The Light That Lures Part 7

"We have fallen among thieves, Master Richard," he said as he shut the door. "I shouldn't wonder if any one could slip into this ball without payment of any sort. We've made a long night of it."

"Weariness and wine," answered Barrington. "The wine was strong, or this mountain air added to the potency of its effects upon us."

"Maybe. I never slept so soundly since I was a youngster."

"And I never had such horrible dreams," said Barrington.

"I've been thinking, Master Richard, that there may be worse than thieves in Beauvais," said Seth, after a pause. "We're rather like men at sea without the knowledge of how to handle ropes and set sail--an extra puff of wind, and we risk being overturned. There's something to learn about the methods of these Frenchmen, especially when every man sees a possible enemy in his neighbor. The gentlemen at Tremont did not much please me, nor was I greatly taken with Monsieur le Comte."

"We shall have plenty of time to learn their methods, Seth."

"But in the meanwhile the puff of wind may come, Master Richard. I don't like this masked ball."

"You may trust me to be careful."

"Your idea of precaution and mine may differ a little," Seth answered.

"You don't see danger so far ahead as I do."

"That may be in my favor," laughed Richard. "Be at ease, Seth; I shall do nothing rash. Neither our blatant friend Sabatier, nor our courteous acquaintance of last night, shall catch me sleeping. I do not trust men very easily, nor women either, for that matter."

"Ay, Master Richard, it's a weight off my mind to know that this Mademoiselle St. Clair has so little attraction about her. I've been young myself and know the power of women. You've not been through that fire yet."

"A strange thing at my age, Seth. I have thought that no woman is likely to plague me much."

"Get well into your grave before you think that," was the answer. "I'm no hater of women, far from it, and I know a man's never safe. Why, a chit of twenty may make a fool of a veteran, and set his tired old heart trying to beat like that of a lad just out of his school days. Only last year there was a girl in Virginia sent me panting along this road of folly, and I'm not sure it wasn't Providence which sent me with you to France."

Beauvais presented a lively scene that day, but it was in vain that Barrington kept a sharp lookout for Monsieur le Comte and his friend.

Many people came and went from the chateau, but they were not among them. Barrington did not particularly want to meet them, but he realized that circ.u.mstances might arise which would make them useful, and he would have liked to find out what position they held among the other exiles in Beauvais. A prominent one, surely, since the Marquise had fetched them to lodgings in the chateau, and therefore it was possible that Barrington's arrival had puzzled them. They might reasonably doubt whether he had any right to pose as an aristocrat and an exile, suspicion would certainly follow, and sharp eyes might be upon him at the ball to-night. Even as a go-between in a love affair there might be some danger for him, but was his mission only that?

When he left his lodgings that evening he had disguised himself as much as possible. He wore a cloak which his acquaintances of last night had not seen, he had procured a mask which hid as much of his face as possible. He went armed, and fastened in the lining of his coat was the little gold star he had taken from the dead man's coat. He fingered it through the cloth to make sure that it was safe as he crossed the, square and went toward the chateau. Seth may have been right, and the six louis thrown away, for no one took any notice of Barrington as he pa.s.sed into the castle. Although he gave up his card of invitation, he was convinced that with a little diplomacy and a bold front he could have got in without one.

Exteriorly the castle retained much of its mediaeval appearance, and within the new had been cleverly and lovingly grafted onto the old.

There were still dungeons enclosed in these ma.s.sive walls, chambers wherein misery and pain had cried aloud to no effect. There were narrow pa.s.sages down which tortured men must once have been carried, or at the end of which some oubliette opened to sudden destruction. Many horrible things must be in the knowledge of this ma.s.sive masonry. The great hall, where men at arms, after a foray or raid upon some neighboring stronghold, must have caroused times without number, making the roof ring with their rude rejoicing, was alive to-night with men and women, exiles forgetting their exile for a while or exchanging news which might mean a speedy return to their homeland. All were masked, although it was apparent that many had no difficulty in recognizing their neighbors under the disguise, but although there were a few brilliant costumes and occasional flashes of jewels, the general impression of dress was sombre and makes.h.i.+ft. How could it be otherwise when the flight from Paris, or from the provinces, had been so sudden, no preparation possible?

At one side of the hall, the center of a little group, stood a white-haired woman of commanding presence. Jewels flashed in her dress, and there was laughter about her. Evidently this was the Marquise de Rovere, and she was busy welcoming her guests. With some it was more than a pa.s.sing word of greeting, there was news to be imparted by one lately in communication with Austria or Prussia, or perchance with England; there was the latest news from Paris to be had from one who had just escaped from his enemies; there was news, too, of friends who had not been so fortunate, or who had willingly stayed to face the storm; there were rumors which had been gathered from all sources to be whispered. This chateau of Beauvais was a meeting place, a center for much scheming; and for a while the hours must be made to pa.s.s as pleasantly as possible.

