A romance of old wars

Chapter I

Matthieu de Chatelfors was born at his chateau one April night in the year 1362.

“Thank God it is a boy!” ejaculated Dame Mathilde the next day as she sat by her daughter-in-law’s bedside with her swaddled grandson on her knee. She had spent half the night in prayer, and her wrinkled eyelids looked brown; but her dark eyes were bright, and she held herself very erect.

Dame Yolande smiled weakly. She was lying upon dull purple velvet cushions in a four-post bed draped with the same mourning colour ; the hair was strained off her high, narrow forehead, and hidden under a square white kerchief.

“I was thinking ... as it is a son . . she suggested, “that we might invite ”

“Invite! invite!” retorted Dame Mathilde sharply. “Can you never think of anything but of filling the chateau with guests? Do you forget that your child is fatherless?”

“Of course I don’t,” cried Dame Yolande, her high cheek-bones growing red and her retreating chin quivering as she spoke. “I — I — it is very hard that you should speak so to me at — at — such a time ; and I am sure I loved my husband, and — and it’s very wrong of you to remind me that he is dead — just when I am recovering — my spirits. You — you wouldn’t have dared if he had been alive!”

Dame Mathilde gave a short laugh.

‘"And you yourself are glad,” added Dame Yolande.

‘‘Glad! Thank God indeed!” said Dame Mathilde devoutly.

Dame Yolande moved her head restlessly from side to side.

“You have upset me ... I feel wretched! Barbe! Barbe !” she called. “Send for Maitre Isaac ! Barbe !”

“It is no use calling Barbe,” said Dame Mathilde.

“Why not? Why doesn’t she come? Isn’t she here?”

“I sent her to the still-room to prepare a cordial for you.”

“Odette! Odette!” cried Dame Yolande excitedly. “Marthe ! oh, mon Dieu ! Why don’t you send for someone? I want Maitre Isaac! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”

“Yolande, control yourself. You’ll wake the child. Maitre Isaac can’t come. You must make up your mind to do without him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maitre Isaac has gone.”

“Gone!”

“I have sent him away. I am sorry I ever gave in to such a whim. It is a scandal for a Christian woman to trust herself to the sorcery and heathenish tricks of a Jew. I am sorry, I say, that I ever gave in to you.

It was only because I feared you might injure the child that 1 did so, but it has been on my conscience ever since. It is a mercy God did not punish you by giving you a dwarf, or an idiot, or a girl.”

Dame Yolande listened to her, gaping with astonishment; then, hiding her face in her hands, she began to cry.

‘‘You wouldn’t have cared if I had died!” she sobbed. “Everyone knows that Jews are the best physicians, and it is very important ”

“I would rather risk my life than be cured by a heathen.”

“But the child ”

“If God wills the child to live, it lives,” said Dame Mathilde obstinately.

“I am sure if Matthieu had been alive ”

“Don’t let us quarrel to-day, Yolande. Little Matthieu is alive.” She spoke almost tenderly.

“He’s got black eyes, like his father,” said Dame Yolande, drying her own large pale blue ones.

“God grant that I may live to hold his son on my knee, as I have held his father I” said Dame Mathilde, looking down at the sleeping baby with an air of ownership.

Dame Yolande eyed her with dislike.

“Her face is like wrinkled leather,” she murmured under her breath. “And she dresses like a nun.”

“He shall marry Marguerite de Richecour’s child,” continued Dame Mathilde. “How fortunate that her baby should be a girl, and born only a week ago!”

Dame Yolande grew scarlet.

“You say it on purpose to humiliate me !” she cried furiously. “My child to marry a Richecour! Fd rather die!’'

“It’s a good alliance ”

“A good alliance! With the daughter of the man who shamed me, insulted me! Do you forget that I was brought up to marry Arnoult de Richecour, and that I was sent home when I was fifteen, because he — he — preferred that little fool Marguerite — or rather his mother did, for he could not call his soul his own? Forget! of course you don’t forget! But I’ll not submit! I’ll not bear it! He is my son, and I will choose his wife!”

“If he is your son he is my grandson,” retorted Dame Mathilde. “The Richecours are nobly born, and they are virtuous, sober ”

“Sober! Mon Dieu ! They wearied me to tears with their long sermons !”

“If you would think a little more of the family and less of yourself ”

“I do think of the family. The Richecours are all as ugly as sin! I don’t want Matthieu’s children to have flat noses !”

