**** stood bewildered, hopeless, mystified; he had not understood a word; he could not say a word.For an instant he had a wild idea of seizing her hand and leading her to his helpless horse, and then came what he believed was his salvation,--a sudden flash of recollection that he had seen the word he wanted, the one word that would explain all, in a placarded notice at the Cirque of a bracelet that had been LOST,--yes, the single word "PERDU." He made a step towards her, and in a voice almost as faint as her own, stammered, "PERDU!"With a little cry, that was more like a sigh than an outcry, the girl's arms fell to her side; she took a step backwards, reeled, and fainted away.
**** caught her as she fell.What had he said!--but, more than all, what should he do now? He could not leave her alone and helpless,--yet how could he justify another disconcerting intrusion? He touched her hands; they were cold and lifeless; her eyes were half closed; her face as pale and drooping as her lily.
Well, he must brave the worst now, and carry her to the house, even at the risk of meeting the others and terrifying them as he had her.He caught her up,--he scarcely felt her weight against his breast and shoulder,--and ran hurriedly down the slope to the terrace, which was still deserted.If he had time to place her on some bench beside the window within their reach, he might still fly undiscovered! But as he panted up the steps of the terrace with his burden, he saw that the French window was still open, but the light seemed to have been extinguished.It would be safer for her if he could place her INSIDE the house,--if he but dared to enter.
He was desperate, and he dared!
He found himself alone, in a long salon of rich but faded white and gold hangings, lit at the further end by two tall candles on either side of the high marble mantel, whose rays, however, scarcely reached the window where he had entered.He laid his burden on a high-backed sofa.In so doing, the rose fell from her belt.He picked it up, put it in his breast, and turned to go.But he was arrested by a voice from the terrace:--"Renee!"
It was the voice of the elderly lady, who, with the Cure at her side, had just appeared from the rear of the house, and from the further end of the terrace was looking towards the garden in search of the young girl.His escape in that way was cut off.To add to his dismay, the young girl, perhaps roused by her mother's voice, was beginning to show signs of recovering consciousness.**** looked quickly around him.There was an open door, opposite the window, leading to a hall which, no doubt, offered some exit on the other side of the house.It was his only remaining chance! He darted through it, closed it behind him, and found himself at the end of a long hall or picture-gallery, strangely illuminated through high windows, reaching nearly to the roof, by the moon, which on that side of the building threw nearly level bars of light and shadows across the floor and the quaint portraits on the wall.
But to his delight he could see at the other end a narrow, lance-shaped open postern door showing the moonlit pavement without--evidently the door through which the mother and the Cure had just passed out.He ran rapidly towards it.As he did so he heard the hurried ringing of bells and voices in the room he had quitted--the young girl had evidently been discovered--and this would give him time.He had nearly reached the door, when he stopped suddenly--his blood chilled with awe! It was his turn to be terrified--he was standing, apparently, before HIMSELF!
His first recovering thought was that it was a mirror--so accurately was every line and detail of his face and figure reflected.But a second scrutiny showed some discrepancies of costume, and he saw it was a panelled portrait on the wall.It was of a man of his own age, height, beard, complexion, and features, with long curls like his own, falling over a lace Van Dyke collar, which, however, again simulated the appearance of his own hunting-shirt.The broad-brimmed hat in the picture, whose drooping plume was lost in shadow, was scarcely different from ****'s sombrero.But the likeness of the face to **** was marvelous--convincing! As he gazed at it, the wicked black eyes seemed to flash and kindle at his own,--its lip curled with ****'s own sardonic humor!
He was recalled to himself by a step in the gallery.It was the Cure who had entered hastily, evidently in search of one of the servants.Partly because it was a man and not a woman, partly from a feeling of bravado--and partly from a strange sense, excited by the picture, that he had some claim to be there, he turned and faced the pale priest with a slight dash of impatient devilry that would have done credit to the portrait.But he was sorry for it the next moment!
The priest, looking up suddenly, discovered what seemed to him to be the portrait standing before its own frame and glaring at him.
Throwing up his hands with an averted head and an "EXORCIS--!" he wheeled and scuffled away.**** seized the opportunity, darted through the narrow door on to the rear terrace, and ran, under cover of the shadow of the house, to the steps into the garden.
Luckily for him, this new and unexpected diversion occupied the inmates too much with what was going on in the house to give them time to search outside.**** reached the lilac hedge, tore up the hill, and in a few moments threw himself, panting, on his blanket.
