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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14219 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/001.jpg" width="45%" alt=""
title="" />
<br /></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="figcenter"><a name="003.jpg"></a> <a href=
"images/003.jpg"><img src="images/003.jpg" width="45%" alt=""
title="" /></a><br />
<b>THE FLORENTINES IN THE HÔTEL DE MAYENNE</b>
<br /></div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/004.png" width="45%" alt=""
title="" />
<br /></div>
<h1>THE HELMET OF NAVARRE</h1>
<h3>ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANDRÉ CASTAIGNE</h3>
<h4>THE CENTURY CO.</h4>
<h5>NEW YORK 1901</h5>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>TO MY MOTHER</h2>
<div class="center">Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst
the ranks of war,<br />
And be your oriflamme to-day the Helmet of Navarre.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 12em;">LORD MACAULAY'S
"IVRY."</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<br /></div>
<div class="center">
<table summary="">
<tr>
<td align="right">CHAPTER</td>
<td> </td>
<td align="right">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#I">I</a></td>
<td> <a href="#I">A FLASH OF LIGHTNING</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#I">3</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#II">II</a></td>
<td> <a href="#II">AT THE AMOUR DE DIEU</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#II">9</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#III">III</a></td>
<td> <a href="#III">M. LE DUC IS WELL GUARDED</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#III">16</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#IV">IV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#IV">THE THREE MEN IN THE WINDOW</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#IV">27</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#V">V</a></td>
<td> <a href="#V">RAPIERS AND A VOW</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#V">37</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#VI">VI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#VI">A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#VI">51</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#VII">VII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#VII">A DIVIDED DUTY</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#VII">62</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#VIII">VIII</a></td>
<td> <a href=
"#VIII">CHARLES-ANDRÉ-ÉTIENNE-MARIE</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#VIII">74</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#IX">IX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#IX">THE HONOUR OF ST. QUENTIN</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#IX">85</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#X">X</a></td>
<td> <a href="#X">LUCAS AND "LE GAUCHER"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#X">96</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XI">XI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XI">VIGO</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XI">107</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XII">XII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XII">THE COMTE DE MAR</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XII">120</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XIII">XIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XIII">MADEMOISELLE</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XIII">134</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XIV">XIV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XIV">IN THE ORATORY</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XIV">153</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XV">XV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XV">MY LORD MAYENNE</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XV">167</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XVI">XVI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XVI">MAYENNE'S WARD</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XVI">186</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XVII">XVII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XVII">"I'LL WIN MY LADY!"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XVII">203</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XVIII">XVIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XVIII">TO THE BASTILLE</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XVIII">222</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XIX">XIX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XIX">TO THE HÔTEL DE
LORRAINE</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XIX">241</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XX">XX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XX">"ON GUARD, MONSIEUR"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XX">251</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXI">XXI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXI">A CHANCE ENCOUNTER</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXI">266</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXII">XXII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXII">THE SIGNET OF THE KING</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXII">278</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXIII">XXIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXIII">THE CHEVALIER OF THE
TOURNELLES</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXIII">296</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXIV">XXIV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXIV">THE FLORENTINES</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXIV">319</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXV">XXV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXV">A DOUBLE MASQUERADE</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXV">336</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXVI">XXVI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXVI">WITHIN THE SPIDER'S WEB</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXVI">362</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXVII">XXVII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXVII">THE COUNTERSIGN</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXVII">379</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXVIII">XXVIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXVIII">ST. DENIS—AND
NAVARRE!</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXVIII">402</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXIX">XXIX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXIX">THE TWO DUKES</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXIX">423</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXX">XXX</a></td>
<td><a href="#XXX">MY YOUNG LORD SETTLES SCORES WITH TWO FOES AT
ONCE</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXX">440</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXXI">XXXI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#XXXI">"THE VERY PATTERN OF A
KING"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#XXXI">461</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
<div class="center">
<table summary="">
<tr>
<td> </td>
<td align="right">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#003.jpg">THE FLORENTINES IN THE HÔTEL DE
MAYENNE</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#003.jpg"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#098.jpg">"WITH A CRY MONSIEUR SPRANG TOWARD
ME"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#098.jpg">87</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#128.jpg">"IN A FLASH HE WAS OUT OF THEIR GRASP,
FLYING DOWN THE ALLEY"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#128.jpg">117</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#160.jpg">"I DO NOT FORGIVE HIS DESPATCHING ME HIS
HORSE-BOY"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#160.jpg">149</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#180.jpg">MLLE. DE MONTLUC AND FÉLIX BROUX IN
THE ORATORY</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#180.jpg">169</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#216.jpg">"SORRY TO DISTURB MONSIEUR, BUT THE HORSES
MUST BE FED"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#216.jpg">205</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#248.jpg">"HE WAS DEPOSITED IN THE BIG BLACK
COACH"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#248.jpg">237</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#272.jpg">"WE CLIMBED OUT INTO A SILK-MERCER'S
SHOP"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#272.jpg">261</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#324.jpg">AT THE "BONNE FEMME"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#324.jpg">313</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#408.jpg">"IT DESOLATES ME TO HEAR OF HER
EXTREMITY"</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#408.jpg">397</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#422.jpg">ON THE WAY TO ST. DENIS</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#422.jpg">411</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#478.jpg">THE MEETING</a></td>
<td align="right"><a href="#478.jpg">467</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>THE HELMET OF NAVARRE.</h2>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<img src="images/014.png" width="60%" alt="" title="" />
<br /></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2>
<h3><i>A flash of lightning.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-a.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>t the stair-foot the landlord stopped me. "Here, lad, take a
candle. The stairs are dark, and, since I like your looks, I would
not have you break your neck."</p>
<p>"And give the house a bad name," I said.</p>
<p>"No fear of that; my house has a good name. There is no fairer
inn in all Paris. And your chamber is a good chamber, though you
will have larger, doubtless, when you are Minister of Finance."</p>
<p>This raised a laugh among the tavern idlers, for I had been
bragging a bit of my prospects. I retorted:</p>
<p>"When I am, Maître Jacques, look out for a rise in your
taxes."</p>
<p>The laugh was turned on mine host, and I retired with the
honours of that encounter. And though the stairs were the steepest
I ever climbed, I had the breath and the spirit to whistle all the
way up. What mattered it that already I ached in every bone, that
the stair was long and my bed but a heap of straw in the garret of
a mean inn in a poor quarter? I was in Paris, the city of my
dreams!</p>
<p>I am a Broux of St. Quentin. The great world has never heard of
the Broux? No matter; they have existed these hundreds of years,
Masters of the Forest, and faithful servants of the dukes of St.
Quentin. The great world has heard of the St. Quentins? I warrant
you! As loudly as it has of Sully and Villeroi, Trémouille
and Biron. That is enough for the Broux.</p>
<p>I was brought up to worship the saints and M. le Duc, and I
loved and revered them alike, by faith, for M. le Duc, at court,
seemed as far away from us as the saints in heaven. But the year
after King Henry III was murdered, Monsieur came to live on his
estate, to make high and low love him for himself.</p>
<p>In that bloody time, when the King of Navarre and the two
Leagues were tearing our poor France asunder, M. le Duc found
himself between the devil and the deep sea. He was no friend to the
League; for years he had stood between the king, his master, and
the machinations of the Guises. On the other hand, he was no friend
to the Huguenots. "To seat a heretic on the throne of France were
to deny God," he said. Therefore he came home to St. Quentin, where
he abode in quiet for some three years, to the great wonderment of
all the world.</p>
<p>Had he been a cautious man, a man who looked a long way ahead,
his compeers would have understood readily enough that he was
waiting to see how the cat would jump, taking no part in the
quarrel lest he should mix with the losing side. But this theory
jibed so ill with Monsieur's character that not even his worst
detractor could accept it. For he was known to all as a
hotspur—a man who acted quickly and seldom counted the cost.
Therefore his present conduct was a riddle, nor could any of the
emissaries from King or League, who came from time to time to
enlist his aid and went away without it, read the answer. The
puzzle was too deep for them. Yet it was only this: to Monsieur,
honour was more than a pretty word. If he could not find his cause
honest, he would not draw his sword, though all the curs in the
land called him coward.</p>
<p>Thus he stayed alone in the château for a long, irksome
three years. Monsieur was not of a reflective mind, content to
stand aside and watch while other men fought out great issues. It
was a weary procession of days to him. His only son, a lad a few
years older than I, shared none of his father's scruples and
refused point-blank to follow him into exile. He remained in Paris,
where they knew how to be gay in spite of sieges. Therefore I, the
Forester's son, whom Monsieur took for a page, had a chance to come
closer to my lord and be more to him than a mere servant, and I
loved him as the dogs did. Aye, and admired him for a fortitude
almost more than human, in that he could hold himself passive here
in farthest Picardie, whilst in Normandie and Île de France
battles raged and towns fell and captains won glory.</p>
<p>At length, in the opening of the year 1593, M. le Duc began to
have a frequent visitor, a gentleman in no wise remarkable save for
that he was accorded long interviews with Monsieur. After these
visits my lord was always in great spirits, putting on frisky airs,
like a stallion when he is led out of the stable. I looked for
something to happen, and it was no surprise to me when M. le Duc
announced one day, quite without warning, that he was done with St.
Quentin and would be off in the morning for Mantes. I was in the
seventh heaven of joy when he added that he should take me with
him. I knew the King of Navarre was at Mantes—at last we were
going to make history! There was no bound to my golden dreams, no
limit to my future.</p>
<p>But my house of cards suffered a rude tumble, and by no hand but
my father's. He came to Monsieur, and, presuming on an old
servitor's privilege, begged him to leave me at home.</p>
<p>"I have lost two sons in Monsieur's service," he said: "Jean,
hunting in this forest, and Blaise, in the fray at Blois. I have
never grudged them to Monsieur. But Félix is all I have
left."</p>
<p>Thus it came about that I was left behind, hidden in the
hay-loft, when my duke rode away. I could not watch his going.</p>
<p>Though the days passed drearily, yet they passed. Time does
pass, at length, even when one is young. It was July. The King of
Navarre had moved up to St. Denis, in his siege of Paris, but most
folk thought he would never win the city, the hotbed of the League.
Of M. le Duc we heard no word till, one night, a chance traveller,
putting up at the inn in the village, told a startling tale. The
Duke of St. Quentin, though known to have been at Mantes and
strongly suspected of espousing Navarre's cause, had ridden calmly
into Paris and opened his hôtel! It was madness—madness
sheer and stark. Thus far his religion had saved him, yet any day
he might fall under the swords of the Leaguers.</p>
<p>My father came, after hearing this tale, to where I was lying on
the grass, the warm summer night, thinking hard thoughts of him for
keeping me at home and spoiling my chances in life. He gave me
straightway the whole of the story. Long before it was over I had
sprung to my feet.</p>
<p>"Do you still wish to join M. le Duc?" he said.</p>
<p>"Father!" was all I could gasp.</p>
<p>"Then you shall go," he answered. That was not bad for an old
man who had lost two sons for Monsieur!</p>
<p>I set out in the morning, light of baggage, purse, and heart. I
can tell naught of the journey, for I heeded only that at the end
of it lay Paris. I reached the city one day at sundown, and entered
without a passport at the St. Denis gate, the warders being hardly
so strict as Mayenne supposed. I was dusty, foot-sore, and hungry,
in no guise to present myself before Monsieur; wherefore I went no
farther that night than the inn of the Amour de Dieu, in the Rue
des Coupejarrets.</p>
<p>Far below my garret window lay the street—a trench between
the high houses. Scarce eight feet off loomed the dark wall of the
house opposite. To me, fresh from the wide woods of St. Quentin, it
seemed the desire of Paris folk to outhuddle in closeness the
rabbits in a warren. So ingenious were they at contriving to waste
no inch of open space that the houses, standing at the base but a
scant street's width apart, ever jutted out farther at each story
till they looked to be fairly toppling together. I could see into
the windows up and down the way; see the people move about within;
hear opposite neighbours call to each other. But across from my
aery were no lights and no people, for that house was shuttered
tight from attic to cellar, its dark front as expressionless as a
blind face. I marvelled how it came to stand empty in that teeming
quarter.</p>
<p>Too tired, however, to wonder long, I blew out the candle, and
was asleep before I could shut my eyes.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Crash! Crash! Crash!</p>
<p>I sprang out of bed in a panic, thinking Henry of Navarre was
bombarding Paris. Then, being fully roused, I perceived that the
noise was thunder.</p>
<p>From the window I peered into floods of rain. The peals died
away. Suddenly came a terrific lightning-flash, and I cried out in
astonishment. For the shutter opposite was open, and I had a vivid
vision of three men in the window.</p>
<p>Then all was dark again, and the thunder shook the roof.</p>
<p>I stood straining my eyes into the night, waiting for the next
flash. When it came it showed me the window barred as before. Flash
followed flash; I winked the rain from my eyes and peered in vain.
The shutter remained closed as if it had never been opened. Sleep
rolled over me in a great wave as I groped my way back to bed.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2>
<h3><i>At the Amour de Dieu.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-w.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>hen I woke in the morning, the sun was shining broadly into the
room, glinting in the little pools of water on the floor. I stared
at them, sleepy-eyed, till recollection came to me of the
thunder-storm and the open shutter and the three men. I jumped up
and ran to the window. The shutters opposite were closed; the house
just as I had seen it first, save for the long streaks of wet down
the wall. The street below was one vast puddle. At all events, the
storm was no dream, as I half believed the vision to be.</p>
<p>I dressed speedily and went down-stairs. The inn-room was
deserted save for Maître Jacques, who, with heat, demanded of
me whether I took myself for a prince, that I lay in bed till all
decent folk had been hours about their business, and then expected
breakfast. However, he brought me a meal, and I made no complaint
that it was a poor one.</p>
<p>"You have strange neighbours in the house opposite," said I.</p>
<p>He started, and the thin wine he was setting before me splashed
over on the table.</p>
<p>"What neighbours?"</p>
<p>"Why, they who close their shutters when other folks would keep
them open, and open them when others keep them shut," I said
airily. "Last night I saw three men in the window opposite
mine."</p>
<p>He laughed.</p>
<p>"Aha, my lad, your head is not used to our Paris wines. That is
how you came to see visions."</p>
<p>"Nonsense," I cried, nettled. "Your wine is too well watered for
that, let me tell you, Maître Jacques."</p>
<p>"Then you dreamed it," he said huffily. "The proof is that no
one has lived in that house these twenty years."</p>
<p>Now, I had plenty to trouble about without troubling my head
over night-hawks, but I was vexed with him for putting me off. So,
with a fine conceit of my own shrewdness, I said:</p>
<p>"If it was only a dream, how came you to spill the wine?"</p>
<p>He gave me a keen glance, and then, with a look round to see
that no one was by, leaned across the table, up to me.</p>
<p>"You are sharp as a gimlet," said he. "I see I may as well tell
you first as last. Marry, an you will have it, the place is
haunted."</p>
<p>"Holy Virgin!" I cried, crossing myself.</p>
<p>"Aye. Twenty years ago, in the great massacre—you know
naught of that: you were not born, I take it, and, besides, are a
country boy. But I was here, and I know. A man dared not stir out
of doors that dark day. The gutters ran blood."</p>
<p>"And that house—what happened in that house?"</p>
<p>"Why, it was the house of a Huguenot gentleman, M. de
Béthune," he answered, bringing out the name hesitatingly in
a low voice. "They were all put to the sword—the whole
household. It was Guise's work. The Duc de Guise sat on his white
horse, in this very street here, while it was going on. Parbleu!
that was a day."</p>
<p>"Mon dieu! yes."</p>
<p>"Well, that is an old story now," he resumed in a different
tone. "One-and-twenty years ago, that was. Such things don't happen
now. But the people, they have not forgotten; they will not go near
that house. No one will live there."</p>
<p>"And have others seen as well as I?"</p>
<p>"So they say. But I'll not let it be talked of on my premises.
Folk might get to think them too near the haunted house. 'Tis
another matter with you, though, since you have had the
vision."</p>
<p>"There were three men," I said, "young men, in sombre
dress—"</p>
<p>"M. de Béthune and his cousins. What further? Did you
hear shrieks?"</p>
<p>"There was naught further," I said, shuddering. "I saw them for
the space of a lightning-flash, plain as I see you. The next minute
the shutters were closed again."</p>
<p>"'Tis a marvel," he answered gravely. "But I know what has
disturbed them in their graves, the heretics! It is that they have
lost their leader."</p>
<p>I stared at him blankly, and he added:</p>
<p>"Their Henry of Navarre."</p>
<p>"But he is not lost. There has been no battle."</p>
<p>"Lost to them," said Maître Jacques, "when he turns
Catholic."</p>
<p>"Oh!" I cried.</p>
<p>"Oh!" he mocked. "You come from the country; you don't know
these things."</p>
<p>"But the King of Navarre is too stiff-necked a heretic!"</p>
<p>"Bah! Time bends the stiffest neck. Tell me this: for what do
the learned doctors sit in council at Mantes?"</p>
<p>"Oh," said I, bewildered, "you tell me news, Maître
Jacques."</p>
<p>"If Henry of Navarre be not a Catholic before the month is out,
spit me on my own jack," he answered, eying me rather keenly as he
added:</p>
<p>"It should be welcome news to you."</p>
<p>Welcome was it; it made plain the reason Monsieur's change of
base. Yet it was my duty to be discreet.</p>
<p>"I am glad to hear of any heretic coming to the faith," I
said.</p>
<p>"Pshaw!" he cried. "To the devil with pretences! 'Tis an open
secret that your patron has gone over to Navarre."</p>
<p>"I know naught of it."</p>
<p>"Well, pardieu! my Lord Mayenne does, then. If when he came to
Paris M. de St. Quentin counted that the League would not know his
parleyings, he was a fool."</p>
<p>"His parleyings?" I echoed feebly.</p>
<p>"Aye, the boy in the street knows he has been with Navarre. For,
mark you, all France has been wondering these many months where St.
Quentin was coming out. His movements do not go unnoted like a
yokel's. But, i' faith, he is not dull; he understands that well
enough. Nay, 'tis my belief he came into the city in pure
effrontery to show them how much he dared. He is a bold blade, your
duke. And, mon dieu! it had its effect. For the Leaguers have been
so agape with astonishment ever since that they have not raised a
finger against him."</p>
<p>"Yet you do not think him safe?"</p>
<p>"Safe, say you? Safe! Pardieu! if you walked into a cage of
lions, and they did not in the first instant eat you, would you
therefore feel safe? He was stark mad to come to Paris. There is no
man the League hates more, now they know they have lost him, and no
man they can afford so ill to spare to King Henry. A great Catholic
noble, he would be meat and drink to the Béarnais. He was
mad to come here."</p>
<p>"And yet nothing has happened to him."</p>
<p>"Verily, fortune favours the brave. No, nothing has
happened—yet. But I tell you true, Félix, I had rather
be the poor innkeeper of the Amour de Dieu than stand in M. de St.
Quentin's shoes."</p>
<p>"I was talking with the men here last night," I said. "There was
not one but had a good word for Monsieur."</p>
<p>"Aye, so they have. They like his pluck. And if the League kills
him it is quite on the cards that the people will rise up and make
the town lively. But that will not profit M. de St. Quentin if he
is dead."</p>
<p>I would not be dampened, though, by an old croaker.</p>
<p>"Nay, maître, if the people are with him, the League will
not dare—"</p>
<p>"There you fool yourself, my springald. If there is one thing
which the nobles of the League neither know nor care about it is
what the people think. They sit wrangling over their French League
and their Spanish League, their kings and their princesses, and
what this lord does and that lord threatens, and they give no heed
at all to us—us, the people. But they will find out their
mistake. Some day they will be taught that the nobles are not all
of France. There will come a reckoning when more blood will flow in
Paris than ever flowed on St. Bartholomew's day. They think we are
chained down, do they? Pardieu! there will come a day!"</p>
<p>I scarcely knew the man; his face was flushed, his eyes
sparkling as if they saw more than the common room and mean street.
But as I stared the glow faded, and he said in a lower tone:</p>
<p>"At least, it will happen unless Henry of Navarre comes to save
us from it. He is a good fellow, this Navarre."</p>
<p>"They say he can never enter Paris."</p>
<p>"They say lies. Let him but leave his heresies behind him and he
can enter Paris to-morrow."</p>
<p>"Mayenne does not think so."</p>
<p>"No; but Mayenne knows little of what goes on. He does not keep
an inn in the Rue Coupejarrets."</p>
<p>He stated the fact so gravely that I had to laugh.</p>
<p>"Laugh if you like; but I tell you, Félix Broux, my
lord's council-chamber is not the only place where they make kings.
We do it, too, we of the Rue Coupejarrets."</p>
<p>"Well," said I, "I leave you, then, to make kings. I must be off
to my duke. What's the scot, maître?"</p>
<p>He dropped the politician, and was all innkeeper in a
second.</p>
<p>"A crown!" I cried in indignation. "Do you think I am made of
crowns? Remember, I am not yet Minister of Finance."</p>
<p>"No, but soon will be," he grinned. "Besides, what I ask is
little enough, God knows. Do you think food is cheap in a
siege?"</p>
<p>"Then I pray Navarre may come soon and end it."</p>
<p>"Amen to that," said old Jacques, quite gravely. "If he comes a
Catholic it cannot be too soon."</p>
<p>I counted out my pennies with a last grumble.</p>
<p>"They ought to call this the Rue Coupebourses."</p>
<p>He laughed; he could afford to, with my silver jingling in his
pouch. He embraced me tenderly at parting, and hoped to see me
again at his inn. I smiled to myself; I had not come to
Paris—I—to stay in the Rue Coupejarrets!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2>
<h3><i>M. le Duc is well guarded.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>stepped out briskly from the inn, pausing now and again to
inquire my way to the Hôtel St. Quentin, which stood, I knew,
in the Quartier Marais, where all the grand folk lived. Once I had
found the broad, straight Rue St. Denis, all I need do was to
follow it over the hill down to the river-bank; my eyes were free,
therefore, to stare at all the strange sights of the great
city—markets and shops and churches and prisons. But most of
all did I gape at the crowds in the streets. I had scarce realized
there were so many people in the world as passed me that summer
morning in the Town of Paris. Bewilderingly busy and gay the place
appeared to my country eyes, though in truth at that time Paris was
at its very worst, the spirit being well-nigh crushed out of it by
the sieges and the iron rule of the Sixteen.</p>
<p>I knew little enough of politics, and yet I was not so dull as
not to see that great events must happen soon. A crisis had come. I
looked at the people I passed who were going about their business
so tranquilly. Every one of them must be either Mayenne's man, or
Navarre's. Before a week was out these peaceable citizens might be
using pikes for tools and exchanging bullets for good mornings.
Whatever happened, here was I in Paris in the thick of it! My feet
fairly danced under me; I could not reach the hôtel soon
enough. Half was I glad of Monsieur's danger, for it gave me chance
to show what stuff I was made of. Live for him, die for
him—whatever fate could offer I was ready for.</p>
<p>The hôtel, when at length I arrived before it, was no
disappointment. Here one did not wait till midday to see the sun;
the street was of decent width, and the houses held themselves back
with reserve, like the proud gentlemen who inhabited them. Nor did
one here regret his possession of a nose, as he was forced to do in
the Rue Coupejarrets.</p>
<p>Of all the mansions in the place, the Hôtel St. Quentin
was, in my opinion, the most imposing; carved and ornamented and
stately, with gardens at the side. But there was about it none of
that stir and liveliness one expects to see about the houses of the
great. No visitors passed in or out, and the big iron gates were
shut, as if none were looked for. Of a truth, the persons who
visited Monsieur these days preferred to slip in by the postern
after nightfall, as if there had never been a time when they were
proud to be seen in his hall.</p>
<p>Beyond the grilles a sentry, in the green and scarlet of
Monsieur's men-at-arms, stood on guard, and I called out to him
boldly.</p>
<p>He turned at once; then looked as if the sight of me scarce
repaid him.</p>
<p>"I wish to enter, if you please," I said. "I am come to see M.
le Duc."</p>
<p>"You?" he ejaculated, his eye wandering over my attire, which,
none of the newest, showed signs of my journey.</p>
<p>"Yes, I," I answered in some resentment. "I am one of his
men."</p>
<p>He looked me up and down with a grin.</p>
<p>"Oh, one of his men! Well, my man, you must know M. le Duc is
not receiving to-day."</p>
<p>"I am Félix Broux," I told him.</p>
<p>"You may be Félix anybody for all it avails; you cannot
see Monsieur."</p>
<p>"Then I will see Vigo." Vigo was Monsieur's Master of Horse, the
staunchest man in France. This sentry was nobody, just a common
fellow picked up since Monsieur left St. Quentin, but Vigo had been
at his side these twenty years.</p>
<p>"Vigo, say you! Vigo does not see street boys."</p>
<p>"I am no street boy," I cried angrily. "I know Vigo well. You
shall smart for flouting me, when I have Monsieur's ear."</p>
<p>"Aye, when you have! Be off with you, rascal. I have no time to
bother with you."</p>
<p>"Imbecile!" I sputtered. But he had turned his back on me and
resumed his pacing up and down the court.</p>
<p>"Oh, very well for you, monsieur," I cried out loudly, hoping he
could hear me. "But you will laugh t'other side of your mouth by
and by. I'll pay you off."</p>
<p>It was maddening to be halted like this at the door of my goal;
it made a fool of me. But while I debated whether to set up an
outcry that would bring forward some officer with more sense than
the surly sentry, or whether to seek some other entrance, I became
aware of a sudden bustle in the courtyard, a narrow slice of which
I could see through the gateway. A page dashed across; then a pair
of flunkeys passed. There was some noise of voices and, finally, of
hoofs and wheels. Half a dozen men-at-arms ran to the gates and
swung them open, taking their stand on each side. Clearly, M. le
Duc was about to drive out.</p>
<p>A little knot of people had quickly collected—sprung from
between the stones of the pavement, it would seem—to see
Monsieur emerge.</p>
<p>"He is a bold man," I heard one say, and a woman answer, "Aye,
and a handsome," ere the heavy coach rolled out of the arch.</p>
<p>I pushed myself in close to the guardsmen, my heart thumping in
my throat now that the moment had come when I should see my
Monsieur. At the sight of his face I sprang bodily up on the
coach-step, crying, all my soul in my voice, "Oh, Monsieur! M. le
Duc!"</p>
<p>Monsieur looked at me coldly, blankly, without a hint of
recognition. The next instant the young gentleman beside him sprang
up-and struck me a blow that hurled me off the step. I fell where
the ponderous wheels would have ended me had not a guardsman, quick
and kind, pulled me out of the way. Some one shouted,
"Assassin!"</p>
<p>"I am no assassin," I cried; "I only sought to speak with
Monsieur."</p>
<p>"He deserves a hiding, the young cur," growled my foe, the
sentry. "He's been pestering me this half-hour to let him in. He
was one of Monsieur's men, he said. Monsieur would see him. Well,
we have seen how Monsieur treats him!"</p>
<p>"Faith, no," said another. "We have only seen how our young
gentleman treats him. Of course he is too proud and dainty to let a
common man so much as look at him."</p>
<p>They all laughed; the young gentleman seemed no favourite.</p>
<p>"Parbleu! that was why I drew him from the wheels, because
<i>he</i> knocked him there," said my preserver. "I don't believe
there's harm in the boy. What meant you, lad?"</p>
<p>"I meant no harm," I said, and turned sullenly off up the
street. This, then, was what I had come to Paris for—to be
denied entrance to the house, thrown under the coach-wheels, and
threatened with a drubbing from the lackeys!</p>
<p>For three years my only thought had been to serve Monsieur. From
waking in the morning to sleep at night, my whole life was
Monsieur's. Never was duty more cheerfully paid. Never did acolyte
more throw his soul into his service than I into mine. Never did
lover hate to be parted from his mistress more than I from
Monsieur. The journey to Paris had been a journey to Paradise. And
now, this!</p>
<p>Monsieur had looked me in the face and not smiled; had heard me
beseech him and not answered—not lifted a finger to save me
from being mangled under his very eyes. St. Quentin and Paris were
two very different places, it appeared. At St. Quentin Monsieur had
been pleased to take me into the château and treat me to more
intimacy than he accorded to the high-born lads, his other pages.
So much the easier, then, to cast me off when he had tired of me.
My heart seethed with rage and bitterness against Monsieur, against
the sentry, and, more than all, against the young Comte de Mar, who
had flung me under the wheels.</p>
<p>I had never before seen the Comte de Mar, that spoiled only son
of M. le Duc's, who was too fine for the country, too gay to share
his father's exile. Maybe I was jealous of the love his father bore
him, which he so little repaid. I had never thought to like him,
St. Quentin though he were; and now that I saw him I hated him. His
handsome face looked ugly enough to me as he struck me that
blow.</p>
<p>I went along the Paris streets blindly, the din of my own
thoughts louder than all the noises of the city. But I could not
remain in this trance forever, and at length I woke to two
unpleasant facts: first, I had no idea where I was, and, second, I
should be no better off if I knew.</p>
<p>Never, while there remained in me the spirit of a man, would I
go back to Monsieur; never would I serve the Comte de Mar. And it
was equally obvious that never, so long as my father retained the
spirit that was his, could I return to St. Quentin with the account
of my morning's achievements. It was just here that, looking at the
business with my father's eyes, I began to have a suspicion that I
had behaved like an insolent young fool. But I was still too angry
to acknowledge it.</p>
<p>Remained, then, but one course—to stay in Paris, and keep
from starvation as best I might.</p>
<p>My thrifty father had not seen fit to furnish me any money to
throw away in the follies of the town. He had calculated closely
what I should need to take me to Monsieur, with a little margin for
accidents; so that, after paying Maître Jacques, I had hardly
two pieces to jingle together.</p>
<p>For three years I had browsed my fill in the duke's library; I
could write a decent letter both in my own tongue and in Italian,
thanks to Father Francesco, Monsieur's Florentine confessor, and
handle a sword none so badly, thanks to Monsieur; and I felt that
it should not be hard to pick up a livelihood. But how to start
about it I had no notion, and finally I made up my mind to go and
consult him whom I now called my one friend in Paris, Jacques the
innkeeper.</p>
<p>'Twas easier said than done. I had strayed out of the friendly
Rue St. Denis into a network of dark and narrow ways that might
have been laid out by a wily old stag with the dogs hot on him, so
did they twist and turn and double on themselves. I could make my
way only at a snail's pace, asking new guidance at every corner.
Noon was long past when at length I came on laggard feet around the
corner by the Amour de Dieu.</p>
<p>Yet was it not fatigue that weighted my feet, but pride. Though
I had resolved to seek out Maître Jacques, still 'twas a
hateful thing to enter as suppliant where I had been the patron. I
had paid for my breakfast like a lord, but I should have to beg for
my dinner. I had bragged of Monsieur's fondness, and I should have
to tell how I had been flung under the coach-wheels. My pace
slackened to a stop. I could not bring myself to enter the door. I
tried to think how to better my story, so to tell it that it should
redound to my credit. But my invention stuck in my pate.</p>
<p>As I stood striving to summon up a jaunty demeanour, I found
myself gazing straight at the shuttered house, and of a sudden my
thoughts shifted back to my vision.</p>
<p>Those murdered Huguenots, dead and gone ere I was born, had
appeared to me as plain as the men I passed in the street. Though I
had beheld them but the space of a lightning-flash, I could call up
their faces like those of my comrades. One, the nearest me, was
small, pale, with pinched, sharp face, somewhat rat-like. The
second man was conspicuously big and burly, black-haired
and-bearded. The third and youngest—all three were
young—stood with his hand on Blackbeard's shoulder. He, too,
was tall, but slenderly built, with clear-cut visage and fair hair
gleaming in the glare. One moment I saw them, every feature plain;
the next they had vanished like a dream.</p>
<p>It was an unholy thing, no doubt, yet it held me with a shuddery
fascination. Was it indeed a portent, this rising of heretics from
their unblessed graves? And why had it been shown to me, true son
of the Church? Had any one else ever seen what I had seen?
Maître Jacques had hinted at further terrors, and said no one
dared enter the place. Well, grant me but the opportunity, and I
would dare.</p>
<p>Thus was hatched in my brain the notion of forcing an entrance
into that banned house. I was an idle boy, foot-loose and free to
do whatever mad mischief presented itself. Here was the house just
across the street.</p>
<p>Neglected as it was, it remained the most pretentious edifice in
the row, being large and flaunting a half-defaced coat of arms over
the door. Such a house might well boast two entrances. I hoped it
did, for there was no use in trying to batter down this door with
the eye of the Rue Coupejarrets upon me. I turned along the side
street, and after exploring several muck-heaped alleys found one
that led me into a small square court bounded on three sides by a
tall house with shuttered windows.</p>
<p>Fortune was favouring me. But how to gain entrance? The two
doors were both firmly fastened. The windows on the ground floor
were small, high, and iron-shuttered. Above, one or two shutters
swung half open, but I could not climb the smooth wall. Yet I did
not despair; I was not without experience of shutters. I selected
one closed not quite tight, leaving a crack for my knife-blade. I
found the hook inside, got my dagger under it, and at length drove
it up. The shutter creaked shrilly open.</p>
<p>A few good blows knocked in the casement. I followed.</p>
<p>I found myself in a small room bare of everything but dust. From
this, once a porter's room, I fancied, I passed out into a hallway
dimly lighted from the open window behind me. The hall was large,
paved with black and white marbles; at the end a stately stairway
mounted into mysterious gloom.</p>
<p>My heart jumped into my mouth and I cringed back in terror, a
choked cry rasping my throat. For, as I crossed the hall, peering
into the dimness, I descried, stationed on the lowest stair with
upraised bludgeon, a man.</p>
<p>For a second I stood in helpless startlement, voiceless,
motionless, waiting for him to brain me. Then my half-uttered
scream changed to a quavering laugh, as my eyes, becoming used to
the gloom, discovered my bogy to be but a figure carved in wood,
holding aloft a long since quenched flambeau.</p>
<p>I blushed with shame, yet I cannot say that now I felt no fear.
I thought of the panic-stricken women, the doomed men, who had fled
at the sword's point up these very stairs. The silence seemed to
shriek at me, and I half thought I saw fear-maddened eyes peering
out from the shadowed corners. Yet for all that—nay, because
of that—I would not give up the adventure. I went back into
the little room and carefully closed the shutter, lest some other
meddler should spy my misdeed. Then I set my feet on the stair.</p>
<p>If the half-light before had been full of eery terror, it was
naught to the blackness now. My hand on the rail was damp. Yet I
mounted steadily.</p>
<p>Up one flight I climbed, groped in the hot dark for the foot of
the next flight, and went on. Suddenly, above, I heard a noise. I
came to an instant halt. All was as still as the tomb. I listened;
not a breath broke the silence. It never occurred to me to imagine
a rat in this house of the dead, and the noise shook me. With a
sick feeling about my heart I went on again.</p>
<p>On the next floor it was lighter. Faint outlines of doors and
passages were visible. I could not stand the gloom a moment longer;
I strode into the nearest doorway and across the room to where a
gleam of brightness outlined the window. My shaking fingers found
the hook of the shutter and flung it wide, letting in a burst of
honest sunshine. I leaned out into the free air, and saw below me
the Rue Coupejarrets and the sign of the Amour de Dieu.</p>
<p>The next instant a cloth fell over my face and was twisted
tight; strong arms pulled me back, and a deep voice commanded:</p>
<p>"Close the shutter."</p>
<p>Some one pushed past me and shut it with a clang.</p>
<p>"Devil take you! You'll rouse the quarter," cried my captor,
fiercely, yet not loud. "Go join monsieur." With that he picked me
up in his arms and walked across the room.</p>
<p>The capture had been so quick I had no time for outcry. I fought
my best with him, half strangled as I was by the cloth. I might as
well have struggled against the grip of the Maiden. The man carried
me the length of the house, it seemed; flung me down upon the
floor, and banged a door on me.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2>
<h3><i>The three men in the window</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>tore the cloth from my head and sprang up. I was in
pitch-darkness. I dashed against the door to no avail. Feeling the
walls, I discovered myself to be in a small, empty closet. With all
my force I flung myself once more upon the door. It stood firm.</p>
<p>"Dame! but I have got into a pickle," I thought.</p>
<p>They were no ghosts, at all events. Scared as I was, I rejoiced
at that. I could cope with men, but who can cope with the devil?
These might be villains—doubtless were, skulking in this
deserted house,—yet with readiness and pluck I could escape
them.</p>
<p>It was as hot as a furnace in my prison, and as still as the
grave. The men, who seemed by their footsteps to be several, had
gone cautiously down the stairs after caging me. Evidently I had
given them a fine fright, clattering through the house as I had,
and even now they were looking for my accomplices.</p>
<p>It seemed hours before the faintest sound broke the stillness.
If ever you want to squeeze away a man's cheerfulness like water
from a rag, shut him up alone in the dark and silence. He will
thank you to take him out into the daylight and hang him. In token
whereof, my heart welcomed like brothers the men returning.</p>
<p>They came into the room, and I thought they were three in
number. I heard the door shut, and then steps approached my
closet.</p>
<p>"Have a care now, monsieur; he may be armed," spoke the rough
voice of a man without breeding.</p>
<p>"Doubtless he carries a culverin up his sleeve," sneered the
deep tones of my captor.</p>
<p>Some one else laughed, and rejoined, in a clear, quick
voice:</p>
<p>"Natheless, he may have a knife. I will open the door, and do
you look out for him, Gervais."</p>
<p>I had a knife and had it in my hand, ready to charge for
freedom. But the door opened slowly, and Gervais looked out for
me—to the effect that my knife went one way and I another
before I could wink. I reeled against the wall and stayed there,
cursing myself for a fool that I had not trusted to fair words
instead of to my dagger.</p>
<p>"Well done, my brave Gervais!" cried he of the vivid
voice—a tall fair-haired youth, whom I had seen before. So
had I seen the stalwart blackbeard, Gervais. The third man was
older, a common-looking fellow whose face was new to me. All three
were in their shirts on account of the heat; all were plain, even
shabby, in their dress. But the two young men wore swords at their
sides.</p>
<p>The half-opened shutters, overhanging the court, let plenty of
light into the room. It had two straw beds on the floor and a few
old chairs and stools, and a table covered with dishes and broken
food and wine-bottles. More bottles, riding-boots, whips and spurs,
two or three hats and saddle-bags, and various odds and ends of
dress littered the floor and the chairs. Everything was of mean
quality except the bearing of the two young men. A gentleman is a
gentleman even in the Rue Coupejarrets—all the more, maybe,
in the Rue Coupejarrets. These two were gently born.</p>
<p>The low man, with scared face, held off from me. He whose name
was Gervais confronted me with an angry scowl. Yeux-gris
alone—for so I dubbed the third, from his gray eyes, well
open under dark brows—Yeux-gris looked no whit alarmed or
angered; the only emotion to be read in his face was a gay interest
as the blackavised Gervais put me questions.</p>
<p>"How came you here? What are you about?"</p>
<p>"No harm, messieurs," I made haste to protest, ruing my
stupidity with that dagger. "I climbed in at a window for sport. I
thought the house was deserted."</p>
<p>He clutched my shoulder till I could have screamed for pain.</p>
<p>"The truth, now. If you value your life you will tell the
truth."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, it is the truth. I came in idle mischief; that was
the whole of it. I had no notion of breaking in upon you or any
one. They said the house was haunted."</p>
<p>"Who said that?"</p>
<p>"Maître Jacques, at the Amour de Dieu."</p>
<p>He stared at me in surprise.</p>
<p>"What had you been asking about this house?"</p>
<p>Yeux-gris, lounging against the table, struck in:</p>
<p>"I can tell you that myself. He told Jacques he saw us in the
window last night. Did you not?"</p>
<p>"Aye, monsieur. The thunder woke me, and when I looked out I saw
you plain as day. But Maître Jacques said it was a
vision."</p>
<p>"I flattered myself I saw you first and got that shutter closed
very neatly," said Yeux-gris. "Dame! I am not so clever as I
thought. So old Jacques called us ghosts, did he?"</p>
<p>"Yes, monsieur. He told me this house belonged to M. de
Béthune, who was a Huguenot and killed in the massacre."</p>
<p>Yeux-gris burst into joyous laughter.</p>
<p>"He said my house belonged to the Béthunes! Well played,
Jacques! You owe that gallant lie to me, Gervais, and the pains I
took to make him think us Navarre's men. He is heart and soul for
Henri Quatre. Did he say, perchance, that in this very courtyard
Coligny fell?"</p>
<p>"No," said I, seeing that I had been fooled and had had all my
terrors for naught, and feeling much chagrined thereat. "How was I
to know it was a lie? I know naught about Paris. I came up but
yesterday from St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"St. Quentin!" came a cry from the henchman. With a fierce "Be
quiet, fool!" Gervais turned to me and demanded my name.</p>
<p>"Félix Broux."</p>
<p>"Who sent you here?"</p>
<p>"Monsieur, no one."</p>
<p>"You lie."</p>
<p>Again he gripped me by the shoulder, gripped till the tears
stood in my eyes.</p>
<p>"No one, monsieur; I swear it."</p>
<p>"You will not speak! I'll make you, by Heaven."</p>
<p>He seized my thumb and wrist to bend one back on the other,
torture with strength such as his. Yeux-gris sprang off the
table.</p>
<p>"Let alone, Gervais! The boy's honest."</p>
<p>"He is a spy."</p>
<p>"He is a fool of a country boy. A spy in hobnailed shoes,
forsooth! No spy ever behaved as he has. I said when you first
seized him he was no spy. I say it again, now I have heard his
story. He saw us by chance, and Maître Jacques's bogy story
spurred him on instead of keeping him off. You are a fool, my
cousin."</p>
<p>"Pardieu! it is you who are the fool," growled Gervais. "You
will bring us to the rope with your cursed easy ways. If he is a
spy it means the whole crew are down upon us."</p>
<p>"What of that?"</p>
<p>"Pardieu! is it nothing?"</p>
<p>Yeux-gris returned with a touch of haughtiness:</p>
<p>"It is nothing. A gentleman may live in his own house."</p>
<p>Gervais looked as if he remembered something. He said much less
boisterously:</p>
<p>"And do you want Monsieur here?"</p>
<p>Yeux-gris flushed red.</p>
<p>"No," he cried. "But you may be easy. He will not trouble
himself to come."</p>
<p>Gervais regarded him silently an instant, as if he thought of
several things he did not say. What he did say was: "You are a pair
of fools, you and the boy. Whatever he came for, he has spied on us
now. He shall not live to carry the tale of us."</p>
<p>"Then you have me to kill as well!"</p>
<p>Gervais turned on him snarling. Yeux-gris laid a hand on his
sword-hilt.</p>
<p>"I will not have an innocent lad hurt. I was not bred a
ruffian," he cried hotly. They glared at each other. Then
Yeux-gris, with a sudden exclamation, "Ah, bah, Gervais!" broke
into laughter.</p>
<p>Now, this merriment was a heart-warming thing to hear. For
Gervais was taking the situation with a seriousness that was as
terrifying as it was stupid. When I looked into his dogged eyes I
could not but think the end of me might be near. But Yeux-gris's
laugh said the very notion was ridiculous; I was innocent of all
harmful intent, and they were gentlemen, not cutthroats.</p>
<p>"Messieurs," I said, "I swear by the blessed saints I am what I
told you. I am no spy, and no one sent me here. Who you are, or
what you do, I know no more than a babe unborn. I belong to no
party and am no man's man. As for why you choose to live in this
empty house, it is not my concern and I care no whit about it. Let
me go, messieurs, and I will swear to keep silence about what I
have seen."</p>
<p>"I am for letting him go," said Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>Gervais looked doubtful, the most encouraging attitude toward me
he had yet assumed. He answered:</p>
<p>"If he had not said the name—"</p>
<p>"Stuff!" interrupted Yeux-gris. "It is a coincidence, no more.
If he were what you think, it is the very last name he would have
said."</p>
<p>This was Greek to me; I had mentioned no names but Maître
Jacques's and my own. And he was their friend.</p>
<p>"Messieurs," I said, "if it is my name that does not please you,
why, I can say for it that if it is not very high-sounding, at
least it is an honest one and has ever been held so down where we
live."</p>
<p>"And that is at St. Quentin," said Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>"Yes, monsieur. My father, Anton Broux, is Master of the Forest
to the Duke of St. Quentin."</p>
<p>He started, and Gervais cried out:</p>
<p>"Voilà! who is the fool now?"</p>
<p>My nerves, which had grown tranquil since Yeux-gris came to my
rescue, quivered anew. The common man started at the very word St.
Quentin, and the masters started when I named the duke. Was it he
whom they had spoken of as Monsieur? Who and what were they? There
was more in this than I had thought at first. It was no longer a
mere question of my liberty. I was all eyes and ears for whatever
information I could gather.</p>
<p>Yeux-gris spoke to me, for the first time gravely:</p>
<p>"This is not a time when folks take pleasure-trips to Paris.
What brought you?"</p>
<p>"I used to be Monsieur's page down at St. Quentin," I answered,
deeming the straight truth best. "When we learned that he was in
Paris, my father sent me up to him. I reached the city last night,
and lay at the Amour de Dieu. This morning I went to the duke's
hôtel, but the guard would not let me in. Then, when Monsieur
drove out I tried to get speech with him, but he would have none of
me."</p>
<p>The bitterness I felt over my rebuff must have been in my voice
and face, for Gervais spoke abruptly:</p>
<p>"And do you hate him for that?"</p>
<p>"Nay," said I, churlishly enough. "It is his to do as he
chooses. But I hate the Comte de Mar for striking me a foul
blow."</p>
<p>"The Comte de Mar!" exclaimed Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>"His son."</p>
<p>"He has no son."</p>
<p>"But he has, monsieur. The Comte de—"</p>
<p>"He is dead," said Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>"Why, we knew naught—" I was beginning, when Gervais broke
in:</p>
<p>"You say the fellow's honest, when he tells such tales as this!
He saw the Comte de Mar—!"</p>
<p>"I thought it must be he," I protested. "A young man who sat by
Monsieur's side, elegant and proud-looking, with an aquiline
face—"</p>
<p>"That is Lucas, that is his secretary," declared Yeux-gris, as
who should say, "That is his scullion."</p>
<p>Gervais looked at him oddly a moment, then shrugged his
shoulders and demanded of me:</p>
<p>"What next?"</p>
<p>"I came away angry."</p>
<p>"And walked all the way here to risk your life in a haunted
house? Pardieu! too plain a lie."</p>
<p>"Oh, I would have done the like; we none of us fear ghosts in
the daytime," said Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>"You may believe him; I am no such fool. He has been caught in
two lies; first the Béthunes, then the Comte de Mar. He is a
clumsy spy; they might have found a better one. Not but what that
touch about ill-treatment at Monsieur's hand was well thought of.
That was Monsieur's suggestion, I warrant, for the boy has talked
like a dolt else."</p>
<p>"I am no liar," I cried hotly. "Ask Jacques whether he did not
tell me about the Béthunes. It is his lie, not mine. I did
not know the Comte de Mar was dead, and this Lucas of yours is
handsome enough for a count. I came here, as I told you, in
curiosity concerning Maître Jacques's story. I had no idea of
seeing you or any living man. It is the truth, monsieur."</p>
<p>"I believe you," Yeux-gris answered. "You have an honest face.
You came into my house uninvited. Well, I forgive it, and invite
you to stay. You shall be my valet."</p>
<p>"He shall be nobody's valet," Gervais cried.</p>
<p>The gray eyes flashed, but their owner rejoined lightly:</p>
<p>"You have a man; surely I should have one, too. And I understand
the services of M. Félix are not engaged."</p>
<p>"Mille tonnerres! you would take this spy—this
sneak—"</p>
<p>"As I would take M. de Paris, if I chose," responded Yeux-gris,
with a cold hauteur that smacked more of a court than of this
shabby room. He added lightly again:</p>
<p>"You think him a spy, I do not. But in any case, he must not
blab of us. Therefore he stays here and brushes my clothes. Marry,
they need it."</p>
<p>Easily, with grace, he had disposed of the matter. But I
said:</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I shall do nothing of the kind."</p>
<p>"What!" he cried, as if the clothes-brush itself had risen in
rebellion, "what! you will not."</p>
<p>"No," said I.</p>
<p>"And why not?" he demanded, plainly thinking me demented.</p>
<p>"Because I know you are against the Duke of St. Quentin."</p>
<p>Whatever they had thought me, neither expected that speech.</p>
<p>"I am no spy or sneak," said I. "It is true I came here by
chance; it is true Monsieur turned me off this morning. But I was
born on his land and I am no traitor. I will not be valet or
henchman for either of you, if I die for it."</p>
<p>I was like to die for it. For Gervais whipped out his sword and
sprang for me. I thought I saw Yeux-gris's out, too, when Gervais
struck me over the head with his sword-hilt. The rest was
darkness.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2>
<h3><i>Rapiers and a vow.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>came to my senses slowly, to hear loud, angry voices. As I
opened my eyes and stirred, the room reeled from me and all was
blank again. Awhile after, I grew aware of a clashing of steel. I
lay wondering thickly what it was and why it had to be going on
while my head ached so, till at length it dawned on my dull brain
that swords were crossing. I opened my eyes again, then.</p>
<p>They were fighting each other, Yeux-gris and Gervais. The latter
was almost trampling on me, Yeux-gris had pressed him so close to
the wall. Then he forced his way out, and they drove each other
round in a circle till the room seemed to spin once more.</p>
<p>I crawled out of the way and watched them, bewildered, absorbed.
I had more reason to thrill over the contest than the mere
excellence of it,—which was great,—since I was the
cause of the duel, and my very life, belike, hung on its issue.</p>
<p>They were both admirable swordsmen, yet it was clear from the
first where the palm lay. Anything nimbler, lighter, easier than
the sword-play of Yeux-gris I never hope to see in this imperfect
world. The heavier adversary was hot, angry, breathing hard. A
smile hovered over Yeux-gris's lips; already a red disk on
Gervais's shirt showed where his cousin's sword had been and would
soon go again, and deeper. I had forgotten my bruise in my interest
and delight, when, of a sudden, one whom we all had ignored took a
hand in the game. Gervais's lackey started forward and knocked up
Yeux-gris's arm. His sword flew wide, and Gervais slashed his arm
from wrist to elbow.</p>
<p>With a smothered cry, Yeux-gris caught at his wound. Gervais,
ablaze with rage, sprang past him on his creature. The man gaped
with amazement; then, for there was no time for parley, leaped for
the door. It was locked. He turned, and with a look of deathly
terror fell on his knees, crouched up against the door-post.
Gervais lunged. His blade passed clean through the man's shoulders
and pinned him to the door. His head fell heavily forward.</p>
<p>"Have you killed him?" cried Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>"By my faith! I meant to," came the answer. Gervais was bending
over the man. With an abrupt laugh he called out: "Killed him,
pardieu! He has come off cheap."</p>
<p>He raised the fellow's limp head, and we saw that the sword had
passed just over his shoulder, piercing the linen, not the flesh.
He had swooned from sheer terror, being in truth not so much as
scratched.</p>
<p>Gervais turned to his cousin.</p>
<p>"I never meant that foul trick. It was no thought of mine. I
would have turned the blade if I could. I will kill Pontou now, if
you say the word."</p>
<p>"Nay," answered the other, faintly; "help me."</p>
<p>The blood was pouring from his arm; he was half swooning.
Gervais and I ran to him and, between us, bathed the cut, bandaged
it with strips torn from a shirt, and made a sling of a scarf. The
wound was long, but not deep, and when we had poured some wine down
his throat he was himself again.</p>
<p>"You will not bear me malice for that poltroon's work,
Étienne?" Gervais asked, more humbly than I ever thought to
hear him speak. "That was a foul cut, but it was no fault of mine.
I am no blackguard; I fight fair. I will kill the knave, if you
like."</p>
<p>"You are ungrateful, Gervais; he saved you when you needed
saving," Yeux-gris laughed. "Faith! let him live. I forgive him.
You will pay me for my hurt by yielding me Félix."</p>
<p>Gervais looked at me. While we had worked side by side over
Yeux-gris he seemed to have forgotten that he was my enemy. But now
all the old suspicion and dislike came into his face again.
However, he answered:</p>
<p>"Aye, you would have been the victor had it not been for Pontou.
You shall do what you like with your boy. I promise you that."</p>
<p>"Now that is well said, Gervais," returned Yeux-gris, rising,
and picking up his sword, which he sheathed. "That is very well
said. For if you did not feel like promising it, why, I should have
to begin over again with my left hand."</p>
<p>"Oh, I give you the boy," Gervais repeated rather sullenly,
turning away to pour himself some wine.</p>
<p>I could not but wonder at Yeux-gris, at his gaiety and his
steadfastness. He had hardly looked grave through the whole affair;
he had fought with a smile on his lips and had taken a cruel wound
with a laugh. Withal, he had been the constant champion of my
innocence, even to drawing his sword on his cousin for me. Now,
with his bloody arm in its sling, he was as debonair and careless
as ever. I had been stupid enough to imagine the big Gervais the
leader of the two, and I found myself mistaken. I dropped on my
knee and kissed my saviour's hand in all gratitude.</p>
<p>"Aha," said Yeux-gris, "what think you now of being my
valet?"</p>
<p>Verily, I was hard pushed.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I said, "I owe you much more than I can ever pay. If
you were any man's enemy but my duke's, I would serve you on my
knees. But I was born on the duke's land and I cannot be disloyal.
You may kill me yourself, if you like."</p>
<p>"No," he answered gravely, "that is not my métier."</p>
<p>Gervais laughed.</p>
<p>"Make me that offer, and I accept."</p>
<p>Yeux-gris turned to him with that little hauteur he assumed
occasionally.</p>
<p>"You are helpless, my cousin. You have passed your word."</p>
<p>"Aye. I leave him to you."</p>
<p>His sullen eyes told me it was no new-born tenderness for me
that prompted his surrender. Nor had I, truth to tell, any great
faith in the sacredness of his word. Yet I believed he would let me
be. For it was borne in upon me that, despite his passion and
temper, he had no wish to quarrel with Yeux-gris. Whether at bottom
he loved him or in some way dreaded him, I could not tell; but of
this my fear-sharpened wits were sure: he had no desire to press an
open breach. He was honestly ashamed of his henchman's low deed;
yet even before that his judgment had disliked the quarrel. Else
why had he struck me with the hilt of the sword?</p>
<p>"I leave him to you," he repeated. "Do as you choose. If you
deem his life a precious thing, cherish it. When did you learn a
taste for insolence, Étienne? Time was when you were touchy
on that score."</p>
<p>"Time never was when I did not love courage."</p>
<p>"Oh, it is courage!" With a sneer he turned away.</p>
<p>"Gervais," said Yeux-gris, "have the kindness to unlock the
door."</p>
<p>Gervais wheeled around, his face an angry question.</p>
<p>Yeux-gris answered it with cold politeness:</p>
<p>"That Félix Broux may pass out."</p>
<p>"By Heaven, he shall not!"</p>
<p>"You gave your word you would leave him to me. Did you lie?"</p>
<p>"I do leave him to you!" Gervais thundered. "I would slit his
impudent throat; but since you love him, you may have him to eat
out of your plate and sleep in your bosom. I will put up with it.
But go out of that door till the thing is done, sang dieu! he shall
not!"</p>
<p>"If he goes straight to the duke, what then? He will say he
found us living in my house. What harm? We are no felons. Let him
say it."</p>
<p>"And put Lucas on his guard?" returned Gervais. He was angry,
yet he spoke with evident attempt at restraint. "Put Lucas on the
trail? He is wary as a cat. Let him get wind of us here, and he
will never let us catch him."</p>
<p>"Well," said Yeux-gris, reluctantly, "it is true. And though I
will not have the boy harmed, he shall stay here. I will not put a
spoke in the wheel. We will take no risks till Lucas is shent. The
boy shall be held prisoner. And afterward—"</p>
<p>"I will come myself and let him out," said Gervais, and
laughed.</p>
<p>I glanced at my protector, not liking to think of that moment,
whenever it might be, "afterward." He went up to Gervais.</p>
<p>"My cousin, are we friends or foes? For, faith! you treat me
strangely like a foe."</p>
<p>"We are friends."</p>
<p>"I am your friend, since it is in your cause that I am here. I
have stood at your shoulder like a brother—you cannot deny
it."</p>
<p>"No," Gervais answered; "you stood my friend,—my one
friend in that house,—as I was yours. I stood at your
shoulder in the Montluc affair—you cannot deny that. I have
been your ally, your servant, your messenger to mademoiselle, your
envoy to Mayenne. I have done all in my power to win you your
lady."</p>
<p>A shadow fell over Yeux-gris's open face.</p>
<p>"That task needs a greater power than yours, my Gervais."</p>
<p>He regarded Gervais with a rueful smile, his thoughts of a
sudden as far away from me as if I had never set foot in the Rue
Coupejarrets. He shook his head, sighing, and said, with a hand on
Gervais's shoulder: "It's beyond you, cousin."</p>
<p>Gervais brought him back to the point.</p>
<p>"Well, I've done what I could for you. But you don't help me
when you let loose a spy to warn Lucas."</p>
<p>"He shall not go. You know well, cousin, you will be no gladder
than I when that knave is dead. But I will not have Félix
Broux suffer because he dared speak for the Duke of St.
Quentin."</p>
<p>"As you choose, then. I will not touch a hair of his head if you
keep him from Lucas."</p>
<p>Once more he turned away across the room. My bewilderment was so
great that the words came out of themselves:</p>
<p>"Messieurs, is it Lucas you mean to kill?"</p>
<p>Yeux-gris looked at me, not instantly replying. I cried again to
him:</p>
<p>"Monsieur, is it Lucas or the duke?"</p>
<p>Then Yeux-gris, despite a gesture from Gervais, who would have
told me nothing I might ask, exclaimed:</p>
<p>"Why, Lucas!"</p>
<p>He said it in such honest surprise and with such a steady glance
that the heavy fear that had hung on me dropped from me like a
dead-weight, and suddenly I turned quite dizzy and fell into the
nearest chair.</p>
<p>A dash of water in the face made me look up, to see Yeux-gris
standing wet-handed by me.</p>
<p>"Mon dieu!" he cried, "you were as white as the wall. Do you
love so much this Lucas who struck you?"</p>
<p>"No," I said, rising; "I thought you meant to kill the
duke."</p>
<p>"Did you take us for Leaguers?"</p>
<p>I nodded.</p>
<p>He spoke as if actually he felt it important to set himself
right in my eyes.</p>
<p>"Well, we are none. We are no politicians, but private gentlemen
with a grudge to pay. I care not what the parties do. Whether we
have the Princess Isabelle or Henry the Huguenot, 'tis all one to
me; I am not putting either on the throne. So if you have got it
into your head that we are plotting for the League, why, get it out
again."</p>
<p>"But you are enemies to the Duke of St. Quentin?"</p>
<p>He answered me slowly:</p>
<p>"We do not love him. But we do not plot his death. He goes his
way unharmed by us. We are gentlemen, not bravos."</p>
<p>"And Lucas?"</p>
<p>"Lucas is my cousin's enemy, and, being a great man's man,
skulks behind the bars of the Hôtel st. Quentin and will not
face my cousin's sword. So to reach him takes a little plotting. Do
you believe me?"</p>
<p>I looked into his gray eyes, that had flashed so hotly in my
defence, and I could not but believe him.</p>
<p>"Yes, monsieur," I said.</p>
<p>He regarded me curiously.</p>
<p>"The duke's life seems much to you."</p>
<p>"Why, monsieur, I am a Broux."</p>
<p>"And could not be disloyal to save your life?"</p>
<p>"My life! Monsieur, the Broux would not seek to save their souls
if M. le Duc preferred them damned."</p>
<p>I expected he would rebuke me for the outburst, but he did not;
he merely said:</p>
<p>"And Lucas?"</p>
<p>"Oh, Lucas!" I said. "I know nothing of him. He is new with the
duke since my time. I do not owe him anything, save a grudge for
that blow this morning. Mon dieu, monsieur, I am thankful to you
for befriending me. Dying for Monsieur is all in a day's work; we
expect to do that. But, my faith, if I had died just now, it would
have been for Lucas."</p>
<p>At this moment a long groan came from the end of the room. We
turned; the lackey was waking from his swoon, under the
ministration of Gervais. He opened his eyes; their glance was dull
till they fell upon his master. And then at once they looked
venomous.</p>
<p>Gervais kicked him into fuller consciousness.</p>
<p>"Get up, hound. It is time to meet Martin."</p>
<p>The wretch scrambled shakily to his feet, and stood clutching
the door-jamb and eying Gervais, terror writ large on his chalky
countenance. Yet there was more than terror in his face; there was
the look you see in the eyes of a trapped animal that watches its
chance to bite. Yeux-gris cried out:</p>
<p>"You dare not send that man, Gervais."</p>
<p>"Why not?"</p>
<p>"Because the moment he is clear of the house he will betray you.