Dame Mathilde pressed her shrivelled lips together with an air of exasperation.

For a moment there was silence.

“I am getting old, Yolande,” she said presently. “I am the widow of a Chatelfors, and the mother of his children, some of whom God has taken from me” — she crossed herself as she spoke — “and now ”

“It is very unkind,” whimpered Dame Yolande, “to taunt me — because I — I have only one child.”

“I do not taunt you,” said Dame Mathilde. “I have never taunted you all these years, when I feared that Matthieu would have no son to succeed him; but you must remember that when his child dies ”

‘'Oh!’' shrieked Dame Yolande, waking the baby, who broke into a long wail. “How can you talk of such things! Give him to me.”

Dame Mathilde rose impatiently, the child in her arms crying and beating its little hands against her chin ; she walked to the door.

“Barbe!” she cried sharply.

“Give him to me !” cried Dame Yolande.

“Barbe!” cried Dame Mathilde again.

“Yes, dame.”

Barbe, the nurse, who was short and plump and trim, bounded into the room with the tight elasticity of an indiarubber ball. Her handsome hazel eyes flashed from one to the other.

“What is it ? What is the matter ?” she cried shrilly.

“Take the child !” said Dame Mathilde.

“Yes, dame. Come, then, my beauty.”

“Give him to me,” wailed Dame Yolande. “He shall not marry a Richecour ! he shall not ! I tell you, I will choose his wife. He shall marry one of my cousins de Soulon.”

“Eh, Holy Virgin!” cried Barbe. “Do you talk of his wife before he can recognise his own mother! And which is to be his bride, I should like to know ! The demoiselle Marie will be wrinkled before he is in his teens. Or perhaps you were thinking of Madame Jeanne? To be sure, she may be a widow by then. One never knows !”

Dame Mathilde laughed shortly.

“Hold your tongue!” cried Dame Yolande.

“Hold my tongue! Oh, yes! But, my daughter, it is not reasonable ”

“You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Eh, no!” Barbe tossed her head sarcastically.

“Madame Jeanne is enceinte T said Dame Yolande with dignity.

“E-eh! Holy Virgin! And how do you know it will be a girl?” cried Barbe.

Dame Mathilde went downstairs to the hall.

“Send Maitre Paul to me,” she said to a servant; and a moment later the secretary shuffled in and bowed.

“I want you to write a letter,” she commanded.

“Yes, dame,” he said huskily.

He sat down at the table, and unfastened the inkpot and pen-case that were hanging from his girdle. He was short-sighted, and fumbled for his quill. Then he spread a small roll of parchment on the table, and spread himself over it, looking up at Dame Mathilde from under his gray eyebrows without raising his head.

“To the Sieur Arnoult de Richecour,” she dictated, pacing up and down. “Much honoured and well-loved Cousin, — I write to express to you the great joy we have felt on receiving the tidings that Madame Marguerite, your virtuous and honoured spouse, has given birth to another child, and by the same hand to convey to you the glad news that Dame Yolande, my dearly loved daughter, lately bereft of her muchloved lord, my son, has been brought to bed of an heir. Much honoured and well-loved cousin, 1 pray you to believe me that nothing could better please me or my daughter Yolande than an alliance with your family, and therefore we ask the hand of this your youngest daughter for our son Matthieu, on condition that when she shall have attained the age of ten years she shall be handed over to our care and charge, and that her dot be fitting and sufficient to maintain her position.”

“That is all,” said Dame Mathilde.

The secretary rose, and she sat down in his place to sign it.

“See that it is sent to-day — now — at once,” she said. “Pierre can go. Tell him to take the white horse.”

“Yes, dame.” He bowed and turned to go.

“Wait,” she cried, and went to an iron-bound chest that stood against the wall under the old Sieur’s shield and spear. She selected the key from the bunch that hung from her girdle, and raised the lid.

Maitre Paul stood watching her vaguely, as if thinking of something else.

“Hold the lid,” she said impatiently. Her old bigjointed hands looked white against the dark wood, and her black sleeves hung in shadowy pointed folds into the open chest.

The secretary started and shuffled hurriedly across the hall to help her.

The chest was packed with gold and silver goblets, ewers, ivory caskets, and vases of precious stones or enamel. Dame Mathilde chose two cups — one of lapis-lazuli, the other of gold set round with amethysts — then she closed and locked the chest.

