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CHAPTER XXXIII
THE LAST MEETING
Marion Wyatt lay in her grave under the west wall of the burying ground belonging to the Abbey of Remiremont-she was at rest for ever now.
And, on the road to Bois-le-Vaux, to the house which had been her prison for so long, Andrew Vause and the Marquis Debrasques rode together, bent upon finding out, if possible, the manner in which De Bois-Vallée had eluded the grasp of the former on that night of horror.
Strapped to their saddles they carried with them some implements which they thought might be of considerable assistance in enabling them-or at least one of them-to descend into that yawning oubliette, since down it Andrew Vause was determined to go, even though it sank into the bowels of the earth. These implements consisted of, first, a solid iron bar which would stretch easily across the diameter of the oubliette's mouth, also a couple of lanterns, then some grappling hooks which would be of use in catching hold of any projection, or side of the shaft, in their descent, if necessary, and next, a coil of rope strong as that which Andrew had previously used in his flight across the chasm, and of the same length, namely, thirty metres.
"For," said he, when overnight they made these purchases in Plombières, "the house is but half that height; therefore, by the time I have descended some fifteen mètres I shall be on the level of the earth. And, if the shaft goes below the earth as much again, and then ceases not-which is scarce likely-why, the rope must be got down, and I go on still."
"Yet, how for that?" asked Debrasques. "How to do it? I am resolved to follow you, even though 'tis into the bowels of the earth-how shall it be lowered, therefore, from above? We want a third, and one who is trustworthy, in our company."
"Nay," replied Andrew, "we want no third, and we will have none-trustworthy or not. Laurent was trustworthy, and he died in keeping his pledge. Jean has disappeared, dispersed into air with all the other besiegers of the ill-fated house. There is none other. Nor, if there were, would we enlist him. The work shall be done alone by us."
Marion had been laid to rest at daybreak of this wintry morning, therefore it was still very early when they drew near the half-demolished mansion, and, as they entered the estate, saw its blackened walls in which yawned the great gaps where the wings had partly fallen, and observed the still larger gap where the whole of one side was gone. Also, they saw the gable chimneys still standing on that portion of the roof to which Andrew and the women had escaped from the garret-the stack of chimneys to which he had fastened that first rope after he had taken his flight across.
The desolation was complete-was penetrating to the senses of those who now regarded it-yet this very desolation seemed an appropriate monument to the downfall of the race which had so long been known and feared as "The Wolves of Lorraine." For the family was gone, extinct now-the last member of it, Camille De Bois-Vallée, could never build it up nor restore it again, any more than he could build up and restore the house which had sheltered that family for generations-'twas perhaps well, therefore, that it should go too. In years to come, these now blackened walls would tell the tale of how the vengeful Lorrainers had swept away at last those who had used their power to trample on and ill-treat them.
Against the side of the building, under the shattered window from which the three had eventually escaped, they found the logs and billets of wood piled up precisely as they had been left-there were none to disturb them now! – and, leaving their horses in the very outhouse where the wood had been discovered, they entered at once the ruined mansion.
"'Twill take but little time to reach the roof," Andrew said, "and as little to see if by chance he found a passage that way. Come, Valentin." Whereon, each carrying some of the necessaries they had brought with them, they entered by the window.
To the younger man the scene of ruin and devastation on which he gazed was appalling-also, it was saddening. For, as a child, and even later in his still short existence, he had been here often-had run up and down those huge staircases which were now torn from their settings and lying in ruins below; in those rooms by which they passed swiftly-and in one of which the dead body of Beaujos was stretched, as Andrew knew-he had slept many a night; from that great yawning doorway, now open to the cold wind that blew up from the west and whistled through the empty vastness of the hall, he had issued forth often enough, bent on a hawking or a hunting party.
And now-what a scene to gaze upon! What desolation and silence-what an atmosphere of death and ruin, and the decay that time would bring, prevailed over all!
They stood at last upon the roof of this remaining wing, arriving at it by the way the others had left a few nights ago, their feet embedded in the dank, decaying leaves blown on it by the autumn winds-leaves now becoming skeletons under the winter rain and frost-and made inspection of the whole to see what outlet there might be for the fugitive. Yet there was none. Upon those leads there was no opening beneath all that rotting mass-as they found quickly enough-nothing except the trapdoor leading to the garret, to which they now returned.