Look at his face."</p>
<p>"He shall swear on the cross!"</p>
<p>"Aye. But you cannot trust the oath of such as he."</p>
<p>"What would you? We must send."</p>
<p>"As you will. But you are mad if you send him."</p>
<p>Gervais pondered a moment, his slower wits taking in the
situation. Then he seized the man by the collar, fairly flung him
across the room into the closet, and bolted the door upon him.</p>
<p>"I will settle with him later. But you are right. We cannot send
him."</p>
<p>Yeux-gris burst into laughter.</p>
<p>"My faith! we could not have more trouble if we were heads of
the League than this little duel of yours is giving us. Why, what
if we are seen? I will go."</p>
<p>Gervais started.</p>
<p>"No; that will not do."</p>
<p>"Eh, bien, then, what will you propose?"</p>
<p>But it was some one else who proposed. I said to Yeux-gris:</p>
<p>"Monsieur, if all your purpose is against Lucas and no other, I
am your man. I will go."</p>
<p>"What, my stubborn-neck, you?"</p>
<p>"Why, monsieur, I owe you a great debt. While I thought you
meant ill to M. le Duc, I could not serve you. But this Lucas is
another pair of sleeves. I owe him no allegiance. Moreover, he
nearly killed me this morning. Therefore I am quite at your
disposal."</p>
<p>"Now, I wonder if you are lying," said Gervais.</p>
<p>"I do not think he is lying," Yeux-gris said. "I trow, Gervais,
we have got our messenger."</p>
<p>"You tell me to beware of Pontou because he hates me, and then
would have me trust this fellow?" Gervais demanded with some
acumen.</p>
<p>I said: "Monsieur, you do not seem to understand how I come to
make this offer."</p>
<p>"To get out of the house with a whole skin."</p>
<p>I had a joy in daring him, being sure of Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I said, "I should be glad to leave this house with
my skin whole or broken, so long as I left on my own feet. But you
have mentioned the very reason why I shall not betray you. I do not
love you and I do not love Lucas. Therefore, if you and M. Lucas
are to fight, I ask nothing better than to help the quarrel
on."</p>
<p>He stared at me with an air more of bewilderment than aught
else, but Yeux-gris's ready laughter rang out.</p>
<p>"Bravo, Félix! I am proud of you. That is an idea worthy
of Cæsar! You would set your enemies to exterminate each
other. And I asked you to be my valet!"</p>
<p>"Which do you wish to see slain?" demanded the black
Gervais.</p>
<p>I answered quite truthfully:</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I shall be pleased either way."</p>
<p>I know not how he relished the answer, for Yeux-gris cried out
at once:</p>
<p>"Bravo, Félix, you are a paragon! I have not wit enough
to know whether you are as simple as sunshine or as deep as a well,
but I love you."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I answered, as I think, very neatly, "if I am a
well, truth lies at the bottom."</p>
<p>"Well, Gervais?" demanded Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>Gervais bent his lowering brows on his cousin.</p>
<p>"Do you say, trust him?"</p>
<p>"Aye, I would trust him. For never yet did villain turn honest,
nor honest man false, in one short hour. When he was asked to serve
against the duke he showed his stuff. He was no traitor; he was no
coward; he was no liar. I think he is not those now."</p>
<p>Gervais was still doubtful.</p>
<p>"It is a risk. If he betrays—"</p>
<p>"What is life without risks?" cried Yeux-gris. "I thought you
too good a gambler, Gervais, to falter before a risk."</p>
<p>"Well," Gervais consented, "I leave it to you. Do as you
like."</p>
<p>Yeux-gris said at once to me:</p>
<p>"This Lucas, as I told you, is too cowardly to meet my cousin in
open fight. Since he got the challenge he has never stuck his nose
out of doors without two or three of the duke's guard about him.
Therefore we have the right to get at him as we can. We have paid a
man in the house to tell of his movements. He is to fare out
secretly at night on a mission for M. le Duc, with one comrade
only. M. Gervais and I will interrupt that little journey."</p>
<p>"Very good, monsieur. And I?"</p>
<p>"You will meet our spy and learn the hour of the expedition.
Last night, when he told us of the plan, it had not been
decided."</p>
<p>"Then he will be the other man I saw in the window? I shall know
him."</p>
<p>"You have sharp eyes and a sharp brain, youngster. But he will
not know you. Therefore you can say you come from the shuttered
house in the Rue Coupejarrets. You will meet him in the little
alley to the north of the Hôtel St. Quentin. Do you know your
way to the hôtel? Well, then, you are to go down the
passageway between the house and M. de Portreuse's garden—you
cannot mistake it, for on two sides of the house is the street, on
the third the garden, and on the fourth the alleyway. Half-way down
the alley is an arch with a small door. In that arch our man, Louis
Martin, will meet you. Do you understand?"</p>
<p>I repeated the directions.</p>
<p>"You have learned your lesson. You will ask him the
hour—only that."</p>
<p>"And you will take oath not to betray us," commanded
Gervais.</p>
<p>I took out the cross that hung on my rosary. I was ready to
swear. Gervais prompted:</p>
<p>"I swear to go and come straight, and speak no word to any but
Martin."</p>
<p>With all solemnity I swore it on my cross.</p>
<p>"That oath will be kept," said Yeux-gris. He held out a sudden
hand for the cross, which I gave him, wondering.</p>
<p>"I swear that we mean no harm whatsoever to the Duke of St.
Quentin." He kissed the cross and flung the chain back over my
neck.</p>
<p>At last I saw the door unlocked. Yeux-gris even returned to me
my knife.</p>
<p>"Au revoir, messieurs."</p>
<p>Gervais, sullen to the last, vouchsafed no answer, but Yeux-gris
called out cheerily, "Au revoir."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2>
<h3><i>A matter of life and death.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-n.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>othing in life can be so sweet as freedom after captivity,
safety after danger. When I gained the open street once more and
breathed the open air, no one molesting or troubling me, I could
have sung with joy. I fairly hugged myself for my cleverness in
getting out of my plight. As for the combat I was furthering, my
only doubt about that was lest the skulking Lucas should not prove
good sword enough to give trouble to M. Gervais. It was very far
from my wish that he should come out of the attempt unscathed.</p>
<p>But as I went along and had more time to ponder the matter,
other doubts forced themselves into my reluctant mind. Put it as I
pleased, the affair smacked too much of secrecy to be quite
savoury. It was curious, to say the least, that an honest encounter
should require so much plotting. Also, Lucas, coward and rascal
though he might be, was Monsieur's man, doing Monsieur's errand,
and for me to mix myself up in a plot against him was scarcely in
keeping with my vaunted loyalty to the house of St. Quentin. My
friend Gervais's quarrel might be just; his manner of procedure,
even, might be just, and yet I have no right to take part in
it.</p>
<p>And yet Monsieur had signified plainly enough that he was no
longer my patron. For my birth's sake I might never work against
him, but I was free to do whatever else I chose. Monsieur himself
had made it necessary for me to take another master, and assuredly
I owed something to Yeux-gris. I had reason to feel confidence in
his honour; surely I might reckon that he would not be in the
affair unless it were honest. Lucas was like enough a scoundrel of
whom Monsieur would be well rid. And lastly and finally and above
all, I was sworn, so there was no use worrying about it. I had
taken oath, and could not draw back.</p>
<p>I hurried along to the rendezvous, only pausing one moment at
the street-corner to buy sausages hot from the brazier, which I
crammed into my mouth as I ran. But after all was there no need of
haste; the little arch, when I panted up to it, was all
deserted.</p>
<p>No better place for a tryst could have been found in the heart
of busy Paris. Only the one door opened into the alley; M. de
Portreuse's high garden wall, forming the other side of the
passage, was unbroken by a gate, and no curious eyes from the house
could look into the deep arch and see the narrow nail-studded door
at the back where I awaited the rat-faced Martin.</p>
<p>I stood there long, first on one foot and then on the other,
fearful every moment lest some one of Monsieur's true men should
come along to demand my business. No one appeared, either foe or
friend, for so long that I began to think Yeux-gris had tricked me
and sent me here on a fool's errand, when, all at once, a low voice
said close to my ear:</p>
<p>"What seek you here?"</p>
<p>I jumped on finding at my side a little, pale, sharp-faced
man—the man of the vision. He had slipped through the door so
suddenly and quietly that I was once more tempted to take him for a
ghost. He eyed me for a bare second; then his eyes dropped before
mine.</p>
<p>"I am come to learn the hour," said I.</p>
<p>"Did you not hear the chimes ring five?"</p>
<p>"Oh, no need for disguise. I am come from the two in the Rue
Coupejarrets. They bade me ask the hour."</p>
<p>He favoured me with another of his shifty glances.</p>
<p>"What hour meant they?"</p>
<p>I said bluntly, in a louder tone:</p>
<p>"The hour when M. Lucas sets out on his secret mission."</p>
<p>"Hush!" he cried. "Hush! Don't say names aloud—his or the
other's."</p>
<p>"Well," I said crossly, "you have kept me waiting already more
time than I care to lose. How much longer before you will tell me
what I came to know?"</p>
<p>He looked at me sharply for another brief instant before his
eyes slunk away from mine.</p>
<p>"You should have a password."</p>
<p>"They gave me none. They told me to say I came from the
shuttered house in the Rue Coupejarrets, and that would be
enough."</p>
<p>"How came you into this business?"</p>
<p>"By a back window."</p>
<p>He gave me another suspicious glance, but making nothing by it,
he rejoined:</p>
<p>"Eh bien, I trust you. I will tell you."</p>
<p>He clutched my arm and drew me to the back of the arch, where
the afternoon shadows were already gathered.</p>
<p>"What have you for me?" he demanded.</p>
<p>"Nothing. What should I have?"</p>
<p>"No gold?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"He promised me ten pistoles to-day. He did not give them to
you?"</p>
<p>"I tell you, no."</p>
<p>"You are a thief! You have them!"</p>
<p>He stepped forward menacingly; so did I. He then fell back as
abruptly.</p>
<p>"Nay, it was a jest; I know you are honest. But he promised me
ten pistoles."</p>
<p>"He did not give them to me," I said. "Perhaps he was not so
convinced of my honesty. He will doubtless pay you afterward."</p>
<p>"Afterward!" he retorted in a high key. "By our Lady, he shall
pay me afterward! The gutters will run gold then, will they?
Pardieu! I will see that a good stream flows my way. But one cannot
play to-day with to-morrow's coin. He said I should have ten
pistoles when I let him know the hour."</p>
<p>"I cannot mend that. It lies between you and him. I have not
seen or heard of any money."</p>
<p>Martin edged up close to the door of retreat and waxed
defiant.</p>
<p>"Then all I have to say is, he may go whistle for his news."</p>
<p>Now, had I but thought of it, here was an easy road out of a bad
business. If Martin would not tell the hour of rendezvous, Lucas
was saved, Monsieur's interests not endangered, yet at the same
time I was not forsworn. But touch pitch and be defiled. You cannot
go hand and glove with villains and remain an honest man. I
returned directly:</p>
<p>"As you choose. But M. Gervais carries a long sword."</p>
<p>He started at that and made no instant reply, seeming to be
balancing considerations. Then he gave his decision.</p>
<p>"I will tell you. But your M. Gervais is wrong if he thinks I
can be slighted and robbed of my dues. I know enough to make
trouble for him, and I know where to take my knowledge. He will not
find it easy to shut my mouth afterward, except with good broad
gold pieces."</p>
<p>"Enfin, are you telling me the hour?" I said impatiently. I was
ill at ease; my only wish was to get the errand done and be
gone.</p>
<p>He laid a hand on my shoulder and made me bend to him, and even
then spoke so low I could scarce catch the words.</p>
<p>"They have fixed positively on to-night. They will leave by this
door and take the route I described last night to M. Gervais. They
will start as soon as the streets are quiet, sometime between ten
and eleven. They must allow an hour to reach the gate, and the man
goes off at twelve. In all likelihood they will not set out before
a quarter of eleven; M. le Duc does not care to be recognized."</p>
<p>So they planned to kill Lucas at Monsieur's side? Yeux-gris had
not dared to tell me that. But he had looked me straight in the
face and sworn on the cross no harm was meant to M. le Duc.
Natheless, the thing looked ugly. My heart leaped up at the next
words:</p>
<p>"Also Vigo will go."</p>
<p>"Vigo!"</p>
<p>"Not so loud! You will have the guard on us! Yes, he is to go.
At first Monsieur did not tell even him, he desired to keep this
visit to the king so secret. But this morning he took Vigo into his
confidence, and nothing would serve the man but to go. He watches
over Monsieur like a hen over a chick."</p>
<p>"Then it will be three to three," I said. I thought of Gervais,
Yeux-gris, and Pontou, for of course I would take no part in
it.</p>
<p>"Three to two; Lucas will not fight."</p>
<p>Lucas must be a poltroon, indeed!</p>
<p>"But Vigo and Monsieur—" I began.</p>
<p>"Aye, they are quick enough with their swords. Your side must be
quicker, that's all. If you are sudden enough you can easily kill
the duke before he can draw."</p>
<p>Talk of words like thunderbolts! All the thunder of heaven could
not have whelmed me like those words. Yeux-gris and his oaths! It
<i>was</i> the duke, after all!</p>
<p>I could not speak. I looked I know not how. But it was dusky in
the arch.</p>
<p>"It sounds simple," he went on. "But, three of you as you are,
you will have trouble with Vigo. That is all. I have told you all.
I must get back before I am missed. Good luck to the
enterprise."</p>
<p>Still I stood like a block of wood.</p>
<p>"Tell M. Gervais to remember me," he said, and opening the door,
passed in. I heard him lock and bolt it after him, and his
footsteps hurrying down the passageway.</p>
<p>Then I came to myself and sprang to the door and beat upon it
furiously. But if he heard he was afraid to respond. After a futile
moment that seemed an hour I rushed out of the arch and around to
the great gate.</p>
<p>The grilles were closed as before, but the sentry's face,
luckily, was strange to me.</p>
<p>"Open! open!" I shouted, breathless. "I must see M. le Duc!"</p>
<p>"Who are you?" he demanded, staring.</p>
<p>"My name is Broux. I have news for M. le Duc. Let me in. It is a
matter of life and death."</p>
<p>"Why, I suppose, then, I must let you in," that good fellow
answered, drawing back the bolts. "But you must wait here
till—"</p>
<p>The gate was open. I took base advantage of him by sliding under
his arm and shooting across the court up the steps to the house.
The door stood open, and a couple of lackeys lounged on a bench in
the hall.</p>
<p>"M. le Duc!" I cried. "I must see him."</p>
<p>They jumped up, the picture of bewilderment.</p>
<p>"Who are you? How came you here?" cried the quicker-tongued of
the two.</p>
<p>"The sentry opened for me. Where am I to find M. le Duc? I must
see him! I have news!"</p>
<p>"M. le Duc sees no one to-day," the second lackey announced
pompously.</p>
<p>"But I must see him, I tell you," I repeated. I had completely
lost what little head I ever had; it seemed to me that if I could
not see M. le Duc on the instant I should find him weltering in his
gore. "I must see him," I cried, parrot-like. "It is a matter of
life and death."</p>
<p>"From whom do you come?"</p>
<p>"That's my affair. Enough that I come with news of the highest
moment. You will be sorry if I you do not get me quickly to M. le
Duc."</p>
<p>They looked at each other, somewhat impressed.</p>
<p>"I will go for M. Constant," said the one who had spoken
first.</p>
<p>Constant was Master of the Household; M. le Duc had inherited
him with the estate and kept him in his place for old time's sake.
He was old, fussy, and self-important, and withal no friend to
me.</p>
<p>"I had rather you fetched Vigo," I said.</p>
<p>"Oh, Vigo will not come. He is with Monsieur. If I bring M.
Constant, it is the best I can do for you."</p>
<p>I had recovered myself sufficiently by this time to remember the
nature of lackeys, and gave the messenger the last silver piece I
had in the world. He regarded it contemptuously, but pocketed it
and departed in leisurely fashion up the stairs.</p>
<p>The other was not too grand to cross-examine me.</p>
<p>"What sort of news have you? Do you come from the king?" he
asked in a lowered voice.</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"From M. de Valère?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Then who the devil are you?"</p>
<p>"Félix Broux of St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"Ah, St. Quentin," he said, as if he found that rather tame.
"You bring news from there?"</p>
<p>"No, I do not. Think you I shall tell you? This news is for
Monsieur."</p>
<p>"It won't reach Monsieur unless you learn politeness toward the
gentlemen of his household," he retorted.</p>
<p>We were getting into a lively quarrel when Constant appeared on
the stairway—Constant and the lackey who had fetched him, and
two more lackeys, and a page, all of whom had somehow scented that
something was in the wind. They came flocking about us as I
said:</p>
<p>"Ah, M. Constant! You know me, Félix Broux of St.
Quentin. I must see M. le Duc."</p>
<p>Constant's face of surprise at me changed to one of malice. Down
at St. Quentin he had suffered much from us pages, as a slow,
peevish old dotard must. I had played many a prank on him, but I
had not thought he would revenge himself at such time as this. He
looked at me with a spiteful grin, and said to the men:</p>
<p>"He lies. I do not know him. I never saw him."</p>
<p>"Never saw me, Félix Broux!" I cried, completely taken
aback.</p>
<p>"No," maintained Constant. "You are an impostor."</p>
<p>"Impostor! Nonsense!" I cried out. "Constant, you know me as
well as you know yourself. I say I must see the duke; his life is
in danger!"</p>
<p>Constant was paying off old scores with interest.</p>
<p>"An impostor," he yelled shrilly, "or else a madman—or an
assassin."</p>
<p>"That is the truth," said some one, laying a heavy hand on my
shoulder.</p>
<p>I turned; two men of the guard had come up, my friend of just
now and my foe of the morning. It was the latter who held me and
said:</p>
<p>"This is the very rascal who sprang on Monsieur's coach-step in
the morning. M. Lucas threw him off, else he might have stabbed
Monsieur. We were fools enough to let him go free. But this time he
shall not get off so easy."</p>
<p>"I am innocent of all thought of harm," I cried. "I am M. le
Duc's loyal servant. I meant no harm this morning, and I mean none
now. I am here to save Monsieur's life."</p>
<p>"He is here to kill Monsieur; he is an assassin!" screamed
Constant. "Flog him, men; he will own the truth then!"</p>
<p>"I am no assassin!" I shouted, struggling in their grasp. "Let
me go, villains, let me go! I tell you, Monsieur's life is at
stake—Monsieur's very life, I tell you!"</p>
<p>They paid me no heed. Not one of them—save hat lying knave
Constant—knew me as other than the shabby fellow who had
acted suspiciously in the morning. They were dragging me to the
door in spite of my shouts and struggles, when suddenly a ringing
voice spoke from above:</p>
<p>"What is this rumpus? Who talks of Monsieur's life?"</p>
<p>The guards halted dead, and I cried out joyfully:</p>
<p>"Vigo!"</p>
<p>"Yes, I am Vigo," the big man answered, striding down the
stairs. "Who are you?"</p>
<p>I wanted to shout, "Félix Broux, Monsieur's page," but a
sort of nightmare dread came over me lest Vigo, too, should
disclaim me, and my voice stuck in my throat.</p>
<p>"Whoever you are, you will be taught not to make a racket in M.
le Duc's hall. By the saints! it's the boy Félix."</p>
<p>At the friendliness in his voice the guards dropped their hands
from me.</p>
<p>"M. Vigo," I said, "I have news for Monsieur of the gravest
moment. I am come on a matter of life and death. And I am stopped
in the hall by lackeys."</p>
<p>He looked at me sternly.</p>
<p>"This is not one of your fooleries, Félix?"</p>
<p>"No, M. Vigo."</p>
<p>"Come with me."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h2>
<h3><i>A divided duty.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-t.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>hat was Vigo's way. The toughest snarl untangled at his touch.
He had more sense and fewer airs than any other, he saw at once
that I was in earnest; and Constant's voluble protests were as so
much wind. The title does not make the man. Though Constant was
Master of the Household and Vigo only Equery, yet Vigo ruled every
corner of the establishment and every man in it, save only
Monsieur, who ruled him.</p>
<p>He said no word to me as we climbed the broad stair; neither
reproved me for the fracas nor questioned me about my coming. He
would not pry into Monsieur's business; and, save as I concerned
Monsieur, he had no interest in me whatsoever. He led the way
straight into an antechamber, where a page sprang up to bar our
passage.</p>
<p>"No one may enter, M. Vigo, not even you. M. le Duc has ordered
it. Why, Félix! You in Paris!"</p>
<p>"I enter," said Vigo; and, sweeping Marcel aside, he knocked
loudly.</p>
<p>"I came last night," I found time to say under my breath to my
old comrade before the door was opened.</p>
<p>The handsome secretary whom I had taken for the count stood in
the doorway looking askance at us. He knew me at once and
wondered.</p>
<p>"You cannot enter, Vigo. M. le Duc is occupied."</p>
<p>He made to shut the door, but Vigo's foot was over the sill.</p>
<p>"Natheless, I must enter," he answered unabashed and pushed his
way into the room.</p>
<p>"Then you must answer for it," returned the secretary, with a
scowl that sat ill on his delicate face.</p>
<p>"<i>You</i> shall answer for it if it turns out a mare's nest,"
said Vigo, in a low, meaning voice to me. But I hardly heard him. I
passed him and Lucas, and flew down the long room to Monsieur.</p>
<p>M. le Duc was seated before a table heaped with papers. He had
been watching the scene at the door in surprise and anger. He
looked at me with a sharp frown, while the deer-hound at his feet
rose on its haunches growling.</p>
<p>"Roland!" I said. The dog sprang up and came to me.</p>
<p>"Félix Broux!" Monsieur exclaimed, with his quick, warm
smile—a smile no man in France could match for radiance.</p>
<p>I had no thought of kneeling, of making obeisance, of waiting
permission to speak.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I cried, half choked, "there is a plot—a vile
plot to murder you!"</p>
<p>"Where? At St. Quentin?"</p>
<p>"No, Monsieur. Here in Paris. In the streets to-night, when you
go to the king."</p>
<p>Monsieur sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword. Lucas turned
white. Vigo swore. Monsieur cried:</p>
<p>"How, in God's name, know you that?"</p>
<p>"You have been betrayed, Monsieur. Your plan is known. You leave
the house to-night, near a quarter of eleven, to go in secret to
the king. You leave by the little door in the alley—"</p>
<p>"Diable!" breathed Vigo.</p>
<p>"They set on you on your way—three of them—to run
you through before you can draw."</p>
<p>"But, ventre bleu! Monsieur is not alone."</p>
<p>"No; he walks between you and M. Lucas."</p>
<p>Not one of them spoke. They stared at me as if I were something
uncanny. I, a raw country boy, disclosing a perfect knowledge of
their most intimate plans!</p>
<p>"How know you this?" Monsieur demanded of me. But he was not
looking at me. His keen glance went first to Lucas, then to Vigo,
the two men who had shared his confidence. The secretary cried
out:</p>
<p>"You cannot think, Monsieur, that I betrayed you?"</p>
<p>Vigo said nothing. His steady eyes never left Monsieur's
face.</p>
<p>"No," answered Monsieur to Lucas, "I cannot think it." And to
Vigo he said: "I shall accuse you when I accuse myself.
But—none knew this thing save our three selves." And his gaze
went back to Lucas.</p>
<p>"It is not likely to be he," I said, impelled to be just to him
though I did not like him, "for they meant to kill him as
well."</p>
<p>Lucas started, then instantly recovered himself.</p>
<p>"A comprehensive plot, Monsieur," he said, with a smile.</p>
<p>"Then who was it?" cried Monsieur to me. "You know. Speak."</p>
<p>"There is a spy in the house—an eavesdropper," I said, and
then paused.</p>
<p>"Aye?" said Monsieur. "Who?"</p>
<p>Now the answer to this was easy, yet I flinched before it; for I
knew well enough what Monsieur would do. He feared no man, and
waited on no man's advice. And if he was a good lover, he was a
good hater. He would not inform the governor, and await the tardy
course of justice, that would probably accomplish—nothing.
Nor would he consider the troubled times and the danger of his
position, and ignore the affair, as many would have deemed best. He
would not stop to think what the Sixteen might have to say to it.
No; he would call out his guards and slay the plotters in the Rue
Coupejarrets like the wolves they were. It was right he should,
but—I owed my life to Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>"His name, man, his name!" Monsieur was crying.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I returned, flushing hot, "Monsieur—"</p>
<p>"Do you know his name?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Monsieur, I know his name, but—"</p>
<p>Monsieur looked at me in surprise and frowning, impatience.
Quickly Lucas struck in:</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I have grave doubts of the boy's honesty."</p>
<p>"Doubts!" cried Monsieur, with a sudden laugh. "It is not a case
for doubts. The boy states facts."</p>
<p>He seated himself in his chair, his face growing stern again.
The little action seemed to make him no longer merely my
questioner, but my judge.</p>
<p>"Now, Félix Broux, let us get to the bottom of this."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I began, struggling to put the case clearly, "I
learned of the plot by accident. I did not guess for a long time it
was you who were the victim. When I found out that, I came straight
here to you. Monsieur, there are four men in the plot, and one of
them has stood my friend."</p>
<p>"And my assassin!"</p>
<p>"He is a black-hearted villain!" I acknowledged. "For he swore
no harm was meant to you. He swore it was only a private grudge
against M. Lucas. But when one of them let out the truth I came
straight to you."</p>
<p>"That is likely true," said Vigo, "for he was ready to kill the
men who barred his way."</p>
<p>"You were in a plot to kill my secretary!"</p>
<p>"Ah, Monsieur!" I cried.</p>
<p>"You—Félix Broux!"</p>
<p>I curled with shame.</p>
<p>"M. Lucas had struck me," I muttered; "I thought the fight was
fair enough. And they threatened my life."</p>
<p>Monsieur's contemptuous eyes shrivelled me as flame shrivels a
leaf.</p>
<p>"You—a Broux of St. Quentin!"</p>
<p>Lucas, who had watched me close all the while, as they all three
did, said now:</p>
<p>"I believe he is a cheat, Monsieur. There is no plot. He has
learned of your plan through the eavesdropper he speaks of and
thinks to make credit out of a trumped-up tale of murder."</p>
<p>"No," answered Monsieur. "You may think that, Lucas, for he is a
stranger to you. But I know him. He was a fool sometimes, but he
was never dishonest. You used to be fond of me, Félix. What
has happened to make you consort with my enemies?"</p>
<p>"Ah, Monsieur, I love you. I have always loved you," I cried. "I
am not lying now, nor cheating you. There is a plot. I learned it
and came straight to you, though I was under oath not to betray
them."</p>
<p>"Then, in Heaven's name, Félix," burst out Vigo, "which
side are you on?"</p>
<p>Monsieur began to laugh.</p>
<p>"That is what I should like to know. For, by St. Quentin, I can
make nothing of it."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," insisted Lucas, "whatever he was once, I believe him
a trickster now."</p>
<p>Monsieur bent his keen eyes on me.</p>
<p>"No; he is plainly in earnest. Therefore with patience I look to
get some sense out of this snarl of a story. Something is there we
have not yet fathomed."</p>
<p>"Will Monsieur let me speak?"</p>
<p>"I have done naught but urge you to do so for some time past,"
he answered dryly.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, you know my father would not let me leave St. Quentin
with you, three months back. But at length he said I should come,
and I reached Paris last night and, since it was late, lodged at an
inn. This morning I came to your gate, but the guard would not let
me enter. I was so mad to see you, Monsieur, that when you drove
out I sprang up on your coach-step—"</p>
<p>"Ah," said Monsieur, a new light breaking in upon him, "that was
you, Félix? I did not know you; I was thinking of other
matters. And Lucas took you for a miscreant. Now I <i>am</i>
sorry."</p>
<p>If I had been a noble he could not have spoken franker apology.
But at once he was stern again. "And because my secretary took you
in all good faith for a possible assassin and struck you to save
me, you turn traitor and take part in a plot to set on him and kill
him! I had believed that of some hired lackey, not of a Broux."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I was wrong—a thousand times wrong. I knew that
as soon as I had sworn. And when I found it was you they meant, I
came to you, oath or no oath."</p>
<p>"There spoke the Broux!" cried Monsieur with his brilliant
smile. "Now you are Félix. Who are my would-be
murderers?"</p>
<p>We had come round in a circle to the place where we had stuck
before, and here we stuck again.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I would tell you all before you could count
ten—tell you their names, their whereabouts,
everything—were it not for one man who stood my friend."</p>
<p>The duke's eyes flashed.</p>
<p>"You call him that—my assassin!"</p>
<p>"He is an assassin," I was forced to answer; "even Monsieur's
assassin—and a perjurer. But—but, Monsieur, he saved my
life from the other, at the risk of his own. How can I pay him back
by betraying him?"</p>
<p>"According to your own account, he betrayed you."</p>
<p>"Aye, he lied to me," I said brokenly. "Yet Monsieur, if it were
your own case and one had saved your life, were he the scum of the
gutter, would you send him to his death?"</p>
<p>"To whom do you owe your first duty?"</p>
<p>"Monsieur, to you."</p>
<p>"Then speak."</p>
<p>But I could not do it. Though I knew Yeux-gris for a villain,
yet he had saved my life.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I cannot."</p>
<p>The duke cried out:</p>
<p>"This to me!"</p>
<p>There was a silence. I stood with hanging head, the picture of a
shame-faced knave. Shame so filled me that I could not look up to
meet Monsieur's sentence. But when I had remembered the good hater
in Monsieur, I should have remembered, too, the good lover.
Monsieur had been fond of me at St. Quentin. As I waited for the
lightning to strike, he said with utmost gentleness:</p>
<p>"Félix, let me understand you. In what manner did this
man save your life?"</p>
<p>Now that was like my lord. Though a hot man, he loved fairness
and ever strove to do the just thing, and his patience was the
finer that it was not his nature. His leniency fired me with a
sudden hope.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, there are four of them in the plot. But one cannot be
as vile as the others, since he saved my life. Monsieur, if I tell
you, will you let that one go?"</p>
<p>"I shall do as I see fit," he answered, all the duke.
"Félix, will you speak?"</p>
<p>"If Monsieur will promise to let him go—"</p>
<p>"Insolence, sirrah! I do not bargain with my servants."</p>
<p>His words were like whips. I flinched before his proud anger,
and for the second time stood with hanging head awaiting his
sentence. And again he did what I could not guess. He cried
out:</p>
<p>"Félix, you are blind, besotted, mad. You know not what
you do. I am in constant danger. The city is filled with my
enemies. The Leagues hate me and are ever plotting mischief against
me. Every day their mistrust and hatred grow. I did a bold thing in
coming to Paris, but I had a great end to serve—to pave a way
into the capital for the Catholic king and bring the land to peace.
For that, I live in hourly jeopardy, and risk my life to-night on
foot in the streets. If I am killed, more than my life is lost. The
Church may lose the king, and this dear France of ours be harried
to a desert in the civil wars!"</p>
<p>I had braced myself to bear Monsieur's anger, but this
unlooked-for appeal pierced me through and through. All the love
and loyalty in me—and I had much, though it may not have
seemed so—rose in answer to Monsieur's call. I fell on my
knees before him, choked with sobs.</p>
<p>Monsieur's hand lay on my head as he said quietly:</p>
<p>"Now, Félix, speak."</p>
<p>I answered huskily:</p>
<p>"Would Monsieur have me turn Judas?"</p>
<p>"Judas betrayed his <i>master</i>."</p>
<p>It was my last stand. My last redoubt had fallen. I raised my
head to tell him all.</p>
<p>Maybe it was the tears in my eyes, but as I lifted them to M. le
Duc, I saw—not him, but Yeux-gris—Yeux-gris looking at
me with warm good will, as he had looked when he was saving me from
Gervais. I saw him, I say, plain before my eyes. The next instant
there was nothing but Monsieur's face of rising impatience.</p>
<p>I rose to my feet, and said:</p>
<p>"Kill me, Monsieur; I cannot tell."</p>
<p>"Nom de dieu!" he shouted, springing up.</p>
<p>I shut my eyes and waited. Had he slain me then and there it
were no more than my deserts.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," said Vigo, immovably, "shall I go for the boot?"</p>
<p>I opened my eyes then. Monsieur stood quite still, his brow
knotted, his hands clenched as if to keep them off me.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I said, "send for the boot, the thumbscrew, whatever
you please. I deserve it, and I will bear it. Monsieur, it is not
that I will not tell. It is something stronger than I. I
<i>cannot</i>."</p>
<p>He burst into an angry laugh.</p>
<p>"Say you are possessed of a devil, and I will believe it. My
faith! though you are a low-born lad and I Duke of St. Quentin, I
seem to be getting the worst of it."</p>
<p>"There is the boot, Monsieur."</p>
<p>Monsieur laughed again, no less angrily.</p>
<p>"That does not help me, my good Vigo. I cannot torture a
Broux."</p>
<p>"There Monsieur is wrong. The lad has been disloyal and
insolent, if he is a Broux."</p>
<p>"Granted, Vigo," said M. le Duc. But he did not add, "Fetch the
boot."</p>
<p>Vigo went on with steady persistence. "He has not been loyal to
Monsieur and his interests in refusing to tell what he knows. And
if he goes counter to Monsieur's interests he is a traitor, Broux
or no Broux. He has no claim to be treated as other than an enemy.
These are serious times. Monsieur does not well to play with his
dangers. The boy must tell what he knows. Am I to go for the boot,
Monsieur?"</p>
<p>M. le Duc was silent for a moment, while the hot flush that had
sprung to his face died away. Then he answered Vigo:</p>
<p>"Nevertheless, it is owing to Félix that I shall not walk
out to meet my death to-night."</p>
<p>The secretary had stood silent for a long time, fingering
nervously the papers on the table. I had forgotten his presence,
when now he stepped forward and said:</p>
<p>"If I might be permitted a suggestion, Monsieur—"</p>
<p>Monsieur silenced him with a sharp gesture.</p>
<p>"Félix Broux," he said to me, "you have been following a
bad plan. No man can run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.
You are either my loyal servant or my enemy, one thing or the
other. Now I am loath to hurt you. You have seen how I am loath to
hurt you. I give you one more chance to be honest. Go and think it
over. If in half an hour you have decided that you are my true man,
well and good. If not, by St. Quentin, we will see what a flogging
can do!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2>
<h3><i>Charles-André-Étienne-Marie.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-u.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>npleased, but unprotesting, Vigo led me out into the anteroom.
Those men who judged by the outside of things and, knowing Vigo's
iron ways, said that he ruled Monsieur, were wrong.</p>
<p>The big equery gave me over to the charge of Marcel and returned
to the inner room. Hardly had the door closed behind him when the
page burst out:</p>
<p>"What is it? What is the coil? What have you done,
Félix?"</p>
<p>Now you can guess I was too sick-hearted for chatter. I had
defied and disobeyed my liege lord; I could never hope for pardon
or any man's respect. They threatened me with flogging; well, let
them flog. They could not make my back any sorer than my conscience
was. For I had not the satisfaction in my trouble of thinking that
I had done right. Monsieur's danger should have been my first
consideration. What was Yeux-gris, perjured scoundrel, in
comparison with M. le Duc? And yet I knew that at the end of the
half-hour I should not tell; at the end of the flogging I should
not tell. I had warned Monsieur; that I would have done had it been
the breaking of a thousand oaths. But give up Yeux-gris? Not if
they tore me limb from limb!</p>
<p>"What is it all about?" cried Marcel, again. "You look as glum
as a Jesuit in Lent. What is the matter with you,
Félix?"</p>
<p>"I have cooked my goose," I said gloomily.</p>
<p>"What have you done?"</p>
<p>"Nothing that I can speak about. But I am out of Monsieur's
books."</p>
<p>"What was old Vigo after when he took you in to Monsieur? I
never saw anything so bold. When Monsieur says he is not to be
disturbed he means it."</p>
<p>I had nothing to tell him, and was silent.</p>
<p>"What is it? Can't you tell an old chum?"</p>
<p>"No; it is Monsieur's private business."</p>
<p>"Well, you are grumpy!" he cried out pettishly. "You must be out
of grace." He seemed to decide that nothing was to be made out of
me just now on this tack, and with unabated persistence tried
another.</p>
<p>"Is it true, Félix, what one of the men said just now,
that you tried to speak with Monsieur this morning when he drove
out?"</p>
<p>"Yes. But Monsieur did not recognize me."</p>
<p>"Like enough," Marcel answered. "He has a way of late of falling
into these absent fits. Monsieur is not the man he was."</p>
<p>"He does look older," I said, "and worn. I trow the risk he is
running—"</p>
<p>"Pshaw!" cried Marcel, with scorn. "Is Monsieur a man to mind
risks? No; it is M. le Comte."</p>
<p>I started like a guilty thing, remembering what Yeux-gris had
told me and I, wrapped in my petty troubles, had forgotten.
Monsieur had lost his only son. And I had chosen this time to defy
him!</p>
<p>"How long ago was it?" I asked in a hushed voice.</p>
<p>"Since M. le Comte left us? It will be three weeks next
Friday."</p>
<p>"How did he die?"</p>
<p>"Die?" echoed Marcel. "You crazy fellow, he is not dead!"</p>
<p>It was my turn to stare.</p>
<p>"Then where is he?"</p>
<p>"It would be money in my pouch if I knew. What made you think
him dead, Félix?"</p>
<p>"A man told me so."</p>
<p>"Pardieu!" he cried in some excitement. "When? Who was it?"</p>
<p>"To-day. I do not know the man's name."</p>
<p>"It seems you know very little. Pardieu! I do not believe M. le
Comte is dead. What else did your man say?"</p>
<p>"Nothing. He only said the Comte de Mar was dead."</p>
<p>"Pshaw! I don't believe it. You believe everything you hear
because you are just from the country. No; if M. le Comte were dead
we should hear of it. Oh, certainly, we should hear."</p>
<p>"But where is he, then? You say he is lost."</p>
<p>"Aye. He has not been seen or heard of since the day they had
the quarrel."</p>
<p>"Who quarrelled?"</p>
<p>"Why, he and Monsieur," answered Marcel, in a lower voice,
pointing to the door of the inner room. "M. le Comte has been his
own master too long to take kindly to a hand over him; that is the
whole of it. He has a quick temper. So has Monsieur."</p>
<p>But I thought of Monsieur's wonderful patience, and I cried:</p>
<p>"Shame!"</p>
<p>"What now?"</p>
<p>"To speak like that of Monsieur."</p>
<p>"Enfin, it is true. He is none the worse for that. But I suppose
if Monsieur had a cloven hoof one must not mention it."</p>
<p>"One would get his head broken."</p>
<p>"Oh, you Broux!" he cried out. "I have not seen you for half a
year. I had forgotten that with you the St. Quentins rank with the
saints."</p>
<p>"You—you are a hired servant. You come to Monsieur as you
might come to anybody. With the Broux it is different," I retorted
angrily. Yet I could not but know in my heart that any hired
servant might have served Monsieur better than I. My boasted
loyalty—what was it but lip-service? I said more humbly:
"Pshaw! it is no great matter. Tell me about the quarrel."</p>
<p>"And so I will, if you're civil. In the first place, there was
the question of M. le Comte's marriage."</p>
<p>"What! is he married?"</p>
<p>"Oh, by no means. Monsieur wouldn't have it. You see,
Félix," Marcel said in a tone deep with importance, "we're
Navarre's men now."</p>
<p>"Of course," said I.</p>
<p>"I suppose you would say 'of course' just like that to Mayenne
himself. You greenhorn! It is as much as our lives are worth to
side openly with Navarre. The League may attack us any day."</p>
<p>"I know," I said uneasily. Every chance word Marcel spoke seemed
to dye my guilt the deeper. "But what has this to do with M. le
Comte's marriage?" I asked him.</p>
<p>"Why, he was more than half a Leaguer. Perhaps he is one now.
Some say he and Monsieur were at daggers drawn about politics; but
I warrant it was about Mlle. de Montluc. They call her the Rose of
Lorraine. She's the Duke of Mayenne's own cousin and housemate. And
we're king's men, so of course it was no match for Monsieur's son.
They say Mayenne himself favoured the marriage, but our duke
wouldn't hear of it. However, the backbone of the trouble was M. de
Grammont."</p>
<p>"And who may he be?"</p>
<p>"He's a cousin of the house. He and M. le Comte are as thick as
thieves. Before we came to Paris they lodged together. So when M.
le Comte came here he brought M. de Grammont. Dare I speak ill of
Monsieur's cousin, Félix? For I would say, at the risk of a
broken head, that he is a sour-faced churl. You cannot deny it. You
never saw him."</p>
<p>"No, nor M. le Comte, either."</p>
<p>"Why, you have seen M. le Comte!"</p>
<p>"Never. The only time he came to St. Quentin I was laid up in
bed with a strained leg. I missed the chase. Don't you
remember?"</p>
<p>"Why, you are right; that was the time you fell out of the
buttery window when you were stealing tarts, and Margot got after
you with the broomstick. I remember very well."</p>
<p>He was for calling up all our old pranks at the château,
but it was little joy to me to think on those fortunate days when I
was Monsieur's favourite. I said:</p>
<p>"Nay, Marcel, you were telling me of M. le Comte and the
quarrel."</p>
<p>"Oh, as for that, it is easy told. You see M. le Comte and this
Grammont took no interest in Monsieur's affairs, and they had very
little to say to him, and he to them. They had plenty of friends in
Paris, Leaguers or not, and they used to go about amusing
themselves. But at last M. de Grammont had such a run of bad luck
at the tables that he not only emptied his own pockets but M. le
Comte's as well. I will say for M. le Comte that he would share his
last sou with any one who asked."</p>
<p>"And so would any St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"Oh, you are always piping up for the St. Quentins."</p>
<p>"He should have no need in this house."</p>
<p>We jumped up to find Vigo standing behind us.</p>
<p>"What have you been saying of Monsieur?"</p>
<p>"Nothing, M. Vigo," stammered the page. "I only said M. le
Comte—"</p>
<p>"You are not to discuss M. le Comte. Do you hear?"</p>
<p>"Yes, M. Vigo."</p>
<p>"Then obey. And you, Félix, I shall have a little
interview with you shortly."</p>
<p>"As you will, M. Vigo," I said hopelessly.</p>
<p>He went off down the corridor, and Marcel turned angrily on
me.</p>
<p>"Mon dieu, Félix, you have got me into a nice scrape with
your eternal chanting of the praises of Monsieur. Like as not I
shall get a beating for it. Vigo never forgets."</p>
<p>"I am sorry," I said. "We should not have been talking of
it."</p>
<p>"No, we should not. Come over here where we can watch both
doors, and I'll tell you the rest before the old lynx gets
back."</p>
<p>We sat down close together, and he proceeded in a low tone to
disobey Vigo.</p>
<p>"Enfin, as I said, the two young gentlemen were quite sans le
sou, for things had come to a point where M. le Duc looked pretty
black at any application for funds—he has other uses for his
gold, you see. One day Monsieur was expecting some one to whom he
was to pay a thousand pistoles, and to have the money handy he put
it in a secret drawer in his cabinet in the room yonder. The man
arrives and is taken to Monsieur's private room. Monsieur gives him
his orders and goes to the cabinet for his pistoles. No pistoles
there!"</p>
<p>Marcel paused dramatically. "And what then?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Well, it appears he had once shown M. le Comte the trick of the
drawer, so he sent for him—not to accuse him, mind you. For
M. le Comte is wild enough, yet Monsieur did not think he would
steal pistoles, nor would he, I will stake my oath. No, Monsieur
merely asked him if he had ever shown any one the drawer, and M. le
Comte answered, 'Only Grammont.'"</p>
<p>And how have you learned all this?"</p>
<p>"Oh, one hears."</p>
<p>"One does, with one's ears to the keyhole."</p>
<p>"It behooves you, Félix, to be civil to your better!"</p>
<p>I made pretence of looking about me.</p>
<p>"Where is he?"</p>
<p>"He sits here. I am page to the Duke of St. Quentin. And
you?"</p>
<p>"Touché!" I admitted bitterly enough. Little Marcel, my
junior, my unquestioning follower in the old days, was now indeed
my better, quite in a position to patronize.</p>
<p>"Continue, if you please, Marcel. Yet, in passing, I should like
to ask you how much you heard our talk in there just now."</p>
<p>"Nothing," he answered candidly. "When they are so far down the
room one cannot hear a word. In the affair of the pistoles they
stood near the cabinet at this end. One could not help but hear. As
for listening at keyholes, I scorn it."</p>
<p>"Yes, it is well to scorn it. People have an unpleasant trick of
opening doors so suddenly."</p>
<p>He laughed cheerfully.</p>
<p>"Old Vigo caught us, certes. Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes,
then Monsieur put on his proud look and said, if it was a case of
no one but his son and his cousin, he preferred to drop the matter.
But M. le Comte got out of him what the trouble was and went off
for Grammont, red as fire. The two together came back to Monsieur
and denied up and down that either of them knew aught of his
pistoles, or had told of the secret to any one. They say it was
easy to see that Monsieur did not believe Grammont, but he did not
give him the lie, and the matter came near dropping there, for M.
le Duc would not accuse a kinsman. But then Lucas gave a new turn
to the affair."</p>
<p>"How long has Lucas been here, Marcel? Who is he?"</p>
<p>"Oh, he's a rascal of a Huguenot. Monsieur picked him up at
Mantes, just before we came to the city. And if he spies on
Monsieur's enemies as well as he does on this household, he must be
a useful man. He has that long nose of his in everything, let me
tell you. Of course he was present when Monsieur missed the
pistoles. So then, quite on his own account, without any orders, he
took two of the men and searched M. de Grammont's room. And in a
locked chest of his which they forced open they found five hundred
of the pistoles in the very box Monsieur had kept them in."</p>
<p>"And then?"</p>
<p>Marcel made a fine gesture.</p>
<p>"And then, pardieu! the storm broke. M. de Grammont raved like a
madman. He said Lucas was the thief and had put half the sum in his
chest to divert suspicion. He said it was a plot to ruin him
contrived between Monsieur and his henchman, Lucas. It is true
enough, certes, that Monsieur never liked him. He threatened
Monsieur's life and Lucas's. He challenged Monsieur, and Monsieur
declined to cross swords with a thief. He challenged Lucas, and
Lucas took the cue from Monsieur. I was not there—on either
side of the door. What I tell you has leaked out bit by bit from
Lucas, for Monsieur keeps his mouth shut. The upshot of the matter
was that Grammont goes at Lucas with a knife, and Monsieur has the
guards pitch my gentleman into the street. Then M. le Comte swore a
big oath that he would go with Grammont. Monsieur told him if he
went in such company it would be forever. M. le Comte swore he
would never come back under his father's roof if M. le Duc crawled
to him on his knees to beg him."</p>
<p>"Ah!" I cried; "and then?"</p>
<p>"Marry, that's all. M. le Comte went straight out of this gate,
without horse or squire. And we have not heard a word of either of
them since."</p>
<p>He paused, and when I made no comment, said, a trifle
aggrieved:</p>
<p>"Eh bien, you take it calmly, but you would not had you been
here. It was an altogether lively affair. It wouldn't surprise me a
whit if some day Monsieur should be attacked as he drives out. He's
not one to forget an injury, this M. Gervais de Grammont."</p>
<p>At the name, intelligence flashed over me, sudden and clear as
last night's lightning-gleam. Yet this thing I seemed to see was so
hideous, so horrible, that my mind recoiled from it.</p>
<p>"Marcel," I stammered, shuddering, "Marcel—"</p>
<p>"Mordieu! what ails you? Is some one walking on your grave?"</p>
<p>"Marcel, how is M. le Comte named?"</p>
<p>"The Comte de Mar? Oh, do you mean his names in baptism?
Charles-André-Étienne-Marie. They call him
Étienne. Why do you ask? What is it?"</p>
<p>It was a certainty, then. Yet I could not bring myself to
believe this horrible thing.</p>
<p>"I have never seen him. How does he look?"</p>
<p>"Oh, not at all like Monsieur. He has fair hair and gray
eyes—que diable!"</p>
<p>For I had flung open Monsieur's door and dashed in.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h2>
<h3><i>The honour of St. Quentin.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-m.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>onsieur was seated at his table, talking in a low tone and
hurriedly to Lucas. They started and stared as I broke in upon
them, and then Monsieur cried out to me:</p>
<p>"Ah, Félix! You have come to your senses."</p>
<p>"I will tell Monsieur all, the whole story."</p>
<p>He tested my honesty with a glance, then looked beyond me at
Marcel, standing agape in the doorway.</p>
<p>"Leave us, Marcel. Go down-stairs. Leave that door open, and
shut the door into the corridor."</p>
<p>Marcel obeyed. Monsieur turned to me with a smile.</p>
<p>"Now, Félix."</p>
<p>I had hardly been able to hold my words back while Marcel was
disposed of.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I knew not, myself, the names of those men. Now I
have found out. They—"</p>
<p>My eyes met the secretary's fixed excitedly upon me and the
words died on my tongue. Even in my rage I had the grace to know
that this was no story to tell Monsieur before another.</p>
<p>"I will tell Monsieur alone."</p>
<p>"You may speak before M. Lucas," he rejoined impatiently.</p>
<p>"No," I persisted. "I must tell Monsieur alone."</p>
<p>He saw in my face that I had strong reasons for asking it, and
said to the secretary:</p>
<p>"You may go, Lucas."</p>
<p>Lucas protested.</p>
<p>"M. le Duc will be wiser not to see him alone. He is not to be
trusted. Perchance, Monsieur, this demand covers an attack on your
life."</p>
<p>The warning nettled my lord. He answered curtly:</p>
<p>"You may go."</p>
<p>"Monsieur—"</p>
<p>"Go!"</p>
<p>Lucas passed out, giving me, as he went, a look of hatred that
startled me. But I did not pay it much heed.</p>
<p>"Well!" exclaimed Monsieur.</p>
<p>But by this time I had bethought myself what a story it was I
had to tell a father of his son. I could not blurt it out in two
words. I stood silent, not knowing how to start.</p>
<p>"Félix! Beware how much longer you abuse my
patience!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I began, "the spy in the house is named Martin."</p>
<p>"Ah!" cried Monsieur. "So it is Louis Martin. How he
knew—But go on. The others—"</p>
<p>"I lay the night in the Rue Coupejarrets, not far from the St.
Denis gate," I said, still beating about the bush, "at the sign of
the Amour de Dieu. Opposite is a closed house, shuttered with iron
from garret to cellar. You can enter from a court behind. It is
here that they plot."</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="098.jpg"></a> <a href="images/098.jpg"><img src=
"images/098.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"WITH A CRY MONSIEUR SPRANG TOWARD ME."</b>
<br /></div>
<p>Monsieur's brows drew together, as if he were trying to recall
something half remembered, half forgotten.</p>
<p>"But the men," he cried, "the men!"</p>
<p>"They are three. One a low fellow named Pontou."</p>
<p>"Pontou? The name is nothing to me. The others?" He was leaning
forward eagerly. I knew of what he was thinking—the quickest
way to reach the Rue Coupejarrets.</p>
<p>"There are two others, Monsieur," I said slowly. "Young
men—noble."</p>
<p>I looked at him. But no light whatever had broken in upon
him.</p>
<p>"Their names, lad!"</p>
<p>Then, seeing him unsuspecting, the fury in my heart surged up
and covered every other feeling. I burst out:</p>
<p>"Gervais de Grammont and the Comte de Mar."</p>
<p>He looked me in the face, and he knew I was telling the truth.
Unexpected as it was, hideous as it was, yet he knew I was telling
the truth.</p>
<p>I had seen cowards turn pale, but never the colour washed from a
brave man's face. The sight made my fingers itch to strangle that
gray-eyed cheat.</p>
<p>With a cry Monsieur sprang toward me.</p>
<p>"You lie, you cur!"</p>
<p>"No, Monsieur," I gasped; "it is the truth."</p>
<p>He let me go then, and laid his hand on the collar of the dog,
who had sprung to his aid. But Monsieur had got a hurt from which
the dumb beast's loyalty could not defend him. He stood with bowed
head, a man stricken to the heart's core. Full of wrath as I was,
the tears came to my eyes for Monsieur.</p>
<p>He recovered himself.</p>
<p>"It is some damnable mistake! You have been tricked!"</p>
<p>My rage blazed up again.</p>
<p>"No! They tricked me once. Not again! Not this time. I knew not
who they were till now, when I talked with Marcel. The two things
fitted."</p>
<p>"Then it is your guess! You dare to say—"</p>
<p>"No, I know!" I interrupted rudely, too excited to remember
respect. "Shall I tell what these men were like? I had never seen
M. le Comte nor M. de Grammont before. One was broad-shouldered and
heavy, with a black beard and a black scowl, whom the other called
Gervais. The younger was called Étienne, tall and slender,
with gray eyes and fair hair. And like Monsieur!" I cried, suddenly
aware of it. "Mordieu, how he is like, though he is light! In face,
in voice, in manner! He speaks like Monsieur. He has Monsieur's
laugh. I was blind not to see it. I believe that was why I loved
him so much."</p>
<p>"It was he whom you would not betray?"</p>
<p>"Aye. That was before I knew."</p>
<p>Thinking of the trust I had given him, my wrath boiled up again.
Monsieur took me by the shoulder and looked at me as if he would
look through me to the naked soul.</p>
<p>"How do I know that you are not lying?"</p>
<p>"Monsieur does know it."</p>
<p>"Yes," he answered after a moment. "Alas! yes, I know it."</p>
<p>He stood looking at me, with the dreariest face I ever
saw—the face of a man whose son has sought to murder him.
Looking back on it now, I wonder that I ever went to Monsieur with
that story. I wonder why I did not bury the shame and disgrace of
it in my own heart, at whatever cost keep it from Monsieur. But the
thought never entered my head then. I was so full of black rage
against Yeux-gris—him most of all, because he had won me
so—that I could feel nothing else. I knew that I pitied
Monsieur, yet I hardly felt it.</p>
<p>"Tell me everything—how you met them—all. Else I
shall not believe a word of your devilish rigmarole," Monsieur
cried out.</p>
<p>I told him the whole shameful story, every word, from my
lightning vision to my gossip with Marcel in the antechamber, he
listening in hopeless silence. At length I finished. It seemed
hours since he had spoken. At last he said, "Then it is true." The
grayness of his face drew the cry from me:</p>
<p>"The villain! the black-hearted villain!"</p>
<p>"Take care, Félix, he is my son!"</p>
<p>I got hold of my cross and tore it off, breaking the chain.</p>
<p>"See, Monsieur. That is the cross on which he swore the plot was
not against you. He swore it, and Gervais de Grammont laughed! I
swore, too, never to betray them! Two perjuries!"</p>
<p>I flung the cross on the floor and stamped on it, splintering
it.</p>
<p>"Profaner!" cried Monsieur.</p>
<p>"It is no sacrilege!" I retorted. "That is no holy thing since
he has touched it. He has made it vile—scoundrel, assassin,
parricide!"</p>
<p>Monsieur struck the words from my lips.</p>
<p>"It is true," I muttered.</p>
<p>"Were it ten times true, you have no right to say it."</p>
<p>"No, I have none," I answered, shamed. I might not speak ill of
a St. Quentin, though he were the devil's own. But my rage came
uppermost again.</p>
<p>"I can bring Monsieur to the house in twenty minutes. Vigo and a
handful of men can take them prisoners before they suspect aught
amiss. They are only three—he and Grammont and the
lackey."</p>
<p>But Monsieur shook his head.</p>
<p>"I cannot do that."</p>
<p>"Why not, Monsieur?"</p>
<p>"Can I take my own son prisoner?"</p>
<p>"Monsieur need not go," said I, wondering. In his place I would
have gone and killed Yeux-gris with my own hands. "Vigo and I and
two more can do it. Vigo and I alone, if Monsieur would not shame
him before the men." I guessed at what he was thinking.</p>
<p>"Not even you and Vigo," he answered. "Think you I would arrest
my son like a common felon—shame him like that?"</p>
<p>"He has shamed himself!" I cried. I cared not whether I had a
right to say it. "He has forgotten his honour."</p>
<p>"Aye. But I have remembered mine."</p>
<p>"Monsieur! Monsieur cannot mean to let him go scot-free?"</p>
<p>But his eyes told me that he did mean it.</p>
<p>"Then," I said in more and more amazement, "Monsieur forgives
him?"</p>
<p>His face set sternly.</p>
<p>"No," he answered. "No, Félix. He has placed himself
beyond my forgiveness."</p>
<p>"Then we will go there alone, we two, and kill him! Kill the
three!"</p>
<p>He laughed. But not a man in France felt less mirthful.</p>
<p>"You would have me kill my son?"</p>
<p>"He would have killed you."</p>
<p>"That makes no difference."</p>
<p>I looked at him, groping after the thoughts that swayed him, and
catching at them dimly. I knew them for the principles of a proud
and honour-ruled man, but there was no room for them in my angry
heart.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I cried, "will you let three villains go unpunished
for the sake of one?" It was what I had meant to do, awhile back,
but the case was changed now.</p>
<p>"Of two: Gervais de Grammont is also of my blood."</p>
<p>"Monsieur would spare him as well—him, the
ringleader!"</p>
<p>"He is my cousin."</p>
<p>"He forgets it."</p>
<p>"But I do not."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, will you have no vengeance?"</p>
<p>Monsieur looked at me.</p>
<p>"When you are a man, Félix Broux, you will know that
there are other things in this world besides vengeance. You will
know that some injuries cannot be avenged. You will know that a
gentleman cannot use the same weapons that blackguards use to
him."</p>
<p>"Ah, Monsieur!" I cried. "Monsieur is indeed a nobleman!" But I
was furious with him for it.</p>
<p>He turned abruptly and paced down the room. The dog, which had
been standing at his side, stayed still, looking from him to me
with puzzled, troubled eyes. He knew quite well something was
wrong, and vented his feelings in a long, dismal whine. Monsieur
spoke to him; Roland bounded up to him and licked his hand. They
walked up and down together, comforting each other.</p>
<p>"At least," I cried in desperation, "Monsieur has the spy."</p>
<p>He laughed. Only a man in utter despair could have laughed then
as he did.</p>
<p>"Even the spy to wreak vengeance on consoles you somewhat,
Félix? But does it seem to you fair that a tool should be
punished when the leaders go free?"</p>
<p>"No," said I; "but it is the common way."</p>
<p>"That is a true word," he said, turning away again.</p>
<p>I waited till he faced me once more.</p>
<p>"Monsieur will not suffer the spy to go free?"</p>
<p>"No, Félix. He shall be punished lest he betray
again."</p>
<p>He passed me in his dreary walk. Half a dozen times he passed by
me, a broken-hearted man, striving to collect his courage to take
up his life once more. But I thought he would never get over the
blow. A husband may forget his wife's treachery, and a mother will
forgive her child's, but a father can neither forget nor forgive
the crime of the son who bears his name.</p>
<p>"Ah, Monsieur, you are noble, and I love you!" I cried from the
depths of my heart, and knelt to kiss his hand.</p>
<p>Monsieur laid that kind hand on my shoulder.</p>
<p>"You shall serve me. Go now and send Vigo here. I must be
looking to the country's business."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h2>
<h3><i>Lucas and "Le Gaucher."</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>cursed myself for a fool that I had carried the tale to
Monsieur. It should have been my business to keep a still tongue
and go kill Yeux-gris myself. For this last it was not yet too
late.</p>
<p>Marcel was hanging about in the corridor, and to him I gave the
word for Vigo. I tore away from his eager questionings and hurried
to the gate.</p>
<p>In the morning I had not been able to get in, and now I could no
more get out. By Vigo's orders, no man might leave the house.</p>
<p>Vigo was after the spy, of course. Monsieur knew the traitor
now; he would inform Vigo, and the gates would be open for honest
men. But that might take time and I could not wait five minutes. I
had the audacity to cry to the guards:</p>
<p>"M. le Duc will let me pass out. I refer you to M. le Duc."</p>
<p>The men were impressed. They had a respect for me, since I had
been closeted with Monsieur. Yet they dared not disobey Vigo for
their lives. In this dilemma the poor sentry, fearful of getting
into trouble whatever he did, sent up an envoy to ask Monsieur. I
was frightened then. I had uttered my speech in sheer bravado, and
was very doubtful as to how he would answer my impudence. But he
was utterly careless, I trow, what I did, for presently the word
came down that I might pass out.</p>
<p>The sun was setting as I hastened along the streets. I must
reach the Rue Coupejarrets before dark, else there was no hope for
me. A man in his senses would have known there was no hope anyway.