“Let Pierre offer these as gifts from myself and Dame Yolande,” she said. “You understand? I wish him to start at once, without losing a moment.”

“Yes, dame,” said Maitre Paul huskily, and cleared his throat.

“Bien !” She gave a short laugh, and went back to her daughter-in-law’s room.

When Dame Yolande heard that the letter had been sent she went into hysterics.

“Sainte Vierge!” cried Barbe. “Don’t disturb yourself, madame. He’ll take the matter into his own hands when the time comes. E-e-eh !” and she tossed her head.

Chapter II

When Matthieu and Huette de Richecour were both ten years old they met for the first time, and on the very evening of their betrothal they quarrelled.

The chateau was filled with guests, and the day was given up to feasting and dancing.

During the banquet the musicians were grouped by the door that led to the kitchen, and as the servants marched past them in single file, carrying the great dishes aloft, they worked their bows busily, with heads bent down to the instruments, playing sweet, thin, monotonous music.

Matthieu and Huette sat side by side, and shared a plate. The silver alms-pot stood in front of the little Sieur, and he put into it a portion of each dish for the poor.

He was a sturdy, dark-haired, dark-skinned child, sumptuously dressed in a crimson and gold brocade cotte-hardie, reaching to just below his knees; his hose were of crimson silk, and his shoes, also crimson, were tipped with gold.

Huette was small, with quantities of red hair, which hung down her back in two long plaits. Her face was short and very vivacious; the under lids of her blue eyes were straight, making the irises appear the shape of half-moons ; her mouth was wide and thin, and the small upper teeth, well shaped and set evenly, prolO truded over her lower lip. She was dressed in bright blue.

Outside the barred, paneless windows the peasants had collected, and were hustling and elbowing each other, squabbling in undertones to get a good view of the feast.

“The guests are going to tilt this afternoon,’' remarked Matthieu.

“You too?” asked Huette.

“Mon Dieu! I wish I were!” he cried.

“Why, you would be upset at the first encounter,” she said scornfully.

Matthieu grew red and opened his lips to retort; then changing his mind, he laughed and began again.

“Dites done!” he said. “Was that pony you were riding this morning your own? It is a beauty. Did you notice mine? His name is Roland; he knows it quite well, and if he hears my voice, even far off, he whinnies. Has yours got a name ? I have named my sword too, like Charlemagne. He called his La Joyeuse, you know. My uncle Raoul — that one with the gray beard and the green houppelande — he gave it to me, and I have called it La Verite.”

“And does your sword whinny too?” asked Huette scornfully.

Matthieu broke into a fit of laughter.

“Whinny!” he cried. “I should think it did. It is magic, you know, and no one could steal it, because it would call out, and then I should kill the thief. And if I drew it now, it would dazzle you so that it would blind you, and if I were killed it would break in two of itself.”

'‘Tiens! You ought to have a vielle and sing at feasts,” said Huette tartly.

Matthieu gave a short, angry laugh, and said no more.

“This evening there is to be a dance. We shall dance together,” he remarked presently.

“Shall !” she cried. “What if I say I won’t?”

“By the saints !” cried Matthieu, “you can say so if you like, but you’ll have to deal with my grandmother if you do.”

Huette glanced towards Dame Mathilde, who was talking to Dame Marguerite de Richecour. At that moment the musicians paused to rest, and in a sudden lulling of the chatter they heard her say emphatically :

“I rule my house in small things, as in great. I look upon vigilance as a duty.”

“To be sure,” said Dame Marguerite placidly. She was stout; her breath was short, and she wheezed as she spoke.

“Is she — is Dame Mathilde — very stern?” asked Huette apprehensively; and Matthieu made a face.

The afternoon was passed in festivities and elaborate amusements, with an interval for repose, and after sunset the dance began.

Torch-bearers stood round the hall, and the red flare made the shadows leap up the walls, shrink into corners, and slide along the floor. Gigantic shadows followed the gestures of the dancers, the nodding of the tall head-dresses, and mocked the fiddlers’ pointed elbows, the turning arm of the vielle-player, the starting fingers of the flutist.

Matthieu led Huette into the centre of the hall, and the talk and laughter paused as everyone turned to watch them.

Both were flushed and serious with excitement. He bowed ; she sank in a profound curtsey, her long blue upper skirt flung over her left arm. He held the tips of her fingers, and with grave precision they pointed their toes, turning, retreating, advancing, curtseying, bowing, translating the mournful droning music into silent, sedate movement.

