"mademoiselle suzanne!" i cried, and at what she read in my face the white in her cheeks went to the pink of a shell. "why! what does this mean?"

"that there are more roads than one to orthez, monsieur; and that father paulus, who is within, will tell you the rest."

"but, mademoiselle——"

"but, monsieur, the roads are free to all; only," and turning on the midway landing of the stairs up which i followed her, leaving martin and the landlord to care for the horses, she went on, lowering her voice, "remember that henceforward there is no longer a mademoiselle de narbonne, only suzanne d'orfeuil. father paulus is here, monsieur de helville."

thenceforward? what thenceforward did she mean? and why, in a chief city of navarre, should a narbonne of morsigny deny her name? taking my two hands in both his at the top of the stairs, father paul answered my second question as directly as if i had spoken aloud.

"though it is orthez, it is also a post of the king of france, and to travel as suzanne d'orfeuil is less risk."

"to travel? to travel where?"

"to plessis, my son."

"did you think," broke in mademoiselle through my dismayed protest, the door being shut behind us, "did you really think us so cold, so callous, so ungrateful? if so, then we have not taught you much in our two months, monsieur."

"not taught me much? suzanne d'orfeuil has taught me more than can ever be told to mademoiselle de narbonne. not taught me much? from a man i have learned faith; from a woman—ah! mademoiselle, i dare not say one half——"

"then do not try, monsieur," she began, with one of her little old-time curtseys. but her forced gaiety ended in a sigh. "all that is past, and where we go there is little love and no faith," which showed that, though she stopped my mouth, she caught my meaning.

"plessis? father paul, that must never be."

"why not, son gaspard?"

"our suzanne at plessis? our suzanne in the power of that cold, cruel devil, louis of france? it is monstrous; it is infamous! yes, i will speak!" for with her hand upon my arm she tried to silence me, not understanding that her very nearness, the mere touch of her fingers, was a spur to protest. "why should i not? you are suzanne d'orfeuil, and mademoiselle de narbonne is at home in morsigny; why should i not speak? by what right, brother paulus, do you risk a life not your own?"

it was mademoiselle who answered.

"then if you must speak, speak to me if you please, monsieur, not to brother paul. i love him like a father, i reverence him as my guide spiritual, but if you think brother paul would keep suzanne d'orfeuil from doing that which suzanne de narbonne has bidden her, then, i say again, we have not taught you much in our two months at morsigny."

"then, mademoiselle, i ask you. by what right do you risk a life not your own?"

"not my own? then whose is my life, monsieur, if you please? and when you answer, take care you do not presume too far. whose, monsieur, whose?"

"navarre's."

"has a nation no honour, even as a man has?"

"its honour is dishonoured if it saves its honour at a woman's cost. oh! mademoiselle, you know not what you do. you have not heard the king's threats as i have, the rack, the cord, infamy not to be named in words; no, no, you know not what you do. for god's sake return to morsigny, that your blood be not on my head."

"and would there be none on mine?" she answered vehemently, and with a passion the equal of my own. "would i be blood-guiltless if, with a good-day, and merci, monsieur! i curtsied a good-bye on the steps at morsigny, and gave no second thought why you rode away and where? or for whose sake you carried a foot of king louis' cord in your pocket? his most christian majesty's new-founded order of noble faith!"

"oh! that?" said i lamely, for i remembered that the ease with which she sent me to my death had hurt me sorely; "that was not a woman's business."

"a man's, then? brother paul taught you a man's faith, did he? fie, fie, monsieur! is it a man's faith to pray in safety to the good god to do for us what we should do for ourselves? and did brother paul not teach you, bad theologian that he is! that faith without works is little worth? there, monsieur, the man and the woman are both accounted for; are you content?"

content? desperate, rather, and in despair i turned upon the priest who stood by in silence, the lines upon his face those of perplexity rather than doubt or anxious care.

"do you consent to this worse than madness?"

"is it madness?" said he, taking mademoiselle's hand in his to comfort and hearten her. "then, my son, and i say it in all reverence, then was christ mad. he came——"

"to die for the sinful and unworthy," i cried in bitterness of heart; "you need not tell me i am that, i know it already."