These men and women were different from those he had come in contact with, of a different world altogether; yet his youth responded to the music and verve of it all. Because it was different, new and unfamiliar to him, that was no proof that what he had known was right, and this was wrong. His blood was pulsating, the atmosphere was exhilarating.

Pleasure flung him her gauge, why should he not pick it up? A woman was beside him, dark eyes flas.h.i.+ng through her mask, red lips wreathed into a smile. The next moment reserve had broken down and he was dancing with her, acquitting himself with sufficient grace to pa.s.s muster, and almost as ready with his compliment as she was to receive it.

"We shall dance again, monsieur," she said presently, when another partner carried her away.

"Until then I shall count the moments," Barrington answered, and it was perhaps this suggestion of the future which brought to his mind the real reason for his presence there.

A large woman, with raven hair, and of such a figure that it shook when she walked; among the dancers there were many who might pa.s.s for large women, the hair of one or two might be considered raven, but there was not one who completed the full description he had had of Mademoiselle St. Clair. Certainly she was not among those who stood near the Marquise, and Barrington went from vantage point to vantage point in search of her. Neither could he discover Monsieur le Comte or his friend. Lodged in the chateau, they had possibly obtained richer garments, and would be difficult to identify. The fulfillment of his mission was not to be so easy as he had imagined.

He had been watching from a corner near the entrance to the ballroom, partially concealed by a little knot of people who were standing before him. He could have overheard their conversation, but he was not listening. He was wondering how he could find mademoiselle. There was surely some other apartment where guests were, for his eyes were keen, and he had certainly not seen her yet.

"Monsieur does not dance?"

Barrington turned quickly. The little crowd which had stood in front of him had gone, and near him was a woman. It was difficult to know whether her words were a statement of fact, question or invitation.

"I have danced, mademoiselle."

"And are now waiting for some one?"

"No. If mademoiselle will honor me I--"

"I also have danced many times, monsieur, and am inclined to rest a little."

Barrington looked at her, and a pair of violet eyes met his glance through her mask, deep, almost unfathomable eyes, difficult to read and filled with the light that lures men on to strange and wonderful things.

Her auburn hair had brown and darker shadows in it, the color one may see in a distant wood in late autumn when the sun touches it; her transparent skin was delicately tinted, such a tint as may be seen in rare china. Her small, well-shaped mouth seemed made for smiles, yet there was a line of firmness in it suggestive of determination. There was a cadence in her voice, a musical rise and fall which held an appeal. The lines of her figure were graceful, there was youth and vigor in every movement, and without being above the medium height, the pose of her head on her shapely shoulders gave her a certain air of stateliness, natural and becoming to her it seemed. She was a woman designed for happiness and laughter, Barrington thought, and he felt she was not happy. He wondered if there were not tears in those violet eyes, and he had a sudden longing to behold her without a mask. It would have been easy for her to make him again forget his mission, and why he was in the chateau of Beauvais. Youth recognized youth, and that indefinite longing which is a part of youth seemed to enfold them for an instant.

Perhaps the woman felt it as much as he did, for she broke the silence rather abruptly.

"I have noticed that monsieur has not entered much into the gayety."

Barrington was on his guard in a moment. He could not afford to be questioned too closely.

"I am greatly honored by mademoiselle's notice."

"That is nothing," she returned as though the implied compliment displeased her. "It seemed to me you were a stranger in Beauvais, and strangers here may have sad memories behind them."

"They do their best to forget, mademoiselle," he answered. The laughter of a woman as she pa.s.sed, dancing, gave point to the a.s.sertion. "It is wonderful. I cannot understand it."

"Better laugh and live than die weeping," she said. "Those who live shall live to repay."

"And perchance some good shall come out of the evil."

She looked at him quickly.

"In Beauvais it is somewhat dangerous to be a philosopher, monsieur. We cling to one idea which by brutal force has been driven into our souls--revenge. It is not safe to preach anything short of that, we have suffered too much."

"There was not such a deep meaning in my words," he said.

"Still, the warning may not be out of place," and she turned to leave him.

"Before I go, mademoiselle, you may help me. Can you tell me where I shall find Mademoiselle St. Clair?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Can you tell me where I shall find Mademoiselle St.

Clair?"]

"You know her?"

"Only by the description I have had of her."

"I wonder almost it was not sufficient to help you," and a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

"Indeed, mademoiselle, I marvel at it, too, for I a.s.sure you the description was most complete," laughed Barrington.

"From whom did you have it?"