Who but a madman would think of venturing back, forsworn, to those
three villains, for the killing of one? It would be a miracle if
aught resulted but failure and death. Yet I felt no jot of fear as
I plunged into the mesh of crooked streets in the Coupejarrets
quarter—only ardour to reach my goal. When, on turning a
corner, I came upon a group of idlers choking the narrow ruelle, I
said to myself that a dozen Parisians in the way could no more stop
me than they could stop a charge of horse. All heels and elbows, I
pushed into them. But, to my abasement, promptly was I seized upon
by a burly porter and bidden, with a cuff, to mind my manners. Then
I discovered the occasion of the crowd to be a little procession of
choristers out of a neighbouring church—St. Jean of the Spire
it was, though I knew then no name for it. The boys were singing,
the watchers quiet, bareheaded. They sang as if there were nothing
in the world but piety and love. The last level rays of the sun
crowned them with radiant aureoles, painted their white robes with
glory. I shut my eyes, dazzled; it was as if I beheld a heavenly
host. When I opened them again the folk at my side were kneeling as
the cross came by. I knelt, too, but the holy sign spoke to me only
of the crucifix I had trampled on, of Yeux-gris and his lies. I
prayed to the good God to let me kill Yeux-gris, prayed, kneeling
there on the cobbles, with a fervour I had never reached before.
When I rose I ran on at redoubled speed, never doubting that a just
God would strengthen my hand, would make my cause his.</p>
<p>I entered the little court. The shutter was fastened, as before,
but I had my dagger, and could again free the bolt. I could creep
up-stairs and mayhap stab Yeux-gris before they were aware of my
coming. But that was not my purpose. I was no bravo to strike in
the back, but the instrument of a righteous vengeance. He must know
why he died.</p>
<p>One to three, I had no chance. But if I knocked openly it was
likely that Yeux-gris, being my patron, would be the one to come
down to me. Then there was the opportunity, man to man. If it were
Grammont or the lackey, I would boldly declare that I would give my
news to none but Yeux-gris. In pursuance of this plan I was
pounding vigorously on the door when a voice behind me cried out
blithely:</p>
<p>"So you are back at last, Félix Broux"</p>
<p>At the first word I wheeled around. In the court entrance stood
Yeux-gris, smiling and debonair. He had laid aside his sword, and
held on his left arm a basket containing a loaf of bread, a roast
capon, and some bottles, for all the world like an honest prentice
doing his master's errand.</p>
<p>"Yes, I am back!" I shouted. "Back to kill you, parricide!"</p>
<p>He had a knife in his belt; the fight was even. I was upon him,
my dagger raised to strike. He made no motion to draw, and I
remembered in a flash he could not: his right arm was powerless. He
sprang back, flinging up his burdened left as a shield, and my
blade buried itself in the side of the basket.</p>
<p>As I stabbed I heard feet thundering down the stairs within. I
jerked my knife from the wicker and turned to face this new enemy.
"Grammont," I thought, and that my end had come.</p>
<p>The door flew open and, shoulder to shoulder like brothers, out
rushed Grammont and—Lucas!</p>
<p>My fear was drowned in amaze. I forgot to run and stood staring
in sheer, blank bewilderment. Crying "Damned traitor!" Gervais,
with drawn sword, charged at me.</p>
<p>I had only the little dagger. I owe my life to Yeux-gris's quick
wits and no less quick fingers. Dropping the basket, he snatched a
bottle from it and hurled it at Gervais.</p>
<p>"Ware, Grammont!" shouted Lucas, springing forward. But the
missile flew too quickly. It struck Grammont square on the
forehead, and he went down like a slaughtered ox.</p>
<p>We looked, not at him, but at Lucas—Lucas, the duke's
deferential servant, the coward and skulker, Grammont's hatred,
standing here by Grammont's side, glaring at us over his naked
sword.</p>
<p>I saw in one glance that Yeux-gris was no less astounded than I,
and from that instant, though the inwardness of the matter was
still a riddle to me, my heart acquitted him of all dishonesty, of
all complicity. His was not the face of a parricide.</p>
<p>"Lucas!" he cried, in a dearth of words. "<i>Lucas!</i>"</p>
<p>I was staring at Lucas in thick bewilderment. The man was
transformed from the one I knew. At M. le Duc's he had been pale,
nervous, and shaken—senselessly and contemptibly scared, as I
thought, since he was warned of the danger and need not face it.
But now he was another man. I can think only of those lanterns I
have seen, set with coloured glass. They look dull enough all day,
but when the taper within is lighted shine like jewels. So Lucas
now. His face, so keen and handsome of feature, was brilliant, his
eyes sparkling, his figure instinct with defiance. A smile crossed
his face.</p>
<p>"Aye," he answered evenly, "it is Lucas."</p>
<p>M. le Comte appeared to be in a state of stupor. He could not
for a space find his tongue to demand:</p>
<p>"How, in the name of Heaven, come you here?"</p>
<p>"To fight Grammont," Lucas answered at once.</p>
<p>"A lie!" I shouted. "You're Grammont's friend. You came here to
warn him off. It's your plot!"</p>
<p>"Félix! The plot?" Yeux-gris cried.</p>
<p>"The plot's to murder Monsieur. Martin let it out. I thought it
was you and Grammont. But it's Lucas and Grammont!"</p>
<p>Lucas hesitated. Even now he debated whether he could not lie
out of it. Then he burst into laughter.</p>
<p>"It seems the cat's out of the bag. Aye, M. le Comte de Mar, I
came to warn Grammont off. The duke will be here straightway. How
will you like to swing for parricide?"</p>
<p>Yeux-gris stared at him, neither in fear nor in fury, but in
utter stupefaction.</p>
<p>"But Gervais? He plotted with you? But he hates you!"</p>
<p>We gaped at Lucas like yokels at a conjurer. He made us no
answer but looked from one to the other of us with the alertness of
an angry viper. We were two, but without swords. I knew he was
thinking how easiest to end us both.</p>
<p>M. le Comte cried: "You! You come from Navarre's camp, from M.
de Rosny!"</p>
<p>"Aye. I have outwitted more than one man."</p>
<p>"Mordieu! I was right to hate you!"</p>
<p>Lucas laughed. Yeux-gris blazed out:</p>
<p>"Traitor and thief! You stole the money. I said that from the
first. You drove us from the house. How you and
Grammont—"</p>
<p>"Came together? Very simple," Lucas answered with easy
insolence. "Grammont did not love Monsieur, your honoured father.
It was child's play to make an assignation with him and to lament
the part forced on me by Monsieur. Grammont was ready enough to
scent a scheme of M. le Duc's to ruin him. He had said as much to
Monsieur, as you may deign to remember."</p>
<p>"Aye," said M. le Comte, still like a puzzled child, "he was
angry with my father. But afterward he changed his mind. He knew it
was you, and only you."</p>
<p>Lucas broke again into derisive laughter.</p>
<p>"M. de Grammont is as dull a dolt as ever I met, yet clever
enough to gull you. He thought you must suspect. I dreaded
it—needlessly. You wise St. Quentins! You cannot see what
goes on under your very nose."</p>
<p>M. le Comte sprang forward, scarlet. Lucas flourished the
sword.</p>
<p>"The boy there caught at a glance what you had not found out in
a fortnight. He gets to the duke and blocks my game—for
to-day. But if they sent him ahead to hold us till their men came
up, they were fools, too. I'll have the duke yet, and I'll have you
now."</p>
<p>He rushed at the unarmed Yeux-gris. The latter darted at
Grammont's fallen sword, seized it, was on guard, all in the second
before Lucas reached him. He might have been in a fortnight's
trance, but he was awake at last.</p>
<p>I trembled for him, then took heart again, as he parried thrust
after thrust and pressed Lucas hard. I had never seen a man fight
with his left arm before; I had not realized it could be done,
being myself helpless with that hand. But as I watched this combat
I speedily perceived how dangerous is a left-handed adversary. In
later years I was to understand better, when M. le Comte had become
known the length of the land by the title "Le Gaucher." But at this
time he was in the habit, like the rest of the world, of fencing
with his right hand; his dexterity with the other he rated only as
a pretty accomplishment to surprise the crowd. He used his left
hand scarcely as well as Lucas the right; yet, the thrust sinister
being in itself a strength, they were not badly matched. I stood
watching with all my eyes, when of a sudden I felt a grasp on my
ankle and the next instant was thrown heavily to the pavement.</p>
<p>Grammont had come to life and taken prompt part in the fray.</p>
<p>I fell close to him, and instantly he let go my leg and wound
his arms around me. I tried to rise and could not, and we rolled
about together in the wine and blood and broken glass. All the
while I heard the sword-blades clashing. Yeux-gris, God be thanked!
seemed to be holding his own.</p>
<p>Fighting Gervais was like fighting two men. Slowly but steadily
he pressed me down and held me. I struggled for dear life—and
could not push him back an inch.</p>
<p>I still held my knife but my arms were pinned down. Gervais
raised himself a little to get a better clutch, and his fingers
closed on my throat. One grip, and life seemed flowing from me. My
arm was free now if I could but lift it. If I could not, nevermore
should I lift it on this sunny earth. I did lift it, and drove the
dagger deep into him.</p>
<p>I could not take aim; I could not tell where the knife struck. A
gasp showed he was hit; then he clinched my throat once more. Sight
went from me, and hearing. "It is no use," I thought, and then
thought went, too.</p>
<p>But once again the saints were kind to me. The blackness passed,
and I wondered what had happened that I was spared. Then I saw
Grammont clutching with both hands at the dagger-hilt. After all,
the blow had gone home. I had struck him in the left side under the
arm. Three good inches of steel were in him.</p>
<p>He had turned over on his side, half off me. I scrambled out
from under him. To my surprise, Yeux-gris and Lucas were still
engaged. I had thought it hours since Grammont pulled me down.</p>
<p>As I rose, Yeux-gris turned his head toward me. Only for a
second, but in that second Lucas pinked his shoulder. I dashed
between them; they lowered their points.</p>
<p>"First blood for me!" cried Lucas. "That serves for to-day, M.
le Comte. I regret that I cannot wait to kill you, but that will
come. It is necessary that I go before M. le Duc arrives. Clear the
way."</p>
<p>M. le Comte stood his ground, barring the alley. They glared at
each other motionless.</p>
<p>Grammont had raised himself to his knees and was trying
painfully to get on his feet.</p>
<p>"A hand, Lucas," he gasped.</p>
<p>Lucas gave him a startled glance but neither went nor spoke to
him.</p>
<p>"I am not much hurt," said Grammont, huskily. Holding by the
wall, he clambered up on his feet. He swayed, reeled forward, and
clutched Lucas's arm.</p>
<p>"Lucas, Lucas, help me! Draw out the knife. I cannot. I shall be
myself when the knife is out. Lucas, for God's sake!"</p>
<p>"You will die when the knife is out," said Lucas, wrenching
himself free. He turned again to M. le Comte, and his eyes gleamed
as he saw the blood trickling down his sleeve and the sword tremble
in his hand.</p>
<p>"Come on, then," he cried to Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>But I sprang forward and seized the sword from M. le Comte's
hand.</p>
<p>"On guard!" I shouted, and we went to work.</p>
<p>I could handle a sword as well as the next one. M. le Duc had
taught me in his idle days at St. Quentin. It served me well now,
and him, too.</p>
<p>The light was fading in the narrow court. Our blades shone white
in the twilight as the weapons clashed in and out. I saw, without
looking, Grammont leaning against the wall, his gory face ashen,
and Yeux-gris watching me with all his soul, now and then shouting
a word of advice.</p>
<p>I had had good training, and I fought for all there was in me.
Yet I was a boy not come to my full strength, and Lucas was more
than my match. He drove me back farther and farther toward the
house-wall. Of a sudden I slipped in a smear of blood ('tis no
lying excuse, I did slip) and lost my guard. He ran his blade into
my shoulder, as he had done with Yeux-gris.</p>
<p>He would likely have finished me had not a cry from Grammont
shaken him.</p>
<p>"The duke!"</p>
<p>In truth, a deepening noise of hoofs and shouts came down the
alley from the street.</p>
<p>Lucas looked at me, who had regained my guard and stood, little
hurt, between him and M. le Comte. He could not push past me into
the house and so through to the other street. He made for the
alley, crying out:</p>
<p>"Au revoir, messieurs! We shall meet again."</p>
<p>Grammont seized him.</p>
<p>"Help me, Lucas, for the love of Christ! Don't leave me,
Lucas!"</p>
<p>Lucas beat him off with the sword.</p>
<p>"Every man for himself!" he cried, and sprang down the
alley.</p>
<p>"It is not the duke," I said to Yeux-gris. "It is most likely
the watch." I paled at the thought, for the watch was the League's,
and Lucas by all signs the League's tool. It might go hard with us
if captured. "Go through the house, M. le Comte," I cried. "Quick,
if you love your life! I'll keep them at the alley's mouth as long
as I can."</p>
<p>Not waiting for his answer, I rushed down the passage. At the
end of it I ran against Lucas, who, in his turn, had bowled into
Vigo.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h2>
<h3><i>Vigo.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>knew of old that it was easier to catch a weasel asleep than
Vigo absent where he was needed; yet I did not expect to meet him
in the alley. Monsieur, then, had changed his mind.</p>
<p>"Well caught!" cried Vigo, winding his arms round Lucas, who was
struggling furiously for liberty. "Here, Maurice, Jules, I have
number one. Ah, you young sinner! with your crew again? I thought
as much. Tie the knots hard, boys. Better be quiet, you snake; you
can't get away."</p>
<p>Lucas seemed to make up his mind to this, for he quieted down
directly.</p>
<p>"So the game is up," he said pleasantly. "I had hoped to be gone
before you arrived, dear Vigo."</p>
<p>We had both been deprived promptly of our swords and Lucas's
wrists were roped together, but my only bond was Vigo's hand on my
arm.</p>
<p>"Where are the others?" he demanded. "No tricks, now."</p>
<p>"Here," I said, and led the way down the passage. Maurice and
Jules, with their prisoner, pressed after us, and half a dozen of
the duke's guard after them. The rest stayed without to mind the
horses and keep off the gathering crowd.</p>
<p>One of the men had a torch which lighted the red pavement. Vigo
saw this first.</p>
<p>"Morbleu! is it a shambles?"</p>
<p>"That is wine," I said.</p>
<p>"They spilled wine for effect, they spilled so little blood!"
Thus Lucas, speaking with as cool devilry as if he still commanded
the situation. Vigo could not know what he meant but he asked no
questions; instead, bade Lucas hold his tongue.</p>
<p>"I am dumb," Lucas rejoined, with a mock meekness more insolent
than insolence. But we paid it no heed for M. le Comte came forward
out of the shadows. He held his head well up but his face was white
above his crimsoned doublet.</p>
<p>"M. Étienne! Are you hurt?" shouted Vigo.</p>
<p>"No, but he is." M. le Comte stepped aside to show us Grammont
leaning against the wall.</p>
<p>"Ah!" cried Vigo, triumphantly. He and two of the men rushed at
Gervais.</p>
<p>"You would not take me so easily but for a cursed knife in my
back," Grammont muttered thickly. "For the love of Heaven, Vigo,
draw it out."</p>
<p>With amazement Vigo perceived the knife.</p>
<p>"Who did it?"</p>
<p>"I."</p>
<p>"You, Félix? In the back?" Vigo looked at me as if to
demand again which side I was on.</p>
<p>"He lay on me, throttling me," I explained. "I stabbed any way I
could."</p>
<p>"I trow you are a dead man," Vigo told Grammont. "Natheless,
here comes the knife."</p>
<p>It came, with a great cry from the victim. He fell back against
Vigo's man, clapping his hand to his side.</p>
<p>"I am done for," he gasped faintly.</p>
<p>"That is well," said Vigo, carefully wiping off the knife.</p>
<p>"Yon is the scoundrel," Grammont gasped, pointing to Lucas.</p>
<p>"He will die a worse death than you," said Vigo.</p>
<p>Grammont looked from the one to the other of us, the sullen rage
in his face fading to a puzzled helplessness. He said
fretfully:</p>
<p>"Which—which is Étienne?"</p>
<p>He could no longer see us plain. M. le Comte came forward
silently. Grammont struggled for breath in a way pitiable to see. I
put my arm about him and helped the guardsman to hold him
straighter. He reached out his hand and caught at M. le Comte's
sleeve.</p>
<p>"Étienne—Étienne—pardon. It was wrong
toward you—but I never had the pistoles. He called me
thief—the duke. I beseech—your—pardon."</p>
<p>M. le Comte was silent.</p>
<p>"It was all Lucas—Lucas did it," Grammont muttered with
stiffening lips. "I am sorry for—it. I am dying—I
cannot die—without a chance. Say
you—for—give—"</p>
<p>Still M. le Comte held back, silent. Treachery was no less
treachery though Grammont was dying. All the more that they were
cousins, bedfellows, was the injury great to forgive. M. le Comte
said nothing.</p>
<p>How Grammont found the strength only God knows, who haply in his
goodness gave him a last chance of mercy. Suddenly he straightened
his sinking body, started from our hold, and tottered toward his
cousin, both hands outstretched in appeal.</p>
<p>M. le Comte's face was set like a flint. The dying man faltered
forward. Then M. Étienne, never changing his countenance,
slowly, half reluctantly, like a man in a dream, held out his
hand.</p>
<p>But the old comrades, estranged by traitory, were never to clasp
again. As he reached M. le Comte, Grammont fell at his feet.</p>
<p>"He was a strong man," said Vigo. He turned Grammont's face up
and added the word, "Dead." Vigo adored the Duke of St. Quentin.
Otherwise he had no emotions.</p>
<p>But I was not case-hardened. And I—I myself—had
slain this man, who had died slowly and in great pain. Vigo's voice
sounded to me far off as he said bluntly:</p>
<p>"M. le Comte, I make you my prisoner."</p>
<p>"No, by Heaven!" cried M. Étienne, in a vibrating voice
that brought me back to reality; "no, Vigo! I am no murderer.
Things may look black against me but I am innocent. You have one
villain at your feet and one a prisoner, but I am not a third! I am
a St. Quentin; I do not plot against my father. I was to aid
Grammont to set on Lucas, who would not answer a challenge. I have
been tricked. Gervais asked my forgiveness—you heard him.
Their dupe, yes—accomplice I was not. Never have I lifted my
hand against my father, nor would I, whatever came. That I swear.
Never have I laid eyes on Lucas since I left Monsieur's presence,
till now when he came out of that door side by side with Grammont.
Whatever the plot, I knew naught of it. I am a St. Quentin—no
parricide!"</p>
<p>The ringing voice ceased and M. le Comte stood silent, with
haggard eyes on Vigo. Had he been prisoner at the bar of judgment
he could not have waited in greater anxiety. For Vigo, the yeoman
and servant, never minced words to any man nor swerved from the
stark truth.</p>
<p>I burned to seize Vigo's arm, to spur him on to speech. Of
course he believed M. Étienne; how dared he make his master
wait for the assurance? On his knees he should be, imploring M. le
Comte's pardon.</p>
<p>But no thought of humbling himself troubled Vigo. Nor did he
pronounce judgment, but merely said:</p>
<p>"M. le Comte will go home with me now. To-morrow he can tell his
story to my master."</p>
<p>"I will tell it before this hour is out!"</p>
<p>"No. M. le Duc has left Paris. But it matters not, M.
Étienne. Monsieur suspects nothing against you. Félix
kept your name from him. And by the time I had screwed it out of
Martin, Monsieur was gone."</p>
<p>"Gone out of Paris?" M. Étienne echoed blankly. To his
eagerness it was as if M. le Duc were out of France.</p>
<p>"Aye. He meant to go to-night—Monsieur, Lucas, and I. But
when Monsieur learned of this plot, he swore he'd go in open day.
'If the League must kill me,' says he, 'they can do it in daylight,
with all Paris watching.' That's Monsieur!"</p>
<p>At this I understood how Vigo came to be in the Rue
Coupejarrets. Monsieur, in his distress and anxiety to be gone from
that unhappy house, had forgotten the spy. Left to his own devices,
the equery, struck with suspicion at Lucas's absence, laid instant
hands on Martin the clerk, with whom Lucas, disliked in the
household, had had some intimacy. It had not occurred to Vigo that
M. le Comte, if guilty, should be spared. At once he had sounded
boots and saddles.</p>
<p>"I will return with you, Vigo," M. le Comte said. "Does the
meanest lackey in my father's house call me parricide, I must meet
the charge. My father and I have differed but if we are no longer
friends we are still noblemen. I could never plot his murder, nor
could he for one moment believe it of me."</p>
<p>I, guilty wretch, quailed. To take a flogging were easier than
to confess to him the truth. But I conceived I must.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I said, "I told M. le Duc you were guilty. I went
back a second time and told him."</p>
<p>"And he?" cried M. Étienne.</p>
<p>"Yes, monsieur, he did believe it."</p>
<p>"Morbleu! that cannot be true," Vigo cried, "for when I saw him
he gave no sign."</p>
<p>"It is true. But he would not have M. le Comte touched. He said
he could not move in the matter; he could not punish his own
kin."</p>
<p>M. le Comte's face blazed as he cried out:</p>
<p>"Vastly magnanimous! I thank him not. I'll none of his mercy. I
expected his faith."</p>
<p>"You had no claim to it, M. le Comte."</p>
<p>"Vigo!" cried the young noble, "you are insolent, sirrah!"</p>
<p>"I cry monsieur's pardon."</p>
<p>He was quite respectful and quite unabashed. He had meant no
insolence. But M. Étienne had dared criticise the duke and
that Vigo did not allow.</p>
<p>M. Étienne glared at him in speechless wrath. It would
have liked him well to bring this contumelious varlet to his knees.
But how? It was a byword that Vigo minded no man's ire but the
duke's. The King of France could not dash him.</p>
<p>Vigo went on:</p>
<p>"It seems I have exceeded my duty, monsieur, in coming here. Yet
it turns out for the best, since Lucas is caught and M. de Grammont
dead and you cleared of suspicion."</p>
<p>"What!" Yeux-gris cried. "What! you call me cleared!"</p>
<p>Vigo looked at him in surprise.</p>
<p>"You said you were innocent, M. le Comte."</p>
<p>M. le Comte stared, without a word to answer. The equery, all
unaware of having said anything unexpected, turned to the guardsman
Maurice:</p>
<p>"Well, is Lucas trussed? Have you searched him?"</p>
<p>Maurice displayed a poniard and a handful of small coins for
sole booty, but Jules made haste to announce: "He has something
else, though—a paper sewed up in his doublet. Shall I rip it
out, M. Vigo?"</p>
<p>With Lucas's own knife the grinning Jules slashed his doublet
from throat to thigh, to extract a folded paper the size of your
palm. Vigo pondered the superscription slowly, not much at home
with the work of a quill, save those that winged arrows. M.
Étienne, coming forward, with a sharp exclamation snatched
the packet.</p>
<p>"How came you by my letter?" he demanded of Lucas.</p>
<p>"M. le Comte was pleased to consign it for delivery to
Martin."</p>
<p>"What purpose had you with it?"</p>
<p>"Rest assured, dear monsieur, I had a purpose."</p>
<p>The questions were stormily vehement, the answers so gentle as
to be fairly caressing. It was waste of time and dignity to parley
with the scoundrel till one could back one's queries with the boot.
But M. Étienne's passion knew no waiting. Thrusting the
letter into his breast ere I, who had edged up to him, could catch
a glimpse of its address, he cried upon Lucas:</p>
<p>"Speak! You were ready enough to jeer at me for a dupe. Tell me
what you would do with your dupe. You dared not open the plot to
me—you did me the honour to know I would not kill my father.
Then why use me blindfold? An awkward game, Lucas."</p>
<p>Lucas disagreed as politely as if exchanging pleasantries in a
salon.</p>
<p>"A dexterous game, M. le Comte. Your best friends deemed you
guilty. What would your enemies have said?"</p>
<p>"Ah-h," breathed M. Étienne.</p>
<p>"It dawns on you, monsieur? You are marvellous thick-witted, yet
surely you must perceive. We had a dozen fellows ready to swear
that your hand killed Monsieur."</p>
<p>"You would kill me for my father's murder?"</p>
<p>"Ma foi, no!" cried Lucas, airily. "Never in the world! We
should have let you live, in the knowledge that whenever you
displeased us we could send you to the gallows."</p>
<p>M. le Comte, silent, stared at him with wild eyes, like one who
looks into the open roof of hell. Lucas fell to laughing.</p>
<p>"What! hang you and let our cousin Valère succeed? Mon
dieu, no! M. de Valère is a man!"</p>
<p>With a blow the guardsman struck the words and the laughter from
his lips. But I, who no more than Lucas knew how to hold my tongue,
thought I saw a better way to punish this brazen knave. I cried
out:</p>
<p>"You are the dupe, Lucas! Aye, and coward to boot, fleeing here
from—nothing. I knew naught against you—you saw that.
To slip out and warn Martin before Vigo got a chance at
him—that was all you had to do. Yet you never thought of that
but rushed away here, leaving Martin to betray you. Had you stuck
to your post you had been now on the road to St. Denis, instead of
the road to the Grève! Fool! fool! fool!"</p>
<p>He winced. He had not been ashamed to betray his benefactor, to
bite the hand that fed him, to desert a wounded comrade; but he was
ashamed to confront his own blunder. I had the satisfaction of
pricking, not his conscience, for he had none, but his pride.</p>
<p>"I had to warn Grammont off," he retorted. "Could I believe St.
Quentin such a lack-wit as to forgive these two because they were
his kin? You did better than you knew when you shut the door on me.
You tracked me, you marplot, you sneak! How came you into the
coil?"</p>
<p>"By God's grace," M. le Comte answered. He laid a hand on my
shoulder and leaned there heavily. Lucas grinned.</p>
<p>"Ah, waxing pious, is he? The prodigal prepares to return."</p>
<p>M. Étienne's hand clinched on my shoulder. Vigo commanded
a gag for Lucas, saying, with the only touch of anger I ever knew
him to show:</p>
<p>"He shall hang when the king comes in. And now to horse, lads,
and out of the quarter; we have wasted too much time palavering.
King Henry is not in Paris yet. We shall do well not to rouse
Belin, though we can make him trouble if he troubles us. Come,
monsieur. Men, guard your prisoner. I misjudge if he is not cropful
of the devil still."</p>
<p>He did not look it. His figure was drooping; his face purple and
contorted, for one of the troopers had crammed his scarf into the
man's mouth, half strangling him. As he was led past us, with a
sudden frantic effort, fit to dislocate his jaw, he disgorged the
gag to cry out wildly:</p>
<p>"Oh, M. l'Écuyer, have mercy! Have pity upon me! For
Christ's sake, pity!"</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="128.jpg"></a> <a href="images/128.jpg"><img src=
"images/128.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"IN A FLASH HE WAS OUT OF THEIR GRASP, FLYING DOWN THE
ALLEY."</b>
<br /></div>
<p>His bravado had broken down at last. He tried to fling himself
at Vigo's feet. The guards relaxed their hold to see him
grovel.</p>
<p>That was what he had hoped for. In a flash he was out of their
grasp, flying down the alley.</p>
<p>"To Vigo! Vigo is attacked," we heard him shout.</p>
<p>It was so quick, we stood dumfounded. And then we dashed after,
pell-mell, tumbling over one another in our stampede. In the alley
we ran against three or four of the guard answering Lucas's cry. We
lost precious seconds disentangling ourselves and shouting that it
was a ruse and our prisoner escaped. When they comprehended, we all
rushed together out of the passage, emerging among frightened
horses and a great press of excited men.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h2>
<h3><i>The Comte de Mar.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/quote-w.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>hich way went he?"</p>
<p>"The man who just came out?"</p>
<p>"This way!"</p>
<p>"No, yonder!"</p>
<p>"Nay, I saw him not."</p>
<p>"A man with bound hands, you say?"</p>
<p>"Here!"</p>
<p>"Down that way!"</p>
<p>"A man in black, was he? Here he is!"</p>
<p>"Fool, no; he went that way!"</p>
<p>M. Étienne, Vigo, I, and the guardsmen rushed hither and
thither into the ever-thickening crowd, shouting after Lucas and
exchanging rapid questions with every one we passed. But from the
very first the search was hopeless. It was dark by this time and a
mass of people blocked the street, surging this way and that, some
eagerly joining in the chase, others, from ready sympathy with any
rogue, doing their best to hinder and confuse us. There was no way
to tell how he had gone. A needle in a haystack is easy found
compared with him who loses himself in a Paris crowd by night.</p>
<p>M. Étienne plunged into the first opening he saw,
elbowing his way manfully. I followed in his wake, his tall bright
head making as good an oriflamme as the king's plume at Ivry, but
when at length we came out far down the street we had seen no trace
of Lucas.</p>
<p>"He is gone," said M. le Comte.</p>
<p>"Yes, monsieur. If it were day they might find him, but not
now."</p>
<p>"No. Even Vigo will not find him. He is worsted for once. He has
let slip the shrewdest knave in France. Well, he is gone," he
repeated after a minute. "It cannot be mended by me. He is off, and
so am I."</p>
<p>"Whither, monsieur?"</p>
<p>"That is my concern."</p>
<p>"But monsieur will see M. le Duc?"</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p>"But, monsieur—"</p>
<p>He broke in on me fiercely.</p>
<p>"Think you that I—I, smirched and sullied, reeking with
plots of murder—am likely to betake myself to the noblest
gentleman in France?"</p>
<p>"He will welcome M. le Comte."</p>
<p>"Nay; he believed me guilty."</p>
<p>"But, monsieur—"</p>
<p>"You may not say 'but' to me."</p>
<p>"Pardon, monsieur. Am I to tell Vigo monsieur is gone?"</p>
<p>"Yes, tell him." His lip quivered; he struggled hard for
steadiness. "You will go to M. le Duc, Félix, and rise in
his favour, for it was you saved his life. Then tell him this from
me—that some day, when I have made me worthy to enter his
presence, then will I go to him and beg his forgiveness on my
knees. And now farewell."</p>
<p>He slipped away into the darkness.</p>
<p>I stood hesitating for a moment. Then I followed my lord.</p>
<p>He slackened his pace as he heard footsteps overtake him, and
where a beam of light shone out from an open door he wheeled about,
thinking me a footpad.</p>
<p>"You, Félix?"</p>
<p>"Yes, monsieur; I go with M. le Comte."</p>
<p>"I have not permitted you."</p>
<p>"Then must I go in despite. Monsieur is wounded; I cannot leave
him to go unsquired."</p>
<p>"There are lackeys to hire. I bade you seek M. le Duc."</p>
<p>"Is not monsieur a thought unreasonable? I cannot be in two
places at once. Monsieur can send a letter. The duke has Vigo and a
household. I go with M. le Comte."</p>
<p>"Oh," he cried, "you are a faithful servant! We are ridden to
death by our faithful servants, we St. Quentins. Myself, I prefer
fleas!" He added, growing angrier, "Will you leave me?"</p>
<p>"No, monsieur," said I.</p>
<p>He glowered at me and I think he had some notion of chasing me
away with his sword. But since his dignity could not so stoop, he
growled:</p>
<p>"Come, then, if you choose to come unasked and most
unwelcome!"</p>
<p>With this he walked on a yard ahead of me, never turning his
head nor saying a word, I following meekly, wondering whither, and
devoutly hoping it might be to supper. Presently I observed that we
were in a better quarter of the town, and before long we came to a
broad, well-lighted inn, whence proceeded a merry chatter and
rattle of dice. M. Étienne with accustomed feet turned into
the court at the side, and seizing upon a drawer who was crossing
from door to door despatched him for the landlord. Mine host came,
fat and smiling, unworried by the hard times, greeted Yeux-gris
with acclaim as "this dear M. le Comte," wondered at his long
absence and bloody shirt, and granted with all alacrity his three
demands of a supper, a surgeon, and a bed. I stood back, ill at
ease, aching at the mention of supper, and wondering whether I were
to be driven off like an obtrusive puppy. But when M. le Comte,
without glancing at me, said to the drawer, "Take care of my
serving-man," I knew my stomach was safe.</p>
<p>That was the most I thought of then, I do confess, for, except
for my sausage, I had not tasted food since morning. The barber
came and bandaged M. le Comte and put him straight to bed, and I
was left free to fall on the ample victuals set before me, and was
so comfortable and happy that the Rue Coupejarrets seemed like an
evil dream. Since that day I have been an easy mark for beggars if
they could but manage to look starved.</p>
<p>Presently came a servant to say that my bed was spread in M. le
Comte's room, and up-stairs ran I with an utterly happy heart, for
I saw by this token that I was forgiven. Indeed, no sooner had I
got fairly inside the door than my master raised himself on his
sound elbow and called out:</p>
<p>"Ah, Félix, do you bear me malice for an ungrateful
churl?"</p>
<p>"I bear malice?" I cried, flushing. "Monsieur is mocking me. I
know monsieur cannot love me, since I attempted his life. Yet my
wish is to be allowed to serve him so faithfully that he can forget
it."</p>
<p>"Nay," he said; "I have forgotten it. And it was freely forgiven
from the moment I saw Lucas at my cousin's side."</p>
<p>"For the second time," I said, "monsieur saved my life." And I
dropped on my knees beside the bed to kiss his hand. But he
snatched it away from me and flung his arm around my neck and
kissed my cheek.</p>
<p>"Félix," he cried, "but for you my hands would be red
with my father's blood. You rescued him from death and me from
worse. If I have any shreds of honour left 'tis you have saved them
to me."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I stammered, "I did naught. I am your servant till I
die."</p>
<p>"You deserve a better master. What am I? Lucas's puppet! Lucas's
fool!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur, it was not Lucas alone. It was a plot. You know what
he said—"</p>
<p>"Aye," he cried with bitter vehemence. "I shall remember for
some time what he said. They would not kill me to make my cousin
Valère duke! He was a man. But I—nom de dieu, I was
not worth the killing."</p>
<p>"It is the League's scheming, monsieur."</p>
<p>"Oh, that does not need the saying. Secretaries don't plot
against dukedoms on their own account. Some high man is behind
Lucas—I dare swear his Grace of Mayenne himself. It is no
secret now where Monsieur stands. Yet the king's party grows so
strong and the mob so cheers Monsieur, the League dare not strike
openly. So they put a spy in the house to choose time and way. And
the spy would not stab, for he saw he could make me do his work for
him. He saw I needed but a push to come to open breach with my
father. He gave the push. Oh, he could make me pull his chestnuts
from the fire well enough, burning my hands so that I could never
strike a free blow again. I was to be their slave, their thrall
forever!"</p>
<p>"Never that, monsieur; never that!"</p>
<p>"I am not so sure," he cried. "Had it not been for the advent of
a stray boy from Picardie, I trow Lucas would have put his purpose
through. I was blindfolded; I saw nothing. I knew my cousin Gervais
to be morose and cruel; yet I had done him no harm; I had always
stood his friend. I thought him shamefully used; I let myself be
turned out of my father's house to champion him. I had no more
notion he was plotting my ruin than a child playing with his dolls.
I was their doll, mordieu! their toy, their crazy fool on a chain.
But life is not over yet. To-morrow I go to pledge my sword to
Henry of Navarre."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, if he comes to the faith—"</p>
<p>"Mordieu! faith is not all. Were he a pagan of the wilderness he
were better than these Leaguers. He fights honestly and bravely and
generously. He could have had the city before now, save that he
will not starve us. He looks the other way, and the
provision-trains come in. But the Leaguers, with all their
regiments, dare not openly strike down one man,—one man who
has come all alone into their country,—they put a spy into
his house to eat his bread and betray him; they stir up his own kin
to slay him, that it may not be called the League's work. And they
are most Catholic and noble gentlemen! Nay, I am done with these
pious plotters who would redden my hands with my father's blood and
make me outcast and despised of all men. I have spent my playtime
with the League; I will go work with Henry of Navarre!"</p>
<p>I caught his fire.</p>
<p>"By St. Quentin," I cried, "we will beat these Leaguers
yet!"</p>
<p>He laughed, yet his eyes burned with determination.</p>
<p>"By St. Quentin, shall we! You and I, Félix, you and I
alone will overturn the whole League! We will show them what we are
made of. They think lightly of me. Why not? I never took part with
my father. I lazed about in these gay Paris houses, bent on my
pleasure, too shallow a fop even to take sides in the fight for a
kingdom. What should they see in me but an empty-headed roisterer,
frittering away his life in follies? But they will find I am
something more. Well, enter there!"</p>
<p>He dropped back among the pillows, striving to look careless, as
Maître Menard, the landlord, opened the door and stood
shuffling on the threshold.</p>
<p>"Does M. le Comte sleep?" he asked me deferentially, though I
think he could not but have heard M. Étienne's tirading
half-way down the passage.</p>
<p>"Not yet," I answered. "What is it?"</p>
<p>"Why, a man came with a billet for M. le Comte and insisted it
be sent in. I told him Monsieur was not to be disturbed; he had
been wounded and was sleeping; I said it was not sense to wake him
for a letter that would keep till morning. But he would have it
'twas of instant import, and so—"</p>
<p>"Oh, he is not asleep," I declared, eagerly ushering the
maître in, my mind leaping to the conclusion, for no reason
save my ardent wish, that Vigo had discovered our whereabouts.</p>
<p>"I dared not deny him further," added Maître Menard. "He
wore the liveries of M. de Mayenne."</p>
<p>"Of Mayenne," I echoed, thinking of what M. Étienne had
said. "Pardieu, it may be Lucas himself!" And snatching up my
master's sword I dashed out of the door and was in the cabaret in
three steps.</p>
<p>The room contained some score of men, but I, peering about by
the uncertain candle-light, could find no one who in any wise
resembled Lucas. A young gamester seated near the door, whom my
sudden entrance had jostled, rose, demanding in the name of his
outraged dignity to cross swords with me. On any other day I had
deemed it impossible to say him nay, but now with a real vengeance,
a quarrel à outrance on my hands, he seemed of no
consequence at all. I brushed him aside as I demanded M. de
Mayenne's man. They said he was gone. I ran out into the dark court
and the darker street.</p>
<p>A tapster, lounging in the courtyard, had seen my man pass out,
and he opined with much reason that I should not catch him. Yet I
ran a hundred yards up street and a hundred yards down street,
shouting on the name of Lucas, calling him coward and skulker,
bidding him come forth and fight me. The whole neighbourhood became
aware than I wanted one Lucas to fight: lights twinkled in windows;
men, women, and children poured out of doors. But Lucas, if it were
he, had for the second time vanished soft-footed into the
night.</p>
<p>I returned with drooping tail to M. Étienne. He was
alone, sitting up in bed awaiting me, his cheeks scarlet, his eyes
blazing.</p>
<p>"He is gone," I panted. "I looked everywhere, but he was gone.
Oh, if I caught Lucas—"</p>
<p>"You little fool!" he exclaimed. "This was not Lucas. Had you
waited long enough to hear your name called, I had told you. This
is no errand of Lucas but a very different matter."</p>
<p>He sat a moment, thinking, still with that glitter of excitement
in his eyes. The next instant he threw off the bedclothes and
started to rise.</p>
<p>"Get my clothes, Félix. I must go to the Hôtel de
Lorraine."</p>
<p>But I flung myself upon him, pushing him back into bed and
dragging the cover over him by main force.</p>
<p>"You can go nowhere, M. Étienne; it is madness. The
surgeon said you must lie here for three days. You will get a fever
in your wounds; you shall not go."</p>
<p>"Get off me, 'od rot you; you're smothering me," he gasped.
Cautiously I relaxed my grip, still holding him down. He appealed:
"Félix, I must go. So long as there is a spark of life left
in me, I have no choice but to go."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, you said you were done with the Leaguers—with
M. de Mayenne."</p>
<p>"Aye, so I did," he cried. "But this—but this is
Lorance."</p>
<p>Then, at my look of mystification, he suddenly opened his hand
and tossed me the letter he had held close in his palm.</p>
<p>I read:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>M. de Mar appears to consider himself of very little
consequence, or of very great, since he is absent a whole month
from the Hôtel de Lorraine. Does he think he is not missed?
Or is he so sure of his standing that he fears no supplanting? In
either case he is wrong. He is missed but he will not be missed
forever. He may, if he will, be forgiven; or he may, if he will, be
forgotten. If he would escape oblivion, let him come to-night, at
the eleventh hour, to lay his apologies at the feet of</i></p>
<p>LORANCE DE MONTLUC.</p>
</div>
<p>"And she—"</p>
<p>"Is cousin and ward to the Duke of Mayenne. Yes, and my heart's
desire."</p>
<p>"Monsieur—"</p>
<p>"Aye, you begin to see it now," he cried vehemently. "You see
why I have stuck to Paris these three years, why I could not follow
my father into exile. It was more than a handful of pistoles caused
the breach with Monsieur; more than a quarrel over Gervais de
Grammont. That was the spark kindled the powder, but the train was
laid."</p>
<p>"Then you, monsieur, were a Leaguer?"</p>
<p>"Nay, I was not!" he cried. "To my credit,—or my shame, as
you choose,—I was not. I was neither one nor the other,
neither fish nor flesh. My father thought me a Leaguer, but I was
not. I was not disloyal, in deed at least, to the house that bore
me. Monsieur reviled me for a skulker, a fainéant; nom de
diable, he might have remembered his own three years of
idleness!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur held out for his religion—"</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle is my religion," he cried, and then laughed, not
merrily.</p>
<p>"Pardieu! for all my pains I have not won her. I have skulked
and evaded and temporized—for nothing. I would not join the
League and break my father's heart; would not stand out against it
and lose Lorance. I have been trying these three years to please
both the goat and the cabbage—with the usual ending. I have
pleased nobody. I am out of Mayenne's books: he made me overtures
and I refused him. I am out of my father's books: he thinks me a
traitor and parricide. And I am out of mademoiselle's: she despises
me for a laggard. Had I gone in with Mayenne I had won her. Had I
gone with Monsieur I was sure of a command in King Henry's army.
But I, wanting both, get neither. Between two stools, I fall
miserably to the ground. I am but a dawdler, a do-nothing, the butt
and laughing-stock of all brave men.</p>
<p>"But I am done with shilly-shally!" he added, catching his
breath. "For once I shall do something. Mlle. de Montluc has given
me a last chance. She has sent for me, and I go. If I fall dead on
her threshold, I at least die looking at her."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, monsieur," I cried in despair, "you will not die
looking at her, for you will die out here in the street, and that
will profit neither you nor her, but only Lucas and his crew."</p>
<p>"That is as may be. At least I make the attempt. A month back I
sent her a letter. I found it to-night in Lucas's doublet. She
thinks me careless of her. I must go."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, you are mad," I cried. "You have said yourself
Mayenne is likely to be behind Lucas. If you go you do but walk
into the enemies' very jaws. It is a trap, a lure."</p>
<p>"Félix, beware what you say!" he interrupted with
quick-blazing ire. "I do not permit such words to be spoken in
connection with Mlle. de Montluc."</p>
<p>"But, monsieur—"</p>
<p>"Silence!" he commanded in a voice as sharp as crack of
pistolet. The St. Quentins had ever the most abundant faith in
those they loved. I remembered how Monsieur in just such a blaze of
resentment had forbidden me to speak ill of his son. And I
remembered, too, that Monsieur's faith had been justified and that
my accusations were lies. Natheless, I liked not the look of this
affair, and I attempted further warnings.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, in my opinion—"</p>
<p>"You are not here to hold opinions, Félix, but your
tongue."</p>
<p>I did, at that, and stood back from the bed to let him do as it
liked him. He rose and went over to the chair where his clothes
lay, only to drop into it half swooning. I ran to the ewer and
dashed half the water in it into his face.</p>
<p>"Peste, you need not drown me!" he cried testily. "I am well; it
was but a moment's dizziness." He got up again at once, but was
forced to seize my shoulder to keep from falling.</p>
<p>"It was that damnable potion he made me drink," he muttered. "I
am all well else; I am not weak. Curse the room; it reels about
like a ship at sea."</p>
<p>I put my arm about him and led him back to bed; nor did he argue
about it but lay back with his eyes shut, so white against the
white bed-linen I thought him fainted for sure. But before I could
drench him again he raised his lids.</p>
<p>"Félix, will you go get a shutter? For I see clearly that
I shall reach Mlle. de Montluc this night in no other way."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I said, "I can go. I can tell your mistress you
cannot walk across this room to-night. I can do my best for you, M.
Étienne."</p>
<p>"My faith! I think I must e'en let you try. But what to bid you
say to her—pardieu! I scarce know what I could say to her
myself."</p>
<p>"I can tell her how sorely you are hurt—how you would
come, but cannot."</p>
<p>"And make her believe it," he cried eagerly. "Do not let her
think it a flimsy excuse. And yet I do think she will believe you,"
he added, with half a laugh. "There is something very
trust-compelling about you, Félix. And assure her of my
lifelong, never-failing service."</p>
<p>"But I thought monsieur was going to take service with Henry of
Navarre."</p>
<p>"I was!" he cried. "I am! Oh, Félix, was ever a poor
wight so harried and torn betwixt two as I? Whom Jupiter would
destroy he first makes mad. I shall be gibbering in a cage before I
have done with it."</p>
<p>"Monsieur will be gibbering in his bed unless he sleeps soon. I
go now, monsieur."</p>
<p>"And good luck to you! Félix, I offer you no reward for
this midnight journey into the house of our enemies. For recompense
you will see her."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h2>
<h3><i>Mademoiselle.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>went to find Maître Menard, to urge upon him that some one
should stay with M. Étienne while I was gone, lest he
swooned or became light-headed. But the surgeon himself was
present, having returned from bandaging up some common skull to see
how his noble patient rested. He promised that he would stay the
night with M. le Comte; so, eased of that care, I set out for the
Hôtel de Lorraine, one of the inn-servants with a flambeau
coming along to guide and guard me. M. Étienne was a
favourite in this inn of Maître Menard's; they did not stop
to ask whether he had money in his purse before falling over one
another in their eagerness to serve him. It is my opinion that one
gets more out of the world by dint of fair words than by a long
purse or a long sword.</p>
<p>We had not gone a block from the inn before I turned to the
right-about, to the impatience of my escort.</p>
<p>"Nay, Jean, I must go back," I said. "I will only delay a
moment, but see Maître Menard I must."</p>
<p>He was still in the cabaret where the crowd was thinning.</p>
<p>"Now what brings you back?"</p>
<p>"This, maître," said I, drawing him into a corner. "M. le
Comte has been in a fracas to-night, as you perchance may have
divined. His arch-enemy gave us the slip. And I am not easy for
monsieur while this Lucas is at large. He has the devil's own
cunning and malice; he might track him here to the Three Lanterns.
Therefore, maître, I beg you to admit no one to M. le
Comte—no one on any business whatsoever. Not if he comes from
the Duke of Mayenne himself."</p>
<p>"I won't admit the Sixteen themselves," the maître
declared.</p>
<p>"There is one man you may admit," I conceded. "Vigo, M. de St.
Quentin's equery. You will know him for the biggest man in
France."</p>
<p>"Good. And this other; what is he like?"</p>
<p>"He is young," I said, "not above four or five and twenty. Tall
and slim,—oh, without doubt, a gentleman. He has light-brown
hair and thin, aquiline face. His tongue is unbound, too."</p>
<p>"His tongue shall not get around me," Maître Menard
promised. "The host of the Three Lanterns was not born yesterday
let me tell you."</p>
<p>With this comforting assurance I set out once more on my
expedition with, to tell truth, no very keen enthusiasm for the
business. It was all very well for M. Étienne to declare
grandly that as recompense for my trouble I should see Mlle. de
Montluc. But I was not her lover and I thought I could get along
very comfortably without seeing her. I knew not how to bear myself
before a splendid young noblewoman. When I had dashed across Paris
to slay the traitor in the Rue Coupejarrets I had not been afraid;
but now, going with a love-message to a girl, I was scared.</p>
<p>And there was more than the fear of her bright eyes to give me
pause. I was afraid of Mlle. de Montluc, but more afraid of M. de
Mayenne's cousin. What mocking devil had driven Étienne de
Mar, out of a whole France full of lovely women, to fix his
unturnable desire on this Ligueuse of Mayenne's own brood? Had his
father's friends no daughters, that he must seek a mistress from
the black duke's household? Were there no families of clean hands
and honest speech, that he must ally himself with the treacherous
blood of Lorraine?</p>
<p>I had seen a sample of the League's work to-day, and I liked it
not. If Mayenne were, as Yeux-gris surmised, Lucas's backer, I
marvelled that my master cared to enter his house; I marvelled that
he cared to send his servant there. Yet I went none the less
readily for that; I was here to do his bidding. Nor was I greatly
alarmed for my own skin; I thought myself too small to be worth my
Lord Mayenne's powder. And I had, I do confess, a lively curiosity
to behold the interior of the greatest house in Paris, the very
core and centre of the League. Belike if it had not been for terror
of this young demoiselle I had stepped along cheerfully enough.</p>
<p>Though the hour was late, many people still loitered in the
streets, the clear summer night, and all of them were talking
politics. As Jean and I passed at a rapid pace the groups under the
wine-shop lanterns, we caught always the names of Mayenne and
Navarre. Everywhere they asked the same two questions: Was it true
that Henry was coming into the Church? And if so, what would
Mayenne do next? I perceived that old Maître Jacques of the
Amour de Dieu knew what he was talking about: the people of Paris
were sick to death of the Leagues and their intriguery, galled to
desperation under the yoke of the Sixteen.</p>
<p>Mayenne's fine new hôtel in the Rue St. Antoine was
lighted as for a fête. From its open windows came sounds of
gay laughter and rattling dice. You might have thought them keeping
carnival in the midst of a happy and loyal city. If the
Lieutenant-General found anything to vex him in the present
situation, he did not let the commonalty know it.</p>
<p>The Duke of Mayenne's house, like my duke's, was guarded by
men-at-arms; but his grilles were thrown back while his soldiers
lounged on the stone benches in the archway. Some of them were
talking to a little knot of street idlers who had gathered about
the entrance, while others, with the aid of a torch and a greasy
pack of cards, were playing lansquenet.</p>
<p>I knew no way to do but to ask openly for Mlle. de Montluc,
declaring that I came on behalf of the Comte de Mar.</p>
<p>"That is right; you are to enter," the captain of the guard
replied at once. "But you are not the Comte de Mar yourself? Nay,
no need to ask," he added with a laugh. "A pretty count you would
make."</p>
<p>"I am his servant," I said. "I am charged with a message for
mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"Well, my orders were to admit the count, but I suppose you may
go in. If mademoiselle cannot land her lover it were cruel to deny
her the consolation of a message."</p>
<p>A laugh went up and one of the gamblers looked round to say:</p>
<p>"It has gone hard with mademoiselle lately, sangdieu! Here's the
Comte de Mar has not set foot in the house for a month or more, and
M. Paul for a quarter of a year is vanished off the face of the
earth. It seemed as if she must take the little cheese or nothing.
But now things are looking up with her. M. Paul has walked calmly
in, and here is a messenger at least from the other."</p>
<p>"But M. Paul has walked calmly out again," a third soldier took
up the tale. "He did not stay very long, for all mademoiselle's
graces."</p>
<p>"Then I warrant 'twas mademoiselle sent him off with a flea in
his ear," another cried. "She looks higher than a bastard, even Le
Balafré's own."</p>
<p>"She had better take care how she flouts Paul de Lorraine," came
the retort, but the captain bade me march along. I followed him
into the house, leaving Jean to be edified, no doubt, by a whole
history, false and true, concerning Mlle. de Montluc. We bow down
before the lofty of the earth, we underlings, but behind their
backs there is none with whose names we make so free. And there we
have the advantage of our masters; for they know little of our
private matters while we know everything of theirs.</p>
<p>In the hall the captain turned me over to a lackey who conducted
me through a couple of antechambers to a curtained doorway whence
issued a merry confusion of voices and laughter. He passed in while
I remained to undergo the scrutiny of the pair of flunkies whose
repose we had invaded. But in a moment my guide appeared again,
lifting the curtain for me to enter.</p>
<p>The big room was ablaze with candles set in mirrored sconces
along the walls, set also in silver candelabra on the tables. There
was a crowd of people in the place, a hundred it seemed to my
dazzled eyes; grouped, most of them, about the tables set up and
down, either taking hands themselves at cards or dice or betting on
those who did. Bluff soldiers in breastplate and jack-boots were
not wanting in the throng, but the larger number of the gallants
were brave in silken doublets and spotless ruffs, as became a
noble's drawing-room. And the ladies! mordieu, what am I to say of
them? Tricked out in every gay colour under the sun, agleam with
jewels—eh bien, the ladies of St. Quentin, that I had thought
so fine, were but serving-maids to these.</p>
<p>I stood blinking, dazed by the lights and the crowd and the
chatter, unable in the first moment to note clearly any face in the
congregation of strange countenances. Nor would it have helped me
if I could, for here close about were a dozen fair women, any one
of whom might be Mlle. de Montluc. My heart hammered in my throat.
I knew not whom to address. But a young noble near by, dazzling in
a suit of pink, took the burden on himself.</p>
<p>"I heard Mar's name; yet you are not M. de Mar, I think."</p>
<p>He spoke with a languid but none the less teasing derision. In
truth, I must have resembled a little brown hare suddenly turned
out of a bag in the midst of that gorgeous company.</p>
<p>"No," I stammered; "I am his servant. I seek Mlle. de
Montluc."</p>
<p>"I have wondered what has become of Étienne de Mar this
last month," spoke a second young gentleman, advancing from his
place behind a fair one's chair. He was neither so pretty nor so
fine as the other, but in his short, stocky figure and square face
there was a force which his comrade lacked. He regarded me with a
far keener glance as he asked:</p>
<p>"Peste! he must be in low water if this is the best he can do
for a lackey."</p>
<p>"Perhaps the fellow's errand is to beg an advance from Mlle. de
Montluc," suggested the pink youth.</p>
<p>"Who speaks my name?" a clear voice called; and a lady, laying
down her hand at cards, rose and came toward me.</p>
<p>She was clad in amber satin. She was tall, and she carried
herself with stately grace. Her black hair shadowed a cheek as
purely white and pink as that of any yellow-locked Frisian girl,
while her eyes, under their sooty lashes, shone blue as
corn-flowers.</p>
<p>I began to understand M. Étienne.</p>
<p>"Who is it wants me?" she repeated, and catching sight of me
stood regarding me in some surprise, not unfriendly, waiting for me
to explain myself. But before I could find my tongue the man in
pink answered her with his soft drawl:</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle, this is a minister plenipotentiary and envoy
extraordinary—most extraordinary—from the court of his
Highness the Comte de Mar."</p>
<p>"Oh, that is it!" she cried with a little laugh, but not, I
think, at my uncouthness, though she looked me over curiously.</p>
<p>"He has not come himself, M. de Mar?"</p>
<p>"It appears not, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>She did not seem vastly disconcerted for all she cried in
doleful tones:</p>
<p>"Alack! alack! I have lost. And Paul is not present to enjoy his
triumph. He wagered me a pair of pearl-broidered gloves that I
could not produce M. de Mar."</p>
<p>"But it is not his fault," I answered her, eagerly. "It is not
M. de Mar's fault, mademoiselle. He has been hurt to-day, and he
could not come. He is in bed of his wounds; he could not walk
across his room. He tried. He bade me lay at mademoiselle's feet
his lifelong services."</p>
<p>"Ah, Lorance!" cried a young demoiselle in a sky-coloured gown,
"methinks you have indeed lost M. de Mar if he sends you no better
messenger of his regrets than this horse-boy."</p>
<p>"I have lost the gloves, that is certain and sad," Mlle. de
Montluc replied, as if the loss of the wager were all her care. "I
am punished for my vanity, mesdames et messieurs. I undertook to
produce my recreant squire and I have failed. Alas!" And she put up
her white hands before her face with a pretty imitation of despair,
save that her eyes sparkled from between her fingers.</p>
<p>By this time the gamesters about us had stopped their play, in a
general interest in the affair. An older lady coming forward with
an air of authority demanded:</p>
<p>"What is this disturbance, Lorance?"</p>
<p>"A wager between me and my cousin Paul, madame," she answered
with instant gravity and respect.</p>
<p>"Paul de Lorraine! Is he here?" the other asked, unpleased, I
thought.</p>
<p>"Yes, madame. He dropped from the skies on us this afternoon. He
is out of the house again now."</p>
<p>"But while he was in the house," quoth she in sky-colour,
"though he did not find time to pay his respects to Mme. la
Duchesse, he had the leisure for considerable conversation with
Mlle. de Montluc."</p>
<p>The other lady, whom I now guessed to be the Duchesse de Mayenne
herself, turned somewhat sharply on her cousin of Montluc.</p>
<p>"I do not yet hear your excuses, mademoiselle, for the
introduction of a stable-boy into my salon."</p>
<p>"I beg you to believe, madame, I am not responsible for it," she
protested. "Paul, when he was here, saw fit to rally me concerning
M. de Mar. Mlle. de Tavanne informed him of the count's defection
and they were pleased to be merry with me over it. I vowed I could
get him back if I wished. The end of the matter was that I wrote a
letter which my cousin promised to have conveyed to M. le Comte's
old lodgings. This is the answer," mademoiselle cried, with a wave
of her hand toward me. "But I did not expect it in this guise,
madame. Blame your lackeys who know not their duties, not me."</p>
<p>"I blame you, mademoiselle," Mme. de Mayenne answered her,
tartly. "I consider my salon no place for intrigues with
horse-boys. If you must hold colloquy with this fellow, take him
whither he belongs—to the stables."</p>
<p>A laugh went up among those who laugh at whatever a duchess
says.</p>
<p>"Come, mesdames, we will resume our play," she added to the
ladies who had followed her on the scene, and turned her back in
lofty disdain on Mlle. de Montluc and her concerns. But though some
of the company obeyed her, a curious circle still surrounded
us.</p>
<p>"Dame! if you must be banished to the stables, we all will go,
mademoiselle," declared the pink gallant. "We all want news of the
vanished Mar."</p>
<p>"Indeed we do. We have missed him sorely. And I dare swear this
messenger's account will prove diverting," lisped the sky-coloured
demoiselle.</p>
<p>I was not enjoying myself. I had given all my hopes of glory to
be out in the street again. I wished Mlle. de Montluc would take me
to the stables—anywhere out of this laughing company. But she
had no such intent.</p>
<p>"I think madame does not mean her sentence," she rejoined. "I
would not for the world frustrate your curiosity, Blanche; nor
yours, M. de Champfleury. Tell us what has befallen your master,
Sir Courier."</p>
<p>"He has been in a duel, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"Whom was he fighting?"</p>
<p>"And for what lady's favour?"</p>
<p>"Is it a pretty Huguenot this time?"</p>
<p>"Does she make him read his Bible?"</p>
<p>"Or did her big brother set on him for a wicked papist?"</p>
<p>The questions chorussed upon me; I saw they were framed to tease
mademoiselle. I answered as best I might:</p>
<p>"He thinks of no lady but Mlle. de Montluc. The fight was over
other matters. I am only told to say M. le Comte regrets most
heartily that his wound prevents his coming, and to assure
mademoiselle that he is too weak and faint to walk across the
floor."</p>
<p>"Then exceed your instructions a little. Tell us what monsieur
has been about these four weeks that he could not take time to
visit us."</p>
<p>I was in a dilemma. I knew she was M. Étienne's chosen
lady and therefore deserving of all fealty from me; yet at the same
time I could not answer her question. It was sheer embarrassment
and no intent of rudeness that caused my short answer:</p>
<p>"About his own concerns, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"The young puppy begins to growl!" exclaimed the thick-set
soldierly fellow who had bespoken me before, whose hostile gaze had
never left my face. "I'll have him flogged, mademoiselle, for this
insolence."</p>
<p>"M. de Brie—" she began at the same moment that I cried
out to her:</p>
<p>"I meant no insolence; I crave mademoiselle's pardon." I added,
in my haste floundering deeper into the mire: "Mademoiselle sees
for herself that I cannot tell about M. le Comte's affairs in this
house."</p>
<p>Brie had me by the collar.</p>
<p>"So that is what has become of Mar!" he cried triumphantly. "I
thought as much. If Mar's affairs are to be a secret from this
house, then, nom de dieu, they are no secret."</p>
<p>He shook me back and forth as if to shake the truth out of me,
till my teeth rattled together; I could not have spoken if I would.