"because there was no other way; and who knows but louis will hearken," said paul gently, his eyes growing wistful, "though, indeed, monsieur hellewyl, even while my heart said she was right, i gave faith the lie and urged her all i knew not to go."

"louis hearken!" i answered scornfully. "what can she say to move him? i tell you, paul, louis will wring the rights and freedom of navarre out of her woman's flesh."

"no, no, you mistake; suzanne will not appear at all, louis will know nothing of suzanne. she will move monsieur de commines, and monsieur de commines will move the king to mercy. we have thought it all over. it was settled the night we returned from la voule."

"by me it was settled as we sat at the table in the justice hall," said mademoiselle. "could you give yourself up to save a peasant woman who was nothing to you, nothing at all—remember, monsieur, i understand she was nothing at all to you—while we, to whom you—you—are so much, raised no finger to aid you? there and then i settled my plan, and we have had two days to think it over, brother paul and i."

oh, the irony of it! the unconscious, sardonic irony! yes, and the pathos, too. they had thought it all over, these two—the gentle unworldly priest and the generous, tender-hearted, too grateful woman, they had thought it all over, and now in their swerveless cleaving to what they held to be right, they were as inflexible, as inexorable, as stonily determined as louis himself.

but if argument and pleading failed, there at least remained protest.

"remember, this is not done with my consent."

in an instant she was suzanne d'orfeuil de narbonne, and turned to freeze me with a stare.

"consent! monsieur, consent? you forget yourself surely? when i desire either your consent or your approval, i shall ask for it; till then i take leave to decide and act for myself."

there was no more to be said. with such a bow as a mademoiselle de narbonne had a right to claim from a gaspard hellewyl i withdrew.

men and women, liars all, have whispered that, having crept like a traitor into morsigny under cover of a woman's skirts, i now tried to purchase my own safety by the sacrifice of mademoiselle de narbonne. the men have not repeated the lie but the women knew they were safe. it has been openly alleged that, knowing her loftiness of mind, her generous-hearted impulsiveness, i so played upon her sense of gratitude that she took the desperate step of substituting herself in my place, and that i, a traitor to the king and to my salt, accepted the sacrifice like a coward and a cur. more lies! the only truth being that the loftiness of spirit is there, and the generous loyal heart is there. but that is the way of the liar: even the devil himself would not be believed if he did not mix some truth with his falsehood. but of every fair mind, of every one who reads this record for the first time, i ask, in the face of such a withering rebuke as she gave me at the last, was there room for further protest?

but if there was no more to be said, there was more to be done—there was the saving her from herself in spite of herself. to this end i sounded brother paul when presently he joined me, his mouth full of excuses for the sharpness of her rebuff.

"do not be vexed with her, my son, she is nerve-weary, over-wrought, and fretted by care. for three nights she has not slept, for two days she has laboured and planned that no harm may come to morsigny in our absence, and all that time she has not eaten as much as would keep a bird alive. her spirit alone keeps her up."

"and yet you send her to plessis?"

"let us not speak of that, but rather how good may come out of evil."

"tell me your plan."

"it is suzanne's, not mine, and nothing could be simpler. we will ride together, all four of us, till we come to poictiers, following the king's stages day by day. no doubt from each stage he will be warned that gaspard de helville is keeping faith, and so the woman will be safe. at poictiers we part. you and martin remain behind, while suzanne and i ride on to gain the ear of monsieur de commines. he is pledged to you and to her, and through him there will be a respite. that will give us time, and with time——" he stopped short, rubbing his chin. even to his guilelessness it was plain there was a strained link in the chain. "with time," he went on lamely,—"oh! all the world knows that with time anything can be done."

"ay!" i answered, "and much more, i pray god, with eternity! for once you reach plessis there'll be little time left to any one of us. how is it that so many men who are wise for the next world are fools for this? do you think that already louis has not been warned how a priest and a woman met gaspard hellewyl at orthez? do you think that henceforth that priest and that woman will not be traced step by step, wherever they go? do you think that when mademoiselle knocks on plessis gate the first to hear of it will not be louis himself? what, then, will follow? she is suzanne d'orfeuil, a kind of serving-wench at morsigny, and the purpose of this serving-wench is to come between the king of france and his vengeance. will the king believe her account of herself? not for an instant. serving-wenches do not mix themselves up in state affairs. you he will hang, and i do not think the knowledge will hold you back for an hour. but what of mademoiselle de narbonne?" leaning forward, i caught him by the shoulder, shaking him. "father paul, have you ever seen a woman racked? the white limbs stretched naked on the frame, and strained and strained until the joints crack, until the muscles tear from the ribs and the writhing mouth screams, frothing?"

