"Jacques, I imagine, was so pleased that he could scarcely manage to light a new fire-arrow and draw the bow. 'Into a window,' Alfred murmured, 'any window. .' And he indicated with his arm the rows of open window frames on both floors of the house.
" 'Son of a harlot!' Cecile cried, and this time when he snatched the bow he took a cut at Alfred, who'd surely had his skull cracked had he not sprung back. The company dispersed, and Alfred was birched that night for the first time since, on his advice, the ménage Edouard had abandoned Paris. During the next week all the first-floor windows were bricked in, and those on the second floor were reduced to shuttered embrasures like cannon-ports. The absence of light and air made living downstairs intolerable, but so secure was Cecile in his fortress that he was actually smiling when he assembled everyone for the third time to witness his triumph over his servant.
" 'Have I left aught undone?'
" 'Naught, Monsieur, that I can imagine.'
" 'Ha, did you hear, mes amis? Monsieur Alfred hath assured me I am safe. I think he will detain you no longer. Make ready to depart.'
" 'Ah, Monsieur, I shouldn't dismiss them.'
"Cecile squeezed the valet's arm. 'Oh, you shouldn't, shouldn't you? And may your poor master hear the reason?'
" 'When the workmen are gone, Monsieur, you will have only your servants and yourself to defend the house: four men to a door. But the salvage, if he hath a fancy to attack us, will attack from every side — '
" 'Flog this man!' Cecile cried, and the fellow was dragged off by Jacques and the others. Then the overseer of the workmen enquired whether his men were free to go. 'Idiot!' Cecile thundered. 'Close up the doorways, all save one, and fix two stout crossbars to that!'
"In a day the final alterations were completed, and without risking another consultation with Alfred, Cecile sent the workmen back to St. Mary's City, where they doubtless still relate the tale of their curious labors. As soon as they were gone Monsieur entered his castle, inspected the three bricked-up doorways to make certain no cracks were left unsealed, swung the two great crossbars to and fro upon their pivots to assure himself of their adequacy, and ascended the dark stairs to his sitting-room — all the habitable rooms were perforce upstairs; only Cecile slept below, away from the window slits. He summoned Alfred to him.
" 'Is it not a pleasant thing to be altogether secure from the onslaughts of the salvage?'
"Alfred held his peace.
" 'Damn you, sir; speak up! Do we not rest here in a fortress in no way vulnerable?'
"Alfred went to one of the apertures and surveyed the scene below.
" 'Answer me! If there is a gap in my defenses (which of course there is not), I command you to tell me, or by our Lord I'll have you flayed alive!'
"Alfred was afraid to turn from the window, but he said, 'There is one, Monsieur.'
"Cecile sprang from his chair. 'Then tell me!'
" 'I should rather not, Monsieur, for the reason that it is irremediable."
" 'You have gone mad!' Monsieur Edouard whispered. 'Nay, I see it! You say these things to torment me; to make me spend myself into poverty! I see the plot, sir!' He demanded again to be told, but Alfred durst not speak. At that moment there was a sound at the front door: someone entered, and in the room the two men heard the crossbars swing into place and soft footsteps ascend the stair. Monsieur Edouard came near to swooning.
" 'The salvages are in the house! How shall we escape?'
"Alfred's expression was apologetic. 'Where many exits are,' he said, 'are many entrances, Monsieur. Where but one entrance is, there is no exit.'
"Then the voice of Madame Edouard came meekly from the stair. 'Cecile? Would you please have Alfred attend those crossbars? I find them difficult to close.'
"Her husband made no reply, and Sophie, who was used to such rebuffs, presently returned downstairs. Alfred, meanwhile, had gone once more to the embrasure, and now Monsieur Edouard, his heart still pounding, crept up behind and caught him under the shoulders. The servant was old and frail; the master middle-aged and robust: albeit the opening was none too large, Cecile soon had his valet squeezed through it, and Alfred's head was entirely smashed upon the new brick terrace below.
" 'He fell,' Cecile announced to the household shortly after, and no one questioned bun. That night Monsieur had his bedding shifted from the first floor up into the attic, under the rafters, where despite the poor ventilation he retired content beside the great hewn piers. Below, where the household slumbered, the single door was fastened with its double crossbars. Jacques, the new valet, assured his master that he was in every way invulnerable — and Cecile slept soundly."
Henrietta delivered the final sentence with her eyes closed and her voice sardonically hushed. There was a pause, and then Anna cried, "Is that the end, Henrietta?"
The girl pretended surprise. "Why of course it is! That is, the tale ends there — what could Homer add to't? As for the history, 'tis curious enough, but it hath the nature of an anticlimax. The Castle burned to the ground not long after, from the inside out, and my grandfather and grandmother burned with it. Maman was saved by Jacques, that some folk guessed had set the fire; he raised her in his own house till she married Papa, and pretended to be her uncle till the day he died. Don't you think a castle should last longer than that?"
The three listeners praised both the story itself and Henrietta's rendering of it; Ebenezer, in particular, was touched by her combination of spirit, beauty, and wit, and was surprised to discover among his feelings a certain envy for McEvoy.
" 'Twas a tale well told," he said, "and nicely pointed as one of Aesop's. Throw wide the doors and let the pirates in!" Henrietta reminded him of his promise to surpass it, and the poet's tone grew warm and serious. " 'Tis a chore that gives me pleasure, for it brings you closer to Anna and me than ever friendship could."
"Marry, then out with't!" Anna too regarded him wonderingly.
" 'Tis as rare and happy a turn as e'er the dice of Chance have thrown," Ebenezer said. "Your mother, Henrietta, is the same our father once saved from drowning in the Choptank! She — she was our wet nurse after Mother died a-bearing me and her own child died a-bearing, and till the fourth year of our life, when Father fetched us back to England, she was as much to us as any mother could be!" He finished his revelation with tears in his eyes.
"Dear Heav'n!" Mary whispered. "Is that true?" Anna and Henrietta clasped hands and regarded each other with astonishment.
Ebenezer nodded. "Aye, 'tis true, and haply it sheds some light upon Mrs. Russecks's shifting attitudes toward us. Father told me the story just before I left: Roxanne's uncle — that is to say, this rascal Jacques — must have been a man of Sir Harry's temper, inasmuch as he guarded her in the way Henrietta hath been guarded, and when Nature slipped through his defenses, as is her wont, he turned Roxanne out to starve." He related quickly what Andrew had told him of the rescue and Roxanne's unusual indenture-terms. "There were some lying rumors after Mother died that Roxanne had become his mistress," he concluded. "In part, 'twas to give these slanders the lie he left Cooke's Point for London. I recall his saying that Roxanne's 'uncle' had approached him with apologies and begged for her to come back to him; he was supposed to have arranged a good match for her."
Henrietta winced. "With Papa!" Mary shook her head and sighed.
"Aye," the poet affirmed. "This Jacques, evidently, was indebted to Harry Russecks and hoped thus to settle his obligations. To be sure, Roxanne had no need to consent; but she told me not long since that she had come to loathe all men, and wed Sir Harry in effect to mortify her sex and gratify this loathing. She was much attached to Anna and me, and I daresay she felt abandoned, in a sense. ."