allée des soupirs.”

the letter dropped from valentine’s hand. was it a threat—this about the door? could he know anything about roland, from some unsuspected source, or did he perceive no more than that the door had recently been used? but, as roland must surely have quitted paris by now, the sprig of ivy moved her not, and the most potent emotion roused by her employer’s letter was probably the last he intended—relief. through that forgotten thirty days’ warning she had a respite; she need not leave mirabel yet. she had never dreamed that she could be so deeply thankful.

for she would have fuller leisure now to think of gaston, whose widow she was—whose widow she had been, perhaps, for long enough already, even though this chouan leader had only recently learnt the fact of his death. yes, she had known that all along. that was why gaston had never answered her letters, never sought for her. it was not indifference, but a gaoler far more implacable who had held him captive; and the reflection that he had possibly been dead for years held a terrible kind of comfort in it.

she was gaston de trélan’s widow, in gaston’s violated home. and it seemed to her that these twenty-nine days had been given her to go over their life together, and to pray for him. afterwards, when she, too, had left that home for ever, she would take steps to communicate with the marquis de kersaint in the hopes of hearing more. so, before the empty tabernacle in the cold, half-pillaged chapel, where in the presence of such a brilliant company the archbishop of paris had made them one, she prayed for him every night and morning, at hours when no one was likely to summon her. suzon was indisposed and could not come to see her. camain had sworn not to come. and more than half the allotted respite slid by—too quickly.

mme de trélan had not mentioned her approaching departure to louise and the rest of her minions. a faint hope began to stir in her, as time went on, that the deputy would ask her to reconsider her decision. her anger against him had measurably died down; it seemed to her now rather absurd that she had been so hot. the man knew no better; and, had not rose been involved in his amazing “proof” she might even have seen the ludicrous side of it. but despite her conviction about her, nothing connected with mlle dufour could be to her amusing—only hateful. yet, if m. camain did ask her to stay on as concierge, how was she to regulate their intercourse in future?

so july went on, with reverses abroad and discontent at home, and valentine saw now the use to which she would put the money, the price of roland’s safety, for when she was free she would find some priest who would say masses for gaston’s soul, and she would herself go to her duties, as she had done now, regularly but surreptitiously, for years. for she felt on her own soul a deadly sin of pride; and if gaston had contracted a sacrilegious marriage before he died, the fault was partly hers. what were those few letters which she had sent compared to the more active steps which she ought to have taken to find him—steps which, now that it was too late, she could not conceive why she had not taken?

and she longed so intensely for the comfort of the mass that she thought she would have asked suzon, had she not been indisposed, to take her place at mirabel for a night, to allow her to attend in paris one of the churches where, in a half clandestine fashion, it was celebrated. then she would remember that in a couple of weeks she would be free to do this, since—camain having given no further sign—mirabel would shortly know her no more. her desire changed its goal a little then, and became a longing that the chapel of mirabel itself which had witnessed their union might know once more the offering of the holy mysteries, for gaston’s soul and for her grave shortcomings too. alas, there appeared small chance of that.

(2)

“i see you have got a gardener, madame vidal,” observed louise one morning as she came in. “he seems very busy out in the front there. an oldish man for all that work, though.”

she was right. later on, when valentine looked out, she did indeed descry an elderly man busy with what had been the flower beds in the italian garden. then she remembered that camain, on that memorable day, had spoken of his intention of having the beds attended to. still, one man could not accomplish very much in so absolute a desolation.

the gardener did not come near the chateau, nor did she take any notice of him till two days later. it happened to turn extremely cold for the beginning of august, and at midday, as she saw this industrious elderly person sitting eating on a barrow, she thought he might like to conclude his meal under the shelter of the colonnades, with the addition, perhaps, of a cup of coffee. she went up the steps, crossed to the bed by which he was sitting, and suggested it.

without his hat, which the gardener removed as he rose on her approach, his face was seen to be round and comfortable. he seemed about fifty, hale and vigorous, with a twinkling eye. he thanked mme de trélan warmly, very warmly, for her kind thought, left his barrow, and betook himself up the great steps to the shelter of the colonnade, while she returned to her own quarters to make him some coffee.

by the time she brought it out to him he had finished his meal, and was standing in front of the boarded-up door looking at it. he turned round, took the cup from her with a little bow, and said,

“madame, you do more in offering me this cup of coffee than you know. i am thirsty, it is true, but i am even more thirsty for talk with you.”

the duchesse stared at him. he spoke with a slight accent, but his speech was educated.

“i have dug,” went on the gardener, sipping the coffee, “for three days in the garden, and i desire presently, with your permission, to dig in the chateau itself.”

