Count Hannibal by Stanley J. Weyman

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"Give it me!"

"Let go, Monsieur! Do you hear?" she repeated. And, with a vigorous
jerk, she forced it from him--he had caught it by the edge only--and held
it behind her. "Go back, and--"

"Give it me!" he panted.

"I will not!"

"Then throw it overboard!"

"I will not!" she cried again, though his face, dark with passion, glared
into hers, and it was clear that the man, possessed by one idea only, was
no longer master of himself. "Go back to your place!"

"Give it me," he gasped, "or I will upset the boat!" And, seizing her by
the shoulder, he reached over her, striving to take hold of the packet
which she held behind her. The boat rocked; and, as much in rage as
fear, she screamed.

A cry uttered wholly in rage answered hers; it came from Carlat. La
Tribe, however, whose whole mind was fixed on the packet, did not heed,
nor would have heeded, the steward. But the next moment a second cry,
fierce as that of a wild beast, clove the air from the lower and farther
bank; and the Huguenot, recognizing Count Hannibal's voice, involuntarily
desisted and stood erect. A moment the boat rocked perilously under him;
then--for unheeded it had been drifting that way--it softly touched the
bank on which Carlat stood staring and aghast.

La Tribe's chance was gone; he saw that the steward must reach him before
he could succeed in a second attempt. On the other hand, the undergrowth
on the bank was thick, he could touch it with his hand, and if he fled at
once he might escape.

He hung an instant irresolute; then, with a look which went to the
Countess's heart, he sprang ashore, plunged among the alders, and in a
moment was gone.

"After him! After him!" thundered Count Hannibal. "After him, man!" and
Carlat, stumbling down the steep slope and through the rough briars, did
his best to obey. But in vain. Before he reached the water's edge, the
noise of the fugitive's retreat had grown faint. A few seconds and it
died away.

CHAPTER XXII. PLAYING WITH FIRE.

The impulse of La Tribe's foot as he landed had driven the boat into the
stream. It drifted slowly downward, and if naught intervened, would take
the ground on Count Hannibal's side, a hundred and fifty yards below him.
He saw this, and walked along the bank, keeping pace with it, while the
Countess sat motionless, crouching in the stern of the craft, her fingers
strained about the fatal packet. The slow glide of the boat, as almost
imperceptibly it approached the low bank; the stillness of the mirror-
like surface on which it moved, leaving only the faintest ripple behind
it; the silence--for under the influence of emotion Count Hannibal too
was mute--all were in tremendous contrast with the storm which raged in
her breast.

Should she--should she even now, with his eyes on her, drop the letters
over the side? It needed but a movement. She had only to extend her
hand, to relax the tension of her fingers, and the deed was done. It
needed only that; but the golden sands of opportunity were running
out--were running out fast. Slowly and more slowly, silently and more
silently, the boat slid in towards the bank on which he stood, and still
she hesitated. The stillness, and the waiting figure, and the watching
eyes now but a few feet distant, weighed on her and seemed to paralyze
her will. A foot, another foot! A moment and it would be too late, the
last of the sands would have run out. The bow of the boat rustled softly
through the rushes; it kissed the bank. And her hand still held the
letters.

"You are not hurt?" he asked curtly. "The scoundrel might have drowned
you. Was he mad?"

She was silent. He held out his hand, and she gave him the packet.

"I owe you much," he said, a ring of gaiety, almost of triumph, in his
tone. "More than you guess, Madame. God made you for a soldier's wife,
and a mother of soldiers. What? You are not well, I am afraid?"

"If I could sit down a minute," she faltered. She was swaying on her
feet.

He supported her across the belt of meadow which fringed the bank, and
made her recline against a tree. Then as his men began to come up--for
the alarm had reached them--he would have sent two of them in the boat to
fetch Madame St. Lo to her. But she would not let him.

"Your maid, then?" he said.

"No, Monsieur, I need only to be alone a little! Only to be alone," she
repeated, her face averted; and believing this he sent the men away, and,
taking the boat himself, he crossed over, took in Madame St. Lo and
Carlat, and rowed them to the ferry. Here the wildest rumours were
current. One held that the Huguenot had gone out of his senses; another,
that he had watched for this opportunity of avenging his brethren; a
third, that his intention had been to carry off the Countess and hold her
to ransom. Only Tavannes himself, from his position on the farther bank,
had seen the packet of letters, and the hand which withheld them; and he
said nothing. Nay, when some of the men would have crossed to search for
the fugitive, he forbade them, he scarcely knew why, save that it might
please her; and when the women would have hurried to join her and hear
the tale from her lips he forbade them also.

