What, he asked himself, sitting there, his eyes upon the eternal snows of the barrier that shut out his past, was there left in him to awaken love in such a woman as Madame de Chantenac? Was it that his tribulations stirred her pity, or that the fame of him which rang through Europe shed upon his withering frame some of the transfiguring radiance of romance?
It marked, indeed, the change in him that he should pause to question, whose erstwhile habit had been blindly to accept the good things tossed by Fortune into his lap. But question he did, pondering that parting taunt of hers to which, for emphasis, she had given an odd redundancy—"You a Spaniard of Spain!" Could her meaning have been plainer? Was not a Spaniard proverbially as quick to love as to jealousy? Was not Spain, that scented land of warmth and colour, of cruelty and blood, of throbbing lutes under lattices ajar, of mitred sinners doing public penance, that land where lust and piety went hand in hand, where passion and penitence lay down together—was not Spain the land of love's most fruitful growth? And was not a Spaniard the very hierophant of love?
His thoughts swung with sudden yearning to his wife Juana and their children, held in brutal captivity by Philip, who sought to slake upon them some of the vindictiveness from which their husband and father had at last escaped. Not that Antonio Perez observed marital fidelity more closely than any other Spaniard of his time, or of any time. But Antonio Perez was growing old, older than he thought, older than his years. He knew it. Madame de Chantenac had proved it to him.
She had reproached him with never coming to see her at Chantenac, neglecting to return the too assiduous visits that she paid him here at Pau.
"You are very beautiful, madame, and the world is very foul," he had excused himself. "Believe one who knows the world, to his bitter cost. Tongues will wag."
"And your Spanish pride will not suffer that clods may talk of you?"
"I am thinking of you, madame."
"Of me?" she had answered. "Why, of me they talk already—talk their fill. I must pretend blindness to the leering eyes that watch me each time I come to Pau; feign unconsciousness of the impertinent glances of the captain of the castle there as I ride in."
"Then why do you come?" he had asked point-blank. But before her sudden change of countenance he had been quick to add: "Oh, madame, I am full conscious of the charity that brings you, and I am deeply, deeply grateful; but—"
"Charity?" she had interrupted sharply, on a laugh that was self-mocking. "Charity?"
"What else, madame?"
"Ask yourself," she had answered, reddening and averting her face from his questioning eyes.
"Madame," he had faltered, "I dare not."
"Dare not?"
"Madame, how should I? I am an old man, broken by sickness, disheartened by misfortune, daunted by tribulation—a mere husk cast aside by Fortune, whilst you are lovely as one of the angels about the Throne of Heaven."
She had looked into the haggard face, into the scars of suffering that seared it, and she had answered gently: "Tomorrow you shall come to me at Chantenac, my friend."
"I am a Spaniard, for whom to-morrow never comes."
"But it will this time. To-morrow I shall expect you."
He looked up at her sitting her great black horse beside which he had been pacing.
"Better not, madame! Better not!" he had said.
And then he saw the eyes that had been tender grow charged with scorn; then came her angry taunt:
"You a Spaniard of Spain! I do not believe it!"
Oh, there was no doubt that he had angered her. Women of her temperament are quick to anger as to every emotion. But he had not wished to anger her. God knows it was never the way of Antonio Perez to anger lovely women—at least not in this fashion. And it was an ill return for her gentleness and attention to himself. Considering this as he sat there now, he resolved that he must make amends—the only amends it was possible to make.
An hour later, in one of the regal rooms of the castle, where he enjoyed the hospitality of King Henri IV of France and Navarre, he announced to that most faithful equerry, Gil de Mesa, his intention of riding to Chantenac to-morrow.
"Is it prudent?" quoth Mesa, frowning.
"Most imprudent," answered Don Antonio. "That is why I go."
And on the morrow he went, escorted by a single groom. Gil de Mesa had begged at first to be allowed to accompany him. But for Gil he had other work, of which the instructions he left were very full. The distance was short—three miles along the Gave de Pau—and Don Antonio covered it on a gently ambling mule, such as might have been bred to bear some aged dignitary of Holy Church.
The lords of Chantenac were as noble, as proud, and as poor as most great lords of Bearn. Their lineage was long, their rent-rolls short. And the last marquis had suffered more from this dual complaint than any of his forbears, and he had not at all improved matters by a certain habit of gaming contracted in youth. The chateau bore abundant signs of it. It was a burnt red pile standing four-square on a little eminence, about the base of which the river went winding turbulently; it was turreted at each of its four angles, imposing in its way, but in a sad state of dilapidation and disrepair.