"As for the chimney stacks," said Andrew, "they are impossible. Observe their height; he could never have reached their summit alone and unaided-and-even though he had-what then? Come-'tis time to inspect the oubliette."
In the dull, dim light that penetrated to the garret from the open trapdoor above, they made their preparations swiftly-indeed, there were but few to make. A turn or two of the rope (already previously knotted at intervals of four feet to aid in the descent) around the iron bar was made by Andrew, he fastening it by what is known to sailors as a bowline knot, and he was ready to descend.
Then he sat down upon the edge of the oubliette, grasped the bar, and, with his two hands, worked himself immediately over the middle of it, the rope being between his legs.
"Now, Valentin," he said, "the search begins. What shall I find below?" and as he spoke he ignited his tinder, communicated the flame to the lamp attached to his belt, and peered down into the depths beneath him.
But the rays of the lamp showed nothing-nothing beyond the bare walls of the shaft, built, as was the lower part of the house itself, of stone. And from up that shaft there came a cool, damp air, that made itself perceptible even as he sat dangling over it.
"For Heaven's sake, be careful," Valentin whispered. Then-in even a lower tone, added: "If he is there below-if he should be still there-he may spring out at you."
But Andrew, glancing at him from his perch on the bar, pointed over his shoulder to where his sword was braced on to his back perpendicularly, since, had it been by his side, it might have impeded his descent. Also he showed a pistol ready to his grasp.
"Have no fear," he said.
A moment later he was going down the rope hand over hand, the knots in it assisting his feet. And Valentin Debrasques, lying on the floor of the garret, face downwards, with his head over the edge of the oubliette, saw beneath him the flame of the lamp descending further and further. Andrew was now, he calculated, twenty feet below the opening where he himself was.
Then, suddenly, he heard him call up.
"He passed this way."
"You know that?"
"Ay. I know it now."
"How?"
"He has left his traces. Also-now-I know how he descended."
"I must follow," Valentin called back. "'Tis nothing. And the rope will surely bear both."
"It needs but to bear one," Andrew replied. "I have reached a platform, a half platform-crescent-moon shaped-leaving still, however, room for the passage of a man below, to further depths. He has gone that way."
"I come," Debrasques called once more-and, heedless of Andrew's warning him to remember that he was still weak from his wounds, he seized the rope and slung his slight young form down it-the other holding up the lantern so that he might better see as he descended.
A moment later and the two men were standing side by side upon the platform mentioned by Andrew, a slab of flat stone, jutting out from one side of the oubliette's now slimy walls-for the damp was very perceptible here; the sides reeked with it, and drops of water oozed from out of them and ran down to the stone slab itself. And, at their feet, was the opening to the further depths.
But, also at their feet, was something else, something beside the coil of the lower part of the rope by which they had come.
A chain, itself lying in a coil upon the platform-with a foot or so of it hanging over into the abyss below. With, upon the ledge of the platform, an inch of brown-coloured velvet-a strip torn doubtless from a man's sleeve as he let himself down from the ledge and laid one arm along the stone, while groping with the other for the means to descend.
"His coat," said Debrasques, turning the strip over in his hand beneath the light of the lantern. "He was wearing such a one when last I saw him out of his trappings."
"And, as I think, on the night when he returned to this house; loomed up before my eyes as they struck me down. Come, Valentin, let us go on. To the end now."
"But how get there?" asked the Marquis, "how arrive? How use that chain?"
"Easy enough. A foot below the mouth of the oubliette above, there is a broken hook-I saw it as I descended. On that hook hung this chain, and he knew it-it not being broken then. He descended part way by. that-as I think-then the hook broke and he fell the rest, on to this platform-the chain coming with him, grasped in his hand. No great harm that-if he missed this smaller opening, as without doubt he did. Had he not so missed it-poof! he would be lying somewhere below a mangled corpse."
"Suppose-suppose," said Debrasques, "that, nevertheless, he did not miss it-fell through, the chain remaining behind."
"Then, 'tis as I have said. We shall find him there-dead. Yet, what use surmise? Let us on; I will go first."