“They seem made for each other,^’ said Dame Marguerite, breathing heavily and beaming.

“It’s fate ! ha ! ha !” said the Sieur Arnoult, rubbing his hands. “Don’t you agree? Fate! Eh! Fate !”

“To be sure!” murmured Dame Marguerite.

“Fate!” cried Dame Yolande sharply. “Mon Dieu! if you mean to have your own way, and strive till you get it, do you call that Fate?”

Dame Mathilde frowned.

“It is the will of God,” she said.

“To be sure!” wheezed Dame Marguerite.

“Madame,” said Matthieu to Huette, “you are out of time.”

“Oh, indeed !” she cried, tossing her head.

“Madame,” he insisted, “you are dancing out of step.”

“And what if I am !” she cried recklessly. “It’s for you to keep step with me, whatever I choose to do.”

Matthieu gave the short laugh that was like his grandmother’s, and did not reply. Huette glanced at him.

A Romance of Old Wars i 3

and deliberately set herself to perplex him : she hung behind the measure, forestalled a curtsey or a turn, then invented a new step, then again dragged behind him.

Matthieu set his lips and said nothing, but he attentively fitted his steps to hers, disregarding the music. There was an angry light in his dark eyes. As the dance ended he bowed, kissed her lips, and left her still without a word.

A little later in the evening Dame Mathilde approached Huette, who was standing by herself watching the dancers.

“Where is Matthieu?” she asked.

“Over there, madame,” said Huette timidly.

“Why are you not dancing?”

« j

“Are you tired?”

“No, dame, but ”

“But what?”

“He — he doesn’t — he hasn’t ”

Dame Mathilde frowned. She beckoned to Matthieu, who made his way round the hall to her side.

“Don’t you see that Huette is not dancing?” she said sternly.

“Yes, dame.”

“Then, lead her out.”

“No, dame,” he replied, fixing his eyes on Huette, who gasped and grew scarlet.

“What!” exclaimed Dame Mathilde.

“Oh,” cried Huette furiously, “I am sure I don’t want to dance with him.”

“Matthieu,” said Dame Mathilde, ''do what I tell you.”

He did not move.

"Do you hear what I say?”

"I hear.”

"Then, obey.”

"I order you.”

"Madame,” cried Huette, "I — I will not — I will not dance with him now!”

Dame Mathilde’s black eyes flashed; she pressed her lips together with an effort for self-control.

"Matthieu, I will have no scandal made. Huette is your betrothed, and you are to treat her as such.”

He did not reply.

"I — I don’t want to marry him I” cried Huette. "I want to go home.”

"Pray, have you a reason for this behaviour?” asked his grandmother acidly.

"Yes, dame.”

"What is it?”

Huette glanced at him guiltily, her eyes full of anxiety.

"What is it?” repeated Dame Mathilde.

Matthieu looked steadily and meaningly at Huette, who dropped her eyelids ; then he gave a short laugh, and turned on his heel. Dame Mathilde seized him by the shoulder.

"What are you doing? What is the matter?” asked Dame Yolande, coming towards them.

"Is this your doing, madame?” cried Dame Mathilde furiously.

“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Dame Yolande.

The guests began to gather round, listening and questioning. Dame Marguerite approached, breathing heavily.

“What is it?”

“What has happened?”

“Refuses to dance with her!”

“But why?”

“Is that it?” cried Madame Yolande.

“Matthieu, will you obey me?” cried Dame Mathilde.

“I’ll have you whipped,” she cried.

“But why — why won’t he ” panted Dame Mar-

guerite, looking bewildered.

“It’s easy to understand why I” cried Dame Yolande indiscreetly. “Huette danced out of step.”

“Oh, oh!” screamed Huette, bursting into tears. “I didn’t. I — I — take me home ! I won’t marry him ! I want to go home! I won’t marry him! I won’t! I won’t !”

“Maitre Gerard !” cried Dame Mathilde to the tutor.

“Madame.”

She pointed at Matthieu.

“Take him away and whip him.”

Matthieu flushed angrily.

“I’d rather be whipped than dance again with her,” he cried.

“Go! go!” cried Dame Mathilde.

Dame Marguerite looked in dismay from the old chatelaine to Dame Yolande, who was trying not to laugh, and then at Huette, who was sobbing wildly.