“what, are you another of them?” cried valentine involuntarily.

he smiled. “even so, madame. and since the arrest of m. de brencourt has——”

“you know m. de brencourt?”

“we are under the same orders.”

“those of this marquis de kersaint?”

“precisely,” said the gardener, and he now gulped down the coffee.

“but,” objected the duchesse, puzzled, “how is it that you confide in me so readily? with m. de brencourt”—“it was different,” she was going on to say, but stopped, realising that she was on the verge of an indiscretion.

“because in the first place,” said the new treasure-seeker, “i went, on the receipt of certain information, to those old mm. de céligny to whom you so cleverly restored their interesting young relative; and from them—since the boy has returned to his grandfather—i learnt all that roland had told them of your devotion.”

“roland has gone, then?” said she, relieved. “he was well again?”

“very nearly. the wound was not serious.”

“and the second gentleman—he who was arrested, m. de brencourt?”

“he is still imprisoned in the temple, but soon to leave it, i hope. he has found a venial guard, and . . . one has agents in paris, you know, madame. it is from them that i have learnt the facts about him.”

“i hope that you may not follow him to the temple, monsieur,” said valentine, rather troubled.

“i hope so too,” said the newcomer composedly. “but since i hold a certain position here, having—no matter how—procured the post of an accredited gardener, i shall set about matters quietly. i propose, therefore, to go on attending to my horticultural duties for a space before beginning my investigation.”

mme de trélan studied the little man a moment. he seemed an extremely unhurried plotter—either a very cool hand, or one who was inclined to take things too easily. it was impossible for her to judge. it suddenly came to her, however, that the means of communication with m. de kersaint were restored. when she knew rather more about him she could ask this emissary to bear her letter.

“you want me to help you, monsieur, i suppose?” she suggested. “but what if i have scruples—i am not sure that i have not? i did not help either of the others, you know.”

“i shall respect your scruples, madame. unless you carry them so far as to denounce me, i can do what is necessary without claiming your active assistance. all i shall ask is that you remark on it to no one if i transfer the scene of my labours, in a day or two, from the front garden to the park behind. and now, if you will excuse me,” he concluded, “i will return to my wheelbarrow.”

“before you go, monsieur, may i know your name?” asked valentine. then she caught herself up. “no, i think i know too many names. i would rather not hear it. it is better for your sake that i should know you only as the gardener of mirabel.”

now this abstention of the concierge’s suited m. chassin admirably. although he had never been at mirabel (just as he had never seen its duchess) it was as well that his name, undistinguished though it were, should not be whispered there. so he bowed a little and said, “as you please, madame. but possibly you know it already from one of the other gentlemen—from m. de céligny, perhaps, if he talked to you much about m. de kersaint, whose aum?nier i have the honour to be.”

“you are a priest, then?” exclaimed mme de trélan, surprised.

“presbyter valde indignus,” replied m. chassin.

“i had not guessed it,” said valentine. “though indeed why should i?—yes, m. de céligny did refer to the aum?nier, now i come to think of it, in connection with the plan of the treasure, but he did not mention the name.”

“then i will remain the aum?nier, or the gardener, according as you please, madame,” said m. chassin briskly. “what shall i do with this cup—besides thanking you a thousand times for its contents?”

the duchesse took it from him. “if you care for another to-morrow at the same hour, monsieur l’aum?nier, it will be at your disposal.”

“you are too good, madame,” replied the priest. “you are sure my presence—our conversation—will not bore you?” there was a little twinkle in his eye.

“on the contrary,” responded mme de trélan. “i find all this passionately interesting. i feel that i am assisting at a romance. is it not in the old fairy-tales that three sons of a king come after a treasure, or to slay a dragon, or free a princess?—and it is always the third and last who succeeds.”

“alas, madame,” said the third and last adventurer, “i am no king’s son. that description may serve for mm. de céligny and de brencourt, but my father was a shoemaker. i should not be worthy to free a princess. besides, as i have told you, i am a priest.”

“moreover there are no princesses here,” added valentine hastily, annoyed with herself for having chosen just that illustration.

“nor a dragon?” enquired the treasure-seeker.

“no, unless it be the deputy or the sentry.”

“the latter, indeed, may be wondering at our conversation now, if he can see us in here,” observed the gardener, and he began to move towards the steps. “by the way, madame, is it true that the deputy camain does not come here much now? i heard from . . . a source of information . . . that his visits, at one time very frequent, have practically ceased of late. is that so? it is somewhat important for me to know.”

“yes, that is quite correct,” answered the duchesse, and was again annoyed with herself because she felt the colour rising to her face.