As he spoke, he lifted up the coils of their own rope and let them fall down through the opening, observing that the cord did not tighten nor spin round a moment later. By that he judged that it had struck some bottom, since, otherwise, it would doubtless have done both, instead of, as now, lying against the side as though not extended its full length.
"The end of the journey is near," he muttered again, "near now," and, so speaking, he grasped the rope as it hung down through the orifice from the iron beam above, and began to descend once more. Yet, in an instant, he stopped and put out his hand in front of him, clutching the rope now with the other alone, yet still seeming as though easily supported and without effort.
"There are," he said to Debrasques, glancing up at him as though able to see his face as plainly as the Marquis could himself see his by the light of the lamp at his waist, "long staples let into the wall at short intervals. They serve the use of a ladder, being bent at the sides, thereby to enter the wall. Come, the rope is unnecessary. Let yourself down the hole, feel with your feet until they touch the staples, use the platform as a hold till your hands grasp the uppermost bar; the rest is easy. Come."
And he went lower down himself, discarding the use of the rope entirely now.
Behind, from above, followed Debrasques. Hand under hand, foot succeeding foot, they went down those staples, the air growing more chilly and damp and penetrating as still they descended, and giving sure proof that they were now below the level of the earth; were among the foundations of the great old house. Also, the feeble lamp-flicker showed this, too-showed that they had reached the vaults and actual basement on which the whole building had been placed-vaults, or dungeons, separated from each other by short, round shafts of rough, untrimmed stone, and with the earth into which they were set unlevelled. And now there was no damp; instead, only the dull mildewed smell that such places have, places to which no air has penetrated for centuries.
"He is not here," Andrew said, as they stood upon this earthen floor, the crown of his hat touching almost the roof of the vault above him. "Not here. He has gone on. Knew a way out. We must find it." While, as he spoke, he flashed the lantern, which he had now taken in his hand, around the dark and gloomy place, it casting fantastic shadows behind the pillars and shafts as he did so.
"Come," he said once more.
So they went on-though not without obstruction either. Once his foot caught in a mass of tangled chain lying at the base of a shaft to which one end of it was attached, and, stooping to look at it, Andrew saw amidst the coils of that chain some bones, and, a little farther off, more bones-of a hand! Yet, when he put his own hand out to touch them, they lost their shape, the fingers were gone at that touch; there lay but a feathery mass of white dust upon the earth a moment later.
"That tells its own tale," he whispered to the other. "Have centuries rolled away since that poor thing gasped its last within the chain's embrace?"
"God knows!" His companion whispered back. "They never forgave! Once in their power and all hope was gone."
"It appears," said Andrew briefly.
The vault, the foundations, were as square as the house above; ere long they had gone round them-finding more proof of how the De Bois-Vallées had used it as a final prison. A knife, rusty now, yet once a long, keen blade, was sticking point downward in the earth; they asked themselves if, ages ago, it had struck, pierced something between its hilt and point that was not earth then? – something that had long since vanished away to dust. They found, also, a woman's necklace set with quaint cut stones lying near a heap of rags, black with time and perishable to the touch, and asked again what story of horror was buried and forgotten here?
At last they found the outlet from that gloomy vault-a long dark passage that led away to blackness impenetrable. A passage that, in the past, had had a thick sturdy door to bar all entrance to, and way through it, but which door now lay flat upon the earthen floor-mouldered and decayed from off its hinges.
"Come," again said Andrew, wasting no words now, "Come, Debrasques."
And on down that passage they moved, side by side, the light flickering on earthen walls shored up with old beams and rotting staves, and with the bottoms of roots of trees showing through the uppermost parts.
Also-though they scarce knew why, nor could they have told what they expected-each had in his hand his drawn sword now.
Afar off, adown that ghastly passage, they saw a gleam of light that each knew to be the light of the winter day-a gleam that was no bigger, as it seemed, than a star, yet that still told the end was there. Was the end of the outlet.
Onward they went, faster now, their footfalls sounding dull and leaden on the earthy floor, their breath coming-again they knew not why! – faster and faster.
Then-the passage traversed-the daylight now illuminating faintly a space some dozen feet square, Debrasques clutched Andrew's arm and pointed to a dark blur upon the ground before them-a heap of blackness that bore some resemblance to a crouching human form-it lying a little space outside the circle of dim light.