“I think,” said Dame Mathilde sternly, “that the dance has overtired Madame Huette. In my opinion it would be well for her to retire to bed.”

Dame Marguerite beamed with relief.

“To be sure,” she wheezed — “to be sure.”

The next morning the guests departed, and in the afternoon the Sieur and Dame de Richecour also left Chatelfors. Huette slipped away, and ran up to the battlements to watch them ride through the village and across the plain. The chateau was built on a spur of the hill which rose high behind it, and was protected to the fore by the two courts of the outer and inner ward ; on each side the fall was sheer. Beyond the great gateway the road descended, winding to the plain.

The sun dazzled her, burning her forehead, and she put up both hands to shade her eyes; her red hair was ruffled, and her long blue sleeves fluttered in the wind. Far below she saw the little company riding along the winding white road. Silence was already between her and them. She knew by the turn of their heads that her father and mother, riding in front of the party, were talking together, but the only sound that reached her was that of the steady lifting and planting of the horses’ hoofs.

Further and further they went into the distance, until, straining her eyes, she could no longer discern anything upon the road ; then she turned, and, blinded with tears, stumbling over her long gown, she found her way along the corridors to her room. She sank on to a low stool, and, bowing her head on to her hands, she .sobbed passionately. And here Barbe found her, half an hour later, and called out in shrill surprise :

“Eh, she is here! The little dame! Holy Virgin! and crying!

“Ah, no, no!” she coaxed. “You mustn’t cry. You are a great lady, and rich, and well married!”

“But I want to go home!” cried Huette suddenly and sharply.

Dame Mathilde was passing the door at that moment, and she paused on the threshold.

“If you do not take care,” she said severely, “you will be sent home.”

Huette looked abashed.

Barbe, curtseying, hinted to the child with little pushes to rise.

“Come,” said Dame Mathilde more gently, “you would do better to accompany me to the chapel, instead of sitting here doing nothing. You must learn to say your hours, my child, and to cultivate a habit of prayer. The chatelaine of Chatelfors cannot fulfil her position worthily unless she is pious and constant in her devotions.”

“Yes, dame,” said Huette submissively; and she rose to obey, feeling impressed by the importance of her future state.

Dame Mathilde led the way along the corridor and down a flight of steps ; she lifted the latch of the heavy, iron-clamped door, and entered the chapel. Offering holy water to Huette, she genuflected stiffly. Then, advancing to the altar steps, she knelt down, her illuminated “Book of Hours” lying open before her on a red velvet cushion.

Huette, awestruck, knelt behind her.

Dame Mathilde began to read aloud. Her voice was low and measured. She knelt absolutely still, her black draperies lying in straight folds about her rigid figure.

Presently she turned her pale wrinkled face towards the child.

“Come here,” she said.

Huette gathered up her blue skirt, and, scrambling to her feet, went to kneel beside her.

“Say the responses after me,” said Dame Mathilde.

The child glanced at her with apprehension, and nervously twisted her fingers together as she hesitated over the Latin words.

From that day Huette's training as a chatelaine began.

She was brought up to feel that her only claim to consideration was as mistress of Chatelfors and as Matthieu’s wife. The only ambition allowed her was that of being worthy to bear Matthieu’s name. He was the centre of all interest ; it was taken for granted that she was to adore him as his mother and grandmother adored him, that she was to yield to him absolutely, and ask for nothing in return but the privilege of some day being his wife. At first she rebelled. She was jealous, and she struggled against the surrender demanded of her, passionately assert- , ing that she was as good as he was. Their daily lives in the chateau were very separate, but whenever they came into contact she would meet him with bitter, scornful words, futilely trying to hurt in return for her own hurt. However, the mere fact that Matthieu’s all-importance was taken as a matter of course vanquished her, and by degrees her jealousy took another form.

Matthieu was indifferent to her. For days after the dance he had not forgiven her, and by the time his anger had worn itself out they had got into the habit of quarrelling. He did not dislike her, but her shrewishness was uncongenial, and he avoided her. Huette now combated his indifference with the same sore jealousy with which she had disputed his superiority. It stung her to the same uncontrollable tartness of speech, which only bored him, while she would repent her words as fiercely as she had spoken them. She would blame herself bitterly and excuse him, then excuse herself and blame him.

“It’s his fault. He treats me as if I were nothing! I would rather he hated me,” she would think.