But he cried on, his voice rising with excitement:</p>
<p>"It has been no secret where St. Quentin stands and what he has
been about. He came into Paris, smooth and smiling, his own man,
forsooth—neither ours nor the heretic's! Mordieu! he was
Henry's, fast and sure, save that he was not man enough to say so.
I told Mayenne last month we ought to settle with M. de St.
Quentin; I asked nothing better than to attend to him. But the
general would not, but let him alone, free and unmolested in his
work of stirring up sedition. And Mar, too—"</p>
<p>He stopped in the middle of a word. All the company who had been
pressing around us halted still. I knew that behind me some one had
entered the room.</p>
<p>M. de Brie dragged me back from where we were blocking the
passage. I turned in his grasp to face the newcomer.</p>
<p>He was a tall, stout man, deep-chested, thick-necked,
heavy-jowled. His wavy hair, brushed up from a high forehead, was
lightest brown, while his brows, mustachios, and beard were dark.
His eyes were dark also, his full lips red and smiling. He had the
beauty and presence of all the Guises; it needed not the star on
his breast to tell me that this was Mayenne himself.</p>
<p>He advanced into the room returning the salutes of the company,
but his glance travelling straight to me and my captor.</p>
<p>"What have we here, François?"</p>
<p>"This is a fellow of Étienne de Mar's, M. le Duc," Brie
answered. "He came here with messages for Mlle. de Montluc. I am
getting out of him what Mar has been up to since he disappeared a
month back."</p>
<p>"You are at unnecessary pains, my dear François; I
already know Mar's whereabouts and doings rather better than he
knows them himself."</p>
<p>Brie dropped his hand from my collar, looking by no means at
ease. I perceived that this was the way with Mayenne: you knew what
he said but you did not know what he thought. His somewhat heavy
face varied little; what went on in his mind behind the smiling
mask was matter for anxiety. If he asked pleasantly after your
health, you fancied he might be thinking how well you would grace
the gallows.</p>
<p>M. de Brie said nothing and the duke continued:</p>
<p>"Yes, I have kept watch over him these five weeks. You are late,
François. You little boys are fools; you think because you
do not know a thing I do not know it. Was I cruel to keep my
information from you, ma belle Lorance?"</p>
<p>The attack was absolutely sudden; he had not seemed to observe
her. Mademoiselle coloured and made no instant reply. His voice was
neither loud nor rough; he was smiling upon her.</p>
<p>"Or did you need no information, mademoiselle?"</p>
<p>She met his look unflinching.</p>
<p>"I have not been sighing for tidings of the Comte de Mar,
monsieur."</p>
<p>"Because you have had tidings, mademoiselle?"</p>
<p>"No, monsieur, I have had no communication with M. de Mar since
May—until to-night."</p>
<p>"And what has happened to-night?"</p>
<p>"To-night—Paul appeared."</p>
<p>"Paul!" ejaculated the duke, startled momentarily out of his
phlegm. "Paul here?"</p>
<p>"He was, monsieur, an hour ago. He has since gone forth again, I
know not whither or for what."</p>
<p>Mayenne ruminated over this, pulling off his gloves slowly.</p>
<p>"Well? What has this to do with Mar?"</p>
<p>She had no choice, though in evident fear of his displeasure,
but to go through again the tale of the wager and letter. She was
moistening her dry lips as she finished, her eyes on his face wide
with apprehension. But he answered amiably, half absently, as if
the whole affair were a triviality:</p>
<p>"Never mind; I will give you a pair of gloves, Lorance."</p>
<p>He stood smiling upon us as if amused for an idle moment over
our childish games. The colour came back to her cheeks; she made
him a curtsey, laughing lightly.</p>
<p>"Then my grief is indeed cured, monsieur. A new bit of finery is
the best of balms for wounded self-esteem, is it not, Blanche? I
confess I am piqued; I had dared to imagine that my squire might
remember me still after a month of absence. I should have known it
too much to ask of mortal man. Not till the rivers run up-hill will
you keep our memories green for more than a week, messieurs."</p>
<p>"She turns it off well," cried the little demoiselle in blue,
Mlle. Blanche de Tavanne; "you would not guess that she will be
awake the night long, weeping over M. de Mar's defection."</p>
<p>"I!" exclaimed Mlle. de Montluc; "I weep over his recreancy? It
is a far-fetched jest, my Blanche; can you invent no better? The
Comte de Mar—behold him!"</p>
<p>She snatched a card from a tossed-down hand, holding it up aloft
for us all to see. It was by chance the knave of diamonds; the
pictured face with its yellow hair bore, in my fancy at least, a
suggestion of M. Étienne.</p>
<p>"Behold M. de Mar—behold his fate!" With a twinkling of
her white fingers she had torn the luckless knave into a dozen
pieces and sent them whirling over her head to fall far and wide
among the company.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="160.jpg"></a> <a href="images/160.jpg"><img src=
"images/160.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"I DO NOT FORGIVE HIS DESPATCHING ME HIS HORSE-BOY."</b>
<br /></div>
<p>"Summary measures, mademoiselle!" quoth a grizzled warrior, with
a laugh. "Mordieu! have we your good permission to deal likewise
with the flesh-and-blood Mar, when we go to arrest him for
conspiring against the Holy League?"</p>
<p>But Mlle. de Tavanne's quick tongue robbed him of his
answer.</p>
<p>"Marry, you are severe on him, Lorance. To be sure he does not
come himself, but he sends so gallant a messenger!"</p>
<p>Mademoiselle glanced at me with hard blue eyes.</p>
<p>"That is the greatest insult of all," she said. "I could
forgive—and forget—his absence; but I do not forgive
his despatching me his horse-boy."</p>
<p>Thus far I had choked down my swelling rage at her
faithlessness, her vanity, her despiteful entreatment of my
master's plight. I knew it was sheer madness for me to attempt his
defence before this hostile company; nay, there was no object in
defending him; there was not one here who cared to hear good of
him. But at her last insult to him my blood boiled so hot that I
lost all command of myself, and I burst out:</p>
<p>"If I were a horse-boy,—which I am not,—I were
twenty times too good to be carrying messages hither. You need not
rail at his poverty, mademoiselle; it was you brought him to it. It
was for you he was turned out of his father's house. But for you he
would not now be lying in a garret, penniless and dishonoured.
Whatever ills he suffers, it is you and your false house have
brought them."</p>
<p>Brie had me by the throat. Mayenne interfered without
excitement.</p>
<p>"Don't strangle him, François; I may need him later. Let
him be flogged and locked in the oratory."</p>
<p>He turned away as one bored over a trifling matter. And as the
lackeys dragged me back to the door, I heard Mlle. de Montluc
saying:</p>
<p>"Oh, M. de Latour, what have I done in destroying your knave of
diamonds! Ma foi, you had a quatorze!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h2>
<h3><i>In the oratory.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/quote-h.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>ere, Pierre!" M. de Brie called to the head lackey, "here's a
candidate for a hiding. This is a cub of that fellow Mar's. He
reckoned wrong when he brought his insolence into this house. Lay
on well, boys; make him howl."</p>
<p>Brie would have liked well enough, I fancy, to come along and
see the fun, but he conceived that his duty lay in the salon.
Pierre, the same who had conducted me to Mlle. de Montluc, now led
the way into a long oak-panelled parlour. Opposite the entrance was
a huge chimney carved with the arms of Lorraine; at one end a door
led into a little oratory where tapers burned before the image of
the Virgin; at the other, before the two narrow windows, stood a
long table with writing-materials. Chests and cupboards nearly
filled the walls. I took this to be a sort of council-room of my
Lord Mayenne.</p>
<p>Pierre sent one of his men for a cane and to the other suggested
that he should quench the Virgin's candles.</p>
<p>"For I don't see why this rascal should have the comfort of a
light in there," he said. "As for Madonna Mary, she will not mind;
she has a million others to see by."</p>
<p>I was left alone with him and I promised myself the joy of one
good blow at his face, no matter how deep they flayed me for it.
But as I gathered myself for the rush he spoke to me low and
cautiously:</p>
<p>"Now howl your loudest, lad; and I'll not lay on too hard."</p>
<p>My clinched fist dropped to my side.</p>
<p>"You never did me any harm," he muttered. "Howl till they think
you half killed, and I'll manage."</p>
<p>I gaped at him, not knowing what to make of it. But this is the
way of the world; if there is much cruelty in it, there is much
kindness, too.</p>
<p>"Here's the cane, nom d'un chien!" Pierre exclaimed
boisterously. "Give it here, Jean; there'll not be much of it left
when I get through."</p>
<p>"You'll strip his coat off?" said the second lackey, from the
oratory.</p>
<p>"My faith! no; I should kill him if I did, and the duke wants
him," Pierre retorted. So without more ado the two men tied my
wrists in front of me, and Jean held me by the knot while Pierre
laid on. And he, good fellow, grasping my collar, contrived to pull
my loose jerkin away from my back, so that he dusted it down
without greatly incommoding me. Some hard whacks I did get, but
they were nothing to what a strong man could have given in grim
earnest.</p>
<p>I trust I could have taken a real flogging with as close lips as
anybody, but if my kind succourer wanted howls, howls he should
have. I yelled and cowered and dodged about, to the roaring delight
of Jean and his mate. Indeed, I had drawn a crowd of grinning
varlets to the door before my performance was over. But at length,
when I thought I had done enough for their pleasure and that of the
nobles in the salon, I dropped down on the floor and lay quiet,
with shut eyes.</p>
<p>"He has had his fill, I trow; we must not spoil him for the
master," Pierre said.</p>
<p>"Oh, he'll come to in a minute," another answered. "Why, you
have not even drawn blood, Pierre!" He laid his hand on my back,
whereat I groaned my hollowest.</p>
<p>"It will be many a day before he cares to have his back
touched," laughed Pierre. "Here, men, lend a hand. Pardieu! I
wonder what Our Lady thinks of some of the devotees we bring
her."</p>
<p>As they lifted me he took my hand with an inquiring squeeze; and
I squeezed back, grateful, if ever a boy was. They flung me down on
the oratory floor and left me there a prisoner.</p>
<p>I spent the next hour or so trying to undo the knot of my
handcuff with my teeth; and failing that, to chew the stout rope in
two. I was minded as I worked of Lucas and his bonds, and wondered
whether he had managed to rid himself of their inconvenience. He
went straightway, doubtless, to some confederate who cut them for
him, and even now was planning fresh evil against the St. Quentins.
I remembered his face as he cried to M. le Comte that they should
meet again; and I thought that M. Étienne was likely to have
his hands full with Lucas, without this unlucky tanglement with
Mlle. de Montluc. In the darkness and solitude I called down a
murrain on his folly. Why could he not leave the girl alone? There
were other blue eyes in the world. And it would be hard on humanity
if there were none kindlier.</p>
<p>He had been at it three years, too. For three long years this
girl's fair face had stood between him and his home, between him
and action, between him and happiness. It was a fair face, truly;
yet, in my opinion, neither it nor any maid's was worth such pains.
If she had loved him it had not been worth it, but this girl
spurned and flouted him. Why, in the name of Heaven, could he not
put the jade out of his mind and turn merrily to St. Denis and the
road to glory? When I got back to him and told him how she had
mocked him, hang me but he should, though!</p>
<p>Ah, but when was I to get back to him? That rested not with me
but with my dangerous host, the League's Lieutenant-General,
dark-minded Mayenne. What he wanted with me he had not revealed;
nor was it a pleasant subject for speculation. He meant me, of
course, to tell him all I knew of the St. Quentins; well, that was
soon done; belike he understood more than I of the day's work. But
after he had questioned me, what?</p>
<p>Would he consider, with his servant Pierre, that I had never
done him any harm? Or would he—I wondered, if they flung me
out stark into some alley's gutter, whether M. le Comte would
search for me and claim my carcass? Or would he, too, have fallen
by the blades of the League?</p>
<p>I was shuddering as I waited there in the darkness. Never, not
even this morning in the closet of the Rue Coupejarrets, had I been
in such mortal dread. I had walked out of that closet to find M.
Étienne; but I was not likely to happen on succour here.
Pierre, for all his kind heart, could not save me from the Duke of
Mayenne.</p>
<p>Then, when my hope was at its nadir, I remembered who was with
me in the little room. I groped my way to Our Lady's feet and
prayed her to save me, and if she might not, then to stand by me
during the hard moment of dying and receive my seeking soul.
Comforted now and deeming I could pass, if it came to that, with a
steady face, I laid me down, my head on the prie-dieu cushion, and
presently went to sleep.</p>
<p>I was waked by a light in my face, and, all a-quiver, sprang up
to meet my doom. But it was not the duke or any of his hirelings
who bent over me, candle in hand; it was Mlle. de Montluc.</p>
<p>"Oh, my boy, my poor boy!" she cried pitifully, "I could not
save you the flogging; on my honour, I could not. It would have
availed you nothing had I pleaded for you on my bended knees."</p>
<p>With bewilderment I observed that the tears were brimming over
her lashes and splashing down into the candle-flame. I stared, too
confused for speech, while she, putting down the shaking
candlestick on the altar, as she crossed herself, covered her face
with her hands, sobbing.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," I stammered, "it is not worth mademoiselle's
tears! The man, Pierre, he told me to scream, so they would think
he was half flaying me. But in truth he did not strike very hard.
He did not hurt so much."</p>
<p>She struggled to check the rising tempest of her tears, and
presently dropped her hands and looked at me earnestly from out her
shining wet eyes. "Is that true? Are you not flayed?" And to make
sure, she laid her hand delicately on my back.</p>
<p>"They have whacked your coat to ribbons, but, thank St.
Généviève, they have not brought the blood. I
saw a man flogged once—" she shut her eyes, shuddering, and
her mouth quivered anew. "But I am not much hurt, mademoiselle," I
answered her.</p>
<p>She took out her film of a handkerchief to wipe her wet cheeks,
her hand still trembling. I could think of nothing but to
repeat:</p>
<p>"I am not in the least hurt, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"Ah, but if they have spared you the flogging to take your
life!" she breathed.</p>
<p>It was not a heartening suggestion. To my astonishment, suddenly
I found myself, frightened victim, striving to comfort this
noblewoman for my death.</p>
<p>"Nay, I am not afraid. Since mademoiselle weeps over me, I can
die happily."</p>
<p>She sprang toward me as if to protect me with her body from some
menacing thrust.</p>
<p>"They shall not kill you!" she cried, her eyes flashing blue
fire. "They shall not! Mon dieu! is Lorance de Montluc so feeble a
thing that she cannot save a serving-boy?"</p>
<p>She fell back a pace, pressing her hands to her temples as if to
stifle their throbbing.</p>
<p>"It was my fault," she cried—"it was all my fault. It was
my vanity and silliness brought you to this. I should never have
written that letter—a three years' child would have known
better. But I had not seen M. de Mar for five weeks—I did not
know, what I readily guess now, that he had taken sides against us.
M. de Lorraine played on my pique."</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," I said, "the worst has not followed, since M.
Étienne did not come himself."</p>
<p>"You are glad for that?"</p>
<p>"Why, of course, mademoiselle. Was it not a trap for him?"</p>
<p>She caught her breath as if in pain.</p>
<p>"I knew that as soon as I saw that my cousin Mayenne was not
angry. When I told what I had done and he smiled at me and said I
should have my gloves, why, then I thought my heart would stop
beating. I saw what I had accomplished—mon dieu, I was sick
with repentance of it!"</p>
<p>I had to tell her I had not thought it.</p>
<p>"No," she answered; "I had got you into this by my foolishness;
I must needs try to get you out by my wits. Brie, the one who took
you by the throat—there has been bad blood between him and
your lord this twelvemonth; only last May M. le Comte ran him
through the wrist. Had I interfered for you," she said, colouring a
little, "M. de Brie would have inferred interest in the master from
that in the man, and he had seen to your beating himself."</p>
<p>It suddenly dawned on me that this M. de Brie was the "little
cheese" of guard-room gossip. And I thought that the gentleman
would hardly display so much venom against M. Étienne unless
he were a serious obstacle to his hopes. Nor would mademoiselle be
here at midnight, weeping over a serving-lad, if she cared nothing
for the master. If she had not worn her heart on her sleeve before
the laughing salon, mayhap she would show it to me.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," I cried, "when the billet was brought him M.
Étienne rose from his bed at once to come. But he was faint
from fatigue and loss of blood; he could not walk across the room.
But he bade me try to make mademoiselle believe his absence was no
fault of his. He wrote her a month ago; he found to-day the letter
was never delivered."</p>
<p>"Is he hurt dangerously?"</p>
<p>"No," I admitted reluctantly; "no, I think not. He was wounded
in the right forearm, and again pinked in the shoulder; but he will
recover."</p>
<p>"You said," she went on, the tears standing in her eyes, "that
he was penniless. I have not much, but what I have is freely
his."</p>
<p>She advanced upon me holding out her silken purse which she had
taken from her bosom; but I retreated.</p>
<p>"No, no, mademoiselle," I cried, ashamed of my hot words; "we
are not penniless—or if we are, we get on very well sans le
sou. They do everything for monsieur at the Trois Lanternes, and he
has only to return to the Hôtel St. Quentin to get all the
gold pieces he can spend. Oh, no; we are in no want, mademoiselle.
I was angry when I said it; I did not mean it. I cry mademoiselle's
pardon."</p>
<p>She looked at me a little hesitatingly.</p>
<p>"You are telling me true?"</p>
<p>"Why, yes, mademoiselle; if my monsieur needed money, indeed,
indeed, I would not refuse it."</p>
<p>"Then if you cannot take it for him, you can take it for
yourself. It will be strange if in all Paris you cannot find
something you like as a token from me." With her own white fingers
she slipped some tinkling coins into my pouch, and cut short my
thanks with the little wailing cry:</p>
<p>"Oh, your poor, bound hands! I have my poniard in my dress. I
could free them in a second. But if they knew I had been here with
you they never will let you go."</p>
<p>"If mademoiselle is running into danger staying here, I pray her
to go back to bed. M. Étienne did not send me hither to
bring her grief and trouble."</p>
<p>"Who are you?" she asked me abruptly. "You have never been here
before on monsieur's errands?"</p>
<p>"No, mademoiselle; I came up only yesterday from Picardie. I
belong on the St. Quentin estate. My name is Félix
Broux."</p>
<p>"Alack, you have chosen a bad time to visit Paris!"</p>
<p>"I came up to see life," I said, "and mordieu! I am seeing
it."</p>
<p>"I pray God you may not see death, too," she answered
soberly.</p>
<p>She stood looking at me helplessly.</p>
<p>"I am in my lord's black books," she said slowly, as if to
herself; "but I might weep François de Brie's rough heart to
softness. Then it is a question whether he could turn Mayenne. I
wish I knew whether the duke himself or only Paul de Lorraine has
planned this move to-night. That is," she added, blushing, but
speaking out candidly, "whether they attack M. de Mar as the
League's enemy or as my lover."</p>
<p>"This M. Paul de Lorraine," said I, speaking as respectfully as
I knew how, but eager to find out all I could for M.
Étienne—"this M. de Lorraine is mademoiselle's lover,
too?"</p>
<p>She shrugged her shoulders, neither assenting nor denying. "We
are all pawns in the game for M. de Mayenne to push about as he
chooses. For a time M. de Mar was high in his favour. Then my
cousin Paul came back after a two years' disappearance, and
straightway he was up and M. de Mar was down. And then Paul
vanished again as suddenly as he had come, and it became the turn
of M. de Brie. Now to-night Paul walked in as suddenly as he had
left and at once played on me to write that unlucky letter. And
what it bodes for <i>him</i> I know not."</p>
<p>She spoke with amazing frankness; yet, much as she had told me,
the fact of her telling it told me even more. I saw that she was as
lonely in this great house as I had been at St. Quentin. She would
have talked delightedly to M. le Comte's dog.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," I said, "I would like well to tell you what has
been happening to my M. Étienne this last month, if you are
not afraid to stay long enough to hear it."</p>
<p>"Oh, every one is asleep long ago; it is past two o'clock. Yes,
you may tell me if you wish."</p>
<p>She sat down on a praying-cushion, motioning me to the other,
and I began my tale. At first she listened with a little air of
languor, as if the whole were of slight consequence and she really
did not care at all what M. le Comte had been about these five
weeks. But as I got into the affair of the Rue Coupejarrets she
forgot her indifference and leaned forward with burning cheeks,
hanging on my words with eager questions. And when I told her how
Lucas had evaded us in the darkness, she cried:</p>
<p>"Blessed Virgin! M. de Mar has enough to contend with in this
Lucas, without Paul de Lorraine, and Brie, and the Duke of Mayenne
himself."</p>
<p>I was silent, being of her opinion. Presently she asked
reluctantly:</p>
<p>"Does your master think this Lucas a tool of M. de
Mayenne's?"</p>
<p>"Yes, mademoiselle. He says secretaries do not plot against
dukedoms for their own pleasure."</p>
<p>"Asassination was not wont to be my cousin Mayenne's way," she
said with an accent of confidence that rang as false as a
counterfeit coin. I saw well enough that mademoiselle did fear, at
least, Mayenne's guilt. I thought I might tell her a little
more.</p>
<p>"M. le Comte told me that since his father's coming to Paris M.
de Mayenne made him offers to join the League, and he refused them.
So then M. de Mayenne, seeing himself losing the whole house of St.
Quentin, invented this."</p>
<p>"But it failed. Thank God, it failed! And now he will leave
Paris. He will—he must!"</p>
<p>"He did mean to seek Navarre's camp to-morrow," I answered;
"but—"</p>
<p>"But what?"</p>
<p>"But then the letter came."</p>
<p>"But that makes no difference! He must go for all that. The time
is over for trimming. He must stand on one side or the other. I am
a Ligueuse born and bred, and I tell him to go to King Henry. It is
his father's side; it is his side. He cannot stay in Paris another
day."</p>
<p>"I do not think he will go, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"But he must!" she cried with vehemence. "Paris is not safe for
him. If he cannot stand for his wound, he must go. I will send him
a letter myself to tell him he must."</p>
<p>"Then he will never go."</p>
<p>"Félix!"</p>
<p>"He will not. He was going because he thought his lady flouted
him; when he finds she does not—well, if he budges a step out
of Paris, I do not know him. When he thought himself
despised—"</p>
<p>"And why did I turn his suit into laughter in the salon if I did
not mean that I despised him? I did it for you to tell him how I
made a mock of him, that he might hate me and keep away from
me."</p>
<p>"Oh," I said, "mademoiselle is beyond me; I cannot keep up with
her."</p>
<p>"And you believed it! But you must needs spoil all by flaring
out with impudent speech."</p>
<p>"I crave mademoiselle's pardon. I was wrong and insolent. But
she played too well."</p>
<p>"And if it was not play?" she cried, rising. "If I
do—well, I will not say despise him—but care nothing
for him? Will he then go to St. Denis? Then tell him from me that
he has my pity as one cruelly cozened, and my esteem as a one-time
servant of mine, but never my love. Tell him I would willingly save
him alive, for the sake of the love he once bore me. But as for any
answering love in my bosom, I have not one spark. Tell him to go
find a new mistress at St. Denis. He might as well cry for the moon
as seek to win Lorance de Montluc."</p>
<p>"That may be true," I said; "but all the same he will try. Can
mademoiselle suppose he will go out of Paris now, and leave her to
marry Brie and Lorraine?"</p>
<p>"Only one," she protested with the shadow of a smile; and then a
sudden rush of tears blinded her. "I am a very miserable girl," she
said woefully, "for I bring nothing but danger to those that love
me."</p>
<p>I dropped on my knees before her and kissed the hem of her
dress.</p>
<p>"Ah, Félix," she said, "if you really pitied me, you
would get him out of Paris!" And she fell to weeping as if her
heart would break.</p>
<p>I had no skill to comfort her. I bent my head before her,
silent. At length she sobbed out:</p>
<p>"It boots little for us to quarrel over what you shall say to M.
de Mar, when we know not that you will ever speak to him again. And
it was all my fault."</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle, it was the fault of my hasty tongue."</p>
<p>But she shook her head.</p>
<p>"I maintained that to you, but it was not true. Mayenne had
something in his mind before. A general holds his schemes so dear
and lives so cheap. But I will do my utmost, Félix, lad. It
is not long to daylight now. I will go to François de Brie
and we'll believe I shall prevail."</p>
<p>She took up her candle and said good night to me very gently and
quietly, and gave me her hand to kiss. She opened the
door,—with my fettered wrists I could not do the office for
her,—and on the threshold turned to smile on me, wistfully,
hopefully. In the next second, with a gasp that was half a cry, she
blew out the light and pushed the door shut again.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h2>
<h3><i>My Lord Mayenne.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>knew she was shutting the door by the click of the latch; in the
next second I made the discovery that she was still on my side of
it. "What—" I was beginning, when she laid her hand over my
mouth. A line of light showed through the crack. She had not quite
closed the door on account of the noise of the latch. She tried
again; again it rattled and she desisted. I heard her fluttered
breathing and I heard something else—a rapid, heavy tread in
the corridor without. Into the council-room came a man carrying a
lighted taper. It was Mayenne.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle, with a whispered "God save us!" sank in a heap at
my feet.</p>
<p>I bent over her to find if she had swooned, when she seized my
hand in a sharp grip that told me plain as words to be quiet.</p>
<p>Mayenne was yawning; he had a rumpled and dishevelled look like
one just roused from sleep. He crossed over to the table, lighted
the three-branched candlestick standing there, and seated himself
with his back to us, pulling about some papers. I hardly dared
glance at him, for fear my eyes should draw his; the crack of our
door seemed to call aloud to him to mark it; but the candle-light
scarcely pierced the shadows of the long room.</p>
<p>More quick footsteps in the corridor. Mayenne hitched his chair
about, sidewise to the table and to us, facing the outer door. A
tall man in black entered, saluting the general from the
threshold.</p>
<p>"So you have come back?" spoke the duke in his even tones. It
was impossible to tell whether the words were a welcome or a
sentence.</p>
<p>"Yes," answered the other, in a voice as noncommittal as
Mayenne's own. He shut the door after him and walked over to the
table.</p>
<p>"And how goes it?"</p>
<p>"Badly."</p>
<p>The newcomer threw his hat aside and sat down without waiting
for an invitation.</p>
<p>"What! Badly, sirrah!" Mayenne exclaimed sharply. "You come to
me with that report?"</p>
<p>"I do, monsieur," answered the other with cool insolence,
leaning back in his chair. The light fell directly on his face and
proved to me what I had guessed at his first word. The duke's night
visitor was Lucas. "Yes," he repeated indifferently, "it has gone
badly. In fact, your game is up."</p>
<p>Mayenne jumped to his feet, bringing his fist down on the
table.</p>
<p>"You tell me this?"</p>
<p>Lucas regarded him with an easy smile.</p>
<p>"Unfortunately, monsieur, I do."</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="180.jpg"></a> <a href="images/180.jpg"><img src=
"images/180.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>MLLE. De MONTLUC AND FÉLIX BROUX IN THE ORATORY</b>
<br /></div>
<p>Mayenne turned on him, cursing. Lucas with the quickness of a
cat sprang a yard aside, dagger unsheathed.</p>
<p>"Put up that knife!" shouted Mayenne.</p>
<p>"When you put up yours, monsieur."</p>
<p>"I have drawn none!"</p>
<p>"In your sleeve, monsieur."</p>
<p>"Liar!" cried Mayenne.</p>
<p>I know not who was lying, for I could not tell whether the blade
that flashed now in the duke's hand came from his sleeve or from
his belt. But if he had not drawn before he had drawn now and
rushed at Lucas. He dodged and they circled round each other, wary
as two matched cocks. Lucas was strictly on the defensive; Mayenne,
the less agile by reason of his weight, could make no chance to
strike. He drew off presently.</p>
<p>"I'll have your neck wrung for this," he panted.</p>
<p>"For what, monsieur?" asked Lucas, imperturbably. "For defending
myself?"</p>
<p>Mayenne let the charge go by default.</p>
<p>"For coming to me with the tale of your failures. Nom de dieu,
do I employ you to fail?"</p>
<p>"We are none of us gods, monsieur. You yourself lost Ivry."</p>
<p>Mayenne backed over to his chair and seated himself, laying his
knife on the table in front of him. His face smoothed out to good
humour—no mean tribute to his power of self-control. For the
written words can convey no notion of the maddening insolence of
Lucas's bearing—an insolence so studied that it almost seemed
unconscious and was thereby well-nigh impossible to silence.</p>
<p>"Sit down," bade the duke, "and tell me."</p>
<p>Lucas, standing at the foot of the table, observed:</p>
<p>"They turned you out of your bed, monsieur, to see me. It was
unnecessary severity. My tale will keep till morning."</p>
<p>"By Heaven, it shall not!" Mayenne shouted. "Beware how much
further you dare anger me, you Satan's cub!"</p>
<p>He was fingering the dagger again as if he longed to plunge it
into Lucas's gullet, and I rather marvelled that he did not, or
summon his guard to do it. For I could well understand how
infuriating was Lucas. He carried himself with an air of easy
equality insufferable to the first noble in the land. Mayenne's
chosen rôle was the unmoved, the inscrutable, but Lucas beat
him at his own game and drove him out into the open of passion and
violence. It was a miracle to me that the man lived—unless,
indeed, he were a prince in disguise.</p>
<p>"Satan's cub!" Lucas repeated, laughing. "Our late king had
called me that, pardieu! But I knew not you acknowledged Satan in
the family."</p>
<p>"I ordered Antoine to wake me if you returned in the night,"
Mayenne went on gruffly. "When I heard you had been here I knew
something was wrong—unless the thing were done."</p>
<p>"It is not done. The whole plot is ruined."</p>
<p>"Nom de dieu! If it is by your bungling—"</p>
<p>"It was not by my bungling," Lucas answered with the first touch
of heat he had shown. "It was fate—and that fool
Grammont."</p>
<p>"Explain then, and quickly, or it will be the worse for
you."</p>
<p>Lucas sat down, the table between them.</p>
<p>"Look here," he said abruptly, leaning forward over the board.
"Have you Mar's boy?"</p>
<p>"What boy?"</p>
<p>"A young Picard from the St. Quentin estate, whom the devil
prompted to come up to town to-day. Mar sent him here to-night with
a love-message to Lorance."</p>
<p>"Oh," said Mayenne, slowly, "if it is a question of
mademoiselle's love-affairs, it may be put off till to-morrow. It
is plain to the very lackeys that you are jealous of Mar. But at
present we are discussing l'affaire St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"It is all one," Lucas answered quickly. "You know what is to be
the reward of my success."</p>
<p>"I thought you told me you had failed."</p>
<p>Lucas's hand moved instinctively to his belt; then he thought
better of it and laid both hands, empty, on the table.</p>
<p>"Our plot has failed; but that does not mean that St. Quentin is
immortal."</p>
<p>"You may be very sure of one thing, my friend," the duke
observed. "I shall never give Lorance de Montluc to a white-livered
flincher."</p>
<p>"The Duke of St. Quentin is not immortal," Lucas repeated. "I
have missed him once, but I shall get him in spite of all."</p>
<p>"I am not sure about Lorance even then," said Mayenne,
reflectively. "François de Brie is agitating himself about
that young mistress. And he has not made any failures—as
yet."</p>
<p>Lucas sprang to his feet.</p>
<p>"You swore to me I should have her."</p>
<p>"Permit me to remind you again that you have not brought me the
price."</p>
<p>"I will bring you the price."</p>
<p>"E'en then," spoke Mayenne, with the smile of the cat standing
over the mouse—"e'en then I might change my mind."</p>
<p>"Then," said Lucas, roundly, "there will be more than one dead
duke in France."</p>
<p>Mayenne looked up at him as unmoved as if it were not in the
power of mortal man to make him lose his temper. In stirring him to
draw dagger, Lucas had achieved an extraordinary triumph. Yet I
somehow thought that the man who had shown hot anger was the real
man; the man who sat there quiet was the party leader.</p>
<p>He said now, evenly:</p>
<p>"That is a silly way to talk to me, Paul."</p>
<p>"It is the truth for once," Lucas made sullen answer.</p>
<p>So long as he could prick and irritate Mayenne he preserved an
air of unshakable composure; but when Mayenne recovered patience
and himself began to prick, Lucas's guard broke down. His voice
rose a key, as it had done when I called him fool; and he burst out
violently:</p>
<p>"Mort de dieu! monsieur, what am I doing your dirty work for?
For love of my affectionate uncle?"</p>
<p>"It might well be for that. I have been your affectionate uncle,
as you say."</p>
<p>"My affectionate uncle, you say? My hirer, my suborner! I was a
Protestant; I was bred up by the Huguenot Lucases when my father
cast off my mother and me to starve. I had no love for the League
or the Lorraines. I was fighting in Navarre's ranks when I was made
prisoner at Ivry."</p>
<p>"You were spying for Navarre. It was before the fight we caught
you. You had been hanged and quartered in that gray dawn had I not
recognized you, after twelve years, as my brother's son. I cut the
rope from you and embraced you for your father's sake. You rode
forth a cornet in my army, instead of dying like a felon on the
gallows."</p>
<p>"You had your ends to serve," Lucas muttered.</p>
<p>"I took you into my household," Mayenne went on. "I let you wear
the name of Lorraine. I did not deny you the hand of my cousin and
ward, Lorance de Montluc."</p>
<p>"Deny me! No, you did not. Neither did you grant it me, but put
me off with lying promises. You thought then you could win back the
faltering house of St. Quentin by a marriage between your cousin
and the Comte de Mar. Afterward, when my brother Charles dashed
into Paris, and the people clamoured for his marriage with the
Infanta, you conceived the scheme of forcing Lorance on him. But it
would not do, and again you promised her to me if I could get you
certain information from the royalist army. I returned in the guise
of an escaped prisoner to Henry's camp to steal you secrets; and
the moment my back was turned you listened to proposals from Mar
again."</p>
<p>"Mar is not in the race now. You need not speak of him, nor of
your brother Charles, either."</p>
<p>"No; I can well understand that my brother's is not a pleasant
name in your ears," Lucas agreed. "You acknowledged one King
Charles X; you would like well to see another Charles X, but it is
not Charles of Guise you mean."</p>
<p>"I have no desire to be King of France," Mayenne began
angrily.</p>
<p>"Have you not? That is well, for you will never feel the crown
on your brows, good uncle! You are ground between the Spanish
hammer and the Béarnais anvil; there will soon be nothing
left of you but powder."</p>
<p>"Nom de dieu, Paul—" Mayenne cried, half rising; but
Lucas, leaning forward on the table, riveting him with his keen
eyes, went on:</p>
<p>"Do not mistake me, monsieur uncle. I think you in bad case, but
I am ready to sink or swim with you. So long as the hand of Lorance
is in your bestowing I am your faithful servant. I have not
hesitated to risk the gallows to serve you. Last March I made my
way here, disguised, to tell you of the king's coming change of
faith and of St. Quentin's certain defection. I demanded then my
price, my marriage with mademoiselle. But you put me off again. You
sent me back to Mantes to kill you St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"Aye. And you have been about it these four months, and you have
not killed him."</p>
<p>Lucas reddened with ire.</p>
<p>"I am no Jacques Clément to stab and be massacred. You
cannot buy such a service of me, M. de Mayenne. If I do bravo's
work for you I choose my own time and way. I brought the duke to
Paris, delivered him up to you to deal with as it liked you. But
you with your army at your back were afraid to kill him. You
flinched and waited. You dared not shoulder the onus of his death.
Then I, to help you out of your strait, planned to make his own
son's the hand that should do the deed; to kill the duke and ruin
his heir; to put not only St. Quentin but Mar out of your
way—"</p>
<p>"Let us be accurate, Paul," Mayenne said. "Mar was not in my
way; he was of no consequence to me. You mean, put him out of your
way."</p>
<p>"He was in your way, too. Since he would not join the Cause he
was a hindrance to it. You had as much to gain as I by his
ruin."</p>
<p>"Something—not as much. I did not want him killed—I
preferred him to Valère."</p>
<p>"Nor did I want him killed; so our views jibed well."</p>
<p>"Why not, then? Did you prefer him as your wife's lover to some
other who might appear?"</p>
<p>"I do not intend that my wife shall have lovers," Lucas
answered.</p>
<p>Mayenne broke into laughter.</p>
<p>"Nom d'un chien, where will you keep her? In the Bastille?
Lorance and no lovers! Ho, ho!"</p>
<p>"I mean none whom she favours."</p>
<p>"Then why do you leave Mar alive? She adores the fellow,"
Mayenne said. I had no idea whether he really thought it or only
said it to annoy Lucas. At any rate it had its effect. Lucas's
brows were knotted; he spoke with an effort, like a man under
stress of physical pain.</p>
<p>"I know she loves him now, and she would love him dead; but she
would not love him a parricide."</p>
<p>"Is that your creed? Pardieu! you don't know women. The blacker
the villain the more they adore him."</p>
<p>"I know it is true, monsieur," Lucas said smoothly, "that you
have had successes."</p>
<p>Mayenne started forward with half an oath, changing to a
laugh.</p>
<p>"So it is not enough for you to possess the fair body of
Lorance; you must also have her love?"</p>
<p>"She will love me," Lucas answered uneasily. "She must."</p>
<p>"It is not worth your fret," Mayenne declared. "If she did, how
long would it last? <i>Souvent femme varie</i>—that is the
only fixed fact about her. If Lorance loves Mar to-day, she will
love some one else to-morrow, and some one else still the day after
to-morrow. It is not worth while disturbing yourself about it."</p>
<p>"She will not love any one else," Lucas said hoarsely.</p>
<p>Mayenne laughed.</p>
<p>"You are very young, Paul."</p>
<p>"She shall not love any one else! By the throne of heaven, she
shall not!"</p>
<p>Mayenne went on laughing. If Lucas had for the moment teased him
out of his equanimity, the duke had paid back the score a
hundredfold. Lucas's face was seared with his passions as with the
torture-iron; he clinched his hands together, breathing hard. On my
side of the door I heard a sharp little sound in the darkness;
mademoiselle had gritted her teeth.</p>
<p>"It is a little early to sweat over the matter," Mayenne said,
"since mademoiselle is not your wife nor ever likely to become
so."</p>
<p>"You refuse her to me?" Lucas cried, livid. I thought he would
leap over the table at one bound on Mayenne. It occurred to the
duke to take up his dagger.</p>
<p>"I promise her to you when you kill me St. Quentin. And you have
not killed me St. Quentin but instead come airily to tell me the
scheme—my scheme—is wrecked. Pardieu! it was never my
scheme. I never advocated stolen pistoles and suborned witnesses
and angered nephews and deceived sons and the rest of your cumbrous
machinery. I would have had you stab him as he bent over his
papers, and walk out of the house before they discovered him. But
you had not the pluck for that; you must needs plot and replot to
make some one else do your work. Now, after months of intriguing
and waiting, you come to me to tell me you have failed. Morbleu! is
there any reason why I should not have you kicked into the gutter,
as no true son of the valourous Le Balafré?"</p>
<p>Lucas's hand went to his belt again; he made one step as if to
come around the table. Mayenne's angry eye was on him but he did
not move; and Lucas made no more steps. Controlling himself with an
effort, he said:</p>
<p>"It was not my fault, monsieur. No man could have laboured
harder or planned better than I. I have been diligent, I have been
clever. I have made my worst enemy my willing tool—I have
made Monsieur's own son my cat's-paw. I have left no end loose, no
contingency unprovided for—and I am ruined by a freak of
fate."</p>
<p>"I never knew a failure yet but what the fault was fate's,"
Mayenne returned.</p>
<p>"Call it accident, then, call it the devil, call it what you
like!" Lucas cried. "I still maintain it was not my fault. Listen,
monsieur."</p>
<p>He sat down again and began his story, striving as he talked to
reconquer something of his old coolness.</p>
<p>"The thing was ruined by the advent of this boy, Mar's lackey I
spoke of. You said he had not been here?"</p>
<p>"You may go to Lorance with that question," Mayenne answered; "I
have something else to attend to than the intrigues of my wife's
maids."</p>
<p>"He started hither; I thought some one would have the sense to
keep him. Mordieu! I will find from Lorance whether she saw
him."</p>
<p>He fell silent, gnawing his lip; I could see that his thought
had travelled away from the plot to the sore subject of
mademoiselle's affections.</p>
<p>"Well," said Mayenne, sharply, "what about your boy?"</p>
<p>It was a moment before Lucas answered. When he did he spoke low
and hurriedly, so that I could scarce catch the words. I knew it
was no fear of listeners that kept his voice down—they had
shouted at each other as if there was no one within a mile. I
guessed that Lucas, for all his bravado, took little pride in his
tale, nor felt happy about its reception. I could catch names now
and then, Monsieur's, M. Étienne's, Grammont's, but the hero
of the tale was myself.</p>
<p>"You let him to the duke?" Mayenne cried presently.</p>
<p>At the harsh censure of his voice, Lucas's rang out with the old
defiance:</p>
<p>"With Vigo at his back I did. Sangdieu! you have yet to make the
acquaintance of St. Quentin's equery. A regiment of your
lansquenets couldn't keep him out."</p>
<p>"Does he never take wine?" Mayenne asked, lifting his hand with
shut fingers over the table and then opening them.</p>
<p>"That is easy to say, monsieur, sitting here in your own
hôtel stuffed with your soldiers. But it was not so easy to
do, alone in my enemy's house, when at the least suspicion of me
they had broken me on the wheel."</p>
<p>"That is the rub!" Mayenne cried violently. "That is the trouble
with all of you. You think more of the safety of your own skins
than of accomplishing your work. Mordieu! where should I be
to-day—where would the Cause be—if my first care was my
own peril?"</p>
<p>"Then that is where we differ, uncle," Lucas answered with a
cold sneer. "You are, it is well known, a patriot, toiling for the
Church and the King of Spain, with never a thought for the welfare
of Charles of Lorraine, Lord of Mayenne. But I, Paul of Lorraine,
your humble nephew, lord of my brain and hands, freely admit that I
am toiling for no one but the aforesaid Paul of Lorraine. I should
find it most inconvenient to get on without a head on my shoulders,
and I shall do my best to keep it there."</p>
<p>"You need not tell me that; I know it well enough," Mayenne
answered. "You are each for himself, none for me. At the same time,
Paul, you will do well to remember that your interest is to forward
my interest."</p>
<p>"To the full, monsieur. And I shall kill you St. Quentin yet.
You need not call me coward; I am working for a dearer stake than
any man in your ranks."</p>
<p>"Well," Mayenne rejoined, "get on with your tale."</p>
<p>Lucas went on, Mayenne listening quietly, with no further word
of blame. He moved not so much as an eyelid till Lucas told of M.
le Duc's departure, when he flung himself forward in his chair with
a sharp oath.</p>
<p>"What! by daylight?"</p>
<p>"Aye. He was afraid, after this discovery, of being set on at
night."</p>
<p>"He went out in broad day?"</p>
<p>"So Vigo said. I saw him not," Lucas answered with something of
his old nonchalance.</p>
<p>"Mille tonnerres du diable!" Mayenne shouted. "If this is true,
if he got out in broad day, I'll have the head of the traitor that
let him. I'll nail it over his own gate."</p>
<p>"It is not worth your fret, monsieur," Lucas said lightly. "If
you did, how long would it avail? <i>Souvent homme trahie</i>; that
is the only fixed fact about him. If they pass St. Quentin to-day,
they will pass some one else to-morrow, and some one else still the
day after."</p>
<p>Mayenne looked at him, half angry, half startled into some
deeper emotion at this deft twisting of his own words.</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"Souvent homme trahie,<br />
Mal habile qui s'y fie,"</p>
</div>
<p>he repeated musingly. He might have been saying over the motto
of the house of Lorraine. For the Guises believed in no man's good
faith, as no man believed in theirs.</p>
<p>"<i>Souvent homme trahie</i>," Mayenne said again, as if in the
words he recognized a bitter verity. "And that is as true as King
Francis's version. I suppose you will be the next, Paul."</p>
<p>"When I give up hope of Lorance," Lucas said bluntly.</p>
<p>I caught myself suddenly pitying the two of them: Mayenne,
because, for all his power and splendour and rank next to a king's
and ability second to none, he dared trust no man—not the son
of his body, not his brother. He had made his own hell and dwelt in
it, and there was no need to wish him any ill. And Lucas, perjured
traitor, was farther from the goal of his desire than if we had
slain him in the Rue Coupejarrets.</p>
<p>"What next? It appears you escaped the redoubted Vigo," Mayenne
went on in his every-day tone; and the vision faded, and I saw him
once more as the greatest noble and greatest scoundrel in France,
and feared and hated him, and Lucas too, as the betrayer of my dear
lord Étienne.</p>
<p>"Trust me for that."</p>
<p>"Then came you here?"</p>
<p>"Not at once. I tracked Mar and this Broux to Mar's old lodgings
at the Three Lanterns. When I had dogged them to the door I came
here and worked upon Lorance to write Mar a letter commanding his
presence. For I thought that the night was yet young and to-morrow
he might be out of my reach. Well, it appears he had not the
courage to come but he sent the boy. I was not sorry. I thought I
could settle him more quietly at the inn. The boy went back once
and almost ran into me in the court, but he did not see me. I
entered and asked for lodgings; but the fat old fool of a host put
me through the catechism like an inquisitor, and finally declared
the inn was full. I said I would take a garret; but it was no use.
Out I must trudge. I did, and paid two men to get into a brawl in
front of the house, that the inn people might run out to look. But
instead they locked the gate and put up the shutters in the
cabaret."</p>
<p>Mayenne burst out laughing.</p>
<p>"It was not your night, Paul."</p>
<p>"No," said Lucas, shortly.</p>
<p>"And what then? It did not take you till three o'clock to be put
out of the inn."</p>
<p>"No," Lucas answered; "I spoke to you of the varlet Pontou with
whom Grammont had quarrelled. He had shut him up in a closet of the
house in the Rue Coupejarrets. After the fight in the court we all
went our ways, forgetting him. So I paid the house a visit; I was
afraid some one else might find him and he might tell tales."</p>
<p>"And will he tell tales?"</p>
<p>"No," said Lucas, "he will tell no tales."</p>
<p>"How about your spy in the Hôtel St. Quentin?"</p>
<p>"Martin, the clerk? Oh, I warned him off before I left," Lucas
said easily. "He will lie perdu till we want him again. And
Grammont, you see, is dead too. There is no direct witness to the
thing but the boy Broux."</p>
<p>"That's as good as to say there is none," Mayenne answered; "for
I have the boy."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2>
<h3><i>Mayenne's ward.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-l.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>ucas sprang up.</p>
<p>"You have him? Where?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I have him," Mayenne answered with his tantalizing
slowness.</p>
<p>"Alive?"</p>
<p>"I suppose so. He had his flogging but I told them I was not
done with him. I thought we might have a use for him. He is in the
oratory there."</p>
<p>"Diable! Listening?" cried Lucas, as if a quick doubt of
Mayenne's good faith to him struck his mind.</p>
<p>"Certainly not," Mayenne answered. "The door is bolted; he might
be in the street for all he can hear. The wall was built for
that."</p>
<p>"What will you do with him, monsieur?"</p>
<p>"We'll have him out," said Mayenne. Lucas, needing no second
bidding, hastened down the room.</p>
<p>All this while mademoiselle, on the floor at my feet, had
neither stirred nor whispered, as rigid as the statued Virgin
herself. But now she rose and for one moment laid her hand on my
shoulder with an encouraging pat; the next she flung the door wide
just as Lucas reached the threshold.</p>
<p>He recoiled as from a ghost.</p>
<p>"Lorance!" he gasped, "Lorance!"</p>
<p>"Nom de dieu!" came Mayenne's shout from the back of the room.
"What! Lorance!"</p>
<p>He caught up the candelabrum and strode over to us.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle stepped out into the council-room, I hanging back
on the other side of the sill. She was as white as linen, but she
lifted her head proudly. She had not the courage that knows no
fear, but she had the courage that rises to the need. Crouching on
the oratory floor she had been in a panic lest they find her. But
in the moment of discovery she faced them unflinching.</p>
<p>"You spying here, Lorance!" Mayenne stormed at her.</p>
<p>"I did not come here to spy, monsieur," she answered. "I was
here first, as you see. Your presence was as unlooked for by me as
mine by you."</p>
<p>His next accusation brought the blood in scarlet flags to her
pale cheeks; she made him no answer but burned him with her
indignant eyes.</p>
<p>"Mordieu, monsieur!" Lucas cried. "This is Mlle. de
Montluc."</p>
<p>"Then why did you come?" demanded Mayenne.</p>
<p>"Because I had done harm to the lad and was sorry," she said.
"You defend me now, Paul, but you did not hesitate to make a tool
of me in your cowardly schemes."</p>
<p>"It was kindly meant, mademoiselle," Lucas retorted. "Since I
shall kill M. le Comte de Mar in any case, I thought it would
pleasure you to have a word with him first."</p>
<p>I think it did not need the look she gave him to make him regret
the speech. This Lucas was an extraordinary compound of shrewdness
and recklessness, one separating from the other like oil and
vinegar in a sloven's salad. He could plan and toil and wait, to an
end, with skill and fortitude and patience; but he could not govern
his own gusty tempers.</p>
<p>"You have been crying, Lorance," Mayenne said in a softer
tone.</p>
<p>"For my sins, monsieur," she answered quickly. "I am grieved
most bitterly to have been the means of bringing this lad into
danger. Since Paul cozened me into doing what I did not understand,
and since this is not the man you wanted but only his servant, will
you not let him go free?"</p>
<p>"Why, my pretty Lorance, I did not mean to harm him," Mayenne
protested, smiling. "I had him flogged for his insolence to you; I
thought you would thank me for it."</p>
<p>"I am never glad over a flogging, monsieur."</p>
<p>"Then why not speak? A word from you and it had stopped."</p>
<p>She flushed red for very shame.</p>
<p>"I was afraid—I knew you vexed with me," she faltered.
"Oh, I have done ill!" She turned to me, silently imploring
forgiveness. There was no need to ask.</p>
<p>"Then you will let him go, monsieur? Alack that I did not speak
before! Thank you, my cousin!"</p>
<p>"Of what did you suspect me? The boy was whipped for a bit of
impertinence to you; I had no cause against him."</p>
<p>My heart leaped up; at the same time I scorned myself for a
craven that I had been overcome by groundless terror.</p>
<p>"Then I have been a goose so to disturb myself," mademoiselle
laughed out in relief. "You do well to rebuke me, cousin. I shall
never meddle in your affairs again."</p>
<p>"That will be wise of you," Mayenne returned. "For I did mean to
let the boy go. But since you have opened his door and let him hear
what he should not, I have no choice but to silence him."</p>
<p>"Monsieur!" she gasped, cowering as from a blow.</p>
<p>"Aye," he said quietly. "I would have let him go. But you have
made it impossible."</p>
<p>Never have I seen so piteous a sight as her face of misery. Had
my hands been free, Mayenne had been startled to find a knife in
his heart.</p>
<p>"Never mind, mademoiselle," I cried to her. "You came and wept
over me, and that is worth dying for."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," she cried, recovering herself after the first
instant of consternation, "you are degrading the greatest noble in
the land! You, the head of the house of Lorraine, the chief of the
League, the commander of the allied armies, debase yourself in
stooping to take vengeance on a stable-boy."</p>
<p>"It is no question of vengeance; it is a question of safety," he
answered impatiently. Yet I marvelled that he answered at all,
since absolute power is not obliged to give an account of
itself.</p>
<p>"Is your estate then so tottering that a stable-boy can overturn
it? In that case be advised. Go hang yourself, monsieur, while
there is yet time."</p>
<p>He flushed with anger, and this time he offered no
justification. He advanced on the girl with outstretched hand.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle, it is not my habit to take advice from the
damsels of my household. Nor do I admit them to my council-room.
Permit me then to conduct you to the staircase."</p>
<p>She retreated toward the threshold where I stood, still covering
me as with a shield.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, you are very cruel to me."</p>
<p>"Your hand, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>She did not yield it to him but held out both hands, clasped in
appeal.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, you have always been my loving kinsman. I have always
tried to do your pleasure. I thought you meant harm to the boy
because he was a servant to M. de Mar, and I knew that M. de St.
Quentin, at least, had gone over to the other side. I did not know
what you would do with him, and I could not rest in my bed because
it was through me he came here. Monsieur, if I was foolish and
frightened and indiscreet, do not punish the lad for my
wrong-doing."</p>
<p>Mayenne was still holding out his hand for her.</p>
<p>"I wish you sweet dreams, my cousin Lorance."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," she cried, shrinking back till she stood against the
door-jamb, "will you not let the boy go?"</p>
<p>"How will you look to-morrow," he said with his unchanged smile,
"if you lose all your sleep to-night, my pretty Lorance?"</p>
<p>"A reproach to you," she answered quickly. "You will mark my
white cheeks and my red eyes, and you will say, 'Now, there is my
little cousin Lorance, my good ally Montluc's daughter, and I have
made her cry her eyes blind over my cruelty. Her father, dying,
gave her to me to guard and cherish, and I have made her miserable.
I am sorry. I wish I had not done it.'"</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," the duke repeated, "will you get to your
bed?"</p>
<p>She did not stir, but, fixing him with her brilliant eyes, went
on as if thinking aloud.</p>
<p>"I remember when I was a tiny maid of five or six, and you and
your brother Guise (whom God rest!) would come to our house. You
would ask my father to send for me as you sat over your wine, and I
would run in to kiss you and be fed comfits from your pockets. I
thought you the handsomest and gallantest gentleman in France, as
indeed you were."</p>
<p>"You were the prettiest little creature ever was," Mayenne said
abruptly.</p>
<p>"And my little heart was bursting with love and admiration of
you," she returned. "When I first could lisp, I learned to pray for
my cousin Henri and my cousin Charles. I have never forgotten them
one night in all these years. 'God receive and bless the soul of
Henri de Guise; God guard and prosper Charles de Mayenne.' But you
make it hard for me to ask it for my cousin Charles."</p>
<p>"This is a great coil over a horse-boy," Mayenne said
curtly.</p>
<p>"Life is as dear to a horse-boy as to M. le Duc de Mayenne."</p>
<p>"I tell you I did not mean to kill the boy," Mayenne said. "With
the door shut he could hear nothing. I meant to question him and
let him go. But you have seen fit to meddle in what is no maid's
business, mademoiselle. You have unlocked the door and let him
listen to my concerns. Dead men, mademoiselle, tell no tales."</p>
<p>"M. de Mayenne," she said, "I cannot see that you need trouble
for the tales of boys—you, the lord of half France. But if
you must needs fear his tongue, why, even then you should set him
free. He is but a serving-boy sent here with a message. It is
wanton murder to take his life; it is like killing a child."</p>
<p>"He is not so harmless as you would lead one to suppose,
mademoiselle," the duke retorted. "Since you have been
eavesdropping, you have heard how he upset your cousin Paul's
arrangements."</p>
<p>"For that you should be thankful to him, monsieur. He has saved
you the stain of a cowardly crime."</p>
<p>"Mordieu!" Mayenne exclaimed, "who foully murdered my
brother?"</p>
<p>"The Valois."</p>
<p>"And his henchman, St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"Not so," she cried. "He was here in Paris when it happened. He
was revolted at the deed."</p>
<p>"Did they teach you that at the convent?"</p>
<p>"No, but it is true. M. de St. Quentin warned my cousin Henri
not to go to Blois."</p>
<p>"Pardieu, you think them angels, these St. Quentins."</p>
<p>"I think them brave and honest gentlemen, as I think you, Cousin
Charles."</p>
<p>"That sounds ill on the lips that have but now called me villain
and murderer," Mayenne returned.</p>
<p>"I have not called you that, monsieur; I said you had been saved
from the guilt of murder, and I knew one day you would be
glad."</p>
<p>He kept silence, eying her in a puzzled way. After a moment she
went on:</p>
<p>"Cousin Charles, it is our lot to live in such days of blood and
turmoil that we know not any other way to do but injure and kill. I
think you are more harassed and troubled than any man in France.
You have Henry of Navarre and the Huguenots and half the provinces
to fight in the field, and your own League to combat at home. You
must make favour with each of a dozen quarrelling factions, must
strive and strive to placate and loyalize them all. The leaders
work each for his own end, each against the others and against you;
and the truth is not in one of them, and their pledges are ropes of
straw. They intrigue and rebel and betray till you know not which
way to turn, and you curse the day that made you head of the
League."</p>
<p>"I do curse the day Henri was killed," Mayenne said soberly.