"god forbid!" he said, stammering. "god forbid!"

"god forbid!" i retorted hotly, "do your own work in the world, father paul, and do not ask god to do it for you. is the lord god a lackey to do that for a man which he should do himself? god forbid? no! but do you forbid!"

"how?" he answered, swaying as i shook him in my passion. "i forbade it at morsigny, and she put me aside. how can i forbid it?"

"by seeming to consent until poictiers is reached. there we will reverse the parts. that night i shall ride on, and next morning, when she asks for gaspard hellewyl, do you say, he is at plessis."

"she will follow."

"i think not," i answered slowly, striving hard to marshall my thoughts in order. with such a nature to deal with as that of suzanne de narbonne, it would not do to leave any emergency unprovided for.

but just because hers was such a nature—loyal, pure of spirit, faithful, hard as steel in her sense of honour—i thought i saw my way clear. it was not a pleasant way, it was a way that bade good-bye for ever to my dream of a rose-leaf, fragrant memory. but what would the shattering of even so dear a dream as that matter, if only i saved her from herself?

"did you guess," i went on at length, "that i love suzanne d'orfeuil, and that she knows i love her?"

"mademoiselle de narbonne?"

"no! not mademoiselle de narbonne, with estates in bigorre and bearn, but suzanne d'orfeuil, nurse to monsieur gaston de foix."

"suzanne d'orfeuil? yes, i understand now what you mean. oh! my friend, i am sorry, very, very sorry."

"you need not be; no man is the worse for loving a good woman. love is a fire, and when it does not consume it purifies; so do not be sorry. but she was not the only one, nor the first. you remember?"

"brigitta?"

"brigitta. you saw how mademoiselle blazed out at morsigny when she supposed—you know what she supposed well enough?"

"but she was wrong, you told her she was wrong."

"suppose," said i slowly, "suppose i leave a letter at poictiers telling her that she was right, and that i had lied? suppose i tell her that the woman brigitta has a claim upon me which none but a wife should have upon a man, a claim which not even such a scoundrel as i can deny? i am not all bad, you see; if i were, mademoiselle would have found me out; and being not all bad, i admit the claim. suppose the letter goes further, and says that all through it is brigitta i have loved, but that being at morsigny i passed my time pleasantly—would she follow me then?"

"i understand," he repeated, his brows wrinkled in the effort to follow not alone the meaning of the words, but the full extent of the lie they told. "i am not good at—at—tricks of speech, but i think i understand. no, suzanne de narbonne would not follow you then. and you could say that to the woman you love?"

"i could say it because i love her!"

a bitter draught is none the less bitter for being of our own mixing, and what i drank in that hour is past telling. i suppose my torment of spirit showed in my face, for he laid his hand on mine holding me fast.

"did i not rightly say that those who greatly doubt can greatly love? and greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend."

some will say, why not have told your lie to mademoiselle there in orthez? but that would have spoiled all. in her then mood, and coming so quickly on the heels of my past urging, she would have seen through the subterfuge, scoffing it for the clumsy falsehood it was. let a week pass, let her emotions cool, let her healthy youth regain its dominance, and the clumsy lie of orthez would seem a scoundrel truth in poictiers.

so day by day that week passed, and not so very gloomily. wholesome youth is not long melancholy. if i had mademoiselle for company and so was happy through the warm august hours, she had faith and enthusiasm to comfort her. that there was life and movement also counted for much. blessed be activity! cabernet succeeded orthez, le gatelet cabernet, saint gatien, marthon, ruffec, night by night with but two exceptions: once we were barred by a swollen river—the dordogne was in flood—and on sunday we rested. but our days of peace came to their end, and on the 28th, the last thursday in the month, we entered poictiers.