the arras that overhung the chapel door was raised, and a tall priest in his robes came forth and, giving a long, keen stare at Denis, said something in an undertone to the Sire de Malétroit.
‘She is in a better frame of spirit?’ asked the latter.
‘She is more resigned, messire,’ replied the priest.
‘Now the Lord help her, she is hard to please!’ sneered the old gentleman. ‘A likely stripling – not ill-born – and of her own choosing, too? Why, what more would the jade have?’
‘The situation is not usual for a young damsel,’ said the other, ‘and somewhat trying to her blushes.’
‘She should have thought of that before she began the dance. It was none of my choosing, God knows that: but since she is in it, by our Lady, she shall carry it to the end.’ And then addressing Denis, ‘Monsieur de Beaulieu,’ he asked, ‘may I present you to my niece? She has been waiting your arrival, I may say, with even greater impatience than myself.’
Denis had resigned himself with a good grace – all he desired was to know the worst of it as speedily as possible; so he rose at once, and bowed in acquiescence. The Sire de Malétroit followed his example and limped, with the assistance of the chaplain’s arm, towards the chapel door. The priest pulled aside the arras, and all three entered. The building had considerable architectural pretensions. A light groining sprang from six stout columns, and hung down in two rich pendants from the centre of the vault. The place terminated behind the altar in a round end, embossed and honeycombed with a superfluity of ornament in relief, and pierced by many little windows shaped like stars, trefoils, or wheels. These windows were imperfectly glazed, so that the night air circulated freely in the chapel. The tapers, of which there must have been half a hundred burning on the altar, were unmercifully blown about; and the light went through many different phases of brilliancy and semi-eclipse. On the steps in front of the altar knelt a young girl richly attired as a bride. A chill settled over Denis as he observed her costume; he fought with desperate energy against the conclusion that was thrust upon his mind; it could not – it should not – be as he feared.
‘Blanche,’ said the Sire, in his most flute-like tones, ‘I have brought a friend to see you, my little girl; turn round and give him your pretty hand. It is good to be devout; but it is necessary to be polite, my niece.’
The girl rose to her feet and turned towards the new comers. She moved all of a piece; and shame and exhaustion were expressed in every line of her fresh young body; and she held her head down and kept her eyes upon the pavement, as she came slowly forward. In the course of her advance, her eyes fell upon Denis de Beaulieu’s feet – feet of which he was justly vain, be it remarked, and wore in the most elegant accoutrement even while travelling. She paused – started, as if his yellow boots had conveyed some shocking meaning – and glanced suddenly up into the wearer’s countenance. Their eyes met; shame gave place to horror and terror in her looks; the blood left her lips; with a piercing scream she covered her face with her hands and sank upon the chapel floor.
‘That is not the man!’ she cried. ‘My uncle, that is not the man!’
The Sire de Malétroit chirped agreeably. ‘Of course not,’ he said; ‘I expected as much. It was so unfortunate you could not remember his name.’
‘Indeed,’ she cried, ‘indeed, I have never seen this person till this moment – I have never so much as set eyes upon him – I never wish to see him again. Sir,’ she said, turning to Denis, ‘if you are a gentleman, you will bear me out. Have I ever seen you – have you ever seen me – before this accursed hour?’
‘To speak for myself, I have never had that pleasure,’ answered the young man. ‘This is the first time, messire, that I have met with your engaging niece.’
The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders.
‘I am distressed to hear it,’ he said. ‘But it is never too late to begin. I had little more acquaintance with my own late lady ere I married her; which proves,’ he added with a grimace, ‘that these impromptu marriages may often produce an excellent understanding in the long run. As the bridegroom is to have a voice in the matter, I will give him two hours to make up for lost time before we proceed with the ceremony.’ And he turned towards the door, followed by the clergyman.
The girl was on her feet in a moment. ‘My uncle, you cannot be in earnest,’ she said. ‘I declare before God I will stab myself rather than be forced on that young man. The heart rises at it; God forbid such marriages; you dishonour your white hair. Oh, my uncle, pity me! There is not a woman in all the world but would prefer death to such a nuptial. Is it possible,’ she added, faltering, ‘is it possible that you do not believe me – that you still think this’ – and she pointed at Denis with a tremor of anger and contempt – ‘that you still think this to be the man?’
‘Frankly,’ said the old gentleman, pausing on the threshold, ‘I do. But let me explain to you once for all, Blanche de Malétroit, my way of thinking about this affair. When you took it into your head to dishonour my family and the name that I have borne, in peace and war, for more than three-score years, you forfeited, not only the right to question my designs, but that of looking me in the face. If your father had been alive, he would have spat on you and turned you out of doors. His was the hand of iron. You may bless your God you have only to deal with the hand of velvet, mademoiselle. It was my duty to get you married without delay. Out of pure goodwill, I have tried to find your own gallant for you. And I believe I have succeeded. But before God and all the holy angels, Blanche de Malétroit, if I have not, I care not one jackstraw. So let me recommend you to be polite to our young friend; for upon my word, your next groom may be less appetising.’
And with that he went out, with the chaplain at his heels; and the arras fell behind the pair.
The girl turned upon Denis with flashing eyes.
‘And what, sir,’ she demanded, ‘may be the meaning of all this?’
‘God knows,’ returned Denis gloomily. ‘I am a prisoner in this house, which seems full of mad people. More I know not; and nothing do I understand.’
‘And pray how came you here?’ she asked.
He told her as briefly as he could. ‘For the rest,’ he added, ‘perhaps you will follow my example, and tell me the answer to all these riddles, and what, in God’s name, is like to be the end of it.’
She stood silent for a little, and he could see her lips tremble and her tearless eyes burn with a feverish lustre. Then she pressed her forehead in both hands.
‘Alas, how my head aches!’ she said wearily – ‘to say nothing of my poor heart! But it is due to you to know my story, unmaidenly as it must seem. I am called Blanche de Malétroit; I have been without father or mother for – oh! for as long as I can recollect, and indeed I have been most unhappy all my life. Three months ago a young captain began to stand near me every day in church. I could see that I pleased him; I am much to blame, but I was so glad that anyone should love me; and when he passed me a letter, I took it home with me and read it with great pleasure. Since that time he has written many. He was so anxious to speak with me, poor fellow! and kept asking me to leave the door open some evening that we might have two words upon the stair. For he knew how much my uncle trusted me.’ She gave something like a sob at that, and it was a moment before she could go on. ‘My uncle is a hard man, but he is very shrewd,’ she said at last. ‘He has performed many feats in war, and was a great person at court, and much trusted by Queen Isabeau in old days. How he came to suspect me I cannot tell; but it is hard to keep anything from his knowledge; and this morning, as we came from mass, he took my hand in his, forced it open, and read my little billet, walking by my side all the while. When he had finished, he gave it back to me with great politeness. It contained another request to have the door left open; and this has been the ruin of us all. My uncle kept me strictly in my room until evening, and then ordered me to dress myself as you see me – a hard mockery for a young girl, do you not think so? I suppose, when he could not prevail with me to tell him the young captain’s