"I will not enter into comparisons, but the Countess de St.
Alyre is, in all respects, the most beautiful lady I ever beheld." The masque laughed coldly, and then, more and more softly, said, with a
sigh, "I will prove all I say." And as she spoke she removed the mask:
and the Countess de St. Alyre, smiling, confused, bashful, more
beautiful than ever, stood before me! "Good Heavens!" I exclaimed. "How monstrously stupid I have been. And it
was to Madame la Comtesse that I spoke for so long in the _salon!_"
I gazed on her in silence. And with a low sweet laugh of good nature she
extended her hand. I took it and carried it to my lips. "No, you must not do that," she said quietly, "we are not old enough
friends yet. I find, although you were mistaken, that you do remember
the Countess of the Belle Étoile, and that you are a champion true and
fearless. Had you yielded to the claims just now pressed upon you by the
rivalry of Mademoiselle de la Valière, in her mask, the Countess de St.
Alyre should never have trusted or seen you more. I now am sure that you
are true, as well as brave. You now know that I have not forgotten you;
and, also, that if you would risk your life for me, I, too, would brave
some danger, rather than lose my friend forever. I have but a few
moments more. Will you come here again tomorrow night, at a quarter past
eleven? I will be here at that moment; you must exercise the most
scrupulous care to prevent suspicion that you have come here, Monsieur. _You owe that to me_." She spoke these last words with the most solemn entreaty. I vowed again and again that I would die rather than permit the least
rashness to endanger the secret which made all the interest and value of
my life. She was looking, I thought, more and more beautiful every moment. My
enthusiasm expanded in proportion. "You must come tomorrow night by a different route," she said; "and if
you come again, we can change it once more. At the other side of the
château there is a little churchyard, with a ruined chapel. The
neighbors are afraid to pass it by night. The road is deserted there,
and a stile opens a way into these grounds. Cross it and you can find a
covert of thickets, to within fifty steps of this spot." I promised, of course, to observe her instructions implicitly. "I have lived for more than a year in an agony of irresolution. I have
decided at last. I have lived a melancholy life; a lonelier life than is
passed in the cloister. I have had no one to confide in; no one to
advise me; no one to save me from the horrors of my existence. I have
found a brave and prompt friend at last. Shall I ever forget the heroic
tableau of the hall of the Belle Étoile? Have you--have you really kept
the rose I gave you, as we parted? Yes--you swear it. You need not; I
trust you. Richard, how often have I in solitude repeated your name,
learned from my servant. Richard, my hero! Oh! Richard! Oh, my king! I
love you!" I would have folded her to my heart--thrown myself at her feet. But this
beautiful and--shall I say it--inconsistent woman repelled me. "No, we must not waste our moments in extravagances. Understand my case. There is no such thing as indifference in the married state. Not to love
one's husband," she continued, "is to hate him. The Count, ridiculous in
all else, is formidable in his jealousy. In mercy, then, to me, observe
caution. Affect to all you speak to, the most complete ignorance of all
the people in the Château de la Carque; and, if anyone in your presence
mentions the Count or Countess de St. Alyre, be sure you say you never
saw either. I shall have more to say to you tomorrow night. I have
reasons that I cannot now explain, for all I do, and all I postpone. Farewell. Go! Leave me." She waved me back, peremptorily. I echoed her "farewell," and obeyed. This interview had not lasted, I think, more than ten minutes. I scaled
the park wall again, and reached the Dragon Volant before its doors were
closed. I lay awake in my bed, in a fever of elation. I saw, till the dawn
broke, and chased the vision, the beautiful Countess de St. Alyre,
always in the dark, before me. Chapter XVII

THE TENANT OF THE PALANQUIN


The Marquis called on me next day. My late breakfast was still upon the
table. He had come, he said, to ask a favor. An accident had happened to
his carriage in the crowd on leaving the ball, and he begged, if I were
going into Paris, a seat in mine. I was going in, and was extremely glad
of his company. He came with me to my hotel; we went up to my rooms. I
was surprised to see a man seated in an easy chair, with his back
towards us, reading a newspaper. He rose. It was the Count de St. Alyre,
his gold spectacles on his nose; his black wig, in oily curls, lying
close to his narrow head, and showing like carved ebony over a repulsive
visage of boxwood. His black muffler had been pulled down. His right
arm was in a sling. I don't know whether there was anything unusual in
his countenance that day, or whether it was but the effect of prejudice
arising from all I had heard in my mysterious interview in his park, but
I thought his countenance was more strikingly forbidding than I had seen
it before. I was not callous enough in the ways of sin to meet this man, injured at
least in intent, thus suddenly, without a momentary disturbance. He smiled. "I called, Monsieur Beckett, in the hope of finding you here," he
croaked, "and I meditated, I fear, taking a great liberty, but my friend
the Marquis d'Harmonville, on whom I have perhaps some claim, will
perhaps give me the assistance I require so much." "With great pleasure," said the Marquis, "but not till after six
o'clock. I must go this moment to a meeting of three or four people whom
I cannot disappoint, and I know, perfectly, we cannot break up earlier." "What am I to do?" exclaimed the Count, "an hour would have done it all. Was ever _contretemps_ so unlucky?" "I'll give you an hour, with pleasure," said I. "How very good of you, Monsieur, I hardly dare to hope it. The business,
for so gay and charming a man as Monsieur Beckett, is a little
_funeste_. Pray read this note which reached me this morning." It certainly was not cheerful. It was a note stating that the body of
his, the Count's cousin, Monsieur de St. Amand, who had died at his
house, the Château Clery, had been, in accordance with his written
directions, sent for burial at Père la Chaise, and, with the permission
of the Count de St. Alyre, would reach his house (the Château de la
Carque) at about ten o'clock on the night following, to be conveyed
thence in a hearse, with any member of the family who might wish to
attend the obsequies. "I did not see the poor gentleman twice in my life," said the Count,
"but this office, as he has no other kinsman, disagreeable as it is, I
could scarcely decline, and so I want to attend at the office to have
the book signed, and the order entered. But here is another misery.