FullReads

“O Mother of God!” said the Dominican, in profound disgust; “I cannot marry two maniacs.” But, in view of John Bulmer’s sword and pistol, he went through the ceremony without further protest.

And something embryonic in John Bulmer seemed to come, with the knave’s benediction, into flowerage. He saw, as if upon a sudden, how fine she was; all the gracious and friendly youth of her: and he deliberated, dizzily, the awe of her spirited and alert eyes; why, the woman was afraid of him! That sunny and vivid glade had become, to him, an island about which past happenings lapped like a fretted sea. “Dear me!” he reflected, “but I am really in a very bad way indeed.”

Now Mistress Bulmer gazed shyly at her husband. “We will go back to Bellegarde,” Claire began, “and inform Louis de Soyecourt that I cannot marry the Duke of Ormskirk, because I have already married you, Jean Bulmer,–“

“I would follow you,” said John Bulmer, “though hell yawned between us. I employ the particular expression as customary in all these cases of romantic infatuation.”

“Yet I,” the Friar observed, “would, to the contrary, advise removal from Poictesme as soon as may be possible. For I warn you that if you return to Bellegarde, Monsieur de Soyecourt will have you hanged.”

“Reverend sir,” John Bulmer replied, “do you actually believe this consideration would be to me of any moment?”

The Friar inspected his countenance. By and by the Friar said: “I emphatically do not. And to think that at the beginning of our acquaintanceship I took you for a sensible person!” Afterward the Friar mounted his mule and left them.

Then silently John Bulmer assisted his wife to the back of one of the horses, and they turned eastward into the Forest of Acaire. Mr. Bulmer’s countenance was politely interested, and he chatted pleasantly of the forenoon’s adventure. Claire told him something of her earlier memories of Cazaio. So the two returned to Bellegarde. Then Claire led the way toward the western fa�ade, where her apartments were, and they came to a postern-door, very narrow and with a grating.

“Help me down,” the girl said. Immediately this was done; Claire remained quite still. Her cheeks were smouldering and her left hand was lying inert in John Bulmer’s broader palm.

“Wait here,” she said, “and let me go in first. Someone may be on watch. There is perhaps danger–“

“My dear,” said John Bulmer, “I perfectly comprehend you are about to enter that postern, and close it in my face, and afterward hold discourse with me through that little wicket. I assent, because I love you so profoundly that I am capable not merely of tearing the world asunder like paper at your command, but even of leaving you if you bid me do so.”

“Your suspicions,” she replied, “are prematurely marital. I am trying to protect you, and you are the first to accuse me of underhand dealing! I will prove to you how unjust are your notions.” She entered the postern, closed and bolted it, and appeared at the wicket.

“The Friar was intelligent,” said Claire de Puysange, “and beyond doubt the most sensible thing you can do is to get out of Poictesme as soon as possible. You have been serviceable to me, and for that I thank you: but the master of Bellegarde has the right of the low, the middle, and the high justice, and if my husband show his face at Bellegarde he will infallibly be hanged. If you claim me in England, Ormskirk will have you knifed in some dark alleyway, just as, you tell me, he disposed of Monsieur Traquair and Captain Dungelt. I am sorry, because I like you, even though you are fat.”

“You bid me leave you?” said John Bulmer. He was comfortably seated upon the turf.

“For your own good,” said she, “I advise you to.” And she closed the wicket.

“The acceptance of advice,” said John Bulmer, “is luckily optional. I shall therefore go down into the village, purchase a lute, have supper, and I shall be here at sunrise to greet you with an aubade, according to the ancient custom of Poictesme.”