"And that is true, Lorance. But I am head of the League, and I must
do my all to lead it to success."</p>
<p>"But not by the path of shame!" she cried quickly. "Success
never yet lay that way. Henri de Valois slew our Henri, and see how
God dealt with him!"</p>
<p>He looked at her fixedly; I think he heeded her words less than
her shining, earnest eyes. And he said at last:</p>
<p>"Well, you shall have your boy, Lorance."</p>
<p>"Ah, monsieur!"</p>
<p>With tears dimming the brightness of those sweet eyes she
dropped on her knees before him, kissing his hand.</p>
<p>Lucas, since his one unlucky outburst, had said never a word but
stood looking on with a ruefulness of visage that it warmed the
cockles of my heart to see.</p>
<p>Certes, he was in no very pleasant corner, this dear M. Paul.
His mistress had heard his own lips describe his plot against the
St. Quentins; there was no possibility of lying himself clear of
it. Out of his own mouth he was convicted of spycraft, treachery,
and cowardly murder. And in the Hôtel de Lorraine, as in the
Hôtel de St. Quentin, his betrayal had come about through me.
I was unwitting agent in both cases; but that did not make him love
me the more. Could eyes slay, I had fallen of the glance he shot me
over mademoiselle's bowed head; but when she rose he said to
her:</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle, the boy is as much my prisoner as M. le Duc's,
since I got him here. But I, too, freely give him up to you."</p>
<p>She swept him a curtsey, silently, without looking at him. He
made an eager pace nearer her.</p>
<p>"Lorance," he cried in a low, rapid voice, "I see I am out of
your graces. Now, by Our Lady, what's life worth to me if you will
not take me back again? I admit I have tried to ruin the Comte de
Mar. Is that any marvel, since he is my rival with you? Last March,
when I was hiding here and watched from my window the gay M. de Mar
come airily in, day after day, to see and make love to you, was it
any marvel that I swore to bring his proud head to the dust?"</p>
<p>Now she turned to him and met his gaze squarely.</p>
<p>"The means you employed was the marvel," she said. "If you did
not approve of his visits, you had only to tell him so. He had been
ready to defend to you his right to make them. But you never showed
him your face; of course, had you, you could not have become his
father's housemate and Judas. Oh, I blush to know that the same
blood runs in your veins and mine!"</p>
<p>"You speak hard words, mademoiselle," Lucas returned, keeping
his temper with a stern effort. "You forget that we live in France
in war-time, and not in the kingdom of heaven. I was toiling for
more than my own revenges. I was working at your cousin Mayenne's
commands, to aid our holy cause, for the preservation of the
Catholic Church and the Catholic kingdom of France."</p>
<p>"Your conversion is sudden, then; only an hour ago you were
working for nothing and no one but Paul de Lorraine."</p>
<p>"Come, come, Lorance," Mayenne interposed, his caution setting
him ever on the side of compromise. "Paul is no worse than the rest
of us. He hates his enemies, and so do we all; he works against
them to the best of his power, and so do we all. They are Kingsmen,
we are Leaguers; they fight for their side, and we fight for ours.
If we plot against them, they plot against us; we murder lest we be
murdered. We cannot scruple over our means. Nom de dieu,
mademoiselle, what do you expect? Civil war is not a
dancing-school."</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle is right," Lucas said humbly, refusing any
defence. "We have been using cowardly means, weapons unworthy of
Christian gentlemen. And I, at least, cannot plead M. le Duc's
excuse that I was blinded in my zeal for the Cause. For I know and
you know there is but one cause with me. I went to kill St. Quentin
because I was promised you for it, as I would have gone to kill the
Pope himself. This is my excuse; I did it to win you. There is no
crime in God's calendar I would not commit for that."</p>
<p>He had possessed himself of her hand and was bending over her,
burning her with his hot eyes. Mass of lies as the man was, in this
last sentence I knew he spoke the truth.</p>
<p>She strove to free herself from him with none of the flattered
pride in his declaration which he had perhaps looked for. Instead,
she eyed him with positive fear, as if she saw no way of escape
from his rampant desire.</p>
<p>"I wish rather you would practise a little virtue to win me,"
she said.</p>
<p>"So I will if you ask it," he returned, unabashed. "Lorance, I
love you so there is no depth to which I could not stoop to gain
you; there is no height to which I cannot rise. There is no shame
so bitter, no danger so awful, that I would not face it for you.
Nor is there any sacrifice I will not make to gain your good will.
I hate M. de Mar above any living man because you have smiled on
him; but I will let him go for your sake. I swear to you before the
figure of Our Blessed Lady there that I will drop all enmity to
Étienne de Mar. From this time forward I will neither move
against him nor cause others to move against him in any shape or
manner, so help me God!"</p>
<p>He dropped her hand to kiss the cross of his sword. She
retreated from him, her face very pale, her breast heaving.</p>
<p>"You make it hard for me to know when you are speaking the
truth," she said.</p>
<p>"May the lightning strike me if I am lying!" Lucas cried. "May
my tongue rot at the root if ever I lie to you, Lorance!"</p>
<p>"Then I am very grateful and glad," she said gravely, and again
curtsied to him.</p>
<p>"Yes, I give you my word for that, too, Lorance," Mayenne added.
"I have no quarrel with young Mar. His father has stirred up more
trouble for me than any dozen of Huguenots; I have my score to
settle with St. Quentin. But I have no quarrel with the son. I will
not molest him."</p>
<p>"Grand'merci, monsieur," she said, sweeping him another of her
graceful obeisances.</p>
<p>"Understand me, mademoiselle," Mayenne went on. "I pardon him,
but not that he may be anything to you. That time is past. The St.
Quentins are Navarre's men now, and our enemies. For your sake I
will let Mar alone; but if he come near you again, I will crush him
as I would a buzzing fly."</p>
<p>"That I understand, monsieur," she answered in a low tone.
"While I live under your roof, I shall not be treacherous to you. I
am a Ligueuse and he is a Kingsman, and there can be nothing
between us. There shall be nothing, monsieur. I do not swear it, as
Paul needs, because I have never lied to you."</p>
<p>She did not once look at Lucas, yet I think she saw him wince
under her stab. The Duke of Mayenne was right; not even Mlle. de
Montluc loved her enemies.</p>
<p>"You are a good girl, Lorance," Mayenne said.</p>
<p>"Will you let the boy go now, Cousin Charles?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Yes, I will let your boy go," he made answer. "But if I do this
for you, I shall expect you henceforth to do my bidding."</p>
<p>"You have called me a good girl, cousin."</p>
<p>"Aye, so you are. And there is small need to look so
Friday-faced about it. If I have denied you one lover, I will give
you another just as good."</p>
<p>"Am I Friday-faced?" she said, summoning up a smile. "Then my
looks belie me. For since you free this poor boy whom I was like to
have ruined I take a grateful and happy heart to bed."</p>
<p>"Aye, and you must stay happy. Pardieu, what does it matter
whether your husband have yellow hair or brown? My brother Henri
was for getting himself into a monastery because he could not have
his Margot. Yet in less than a year he is as merry as a fiddler
with the Duchesse Katharine."</p>
<p>"You have made me happy, to-night at least, monsieur," she
answered gently, if not merrily.</p>
<p>"It is the most foolish act of my life," Mayenne answered. "But
it is for you, Lorance. If ill comes to me by it, yours is the
credit."</p>
<p>"You can swear him to silence, monsieur," she cried quickly.</p>
<p>"What use? He would not keep silence."</p>
<p>"He will if I ask it," she returned, flinging me a look of
bright confidence that made the blood dance in my veins. But
Mayenne laughed.</p>
<p>"When you have lived in the world as long as I have, you will
not so flatter yourself, Lorance."</p>
<p>Thus it happened that I was not bound to silence concerning what
I had seen and heard in the house of Lorraine.</p>
<p>Mayenne took out his dagger.</p>
<p>"What I do I do thoroughly. I said I'd set you free. Free you
shall be."</p>
<p>Mademoiselle sprang forward with pleading hand.</p>
<p>"Let me cut the cords, Cousin Charles."</p>
<p>He recoiled a bare second, the habit of a lifetime prompting him
against the putting of a weapon in any one's hand. Then, ashamed of
the suspicion, which indeed was not of her, he yielded the knife
and she cut my bonds. She looked straight into my eyes, with a
glance earnest, beseeching, loving; I could not begin to read all
she meant by it. The next moment she was making her deep curtsey
before the duke.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I shall never cease to love you for this. And now I
thank you for your long patience, and bid you good night."</p>
<p>With a bare inclination of the head to Lucas, she turned to go.
But Mayenne bade her pause.</p>
<p>"Do I get but a curtsey for my courtesy? No warmer thanks,
Lorance?"</p>
<p>He held out his arms to her, and she let him kiss both her
cheeks.</p>
<p>"I will conduct you to the staircase, mademoiselle," he said,
and taking her hand with stately politeness led her from the room.
The light seemed to go from it with the gleam of her yellow
gown.</p>
<p>"Lorance!" Lucas cried to her, but she never turned her head. He
stood glowering, grinding his teeth together, his glib tongue
finding for once no way to better his sorry case. He was the
picture of trickery rewarded; I could not repress a grin at him.
Marking which, he burst out at me, vehemently, yet in a low tone,
for Mayenne had not closed the door:</p>
<p>"You think I am bested, do you, you devil's brat? Let him laugh
that wins; I shall have her yet."</p>
<p>"I will tell M. le Comte so," I answered with all the impudence
I could muster.</p>
<p>"By Heaven, you will tell him nothing," he cried. "You will
never see daylight again."</p>
<p>"I have Mayenne's word," I began, but his retort was to draw
dagger. I deemed it time to stop parleying, and I did what the best
of soldiers must do sometimes: I ran. I bounded into the oratory,
flinging the door to after me. He was upon it before I could get it
shut, and the heavy oak was swung this way and that between us,
till it seemed as if we must tear it off the hinges. I contrived
not to let him push it open wide enough to enter; meantime, as I
was unarmed, I thought it no shame to shriek for succour. I heard
an answering cry and hurrying footsteps. Then Lucas took his weight
from the door so suddenly that mine banged it shut. The next minute
it flew open again, mademoiselle, frightened and panting, on the
threshold.</p>
<p>A tall soldier with a musket stood at her back; at one side
Lucas lounged by the cabinet where the duke had set down the light.
His right hand he held behind his back, while with his left he
poked his dagger into the candle-flame.</p>
<p>Mayenne, red and puffing, hurried into the room.</p>
<p>"What is the pother?" he demanded. "What devilment now,
Paul?"</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle's protégé is nervous," Lucas
answered with a fine sneer. "When I drew out my knife to get the
thief from the candle he screamed to wake the dead and took
sanctuary in the oratory."</p>
<p>I had given him the lie then and there, but as I emerged from
the darkness Mayenne commanded:</p>
<p>"Take him out to the street, d'Auvray."</p>
<p>The tall musketeer, saluting, motioned me to precede him. For a
moment I hesitated, burning to defend my valour before
mademoiselle. Then, reflecting how much harm my hasty tongue had
previously done me, and that the path to freedom was now open
before me, I said nothing. Nor had I need. For as I turned she
flashed over to Lucas and said straight in his face:</p>
<p>"When you marry me, Paul de Lorraine, you will marry a dead
wife."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII</h2>
<h3><i>"I'll win my lady!"</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-l.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>ucas's prophecy came to grief within five minutes of the making.
For when the musketeer unbarred the house door for me, the first
thing I saw was the morning sun.</p>
<p>My spirits danced at sight of him, as he himself might dance on
Easter day. Within the close, candle-lit room I had had no thought
but that it was still black midnight; and now at one step I passed
from the gloomy house into the heartening sunshine of a new clean
day. I ran along as joyously as if I had left the last of my
troubles behind me, forgotten in some dark corner of the
Hôtel de Lorraine. Always my heart lifts when, after hours
within walls, I find myself in the open again. I am afraid in
houses, but out of doors I have no fear of harm from any man or any
thing.</p>
<p>Though Sir Sun was risen this half-hour, and at home we should
all have been about our business, these lazy Paris folk were still
snoring. They liked well to turn night into day and lie long abed
of a morning. Although here a shopkeeper took down shutters, and
there a brisk servant-lass swept the door-step, yet I walked
through a sleeping city, quiet as our St. Quentin woods, save that
here my footsteps echoed in the emptiness. At length, with the
knack I have, whatever my stupidities, of finding my way in a
strange place, I arrived before the courtyard of the Trois
Lanternes. The big wooden doors were indeed shut, but when I had
pounded lustily awhile a young tapster, half clad and cross as a
bear, opened to me. I vouchsafed him scant apology, but, dropping
on a heap of hay under a shed in the court, passed straightway into
dreamless slumber.</p>
<p>When I awoke my good friend the sun was looking down at me from
near his zenith, and my first happy thought was that I was just in
time for dinner. Then I discovered that I had been prodded out of
my rest by the pitchfork of a hostler.</p>
<p>"Sorry to disturb monsieur, but the horses must be fed."</p>
<p>"Oh, I am obliged to you," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I must go
up to M. le Comte."</p>
<p>"He has been himself to look at you, and gave orders you were
not to be disturbed. But that was last week. Dame! you slept like a
sabot."</p>
<p>It did not take me long to brush the straw off me, wash my face
at the trough, and present myself before monsieur. He was dressed
and sitting at table in his bedchamber, while a drawer served him
with dinner.</p>
<p>"You are out of bed, monsieur," I cried.</p>
<p>"But yes," he answered, springing up, "I am as well as ever I
was. Félix, what has happened to you?"</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="216.jpg"></a> <a href="images/216.jpg"><img src=
"images/216.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"SORRY TO DISTURB MONSIEUR, BUT THE HORSES MUST BE
FED."</b>
<br /></div>
<p>I glanced at the serving-man; M. Étienne ordered him at
once from the room.</p>
<p>"Now tell me quickly," he cried, as I faltered, tongue-tied from
very richness of matter. "Mademoiselle?"</p>
<p>"Ah, mademoiselle!" I exclaimed. "Mademoiselle is—" I
paused in a dearth of words worthy of her.</p>
<p>"She is, she is!" he agreed, laughing. "Oh, go on, you little
slow-poke! You saw her? And she said—"</p>
<p>He was near to laying hands on me, to hurry my tale.</p>
<p>"I saw her and Mayenne and Lucas and ever so many things," I
told him. "And they had me flogged, and mademoiselle loves
you."</p>
<p>"She does!" he cried, flushing. "Félix, does she? You
cannot know."</p>
<p>"But I do know it," I answered, not very lucidly. "You see, she
wouldn't have wept so much, just over me."</p>
<p>"Did she weep? Lorance?" he exclaimed.</p>
<p>"They flogged me," I said. "They didn't hurt me much. But she
came down in the night with a candle and cried over me."</p>
<p>"And what said she? Now I am sorry they beat you. Who did that?
Mayenne? What said she, Félix?"</p>
<p>"And then," I went on, not heeding his questions in sudden
remembrance of my crowning news, "Mayenne and Lucas came in. And
here is something you do not know, monsieur. Lucas is Paul de
Lorraine, Henri de Guise's son."</p>
<p>"Mille tonnerres du ciel! But he is a Huguenot, a
Rochelais!"</p>
<p>"Yes, but he is a son of Henri le Balafré. His mother was
Rochelaise, I think. He was a spy for Navarre and captured at Ivry.
They were going to hang him when Mayenne, worse luck, recognized
him for a nephew. Since then he has been spying for them. Because
Mayenne promised him Mlle. de Montluc in marriage."</p>
<p>He stared at me with dropped jaw, absolutely too startled to
swear.</p>
<p>"He has not got her yet!" I cried. "Mayenne told him he should
have her when he had killed St. Quentin. And St. Quentin is
alive."</p>
<p>"Great God!" said M. Étienne, only half aloud, dropping
down on the arm of his chair, overcome to realize the issue that
had hung on a paltry handful of pistoles. Then, recovering, himself
a little, he cried:</p>
<p>"But she—mademoiselle?"</p>
<p>"You need give yourself no uneasiness there," I said.
"Mademoiselle hates him."</p>
<p>"Does she know—"</p>
<p>"I think she understands quite well what Lucas is," I made
answer. "Monsieur, I must tell you everything that happened from
the beginning, or I shall never make it clear to you."</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, go on," he cried.</p>
<p>He sat down at table again, with the intention of eating his
dinner as I talked, but precious few mouthfuls he took. At every
word I spoke he got deeper into the interest of my tale. I never
talked so much in my life, me, as I did those few days. I was
always relating a history, to Monsieur, to mademoiselle, to M.
Étienne, to—well, you shall know.</p>
<p>I had finished at length, and he burst out at me:</p>
<p>"You little scamp, you have all the luck! I never saw such a
boy! Well do they call you Félix! Mordieu, here I lie lapped
in bed like a baby, while you go forth knight-erranting. I must lie
here with old Galen for all company, while you bandy words with the
Generalissimo himself! And make faces at Lucas, and kiss the hands
of mademoiselle! But I'll stand it no longer. I'm done with lying
abed and letting you have all the fun. No; to-day I shall take part
myself."</p>
<p>"But monsieur's arm—"</p>
<p>"Pshaw, it is well!" he cried. "It is a scratch—it is
nothing. Pardieu, it takes more than that to put a St. Quentin out
of the reckoning. To-day is no time for sloth; I must act."</p>
<p>"Monsieur—" I began, but he broke in on me:</p>
<p>"Nom de dieu, Félix, are we to sit idle while
mademoiselle is carried off by that beast Lucas?"</p>
<p>"Of course not," I said. "I was only trying to ask what monsieur
meant to do."</p>
<p>"To take the moon in my teeth," he cried.</p>
<p>"Yes, monsieur, but how?"</p>
<p>"Ah, if I knew!"</p>
<p>He stared at me as if he would read the answer in my face, but
he found it as blank as the wall. He flung away and made a turn
down the room, and came back to seize me by the arm.</p>
<p>"How are we to do it, Félix?" he demanded.</p>
<p>But I could only shrug my shoulders and answer:</p>
<p>"Sais pas."</p>
<p>He paced the floor once more, and presently faced me again with
the declaration:</p>
<p>"Lucas shall have her only over my dead body."</p>
<p>"He will only have her own dead body," I said.</p>
<p>He turned away abruptly and stood at the window, looking out
with unseeing eyes. "Lorance—Lorance," he murmured to
himself. I think he did not know he spoke aloud.</p>
<p>"If I could get word to her—" he went on presently. "But I
can't send you again. Should I write a letter—But letters are
mischievous. They fall into the wrong hands, and then where are
we?"</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I suggested, "if I could get a letter into the hands
of Pierre, that lackey who befriended me—" But he shook his
head.</p>
<p>"They know you about the place. It were safer to despatch one of
these inn-men—if any had the sense to go rein in hand. Hang
me if I don't think I'll go myself!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I said, "Lucas swore by all things sacred that he
would never molest you more. Therefore you will do well to keep out
of his way."</p>
<p>"My faith, Félix," he laughed, "you take a black view of
mankind."</p>
<p>"Not of mankind, M. Étienne. Only of Lucas. Not of
Monsieur, or you, or Vigo."</p>
<p>"And of Mayenne?"</p>
<p>"I don't make out Mayenne," I answered. "I thought he was the
worst of the crew. But he let me go. He said he would, and he
did."</p>
<p>"Think you he meant to let you go from the first?"</p>
<p>"Who knows?" I said, shrugging. "Lucas is always lying. But
Mayenne—sometimes he lies and sometimes not. He's base, and
then again he's kind. You can't make out Mayenne."</p>
<p>"He does not mean you shall," M. Étienne returned. "Yet
the key is not buried. He is made up, like all the rest of us, of
good and bad."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I said, "if there is any bad in the St. Quentins I,
for one, do not know it."</p>
<p>"Ah, Félix," he cried, "you may believe that till
doomsday—you will—of Monsieur."</p>
<p>His face clouded a little, and he fell silent. I knew that,
besides his thoughts of his lady, came other thoughts of his
father. He sat gravely silent. But of last night's bitter distress
he showed no trace. Last night he had not been able to take his
eyes from the miserable past; but to-day he saw the future. A
future not altogether flowery, perhaps, but one which, however it
turned out, should not repeat the old mistakes and shames.</p>
<p>"Félix," he said at length, "I see nothing for it but to
eat my pride."</p>
<p>I kept still in the happy hope that I should hear just what I
longed to; he went on:</p>
<p>"I swore then that I would never darken his doors again; I was
mad with anger; so was he. He said if I went with Gervais I went
forever."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, if you repent your hot words, so does he."</p>
<p>"I must e'en give him the chance. If he do repent them, it were
churlish to deny him the opportunity to tell me so. If he still
maintain them, it were cowardly to shrink from hearing it. No,
whatever Monsieur replies, I must go tell him I repent."</p>
<p>I came forward to kiss his hand, I was so pleased.</p>
<p>"Oh, you look very smiling over it," he cried. "Think you I like
sneaking back home again like a whipped hound to his kennel?"</p>
<p>"But," I protested, indignant, "monsieur is not a whipped
hound."</p>
<p>"Well, a prodigal son, as Lucas named me yesterday. It is the
same thing."</p>
<p>"I have heard M. l'Abbé read the story of the prodigal
son," I said. "And he was a vaurien, if you like—no more
monsieur's sort than Lucas himself. But it says that when his
father saw him coming a long way off, he ran out to meet him and
fell on his neck."</p>
<p>M. Étienne looked not altogether convinced.</p>
<p>"Well, however it turns out, it must be gone through with. It is
only decent to go to Monsieur. But even at that, I think I should
not go if it were not for mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"You will beg his aid, monsieur?"</p>
<p>"I will beg his advice at least. For how you and I are to carry
off mademoiselle under Mayenne's hand—well, I confess for the
nonce that beats me."</p>
<p>"We must do it, monsieur," I cried.</p>
<p>"Aye, and we will! Come, Félix, you may put your knife in
my dish. We must eat and be off. The meats have got cold and the
wine warm, but never mind."</p>
<p>I did not mind, but was indeed thankful to get any dinner at
all. Once resolved on the move, he was in a fever to be off; it was
not long before we were in the streets, bound for the Hôtel
St. Quentin. He said no more of Monsieur as we walked, but plied me
with questions about Mlle. de Montluc—not only as to every
word she said, but as to every turn of her head and flicker of her
eyelids; and he called me a dull oaf when I could not answer. But
as we entered the Quartier Marais he fell silent, more Friday-faced
than ever his lady looked. He had his fair allowance of pride, this
M. Étienne; he found his own words no palatable meal.</p>
<p>However, when we came within a dozen paces of the gate he
dropped, as one drops a cloak, all signs of gloom or discomposure,
and approached the entrance with the easy swagger of the gay young
gallant who had lived there. As if returning from a morning stroll
he called to the sentry:</p>
<p>"Holà, squinting Charlot! Open now!"</p>
<p>"Morbleu, M. le Comte!" the fellow exclaimed, running to draw
the bolts. "Well, this is a sight for sore eyes, anyway."</p>
<p>M. Étienne laughed out in pleasure. It put heart into
him, I could see, that his first greeting should be thus
friendly.</p>
<p>"Vigo didn't know what had become of you, monsieur," Chariot
volunteered. "The old man wasn't in the best of tempers last night,
after Lucas got away and you gave us the slip, too. He called us
all blockheads and cursed idiots. Things were lively for a time,
nom d'un chien!"</p>
<p>"Eh bien, I am found," M. Étienne returned. "In time
we'll get Lucas, too. Is Monsieur back?"</p>
<p>"No, M. Étienne, not yet."</p>
<p>I think he was half sorry, half glad.</p>
<p>"Where's Vigo?" he demanded.</p>
<p>"Somewhere about. I'll find him for monsieur."</p>
<p>"No, stay at your post. I'll find him."</p>
<p>He went straight across the court and in at the door he had
sworn never again to darken. Humility and repentance might have
brought him there, but it was the hand of mademoiselle drew him
over the threshold without a falter.</p>
<p>Alone in the hall was my little friend Marcel, throwing dice
against himself to while the time away. He sprang up at sight of
us, agleam with excitement.</p>
<p>"Well, Marcel," my master said, "and where is M.
l'Écuyer?"</p>
<p>"I think in the stables, monsieur."</p>
<p>"Bid him come to me in the small cabinet."</p>
<p>He turned with accustomed feet into the room at the end of the
hall where Vigo kept the rolls of the guard. I, knowing it to be my
duty to keep close at hand lest I be wanted, followed. Soon Marcel
came flying back to say Vigo was on his way. M. Étienne
thanked him, and he hung about, longing to pump me, and, in my
lord's presence, not quite daring, till I took him by the shoulders
and turned him out. I hate curiosity.</p>
<p>M. Étienne stood behind the table, looking his
haughtiest. He was unsure of a welcome from the contumacious Vigo;
I read in his eyes a stern determination to set this insolent
servant in his place.</p>
<p>The big man entered, saluted, came straight over to his young
lord's side, no whit hesitating, and said, as heartily as if there
had never been a hard word between them:</p>
<p>"M. Étienne, I had liefer see you stand here than the
king himself."</p>
<p>M. Étienne displayed the funniest face of bafflement. He
had been prepared to lash rudeness or sullenness, to accept, de
haut en bas, shamed contrition. But this easy cordiality took the
wind out of his sails. He stared, and then flushed, and then
laughed. And then he held out his hand, saying simply:</p>
<p>"Thank you, Vigo."</p>
<p>Vigo bent over to kiss it in cheerful ignorance of how that hand
had itched to box his ears.</p>
<p>"What became of you last night, M. Étienne?" he
inquired.</p>
<p>"I was hunting Lucas. When does Monsieur return, Vigo?"</p>
<p>"He thought he might be back to-day. But he could not tell."</p>
<p>"Have you sent to tell him about me?" he asked, colouring.</p>
<p>"No, I couldn't do that," Vigo said. "You see, it is quite on
the cards that the Spanish gang may come hither to clean us out. I
want every man I have if they do."</p>
<p>"I understand that," M. Étienne said, "but—"</p>
<p>"So long as you are innocent a day or two matters not," Vigo
pronounced. "He will presently turn up here or send word that he
will not return till the king comes in. But since you are
impatient, M. le Comte, you can go to him at St. Denis. If
<i>he</i> can get through the gates <i>you</i> can."</p>
<p>"Aye, but I have business in Paris. I mean to join King Henry,
Vigo. There's glory going begging out there at St. Denis. It would
like me well to bear away my share. But—"</p>
<p>He broke off, to begin again abruptly:</p>
<p>"Ah, Vigo, that still tongue of yours! You knew, then, that
there was more cause of trouble between my father and me than the
pistoles?"</p>
<p>"I knew he suspected you of a kindness for the League, monsieur.
But you are cured of that."</p>
<p>"There you are wrong. For I never had it, and I am not cured of
it. If I hung around the Hôtel de Lorraine, it was not for
politics; it was for petticoats."</p>
<p>Vigo made no answer, but the corners of his grim mouth
twitched.</p>
<p>"That's no news, either? Well, then, since you know so much, you
may as well know more. Step up, Félix, and tell your
tale."</p>
<p>I did as I was bid, M. Étienne now and then taking the
words out of my mouth in his eagerness, Vigo listening to us both
with grave attention. I had for the second time in my career the
pleasure of startling him out of his iron composure when I told him
the true name and condition of Lucas. But at the end of the
adventure all the comment he made was:</p>
<p>"A fool for luck."</p>
<p>"Well," said M. Étienne, impatiently, "is that all you
have to say? What are we to do about it?"</p>
<p>"Do? Why, nothing."</p>
<p>"Nothing?" he cried, with his hand on his sword. "Nothing? And
let that scoundrel have her?"</p>
<p>"That is M. de Mayenne's affair," Vigo said. "We can't help
it."</p>
<p>"I will help it!" M. Étienne declared. "Mordieu! Am I to
let that traitor, that spy, that soul of dirt, marry Mlle. de
Montluc?"</p>
<p>"What Mayenne wishes he'll have," Vigo said. "Some day you will
surely get a chance to fight Lucas, monsieur."</p>
<p>"And meantime he is to enjoy her?"</p>
<p>"It is a pity," Vigo admitted. "But there is Mayenne. Can we
storm the Hôtel de Lorraine? No one can drink up the
sea."</p>
<p>"One could if he wanted to as much as I want mademoiselle," my
lord declared.</p>
<p>But Vigo shook his head.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," he said gravely, "monsieur, you have a great chance.
You have a sword and a good cause to draw it in. What more should a
man ask in the world than that? Your father has been without it
these three years, and for want of it he has eaten his heart out.
You have been without it, and you have got yourself into all sorts
of mischief. But now all that is coming straight. King Henry is
turning Catholic, so that a man may follow him without offence to
God. He is a good fellow and a first-rate general. He's just out
there, at St. Denis. There's your place, M. Étienne."</p>
<p>"Not to-day, Vigo."</p>
<p>"Yes, M. Étienne, to-day. Be advised, monsieur," Vigo
said with his steady persistence. "There is nothing to gain by
staying here to drink up the sea. Mayenne will no more give your
lady to you now than he would give her to Félix. And you can
no more carry her off than could Félix. Mayenne will have
you killed and flung into the Seine, as easy as eat breakfast."</p>
<p>"And you bid me grudge my life? Strange counsel from you,
Vigo."</p>
<p>"No, monsieur, but I bid you not throw it away. We all hope to
die afield, but we have a preference how and where. If you fell
fighting for Navarre, I should be sorry; Monsieur would grieve
deep. But we should say it was well; we grudged not your life to
the country and the king. While, if you fall in this fool
affair—"</p>
<p>"I fall for my lady," M. Étienne finished. "The bravest
captain of them all does no better than that."</p>
<p>"M. Étienne, she is no wife for you. You cannot get her.
And if you could 'twere pity. She is a Ligueuse, and you from now
on are a staunch Kingsman. Give her up, monsieur. You have had this
maggot in your brain this four years. Once for all, get it out. Go
to St. Denis; take your troop among Biron's horse. That is the
place for you. You will marry a maid of honour and die a marshal of
France."</p>
<p>M. Étienne laid his arm around Vigo's shoulder with a
smile.</p>
<p>"Good old Vigo! Vigo, tell me this; if you saw a marshal's baton
waiting you in the field, and at home your dearest friend were
alone and in peril, would you go off after glory?"</p>
<p>"Aye, if 'twas a hopeless business to stay, certes I would
go."</p>
<p>"Oh, tell that in Bedlam!" M. Étienne cried. "You would
do nothing of the sort. Was it to win glory you stayed three years
in that hole, St. Quentin?"</p>
<p>"I had no choice, monsieur. My master was there."</p>
<p>"And my mistress is here! You may save your breath, Vigo; I know
what I shall do. The eloquence of monk Christin wouldn't change
me."</p>
<p>"What is your purpose, M. Étienne?" Vigo asked.</p>
<p>Indeed, there was a vagueness about his scheme as revealed to
us.</p>
<p>"It is quite simple. I purpose to get speech with mademoiselle
if I can contrive it, and I think I can. I purpose to smuggle her
out of the Hôtel de Lorraine—such feats have been
accomplished before and may be again. Then I shall bring her here
and hold her against all comers."</p>
<p>"No," Vigo said, "no, monsieur. You may not do that."</p>
<p>"Ventre bleu, Vigo!" his young lord cried.</p>
<p>"No," said Vigo. "I can't have her here, and Mayenne's army
after her."</p>
<p>"Coward!" shouted M. Étienne.</p>
<p>I thought Vigo would take us both by the scruff of our necks and
throw us out of the place. But he answered undisturbed:</p>
<p>"No, that is not the reason, monsieur. If M. le Duc told me to
hold this house against the armies of France and Spain, I'd hold it
till the last man of us was dead. But I am here in his absence to
guard his hôtel, his moneys, and his papers. I don't call it
guarding to throw a firebrand among them. Bringing Mayenne's niece
here would be worse than that."</p>
<p>"Monsieur would never hesitate! Monsieur is no chicken-heart!"
M. Étienne cried. "If he were here, he'd say, 'We'll defend
the lady if every stone in this house is pulled from its
fellow!'"</p>
<p>A twinkle came into Vigo's eyes.</p>
<p>"I think that is likely true," he said. "Monsieur opposed the
marriage as long as Mayenne desired it; but now that Mayenne
forbids it, stealing the demoiselle is another pair of
sleeves."</p>
<p>"Well, then," cried M. Étienne, all good humour in a
moment, "what more do you want? We'll divert ourselves pouring
pitch out of the windows on Mayenne's ruffians."</p>
<p>"No, M. Étienne, it can't be done. If M. le Duc were here
and gave the command to receive her, that would be one thing. No
one would obey with a readier heart than I. Mordieu, monsieur, I
have no objection to succouring a damsel in distress; I have been
in the business before now."</p>
<p>"Then why not now? Death of my life, Vigo! When I know, and you
know, Monsieur would approve."</p>
<p>"I don't know it, monsieur," Vigo said. "I only think it. And I
cannot move by my own guesswork. I am in charge of the house till
Monsieur returns. I purpose to do nothing to jeopard it. But I
interfere in no way with your liberty to proceed as you
please."</p>
<p>"I should think not, forsooth!" M. Étienne blazed out
furiously.</p>
<p>"I could," rejoined Vigo, with his maddening tranquillity. "I
could order the guard—and they would obey—to lock you
up in your chamber. I believe Monsieur would thank me for it. But I
don't do it. I leave you free to act as it likes you."</p>
<p>My lord was white with ire.</p>
<p>"Who is master here, you or I?"</p>
<p>"Neither of us, M. le Comte. But Monsieur, leaving, put the keys
in my hand, and I am head of the house till he returns. You are
very angry, M. Étienne, but my shoulders are broad enough to
bear it. Your madness will get no countenance from me."</p>
<p>"Hang you for an obstinate pig!" M. Étienne cried.</p>
<p>Vigo said no more. He had made plain his position; he had naught
to add or retract. Yeux-gris's face cleared. After all, there was
no use being angry with Vigo; one might as well make fists at the
flow of the Seine.</p>
<p>"Very well." M. Étienne swallowed his wrath. "It is
understood that I get no aid from you. Then I have nobody in the
world with me save Félix here. But for all that I'll win my
lady!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII</h2>
<h3><i>To the Bastille.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-b.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>ut Vigo proved better than his word. If he would give us no
countenance, he gave freely good broad gold pieces. He himself
suggested M. Étienne's need of the sinews of war, not in the
least embarrassed or offended because he knew M. le Comte to be
angry with him. He was no feather ruffled, serene in the
consciousness that he was absolutely in the right. His position was
impregnable; neither persuasion, ridicule, nor abuse moved him one
whit. He had but a single purpose in life; he was born to forward
the interests of the Duke of St. Quentin. He would forward them, if
need were, over our bleeding corpses.</p>
<p>On top of all his disobedience and disrespect he was most
amiable to M. Étienne, treating him with a calm assumption
of friendliness that would have maddened a saint. Yet it was not
hypocrisy; he liked his young lord, as we all did. He would not let
him imperil Monsieur, but aside from that he wished him every good
fortune in the world.</p>
<p>M. Étienne argued no more. He was wroth and sore over
Vigo's attitude, but he said little. He accepted the advance of
money—"Of course Monsieur would say, What coin is his is
yours," Vigo explained—and despatched me to settle his score
at the Three Lanterns.</p>
<p>I set out on my errand rather down in the mouth. We had
accomplished nothing by our return to the hôtel. Nay, rather
had we lost, for we were both of us, I thought, disheartened by the
cold water flung on our ambitions. I took the liberty of doubting
whether perfect loyalty to Monsieur included thwarting and
disobeying his heir. It was all very well for Monsieur to spoil
Vigo and let him speak his mind as became not his station, for Vigo
never disobeyed <i>him</i>, but stood by him in all things. But I
imagined that, were M. Étienne master, Vigo, for all his
years of service, would be packed off the premises in short
order.</p>
<p>I walked along in a brown study, wondering how M. Étienne
did purpose to rescue mademoiselle. His scheme, so far as
vouchsafed to me, was somewhat in the air. I could only hope he had
more in his mind than he had let me know. It seemed to me a pity
not to be doing something in the matter, and though I had no
particular liking for Hôtel de Lorraine hospitality, I had
very willingly been bound thither at this moment to try to get a
letter to mademoiselle. But he would not send me.</p>
<p>"No," he had said, "it won't do. Think of something better,
Félix."</p>
<p>But I could not, and so was taking my dull way to the inn of the
Trois Lanternes.</p>
<p>The city wore a sleepy afternoon look. It was very hot, and few
cared to be stirring. I saw nothing worth my notice until, only a
stone's throw from the Three Lanterns, I came upon a big black
coach standing at the door of a rival auberge, L'Oie d'Or. It
aroused my interest at once, for a travelling-coach was a rare
sight in the beleaguered city. As my master had said, this was not
a time of pleasure-trips to Paris. I readily imagined that the
owner of this chariot came on weighty business indeed. He might be
an ambassador from Spain, a legate from Rome.</p>
<p>I paused by the group of street urchins who were stroking the
horses and clambering on the back of the coach, to wonder whether
it would be worth while to wait and see the dignitary come out. I
was just going to ask the coachman a question or two concerning his
journey, when he began to snap his whip about the bare legs of the
little whelps. The street was so narrow that he could hardly
chastise them without danger to me, so it seemed best to saunter
off. The screaming urchins stopped just out of the reach of his
lash and set to pelting mud at him with a right good will, but I
was too old for that game. I reflected that I was charged with
business for my master, and that it was nothing to me what envoys
might come to Mayenne. I went on into the Three Lanterns.</p>
<p>The cabaret was absolutely deserted; one might have walked all
about and carried off what he pleased, as from the sleeping palace
in the tale. "This is a pretty way to keep an inn," I thought.
"Where have all the lazy rascals got to?" Then I heard a confused
murmur of voices and shuffle of feet from the back, and I went
through into the passage where the staircase was.</p>
<p>Here were gathered, in a huddle, like scared sheep, some dozen
of the serving-folk, men and maids, the lasses most of them in
tears, the men looking scarce less terrified. Their gaze was fixed
on the closed door of Maître Menard's little counting-room,
whence issued the shrill cry:</p>
<p>"Spare me, noble gentlemen! Spare a poor innkeeper! I swear I
know nothing of his whereabouts."</p>
<p>As my footsteps sounded on the threshold, one and all spun round
to look at me in fresh dread.</p>
<p>"Mon dieu, it is his lackey!" a chambermaid cried. In the next
second a little wiry dame, her eyes blazing with fury, darted out
of the group and seized me by the arm with a grip of her nails that
made me think a panther had got me.</p>
<p>"So here you are," she screamed. I declare I thought she was
going to bite me. "Oh-h-h, you and your fine master, that come here
and devour our substance and never pay one sou, but bring ruin to
the house! Now, go you straight in there and let them squeeze your
throat awhile, and see how you like it yourself!"</p>
<p>She swept me across the passage like a whirlwind, opened the
door, shoved me in, and banged it after me before I could collect
my senses.</p>
<p>The room was small; it was very well filled up by a bureau, a
strong box, a table, two chairs, three soldiers, one innkeeper, and
myself.</p>
<p>The bureau stood by the window, with Maître Menard's
account-books on it. Opposite was the table, with a captain of
dragoons on it. Of his two men, one took the middle of the room,
amusing himself with the windpipe of Maître Menard; the other
was posted at the door. I was shot out of Mme. Menard's grasp into
his, and I found his the gentler of the two.</p>
<p>"I say I know not where he went," Maître Menard was
gasping, black in the face from the dragoon's attentions. "He did
not tell—I have no notion. Ah—" The breath failed him
utterly, but his eyes, bloodshot and bulging, rolled toward me.</p>
<p>"What now?" the captain cried, springing to his feet. "Who are
you?"</p>
<p>He wore under his breastplate what I took to be the uniform of
the city guards. I had seen the like on the officer of the gate the
night I entered Paris. He was a young man of a decidedly bourgeois
appearance, as if he were not much, outside of his uniform.</p>
<p>"My name is Félix Broux," I said. "I came to pay a
bill—"</p>
<p>"His servant," Maître Menard contrived to murmur, the
dragoon allowing him a breath.</p>
<p>"Oh, you are the Comte de Mar's servant, are you? Where have you
left your master?"</p>
<p>"What do you want of him?" I asked in turn.</p>
<p>"Never you mind. I want him."</p>
<p>"But Mayenne said he should not be touched," I cried. "The Duke
of Mayenne said himself he should not be touched."</p>
<p>"I know nothing about that," he returned, a trifle more civilly
than he had spoken. "I have naught to do with the Duke of Mayenne.
If he is friends with your master, M. de Mar may not stay behind
bars very long. But I have the governor's warrant for his
arrest."</p>
<p>"On what charge?"</p>
<p>"A trifle. Merely murder."</p>
<p>"<i>Murder?</i>"</p>
<p>"Yes, the murder of a lackey, one Pontou."</p>
<p>"But that is ridiculous!" I cried. "M. le Comte did
not—"</p>
<p>I came to a halt, not knowing what to say. "Lucas—Paul de
Lorraine killed him," was on the tip of my tongue, but I choked it
down. To fling wild accusations against a great man's man were no
wisdom. By accident I had given the officer the impression that we
were friends of Mayenne. I should do ill to imperil the delusion.
"M. le Comte—" I began again, and again stopped. I meant to
say that monsieur had never left the inn last night; he could have
had no hand in the crime. Then I bethought me that I had better not
know the hour of the murder. "M. le Comte is a very grand
gentleman; he would not murder a lackey," I got out at last.</p>
<p>"You can tell that to the judges," the captain rejoined.</p>
<p>At this I felt ice sliding down my spine. To be arrested as a
witness was the last thing I desired.</p>
<p>"I know nothing whatever about it," I cried. "He seemed to me a
very fine gentleman. But you can't always tell about these nobles.
The Comte de Mar, I've only known him twenty-four hours. Until he
engaged me as lackey, yesterday afternoon, I had never laid eyes on
him. I know not what he has been about. He engaged me yesterday to
carry a message for him to the Hôtel St. Quentin. I came into
Paris but night before last, and put up at the Amour de Dieu in the
Rue Coupejarrets. Yesterday he employed me to run his errands, and
last night brought me here with him. But I had never seen him till
this time yesterday. I know nothing about him save that he seemed a
very free-handed, easy master."</p>
<p>To a nice ear I might have seemed a little too voluble, but the
captain only laughed at my patent fright.</p>
<p>"Oh, you need not look so whey-faced; I have no warrant for your
arrest. I dare say you are as great a rogue as he, but the order
says nothing about you. Don't swoon away; you are in no peril."</p>
<p>I was stung to be thought such a craven, but I pocketed the
insult, and merely answered:</p>
<p>"I assure you, monsieur, I know naught of the matter." Yesterday
I would have blurted out to him the whole truth; decidedly my
experiences were teaching me something.</p>
<p>"Come now, I can't fool about here all day," he said
impatiently. "Tell me where that precious master of yours is now.
And be quicker about it than this old mule."</p>
<p>Maître Menard, then, had told them nothing—staunch
old loyalist. He knew perfectly that M. le Comte had gone home, and
they had throttled him, and yet he had not told. Well, he should
not lose by it.</p>
<p>"Monsieur is about the streets somewhere. On my life, I know not
where. But I know he will be back here to supper."</p>
<p>"Oh, you don't know, don't you? Then perhaps Gaspard can quicken
your memory."</p>
<p>At the word the soldier who had attended to Maître Menard
came over to me and taught me how it feels to be hanged. I said to
myself that if I had talked like a dastard I was not one, and every
time he let me speak I gasped, "I don't know." The room was black
to me, and the sea roared in my ears, and I wondered whether I had
done well to tell the lie. For had I said that my master was in the
Hôtel St Quentin, still those fellows would have found it no
easy job to take him. Vigo might not be ready to defend Mlle. de
Montluc, but he would defend Monsieur's heir to the last gasp. Yet
I would not yield before the choking Maître Menard had
withstood, and I stuck to my lie.</p>
<p>Then I bethought me, while the room reeled about me and my head
seemed like to burst, that perchance if they should keep me here a
captive for M. le Comte's arrival he might really follow to see
what had become of me. I turned sick with the fear of it, and
resolved on the truth. But Gaspard's last gullet-gripe had robbed
me of the power to speak. I could only pant and choke. As I
struggled painfully for wind, the door was flung open before a tall
young man in black. Through the haze that hung before my vision I
saw the soldier seize him as he crossed the threshold. Through the
noise of waters I heard the captain's cry of triumph.</p>
<p>"Oh, M. Étienne!" I gasped, in agony that my pain had
been for nothing. Now all was lost. Then the blur lifted, and my
amazed eyes beheld not my master, but—Lucas!</p>
<p>"How now, sirrah?" he cried to the dragoon. "Hands off me,
knaves!" For the second soldier had seized his other arm.</p>
<p>"I regret to inconvenience monsieur," the captain answered, "but
he is wanted at the Bastille."</p>
<p>"Wanted? I?" Lucas cried, fear flashing into his eyes.</p>
<p>He felt an instant's terror, I deem, lest Mayenne had betrayed
him. Quick as he was, he did not see that he had been taken for
another man.</p>
<p>"You, monsieur. You are wanted for the murder of your man,
Pontou."</p>
<p>He grew white, looking instinctively at me, remembering where I
had been at three o'clock this morning.</p>
<p>"It is a lie! He left my service a month back and I have never
seen him since."</p>
<p>"Tell that to the judges," the captain said, as he had said to
me. "I am not trying you. The handcuffs, men."</p>
<p>One of them produced a pair. Lucas struggled frantically in his
captors' grasp. He dragged them from one end of the room to the
other, calling down all the curses of Heaven upon them; but they
snapped the handcuffs on for all that.</p>
<p>"If this is Mayenne's work—" he panted.</p>
<p>The officer caught nothing but the name Mayenne.</p>
<p>"The boy said you were a friend to his Grace, monsieur, but
orders are orders. I have the warrant for your arrest from M. de
Belin."</p>
<p>"At whose instigation?"</p>
<p>"How should I know'? I am a soldier of the guard. I have naught
to do with it but to arrest you."</p>
<p>"Let me see the warrant."</p>
<p>"I am not obliged to. But I will, though. It may quiet your
bluster."</p>
<p>He took out the warrant and held it at a safe distance before
Lucas's eyes. A great light broke in on that personage.</p>
<p>"Mille tonnerres! I am not the Comte de Mar!"</p>
<p>"Oh, you say that now, do you? Pity you had not thought of it
sooner."</p>
<p>"But I am not the Comte de Mar! I am Paul de Lorraine, nephew to
my Lord Mayenne."</p>
<p>"Why don't you say straight out that you're the Duc de
Guise?"</p>
<p>"I am not the Due de Guise," Lucas returned with dignity. He
must have been cursing himself that he had not given his name
sooner. "But I am his brother."</p>
<p>"You take me for a fool."</p>
<p>"Aye, who shall hang for his folly!"</p>
<p>"You must think me a fool," the captain repeated. "The Duke of
Guise's eldest brother is but seventeen—"</p>
<p>"I did not say I was legitimate."</p>
<p>"Oh, you did not say that? You did not know, then, that I could
reel off the ages of every Lorraine of them all. No, M. de Mar, I
am not so simple as you think. You will come along with me to the
Bastille."</p>
<p>"Blockhead! I'll have you broken on the wheel for this," Lucas
stormed. "I am no more Count of Mar than I am King of Spain. Speak
up, you old turnspit," he shouted to Maître Menard. "Am I
he?"</p>
<p>Poor Maître Menard had dropped down on his iron box, too
limp and sick to know what was going on. He only stared
helplessly.</p>
<p>"Speak, rascal," Lucas cried. "Am I Comte de Mar?"</p>
<p>"No," the maître answered in low, faltering tones. He was
at the last point of pain and fear. "No, monsieur officer, it is as
he says. He is not the Comte de Mar."</p>
<p>"Who is he, then?"</p>
<p>"I know not," the maître stammered. "He came here last
night. But it is as he says—he is not the Comte de Mar."</p>
<p>"Take care, mine host," the officer returned; "you're
lying."</p>
<p>I could not wonder at him; if I had not been in a position to
know otherwise, I had thought myself the maître was
lying.</p>
<p>"If you had spoken at first I might have believed you," the
captain said, bestowing a kick on him. "Get out of here, old ass,
before I cram your lie down your throat. And clear your people away
from this door. I'll not walk through a mob. Send every man Jack
about his business, or it will be the worse for him. And every
woman Jill, too."</p>
<p>"M. le Capitaine," Maître Menard quavered, rising
unsteadily to his feet, "you make a mistake. On my sacred word, you
mistake; this is not—"</p>
<p>"Get out!" cried the captain, helping him along with his boot.
Maître Menard fell rather than walked out of the door.</p>
<p>A gray hue came over Lucas's face. His first fright had given
way to fury at perceiving himself the victim of a mistake, but now
alarm was born in his eyes again. Was it, after all, a mistake?
This obstinate disbelief in his assertion, this ordering away of
all who could swear to his identity—was it not rather a plot
for his ruin? He swallowed hard once or twice, fear gripping his
throat harder than ever the dragoon's fingers had gripped mine.
Certainly he was not the Comte de Mar; but then he was the man who
had killed Pontou.</p>
<p>"If this is a plot against me, say so!" he cried. "If you have
orders to arrest me, do so. But arrest me by the name of Paul de
Lorraine, not of Étienne de Mar."</p>
<p>"The name of Étienne de Mar will do," the captain
returned; "we have no fancy for aliases at the Bastille."</p>
<p>"It is a plot!" Lucas cried.</p>
<p>"It is a warrant; that is all I know about it"</p>
<p>"But I am not Comte de Mar," Lucas repeated.</p>
<p>His uneasy conscience had numbed his wits. In his dread of a
plot he had done little to dissipate an error. But now he pulled
himself together; error or intention, he would act as if he knew it
must be error.</p>
<p>"My captain, you have made a mistake likely to cost you your
shoulder-straps. I tell you I am not Mar; the landlord, who knows
him well, tells you I am not Mar. Ask those who know M. de Mar; ask
these inn people. They will one and all tell you I am not he. Ask
that boy there; even he dares not say to my face that I am."</p>
<p>His eyes met mine, and I could see that, even in the moment of
challenging me, he repented. He believed that I would give the lie.
But the dragoon who was bending over him, relieving him of his
sword-belt, spared me the necessity.</p>
<p>"Captain, you need give yourself no uneasiness; this is the
Comte right enough. I live in the Quartier Marais, and I have seen
this gentleman a score of times riding with M. de St. Quentin."</p>
<p>Lucas, at this unexpected testimony, looked so taken aback that
the captain burst out laughing.</p>
<p>"Yes, my dear monsieur, it is a little hard for M. de Mayenne's
nephew—you are a nephew, are you not?—to explain how he
comes to ride with the Duc de St. Quentin."</p>
<p>It was awkward to explain. Lucas, knowing well that there was no
future for him who betrayed the Generalissimo's secrets, cried out
angrily:</p>
<p>"He lies! I never rode out with M. de St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"Oh, come now. Really you waste a great deal of breath," the
captain said. "I regret the cruel necessity of arresting you, M. de
Mar; but there is nothing gained by blustering about it. I usually
know what I am about."</p>
<p>"You do not know! Nom de dieu, you do not know. Félix
Broux, speak up there. If you have told him behind my back that I
am Étienne de Mar, I defy you to say it to my face."</p>
<p>"I know nothing about it, messieurs." I repeated my little
refrain. "Monsieur captain, remember, if you please, I never saw
him till yesterday; he may be Paul de Lorraine for all I know. But
he did not call himself that yesterday."</p>
<p>"You hell-hound!" Lucas cried.</p>
<p>"Go tell Louis to drive up to the cabaret door, Gaspard," bade
the captain.</p>
<p>Lucas gazed at him as if to tear out of him the truth of the
matter. I think he was still a prey to suspicion of a plot in this,
and it paralyzed his tongue. He so reeked with intrigue that he
smelled one wherever he went. He was much too clever to believe
that this arresting officer was simply thick-witted.</p>
<p>"I say no more," he cried. "You may spare yourself your lies,
the whole crew of you. I go as your prisoner, but I go as Paul of
Lorraine, son of Henry, Duke of Guise."</p>
<p>He said it with a certain superbness; but the young captain,
bourgeois of the bourgeois, did not mean to let himself be put down
by any sprig of the noblesse.</p>
<p>"Certainly, if it is any comfort to you," he retorted. "But you
are very dull, monsieur, not to be aware that your identity is
known perfectly to others besides your lackey here and my man. I
did not come to arrest you without a minute description of you from
M. de Belin himself."</p>
<p>"Ventre bleu!" Lucas shouted. "I wrote the description. I myself
lodged information against Mar. I came here to make sure you took
him. Carry me before Belin; he will know me."</p>
<p>I trembled lest the officer could not but see that the man spoke
truth. But I had no need to fear; there is a combination of
stupidity and vanity which nothing can move.</p>
<p>"I have no orders to take you to M. de Belin," he returned
calmly. "So you wrote the description, did you? Perhaps you will
deny that it fits you?"</p>
<p>He read from the paper:</p>
<p>"'Charles-André-Étienne-Marie de St. Quentin,
Comte de Mar. Age, three-and-twenty; figure, tall and slender; was
dressed yesterday in black with a plain falling-band; carries his
right arm in a sling—"</p>
<p>"Is my arm in a sling?" Lucas demanded.</p>
<p>"No, in a handcuff," the captain laughed, at the same moment
that his dragoon exclaimed, "His right wrist is bandaged,
though."</p>
<p>"That is nothing! It is a mere scratch. I did it myself last
night by accident," Lucas shouted, striving with his hampered left
hand to pull the folds apart to show it. But he could not, and fell
silent, wide-eyed, like one who sees the net of fate drawing in
about him. The captain went on reading from his little paper:</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="248.jpg"></a> <a href="images/248.jpg"><img src=
"images/248.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"HE WAS DEPOSITED IN THE BIG BLACK COACH."</b>
<br /></div>
<p>"'Fair hair, gray eyes, aquiline nose'—I suppose you will
still tell us, monsieur, that you are not the man?"</p>
<p>"I am not he. The Comte de Mar and I are nothing alike. We are
both young, tall, yes; but that is all. He is slashed all up the
forearm; my wrist is but scratched with a knife-edge. He has yellow
hair; mine is brown. His eyes—"</p>
<p>"It is plain to me, monsieur," the officer interrupted, "that
the description fits you in every particular." And so it did.</p>
<p>I, who had heard M. Étienne described twenty times, had
yesterday mistaken Lucas for him; the same items served for both.
It was the more remarkable because they actually looked no more
alike than chalk and cheese. Lucas had set down his catalogue
without a thought that he was drawing his own picture. If ever
hunter was caught in his own gin, Lucas was!</p>
<p>"You lie!" he cried furiously. "You know I am not Mar. You lie,
the whole pack of you!"</p>
<p>"Gag him, Ravelle," the captain commanded with an angry
flush.</p>
<p>"I demand to be taken before M. de Belin!" Lucas shouted.</p>
<p>The next moment the soldier had twisted a handkerchief about his
mouth.</p>
<p>"Ready?" the captain asked of Gaspard, who had come back just in
time to aid in the throttling. "Move on, then."</p>
<p>He led the way out, the two dragoons following with their
prisoner. And this time Lucas's fertile wits failed him. He did not
slip from his captors' fingers between the room and the street. He
was deposited in the big black coach that had aroused my wonder.
Louis cracked his whip and off they rumbled.</p>
<p>I laughed all the way back to the Hôtel St. Quentin.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX</h2>
<h3><i>To the Hôtel de Lorraine.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>found M. Étienne sitting on the steps before the house.
He had doffed his rusty black for a suit of azure and silver; his
sword and poniard were heavy with silver chasings. His blue hat,
its white plume pinned in a silver buckle, lay on the stone beside
him. He had discarded his sling and was engaged in tuning a
lute.</p>
<p>Evidently he was struck by some change in my appearance; for he
asked at once:</p>
<p>"What has happened, Félix?"</p>
<p>"Such a lark!" I cried.</p>
<p>"What! did old Menard share the crowns with you for your
trouble?"</p>
<p>"No; he pocketed them all. That was not it."</p>
<p>I was so choked with laughter as to make it hard work to explain
what was it, while his first bewilderment changed to an amazed
interest, which in its turn gave way, not to delight, but to
distress.</p>
<p>"Mordieu!" he cried, starting up, his face ablaze, "if I
resemble that dirt—"</p>
<p>"As chalk and cheese," I said. "No one seeing you both could
possibly mistake you for two of the same race. But there was
nothing in his catalogue that did not fit him. It mentioned, to be
sure, the right arm in a sling; his was not, but he had his wrist
bandaged. I think he cut himself last night when he was after me
and I flung the door in his face, for afterward he held his hand
behind his back. At any rate, there was the bandage; that was
enough to satisfy the captain."</p>
<p>"And they took him off?"</p>
<p>"Truly. They gagged him because he protested so much, and lugged
him off."</p>
<p>"To the Bastille?" he demanded, as if he could scarcely realize
the event.</p>
<p>"To the Bastille. In a big travelling-coach, between the officer
and his men. He may be there by this time."</p>
<p>He looked at me as if he were still not quite able to believe
the thing.</p>
<p>"It is true, monsieur. If I were inventing it I could not invent
anything better; but it is true."</p>
<p>"Certes, you could not invent anything better! Nor anything half
so good. If ever there was a case of the biter bit—" he broke
off, laughing.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, you know not half how funny it was. Had you seen
their faces—the more Lucas swore he was not Comte de Mar, the
more the officer was sure he was."</p>
<p>"Félix, you have all the luck. I said this morning you
should go about no more without me. Then I send you off on a stupid
errand, and see what you get into!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I put it to you: Had you been there, how could Lucas
have been arrested for Comte de Mar?"</p>
<p>"He won't stay arrested long—more's the pity."</p>
<p>"No," I said regretfully; "but they may keep him overnight."</p>
<p>"Aye, he may be out of mischief overnight. I am happy to say
that my face is not known at the Bastille."</p>
<p>"Nor his, I take it. I thought from what I heard last night that
he had never been in Paris save for a while in the spring, when he
lay perdu. At the Bastille they may know nothing of the existence
of a Paul de Lorraine. But, monsieur, if Mayenne has broken his
word already, if they are arresting you on this trumped-up charge,
you must get out of the gates to-night."</p>
<p>"Impossible," he answered, smiling; "I have an engagement in
Paris."</p>
<p>"But monsieur may not keep it. He must go to St. Denis."</p>
<p>"I must go nowhere but to the Hôtel Lorraine."</p>
<p>"Monsieur!"</p>
<p>"Why, look you, Félix; it is the safest spot for me in
all Paris; it is the last place where they will look for me.
Besides, now that they think me behind bars, they will not be
looking for me at all. I shall be as safe as the hottest Leaguer in
the camp."</p>
<p>"But in the hôtel-"</p>
<p>"Be comforted; I shall not enter the hôtel. There is a
limit to my madness. No; I shall go softly around to a window in
the side street under which I have often stood in the old days. She
used to contrive to be in her chamber after supper."</p>
<p>"But, monsieur, how long is it since you were there last?"</p>
<p>"I think it must be two months. I had little heart for it after
my father—So, you see, no one will be on the lookout for me
to-night."</p>
<p>"Neither will mademoiselle," I made my point.</p>
<p>"I hope she may," he answered. "She will know I must see her
to-night. And I think she will be at the window."</p>
<p>The reasoning seemed satisfactory to him. And I thought one wet
blanket in the house was enough.</p>
<p>"Very well, monsieur. I am ready for anything you propose."</p>
<p>"Then I propose supper."</p>
<p>Afterward we played shovel-board, I risking the pistoles
mademoiselle had given me. I won five more, for he paid little heed
to what he was about, but was ever fidgeting over to the window to
see if it was dark enough to start. At length, when it was still
between dog and wolf, he announced that he would delay no
longer.</p>
<p>"Very well, monsieur," I said with all alacrity.</p>
<p>"But you are not to come!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur!"</p>
<p>"Certainly not. I must go alone to-night."</p>
<p>"But, monsieur, you will need me. You will need some one to
watch the street while you speak with mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"I can have no listener to-night," he replied immovably.</p>
<p>"But I will not listen, monsieur! I shall stand out of ear-shot.