"She wishes to be alone," he said curtly.

"Alone?" Madame St. Lo cried, in a fever of curiosity. "You'll find her
dead, or worse! What? Leave a woman alone after such a fright as that!"

"She wishes it."

Madame laughed cynically; and the laugh brought a tinge of colour to his
brow.

"Oh, does she?" she sneered. "Then I understand! Have a care, have a
care, or one of these days, Monsieur, when you leave her alone, you'll
find them together!"

"Be silent!"

"With pleasure," she returned. "Only when it happens don't say that you
were not warned. You think that she does not hear from him--"

"How can she hear?" The words were wrung from him.

Madame St. Lo's contempt passed all limits. "How can she!" she retorted.
"You trail a woman across France, and let her sit by herself, and lie by
herself, and all but drown by herself, and you ask how she hears from her
lover? You leave her old servants about her, and you ask how she
communicates with him?"

"You know nothing!" he snarled.

"I know this," she retorted. "I saw her sitting this morning, and
smiling and weeping at the same time! Was she thinking of you, Monsieur?
Or of him? She was looking at the hills through tears; a blue mist hung
over them, and I'll wager she saw some one's eyes gazing and some one's
hand beckoning out of the blue!"

"Curse you!" he cried, tormented in spite of himself. "You love to make
mischief!"

"No!" she answered swiftly. "For 'twas not I made the match. But go
your way, go your way, Monsieur, and see what kind of a welcome you'll
get!"

"I will," Count Hannibal growled. And he started along the bank to
rejoin his wife.

The light in his eyes had died down. Yet would they have been more
sombre, and his face more harsh, had he known the mind of the woman to
whom he was hastening. The Countess had begged to be left alone; alone,
she found the solitude she had craved a cruel gift. She had saved the
packet. She had fulfilled her trust. But only to experience, the moment
the deed was done, the full poignancy of remorse. Before the act, while
the choice had lain with her, the betrayal of her husband had loomed
large; now she saw that to treat him as she had treated him was the true
betrayal, and that even for his own sake, and to save him from a fearful
sin, it had become her to destroy the letters.

Now, it was no longer her duty to him which loomed large, but her duty to
the innocent, to the victims of the massacre which she might have stayed,
to the people of her faith whom she had abandoned, to the women and
children whose death-warrant she had preserved. Now, she perceived that
a part more divine had never fallen to woman, nor a responsibility so
heavy been laid upon woman. Nor guilt more dread!

She writhed in misery, thinking of it. What had she done? She could
hear afar off the sounds of the camp; an occasional outcry, a snatch of
laughter. And the cry and the laughter rang in her ears, a bitter
mockery. This summer camp, to what was it the prelude? This forbearance
on her husband's part, in what would it end? Were not the one and the
other cruel make-believes? Two days, and the men who laughed beside the
water would slay and torture with equal zest. A little, and the husband
who now chose to be generous would show himself in his true colours. And
it was for the sake of such as these that she had played the coward. That
she had laid up for herself endless remorse. That henceforth the cries
of the innocent would haunt her dreams.

Racked by such thoughts she did not hear his step, and it was his shadow
falling across her feet which first warned her of his presence. She
looked up, saw him, and involuntarily recoiled. Then, seeing the change
in his face--

"Oh! Monsieur," she stammered, affrighted, her hand pressed to her side,
"I ask your pardon! You startled me!"

"So it seems," he answered. And he stood over her regarding her dryly.

"I am not quite--myself yet," she murmured. His look told her that her
start had betrayed her feelings.

Alas! the plan of taking a woman by force has drawbacks, and among others
this one: that he must be a sanguine husband who deems her heart his, and
a husband without jealousy, whose suspicions are not aroused by the
faintest flush or the lightest word. He knows that she is his
unwillingly, a victim, not a mistress; and behind every bush beside the
road and behind every mask in the crowd he espies a rival.