“It is small wonder that Matthieu has nothing to say to you,” remarked Dame Yolande one day, as she sat cuddling her monkey and stroking its wrinkled forehead with one finger. “Why don’t you take trouble to please him?”

Huette was sitting beside her, spinning. She snapped her thread, and pushed her wheel from her with a clatter.

“I am sure I don’t care whether he has anything to say to me or not!” she cried passionately.

“Don’t be a little fool!” said Dame Yolande, and* she stopped stroking the monkey to slap Huctte’s cheek.

“Oh, saints preserve us!” she added impatiently. “For the love of Heaven, don’t cry! Your eyes will be unsightly for the rest of the day, and you will ruin your complexion !”

“You must learn to bridle your tongue, Huette,” said Dame Mathilde gravely, raising her head and letting her embroidery fall on to her lap.

“I want to go home !” cried Huette, clenching her fists.

“If you are sent home,’' remarked Dame Mathilde, “you will be sorry for it all your life. It is a humiliation that cannot be forgotten”; and Huette hung her head.

As she spoke Dame Yolande suddenly flung the monkey on to the floor, started up, and swept from the room. Huette gazed after her in astonishment, and then glanced inquiringly at Dame Mathilde.

“Come here,” said the old chatelaine. “Kneel down and put out your tongue.”

Huette obeyed, and Dame Mathilde pricked it with her needle, and then sent her crying to the chapel.

Chapter III

When Matthieii reached the age of fourteen he was sent to serve as esquire in the household of his fuedal lord, the Count de Villerou.

Till then he remained at Chatelfors, domineering over his mother and the servants, fighting and fraternizing with the village boys, squabbling with Huette, and defying his grandmother and his tutor.

He was impressionable, impetuous, and passionately self-willed.

“He seems to think that life is all romance, and that the world was made for him to do as he likes with,” grumbled the Sieur Nicol de Tournay, who was visiting the chateau. He was the next heir should Matthieu not live, and managed the estate during the Sieur’s minority, spending a few weeks at the chateau from time to time.

He was a heavily-built, keen-eyed man, with long flat cheeks and a protruding lower lip, divided across the centre by a dry crack.

He was sitting at the top of the table; Dame Mathilde and Dame Yolande, on either side of him, faced each other, and Maitre Paul, the secretary, at the farther end was gathering up the accounts which they had been balancing.

“Matthieu is too much master here,” continued the Sieur. “It is high time that he should go away and submit to a little discipline. He is glad to go, too.”

“He is restless/’ said Dame Mathilde.

“Well, he is growing up/’ remarked the Sieur. “He wants to stretch his limbs. That’s natural enough.”

“But he’s not so very wilful !” cried Dame Yolande. “He’s high-spirited, but there’s no harm in that. And he is very chivalrous. He does quarrel with Huette, but I am sure I don’t wonder, for her tongue is sharp enough to provoke a saint.”

Dame Mathilde was regarding the Sieur de Tournay thoughtfully.

“Yes,” she said, ignoring Dame Yolande, “Matthieu is growing up.”

Dame Yolande glanced at her sharply.

“The marriage might take place before he goes,” said the old chatelaine, and she sent for Matthieu.

“How like his father!” she thought as the boy entered.

“He is charming!” murmured Dame Yolande, looking at him with affectionate satisfaction.

Matthieu was very tall and slim, with straight black hair and twinkling black eyes; his mouth was wide and unconsciously pathetic, his jaw square and delicate. He was sumptuously dressed in a flowered brocade. Approaching the table, he stood with his hand resting upon it.

“You sent for me, dame?”

As he spoke a sudden smile transformed his pathetic lips with a charm all the more irresistible because it was unexpected.

“Yes, Matthieu,” said Dame Mathilde. “We have been talking of your departure, and we have thought

It would be well to delay it a little, so that your marriage might take place before you leave us.”

The smile vanished from Matthieu’s face, and he did not reply at once.

“Eh, dame,” he said presently, “surely it will be time enough when I come back.”

Dame Yolande gave a little laugh, which brought a faint blush to the old chatelaine’s cheeks.

“Why not now?” said Dame Mathilde sharply. “You are both growing up, and I see no reason against it.”

“It would delay my departure,” he said.

“That is no reason.”

“It is to me,” he cried angrily.

“It is a mere child’s excuse,” she said. “Absurd!”