Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/762

708 ter suspected. Eh, death of my life, yes! You may see his tomb in the Innocents' yonder, with weeping seraphim and a yard of Latin on it. I warrant you that rascal Montcorbier has lain awake in half the prisons in France thinking of what he flung away. Seven years, no less, since he and Montigny showed their thieves' faces here. Eh, the world wags, neighbor, and they say there will be a new tax on salt if we go to war with the English."

Somewhat to this effect also ran the meditations of Catherine de Vaucelles one hot August night as she sat at her window, overlooking the acacias and chestnuts of her garden. Noël, brave in blue and silver, had just gone down the Rue St.-Jacques, singing, clinking the fat purse whose stoutness was still a novelty to him. That evening she had given him her promise to marry him at Michaelmas.

It was a black night, moonless, windless. There were a scant half-dozen stars overhead, and the thick scent of roses and mignonette came up to her in hot, stifling waves. Below her the tree-tops conferred stealthily, and the fountain plashed its eternal remonstrance to the conspiracy they lisped of.

But after a while Catherine rose and stood contemplative before a long mirror that was in her room. Catherine de Vaucelles was twenty-five now, in the full flower of her beauty. Blue eyes the mirror showed her, far apart, unfathomable; honey-colored hair that hung heavily about her face, a mouth that curved in a petulant bow, a firm chin; only her nose left something to be desiderated,—for that feature, though well formed, was unduly diminutive, and bent by perhaps a hair's breadth to the left. She might very reasonably have smiled at what the mirror showed her; but, for all that, she sighed.

O Beauty of her, whereby I am undone, said Catherine, wistfully; then on a sudden she burst into tearless sobbing. "Ah, God in heaven, forgive me for my folly! Sweet Christ, intercede for me who have paid so dearly for my folly!"

And like an echo to her thoughts stole through the open window the sound of a voice singing below.

Sang the voice:

and broke off in a fit of coughing.

She remained immovable for a matter of two minutes, her proud little head poised alertly. Then, with a gasp, she sprang to the gong and struck it seven or eight times.

"Macée, there is a man in the garden. Bring him to me, Macée—ah, love of God, Macee, make haste!"

Blinking, he stood upon the threshold. Then, without words, their lips met.

"My king!" said Catherine; "heart's emperor!"

"O rose of all the world!" he cried.

There was very little need of speech.

But after a moment she drew away and stared at him. François, though he was but thirty, seemed an old man now. His bald head shone in the candle-light. His face was a mesh of tiny wrinkles, wax white, and his lower lip, puckered by the scar of his wound, protruded in an eternal grimace. As Catherine looked at him, his faded eyes, half covered with blue film, shifted uneasily, and with a jerk he glanced backward over his shoulder. The movement started a cough tearing at his throat.

"Holy Macaire!" said he. "I thought Henri Cousin, the executioner, was at my heels. Why do you stare so, lass? Have you anything to eat? I am famished, Catherine."

Silently she brought him meat and wine. He fell upon it wolfishly. He ate with his front teeth, like a sheep.

When he had ended, Catherine came to him and took both his hands in hers and lifted them to her lips. "God, God, God!" she sobbed, and her voice was the voice of an old woman.

François pushed her away. Then he strode to the mirror and regarded it intently. With a snarl he turned about. "Yes," said he, "you killed François de Montcorbier as surely as Montcorbier killed Sermaise. Eh, Holy Virgin! that is scant cause for grief. You made