Moreover, where women are in question, who is always strong? Or who can
say how long he will pursue this plan or that? A man of sternest temper,
Count Hannibal had set out on a path of conduct carefully and
deliberately chosen; knowing--and he still knew--that if he abandoned it
he had little to hope, if the less to fear. But the proof of fidelity
which the Countess had just given him had blown to a white heat the
smouldering flame in his heart, and Madame St. Lo's gibes, which should
have fallen as cold water alike on his hopes and his passion, had but fed
the desire to know the best. For all that, he might not have spoken now,
if he had not caught her look of affright; strange as it sounds, that
look, which of all things should have silenced him and warned him that
the time was not yet, stung him out of patience. Suddenly the man in him
carried him away.

"You still fear me, then?" he said, in a voice hoarse and unnatural. "Is
it for what I do or for what I leave undone that you hate me, Madame?
Tell me, I beg, for--"

"For neither!" she said, trembling. His eyes, hot and passionate, were
on her, and the blood had mounted to his brow. "For neither! I do not
hate you, Monsieur!"

"You fear me then? I am right in that."

"I fear--that which you carry with you," she stammered, speaking on
impulse and scarcely knowing what she said.

He started, and his expression changed. "So?" he exclaimed. "So? You
know what I carry, do you? And from whom? From whom," he continued in a
tone of menace, "if you please, did you get that knowledge?"

"From M. La Tribe," she muttered. She had not meant to tell him. Why
had she told him?

He nodded. "I might have known it," he said. "I more than suspected it.
Therefore I should be the more beholden to you for saving the letters.
But"--he paused and laughed harshly--"it was out of no love for me you
saved them. That too I know."

She did not answer or protest; and when he had waited a moment in vain
expectation of her protest, a cruel look crept into his eyes.

"Madame," he said slowly, "do you never reflect that you may push the
part you play too far? That the patience, even of the worst of men, does
not endure for ever?"

"I have your word!" she answered.

"And you do not fear?"

"I have your word," she repeated. And now she looked him bravely in the
face, her eyes full of the courage of her race.

The lines of his mouth hardened as he met her look. "And what have I of
yours?" he said in a low voice. "What have I of yours?"

Her face began to burn at that, her eyes fell and she faltered.

"My gratitude," she murmured, with an upward look that prayed for pity.
"God knows, Monsieur, you have that!"

"God knows I do not want it!" he answered. And he laughed derisively.
"Your gratitude!" And he mocked her tone rudely and coarsely. "Your
gratitude!" Then for a minute--for so long a time that she began to
wonder and to quake--he was silent. At last, "A fig for your gratitude,"
he said. "I want your love! I suppose--cold as you are, and a
Huguenot--you can love like other women!"

It was the first, the very first time he had used the word to her; and
though it fell from his lips like a threat, though he used it as a man
presents a pistol, she flushed anew from throat to brow. But she did not
quail.

"It is not mine to give," she said.

"It is his?"

"Yes, Monsieur," she answered, wondering at her courage, at her audacity,
her madness. "It is his."

"And it cannot be mine--at any time?"

She shook her head, trembling.

"Never?" And, suddenly reaching forward, he gripped her wrist in an iron
grasp. There was passion in his tone. His eyes burned her.

Whether it was that set her on another track, or pure despair, or the cry
in her ears of little children and of helpless women, something in a
moment inspired her, flashed in her eyes and altered her voice. She
raised her head and looked him firmly in the face.

"What," she said, "do you mean by love?"

"You!" he answered brutally.

"Then--it may be, Monsieur," she returned. "There is a way if you will."

"A way!"

"If you will!"

As she spoke she rose slowly to her feet; for in his surprise he had
released her wrist. He rose with her, and they stood confronting one
another on the strip of grass between the river and the poplars.

"If I will?" His form seemed to dilate, his eyes devoured her. "If I
will?"

"Yes," she replied. "If you will give me the letters that are in your
belt, the packet which I saved to-day--that I may destroy them--I will be
yours freely and willingly."

He drew a deep breath, still devouring her with his eyes.

"You mean it?" he said at last.

"I do." She looked him in the face as she spoke, and her cheeks were
white, not red. "Only--the letters! Give me the letters."

"And for them you will give me your love?"

Her eyes flickered, and involuntarily she shivered. A faint blush rose
and dyed her cheeks.

"Only God can give love," she said, her tone low.

"And yours is given?"

"Yes."

"To another?"

"I have said it."

"It is his. And yet for these letters--"

"For these lives!" she cried proudly.

"You will give yourself?"