"Look! look!" He said, "it is a human figure. Ciel! is it he? Is he dead? See-the eyes glare at us!"
"Ay," replied Andrew, advancing to that blurred mass, "it is he."
While, stooping over the body of De Bois-Vallée, he added, "And he is dead."
Then he lifted his porte épée, and thrust back his sword into the scabbard gently, saying, "No more need for you now. Your work here is done."
CHAPTER XXXIV
ADIEU
"How has he died?" asked Debrasques, avoiding those open, glaring orbs that looked out glassily from the dead man's face, the body lying on its side, the arms extended, the head turned up so that the eyes stared down the passage. "How?"
Andrew looked round the small space into which the passage, or vault, had widened at its end, lifted high his lantern with one hand above his head, then pointed with his hat which he held in the other-almost unknowingly, both had doffed their hats in the presence of that thing at their feet-towards the opening whence the light came from without. An opening many feet above his head, of about a foot in circumference, through which the daylight streamed murky and dull.
Then, after a moment's thought, he said:
"There was an exit here-once. Observe, here was an opening, yet now there is none. Yet, 'tis easy to comprehend. Look at what that light streams over as it enters-heaps of earth with broken trunks of trees mixed in them, also great stones. You see-understand?"
"A landslip from above, perhaps?" Debrasques answered, comprehending.
"Ay, 'tis that. Washed down, loosened by winter storm or spring torrent-riven perhaps by lightning stroke-may be a month ago, may be years. Who knows? But, of one thing be sure-he," and he glanced down to his feet, "knew it not when he fled here. May not have visited these vaults for years-may never have been here before, yet was aware of this escape and thought to profit by it. Then died of frenzy-perhaps starvation, too-after learning he was snared."
He advanced towards the immense mass of earth that blocked up the hole through which the flight should have been made, and flashed his lantern on it at about a man's-at about De Bois-Vallée's-height from the ground, and called the other's attention to how the mould was scored-as though with finger clutches! and scooped away and dug into. Scratched at and scooped away until the trapped creature had given up in despair; had, perhaps, fallen fainting at his task.
Next, he went back to where the body lay, and lifted up the hands, the rings on them sparkling in the lantern's gleam, and showed Debrasques the nails all earthy, and the top joints of the fingers clogged and smeared with dirt.
"You see?" he whispered. "You see?"
"Yet, why not return?"
"You forget. The chain was broken. The way back was barred, therefore. He had no rope as we have."
* * * * * *
The roads part outside Plombières, one going north, one south, one west. Behind, to the east, is the way across the Vosges.
And here, by the spring which marks their divergence, Andrew Vause and Valentin Debrasques clasped hands one bright winter morning, a few days later, and bade farewell to each other for a time.
"God send you health and fair recovery," the former said, as he stood by his horse's side; "make, too, my service to your mother. When next I pass through Paris-"
"Our house will be yours. Your home. Remember," and he glanced up at the other with a wistful look in his eyes, "we are sworn friends: sworn long ago. You will not let aught that has passed break that?"
"Fear not," Andrew replied. "Even though France and England fly at each other's throats in days to come-which Heaven forefend! – we must remember that."
"And," went on Valentin, "you said a night or so ago that you had failed in-in-what brought you here. Spoke with regret, it seemed, of that failure. Andrew," and now he laid his hand pleadingly on the other's arm, "you do not regret? Is the end not best as it is? He is in his grave-not sent there by your hand-does it not suffice?"
"It must suffice," Andrew replied. "And-Valentin, I am not so vengeful as to wish now that it could have been otherwise. Perhaps it is better so. Far better to think in after years, if I live to be old, that he died without my aid."
"I thank God that you can say so."
He gave his orders to his men who were to accompany him; slowly the dragoons fell in and set out upon their march; once more they clasped hands.
"Farewell, dear friend," he said.
"Farewell, my boy," Andrew replied, "yet courage, courage, we must meet again. Turenne has driven back Montecuculi and all the German brood; ere I reach him the war will be over. Then I, too, will come to Paris. Also I will bring you news of Clemence, tell you if she is at peace in her new home in the abbey. See, lad, your dragoons mount the hill-after them and away. Adieu-till next we meet."
"Farewell, Andrew, my friend."
"Farewell. God bless and speed you."