But you must have some one to give you warning should the guard set
on you."</p>
<p>"I can manage my own affairs," he retorted haughtily; "I desire
neither your advice nor your company."</p>
<p>"Monsieur!" I cried, almost in tears.</p>
<p>"Enough!" he bade sharply. "Go send me Vigo."</p>
<p>I went like one in whose face the doors of heaven had shut.</p>
<p>Vigo came at once from the guard-room at my summons. It was on
my tongue to tell him of M. le Comte's mad resolve to fare forth
alone; to beg him to stop it. But I remembered how blameworthy I
myself had held the equery for interfering with M. Étienne,
and I made up my mind that no word of cavil at my lord should ever
pass my lips. I lagged across the court at Vigo's heels,
silent.</p>
<p>M. Étienne was standing in the doorway.</p>
<p>"Vigo," he said, without a change of countenance, "get
Félix a rapier, which he can use prettily enough. I cannot
take him out to-night unarmed."</p>
<p>Vigo hesitated a moment, saluted, and went.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I cried out, "you meant all the time to take
me!"</p>
<p>He gazed down on my heated visage and laughed and laughed.</p>
<p>"Félix," he gasped, "you had your sport over there at the
inn. But I have seen nothing this summer as funny as <i>your</i>
face."</p>
<p>Vigo came back with a sword and baldric for me, and a
horse-pistol besides, but M. Étienne would not let me have
it.</p>
<p>"Circumstances are such, Vigo, that I want no noisy
weapons."</p>
<p>The equery regarded him with a troubled countenance.</p>
<p>"I wish I knew, monsieur, whether I do right to let you go."</p>
<p>"We will not discuss that, an it please you."</p>
<p>"I do not, monsieur. I have no right to curtail M. le Comte's
liberties. But I let you go with a heavy heart."</p>
<p>He looked after us with foreboding eyes as we went out of the
great gate, alone, with not so much as a linkboy. But if his heart
was heavy, our hearts were light. We paced along as merrily as
though to a feast. M. Étienne hung his lute over his neck
and strummed it; and whenever we passed under a window whence
leaned a pretty head, he sang snatches of love-songs. We were alone
in the dark streets of a hostile city, bound for the house of a
mighty foe; and one of us was wounded and one a tyro. Yet we
laughed as we went; for there was Lucas languishing in prison, and
here were we, free as air, steering our course for mademoiselle's
window. One of us was in love, and the other wore a sword for the
first time, and all the power of Mayenne daunted us not.</p>
<p>We came at length within bow-shot of the Hôtel de
Lorraine, where M. Étienne was willing to abate somewhat his
swagger. We left the Rue St. Antoine, creeping around behind the
house through a narrow and twisting alley—it was pitch-black,
but he knew the way well—into a little street dim-lighted
from the windows of the houses upon it. It was only a few rods
long, running from the open square in front of the hôtel to
the network of unpaved alleys behind. On the farther side stood a
row of high-gabled houses, their doors opening directly on the
pavement; on this side was but one big pile, the Hôtel de
Lorraine. The wall was broken by few windows, most of them dark;
this was not the gay side of the house. The overhanging turret on
the low second story, under which M. Étienne halted, was as
dark as the rest, nor, though the casement was open wide, could we
tell whether any one was in the room. We could hear nothing but the
breeze crackling in the silken curtains.</p>
<p>"Take your station at the corner there," he bade, "and shout if
they seem to be coming for us. But I think we shall not be
molested. My fingers are so stiff they will hardly recognize my
hand on the strings."</p>
<p>I went to my post, and he began singing, scarce loud enough for
any but his lady above to mark him:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>Fairest blossom ever grew<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Once she loosened from her
breast.</span><br />
This I say, her eyes are blue.<br />
<br />
From her breast the rose she drew,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Dole for me, her servant
blest,</span><br />
Fairest blossom ever grew.</i></p>
</div>
<p>The music paused, and I turned from my watch of the shadowy
figures crossing the square, in instant alarm lest something was
wrong. But whatever startled him ceased, for in a moment he went on
again, and as he sang his voice rang fuller:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>Of my love the guerdon true,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">'Tis my bosom's only
guest.</span><br />
This I say, her eyes are blue.<br />
<br />
Still to me 'tis bright of hue<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As when first my kisses
prest</span><br />
Fairest blossom ever grew.<br />
<br />
Sweeter than when gathered new<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">'Twas the sign her love
confest.</span><br />
This I say, her eyes are blue.</i></p>
</div>
<p>He stopped again and stood gazing up into the window, but
whether he saw something or heard something I could not tell.
Apparently he was not sure himself, for presently, a little
tremulous, he added the four verses:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>Askest thou of me a clue<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To that lady I love
best?</span><br />
Fairest blossom ever grew!<br />
This I say, her eyes are blue.</i></p>
</div>
<p>He doffed his hat, pushing back the hair from his brow, and
waited, eager, hopeful. There was a little stir in the room that
one thought was not the wind.</p>
<p>I had come unconsciously half-way up the street to him in the
ardour of my interest; but now I was startled back to my duty by
the sound of men running round the corner behind me. One glance was
enough; two abreast, swords in hand, they were charging us. I ran
before them, drawing blade as I went and shouting to M.
Étienne. But even as I called an answering shout came from
the alley; two men of the Spanish guards shot out of the darkness
and at us.</p>
<p>M. Étienne, with his extraordinary quickness, had got the
lute off his neck, and now, for want of a better use of it, flung
it at the head of his nearest assailant, who received it full in
the face, stopped, hesitated a moment, and ran back the way he had
come. But three foes remained, with the whole Hôtel de
Lorraine behind them.</p>
<p>We put our backs to the wall and set to. The remaining Spaniard
engaged me; M. Étienne, protected somewhat in the embrasure
of a doorway, held at bay with his good left arm a pair of
attackers. These were in the dress of gentlemen, and wore masks as
if their cheeks blushed (well they might) for the deeds of their
hands.</p>
<p>A broad window in the Hôtel de Lorraine was flung open; a
man leaned far out with a torch. The bright glare in our faces
bewildered our gloom-accustomed eyes; I could not see what I was
about, and rammed my point against my Spaniard's hilt, snapping my
blade.</p>
<p>The sudden impact sent him stumbling back a pace, and M.
Étienne, who, with the quick eye of the born fencer, saw
everything, cried to me, "Here!"</p>
<p>I darted back into the doorway beside him. His two assailants
finding that they gained nothing by their joint attack, but rather
hampered each other, one dropped back to watch his comrade, the
cleverer swordsman. This was decidedly a man of talent, but he was
shorter in the arm than my master and had the disadvantage of
standing on the ground, whereas M. Étienne was up one step.
He could not force home any of his shrewd-planned thrusts; nor
could he drive M. Étienne out of his coign to where in the
open the two could make short work of him. The rapiers clashed and
parted and twisted about each other and flew apart again; and then
before I could see who was touched the attacker fell to his knees,
with M. Étienne's sword in his breast.</p>
<p>M. Étienne wrenched the blade out; the wounded man sank
backward, his mask-string breaking. He was the one whom I had
thought him—François de Brie.</p>
<p>M. Étienne was ready for the second gentleman, but
neither he nor the soldier attacked. The torch-bearer in the
window, with a shout, waved his arm toward the square. A mob of
armed men hurled itself around the corner, a pikeman with lowered
point in the van.</p>
<p>This was not combat; it was butchery. M. Étienne, with a
little moan, lifted his eyes for the first time from his assailant
to the turret window. In the same instant I felt the door behind us
give. Throwing my whole weight upon it, I seized M. Étienne
and pulled him over the threshold. Some one inside slammed the door
to, just as the Spaniard hurled himself against it.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XX" id="XX"></a>XX</h2>
<h3><i>"On guard, monsieur."</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-w.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>e found ourselves in a narrow panelled passageway, lighted by a
flickering oil-lamp pendent from a bracket. Confronting us was our
preserver—a little old lady in black velvet, leaning back in
chuckling triumph against the shot bolts.</p>
<p>She was very small and very old. Her figure was bent and
shrunken, a pitiful little bag of bones in a rich dress; her hair
was as white as her ruff; her skin as yellow and dry as parchment,
furrowed with a thousand wrinkles; but her black eyes sparkled like
a girl's.</p>
<p>"I did not mean to let my nightingale's throat be slit," she
cried in a shrill voice quavering like a young child's. "I have
listened to your singing many a night, monsieur; I was glad
to-night to find the nightingale back again. When I saw that crew
rush at you, I said I would save you if only you would put your
back to my door. Monsieur, you are a young man of
intelligence."</p>
<p>"I am a young man of amazing good fortune, madame," M.
Étienne replied, with his handsomest bow, sheathing his wet
blade. "I owe you a debt of gratitude which is ill repaid in the
base coin of bringing trouble to this house."</p>
<p>"Not at all—not at all!" she protested with animation. "No
one is likely to molest this house. It is the dwelling of M.
Ferou."</p>
<p>"Of the Sixteen?"</p>
<p>"Of the Sixteen," she nodded, her shrewd face agleam with
mischief. "In truth, if my son were within, you were little likely
to find harbourage here. But, as it is, he and his wife are supping
with his Grace of Lyons. And the servants are one and all gone to
mass, leaving madame grand'mère to shift for herself. No,
no, my good friends; you may knock till you drop, but you won't get
in."</p>
<p>The attacking party was indeed hammering energetically on the
door, shouting to us to open, to deny them at our peril. The eyes
of the old lady glittered with new delight at every rap.</p>
<p>"I fancy they will think twice before they batter down M.
Ferou's door! Ma foi! I fancy they are a little mystified at
finding you sanctuaried in this house. Was it not my Lord Mayenne's
jackal, François de Brie?"</p>
<p>"Yes; and Marc Latour."</p>
<p>"I thought I knew them," she cried in evident pride at her
sharpness. "It was dark, and they were masked, and my eyes are old,
but I knew them! And which of the ladies is it?"</p>
<p>He could do no less than answer his saviour.</p>
<p>"Ah, well," she said, with a little sigh, "I too once—but
that is a long time ago." Then her eyes twinkled again; I trow she
was not much given to sighing. "That is a long time ago," she
repeated briskly, "and now they think I am too old to do aught but
tell my beads and wait for death. But I like to have a hand in the
game."</p>
<p>"I will come to take a hand with you any time, madame," M.
Étienne assured her. "I like the way you play."</p>
<p>She broke into shrill, delighted laughter.</p>
<p>"I'll warrant you do! And I don't mean to do the thing by
halves. No; I shall save you, hide and hair. Be so kind, my lad, as
to lift the lantern from the hook."</p>
<p>I did as she bade me, and we followed her down the passage like
spaniels. She was so entirely equal to the situation that we made
no protests and asked no questions. At the end of the hall she
paused, opening neither the door on the right nor the door on the
left, but, passing her hand up one of the panels of the wainscot,
suddenly she flung it wide.</p>
<p>"You are not so small as I," she chuckled, "yet I think you can
make shift to get through. You, monsieur lantern-bearer, go
first."</p>
<p>I doubled myself up and scrambled through. The old lady,
gathering her petticoats daintily, followed me without difficulty,
but M. Étienne was put to some trouble to bow his tall head
low enough. We stood at the top of a flight of stone steps
descending into blackness. The old lady unhesitatingly tripped down
before us.</p>
<p>At the foot of the stairs was a vaulted stone passageway,
slippery with lichen, the dampness hanging in beads on the wall.
Turning two corners, we brought up at a narrow, nail-studded
door.</p>
<p>"Here I bid you farewell," quoth the little old lady. "You have
only to walk on till you get to the end. At the steps, pull the
rope once and wait. When he opens to you, say, 'For the Cause,' and
draw a crown with your finger in the air."</p>
<p>"Madame," M. Étienne cried, "I hope the day may come when
I shall make you suitable acknowledgements. My name—"</p>
<p>"I prefer not to know it," she interrupted, glancing up at him.
"I will call you M. Yeux-gris; that is enough. As for
acknowledgments—pooh! I am overpaid in the sport it has
been."</p>
<p>"But, madame, when monsieur your son discovers—"</p>
<p>"Mon dieu! I am not afraid of my son or of any other woman's
son!" she cried, with cackling laughter. And I warrant she was
not.</p>
<p>"Madame," M. Étienne said, "I trust we shall meet again
when I shall have time to tell you what I think of you." He dropped
on his knees before her, kissing both her hands.</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, of course you are grateful," she said, somewhat bored
apparently by his demonstration. "Naturally one does not like to
die at your age. I wish you a pleasant journey, M. Yeux-gris, and
you too, you fresh-faced boy. Give me back my lantern and fare you
well."</p>
<p>"You will let us see you safe back in your hall."</p>
<p>"I will do nothing of the sort! I am not so decrepit, thank you,
that I cannot get up my own stairs. No, no; no more gallantries,
but get on your way! Begone with you! I must be back in my chamber
working my altar-cloth when my daughter-in-law comes home."</p>
<p>Crowing her elfin laugh, she pulled the door open and fairly
hustled us through.</p>
<p>"Good-by—you are fine boys"; and she slammed the door upon
us. We were in absolute darkness. As we took our first breath of
the dank, foul air, we heard bolts snap into place.</p>
<p>"Well, since we cannot go back, let us go forward," said M.
Étienne, cheerfully. "I am glad she has bolted the door; it
is to throw them off the scent should they track us."</p>
<p>I knew very well that he was not at all glad; that the same
thought which chilled my blood had come to him. This little beldam,
with her beady eyes and her laughter, was the wicked witch of our
childhood days; she had shut us up in a charnel-house to die.</p>
<p>I heard him tapping the pavement before him with his scabbard,
using it as a blind man's staff. And so we advanced through the
fetid gloom, the passage being only wide enough to let us walk
shoulder to shoulder. There was a whirring of wings about us, and a
squeaking; once something swooped square into my face, knocking a
cry of terror from me, and a laugh from him.</p>
<p>"What was it? a bat? Cheer up, Félix; they don't bite."
But I would not go on till I had made sure, as well as I could
without seeing, that the cursed thing was not clinging on me
somewhere.</p>
<p>We walked on then in silence, the stone walls vibrant with our
tread. We went on till it seemed we had traversed the width of
Paris; and I wondered who were sleeping and feasting and scheming
and loving over our heads. M. Étienne said at length:</p>
<p>"Mordieu! I hope this snake-hole does not empty us out into the
Seine." But I thought that as long as it emptied us out somewhere,
I should not greatly mind the Seine.</p>
<p>At this very moment M. Étienne clutched my arm, jerking
me to a halt. I bounded backward, trying in the blackness to
discern a precipice yawning at my feet. "Look!" he cried in a low,
tense voice. I perceived, far before us in the gloom, a point of
light, which, as we watched it, grew bigger and bigger, till it
became an approaching lantern.</p>
<p>"This is like to be awkward," murmured M. Étienne.</p>
<p>The man carrying the light came on with firm, heavy tread;
naturally he did not see us as soon as we saw him. I thought him
alone, but it was hard to tell in this dark, echoy place.</p>
<p>He might easily have approached within touch of my sad clothing
without becoming aware of me, but M. Étienne's azure and
white caught the lantern rays a rod away. The newcomer stopped
short, holding up the light between us and his face. We could make
nothing of him, save that he was a large man, soberly clad.</p>
<p>"Who is it?" he demanded, his voice ringing out loud and steady.
"Is it you, Ferou?"</p>
<p>M. Étienne hooked his scabbard in place, and went forward
into the clear circle of light.</p>
<p>"No, M. de Mayenne; it is Étienne de Mar."</p>
<p>"Ventre bleu!" Mayenne ejaculated, changing his lantern with
comical alacrity to his left hand, and whipping out his sword. My
master's came bare, too, at that. They confronted each other in
silence, till Mayenne's ever-increasing astonishment forced the cry
from him:</p>
<p>"How the devil come you here?"</p>
<p>"Evidently by way of M. Ferou's house," M. Étienne
answered. Mayenne still stared in thick amazement; after a moment
my master added: "I must in justice say that M. Ferou is not aware
that I am using this passage; he is, with madame his wife, supping
with the Archbishop of Lyons."</p>
<p>M. Étienne leaned his shoulder against the wall, smiling
pleasantly, and waiting for the duke to make the next move. Mayenne
kept a nonplussed silence. The situation was indeed somewhat
awkward. He could not come forward without encountering an agile
opponent, whose exceeding skill with the sword was probably known
to him. He could not turn tail, had his dignity allowed the course,
without exposing himself to be spitted. He was in the predicament
of the goat on the bridge. Yet was he gaping at us less in fear, I
think, than in bewilderment. This Ferou, as I learned later, was
one of his right-hand men, years-long supporter. Mayenne had as
soon expected to meet a lion in the tunnel as to meet a foe. He
cried out again upon us, with an instinctive certainty that a great
prince's question must be answered:</p>
<p>"How came you here?"</p>
<p>"I don't ask," said M. Étienne, "how it happens that M.
le Duc is walking through this rat-hole. Nor do I feel disposed to
make any explanation to him."</p>
<p>"Very well, then," said Mayenne; "our swords, if you are ready,
will make adequate explanation."</p>
<p>"Now, that is gallant of you," returned M. Étienne, "as
it is evident that the closeness of these walls will inconvenience
your Grace more than it will me."</p>
<p>The walls of the passage were roughly laid. Mayenne perched his
lantern on a projecting stone.</p>
<p>"On guard, sir," he answered.</p>
<p>The silence was profound. Mayenne had no companion following
him. He was alone with his sword. He was not now head of the state,
but only a man with a sword, standing opposite another man with a
sword. Nor was he in the pink of form. Though he gave the effect,
from his clear colour and proud bearing, perhaps also from his
masterful energy, of tremendous force and strength, his body was in
truth but a poor machine, his great corpulence making him clumsy
and scant of breath. He must have known, as he eyed his supple
antagonist, what the end would be. Yet he merely said:</p>
<p>"On guard, monsieur."</p>
<p>M. Étienne did not raise his weapon. I retreated a pace,
that I might not be in the way of his jump, should Mayenne spring
on him. M. Étienne said slowly:</p>
<p>"M. de Mayenne, this encounter was none of my contriving. Nor
have I any wish to cross swords with you. Family quarrels are to be
deprecated. Since I still intend to become your cousin, I must
respectfully beg to be released from the obligation of fighting
you."</p>
<p>A man knowing himself overmatched cannot refuse combat. He may,
even as Mayenne had done, think himself compelled to offer it. But
if he insists on forcing battle with a reluctant adversary, he must
be a hothead indeed. And Mayenne was no hothead. He stood hesitant,
feeling that he was made ridiculous in accepting the clemency and
should be still more ridiculous to refuse it. He half lifted his
sword, only to lower it again, till at last his good sense came to
his relief in a laugh.</p>
<p>"M. de Mar, it appears that, after all, some explanations are
necessary. You think that in declining to fight you put me in your
debt. Possibly you are right. But if you expect that in gratitude I
shall hand over Lorance de Montluc, you were never more mistaken.
Never, while I live, shall she marry into the king's camp. Now,
monsieur, that we understand each other, I abide by your decision
whether we fight or not."</p>
<p>For answer, M. Étienne put up his blade. The Duke of
Mayenne, saluting with his, did the like. "Mar," he said, "you
stood off from us, like a coquetting girl, for three years. At
length, last May, you refused point-blank to join us. I do not
often ask a man twice, but I ask you. Will you join the League
to-night, and marry Lorance to-morrow?"</p>
<p>No man could have spoken with a franker grace. I believe then, I
believe now, he meant it. M. Étienne believed he meant
it.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," he answered, "I have shilly-shallied long; but I am
planted squarely at last with my father on the king's side. You put
your interesting nephew into my father's house to kill him; I shall
not sign myself with the League."</p>
<p>"In that case," returned Mayenne, "perhaps we might each
continue on his way."</p>
<p>"With all my heart, monsieur."</p>
<p>Each drew back against the wall to let the other pass, with a
wary eye for daggers. Then M. Étienne, laughing a little,
but watching Mayenne like a lynx, started to go by. The duke,
seeing the look, suddenly raised his hands over his head, holding
them there while both of us squeezed past him.</p>
<p>"Cousin Charles," said M. Étienne, "I see that when I
have married Lorance you and I shall get on capitally. Till then,
God have you ever in guard."</p>
<p>"I thank you, monsieur. You make me immortal."</p>
<p>"I have no need to make you witty. M. de Mayenne, when you have
submitted to the king, as you will one of these days, I shall have
as delightful a kinsman as heart of man could wish. You and I will
yet drink a loving-cup together. Till that happy hour, I am your
good enemy. Fare you well, monsieur."</p>
<p>He bowed; the duke, half laughing despite a considerable ire,
returned the obeisance with all pomp. M. Étienne took me by
the arm and departed. Mayenne stood still for a space; then we
heard his retreating footsteps, and the glimmer of his light slowly
faded away.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="272.jpg"></a> <a href="images/272.jpg"><img src=
"images/272.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"WE CLIMBED OUT INTO A SILK-MERCER'S SHOP."</b>
<br /></div>
<p>"It wasn't necessary to tell him the door is bolted," M.
Étienne muttered.</p>
<p>We hurried along now without precaution, knowing that the floor
which had supported Mayenne would support us. The consequence was
that we stumbled abruptly against a step, and fell with a force
like to break our kneecaps. I picked myself up at once, and ran
headlong up the stairs, to hit my crown on the ceiling and reel
back on M. Étienne, sweeping him off his feet, so that we
rolled in a struggling heap on the stones of the passage. And for
the minute the place was no longer dark; I saw more lightning than
even flashed in the Rue Coupejarrets.</p>
<p>"Are you hurt, Félix?" cried M. Étienne, the first
to disentangle himself.</p>
<p>"No," I said, groaning; "but I banged my head. She did not say
it was a trap-door."</p>
<p>We ascended the stairs a second time—this time most
cautiously on our hands and knees. Above us, at the end, we could
feel, with upleaping of spirit, a wooden ceiling.</p>
<p>"Ah, I have the cord!" he exclaimed.</p>
<p>The next instant we heard a faint but most comforting tinkle
somewhere above us. Before we had time to wonder whether any marked
it but us, we heard steps overhead, and a noise as of a chest being
pulled about, and then the trap lifted. We climbed out into a
silk-mercer's shop.</p>
<p>"Faith, my man," said M. Étienne to the little bourgeois
who had opened to us, "I am glad to see you appear so
promptly."</p>
<p>He looked at us, somewhat troubled or alarmed.</p>
<p>"You must have met—" he suggested with hesitancy.</p>
<p>"Yes," said M. Étienne; "but he did not object. We are,
of course, of the initiated."</p>
<p>"Of course, of course," the little fellow assented, with a funny
assumption of knowing all about it. "Not every one has the secret
of the passage. Well, I can call myself a lucky man. 'Tis mighty
few mercers have a duke in their shop as often as I."</p>
<p>We looked curiously about us. The shop was low and dim, with
piles of stuff in rolls on the shelves, and other stuffs lying
loose on the counter before us, as if the man had just been
measuring them—gorgeous brocades and satins. Above us, a bell
on the rafter still quivered.</p>
<p>"Yes, that is the bell of the trap," the proprietor said,
following our glance. "Customers do not know where it rings from.
And if I am not at liberty to open, I drop my brass yardstick on
the floor—But they told you that, doubtless, monsieur?" he
added, regarding M. Étienne again a little uneasily.</p>
<p>"They told me something else I had near forgotten," M.
Étienne answered, and, drawing a crown in the air, gave the
password, "For the Cause."</p>
<p>"For the King," the shopkeeper made instant rejoinder, drawing
in the air in his turn a letter C and the numeral X.</p>
<p>M. Étienne laid a gold piece on the counter, and if the
shopkeeper had felt any doubts of this well-dressed gallant who
wore no hat, they vanished in its radiance.</p>
<p>"And now, my friend, let us out into the street and forget our
faces."</p>
<p>The man took up his candle to light us to the door.</p>
<p>"Perhaps it would not trouble monsieur to say a word for me over
there?" he suggested, pointing in the direction of the tunnel. "M.
le Duc has every confidence in me. Still, it would do no harm if
monsieur should mention how quickly I let him out."</p>
<p>"When I see him, I will surely mention it," M. Étienne
promised him. "Continue to be vigilant to-night, my friend. There
is another man to come."</p>
<p>Followed by the little bourgeois's thanks and adieus, we walked
out into the sweet open air. As soon as his door was shut again, we
took to our heels, nor stopped running till we had put half a dozen
streets between us and the mouth of the tunnel. Then we walked
along in breathless silence.</p>
<p>Presently M. Étienne cried out:</p>
<p>"Death of my life! Had I fought there in the burrow, I should
have changed the history of France!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a>XXI</h2>
<h3><i>A chance encounter.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-t.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>he street before us was as orderly as the aisle of Notre Dame.
Few way-farers passed us; those there were talked together as
placidly as if love-trysts and mêlées existed not, and
tunnels and countersigns were but the smoke of a dream. It was a
street of shops, all shuttered, while, above, the burghers'
families went respectably to bed.</p>
<p>"This is the Rue de la Ferronnerie," my master said, pausing a
moment to take his bearings. "See, under the lantern, the sign of
the Pierced Heart. The little shop is in the Rue de la Soierie. We
are close by the Halles—we must have come half a mile
underground. Well, we'll swing about in a circle to get home. For
this night I've had enough of the Hôtel de Lorraine."</p>
<p>And I. But I held my tongue about it, as became me.</p>
<p>"They were wider awake than I thought—those Lorrainers.
Pardieu! Féix, you and I came closer quarters with death
than is entirely amusing."</p>
<p>"If that door had not opened-" I shuddered.</p>
<p>"A new saint in the calendar—la Sainte Ferou! But what a
madcap of a saint, then! My faith, she must have led them a dance
when Francis I was king!</p>
<p>"Natheless it galls me," he went on, half to himself, "to know
that I was lost by my own folly, saved by pure chance. I underrated
the enemy—worst mistake in the book of strategy. I came near
flinging away two lives and making a most unsightly mess under a
lady's window."</p>
<p>"Monsieur made somewhat of a mess as it was."</p>
<p>"Aye. I would I knew whether I killed Brie. We'll go round in
the morning and find out."</p>
<p>"I am thankful that monsieur does not mean to go to-night."</p>
<p>"Not to-night, Félix; I've had enough. No; we'll get home
without passing near the Hôtel de Lorraine, if we go outside
the walls to do it. To-night I draw my sword no more."</p>
<p>To this day I have no quite clear idea of how we went. A strange
city at night—Paris of all cities—is a labyrinth. I
know that after a time we came out in some meadows along the
river-bank, traversed them, and plunged once more into narrow,
high-walled streets. It was very late, and lights were few. We had
started in clear starlight, but now a rack of clouds hid even their
pale shine.</p>
<p>"The snake-hole over again," said M. Étienne. "But we are
almost at our own gates."</p>
<p>But, as in the snake-hole, came light. Turning a sharp corner,
we ran straight into a gentleman and his porte-flambeau, swinging
along at as smart a pace as we.</p>
<p>"A thousand pardons," M. Étienne cried to his
encounterer, the possessor of years and gravity but of no great
size, whom he had almost knocked down. "I heard you, but knew not
you were so close. We were speeding to get home."</p>
<p>The personage was also of a portliness, and the collision had
knocked the wind out of him. He leaned panting against the wall. As
he scanned M. Étienne's open countenance and princely dress
his alarm vanished.</p>
<p>"It is unseemly to go about on a night like this without a
lantern," he said with asperity. "The municipality should forbid
it. I shall certainly bring the matter up at the next sitting."</p>
<p>"Monsieur is a member of the Parliament?" M. Étienne
asked with immense respect.</p>
<p>"I have that honour, monsieur," the little man replied,
delighted to impress us, as he himself was impressed, by the sense
of his importance.</p>
<p>"Oh," said M. Étienne, with increasing solemnity,
"perhaps monsieur had a hand in a certain decree of the 28th
June?"</p>
<p>The little man began to look uneasy.</p>
<p>"There was, as monsieur says, a measure passed that day," he
stammered.</p>
<p>"A rebellious and contumacious decree," M. Étienne
rejoined, "most offensive to the general-duke." Whereupon he
fingered his sword.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," the little deputy cried, "we meant no offence to his
Grace, or to any true Frenchman. We but desire peace after all
these years of blood. We were informed that his Grace was angry;
yet we believed that even he will come to see the matter in a
different light—"</p>
<p>"You have acted in a manner insulting to his Grace of Mayenne,"
M. Étienne repeated inexorably, and he glanced up the street
and down the street to make sure the coast was clear. The wretched
little deputy's teeth chattered.</p>
<p>The linkman had retreated to the other side of the way, where he
seemed on the point of fleeing, leaving his master to his fate. I
thought it would be a shame if the badgered deputy had to stumble
home in the dark, so I growled out to the fellow:</p>
<p>"Stir one step at your peril!"</p>
<p>I was afraid he would drop the flambeau and run, but he did not;
he only sank back against the wall, eyeing my sword with exceeding
deference. He knew not that there was but a foot of blade in the
scabbard.</p>
<p>The burgher looked up the street and down the street, after M.
Étienne's example, but there was no help to be seen or
heard. He turned to his tormentor with the valour of a mouse at
bay.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, beware what you do. I am Pierre Marceau!"</p>
<p>"Oh, you are Pierre Marceau? And can M. Pierre Marceau explain
how he happened to be faring forth from his dwelling at this unholy
hour?"</p>
<p>"I am not faring forth; I am faring home. I—we had a
little con—that is, not to say a conference, but merely a
little discussion on matters of no importance—"</p>
<p>"I have the pleasure," interrupted M. Étienne, sternly,
"of knowing where M. Marceau lives. M. Marceau's errand in this
direction is not accounted for."</p>
<p>"But I was going home—on my sacred honour I was! Ask
Jacques, else. But as we went down the Rue de l'Évêque
we saw two men in front of us. As they reached the wall by M. de
Mirabeau's garden a gang of footpads fell on them. The two drew
blades and defended themselves, but the ruffians were a
dozen—a score. We ran for our lives."</p>
<p>M. Étienne wheeled round to me.</p>
<p>"Félix, here is work for us. As I was saying, M. Marceau,
your decree is most offensive to the general-duke, and therefore,
since he is my particular enemy, most pleasing to me. A beautiful
night, is it not, sir? I wish you a delightful walk home."</p>
<p>He seized me by the hand, and we dashed up the street.</p>
<p>At the corner the noise of a fray came faintly but plainly to
our ears. M. le Comte without hesitation plunged down a lane in the
direction of the sound.</p>
<p>"I said I wanted no more fighting to-night, but two against a
mob! We know how it feels."</p>
<p>The clash of steel on steel grew ever louder, and as we wheeled
around a jutting garden wall we came full upon the combatants.</p>
<p>"A rescue, a rescue!" cried M. Étienne. "Shout,
Félix! Montjoie St. Denis! A rescue, a rescue!"</p>
<p>We charged down the street, drawing our swords and shouting at
the top of our lungs.</p>
<p>It was too dark to see much save a mass of struggling figures,
with every now and then, as the steel hit, a point of light
flashing out, to fade and appear again like a brilliant glow-worm.
We could scarce tell which were the attackers, which the two
comrades we had come to save.</p>
<p>But if we could not make them out, neither could they us. We
shouted as boldly as if we had been a company, and in the clatter
of their heels on the stones they could not count our feet. They
knew not how many followers the darkness held. The group parted.
Two men remained in hot combat close under the left wall. Across
the way one sturdy fighter held off two, while a sixth man, crying
on his mates to follow, fled down the lane.</p>
<p>M. Étienne knew now what he was about, and at once took
sides with the solitary fencer. The combat being made equal, I
started in pursuit of the flying figure. I had run but a few yards,
however, when I tripped and fell prostrate over the body of a man.
I was up in a moment, feeling him to find out if he were dead; my
hands over his heart dipped into a pool of something wet and warm
like new milk. I wiped them on his sleeve as best I could, and
hastily groped about for his sword. He did not need it now, and I
did.</p>
<p>When I rose with it my quarry was swallowed up in the shadows.
M. Étienne, whose light clothing made a distinguishable spot
in the gloom, had driven his opponent, or his opponent had driven
him, some rods up the lane the way we had come. I stood perplexed,
not knowing where to busy myself. M. Étienne's side I could
not reach past the two duels; and of the four men near me, I could
by no means tell, as they circled about and about, which were my
chosen allies. They were all sombrely clad, their faces blurred in
the darkness. When one made a clever pass, I knew not whether to
rejoice or despair. But at length I picked out one who fenced,
though valiantly enough, yet with greater effort than the rest; and
I deemed that this had been the hardest pressed of all and must
certainly be one of the attacked and the one most deserving of
succour. He was plainly losing ground. I darted to his side just as
his foe ran him through the arm.</p>
<p>The assailant pulled his blade free and darted back against the
wall to face the two of us. But the sword of the wounded man fell
from his loose fingers.</p>
<p>"I'm out of it," he cried to me; "I go for aid." And as his late
combatant sprang forward to engage me, I heard him running off,
stumbling where I had.</p>
<p>There had been little light toward the last in the court of the
house in the Rue Coupejarrets, and less under the windows of the
Hôtel de Lorraine; but here was none at all, I had to use my
sword solely by the feel of his against it, and I underwent
chilling qualms lest presently, without in the least knowing how it
got there, I should find his point sticking out of my back. I could
hardly believe he was not hitting me; I began to prickle in half a
dozen places, and knew not whether the stings were real or
imaginary. But one was not imaginary; my shoulder which Lucas had
pinked and the doctor bandaged was throbbing painfully. I fancied
that in my earlier combat the wound had opened again and that I was
bleeding to death; and the fear shook me. I lunged wildly, and I
had been sent to my account in short order had not at this moment
one of the other pair near us, as it afterward appeared, driven his
weapon square through his vis-à-vis's breast.</p>
<p>"I am done for. Run who can!" he cried as he fell. The sword
snapped in two against the paving-stones; he rolled over and lay
still, his face in the dirt.</p>
<p>My encounterer, with a shout to his single remaining comrade,
made off down the lane. On my part, I was very willing to let him
depart in peace.</p>
<p>The clash of swords up the lane had ceased at the stricken man's
cry, and out of the gloom came the sound of footfalls fainter and
fainter. I deemed that the battle was over.</p>
<p>The champion came toward me, three white patches visible for his
face and hands; the rest of him but darkness moving in darkness. He
held a sword rifled from the enemy, and advanced on me
hesitatingly, not sure whether friend or foe remained to him. I
felt that an explanation was due from me, but in my ignorance as to
who he was and who his foes were, and why they had been fighting
him and why we had been fighting them, I stood for a moment
confused. It is hard to open conversation with a shadow.</p>
<p>He spoke first, in a voice husky from his exertion:</p>
<p>"Who are you?"</p>
<p>"A friend," I said. "My master and I saw two men fighting
four—we came to help the weaker side. Your friend was hurt,
but he got away safe to fetch aid."</p>
<p>The unknown made a rapid step toward me, crying,
"What—"</p>
<p>But at the word M. Étienne emerged from the shadows.</p>
<p>"Who lives?" he called out. "You, Félix?"</p>
<p>"Not hurt, monsieur. And you?"</p>
<p>"Not a scratch. Nor did I scratch my man. Permit me to
congratulate you, monsieur l'inconnu, on our coming up when we
did."</p>
<p>The unknown said one word:</p>
<p>"Étienne!"</p>
<p>I sprang forward with the impulse to throw my arms about him, in
the pure rapture of recognizing his voice. This struggler, whom we
had rushed in, blindfold, to save, was Monsieur! If we had been
content to mind our own business, had sheered away like the
deputy—it turned me faint to think how long we had delayed
with old Marceau, we were so nearly too late. I wanted to seize
Monsieur, to convince myself that he was all safe, to feel him
quick and warm.</p>
<p>I made one pace and stopped; for I remembered what ghastly shape
stood between me and Monsieur—that horrible lying story.</p>
<p>"Dieu!" gasped M. Étienne, "Monsieur!"</p>
<p>For a moment we all kept silence, motionless; then Monsieur
flung his sword over the wall.</p>
<p>"Do your will, Étienne."</p>
<p>His son darted forward with a cry.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, Monsieur, I am not your assassin! I came to your aid
not dreaming who you were; but, had I known, I would have fought a
hundred times the harder. I never plotted against you. On the
honour of a St. Quentin I swear it."</p>
<p>Monsieur said naught, and we could not see his face; could not
know whether he believed or rejected, softened or condemned.</p>
<p>M. Étienne, catching at his breath, went on:</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I know it is hard to credit. I have been a bad son to
you, unloving, rebellious, insolent. We quarrelled; I spoke bitter
words. But I am no ruffian. I am a St. Quentin. Had you had me
whipped from the house, still would I never have raised hand
against you. I knew nothing of the plot. Félix told you I
was in it—small blame to him. But he was wrong. I knew naught
of it."</p>
<p>Had he been content to rest his case here, I think Monsieur
could not but have believed his innocence on his bare word. The
stones in the pavement must have known that he was uttering truth.
But he in his eagerness paused for no answer, but went on to stun
Monsieur with statements new and amazing to his ear.</p>
<p>"My cousin Grammont—who is dead—was in the plot, and
his lackey Pontou, and Martin the clerk; but the contriver was
Lucas."</p>
<p>"Lucas?"</p>
<p>"Lucas," continued M. Étienne. "Or, to give him his true
title, Paul de Lorraine, son of Henri de Guise."</p>
<p>"But that is impossible" Monsieur cried, stupefied.</p>
<p>"It is impossible, but it is true. He is a
Lorraine—Mayenne's nephew, and for years Mayenne's spy. He
came to you to kill you—for that object pure and simple. Last
spring, before he came to you, he was here in Paris with Mayenne,
making terms for your murder. He is no Huguenot, no Kingsman. He is
Mayenne's henchman, son to Guise himself."</p>
<p>"And how long have you known this?" asked Monsieur.</p>
<p>"Since this morning." Then, as the import of the question struck
him, he fell back with a groan. "Ah, Monsieur, if you can ask that,
I have no more to say. It is useless." He turned away into the
darkness.</p>
<p>That they should part thus was too miserable to be endured. I
was sure Monsieur's question was no accusation, but the groping of
bewilderment.</p>
<p>"M. Étienne, stop!" I commanded. "Monsieur, it is the
truth. Indeed it is the truth. He is innocent, and Lucas <i>is</i>
a Guise. Monsieur, you must listen to me. M. Étienne, you
must wait. I stirred up the whole trouble with my story to you,
Monsieur, and I take it back. I believed I was telling the truth. I
was wrong. When I left you, I went straight back to the Rue
Coupejarrets to kill your son—your murderer, I thought. And
there I found Grammont and Lucas side by side. We thought them
sworn foes: they were hand in glove. They came at me to end me
because I had told, and M. Étienne saved me. Lucas mocked
him to his face because he had been tricked; Lucas bragged that it
was his own scheme—that M. Étienne was his dupe. Vigo
will tell you. Vigo heard him. His scheme was to saddle M.
Étienne with your murder. He was tricked. He believed what
he told me—that the thing was a duel between Lucas and
Grammont. You must believe it, Monsieur!"</p>
<p>M. Étienne, who had actually obeyed me,—me, his
lackey,—turned to his father once again.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, if you cannot believe me, believe Félix. You
believed him when he took away my good name. Believe him now when
he restores it."</p>
<p>"Nay," Monsieur cried; "I believe thee, Étienne."</p>
<p>And he took his son in his arms.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXII" id="XXII"></a>XXII</h2>
<h3><i>The signet of the king.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-a.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>lready a wan light was revealing the round tops of the
plum-trees in M. de Mirabeau's garden, the high gray wall, and the
narrow alleyway beneath it. And the two vague shapes by me were no
longer vague shapes, but were turning moment by moment, as if
coming out of an enchantment, into their true forms. It really was
Monsieur in the flesh, with a wet glint in his eyes as he kissed
his boy.</p>
<p>Neither thought of me, and it was none of my concern what they
said to each other. I went a rod or two down the lane, round a
curve in the wall, and watched the bands of light streaking the
eastern sky, in utter content. Never before had the world seemed to
me so good a place. Since this misery had come right, I knew all
the rest would; I should yet dance at M. Étienne's
wedding.</p>
<p>I leaned my head back against the wall, and had shut my eyes to
consider the matter more quietly, when I heard my name.</p>
<p>"Félix! Félix! Where is the boy got to?"</p>
<p>The sun was clean up over the horizon, and as I blinked and
wondered how he had contrived the feat so quickly, my two messieurs
came hand in hand round the corner to me, the level rays glittering
on Monsieur's burnished breastplate, on M. Étienne's bright
head, and on both their shining faces. Now that for the first time
I saw them together, I found them, despite the dark hair and the
yellow, the brown eyes and the gray, wonderfully alike. There was
the same carriage, the same cock of the head, the same smile. If I
had not known before, I knew now, the instant I looked at them,
that the quarrel was over. Save as it gave them a deeper love of
each other, it might never have been.</p>
<p>I sprang up, and Monsieur, my duke, embraced me.</p>
<p>"Lucky we came up the lane when we did, eh, Félix?" M.
Étienne said. "But, Monsieur, I have not asked you yet what
madness sent you traversing this back passage at two in the
morning."</p>
<p>"I might ask you that, Étienne."</p>
<p>The young man hesitated a bare moment before he answered:</p>
<p>"I am just come from serenading Mlle. de Montluc."</p>
<p>A shade fell over Monsieur's radiance. At his look, M.
Étienne cried out:</p>
<p>"I've told you I'm no Leaguer! Mayenne offered me mademoiselle
if I would come over. I refused. Last night he sent me word that he
would kill me as a common nuisance if I sought to see her. That was
why I tried."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I cried, curiosity mastering me, "was she in the
window?"</p>
<p>He shook his head, his eyes on his father' face.</p>
<p>"Étienne," Monsieur said slowly, "can't you see that
Mlle. de Montluc is not for you?"</p>
<p>"I shall never see it, Monsieur. The first article in my creed
says she is for me. And I'll have her yet, for all Mayenne."</p>
<p>"Then, mordieu, we'll steal her together!"</p>
<p>"You! You'll help me?"</p>
<p>"Why, dear son," Monsieur explained, "it broke my heart to think
of you in the League. I could not bear that my son should help a
Spaniard to the throne of France, or a Lorrainer either. But if it
is a question of stealing the lady—well, I never prosed about
prudence yet, thank God!"</p>
<p>M. Étienne, wet-eyed, laughing, hugged Monsieur.</p>
<p>"By St. Quentin, we'll get you your lady! I hated the marriage
while I thought it would make you a Leaguer. I could not see you
sacrifice your honour to a girl's bright eyes. But your
life—that is different."</p>
<p>"My life is a little thing."</p>
<p>"No," Monsieur said; "it is a good deal—one's life. But
one is not to guard one's life at the cost of all that makes life
sweet."</p>
<p>"Ah, you know how I love her!"</p>
<p>"They call me a fool," Monsieur went on musingly, "because I
risk my life in wild errands. But, mordieu! I am the wise man. For
they who think ever of safety, and crouch and scheme and shuffle to
procure it, why, look you, they destroy their own ends. For, when
all is done, they have never really lived. And that is why they
hate death so, these worthies. While I, who have never cringed to
fear, I live like a king. I go my ways without any man's leave; and
if death comes to me a little sooner for that, I am a poor creature
if I do not meet him smiling. If I may live as I please, I am
content to die when I must."</p>
<p>"Aye," said M. Étienne, "and if we live as we do not
please, still we must die presently. Therefore do I purpose never
to give over striving after my lady."</p>
<p>"Oh, we'll win her by noon. But first we'll sleep. There's
Félix yawning his head off. Come, come."</p>
<p>We set off along the alley, the St. Quentins arm in arm, I at
their heels. Monsieur looked over his shoulder with a sudden
anxiety.</p>
<p>"Félix, you said Huguet had run for aid?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Monsieur; Vigo should have been here before now," I
answered, remembering Vigo's promptitude yesterday.</p>
<p>"Every one was asleep; he has been hammering this half-hour to
get in," M. Étienne said easily.</p>
<p>But Monsieur asked of me:</p>
<p>"Was he much hurt, Félix?"</p>
<p>"No; I am sure not, Monsieur. He was run through the arm; I am
sure he was not hurt otherwise."</p>
<p>We came to where the two slain men lay across the way. M.
Étienne exclaimed:</p>
<p>"If you do not hold your life dear, you sell it dear, Monsieur!
How many of the rascals were there?"</p>
<p>"It was hard to tell in the dark. Five, I think."</p>
<p>"Now, Monsieur, how came you to be in this place in the
dark?"</p>
<p>"Why, what to do, Étienne? I came in at the gate just
after midnight. I could not leave St. Denis earlier, and night is
my time to enter Paris. The inns were shut—"</p>
<p>"But some friend near the gate? Tarigny would have sheltered
you."</p>
<p>"Aye, and got into trouble for it, had it leaked out to the
Sixteen."</p>
<p>"Tarigny is no craven."</p>
<p>"But neither am I," said Monsieur, smiling.</p>
<p>"Oh, I give you up! Go your ways. But I will not come to save
you next time."</p>
<p>"No, lad; you will be at my side hereafter."</p>
<p>M. Étienne laughed and said no more.</p>
<p>"But in truth," Monsieur added, "I did not expect waylaying. If
these fellows watched by the gate, they hid cleverly. I never saw a
finger-tip of them till they sprang upon us by the corner here,
when we were almost home."</p>
<p>M. Étienne bent over and turned face up the man whom
Monsieur had run through the heart. He was an ugly enough fellow,
one eye entirely closed by a great scar that ran from his forehead
nearly to his grizzled mustache.</p>
<p>"This is Bernet le Borgne," he said. "Have you encountered him
before, Monsieur? He was a soldier under Guise once, they say, but
he has done naught but hang about Paris taverns this many a year.
We used to wonder how he lived; we knew he did somebody's dirty
work. Clisson employed him once, so I know something of him. With
his one eye he could fence better than most folks with two. My
congratulations to you, Monsieur."</p>
<p>But Monsieur, not heeding, was bending over the other man.</p>
<p>"Your acquaintance is wider than mine. Do you know this
one?"</p>
<p>M. Étienne shook his head over this other man, who lay
face up, staring with wide dark eyes into the sky. His hair curled
in little rings about his forehead, and his cheeks were smooth; he
looked no older than I.</p>
<p>"He dashed at me the first of all," Monsieur said in a low
voice. "I ran him through before the others came up. Mordieu! I am
glad it was dark. A boy like that!"</p>
<p>"He had good mettle to run up first," M. Étienne said.
"And it is no disgrace to fall to your sword, Monsieur. Come, let
us go."</p>
<p>But Monsieur looked back again at the dead lad, and then at his
son and at me, and came with us heavy of countenance.</p>
<p>On the stones before us lay a trail of blood-drops.</p>
<p>"Now, that is where Huguet ran with his wounded arm," I said to
M. Étienne.</p>
<p>"Aye, and if we did not know the way home we could find it by
this red track."</p>
<p>But the trail did not reach the door; for when we turned into
the little street where the arch is, where I had waited for Martin,
as we turned the familiar corner under the walls of the house
itself, we came suddenly on the body of a man. Monsieur ran forward
with a cry, for it was the squire Huguet.</p>
<p>He wore a leather jerkin lined with steel rings, mail as stout
as any forged. Some one had stabbed once and again at the coat
without avail, and had then torn it open and stabbed his
defenceless breast. Though we had killed two of their men, they had
rained blows enough on this man of ours to kill twenty.</p>
<p>Monsieur knelt on the ground beside him, but he was quite
cold.</p>
<p>"The man who fled when we charged them must have lurked about,"
I said. "Huguet's sword-arm was useless; he could not defend
himself."</p>
<p>"Or else he fainted from his wound, he bled so," M.
Étienne answered. "And one of those who fled last came upon
him helpless and did this."</p>
<p>"Why didn't I follow him instead of sitting down, a John
o'dreams?" I cried. "But I was thinking of you and Monsieur; I
forgot Huguet."</p>
<p>"I forgot him, too," Monsieur sorrowed. "Shame to me; he would
not have forgotten me."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," his son said, "it was no negligence of yours. You
could have saved him only by following when he ran. And that was
impossible."</p>
<p>"In sight of the door," Monsieur said sadly. "In sight of his
own door."</p>
<p>We held silent. Monsieur got soberly to his feet.</p>
<p>"I never lost a better man."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I cried, "he asks no better epitaph. If you will say
that of me when I die, I shall not have lived in vain."</p>
<p>He smiled at the outburst, but I did not care; if he would only
smile, I was content it should be at me.</p>
<p>"Nay, Félix," he said. "I hope it will not be I who
compose your epitaph. Come, we must get to the house and send after
poor Huguet."</p>
<p>"Félix and I will carry him," M. Étienne said, and
we lifted him between us—no easy task, for he was a heavy
fellow. But it was little enough to do for him.</p>
<p>We bore him along slowly, Monsieur striding ahead. But of a
sudden he turned back to us, laying quick fingers on the poor torn
breast.</p>
<p>"What is it, Monsieur?" cried his son.</p>
<p>"My papers."</p>
<p>We set him down, and the three of us examined him from top to
toe, stripping off his steel coat, pulling apart his blood-clotted
linen, prying into his very boots. But no papers revealed
themselves.</p>
<p>"What were they, Monsieur?"</p>
<p>A drawn look had come over Monsieur's face.</p>
<p>"Papers which the king gave me, and which I, fool and traitor,
have lost."</p>
<p>I ran back to the spot where we had found Huguet; there was his
hat on the ground, but no papers. I followed up the red trail to
its beginning, looking behind every stone, every bunch of grass;
but no papers. In my desperation I even pulled about the dead man,
lest the packet had been covered, falling from Huguet in the fray.
The two gentlemen joined me in the search, and we went over every
inch of the ground, but to no purpose.</p>
<p>"I thought them safer with Huguet than with me," Monsieur
groaned. "I knew we ran the risk of ambush. Myself would be the
object of attack; I bade Huguet, were we waylaid, to run with the
papers."</p>
<p>"And of course he would not."</p>
<p>"He should; it was my command. He stayed and saved my life
perhaps, and lost me what is dearer than life—my honour."</p>
<p>"He could not leave you to be killed, Monsieur; that were asking
the impossible."</p>
<p>"Aye, but I am saved at the ruin of a hundred others!" Monsieur
cried. "The papers contained certain lists of names of Mayenne's
officers pledged to support the king if he turn Catholic. I had
them for Lemaître. But at this date, in Mayenne's hands, they
spell the men's destruction. Huguet should have known that if I
told him to desert me, I meant it."</p>
<p>M. Étienne ventured no word, understanding well enough
that in such bitter moments no consolation consoles. M. le Duc
added after a moment:</p>
<p>"Mordieu! I am ashamed of myself. I might be better occupied
than in blaming the dead—the brave and faithful dead. Belike
he could not run, they set on us so suddenly. When he could, he did
go, and he went to his death. They were my charge, the papers. I
had no right to put the responsibility on any other. I should have
kept them myself. I should have gone to Tarigny. I should never
have ventured myself through these black lanes. Fool! traitorous
fool!"</p>
<p>"Nay, Monsieur, the mischance might have befallen any one."</p>
<p>"It would not have befallen Villeroi! It would not have befallen
Rosny!" Monsieur exclaimed bitterly. "It befalls me because I am a
lack-wit who rushes into affairs for which he is not fit. I can
handle a sword, but I have no business to meddle in
statecraft."</p>
<p>"Then have those wiseheads out at St. Denis no business to
employ you," M. Étienne said. "He is not unknown to fame,
this Duke of St. Quentin; everybody knows how he goes about things.
Monsieur, they gave you the papers because no one else would carry
them into Paris. They knew you had no fear in you; and it is
because of that that the papers are lacking. But take heart,
Monsieur. We'll get them back."</p>
<p>"When? How?"</p>
<p>"Soon," M. Étienne answered, "and easily, if you will
tell me what they are like. Are they open?"</p>
<p>"I fear by now they may be. There are three sheets of names, and
a fourth sheet, a letter—all in cipher."</p>
<p>"Ah, but in that case—"</p>
<p>Monsieur cut short his son's jubilation.</p>
<p>"But—Lucas."</p>
<p>"Of course—I forgot him. He knows your ciphers, then?"</p>
<p>"Dolt that I was, he knows everything."</p>
<p>"Then must we lay hands on the papers before they reach Mayenne,
and all is saved," M. Étienne declared cheerfully. "These
fellows can't read a cipher. If the packet be not open,
Monsieur?"</p>
<p>"It was a span long, and half as wide; for all address, the
letters <i>St. Q.</i> in the corner. It was tied with red cord and
bore the seal of a flying falcon, and the motto, <i>Je
reviendrai</i>."</p>
<p>"What! the king's seal? That's serious. Expect, then, Monsieur,
to see the papers in an hour's time."</p>
<p>"Étienne, Étienne," Monsieur cried, "are you
mad?"</p>
<p>"No madder than is proper for a St. Quentin. It's simple enough.
I told you I recognized that worthy back there for one Bernet, who
lodged at an inn I wot of over beyond the markets. Do we betake
ourselves thither, we may easily fall in with some comrades of his
bosom who have not the misfortune to be lying dead in a back lane,
who will know something of your loss. Bernet's sort are no bigots;
while they work for the League, they will lend a kindly ear to the
chink of Kingsmen's florins."</p>
<p>"Ah," cried Monsieur, "then let us go." But M. Étienne
laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.</p>
<p>"Not you. I. They will kill you in the Halles just as cheerfully
as in the Quartier Marais. This is my affair."</p>
<p>He looked at Monsieur with kindling eyes, seeing his chance to
prove his devotion. The duke yielded to his eagerness.</p>
<p>"But," M. Étienne added generously, "you may have the
honour of paying the piper."</p>
<p>"I give you carte blanche, my son. Étienne, if you put
that packet into my hand, it is more than if you brought the
sceptre of France."</p>
<p>"Then go practise, Monsieur, at feeling more than king."</p>
<p>He embraced his father, and we turned off down the street.</p>
<p>The sun was well up by this time, and the city rousing to the
labours of the day. Half was I glad of the lateness of the hour,
for we ran no risk now of cutthroats; and half was I sorry, for it
behooves not a man supposed to be in the Bastille to show himself
too liberally to the broad eye of the streets. Every time—and
it was often—that we approached a person who to my nervous
imagination looked official, I shook in my shoes. The way seemed
fairly to bristle with soldiers, officers, judges; for aught I
knew, members of the Sixteen, Governor Belin himself. It was a
great surprise to me when at length we arrived without let or
hindrance before the door of a mean little drinking-place, our
goal.</p>
<p>We went in, and M. Étienne ordered wine, much to my
satisfaction. My stomach was beginning to remind me that I had
given it nothing for twelve hours or so, while I had worked my legs
hard.</p>
<p>"Does M. Bernet lodge with you?" my master asked of the
landlord. We were his only patrons at the moment.</p>
<p>"M. Bernet? Him with the eye out?"</p>
<p>"The same."</p>
<p>"Why, no, monsieur. I don't let lodgings. The building is not
mine. I but rent the ground floor for my purposes."</p>
<p>"But M. Bernet lodges in the house, then?"</p>
<p>"No, he doesn't. He lodges round the corner, in the court off
the Rue Clichet."</p>
<p>"But he comes here often?"</p>
<p>"Oh, aye. Every morning for his glass. And most evenings,
too."</p>
<p>M. Étienne laid down the drink-money, and something
more.</p>
<p>"Sometimes he has a friend with him, eh?"</p>
<p>The man laughed.</p>
<p>"No, monsieur; he comes in here alone. Many's the time I'll
standing in my door when he'll go by with some gallant, and he
never chances to see me or my shop. While if he's alone it's 'Good
morning, Jean. Anything in the casks to-day?' He can no more get by
my door than he'll get by Death's when the time comes."</p>
<p>"No," agreed M. Étienne; "we all stop there, soon or
late. Those friends of M. Bernet, then—there is none you
could put a name to?"</p>
<p>"Why, no, monsieur, more's the pity. He has none lives in this
quarter. M. Bernet's in low water, you understand, monsieur. If he
lives here, it is because he can't help it. But he goes elsewhere
for his friends."</p>
<p>"Then you can tell us, my man, where he lodges?"</p>
<p>"Aye, that can I," mine host answered, bustling out from behind
the bar, eager in the interest of the pleasant-spoken, open-handed
gallant. "Just round the corner of the Rue Clichet, in the court.
The first house on the left, that is his. I would go with monsieur,
only I cannot leave the shop alone, and the wife not back from
market. But monsieur cannot miss it. The first house in the court.
Thank you, monsieur. Au revoir, monsieur."</p>
<p>In the doorway of the first house on the left in the little
court stood an old man with a wooden leg, sweeping heaps of refuse
out of the passage.</p>
<p>"It appears that every one on this stair lacks something," M.
Étienne murmured to me. "It is the livery of the house. Can
you tell me, friend, where I may find M. Bernet?"</p>
<p>The concierge regarded us without cordiality, while by no means
ceasing his endeavours to cover our shoes with his sweepings.</p>
<p>"Third story back," he said.</p>
<p>"Does M. Bernet lodge alone?"</p>
<p>"One of him's enough," the old fellow growled, whacking out his
dirty broom on the door-post, powdering us with dust. M.
Étienne, coughing, pursued his inquiries:</p>
<p>"Ah, I understood he shared his lodgings with a comrade. He has
a friend, then, in the building?"</p>
<p>"Aye, I suppose so," the old chap grinned, "when monsieur walks
in."</p>
<p>"But he has another friend besides me, has he not?" M.
Étienne persisted. "One who, if he does not live here, comes
often to see M. Bernet?"</p>
<p>"You seem to know all about it. Better see Bernet himself,
instead of chattering here all day."</p>
<p>"Good advice, and I'll take it," said M. Étienne, lightly
setting foot on the stair, muttering to himself as he mounted, "and
come back to break your head, mon vieillard."</p>
<p>We went up the three flights and along the passage to the door
at the back, whereon M. Étienne pounded loudly. I could not
see his reason, and heartily I wished he would not. It seemed to me
a creepy thing to be knocking on a man's door when we knew very
well he would never open it again. We knocked as if we fully
thought him within, when all the while we knew he was lying a stone
on the stones under M. de Mirabeau's garden wall. Perhaps by this
time he had been found; perhaps one of the marquis's liveried
lackeys, or a passing idler, or a woman with a market-basket had
come upon him; perhaps even now he was being borne away on a plank
to be identified. And here were we, knocking, knocking, as if we
innocently expected him to open to us. I had a chill dread that
suddenly he would open to us. The door would swing wide and show
him pale and bloody, with the broken sword in his heart. At the
real creaking of a hinge I could scarce swallow a cry.</p>
<p>It was not Bernet's door, but the door at the front which
opened, letting a stream of sunlight into the dark passage. In the
doorway stood a woman, with two bare-legged babies clinging to her
skirts.</p>
<p>"Madame," M. Étienne addressed her, with the courtesy due
to a duchess, "I have been knocking at M. Bernet's door without
result. Perhaps you could give me some hint as to his
whereabouts?"</p>
<p>"Ah, I am sorry. I know nothing to tell monsieur," she cried
regretfully, impressed, as the concierge had not been, by his look
and manner. "But this I can say: he went out last night, and I do
not believe he has been in since. He went out about nine—or
it may have been later than that. Because I did not put the
children to bed till after dark; they enjoy running about in the
cool of the evening as much as anybody else, the little dears. And
they were cross last night, the day was so hot, and I was a long
time hushing them to sleep. Yes, it must have been after ten,
because they were asleep, and the man stumbling on the stairs woke
Pierre. And he cried for an hour. Didn't you, my angel?"</p>
<p>She picked one of the brats up in her arms to display him to us.