"I swear it," she answered, "if you will give them to me! If you will
give them to me," she repeated. And she held out her hands; her face,
full of passion, was bright with a strange light. A close observer might
have thought her distraught; still excited by the struggle in the boat,
and barely mistress of herself.

But the man whom she tempted, the man who held her price at his belt,
after one searching look at her turned from her; perhaps because he could
not trust himself to gaze on her. Count Hannibal walked a dozen paces
from her and returned, and again a dozen paces and returned; and again a
third time, with something fierce and passionate in his gait. At last he
stopped before her.

"You have nothing to offer for them," he said, in a cold, hard tone.
"Nothing that is not mine already, nothing that is not my right, nothing
that I cannot take at my will. My word?" he continued, seeing her about
to interrupt him. "True, Madame, you have it, you had it. But why need
I keep my word to you, who tempt me to break my word to the King?"

She made a weak gesture with her hands. Her head had sunk on her
breast--she seemed dazed by the shock of his contempt, dazed by his
reception of her offer.

"You saved the letters?" he continued, interpreting her action. "True,
but the letters are mine, and that which you offer for them is mine also.
You have nothing to offer. For the rest, Madame," he went on, eyeing her
cynically, "you surprise me! You, whose modesty and virtue are so great,
would corrupt your husband, would sell yourself, would dishonour the love
of which you boast so loudly, the love that only God gives!" He laughed
derisively as he quoted her words. "Ay, and, after showing at how low a
price you hold yourself, you still look, I doubt not, to me to respect
you, and to keep my word. Madame!" in a terrible voice, "do not play
with fire! You saved my letters, it is true! And for that, for this
time, you shall go free, if God will help me to let you go! But tempt me
not! Tempt me not!" he repeated, turning from her and turning back again
with a gesture of despair, as if he mistrusted the strength of the
restraint which he put upon himself. "I am no more than other men!
Perhaps I am less. And you--you who prate of love, and know not what
love is--could love! could love!"

He stopped on that word as if the word choked him--stopped, struggling
with his passion. At last, with a half-stifled oath, he flung away from
her, halted and hung a moment, then, with a swing of rage, went off again
violently. His feet as he strode along the river-bank trampled the
flowers, and slew the pale water forget-me-not, which grew among the
grasses.

CHAPTER XXIII. A MIND, AND NOT A MIND.

La Tribe tore through the thicket, imagining Carlat and Count Hannibal
hot on his heels. He dared not pause even to listen. The underwood
tripped him, the lissom branches of the alders whipped his face and
blinded him; once he fell headlong over a moss-grown stone, and picked
himself up groaning. But the hare hard-pushed takes no account of the
briars, nor does the fox heed the mud through which it draws itself into
covert. And for the time he was naught but a hunted beast. With elbows
pinned to his sides, or with hands extended to ward off the boughs, with
bursting lungs and crimson face, he plunged through the tangle, now
slipping downwards, now leaping upwards, now all but prostrate, now
breasting a mass of thorns. On and on he ran, until he came to the verge
of the wood, saw before him an open meadow devoid of shelter or hiding-
place, and with a groan of despair cast himself flat. He listened. How
far were they behind him?

He heard nothing--nothing, save the common noises of the wood, the angry
chatter of a disturbed blackbird as it flew low into hiding, or the harsh
notes of a flock of starlings as they rose from the meadow. The hum of
bees filled the air, and the August flies buzzed about his sweating brow,
for he had lost his cap. But behind him--nothing. Already the stillness
of the wood had closed upon his track.

He was not the less panic-stricken. He supposed that Tavannes' people
were getting to horse, and calculated that, if they surrounded and beat
the wood, he must be taken. At the thought, though he had barely got his
breath, he rose, and keeping within the coppice crawled down the slope
towards the river. Gently, when he reached it, he slipped into the
water, and stooping below the level of the bank, his head and shoulders
hidden by the bushes, he waded down stream until he had put another
hundred and fifty yards between himself and pursuit. Then he paused and
listened. Still he heard nothing, and he waded on again, until the water
grew deep. At this point he marked a little below him a clump of trees
on the farther side; and reflecting that that side--if he could reach it
unseen--would be less suspect, he swam across, aiming for a thorn bush
which grew low to the water. Under its shelter he crawled out, and,
worming himself like a snake across the few yards of grass which
intervened, he stood at length within the shadow of the trees. A moment
he paused to shake himself, and then, remembering that he was still
within a mile of the camp, he set off, now walking, and now running in
the direction of the hills which his party had crossed that morning.

For a time he hurried on, thinking only of escape. But when he had
covered a mile or two, and escape seemed probable, there began to mingle
with his thankfulness a bitter--a something which grew more bitter with
each moment. Why had he fled and left the work undone? Why had he given
way to unworthy fear, when the letters were within his grasp? True, if
he had lingered a few seconds longer, he would have failed to make good
his escape; but what of that if in those seconds he had destroyed the
letters, he had saved Angers, he had saved his brethren? Alas! he had
played the coward. The terror of Tavannes' voice had unmanned him. He
had saved himself and left the flock to perish; he, whom God had set
apart by many and great signs for this work!

He had commonly courage enough. He could have died at the stake for his
convictions. But he had not the presence of mind which is proof against
a shock, nor the cool judgment which, in the face of death, sees to the
end of two roads. He was no coward, but now he deemed himself one, and
in an agony of remorse he flung himself on his face in the long grass. He
had known trials and temptations, but hitherto he had held himself erect;
now, like Peter, he had betrayed his Lord.

He lay an hour groaning in the misery of his heart, and then he fell on
the text "Thou art Peter, and on this rock--" and he sat up. Peter had
betrayed his trust through cowardice--as he had. But Peter had not been
held unworthy. Might it not be so with him? He rose to his feet, a new
light in his eyes. He would return! He would return, and at all costs,
even at the cost of surrendering himself, he would obtain access to the
letters. And then--not the fear of Count Hannibal, not the fear of
instant death, should turn him from his duty.

He had cast himself down in a woodland glade which lay near the path
along which he had ridden that morning. But the mental conflict from
which he rose had shaken him so violently that he could not recall the
side on which he had entered the clearing, and he turned himself about,
endeavouring to remember. At that moment the light jingle of a bridle
struck his ear; he caught through the green bushes the flash and sparkle
of harness. They had tracked him then, they were here! So had he clear
proof that this second chance was to be his. In a happy fervour he stood
forward where the pursuers could not fail to see him.

Or so he thought. Yet the first horseman, riding carelessly with his
face averted and his feet dangling, would have gone by and seen nothing
if his horse, more watchful, had not shied. The man turned then; and for
a moment the two stared at one another between the pricked ears of the
horse. At last--

"M. de Tignonville!" the minister ejaculated.

"La Tribe!"

"It is truly you?"

"Well--I think so," the young man answered.

The minister lifted up his eyes and seemed to call the trees and the
clouds and the birds to witness.

"Now," he cried, "I know that I am chosen! And that we were instruments
to do this thing from the day when the hen saved us in the haycart in
Paris! Now I know that all is forgiven and all is ordained, and that the
faithful of Angers shall to-morrow live and not die!" And with a face
radiant, yet solemn, he walked to the young man's stirrup.

An instant Tignonville looked sharply before him. "How far ahead are
they?" he asked. His tone, hard and matter-of-fact, was little in
harmony with the other's enthusiasm.

"They are resting a league before you, at the ferry. You are in pursuit
of them?"

"Yes."

"Not alone?"

"No." The young man's look as he spoke was grim. "I have five behind
me--of your kidney, M. la Tribe. They are from the Arsenal. They have
lost one his wife, and one his son. The three others--"

"Yes?"

"Sweethearts," Tignonville answered dryly. And he cast a singular look
at the minister.

But La Tribe's mind was so full of one matter, he could think only of
that.

"How did you hear of the letters?" he asked.

"The letters?"

"Yes."

"I do not know what you mean."

La Tribe stared. "Then why are you following him?" he asked.

"Why?" Tignonville echoed, a look of hate darkening his face. "Do you
ask why we follow--" But on the name he seemed to choke and was silent.

By this time his men had come up, and one answered for him.

"Why are we following Hannibal de Tavannes?" he said sternly. "To do to
him as he has done to us! To rob him as he has robbed us--of more than
gold! To kill him as he has killed ours, foully and by surprise! In his
bed if we can! In the arms of his wife if God wills it!"

The speaker's face was haggard from brooding and lack of sleep, but his
eyes glowed and burned, as his fellows growled assent.

"'Tis simple why we follow," a second put in. "Is there a man of our
faith who will not, when he hears the tale, rise up and stab the nearest
of this black brood--though it be his brother? If so, God's curse on
him!"

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