M. Étienne asked:</p>
<p>"What man?"</p>
<p>"Why, the one that came for him. The one he went out with."</p>
<p>"And what sort of person was this?"</p>
<p>"Nay, how was I to see? Would I be out walking the common
passage with a child to hush? I was rocking the cradle."</p>
<p>"But who does come here to visit M. Bernet?"</p>
<p>"I've never seen any one, monsieur. I've never laid eyes on M.
Bernet but twice. I keep in my apartment. And besides, we have only
been here a week."</p>
<p>"I thank you, madame," M. Étienne said, turning to the
stairs.</p>
<p>She ran out to the rail, babies and all.</p>
<p>"But I could take a message for him, monsieur. I will make a
point of seeing him when he comes in."</p>
<p>"I will not burden you, madame," M. Étienne answered from
the story below. But she was loath to stop talking, and hung over
the railing to call:</p>
<p>"Beware of your footing, monsieur. Those second-floor people are
not so tidy as they might be; one stumbles over all sorts of their
rubbish out in the public way."</p>
<p>The door in front of us opened with a startling suddenness, and
a big, brawny wench bounced out to demand of us:</p>
<p>"What is that she says? What are you saying of us, you
slut?"</p>
<p>We had no mind to be mixed in the quarrel. We fled for our lives
down the stair.</p>
<p>The old carl, though his sweeping was done, leaned on his broom
on the outer step.</p>
<p>"So you didn't find M. Bernet at home? I could have told you as
much had you been civil enough to ask."</p>
<p>I would have kicked the old curmudgeon, but M. Étienne
drew two gold pieces from his pouch.</p>
<p>"Perchance if I ask you civilly, you will tell me with whom M.
Bernet went out last night?"</p>
<p>"Who says he went out with anybody?"</p>
<p>"I do," and M. Étienne made a motion to return the coins
to their place.</p>
<p>"Since you know so much, it's strange you don't know a little
more," the old chap growled. "Well, Lord knows if it is really his,
but he goes by the name of Peyrot."</p>
<p>"And where does he lodge?"</p>
<p>"How should I know? I have trouble enough keeping track of my
own lodgers, without bothering my head about other people's."</p>
<p>"Now rack your brains, my friend, over this fellow," M.
Étienne said patiently, with a persuasive chink of his
pouch. "Recollect now; you have been sent to this monsieur with a
message."</p>
<p>"Well, Rue des Tournelles, sign of the Gilded Shears," the old
carl spat out at last.</p>
<p>"You are sure?"</p>
<p>"Hang me else."</p>
<p>"If you are lying to me, I will come back and beat you to a
jelly with your own broom."</p>
<p>"It's the truth, monsieur," he said, with some proper show of
respect at last. "Peyrot, at the Gilded Shears, Rue des Tournelles.
You may beat me to a jelly if I lie."</p>
<p>"It would do you good in any event," M. Étienne told him,
but flinging him his pistoles, nevertheless. The old fellow swooped
upon them, gathered them up, and was behind the closed door all in
one movement. But as we walked away, he opened a little wicket in
the upper panel, and stuck out his ugly head to yell after us:</p>
<p>"If M. Bernet's not at home yet, neither will his friend be.
I've told you what will profit you none."</p>
<p>"You mistake, Sir Gargoyle," M. Étienne called over his
shoulder. "Your information is entirely to my needs."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXIII" id="XXIII"></a>XXIII</h2>
<h3><i>The Chevalier of the Tournelles.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>t was a long walk to the Rue des Tournelles, which lay in our
own quarter, not a dozen streets from the Hôtel St. Quentin
itself. We found the Gilded Shears hung before a tailor's shop in
the cellar of a tall, cramped structure, only one window wide. Its
narrow door was inhospitably shut, but at our summons the concierge
appeared to inform us that M. Peyrot did truly live here and,
moreover, was at home, having arrived but half an hour earlier than
we. He would go up and find out whether monsieur could see us.</p>
<p>But M. Étienne thought that formality unnecessary, and
was able, at small expense, to convince the concierge of it. We
went alone up the stairs and crept very quietly along the passage
toward the door of M. Peyrot. But our shoes made some noise on the
flags; had he been listening, he might have heard us as easily as
we heard him. Peyrot had not yet gone to bed after the night's
exertion; a certain clatter and gurgle convinced us that he was
refreshing himself with supper, or breakfast, before reposing.</p>
<p>M. Étienne stood still, his hand on the door-knob, eager,
hesitating. Here was the man; were the papers here? If they were,
should we secure them? A single false step, a single wrong word,
might foil us.</p>
<p>The sound of a chair pushed back came from within, and a young
man's quick, firm step passed across to the far side of the room.
We heard a box shut and locked. M. Étienne nipped my arm; we
thought we knew what went in. Then came steps again and a loud
yawn, and presently two whacks on the floor. We knew as well as if
we could see that Peyrot had thrown his boots across the room. Next
a clash and jangle of metal, that meant his sword-belt with its
accoutrements flung on the table. M. Étienne, with the rapid
murmur, "If I look at you, nab him," turned the door-handle.</p>
<p>But M. Peyrot had prepared against surprise by the simple
expedient of locking his door. He heard us, too, for he stopped in
the very middle of a prolonged yawn and held himself absolutely
still. M. Étienne called out softly:</p>
<p>"Peyrot!"</p>
<p>"Who is it?"</p>
<p>"I want to speak with you about something important."</p>
<p>"Who are you, then?"</p>
<p>"I'll tell you when you let me in."</p>
<p>"I'll let you in when you tell me."</p>
<p>"My name's Martin. I'm a friend of Bernet. I want to speak to
you quietly about a matter of importance."</p>
<p>"A friend of Bernet. Hmm! Well, friend of Bernet, it appears to
me you speak very well through the door."</p>
<p>"I want to speak with you about the affair of to-night."</p>
<p>"What affair?"</p>
<p>"To-night's affair."</p>
<p>"To-night? I go to a supper-party at St. Germain. What have you
to say about that?"</p>
<p>"Last night, then," M. Étienne amended, with rising
temper. "If you want me to shout it out on your stairs, the St.
Quentin affair."</p>
<p>"Now, what may you mean by that?" called the voice from within.
If Peyrot was startled by the name, he carried it off well.</p>
<p>"You know what I mean. Shall I take the house into our
confidence?"</p>
<p>"The house knows as much of your meaning as I. See here, friend
of Bernet, if you are that gentleman's mate, perhaps you have a
password about you."</p>
<p>"Aye," said M. Étienne, readily. "This is it: twenty
pistoles."</p>
<p>No answer came immediately; I could guess Peyrot puzzled.
Presently he called to us:</p>
<p>"By the bones of St. Anne, I don't believe a word you've been
saying. But I'll have you in and see what you look like."</p>
<p>We heard him getting into his boots again and buckling on his
baldric. Then we listened to the turning of a key; a lid was raised
and banged down again, and the lock refastened. It was the box once
more. M. Étienne and I looked at each other.</p>
<p>At length Peyrot opened the door and surveyed us.</p>
<p>"What, two friends of Bernet, ventre bleu!" But he allowed us to
enter.</p>
<p>He drew back before us with a flourishing bow, his hand resting
lightly on his belt, in which was stuck a brace of pistols. Any
idea of doing violence on the person of M. Peyrot we dismissed for
the present.</p>
<p>Our eyes travelled from his pistols over the rest of him. He was
small, lean, and wiry, with dark, sharp face and deep-set twinkling
eyes. One moment's glance gave us to know that Peyrot was no
fool.</p>
<p>My lord closed the door after him and went straight to the
point.</p>
<p>"M. Peyrot, you were engaged last night in an attack on the Duke
of St. Quentin. You did not succeed in slaying him, but you did
kill his man, and you took from him a packet. I come to buy
it."</p>
<p>He looked at us a little dazed, not understanding, I deem, how
we knew this. Certes, it had been too dark in the lane for his face
to be seen, and he had doubtless made sure that he was not followed
home. He said directly:</p>
<p>"You are the Comte de Mar."</p>
<p>"Even so, M. Peyrot. I did not care to have the whole stair know
it, but to you I have no hesitation in confiding that I am M. de
Mar."</p>
<p>M. Peyrot swept a bow till his head almost touched the
floor.</p>
<p>"My poor apartment is honoured."</p>
<p>As he louted low, I made a spring forward; I thought to pin him
before he could rise. But he was up with the lightness of a bird
from the bough and standing three yards away from me, where I
crouched on the spring like a foiled cat. He grinned at me in open
enjoyment.</p>
<p>"Monsieur desired?" he asked sympathetically.</p>
<p>"No, it is I who desire," said M. Étienne, clearing
himself a place to sit on the corner of the table. "I desire that
packet, monsieur. You know this little expedition of yours to-night
was something of a failure. When you report to the general-duke, he
will not be in the best of humours. He does not like failures, the
general; he will not incline to reward you dear. While I am in the
very best humour in the world."</p>
<p>He smiled to prove it. Nor do I think his complaisance
altogether feigned. The temper of our host amused him.</p>
<p>As for friend Peyrot, he still looked dazed. I thought it was
because he had not yet made up his mind what line to take; but had
I viewed him with neutral eyes I might easily have deemed his
bewilderment genuine.</p>
<p>"Perhaps we should get on better if I could understand what
monsieur is driving at?" he suggested. "Monsieur's remarks about
his noble father and the general-duke are interesting, but humble
Jean Peyrot, who does not move in court circles, is at a loss to
translate them. In other words, I have no notion what you are
talking about."</p>
<p>"Oh, come," M. Étienne cried, "no shuffling, Peyrot. We
know as well as you where you were before dawn."</p>
<p>"Before dawn? Marry, I was sleeping the sleep of the
virtuous."</p>
<p>M. Étienne slipped across the room as quickly as Peyrot's
self might have done, lifted up a heavy curtain hanging before an
alcove, and disclosed the bed folded smooth, the pillow
undisturbed. He turned with a triumphant grin on the owner, who
showed all his teeth pleasantly in answer, no whit abashed.</p>
<p>"For all you are a count, monsieur, you have the worst manners
ever came inside these walls."</p>
<p>M. le Comte, with no attempt at mending them, went on a tour
about the room, examining with sniffing interest all its furniture,
even to the dishes and tankards on the table. Peyrot, leaning
against the wall by the window, regarded him steadily, with
impassive face. At length M. Étienne walked over to the
chest by the chimneypiece and deliberately put his hand on the
key.</p>
<p>Instantly Peyrot's voice rang out, "Stop!" M. Étienne,
turning, looked into his pistol-barrel.</p>
<p>My lord stood exactly as he was, bent over the chest, his
fingers on the key, looking over his shoulder at the bravo with
raised, protesting eyebrows and laughing mouth. But though he
laughed, he stood still.</p>
<p>"If you make a movement I do not like, M. de Mar, I will shoot
you as I would a rat. Your side is down and mine is up; I have no
fear to kill you. It will be painful to me, but if necessary I
shall do it."</p>
<p>M. Étienne sat down on the chest and smiled more amiably
than ever.</p>
<p>"Why—have I never known you before, Peyrot?"</p>
<p>"One moment, monsieur." The nose of the pistol pointed around to
me. "Go over there to the door, you."</p>
<p>I retreated, covered by the shining muzzle, to a spot that
pleased him.</p>
<p>"Now are we more comfortable," Peyrot observed, pulling a chair
over against the wall and seating him, the pistol on his knee.
"Monsieur was saying?"</p>
<p>Monsieur crossed his legs, as if of all seats in the world he
liked his present one the best. He had brought none of the airs of
the noble into this business, realizing shrewdly that they would
but hamper him, as lace ruffles hamper a duellist. Peyrot, treeless
adventurer, living by his sharp sword and sharp wits, reverenced a
count no more than a hod-carrier. His occasional mocking deference
was more insulting than outright rudeness; but M. Étienne
bore it unruffled. Possibly he schooled himself so to bear it, but
I think rather that he felt so easily secure on the height of his
gentlehood that Peyrot's impudence merely tickled him.</p>
<p>"I was wondering," he answered pleasantly, "how long you have
dwelt in this town and I not known it. You are from Guienne,
methinks."</p>
<p>"Carcassonne way," the other said indifferently. Then memory
bringing a deep twinkle to his eye, he added: "What think you,
monsieur? I was left a week-old babe on the monastery step; was
reared up in holiness within its sacred walls; chorister at ten,
novice at eighteen, full-fledged friar, fasting, praying, and
singing misereres, exhorting dying saints and living sinners, at
twenty."</p>
<p>"A very pretty brotherhood, you for sample."</p>
<p>"Nay, I am none. Else I might have stayed. But one night I took
leg-bail, lived in the woods till my hair grew, and struck out for
Paris. And never regretted it, neither."</p>
<p>He leaned his head back, his eyes fixed contemplatively on the
ceiling, and burst into song, in voice as melodious as a
lark's:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>Piety and Grace and Gloom,<br />
For such like guests I have no room!<br />
Piety and Gloom and Grace,<br />
I bang my door shut in your face!<br />
Gloom and Grace and Piety,<br />
I set my dog on such as ye!</i></p>
</div>
<p>Finishing his stave, he continued to beat time with his heel on
the floor and to gaze upon the ceiling. But I think we could not
have twitched a finger without his noting it. M. Étienne
rose and leaned across the table toward him.</p>
<p>"M. Peyrot has made his fortune in Paris? Monsieur rolls in
wealth, of course?"</p>
<p>Peyrot shrugged his shoulders, his eyes leaving the ceiling and
making a mocking pilgrimage of the room, resting finally on his own
rusty clothing.</p>
<p>"Do I look it?" he answered.</p>
<p>"Oh," said M. Étienne, slowly, as one who digests an
entirely new idea, "I supposed monsieur must be as rich as a
Lombard, he is so cold on the subject of turning an honest
penny."</p>
<p>Peyrot's roving eye condescended to meet his visitor's.</p>
<p>"Say on," he permitted lazily.</p>
<p>"I offer twenty pistoles for a packet, seal unbroken, taken at
dawn from the person of M. de St. Quentin's squire."</p>
<p>"Now you are talking sensibly," the scamp said, as if M.
Étienne had been the shuffler. "That is a fair offer and
demands a fair answer. Moreover, such zeal as you display deserves
success. I will look about a bit this morning among my friends and
see if I can get wind of your packet. I will meet you at
dinner-time at the inn of the Bonne Femme."</p>
<p>"Dinner-time is far hence. You forget, M. Peyrot, that you are
risen earlier than usual. I will go out and sit on the stair for
five minutes while you consult your friends."</p>
<p>Peyrot grinned cheerfully.</p>
<p>"M. de Mar doesn't seem able to get it through his head that I
know nothing whatever of this affair."</p>
<p>"No, I certainly don't get that through my head."</p>
<p>Peyrot regarded him with an air ill-used yet compassionate, such
as he might in his monkish days have employed toward one who could
not be convinced, for instance, of the efficacy of prayer.</p>
<p>"M. de Mar," quoth he, plaintively, in pity half for himself so
misunderstood, half for his interlocutor so wilfully blind, "I do
solemnly assure you, once and for all, that I know nothing of this
affair of yours. Till you so asserted, I had no knowledge that
Monsieur, your honoured father, had been set on, and deeply am I
pained to hear it. These be evil days when such things can happen.
As for your packet, I learn of it only through your word, having no
more to do with this deplorable business than a babe unborn."</p>
<p>I declare I was almost shaken, almost thought we had wronged
him. But M. Étienne gauged him otherwise.</p>
<p>"Your words please me," he began.</p>
<p>"The contemplation of virtue," the rascal droned with down-drawn
lips, in pulpit tone, "is always uplifting to the spirit."</p>
<p>"You have boasted," M. Étienne went on, "that your side
was up and mine down. Did you not reflect that soon my side may be
up and yours down, you would hardly be at such pains to deny that
you ever bared blade against the Duke of St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"I have made my declaration in the presence of two witnesses,
far too honourable to falsify, that I know nothing of the attack on
the duke," Peyrot repeated with apparent satisfaction. "But of
course it is possible that by scouring Paris I might get on the
scent of your packet. Twenty pistoles, though. That is not
much."</p>
<p>M. Étienne stood silent, drumming tattoos on the table,
not pleased with the turn of the matter, not seeing how to better
it. Had we been sure of our suspicions, we would have charged him,
pistol or no pistol, trusting that our quickness would prevent his
shooting, or that the powder would miss fire, or that the ball
would fly wide, or that we should be hit in no vital part;
trusting, in short, that God was with us and would in some fashion
save us. But we could not be sure that the packet was with Peyrot.
What we had heard him lock in the chest might have been these very
pistols that he had afterward taken out again. Three men had fled
from M. de Mirabeau's alley; we had no means of knowing whether
this Peyrot were he who ran as we came up, he whom I had
encountered, or he who had engaged M. Étienne. And did we
know, that would not tell us which of the three had stabbed and
plundered Huguet. Peyrot might have the packet, or he might know
who had it, or he might be in honest ignorance of its existence. If
he had it, it were a crying shame to pay out honest money for what
we might take by force; to buy your own goods from a thief were a
sin. But supposing he had it not? If we could seize upon him,
disarm him, bind him, threaten him, beat him, rack him, would
he—granted he knew—reveal its whereabouts? Writ large
in his face was every manner of roguery, but not one iota of
cowardice. He might very well hold us baffled, hour on hour, while
the papers went to Mayenne. Even should he tell, we had the
business to begin again from the very beginning, with some other
knave mayhap worse than this.</p>
<p>Plainly the game was in Peyrot's hands; we could play only to
his lead.</p>
<p>"If you will put the packet into my hands, seal unbroken, this
day at eleven, I engage to meet you with twenty pistoles," M.
Étienne said.</p>
<p>"Twenty pistoles were a fair price for the packet. But monsieur
forgets the wear and tear on my conscience incurred for him. I must
be reimbursed for that."</p>
<p>"Conscience, quotha!"</p>
<p>"Certainly, monsieur. I am in my way as honest a man as you in
yours. I have never been false to the hand that fed me. If,
therefore, I divert to you a certain packet which of rights goes
elsewhere, my sin must be made worth my while. My conscience will
sting me sorely, but with the aid of a glass and a lass I may
contrive to forget the pain.</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>Mirth, my love, and Folly dear,<br />
Baggages, you're welcome here!</i></p>
</div>
<p>I fix the injury to my conscience at thirty pistoles, M. le
Comte. Fifty in all will bring the packet to your hand."</p>
<p>It had been a pleasure to M. le Comte to fling a tankard in the
fellow's face. But the steadfast determination to win the papers
for Monsieur, and, possibly, respect for Peyrot's weapon, withheld
him.</p>
<p>"Very well, then. In the cabaret of the Bonne Femme, at eleven.
You may do as you like about appearing; I shall be there with my
fifty pistoles."</p>
<p>"What guaranty have I that you will deal fairly with me?"</p>
<p>"The word of a St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"Sufficient, of course."</p>
<p>The scamp rose with a bow.</p>
<p>"Well, I have not the word of a gentleman to offer you, but I
give you the opinion of Jean Peyrot, sometime Father Ambrosius,
that he and the packet will be there. This has been a delightful
call, monsieur, and I am loath to let you go. But it is time I was
free to look for that packet."</p>
<p>M. Étienne's eyes went over to the chest.</p>
<p>"I wish you all success in your arduous search."</p>
<p>"It is like to be, in truth, a long and weary search," Peyrot
sighed. "My ignorance of the perpetrators of the outrage makes my
task difficult indeed. But rest assured, monsieur, that I shall
question every man in Paris, if need be. I shall leave no stone
unturned."</p>
<p>M. Étienne still pensively regarded the chest.</p>
<p>"If you leave no key unturned, 'twill be more to the
purpose."</p>
<p>"You appear yet to nurse the belief that I have the packet. But
as a matter of fact, monsieur, I have not."</p>
<p>I studied his grave face, and could not for the life of me make
out whether he were lying. M. Étienne said merely:</p>
<p>"Come, Félix."</p>
<p>"You'll drink a glass before you go?" Peyrot cried hospitably,
running to fill a goblet muddy with his last pouring. But M.
Étienne drew back.</p>
<p>"Well, I don't blame you. I wouldn't drink it myself if I were a
count," Peyrot said, setting the draught to his own lips. "After
this noon I shall drink it no more all summer. I shall live like a
king.</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>Kiss me, Folly; hug me, Mirth:<br />
Life without you's nothing worth!</i></p>
</div>
<p>Monsieur, can I lend you a hat?"</p>
<p>I had already opened the door and was holding it for my master
to pass, when Peyrot picked up from the floor and held out to him a
battered and dirty toque, with its draggled feather hanging
forlornly over the side. Chafed as he was, M. Étienne could
not deny a laugh to the rascal's impudence.</p>
<p>"I cannot rob monsieur," he said.</p>
<p>"M. le Comte need have no scruple. I shall buy me better out of
his fifty pistoles."</p>
<p>But M. Étienne was out in the passage, I following,
banging the door after me. We went down the stair in time to
Peyrot's lusty carolling:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>Mirth I'll keep, though riches fly,<br />
While Folly's sure to linger by!</i></p>
</div>
<p>"Think you we'll get the packet?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Aye. I think he wants his fifty pistoles. Mordieu! it's galling
to let this dog set the terms."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I cried, "perhaps he'll not stir out at once. I'll
run home for Vigo and his men, and we'll make the rascal
disgorge."</p>
<p>"Now are you more zealous than honest, boy."</p>
<p>I was silent, abashed, and he added:</p>
<p>"I had not been afraid to try conclusions with him, pistols or
not, were I sure that he had the packet. I believe he has, yet
there is the chance that, after all, in this one particular he
speaks truth. I cannot take any chances; I must get those papers
for Monsieur."</p>
<p>"Yes, we could not have done otherwise, M. Étienne. But,
monsieur, will you dare go to this inn? M. le Comte is a man in
jeopardy; he may not keep rendezvous of the enemy's choosing."</p>
<p>"I might not keep one of Lucas's choosing. Though," he added,
with a smile, "natheless, I think I should. But it is not likely
this fellow knows of the warrant against me. Paris is a big place;
news does not travel all over town as quickly as at St. Quentin. I
think friend Peyrot has more to gain by playing fair than playing
false, and appointing the cabaret of the Bonne Femme has a very
open, pleasing sound. Did he mean to brain me he would scarce have
set that place."</p>
<p>"It was not Peyrot alone I meant. But monsieur is so well known.
In the streets, or at the dinner-hour, some one may see you who
knows Mayenne is after you."</p>
<p>"Oh, of that I must take my chance," he made answer, no whit
troubled by the warning. "I go home now for the ransom, and I will
e'en be at the pains to doff this gear for something darker."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I pleaded, "why not stay at home to get your dues of
sleep? Vigo will bring the gold; he and I will put the matter
through."</p>
<p>"I ask not your advice," he cried haughtily; then with instant
softening: "Nay, this is my affair, Félix. I have taken it
upon myself to recover Monsieur his papers. I must carry it through
myself to the very omega."</p>
<p>I said no more, partly because it would have done no good,
partly because, in spite of the strange word, I understood how he
felt.</p>
<p>"Perhaps you should go home and sleep," he suggested
tenderly.</p>
<p>"Nay," cried I. "I had a cat-nap in the lane; I'm game to see it
through."</p>
<p>"Then," he commanded, "you may stay here-abouts and watch that
door. For I have some curiosity to know whether he will need to
fare forth after the treasure. If he do as I guess, he will spend
the next hours as you counsel me, making up arrears of sleep, and
you'll not see him till a quarter or so before eleven. But whenever
he comes out, follow him. Keep your safe distance and dog him if
you can."</p>
<p>"And if I lose him?"</p>
<p>"Come back home. Station yourself now where he won't notice you.
That arch there should serve."</p>
<p>We had been standing at the street corner, sheltered by a
balcony over our heads from the view of Peyrot's window.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I said, "I do wish you would bring Vigo back with
you."</p>
<p>"Félix," he laughed, "you are the worst courtier I ever
saw."</p>
<p>I crossed the street as he told me, glancing up at the third
story of the house of the Gilded Shears. No watcher was visible.
From the archway, which was entrance to a court of tall houses, I
could well command Peyrot's door, myself in deep shadow M.
Étienne nodded to me and walked off whistling, staring full
in the face every one he met.</p>
<p>I would fain have occupied myself as we guessed the knave Peyrot
to be doing, and shut mine aching eyes in sleep. But I was sternly
determined to be faithful to my trust, and though for my greater
comfort—cold enough comfort it was—I sat me down on the
paving-stones, yet I kept my eyelids propped open, my eyes on
Peyrot's door. I was helped in carrying out my virtuous resolve by
the fact that the court was populous and my carcass in the entrance
much in the way of the busy passers-by, so that full half of them
swore at me, and the half of that half kicked me. The hard part was
that I could not fight them because of keeping my eyes on Peyrot's
door.</p>
<p>He delayed so long and so long that I feared with shamed
misgiving I must have let him slip, when at length, on the very
stroke of eleven, he sauntered forth. He was yawning prodigiously,
but set off past my lair at a smart pace. I followed at goodly
distance, but never once did he glance around. He led the way
straight to the sign of the Bonne Femme.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="324.jpg"></a> <a href="images/324.jpg"><img src=
"images/324.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>AT THE "BONNE FEMME."</b>
<br /></div>
<p>I entered two minutes after him, passing from the cabaret, where
my men were not, to the dining-hall, where, to my relief, they
were. At two huge fireplaces savoury soups bubbled, juicy rabbits
simmered, fat capons roasted; the smell brought the tears to my
eyes. A concourse of people was about: gentles and burghers seated
at table, or passing in and out; waiters running back and forth
from the fires, drawers from the cabaret. I paused to scan the
throng, jostled by one and another, before I descried my master and
my knave. M. Étienne, the prompter at the rendezvous, had,
like a philosopher, ordered dinner, but he had deserted it now and
stood with Peyrot, their backs to the company, their elbows on the
deep window-ledge, their heads close together. I came up suddenly
to Peyrot's side, making him jump.</p>
<p>"Oh, it's you, my little gentleman!" he exclaimed, smiling to
show all his firm teeth, as white and even as a court beauty's. He
looked in the best of humours, as was not wonderful, considering
that he was engaged in fastening up in the breast of his doublet
something hard and lumpy. M. Étienne held up a packet for me
to see, before Peyrot's shielding body; it was tied with red cord
and sealed with a spread falcon over the tiny letters, <i>Je
reviendrai</i>. In the corner was written very small, <i>St. Q.</i>
Smiling, he put it into the breast of his doublet.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," my scamp said to him with close lips that the room
might not hear, "you are a gentleman. If there ever comes a day
when You-know-who is down and you are up, I shall be pleased to
serve you as well as I have served him."</p>
<p>"I hanker not for such service as you have given him," M.
Étienne answered. Peyrot's eyes twinkled brighter than
ever.</p>
<p>"I have said it. I will serve you as vigourously as I have
served him. Bear me in mind, monsieur."</p>
<p>"Come, Félix," was all my lord's answer.</p>
<p>Peyrot sprang forward to detain us.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, will you not dine with me? Both of you, I beg. I will
have every wine the cellar affords."</p>
<p>"No," said M. Étienne, carelessly, not deigning to anger;
"but there is my dinner for you, an you like. I have paid for it,
but I have other business than to eat it."</p>
<p>Bidding a waiter serve M. Peyrot, he walked from the room
without other glance at him. A slight shade fell over the reckless,
scampish face; he was a moment vexed that we scorned him. Merely
vexed, I think; shamed not at all; he knew not the feel of it. Even
in the brief space I watched him, as I passed to the door, his
visage cleared, and he sat him down contentedly to finish M.
Étienne's veal broth.</p>
<p>My lord paced along rapidly and gladly, on fire to be before
Monsieur with the packet. But one little cloud, transient as
Peyrot's, passed across his lightsome countenance.</p>
<p>"I would that knave were of my rank," he said. "I had not left
him without slapping a glove in his face."</p>
<p>That Peyrot had come off scot-free put me out of patience, too,
but I regretted the gold we had given him more than the wounds we
had not. The money, on the contrary, troubled M. Étienne no
whit; what he had never toiled for he parted with lightly.</p>
<p>We came to our gates and went straightway up the stairs to
Monsieur's cabinet. He sprang to meet us at the door, snatching the
packet from his son's eager hand.</p>
<p>"Well done, Étienne, my champion! An you brought me the
crown of France I were not so pleased!"</p>
<p>The flush of joy at generous praise of good work kindled on M.
Étienne's cheek; it were hard to say which of the two
messieurs beamed the more delightedly on the other.</p>
<p>"My son, you have brought me back my honour," spoke Monsieur,
more quietly, the exuberance of his delight abating, but leaving
him none the less happy. "If you had sinned against me—which
I do not admit, dear lad—it were more than made up for
now."</p>
<p>"Ah, Monsieur, I have often asked myself of late what I was born
for. Now I know it was for this morning."</p>
<p>"For this and many more mornings, Étienne," Monsieur made
gay answer, laying a hand on his son's shoulder. "Courage, comrade.
We'll have our lady yet."</p>
<p>He smiled at him hearteningly and turned away to his
writing-table. For all his sympathy, he was, as was natural, more
interested in his papers than in Mlle. de Montluc.</p>
<p>"I'll get this off my hands at once," he went on, with the
effect of talking to himself rather than to us. "It shall go
straight off to Lemaître. You'd better go to bed, both of
you. My faith, you've made a night of it!"</p>
<p>"Won't you take me for your messenger, Monsieur? You need a
trusty one."</p>
<p>"A kindly offer, Étienne. But you have earned your rest.
And you, true as you are, are yet not the only staunch servant I
have, God be thanked. Gilles will take this straight from my hand
to Lemaître's."</p>
<p>He had inclosed the packet in a clean wrapper, but now, a
thought striking him, he took it out again.</p>
<p>"I'd best break off the royal seal, lest it be spied among the
president's papers. I'll scratch out my initial, too. The cipher
tells nothing."</p>
<p>"He is not likely to leave it about, Monsieur."</p>
<p>"No, but this time we'll provide for every chance. We'll take
all the precautions ingenuity can devise or patience execute."</p>
<p>He crushed the seal in his fingers, and took the knife-point to
scrape the wax away. It slipped and severed the cords. Of its own
accord the stiff paper of the flap unfolded.</p>
<p>"The cipher seems as determined to show itself to me again as if
I were in danger of forgetting it," Monsieur said idly. "The truth
is—"</p>
<p>He stopped in the middle of a word, snatching up the packet,
slapping it wide open, tearing it sheet from sheet. Each was
absolutely blank!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXIV" id="XXIV"></a>XXIV</h2>
<h3><i>The Florentines.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-m.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>. Étienne, forgetting his manners, snatched the papers
from his father's hand, turning them about and about, not able to
believe his senses. A man hurled over a cliff, plunging in one
moment from flowery lawns into a turbulent sea, might feel as he
did.</p>
<p>"But the seal!" he stammered.</p>
<p>"The seal was genuine," Monsieur answered, startled as he. "How
your fellow could have the king's signet—"</p>
<p>"See," M. Étienne cried, scratching at the fragments.
"This is it. Dunce that I am not to have guessed it! Look, there is
a layer of paper embedded in the wax. Look, he cut the seal out,
smeared hot wax on the false packet, pressed in the seal, and
curled the new wax over the edge. It was cleverly done; the seal is
but little thicker, little larger than before. It did not look
tampered with. Would you have suspected it, Monsieur?" he demanded
piteously.</p>
<p>"I had no thought of it. But this Peyrot—it may not yet be
too late—"</p>
<p>"I will go back," M. Étienne cried, darting to the door.
But Monsieur laid forcible hands on him.</p>
<p>"Not you, Étienne. You were hurt yesterday; you have not
closed your eyes for twenty-four hours. I don't want a dead son. I
blame you not for the failure; not another man of us all would have
come so near success."</p>
<p>"Dolt! I should have known he could not deal honestly," M.
Étienne cried. "I should have known he would trick me. But I
did not think to doubt the crest. I should have opened it there in
the inn, but it was Lemaître's sealed packet. However, Peyrot
sat down to my dinner: I can be back before he has finished his
three kinds of wine."</p>
<p>"Stop, Étienne," Monsieur commanded. "I forbid you. You
are gray with fatigue. Vigo shall go."</p>
<p>M. Étienne turned on him in fiery protest; then the blaze
in his eyes flickered out, and he made obedient salute.</p>
<p>"So be it. Let him go. I am no use; I bungle everything I touch.
But he may accomplish something."</p>
<p>He flung himself down on the bench in the corner, burying his
face in his hands, weary, chagrined, disheartened. A statue-maker
might have copied him for a figure of Defeat.</p>
<p>"Go find Vigo," Monsieur bade me, "and then get you to bed."</p>
<p>I obeyed both orders with all alacrity.</p>
<p>I too smarted, but mine was the private's disappointment, not
the general's who had planned the campaign. The credit of the
rescue was none of mine; no more was the blame of failure. I need
not rack myself with questioning, Had I in this or that done
differently, should I not have triumphed? I had done only what I
was told. Yet I was part of the expedition; I could not but share
the grief. If I did not wet my pillow with my tears, it was because
I could not keep awake long enough. Whatever my sorrows, speedily
they slipped from me.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>I roused with a start from deep, dreamless sleep, and then
wondered whether, after all, I had waked. Here, to be sure, was
Marcel's bed, on which I had lain down; there was the high
gable-window, through which the westering sun now poured. There was
the wardrobe open, with Marcel's Sunday suit hanging on the peg;
here were the two stools, the little image of the Virgin on the
wall. But here was also something else, so out of place in the
chamber of a page that I pinched myself to make sure it was real.
At my elbow on the pallet lay a box of some fine foreign wood,
beautifully grained by God and polished by grateful man. It was
about as large as my lord's despatch-box, bound at the edges with
shining brass and having long brass hinges wrought in a design of
leaves and flowers. Beside the box were set three shallow trays,
lined with blue velvet, and filled full of goldsmith's
work-glittering chains, linked or twisted, bracelets in the form of
yellow snakes with green eyes, buckles with ivory teeth,
glove-clasps thick with pearls, ear-rings and finger-rings with
precious stones.</p>
<p>I stared bedazzled from the display to him who stood as showman.
This was a handsome lad, seemingly no older than I, though taller,
with a shock of black hair, rough and curly, and dark, smooth face,
very boyish and pleasant. He was dressed well, in bourgeois
fashion; yet there was about him and his apparel something, I could
not tell what, unfamiliar, different from us others.</p>
<p>He, meeting my eye, smiled in the friendliest way, like a child,
and said, in Italian:</p>
<p>"Good day to you, my little gentleman."</p>
<p>I had still the uncertain feeling that I must be in a dream, for
why should an Italian jeweller be displaying his treasures to me, a
penniless page? But the dream was amusing; I was in no haste to
wake.</p>
<p>I knew my Italian well enough, for Monsieur's confessor, the
Father Francesco, who had followed him into exile, was Florentine;
and as he always spoke his own tongue to Monsieur, and I was always
at the duke's heels, I picked up a deal of it. After Monsieur's
going, the father, already a victim, poor man, to the
falling-sickness, of which he died, stayed behind with us, and I
found a pricking pleasure in talking with him in the speech he
loved, of Monsieur's Roman journey, of his exploits in the war of
the Three Henrys. Therefore the words came easily to my lips to
answer this lad from over the Alps:</p>
<p>"I give you good day, friend."</p>
<p>He looked somewhat surprised and more than pleased, breaking at
once into voluble speech:</p>
<p>"The best of greetings to you, young sir. Now, what can I sell
you this fine day? I have not been half a week in this big city of
yours, yet already I have but one boxful of trinkets left. They are
noble, open-handed customers, these gallants of Paris. I have not
to show them my wares twice, I can tell you. They know what key
will unlock their fair mistresses' hearts. And now, what can I sell
you, my little gentleman, to buy your sweetheart's kisses?"</p>
<p>"Nay, I have no sweetheart," I said, "and if I had, she would
not wear these gauds."</p>
<p>"She would if she could get them, then," he retorted. "Now, let
me give you a bit of advice, my friend, for I see you are but
young: buy this gold chain of me, or this ring with this little
dove on it,—see, how cunningly wrought,—and you'll not
lack long for a sweetheart."</p>
<p>His words huffed me a bit, for he spoke as if he were vastly my
senior.</p>
<p>"I want no sweetheart," I returned with dignity, "to be bought
with gold."</p>
<p>"Nay," he cried quickly, "but when your own valour and prowess
have inflamed her with passion, you should be willing to reward her
devotion and set at rest her suspense by a suitable gift."</p>
<p>I looked at him uneasily, for I had a suspicion that he might be
making fun of me. But his countenance was as guileless as a
kitten's.</p>
<p>"Well, I tell you again I have no sweetheart and I want no
sweetheart," I said; "I have no time to bother with girls."</p>
<p>At once he abandoned the subject, seeing that he was making
naught by it.</p>
<p>"The messer is very much occupied?" he asked with exceeding
deference. "The messer has no leisure for trifling in boudoirs; he
is occupied with great matters? Oh, that can I well believe, and I
cry the messer's pardon. For when the mind is taken up with affairs
of state, it is distasteful to listen even for a moment to light
talk of maids and jewels."</p>
<p>Again I eyed him challengingly; but he, with face utterly
unconscious, was sorting over his treasures. I made up my mind his
queer talk was but the outlandish way of a foreigner. He looked at
me again, serious and respectful.</p>
<p>"The messer must often be engaged in great risks, in perilous
encounters. Is it not so? Then he will do well to carry ever over
his heart the sacred image of our Lord."</p>
<p>He held up to my inspection a silver rosary from which depended
a crucifix of ivory, the sad image of the dying Christ carved upon
it. Even in Monsieur's chapel, even in the church at St. Quentin,
was nothing so masterfully wrought as this figurine to be held in
the palm of the hand. The tears started in my eyes to look at it,
and I crossed myself in reverence. I bethought me how I had
trampled on my crucifix; the stranger all unwittingly had struck a
bull's-eye. I had committed grave offence against God, but perhaps
if, putting gewgaws aside, I should give my all for this cross, he
would call the account even. I knew nothing of the value of a
carving such as this, but I remembered I was not moneyless, and I
said, albeit somewhat shyly:</p>
<p>"I cannot take the rosary. But I should like well the crucifix.
But then, I have only ten pistoles."</p>
<p>"Ten pistoles!" he repeated contemptuously. "Corpo di Bacco! The
workmanship alone is worth twenty." Then, viewing my fallen visage,
he added: "However, I have received fair treatment in this house,
beshrew me but I have! I have made good sales to your young count.
What sort of master is he, this M. le Comte de Mar?"</p>
<p>"Oh, there's nobody like him," I answered, "except, of course,
M. le Duc."</p>
<p>"Ah, then you have two masters?" he inquired curiously, yet with
a certain careless air. It struck me suddenly, overwhelmingly, that
he was a spy, come here under the guise of an honest tradesman. But
he should gain nothing from me.</p>
<p>"This is the house of the Duke of St. Quentin," I said. "Surely
you could not come in at the gate without discovering that?"</p>
<p>"He is a very grand seigneur, then, this duke?"</p>
<p>"Assuredly," I replied cautiously.</p>
<p>"More of a man than the Comte de Mar?"</p>
<p>I would have told him to mind his own business, had it not been
for my hopes of the crucifix. If he planned to sell it to me cheap,
thereby hoping to gain information, marry, I saw no reason why I
should not buy it at his price—and withhold the information.
So I made civil answer:</p>
<p>"They are both as gallant gentlemen as any living. About this
cross, now—"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes," he answered at once, accepting with
willingness—well feigned, I thought—the change of
topic. "You can give me ten pistoles, say you? 'Tis making you a
present of the treasure. Yet, since I have received good treatment
at the hands of your master, I will e'en give it to you. You shall
have your cross."</p>
<p>With suspicions now at point of certainty, I drew out my pouch
from under my pillow, and counted into his hand the ten pieces
which were my store. My rosary I drew out likewise; I had broken it
when I shattered the cross, but one of the inn-maids had tied it
together for me with a thread, and it served very well. The Italian
unhooked the delicate carving from the silver chain and hung it on
my wooden one, which I threw over my neck, vastly pleased with my
new possession. Marcel's Virgin was a botch compared with it. I
remembered that mademoiselle, who had given me half my wealth, the
half that won me the rest, had bidden me buy something in the marts
of Paris; and I told myself with pride that she could not fail to
hold me high did she know how, passing by all vanities, I had spent
my whole store for a holy image. Few boys of my age would be
capable of the like. Certes, I had done piously, and should now
take a further pious joy, my purchase safe on my neck, in thwarting
the wiles of this serpent. I would play with him awhile, tease and
baffle him, before handing him over in triumph to Vigo.</p>
<p>Sure enough, he began as I had expected:</p>
<p>"This M. de Mar down-stairs, he is a very good master, I
suppose?"</p>
<p>"Yes," I said, without enthusiasm.</p>
<p>"He has always treated you well?"</p>
<p>I bethought myself of the trick I had played successfully with
the officer of the burgess guard.</p>
<p>"Why, yes, I suppose so. I have only known him two days."</p>
<p>"But you have known him well? You have seen much of him?" he
demanded with ill-concealed eagerness.</p>
<p>"But not so very much," I made tepid answer. "I have not been
with him all the time of these two days. I have seen really very
little of him."</p>
<p>"And you know not whether or no he be a good master?"</p>
<p>"Oh, pretty good. So-so."</p>
<p>He sprang forward to deal me a stinging box on the ear.</p>
<p>I was out of bed at one bound, scattering the trinkets in a
golden rain and rushing for him. He retreated before me. It was to
save his jewels, but I, fool that I was, thought it pure fear of
me. I dashed at him, all headlong confidence; the next I knew he
had somehow twisted his foot between mine, and tripped me before I
could grapple. Never was wight more confounded to find himself on
the floor.</p>
<p>I was starting up again unhurt when I saw something that made me
to forget my purpose. I sat still where I was, with dropped jaw and
bulging eyes. For his hair, that had been black, was golden.</p>
<p>"Ventre bleu!" I said.</p>
<p>"And so you know not you little villain, whether you have a good
master or not?"</p>
<p>"But how was I to dream it was monsieur?" I cried, confounded.
"I knew there was something queer about him—about you, I
mean—about the person I took you for, that is. I knew there
was something wrong about you—that is to say, I mean, I
thought there was; I mean I knew he wasn't what he seemed—you
were not. And Peyrot fooled us, and I didn't want to be fooled
again."</p>
<p>"Then I am a good master?" he demanded truculently, advancing
upon me.</p>
<p>I put up my hands to my ears.</p>
<p>"The best, monsieur. And monsieur wrestled well, too."</p>
<p>"I can't prove that by you, Félix," he retorted, and
laughed in my nettled face. "Well, if you've not trampled on my
jewels, I forgive your contumacy."</p>
<p>If I had, my bare toes had done them no harm. I crawled about
the floor, gathering them all up and putting them on the bed, where
I presently sat down myself to stare at him, trying to realize him
for M. le Comte. He had seated himself, too, and was dusting his
trampled wig and clapping it on again.</p>
<p>He had shaved off his mustaches and the tuft on his chin, and
the whole look of him was changed. A year had gone for every stroke
of the razor; he seemed such a boy, so particularly guileless! He
had stained his face so well that it looked for all the world as
though the Southern sun had done it for him; his eyebrows and,
lashes were dark by nature. His wig came much lower over his
forehead than did his own hair, and altered the upper part of his
face as much as the shaving of the lower. Only his eyes were the
same. He had had his back to the window at first, and I had not
noted them; but now that he had turned, his eyes gleamed so light
as to be fairly startling in his dark face—like stars in a
stormy sky.</p>
<p>"Well, then, how do you like me?"</p>
<p>"Monsieur confounds me. It's witchery. I cannot get used to
him."</p>
<p>"That's as I would have it," he returned, coming over to the
bedside to arrange his treasures. "For if I look new to you, I
think I may look so to the Hôtel de Lorraine."</p>
<p>"Monsieur goes to the Hôtel de Lorraine as a jeweller?" I
cried, enlightened.</p>
<p>"Aye. And if the ladies do not crowd about me—" he broke
off with a gesture, and put his trays back in his box.</p>
<p>"Well, I wondered, monsieur. I wondered if we were going to sell
ornaments to Peyrot."</p>
<p>He locked the box and proceeded solemnly and thoroughly to damn
Peyrot. He cursed him waking, cursed him sleeping; cursed him
eating, cursed him drinking; cursed him walking, riding, sitting;
cursed him summer, cursed him winter; cursed him young, cursed him
old; living, dying, and dead. I inferred that the packet had not
been recovered.</p>
<p>"No, pardieu! Vigo went straight on horseback to the Bonne
Femme, but Peyrot had vanished. So he galloped round to the Rue
Tournelles, whither he had sent two of our men before him, but the
bird was flown. He had been home half an hour before,—he left
the inn just after us,—had paid his arrears of rent,
surrendered his key, and taken away his chest, with all his worldly
goods in it, on the shoulders of two porters, bound for parts
unknown. Gilles is scouring Paris for him. Mordieu, I wish him
luck!"</p>
<p>His face betokened little hope of Gilles. We both kept chagrined
silence.</p>
<p>"And we thought him sleeping!" presently cried he.</p>
<p>"Well," he added, rising, "that milk's spilt; no use crying over
it. Plan a better venture; that's the only course. Monsieur is gone
back to St. Denis to report to the king. Marry, he makes as little
of these gates as if he were a tennis-ball and they the net. Time
was when he thought he must plan and prepare, and know the captain
of the watch, and go masked at midnight. He has got bravely over
that now; he bounces in and out as easily as kiss my hand. I pray
he may not try it once too often."</p>
<p>"Mayenne dare not touch him."</p>
<p>"What Mayenne may dare is not good betting. Monsieur thinks he
dares not. Monsieur has come through so many perils of late, he is
happily convinced he bears a charmed life. Félix, do you
come with me to the Hôtel de Lorraine?"</p>
<p>"Ah, monsieur!" I cried, bethinking myself that I had forgotten
to dress.</p>
<p>"Nay, you need not don these clothes," he interposed, with a
look of wickedness which I could not interpret. "Wait; I'm back
anon."</p>
<p>He darted out of the room, to return speedily with an armful of
apparel, which he threw on the bed.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I gasped in horror, "it's woman's gear!"</p>
<p>"Verily."</p>
<p>"Monsieur! you cannot mean me to wear this!"</p>
<p>"I mean it precisely."</p>
<p>"Monsieur!"</p>
<p>"Why, look you, Félix," he laughed, "how else am I to
take you? You were at pains to make yourself conspicuous in M. de
Mayenne's salon; they will recognize you as quickly as me."</p>
<p>"Oh, monsieur, put me in a wig, in cap and bells, an you like! I
will be monsieur's clown, anything, only not this!"</p>
<p>"I never heard of a jeweller accompanied by his clown. Nor have
I any party-colour in my armoires. But since I have exerted myself
to borrow this toggery,—and a fine, big lass is the owner, so
I think it will fit,—you must wear it."</p>
<p>I was like to burst with mortification; I stood there in dumb,
agonized appeal.</p>
<p>"Oh, well, then you need not go at all. If you go, you go as
Félicie. But you may stay at home, if it likes you
better."</p>
<p>That settled me. I would have gone in my grave-clothes sooner
than not go at all, and belike he knew it. I began arraying myself
sullenly and clumsily in the murrain petticoats.</p>
<p>There was a full kirtle of gray wool, falling to my ankles, and
a white apron. There was a white blouse with a wide, turned-back
collar, and a scarlet bodice, laced with black cords over a green
tongue. I was soon in such a desperate tangle over these divers
garments, so utterly muddled as to which to put on first, and which
side forward, and which end up, and where and how by the grace of
God to fasten them, that M. Étienne, with roars of laughter,
came unsteadily to my aid. He insisted on stuffing the whole of my
jerkin under my blouse to give my figure the proper curves, and to
make me a waist he drew the lacing-cords till I was like to
suffocate. His mirth had by this time got me to laughing so that
every time he pulled me in, a fit of merriment would jerk the laces
from his fingers before he could tie them. This happened once and
again, and the more it happened the more we laughed and the less he
could dress me. I ached in every rib, and the tears were running
down his cheeks, washing little clean channels in the stain.</p>
<p>"Félix, this will never do," he gasped when at length he
could speak. "Never after a carouse have I been so maudlin. Compose
yourself, for the love of Heaven. Think of something serious; think
of me! Think of Peyrot, think of Mayenne, think of Lucas. Think of
what will happen to us now if Mayenne know us for ourselves."</p>
<p>"Enough, monsieur," I said. "I am sobered."</p>
<p>But even now that I held still we could not draw the last holes
in the bodice-point nearly together.</p>
<p>"Nay, monsieur, I can never wear it like this," I panted, when
he had tied it as tight as he could. "I shall die, or I shall burst
the seams." He had perforce to give me more room; he pulled the
apron higher to cover gaps, and fastened a bunch of keys and a
pocket at my waist. He set a brown wig on my head, nearly covered
by a black mortier, with its wide scarf hanging down my back.</p>
<p>"Hang me, but you make a fine, strapping grisette," he cried,
proud of me as if I were a picture, he the painter. "Félix,
you've no notion how handsome you look. Dame! you defrauded the
world when you contrived to be born a boy."</p>
<p>"I thank my stars I was born a boy," I declared. "I wouldn't get
into this toggery for any one else on earth. I tell monsieur that,
flat."</p>
<p>"You must change your shoes," he cried eagerly. "Your hobnails
spoil all."</p>
<p>I put one of his gossip's shoes on the floor beside my foot.</p>
<p>"Now, monsieur, I ask you, how am I to get into that?"</p>
<p>"Shall I fetch you Vigo's?" he grinned.</p>
<p>"No, Constant's," I said instantly, thinking how it would make
him writhe to lend them.</p>
<p>"Constant's best," he promised, disappearing. It was as good as
a play to see my lord running errands for me. Perhaps he forgot,
after a month in the Rue Coupejarrets, that such things as pages
existed; or, more likely, he did not care to take the household
into his confidence. He was back soon, with a pair of scarlet hose,
and shoes of red morocco, the gayest affairs you ever saw. Also he
brought a hand-mirror, for me to look on my beauty.</p>
<p>"Nay, monsieur," I said with a sulk that started anew his
laughter. "I'll not take it; I want not to see myself. But monsieur
will do well to examine his own countenance."</p>
<p>"Pardieu! I should say so," he cried. "I must e'en go repair
myself; and you, Félix,—Félicie,—must be
fed."</p>
<p>I was in truth as hollow as a drum, yet I cried out that I had
rather starve than venture into the kitchen.</p>
<p>"You flatter yourself," he retorted. "You'd not be known. Old
Jumel will give you the pick of the larder for a kiss," he roared
in my sullen face, and added, relenting: "Well, then, I will send
one of the lackeys up with a salver. The lazy beggars have naught
else to do."</p>
<p>I bolted the door after him, and when the man brought my tray,
bade him set it down outside. He informed me through the panels
that he would go drown himself before he would be content to lie
slugabed the livelong day while his betters waited on him. I
trembled for fear in his virtuous scorn he should take his fardel
away again. But he had had his orders. When, after listening to his
footsteps descending the stairs, I reached out a cautious arm, the
tray was on the floor. The generous meat and wine put new heart
into me; by the time my lord returned I was eager for the
enterprise.</p>
<p>"Have you finished?" he demanded. "Faith, I see you have. Then
let us start; it grows late. The shadows, like good Mussulmans, are
stretching to the east. I must catch the ladies in their chambers
before supper. Come, we'll take the box between us."</p>
<p>"Why, monsieur, I carry that on my shoulders."</p>
<p>"What, my lass, on your dainty shoulders? Nay, 'twould make the
townsfolk stare."</p>
<p>I gnawed my lip in silence; he exclaimed:</p>
<p>"Now, never have I seen a maid fresh from the convent blush so
prettily. I'd give my right hand to walk you out past the
guard-room."</p>
<p>I shrank as a snail when you touch its horns. He cried:</p>
<p>"Marry, but I will, though!"</p>
<p>Now I, unlike Sir Snail, had no snug little fortress to take
refuge in; I might writhe, but I could not defend myself.</p>
<p>"As you will, monsieur," I said, setting my teeth hard.</p>
<p>"Nay, I dare not. Those fellows would follow us laughing to the
doors of Lorraine House itself. I've told none of this prank; I
have even contrived to send all the lackeys out of doors on fools'
errands. We'll sneak out like thieves by the postern. Come, tread
your wariest."</p>
<p>On tiptoe, with the caution of malefactors, we crept from stair
to stair, giggling under our breath like the callow lad and saucy
lass we looked to be. We won in safety to the postern, and came out
to face the terrible eye of the world.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXV" id="XXV"></a>XXV</h2>
<h3><i>A double masquerade.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/quote-f.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>élix, we are speaking in our own tongue. It is such
lapses as these bring men to the gallows. Italian from this word,
my girl."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I have no notion how to bear myself, what to say," I
answered uneasily.</p>
<p>"Say as little as you can. For, I confess, your voice and your
hands give me pause; otherwise I would take you anywhere for a
lass. Your part must be the shy maiden. My faith, you look the
rôle; your cheeks are poppies! You will follow docile at my
heels while I tell lies for two. I have the hope that the ladies
will heed me and my jewels more than you."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, could we not go safelier at night?"</p>
<p>"I have thought of that. But at night the household gathers in
the salon; we should run the gantlet of a hundred looks and
tongues. While now, if we have luck, we may win to mademoiselle's
own chamber—" He broke off abruptly, and walked along in a
day-dream.</p>
<p>"Well," he resumed presently, coming back to the needs of the
moment, "let us know our names and station. I am Giovanni Rossini,
son of the famous goldsmith of Florence; you, Giulietta, my sister.
We came to Paris in the legate's train, trade being dull at home,
the gentry having fled to the hills for the hot month. Of course
you've never set foot out of France,
Fé—Giulietta?"</p>
<p>"Never out of St. Quentin till I came hither. But Father
Francesco has talked to me much of his city of Florence."</p>
<p>"Good; you can then make shift to answer a question or two if
put to it. Your Italian, I swear, is of excellent quality. You
speak French like the Picard you are, but Italian like a
gentleman—that is to say, like a lady."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," I bemoaned miserably, "I shall never come through it
alive, never in the world. They will know me in the flick of an eye
for a boy; I know they will. Why, the folk we are passing can see
something wrong; they all are staring at me."</p>
<p>"Of course they stare," he answered tranquilly. "I should think
some wrong if they did not. Can your modesty never understand, my
Giulietta, what a pretty lass you are?"</p>
<p>He fell to laughing at my discomfort, and thus, he full of gay
confidence, I full of misgiving, we came before the doors of the
Hôtel de Lorraine.</p>
<p>"Courage," he whispered to me. "Courage will conquer the devil
himself. Put a good face on it and take the plunge." The next
moment he was in the archway, deluging the sentry with his rapid
Italian.</p>
<p>"Nom d'un chien! What's all this? What are you after?" the man
shouted at us, to make us understand the better. "Haven't you a
word of honest French in your head?"</p>
<p>M. Étienne, tapping his box, very brokenly, very
laboriously stammered forth something about jewels for the
ladies.</p>
<p>"Get in with you, then."</p>
<p>We were not slow to obey.</p>
<p>The courtyard was deserted, nor did we see any one in the
windows of the house, against which the afternoon sun struck hotly.
To keep out his unwelcome rays, the house door was pushed almost
shut. We paused a moment on the step, to listen to the voices of
gossiping lackeys within, and then M. Étienne boldly
knocked.</p>
<p>There was a scurrying in the hall, as if half a dozen idlers
were plunging into their doublets and running to their places. Then
my good friend Pierre opened the door. In the row of underlings at
his back I recognized the two who had taken part in my flogging.
The cold sweat broke out upon me lest they in their turn should
know me.</p>
<p>M. Étienne looked from one to another with the childlike
smile of his bare lips, demanding if any here spoke Italian.</p>
<p>"I," answered Pierre himself. "Now, what may your errand
be?"</p>
<p>"Oh, it's soon told," M. Étienne cried volubly, as one
delighted to find himself understood. "I am a jeweller from
Florence; I am selling my wares in your great houses. I have but
just sold a necklace to the Duchesse de Joyeuse; I crave permission
to show my trinkets to the fair ladies here. But take me up to
them, and they'll not make you repent it."</p>
<p>"Go tell madame," Pierre bade one of his men, and turning again
to us gave us kindly permission to set down our burden and
wait.</p>
<p>For incredible good luck, the heavy hangings were drawn over the
sunny windows, making a soft twilight in the room. I sidled over to
a bench in the far corner and was feeling almost safe, when
Pierre—beshrew him!—called attention to me.</p>
<p>"Now, that is a heavy box for a maid to help lug. Do you make
the lasses do porters' work, you Florentines?"</p>
<p>"But I am a stranger here," M. Étienne explained. "Did I
hire a porter, how am I to tell an honest one? Belike he might run
off with all my treasures, and where is poor Giovanni then?
Besides, it were cruel to leave my little sister in our lodging,
not a soul to speak to, the long day through. There is none where
we lodge knows Italian, as you do so like an angel, Sir Master of
the Household."</p>
<p>Now, Pierre was no more maître d'hôtel than I was,
but that did not dampen his pleasure to be called so. He sat down
on the bench by M. Étienne.</p>
<p>"How came you two to be in Paris?" he asked.</p>
<p>My lord proceeded to tell him I know not what glib and
convincing farrago, with every excellence, I made no doubt, of
accent and gesture. But I could not listen; I had affairs of my own
by this time. The lackeys had come up close round me, more
interested in me than in my brother, and the same Jean who had held
me for my beating, who had wanted my coat stripped off me that I
might be whacked to bleed, now said:</p>
<p>"I'll warrant you're hot and tired and thirsty, mademoiselle,
for all you look as fresh as cress. Will you drink a cup of wine if
I fetch it?"</p>
<p>I had kept my eyes on the ground from the first moment of
encounter, in mortal dread to look these men in the face; but now,
gaining courage, I raised my glance and smiled at him bashfully,
and faltered that I did not understand.</p>
<p>He understood the sense, if not the words, of my answer, and
repeated his offer, slowly, loudly. I strove to look as blank as
the wall, and shook my head gently and helplessly, and turned an
inquiring gaze to the others, as if beseeching them to interpret.
One of the fellows clapped Jean on the shoulder with a roar of
laughter.</p>
<p>"A fall, a fall!" he shouted. "Here's the all-conquering Jean
Marchand tripped up for once. He thinks nothing that wears
petticoats can withstand him, but here's a maid that hasn't a word
to throw at him."</p>
<p>"Pshaw! she doesn't understand me," Jean returned, undaunted,
and promptly pointed a finger at my mouth and then raised his fist
to his own, with sucks and gulps. I allowed myself to comprehend
then. I smiled in as coquettish a fashion as I could contrive, and
glanced on the ground, and slowly looked up again and nodded.</p>
<p>The men burst into loud applause.</p>
<p>"Good old Jean! Jean wins. Well played, Jean! Vive Jean!"</p>
<p>Jean, flushed with triumph, ran off on his errand, while I
thought of Margot, the steward's daughter, at home, and tried to
recollect every air and grace I had ever seen her flaunt before us
lads. It was not bad fun, this. I hid my hands under my apron and
spoke not at all, but sighed and smiled and blushed under their
stares like any fine lady. Once in one's life, for one hour, it is
rather amusing to be a girl. But that is quite long enough, say
I.</p>
<p>Jean came again directly with a great silver tankard.</p>
<p>"Burgundy, pardieu!" cried one of his mates, sticking his nose
into the pot as it passed him, "and full! Ciel, you must think your
lass has a head."</p>
<p>"Oh, I shall drink with her," Jean answered.</p>
<p>I put out my hand for the tankard, running the risk of my big
paw's betraying me, resolved that he should not drink with me of
that draught, when of a sudden he leaned over to snatch a kiss. I
dodged him, more frightened than the shyest maid. Though in this
half-light I might perfectly look a girl, I could not believe I
should kiss like one. In a panic, I fled from Jean to my master's
side.</p>
<p>M. Étienne, wheeling about, came near to laughing out in
my face, when he remembered his part and played it with a zeal that
was like to undo us. He sprang to his feet, drawing his dagger.</p>
<p>"Who insults my sister?" he shouted. "Who is the dog does
this!"</p>
<p>They were on him, wrenching the knife from his hand, wrenching
his lame arm at the same time so painfully that he gasped. I was
scared chill; I knew if they mishandled him they would brush the
wig off.</p>
<p>"Mind your manners, sirrah!" Jean cried.</p>
<p>Monsieur's ardour vanished; a gentle, appealing smile spread
over his face.</p>
<p>"I cry your pardon, sir," he said to Jean; then turning to
Pierre, "This messer does not understand me. But tell him, I beg
you, I crave his good pardon. I was but angered for a moment that
any should think to touch my little sister. I meant no harm."</p>
<p>"Nor he," Pierre retorted. "A kiss, forsooth! What do you expect
with a handsome lass like that? If you will take her
about—"</p>
<p>"Madame says the jeweller fellow is to come up," our messenger
announced, returning.</p>
<p>My lord besought Pierre:</p>
<p>"My knife? I may have my knife? By the beard of St. Peter, I
swear to you, I meant no harm with it. I drew it in jest."</p>
<p>Now, this, which was the sole true statement he had made since
our arrival, was the only one Pierre did not quite believe. He took
the knife from Jean, but he hesitated to hand it over to its
owner.</p>
<p>"No," he said; "you were angry enough. I know your Italian
temper. I'm thinking I'll keep this little toy of yours till you
come down."</p>
<p>"Very well, Sir Majordomo," M. Étienne rejoined
indifferently, "so be it you give it to me when I go." He grasped
the handle of the box, and we followed our guide up the stair, my
master offering me the comforting assurance:</p>
<p>"It really matters not in the least, for if we be caught the
dagger's not yet forged can save us."</p>
<p>We were ushered into a large, fair chamber hung with arras, the
carpet under our feet deep and soft as moss. At one side stood the
bed, raised on its dais; opposite were the windows, the
dressing-table between them, covered with scent-bottles and boxes,
brushes and combs, very glittering and grand. Fluttering about the
room were some half-dozen fine dames and demoiselles, brave in
silks and jewels. Among them I was quick to recognize Mme. de
Mayenne, and I thought I knew vaguely one or two other faces as
those I had seen before about her. I started presently to discover
the little Mlle. de Tavanne: that night she had worn sky-colour and
now she wore rose, but there was no mistaking her saucy face.</p>
<p>We set our box on a table, as the duchess bade us, and I helped
M. Étienne to lay out its contents, which done, I retired to
the background, well content to leave the brunt of the business to
him. It was as he prophesied: they paid me no heed whatever. He was
smoothly launched on the third relating of his tale; I trow by this
time he almost believed it himself. Certes, he never faltered, but
rattled on as if he had two tongues, telling in confidential tone
of our father and mother, our little brothers and sisters at home
in Florence; our journey with the legate, his kindness and care of
us (I hoped that dignitary would not walk in just now to pay his
respects to madame la générale); of our arrival in
Paris, and our wonder and delight at the city's grandeur, the like
of which was not to be found in Italy; and, last, but not least, he
had much to say, with an innocent, wide-eyed gravity, in praise of
the ladies of Paris, so beautiful, so witty, so generous! They were
all crowding around him, calling him pretty boy, laughing at his
compliments, handling and exclaiming over his trinkets, trying the
effect of a buckle or a bracelet, preening and cooing like
bright-breasted pigeons about the corn-thrower. It was as pretty a
sight as ever I beheld, but it was not to smile at such that we had
risked our heads. Of Mlle. de Montluc there was no sign.</p>
<p>No one was marking me, and I wondered if I might not slip out
unseen and make my way to mademoiselle's chamber. I knew she lodged
on this story, near the back of the house, in a room overlooking
the little street and having a turret-window. But I was somewhat
doubtful of my skill to find it through the winding corridors of a
great palace. I was more than likely to meet some one who would
question my purpose, and what answer could I make? I scarce dared
say I was seeking mademoiselle. I am not ready at explanations,
like M. le Comte.</p>
<p>Yet here were the golden moments flying and our cause no further
advanced. Should I leave it all to M. Étienne, trusting that
when he had made his sales here he would be permitted to seek out
the other ladies of the house? Or should I strive to aid him? Could
I win in safety to mademoiselle's chamber, what a feat!</p>
<p>It so irked me to be doing nothing that I was on the very point
of gingerly disappearing when one of the ladies, she with the
yellow curls, the prettiest of them all, turned suddenly from the
group, calling clearly:</p>
<p>"Lorance!"</p>
<p>Our hearts stood still—mine did, and I can vouch for
his—as the heavy window-curtain swayed aside and she came
forth.</p>
<p>She came listlessly. Her hair sweeping against her cheek was
ebony on snow, so white she was; while under her blue eyes were
dark rings, like the smears of an inky finger. M. Étienne
let fall the bracelet he was holding, staring at her oblivious of
aught else, his brows knotted in distress, his face afire with love
and sympathy. He made a step forward; I thought him about to catch
her in his arms, when he recollected himself and dropped on his
knees to grope for the fallen trinket.</p>
<p>"You wanted me, madame?" she asked Mme. de Mayenne.</p>
<p>"No," said the duchess, with a tartness of voice she seemed to
reserve for Mlle. de Montluc; "'twas Mme. de Montpensier."</p>
<p>"It was I," the fair-haired beauty answered in the same breath.
"I want you to stop moping over there in the corner. Come look at
these baubles and see if they cannot bring a sparkle to your eye.
Fie, Lorance! The having too many lovers is nothing to cry about.
It is an affliction many and many a lady would give her ears to
undergo."</p>
<p>"Take heart o' grace, Lorance!" cried Mlle. de Tavanne. "If you
go on looking as you look to-day, you'll not long be troubled by
lovers."</p>
<p>She made no answer to either, but stood there passively till it
might be their pleasure to have done with her, with a patient
weariness that it wrung the heart to see.</p>
<p>"Here's a chain would become you vastly, Lorance," Mme. de
Montpensier went on, friendlily enough, in her brisk and careless
voice. "Let me try it on your neck. You can easily coax Paul or
some one to buy it for you."</p>
<p>She fumbled over the clasp. M. Étienne, with a "Permit
me, madame," took it boldly from her hand and hooked it himself
about mademoiselle's neck. He delayed longer than he need over the
fastening of it, looking with burning intentness straight into her
face. She lifted her eyes to his with a quick frown of displeasure,
drawing herself back; then all at once the colour waved across her
face like the dawn flush over a gray sky. She blushed to her very
hair, to her very ruff. Then the red vanished as quickly as it had
come; she clutched at her bosom, on the verge of a swoon.</p>
<p>He threw out his arms to catch her. Instantly she stepped aside,
and, turning with a little unsteady laugh to the lady at whose
elbow she found herself, asked:</p>
<p>"Does it become me, madame?"</p>
<p>The little scene had passed so quickly that it seemed none had
marked it. Mademoiselle had stood a little out of the group,
monsieur with his back to it, and the ladies were busy over the
jewels. She whom mademoiselle had addressed, a big-nosed,
loud-voiced lady, older than any of the others, answered her
bluntly:</p>
<p>"You look a shade too green-faced to-day, mademoiselle, for
anything to become you."</p>
<p>"What can you expect, Mme. de Brie?" Mlle. Blanche promptly
demanded. "Mlle. de Montluc is weary and worn from her vigils at
your son's bedside."</p>
<p>Mme. de Montpensier had the temerity to laugh; but for the rest,
a sort of little groan ran through the company. Mme. de Mayenne
bade sharply, "Peace, Blanche!" Mme. de Brie, red with anger,
flamed out on her and Mlle. de Montluc equally:</p>
<p>"You impudent minxes! 'Tis enough that one of you should bring
my son to his death, without the other making a mock of it."</p>
<p>"He's not dying," began the irrepressible Blanche de Tavanne,
her eyes twinkling with mischief; but whatever naughty answer was
on her tongue, our mademoiselle's deeper voice overbore her:</p>
<p>"I am guiltless of the charge, madame. It was through no wish of
mine that your son, with half the guard at his back, set on one
wounded man."</p>
<p>"I'll warrant it was not," muttered Mlle. Blanche.</p>
<p>"Mar has turned traitor, and deserves nothing so well as to be
spitted in the dark," Mme. de Brie cried out.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle waited an instant, with flashing eyes meeting
madame's. She had spoken hotly before, but now, in the face of the
other's passion, she held herself steady.</p>
<p>"Your charge is as false, madame, as your wish is cruel. Do you
go to vespers and come home to say such things? M. de Mar is no
traitor; he was never pledged to us, and may go over to Navarre
when he will."</p>
<p>It was quietly spoken, but the blue lightning of her eyes was
too much for Mme. de Brie. She opened her mouth to retort,
faltered, dropped her eyes, and finally turned away, yet seething,
to feign interest in the trinkets. It was a rout.</p>
<p>"Then you are the traitor, Lorance," chimed the silvery tones of
Mme. de Montpensier. "It is not denied that M. de Mar has gone over
to the enemy; therefore are you the traitor to have intercourse
with him."</p>
<p>She spoke without heat, without any appearance of ill feeling.
Hers was merely the desire, for the fun of it, to keep the flurry
going. But mademoiselle answered seriously, with the fleetingest
glance at M. le Comte, where he, forgetting he knew no French,
feasted his eyes recklessly on her, pitying, applauding, adoring
her. I went softly around the group to pull his sleeve; we were
lost if any turned to see him.</p>
<p>"Madame," mademoiselle addressed her cousin of Montpensier,
speaking particularly clearly and distinctly, "I mean ever to be
loyal to my house. I came here a penniless orphan to the care of my
kinsman Mayenne; and he has always been to me generous and
loving—"</p>
<p>"If not madame," murmured Mile. Blanche to herself.</p>
<p>"—as I in my turn have been loving and obedient. It was
only two nights ago he told me M. de Mar must be as dead to me.
Since then I have held no intercourse with him. Last night he came
under my window; I was not in my chamber, as you know. I knew
naught of the affair till M. de Brie was brought in bleeding. It
was not by my will M. de Mar came here—it was a misery to me.
I sent him word by his boy that other night to leave Paris; I
implored him to leave Paris. If, instead, he comes here, he racks
my heart. It is no joy to me, no triumph to me, but a bitter
distress, that any honest gentleman should risk his life in a vain
and empty quest. M. de Mar must go his ways, as I must go mine.
Should he ever make attempt to reach me again, and could I speak to
him, I should tell him just what I have said now to you."</p>
<p>I pressed monsieur's hand in the endeavour to bring him back to
sense; he seemed about to cry out on her. But mademoiselle's
earnestness had drawn all eyes.</p>
<p>"Pshaw, Lorance! banish these tragedy airs!" Mme. de Montpensier
rejoined, her lightness little touched. A wounded bird falls by the
rippling water, but the ripples tinkle on. "M. de Mar is not likely
ever to venture here again; he had too warm a welcome last night.
My faith, he may be dead by this time—dead to all as well as
to you. After he vanished into Ferou's house, no one seems to know
what happened. Has Charles told you, my sister?"</p>
<p>"Ferou gave him up, of course," Mme. de Mayenne answered.
"Monsieur has done what seemed to him proper."</p>
<p>"You are darkly mysterious, sister."</p>
<p>Mme. de Mayenne raised her eyebrows and smiled, as one solemnly
pledged to say no more. She could not, indeed, say more, knowing
nothing whatever about it. Our mademoiselle spoke in a low voice,
looking straight before her:</p>
<p>"If Heaven willed that he escaped last night, I pray he may
leave the city. I pray he may never try to see me more. I pray he
may depart instantly—at once."</p>
<p>"I pray your prayers may be answered, so be it we hear no more
of him," Mme. de Montpensier retorted, tired of the subject she
herself had started. "He was never tedious himself, M. de Mar, but
all this solemn prating about him is duller than a sermon." She
raised a dainty hand behind which to yawn audibly. "Come, mesdames,
let us get back to our purchases. Ma foi! it's lucky these jeweller
folk know no French."</p>
<p>M. Étienne was himself again, all smiles and quick
pleasantries. I slipped off to my post in the background, trying to
get out of the eye of Mlle. de Tavanne, who had been staring at me
the last five minutes in a way that made my goose-flesh rise, so
suspicious, so probing, was it. On my retreat she did indeed move
her gaze from me, but only to watch M. le Comte as a hound watches
a thicket. It was a miracle that none had pounced on him before, so
reckless had he been. I perceived with sickening certainty that
Mlle. de Tavanne had guessed something amiss. She fairly bristled
with suspicion, with knowledge. I waited from breathless moment to
moment for announcement. There was nothing to be done; she held us
in the hollow of her hand. We could not flee, we could not fight.
We could do nothing but wait quietly till she spoke, and then
submit quietly to arrest; later, most like, to death.</p>
<p>Minute followed minute, and still she did not speak. Hope flowed
back to me again; perhaps, after all, we might escape. I wondered
how high were the windows from the ground.</p>
<p>As I stole across the room to see, Mlle. de Tavanne detached
herself from the group and glided unnoticed out of the door.</p>
<p>It was thirty feet to the stones below—sure death that
way. But she had given us a respite; something might yet be done. I
seized M. Étienne's arm in a grip that should tell him how
serious was our pass. Remembering, for a marvel, my foreign tongue,
I bespoke him:</p>
<p>"Brother, it grows late. We must go. It will soon be dark. We
must go now—now!"</p>
<p>He turned on me with an impatient frown, but before he could
answer, Mme. de Montpensier cried, with a laugh:</p>
<p>"And do you fear the dark, wench? Marry, you look as if you
could take care of yourself."</p>
<p>"Nay, madame," I protested, "but the box. Come, Giovanni. If we
linger, we may be robbed in the dark streets."</p>
<p>"Why, my sister, where are your manners?" he retorted, striving
to shake me off. "The ladies have not yet dismissed me."</p>
<p>"We shall be robbed of the box," I persisted; "and the night air
is bad for your health, my Nino. If you stay longer you will have
trouble in the throat."</p>
<p>He looked at me hard. I tried to make my eyes tell him that my
fear was no vague one of the streets, that his throat was in peril
here and now. He understood; he cried with merry laughter to Mme.
de Montpensier:</p>
<p>"Pray excuse her lack of manners, duchessa. I know what moves
the maid. I must tell you that in the house where we lodge dwells
also a beautiful young captain—beautiful as the day. It's
little of his time he spends at home, but we have observed that he
comes every evening to array himself grandly for supper at some
one's palace. We count our day lost an we cannot meet him, by
accident, on the stairs."</p>
<p>They all laughed. I, with my cheeks burning like any silly
maid's, set to work to put up our scattered wares. But despair
weighed me down; if we had to remember ceremony we were lost. The
ladies were protesting, declaring they had not made their bargains,
and monsieur was smirking and bowing, as if he had the whole night
before him. Our one chance was to bolt; to charge past the sentry
and flee as from the devil. I pulled monsieur's arm again, and
muttered in his ear:</p>
<p>"She knows us; she's gone to tell. We must run for it."</p>
<p>At this moment there arose from down the corridor piercing
shriek on shriek, the howls of a young child frantic with rage and
terror. At the same time sounded other different cries, wild,
outlandish chattering.</p>
<p>"The baby! It's Toto! Oh, ciel!" Mme. de Mayenne gasped. "Help,
mesdames!" She rushed from the room, Mme. de Montpensier at her
heels, all the rest following after.</p>
<p>All, that is, but one. Mlle. de Montluc started as the rest, but
at the threshold paused to let them pass. She flung the door to
behind them, and ran back to monsieur, her face drawn with terror,
her hand outstretched.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, monsieur!" she panted. "Go! you must go!"</p>
<p>He seized her hand in both of his.</p>
<p>"O Lorance! Lorance!"</p>
<p>She laid her left hand on his for emphasis.</p>
<p>"Go! go! An you love me, go!"</p>
<p>For answer he fell on his knees before her, covering those sweet
hands with kisses.</p>
<p>The door was flung open; Mlle. de Tavanne stood on the
threshold. They started apart, monsieur leaping to his feet,
mademoiselle springing back with choking cry. But it was too late;
she had seen us.</p>
<p>She was rosy with running, her little face brimming over with
mischief. She flitted into the room, crying:</p>
<p>"I knew it! I knew it was M. de Mar! The gray eyes! M. le Duc
has done with him as he thought proper, forsooth! Well, I have done
as I thought proper. I unchained Mme. de Montpensier's monkey and
threw him into the nursery, where he's scared the baby nearly into
spasms. Toto carried the cloth-of-gold coverlet up on top of the
tester, where he's picking it to pieces, the darling! They won't be
back—you're safe for a while, my children. I'll keep watch
for you. Make good use of your time. Kiss her well, monsieur."</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle, you are an angel."</p>
<p>"No, she is the angel," Mlle. Blanche laughed back at him. "I'm
but your warder. Have no fear; I'll keep good watch. Here, you in
the petticoats, that were a boy the other night, go to the farther
door. Mme. de Nemours takes her nap in the second room beyond. You
watch that door; I'll watch the corridor. Farewell, my children!
Peste! think you Blanche de Tavanne is so badly off for lovers that
she need grudge you yours, Lorance?"</p>
<p>She danced out of the door, while I ran across to my station,
Mlle. de Montluc standing bewildered, ardent, grateful, half
laughing, half in tears.</p>
<p>"Lorance, Lorance!" M. Étienne murmured tremulously. "She
said I should kiss you—"</p>
<p>I put my fingers in my ears and then took them out again, for if
my ears were sealed, how was I to hear Mme. de Nemours approaching?
But I admit I should have kept my eyes glued to the crack of the
door; that I ever turned them is my shame. I have no business to
know that mademoiselle bowed her face upon her lover's shoulder,
her hand clasping his neck, silent, motionless. He pressed his
cheek against her hair, holding her close; neither had any will to
move or speak. It seemed they were well content to stand so the
rest of their lives.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle was the first to stir; she raised her head and
strove to break away from his locked arms.</p>
<p>"Monsieur! monsieur! This is madness! You must go!"</p>
<p>"Are you sorry I came?" he demanded vibrantly. "Are you sorry,
Lorance?"</p>
<p>His eyes held hers; she threw pretence to the winds.</p>
<p>"No, monsieur; I am glad. For if we never meet again, we have
had this."</p>
<p>"Aye. If I die to-night, I have had to-day."</p>
<p>Their voices were like the rune of the heart of the forest, like
the music of deep streams. I turned away my head ashamed, and
strove to think of nothing but the waking of Mme. de Nemours.</p>
<p>"I thought you dead," she moaned, her voice muffled against his
cheek. "No one would tell me what happened last night. I could not
devise any way of escape for you—"</p>
<p>"There is a tunnel from Ferou's house to the Rue de la Soierie.
His mother—merciful angel—let me through."</p>
<p>"And you were not hurt?"</p>
<p>"Not a scratch, ma mie."</p>
<p>"But the wound before? Félix said—"</p>
<p>"I was put out of combat the night I got it," he explained
earnestly, troubled even now because he had not obeyed her summons.
"I was dizzy; I could not walk."</p>
<p>"But now, monsieur? Does it heal?"</p>
<p>"It is well—almost. 'Twas but a slash on the arm."</p>
<p>"Oh, then have I no anxiety," she murmured, with a smile that
twinkled across her lips and was gone. "I cannot perceive you to be
disabled, monsieur."</p>
<p>"My sweeting!" he laughed out. "If I cannot hold a sword yet, I
can hold my love."</p>
<p>"But you must not, monsieur," she cried, fear, that had slept a
moment, springing on her again. "You must go, and this instant,
while the others are yet away. I knew you, Blanche knew you; some
other will. Oh, go, go, I implore you!"</p>
<p>"If you will come with me."</p>
<p>She made no answer, save to look at him as at a madman.</p>
<p>"Nay, I mean not now, past the sentry. I am not so crazy as
that. But you will slip out, you will find a way, and come to
me."</p>
<p>Silently, sadly, she shook her head. His arms loosened, and she
freed herself from him. But instantly he was close on her
again.</p>
<p>"But you must! you will, you must! Ah, Lorance, my father is won
over. He bids me win you. He has sworn to welcome you; when he sees
you he will be your slave."</p>
<p>"But my cousin Mayenne is not won over."</p>
<p>"Devil fly away with your cousin Mayenne!" M. Étienne
retorted with a vehemence that made me shudder, lest the walls have
ears.</p>
<p>"Ah, you are free to say that, monsieur, but I am not. I am of
his blood, and dwell in his house, and eat at his board."</p>
<p>He was looking at her with a passionate ardour, grasping her
actual words less than their import of refusal.</p>
<p>"Are you afraid?" he cried. "Are you frightened, heart-root of
mine? You need not be, mignonne. You can contrive to slip from the
house—Mlle. de Tavanne will help you. Once in the street, I
will meet you; I will carry you home to hold you against all the
world."</p>
<p>"It is not that," she answered.</p>
<p>"Am I your fear?" he cried quickly. "Ah, Lorance, my Lorance,
you need not. I love you as I love the Queen of Heaven."</p>
<p>"Ah, hush!"</p>
<p>"As I love the Queen of Heaven. I will as soon do sacrilege
toward her as ill to you."</p>
<p>He dropped on his knees before her, kissing the hem of her gown.
She stood looking down on his bowed head with a tenderness that
seemed to infold him as with a mantle.</p>
<p>He raised his eyes to hers, still kneeling at her feet.</p>
<p>"Lorance, will you come with me?"</p>
<p>She was silent a moment, with heaving breast and face
a-quiver.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I am sworn. That night when Félix came, when I
was in deadly terror for him and for you, Étienne, I
promised my lord, an he would lift his hand from you, to obey him
in all things. He bade me never again to hold intercourse with
you—alack, I am already forsworn! But I cannot—"</p>
<p>He leaped to his feet, crying out:</p>
<p>"Lorance, he was the first forsworn! For he did move against
me—"</p>
<p>"He told you—the warning went through
Félix—that if you tried to reach me he would crush you
as a buzzing fly. Oh, monsieur, I implored you to leave Paris! You
are not kind to me, you are cruel, when you venture here."</p>
<p>"You are cruel to me, Lorance."</p>
<p>Sighing, she turned from him, hiding her face in her hands.</p>
<p>"Mayenne has not kept faith with you!" monsieur went on
vehemently. "He has broken his oath. I mean not last night. I had
my warning; the attack was provoked. But yesterday in the
afternoon, before I made the attempt to see you, he sent to arrest
me for the murder of the lackey Pontou."</p>
<p>"Paul's deed!" she cried in white surprise. "He spoke of
it—we heard, Félix and I. What, monsieur! sent to
arrest you? But you are here."</p>
<p>"They missed me. They took by mistake Paul de Lorraine."</p>
<p>"He was not here last night!" she cried. "Mayenne was demanding
him of me."</p>
<p>"Then he slept pleasantly in the Bastille. May he never look on
the outside of its walls again!"</p>
<p>"But he will, he does. He must be free by this time; they cannot
keep Mayenne's nephew in the Bastille. And oh, if he hated you
before, how he will hate you now! Oh, Étienne, if you love
me, go! Go to your own camp, your own side, at St. Denis. There are
you safe. Here in Paris you may not draw a tranquil breath."</p>
<p>"And shall I flee my dangers? Shall I run, in the face of my
peril?"</p>
<p>"Ah, monsieur, perhaps your life is nothing to you. But it is
more to me than tongue can tell."</p>
<p>"My love, my love!" He snatched her into his arms; she held away
from him to look him beseechingly in the face, her little clutching
hands on his shoulders.</p>
<p>"Oh, you will go! you will go!"</p>
<p>"Only if you come with me. Lorance, it is such a little way!
Only to meet me in the next square. We will slip out of the gates
together—leave Paris and all its plots and murders, and at
St. Denis keep our honeymoon."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," she said slowly, "I am told that my cousin Mayenne
offered a month ago to give me to you for your name on the roster
of the League. Is that true?"</p>
<p>"It is true. But you cannot think, Lorance, it was for any lack
of love for you. I swear to you—"</p>
<p>"Nay, you need not. I have it by heart that you love me."</p>
<p>"Lorance!"</p>
<p>"But when you could not take me with honour you would not take
me. Your house stands against us; you would not desert your house.
Am I then to be false to mine?"</p>
<p>"A woman belongs to her husband's house."</p>
<p>"Aye, but she does not wed the enemy of her own. Monsieur, you
are full of loyalty; shall I have none? I was born, my father
before me, in the shadow of the house of Lorraine; the Lorraine
princes our kinsmen, our masters, our friends. When I was orphaned
young, and penniless because King Henry's Huguenots had wrenched
our lands away, I came here to my cousin Mayenne, to dwell here in
kindness and love as a daughter of the house. Am I to turn traitor
now?"</p>
<p>"Lorance," he was fiercely beginning, when Mlle. de Tavanne
bounded in.</p>
<p>"On guard!" she hissed at us. "They come!"</p>
<p>She looked behind her into the corridor. Mademoiselle gave her
lips to monsieur in one last kiss, and slipped like water from his
arms. I was at his side, and we busied ourselves over the trinkets,
he with shaking fingers, cheeks burning through the stain.</p>
<p>The ladies streamed into the room, the lovely Mme. de
Montpensier alone conspicuous by her absence. Mme. de Mayenne's
face was hot and angry, and bore marks of tears. Not in this room
only had a combat raged.</p>
<p>"Never shall he come into this house again," madame was crying
vigorously. "I had had him strangled, the vile little beast, an she
had not seized him. I will now, if she ever dares bring him hither
again."</p>
<p>"You certainly should, madame," replied the nearest of the
ladies. "You have been, in the goodness of your heart, far too
forbearing, too patient under many presumptions. One would suppose
the mistress here to be Mme. de Montpensier."</p>
<p>"I will show who is mistress here," the Duchesse de Mayenne
retorted. Then her eye fell on Mlle. de Montluc, making her way
softly to the door, and the vials of her wrath overflowed upon
her:</p>
<p>"What, Lorance, you could not be at the pains to follow me to
the rescue of my child! Your little cousin, poor innocent, may be
eaten by the beasts for aught you care, while you prink over
trinkets."</p>
<p>Mademoiselle faced her blankly, scarce understanding, midst the
whirl of her own thoughts, of what she was accused. The little
Tavanne came gallantly to the rescue:</p>
<p>"I did not follow you either, madame. We thought it scarcely
safe; Lorance could not bear to leave this fellow alone."</p>
<p>Mme. de Mayenne glanced instinctively at her dressing-table's
rich accoutrements, touched in spite of herself by such care of her
belongings.</p>
<p>"I had not suspected you maids of such fore-thought," she said
with relenting. "I vow for once I am beholden to you. You did quite
right, Lorance."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXVI" id="XXVI"></a>XXVI</h2>
<h3><i>Within the spider's web.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-m.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>ademoiselle slipped softly out of the room, taking our hearts
with her. Our one desire now was to be gone; but it was easier
wished than accomplished, for there remained the dreary process of
bargaining. Mme. de Mayenne had set her heart on a pearl bracelet,
Mme. de Brie wanted a vinaigrette, a third lady a pair of
shoe-buckles. M. Étienne developed a recklessness about
prices that would have whitened the hair of a goldsmith father; I
thought the ladies could not fail to be suspicious of such
prodigality, to imagine we carried stolen goods. But no; the quick
settlements defeated their own ends: they fired our customers with
longing to purchase further. I was despairing, when at length Mme.
de Mayenne bethought herself that supper-time was at hand, and that
no one was yet dressed. To my eyes the company already looked fine
enough for a coronation; but I rejoiced to hear them thanking
madame for her reminder, with the gratitude of victims snatched
from an awful fate. We were commanded to bundle out, which with all
alacrity we did.</p>
<p>Freedom was in sight. I was not so nervous on this journey as I
had been coming in. As we passed, lackey-led, through the long
corridors, I had ease enough of mind to enable me to take my
bearings, and to whisper to my master, "That door yonder is the
door of the council-room, where I was." Even as I spoke the door
opened, two gentlemen appearing at the threshold. One was a
stranger; the other was Mayenne.</p>
<p>Our guide held back in deference. The duke and his friend stood
a moment or two in low-voiced converse; then the visitor made his
farewells, and went off down the staircase.</p>
<p>Mayenne had not appeared aware of our existence, thirty feet up
the passage, but now he inquired, as if we had been pieces of
merchandise:</p>
<p>"What have you there, Louis?"</p>
<p>"An Italian goldsmith, so please your Grace. Madame has just
dismissed him."</p>
<p>He led us forward. Mayenne surveyed us deliberately, and at
length said to M. le Comte:</p>
<p>"I will look at your wares."</p>
<p>M. Étienne smiled his eager, deprecating smile, informing
his Highness that we, poor creatures, spoke no French.</p>
<p>"How came you in Paris, then?"</p>
<p>M. Étienne for the fourth time went through with his
tale. I think this time he must have trembled over it. My Lord
Mayenne had not the reputation of being easily gulled. For aught we
knew, he might be informed of the name and condition of every
person who had entered Paris this year. He might, as he listened
stolid-faced, be checking off to himself the number of monsieur's
lies. But if M. Étienne trembled in his soul, his words
never faltered; he knew his history well, by this. At its finish
Mayenne said:</p>
<p>"Come in here."</p>
<p>The lackey was ordered to wait outside, while we followed his
Grace of Mayenne across the council-room to that table by the
window where he had sat with Lucas night before last. I clinched my
teeth to keep them from chattering together. Not Grammont's
brutality, not Lucas's venom, not Mlle. de Tavanne's rampant
suspicion, had ever frightened me so horribly as did Mayenne's
amiable composure. He made me feel as I had felt when I entered the
tunnel, helpless in the dark, unable to cope with dangers I could
not see. Mayenne was a well, the light shining down its sides a
way, and far below the still surface of the water. You hang over
the edge and peer till your eyes drop out; you can as easily look
through iron as discern how deep the water is. I seemed to see
clearly that Mayenne suspected us not in the least. He was as
placid as a summer day, turning over the contents of the box,
showing little interest in us, much in our wares, every now and
then speaking a generous word of praise or asking a friendly
question. He was the very model of the gracious prince; the humble
tradesmen whom we feigned to be must needs have worshipfully loved
him. Yet withal I believed that all the time he knew us; that he
was amusing himself with us. Presently, when he tired, he would
walk casually out of the room and send in his creatures to stab
us.</p>
<p>Had I known this for a truth, that he had discovered us, I
should have braced myself, I trow, to meet it. The certainty would
have been bearable; I had courage to face ruin. It was the
uncertainty that was so heart-shaking—like crossing a morass
in the dark. We might be on the safe path; we might with every step
be wandering away farther and farther into the treacherous bog;
there was no way to tell. Mayenne was quite the man to be kindly
patron of the crafts, to pick out a rich present for a friend. He
was also the man to sit in the presence of his enemy, unbetraying,
tranquil, assured, waiting. It seemed to me that in a few minutes
more of this I should go mad; I should scream out: "Yes, I am
Félix Broux, and he is M. le Comte de Mar!"</p>
<p>But before I had verily come to this, something happened to
change the situation. Entered like a young tempest, slamming the
door after him, Lucas.</p>
<p>M. Étienne clutched me by the arm, drawing me back into
the embrasure of the window, where we stood in plain sight but with
our faces blotted out against the light. Mayenne looked up from two
rings he was comparing, one in each hand. Lucas, hat on head, came
rapidly across the room.</p>
<p>"So you have appeared again," Mayenne said. "I could almost
believe myself back in night before last."</p>
<p>"Aye; at last I have." Lucas was all hot and ruffled, panting
half from hurry, half from wrath.</p>
<p>"You saw fit to be absent last night," Mayenne went on
indifferently, his eyes on the ring. "I trust, for your sake, you
have used your time profitably."</p>
<p>"I have been about my own concerns," Lucas answered lightly,
arming himself with his insolence against the other's disdain. In a
moment he had mastered the excitement that brought him so stormily
into the room. He was once more the Lucas who had entered that
other night, nonchalant, mocking.</p>
<p>"Pretty trinkets," he observed, sitting down and lifting a
bracelet from the tray.</p>
<p>The close kinship of these men betrayed itself in nothing so
sharply as in their unerring instinct for annoying each other. Had
Lucas volunteered explanation for his absence, Mayenne would not
have listened to it; but as he withheld it, the duke demanded
brusquely:</p>
<p>"Well, do you give an account of yourself? You had better."</p>
<p>Lucas repeated the tactics which he had found such good
entertainment before. He looked with raised eyebrows toward us.</p>
<p>"You would not have me speak before these vermin, uncle?"</p>
<p>"These vermin understand no French," Mayenne made answer. "But
do as it likes you. It is nothing to me."</p>
<p>My master pinched my hand. Mayenne did not know us! After all,
he was what M. Étienne had called him—a man, neither
god nor devil. He could make mistakes like the rest of us. For once
he had been caught napping.</p>
<p>Lucas leaned back in his chair with a meditative air, as if idly
wondering whether to speak or not. In his place I should not have
wondered one moment. Had Mayenne assured me in that quiet tone that
he cared nothing whether I spoke, I should scarce have been able to
utter my words fast enough. But there was so strange a twist in
Lucas's nature that he must sometimes thwart his own interests,
value his caprice above his prosperity. Also, in this case his
story was no triumphant one. But at length he did begin it:</p>
<p>"I went to Belin to inform him that day before yesterday
Étienne de Mar murdered his lackey, Pontou, in Mar's house
in the Rue Coupejarrets."</p>
<p>"Was that your errand?" Mayenne said, looking up in slow
surprise. "My faith! your oaths to Lorance trouble you little."</p>
<p>Lucas started forward sharply. "Do you tell me you did not know
my purpose?"</p>
<p>"I knew, of course, that you were up to some warlockry," Mayenne
answered; "I did not concern myself to discover what."</p>
<p>"There speaks the general! There speaks the gentleman!" Lucas
cried out. "A general hangs a spy, yet he profits by spying. The
spy runs the risks, incurs the shames; the general sits in his
tent, his honour untarnished, pocketing all the glory. Faugh, you
gentlemen! You will not do dirty work, but you will have it done
for you. You sit at home with clean hands and eyes that see not,
while we go forth to serve you. You are the Duke of Mayenne. I am
your bastard nephew, living on your favour. But you go too far when
you sneer at my smirches."</p>
<p>He was on his feet, standing over Mayenne, his face blazing. M.
Étienne made an instinctive step forward, thinking him about
to knife the duke. But Mayenne, as we well knew, was no craven.</p>
<p>"Be a little quieter, Paul," he said, unmoved. "You will have
the guard in, in a moment."</p>
<p>Lucas held absolutely still for a second. So did Mayenne. He
knew that Lucas, standing, could stab quicker than he defend. He
sat there with both hands on the table, looking composedly up at
his nephew. Lucas flung away across the room.</p>
<p>"I shall have dismissed these people directly," Mayenne
continued. "Then you can tell me your tale."</p>
<p>"I can tell it now in two words," Lucas answered, coming
abruptly back. "Belin signed the warrant, and sent a young ass of
the burgher guard after Mar. I attended to some affairs of my own.
Then after a time I went round to the Trois Lanternes to see if
they had got him. He was not there—only that cub of a boy of
his. When I came in, he swore, the innkeeper swore, the whole crew
swore, I was Mar. The fool of an officer arrested me."</p>
<p>I expected Mayenne to burst out laughing in Lucas's chagrined
face. But instead he seemed less struck with his nephew's
misfortunes than with some other aspect of the affair. He said
slowly:</p>
<p>"You told Belin this arrest was my desire?"</p>
<p>"I may have implied something of the sort."</p>
<p>"You repeated it to the arresting officer before Mar's boy!"</p>
<p>"I had no time to say anything before they hustled me off,"
Lucas exclaimed. "Mille tonnerres! Never had any man such luck as
I. It's enough to make me sign papers with the devil."</p>
<p>"Mar would believe I had broken faith with him?"</p>
<p>"I dare say. One isn't responsible for what Mar believes," Lucas
answered carelessly.</p>
<p>Mayenne was silent, with knit brows, drumming his hand on the
table. Lucas went on with the tale of his woes:</p>
<p>"At the Bastille, I ordered the commissary to send to you. He
did not; he sent to Belin. Belin was busy, didn't understand the
message, wouldn't be bothered. I lay in my cell like a mouse in a
trap till an hour agone, when at last he saw fit to
appear—damn him!"</p>
<p>Mayenne fell to laughing. Lucas cried out:</p>
<p>"When they arrested me my first thought was that this was your
work."</p>
<p>"In that case, how should you be free now?"</p>
<p>"You found you needed me."</p>
<p>"You are twice wrong, Paul. For I knew nothing of your arrest.
Nor do I think I need you. Pardieu! you succeed too badly to give
me confidence."</p>
<p>Lucas stood glowering, gnawing his lip, picturing the chagrin,
the angry reproaches, the justifications he did not utter. I am
certain he pitied himself as the sport of fate and of tyrants, the
most shamefully used of mortal men. And so long as he aspired to
the hand of Mayenne's ward, so long was he helpless under Mayenne's
will.</p>
<p>"'Twas pity," Mayenne said reflectively, "that you thought best
to be absent last night. Had you been here, you had had sport. Your
young friend Mar came to sing under his lady's window."</p>
<p>"Saw she him?" Lucas cried sharply.</p>
<p>"How should I know? She does not confide in me."</p>
<p>"You took care to find out!" Lucas cried, knowing he was being
badgered, yet powerless to keep himself from writhing.</p>
<p>"I may have."</p>
<p>"Did she see him?" Lucas demanded again, the heavy lines of
hatred and jealousy searing his face.</p>
<p>"No credit to you if she did not. You accomplish singularly
little to harass M. de Mar in his love-making. You deserve that she
should have seen him. But, as a matter of fact, she did not. She
was in the chapel with madame."</p>
<p>"What happened?"</p>
<p>"François de Brie—now there is a youngster, Paul,"
Mayenne interrupted himself to point out, "who has not a tithe of
your cleverness; but he has the advantage of being on the spot when
needed. Desiring a word with mademoiselle, he betook himself to her
chamber. She was not there, but Mar was warbling under the
window."</p>
<p>"Brie?"</p>
<p>"Brie bestirred himself. He sent two of the guard round behind
the house to cut off the retreat, while he and Latour attacked from
the front."</p>
<p>"Mar's killed?" Lucas cried. "He's killed!"</p>
<p>"By no means," answered Mayenne. "He got away."</p>
<p>Before he could explain further,—if he meant to,—the
door opened, and Mlle. de Montluc came in.</p>
<p>Her eyes travelled first to us, in anxiety; then with relief to
Mayenne, sitting over the jewels; last, to Lucas, with startlement.
She advanced without hesitation to the duke.</p>
<p>"I am come, monsieur, to fetch you to supper."</p>
<p>"Pardieu, Lorance!" Mayenne exclaimed, "you show me a different
face from that of dinner-time." Indeed, so she did, for her eyes
were shining with excitement, while the colour that M.
Étienne had kissed into them still flushed her cheeks.</p>
<p>"If I do," she made quick answer, "it is because, the more I
think on it, the surer I grow that my loving cousin will not break
my heart."</p>
<p>"I want a word with you, Lorance," Mayenne said quietly.</p>
<p>"As many as you like, monsieur," she replied promptly. "But will
you not send these creatures from the room first?"</p>
<p>"Do you include your cousin Paul in that term?"</p>
<p>"I meant these jewellers. But since you suggest it, perhaps it
would be as well for Paul to go."</p>
<p>"You hear your orders, Paul."</p>
<p>"Aye, I hear and I disobey," Lucas retorted. "Mademoiselle, I
take too much joy in your presence to be willing to leave it."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," she said to the duke, ignoring her cousin Paul with
a coolness that must have maddened him, "will you not dismiss your
tradespeople? Then can we talk comfortably."</p>
<p>"Aye," answered Mayenne, "I will. I am more gallant than Paul.
If you command it, out they go, though I have not half had time to
look their wares over. Here, master jeweller," he addressed M.
Étienne, slipping easily into Italian, "pack up your wares
and depart."</p>
<p>M. Étienne, bursting into rapid thanks to his Highness
for his condescension in noticing the dirt of the way, set about
his packing. Mayenne turned to his lovely cousin.</p>
<p>"Now for my word to you, mademoiselle. You wept so last night,
it was impossible to discuss the subject properly. But now I
rejoice to see you more tranquil. Here is the beginning and the
middle and the end of the matter: your marriage is my affair, and I
shall do as I like about it."</p>
<p>She searched his face; before his steady look her colour slowly
died. M. Étienne, whether by accident or design, knocked his
tray of jewels off the table. Murmuring profuse apologies, he
dropped on his knees to grope for them. Neither of the men heeded
him, but kept their eyes steadily on the lady.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," Mayenne deliberately went on, "I have been
over-fond with you. Had I followed my own interests instead of
bowing to your whims, you had been a wife these two years. I have
indulged you, mademoiselle, because you were my ally Montluc's
daughter, because you came to me a lonely orphan, because you were
my little cousin whose baby mouth I kissed. I have let you cavil at
this suitor and that, pout that one was too tall and one too short,
and a third too bold and a fourth not bold enough. I have been
pleased to let you cajole me. But now, mademoiselle, I am at the
end of my patience."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," she cried, "I never meant to abuse your kindness.
You let me cajole you, as you say, else I could not have done it.
You treated my whims as a jest. You let me air them. But when you
frowned, I have put them by. I have always done your will."</p>
<p>"Then do it now, mademoiselle. Be faithful to me and to your
birth. Cease sighing for the enemy of our house."</p>
<p>"Monsieur," she said, "when you first brought him to me, he was
not the enemy of our house. When he came here, day after day,
season after season, he was not our enemy. When I wrote that
letter, at Paul's dictation, I did not know he was our enemy. You
told me that night that I was not for him. I promised you
obedience. Did he come here to me and implore me to wed with him, I
would send him away."</p>
<p>Mayenne little imagined how truly she spoke; but he could not
look in her eyes and doubt her honesty.</p>
<p>"You are a good child, Lorance," he said. "I could wish your
lover as docile."</p>
<p>"He will not come here again," she cried. "He knows I am not for
him. He gives it up, monsieur—he takes himself out of Paris.
I promise you it is over. He gives me up."</p>
<p>"I have not his promise for that," Mayenne said dryly; "but the
next time he comes after you, he may settle with your husband."</p>
<p>She uttered a little gasp, but scarce of surprise—almost
of relief that the blow, so long expected, had at last been
dealt.</p>
<p>"You will marry me, monsieur?" she murmured. "To M. de
Brie?"</p>
<p>"You are shrewd, mademoiselle. You know that it will be a good
three months before François de Brie can stand up to be wed.
You say to yourself that much may happen in three months. So it
may. Therefore will your bridegroom be at hand to-morrow
morning."</p>
<p>She made no rejoinder, but her eyes, wide like a hunted
animal's, moved fearsomely, loathingly, to Lucas. Mayenne uttered
an abrupt laugh.</p>
<p>"No; Paul is not the happy man. Besides bungling the St. Quentin
affair, he has seen fit to make free with my name in an enterprise
of his own. Therefore, Paul, you will dance at Lorance's wedding a
bachelor. Mademoiselle, you marry in the morning Señor el
Conde del Rondelar y Saragossa of his Majesty King Philip's court.
After dinner you will depart with your husband for Spain."</p>
<p>Lucas sprang forward, hand on sword, face ablaze with furious
protest. Mayenne, heeding him no more than if he had not been
there, rose and went to Mlle de Montluc.</p>
<p>"Have I your obedience, cousin?"</p>
<p>"You know it, monsieur."</p>
<p>She was curtseying to him when he folded her in his arms,
kissing both her cheeks.</p>
<p>"You are as good as you are lovely, and that says much, ma mie.
We will talk a little more about this after supper. Permit me,
mademoiselle."</p>
<p>He took her hand and led her in leisurely fashion out of the
room.</p>
<p>It wondered me that Lucas had not killed him. He looked murder.
Haply had the duke disclosed by so much as a quivering eyelid a
consciousness of Lucas's rage, of danger to himself, Lucas had
struck him down. But he walked straight past, clad in his composure
as in armour, and Lucas made no move. I think to stab was the
impulse of a moment, gone in a moment. Instantly he was glad he had
not killed the Duke of Mayenne, to be cut himself into dice by the
guard. After the duke was gone, Lucas stood still a long time, no
less furious, but cogitating deeply.</p>
<p>We had gathered up our jewels and locked our box, and stood
holding it between us, waiting our chance to depart. We might have
gone a dozen times during the talking, for none marked us; but M.
Étienne, despite my tuggings, refused to budge so long as
mademoiselle was in the room. Now was he ready enough to go, but
hesitated to see if Lucas would not leave first. That worthy,
however, showed no intention of stirring, but remained in his pose,
buried in thought, unaware of our presence. To get out, we had to
walk round one end or the other of the table, passing either before
or behind him. M. le Comte was for marching carelessly before his
face, but I pulled so violently in the other direction that he gave
way to me. I think now that had we passed in front of him, Lucas
would have let us go by without a look. As it was, hearing steps at
his back, he wheeled about to confront us. If the eye of love is
quick, so is the eye of hate. He cried out instantly:</p>
<p>"Mar!"</p>
<p>We dropped the box, and sprang at him. But he was too quick for
us. He leaped back, whipping out his sword.</p>
<p>"I have you now, Mar!" he cried.</p>
<p>M. Étienne grabbed up the heavy box in both hands to
brain him. Lucas retreated. He might run through M. Étienne,
but only at the risk of having his head split. After all, it suited
his book as well to take us alive. Shouting for the guards, he
retreated toward the door.</p>
<p>But I was there before him. As he ran at M. Étienne, I
had dashed by, slammed the door shut, and bolted it. If we were
caught, we would make a fight for it. I snatched up a stool for
weapon.</p>
<p>He halted. Then he darted over to the chimney, and pulled
violently the bell-rope hanging near. We heard through the closed
door two loud peals somewhere in the corridor.</p>
<p>We both ran for him. Even as he pulled the rope, M.
Étienne struck the box over his sword, snapping it. I
dropped my stool, as he his box, and we pinned Lucas in our
arms.</p>
<p>"The oratory!" I gasped. With a strength born of our
desperation, we dragged him kicking and cursing across the room,
heaved him with all our force into the oratory, and bolted the door
on him.</p>
<p>"Your wig!" cried M. Étienne, running to recover his box.
While I picked it up and endeavoured with clumsy fingers to put it
on properly, he set on its legs the stool I had flung down, threw
the pieces of Lucas's sword into the fireplace, seized his box,
dashed to me and set my wig straight, dashed to the outer door, and
opened it just as Pierre came up the corridor.</p>
<p>"Well, what do you want?" the lackey demanded. "You ring as if
it was a question of life and death."</p>
<p>"I want to be shown out, if the messer will be so kind. His
Highness the duke, when he went to supper, left me here to put up
my wares, but I know not my way to the door."</p>
<p>It was after sunset, and the room, back from the windows, was
dusky. The lackey seemed not to mark our flushed and rumpled looks,
and to be quite satisfied with M. Étienne's explanation,
when of a sudden Lucas, who had been stunned for the moment by the
violent meeting of his head and the tiles, began to pound and kick
on the oratory door.</p>
<p>He was shouting as well. But the door closed with absolute
tightness; it had not even a keyhole. His cries came to us muffled
and inarticulate.</p>
<p>"Corpo di Bacco!" M. Étienne exclaimed, with a face of
childlike surprise. "Some one is in a fine hurry to enter! Do you
not let him in, Sir Master of the Household?"</p>
<p>"I wonder who he's got there now," Pierre muttered to himself in
French, staring in puzzled wise at the door. Then he answered M.
Étienne with a laugh:</p>
<p>"No, my innocent; I do not let him in. It might cost me my neck
to open that door. Come along now. I must see you out and get back
to my trenchers."</p>
<p>We met not a soul on the stairs, every one, served or servants,
being in the supper-room. We passed the sentry without question,
and round the corner without hindrance. M. Étienne stopped
to heave a sigh of thanksgiving.</p>
<p>"I thought we were done for that time!" he panted. "Mordieu!
another scored off Lucas! Come, let us make good time home! 'Twere
wise to be inside our gates when he gets out of that closet."</p>
<p>We made good time, ever listening for the haro after us. But we
heard it not. We came unmolested up the street at the back, of the
Hôtel St. Quentin, on our way to the postern. Monsieur took
the key out of his doublet, saying as we walked around the corner
tower:</p>
<p>"Well, it appears we are safe at home."</p>
<p>"Yes, M. Étienne."</p>
<p>Even as I uttered the words, three men from the shadow of the
wall sprang out and seized us.</p>
<p>"This is he!" one cried. "M. le Comte de Mar, I have the
pleasure of taking you to the Bastille."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXVII" id="XXVII"></a>XXVII</h2>
<h3><i>The countersign.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-i.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>nstantly two more men came running from the postern arch. The
five were upon us like an avalanche. One pinned my arms while
another gagged me. Two held M. Étienne, a third stopping his
mouth.</p>
<p>"Prettily done," quoth the leader. "Not a squeal! Morbleu! I
wasn't anxious to have old Vigo out disputing my rights."</p>
<p>M. Étienne's wrists were neatly trussed by this time. At
a word from the leader, our captors turned us about and marched us
up the lane by Mirabeau's garden, where Bernet's blood lay rusty on
the stones. We offered no resistance whatever; we should only have
been prodded with a sword-point for our pains. I made out, despite
the thickening twilight, the familiar uniform of the burgher guard;
M. de Belin, having bagged the wrong bird once, had now caught the
right one.</p>
<p>The captain bade one of the fellows go call the others off; I
could guess that the job had been done thoroughly, every approach
to the house guarded. I gnashed my teeth over the gag, that I had
not suspected the danger. The truth was, both of us had our heads
so full of mademoiselle, of Mayenne, and of Lucas, that we had
forgotten the governor and his preposterous warrant.</p>
<p>They led us into the Rue de l'Évêque, where was
waiting the same black coach that had stood before the Oie d'Or,
the same Louis on the box. Its lamps were lighted; by their glimmer
our captors for the first time saw us fairly.</p>
<p>"Why, captain," cried the man at M. Étienne's elbow,
"this is no Comte de Mar! The Comte de Mar is fair-haired; I've
seen him scores of times."</p>
<p>"The Comte de Mar answers to the name of Étienne, and so
does this fellow," the captain answered. He took the candle from
one of the lamps and held it in M. Étienne's face. Then he
put out a sudden hand, and pulled the wig off.</p>
<p>"Good for you, captain!" cried the men. We were indeed
unfortunate to encounter an officer with brains.</p>
<p>"We'll take your gag off too, M. le Comte, in the coach," the
captain told him.</p>
<p>"Will you bring the lass along, captain?"</p>
<p>"Not exactly," the leader laughed. "A fine prison it would be,
could a felon have his bonnibel at his side. No, I'll leave the
maid; but she needn't give the alarm yet. Do you stay awhile with
her, L'Estrange; you'll not mind the job. Keep her a quarter of an
hour, and then let her go her ways."</p>
<p>They bundled my lord into the coach, box and all, the captain
and two men with him. The fourth clambered up beside Louis as he
cracked his whip and rattled smartly down the street.</p>
<p>My guardian stole a loving arm around my waist and marched me
down the quiet lane between the garden walls. He was clutching my
right wrist, but my left hand was free, and I fumbled at my gag. In
the middle of the deserted lane he halted.</p>
<p>"Now, my beauty, if you'll be good I'll take that stopper off.
But if you make a scream, by Heaven, it'll be your last!"</p>
<p>I shook my head and squeezed his hand imploringly, while he,
holding me tight in one sinewy arm, plucked left-handedly at the
knot. I waited, meek as Griselda, till the gag was off, and then I
let him have it. Volleying curses, I hammered him square in the
eye.</p>
<p>It was a mad course, for he was armed, I not. But instead of
stabbing, he dropped me like a hot coal, gasping in the blankest
consternation:</p>
<p>"Thousand devils! It's a boy!"</p>
<p>A second later, when he recollected himself, I was tearing down
the lane.</p>
<p>I am a good runner, and then, any one can run well when he runs
for his life. Despite the wretched kirtle tying up my legs, I
gained on him, and when I had reached the corner of our house, he
dropped the pursuit and made off in the darkness. I ran full tilt
round to the great gate, bellowing for the sentry to open. He came
at once, with a dripping torch, to burst into roars of laughter at
the sight of me. My wig was somewhere in the lane behind me; he
knew me perfectly in my silly toggery. He leaned against the wall,
helpless with laughing, shouting feebly to his comrades to come
share the jest. I, you may well imagine, saw nothing funny about
it, but kicked and shook the grilles in my rage and impatience. He
did open to me at length, and in I dashed, clamouring for Vigo. He
had appeared in the court by this, as also half a dozen of the
guard, who surrounded me with shouts of astonished mockery; but I,
little heeding, cried to the equery:</p>
<p>"Vigo, M. le Comte is arrested! He's in the Bastille!"</p>
<p>Vigo grasped my arm, and lifted rather than led me in at the
guard-room door, slamming it in the soldiers' faces.</p>
<p>"Now, Félix."</p>
<p>"M. Étienne!" I gasped—"M. Étienne is
arrested! They were lying in wait for him at the back of the house,
by the tower. They've taken him off in a coach to the
Bastille."</p>
<p>"Who have?"</p>
<p>"The governor's guard. You'll saddle and pursue? You'll rescue
him?"</p>
<p>"How long ago?"</p>
<p>"About ten minutes. The coach was standing in the Rue de
l'Évêque. They left a man guarding me, but I broke
away."</p>
<p>"It can't be done," Vigo said. "They'll be out of the quarter by
now. If I could catch them at all, it would be close by the
Bastille. No good in that; no use fighting four regiments. What the
devil are they arresting him for, Félix? I understand
Mayenne wants his blood, but what has the city guard to do with
it?"</p>
<p>"It's Lucas's game," I said. Then I remembered that we had not
confided to him the tale of the first arrest. I went on to tell of
the adventure of the Trois Lanternes, and, reflecting that he might
better know just how the land lay with us, I made a clean breast of
everything—the fight before Ferou's house, the rescue, the
rencounter in the tunnel, to-day's excursion, and all that befell
in the council-room. I wound up with a second full account of our
capture under the very walls of the house, our garroting before we
could cry on the guards to save us. Vigo said nothing for some
time; at length he delivered himself:</p>
<p>"Monsieur wouldn't have a patrol about the house. He wouldn't
publish to the mob that he feared any danger whatever. Of course no
one foresaw this. However, the arrest is the best thing could have
happened."</p>
<p>"Vigo!" I gasped in horror. Was Vigo turned traitor? The solid
earth reeled beneath my feet.</p>
<p>"He'd never rest till he got himself killed," Vigo went on.
"Monsieur's hot enough, but M. Étienne's mad to bind. If
they hadn't caught him to-night he'd have been in some worse pickle
to-morrow; while, as it is, he's safe from swords at least."</p>
<p>"But they can murder as well in the Bastille as elsewhere!" I
cried.</p>
<p>Vigo shook his head.</p>
<p>"No; had they meant murder, they'd have settled him here in the
alley. Since they lugged him off unhurt, they don't mean it. I know
not what the devil they are up to, but it isn't that."</p>
<p>"It was Lucas's game in the first place," I repeated. "He's too
prudent to come out in the open and fight M. Étienne. He
never strikes with his own hand; his way is to make some one else
strike for him. So he gets M. Étienne into the Bastille.
That's the first step. I suppose he thinks Mayenne will attend to
the second."</p>
<p>"Mayenne dares not take the boy's life," Vigo answered. "He
could have killed him, an he chose, in the streets, and nobody the
wiser. But now that monsieur's taken publicly to the Bastille,
Mayenne dares not kill him there, by foul play or by law—the
Duke of St. Quentin's son. No; all Mayenne can do is to confine him
at his good pleasure. Whence presently we will pluck him out at
King Henry's good pleasure."</p>
<p>"And meantime is he to rot behind bars?"</p>
<p>"Unless Monsieur can get him out. But then," Vigo went on, "a
month or two in a cell won't be a bad thing for him, neither. His
head will have a chance to cool. After a dose of Mayenne's purge he
may recover of his fever for Mayenne's ward."</p>
<p>"Monsieur! You will send to Monsieur?"</p>
<p>"Of course. You will go. And Gilles with you to keep you out of
mischief."</p>
<p>"When? Now?"</p>
<p>"No," said Vigo. "You will go clothe yourself in breeches first,
else are you not likely to arrive anywhere but at the mad-house.
And then eat your supper. It's a long road to St. Denis."</p>
<p>I ran at once, through a fusillade of jeers from soldiers,
grooms, and house-men, across the court, through the hall, and up
the stairs to Marcel's chamber. Never was I gladder of anything in
my life than to doff those swaddling petticoats. Two minutes, and I
was a man again. I found it in my heart to pity the poor things who
must wear the trappings their lives long.</p>
<p>But for all my joy in my freedom, I choked over my supper and
pushed it away half tasted, in misery over M. Étienne. Vigo
might say comfortably that Mayenne dared not kill him, but I
thought there were few things that gentleman dared not do. Then
there was Lucas to be reckoned with. He had caught his fly in the
web; he was not likely to let him go long undevoured. At best, if
M. Étienne's life were safe, yet was he helpless, while
to-morrow our mademoiselle was to marry. Vigo seemed to think that
a blessing, but I was nigh to weeping into my soup. The one ray of
light was that she was not to marry Lucas. That was something.
Still, when M. Étienne came out of prison, if ever he
did,—I could scarce bring myself to believe it,—he
would find his dear vanished over the rocky Pyrenees.</p>
<p>Vigo would not even let me start when I was ready. Since we were
too late to find the gates open, we must wait till ten of the
clock, at which hour the St. Denis gate would be in the hands of a
certain Brissac, who would pass us with a wink at the word St.
Quentin.</p>
<p>I was so wroth with Vigo that I would not stay with him, but
went up-stairs into M. Étienne's silent chamber, and flung
myself down on the window-bench his head might never touch again,
and wondered how he was faring in prison. I wished I were there
with him. I cared not much what the place was, so long as we were
together. I had gone down the mouth of hell smiling, so be it I
went at his heels. Mayhap if I had struggled harder with my
captors, shown my sex earlier, they had taken me too. Heartily I
wished they had; I trow I am the only wight ever did wish himself
behind bars. And promptly I repented me, for if Vigo had proved but
a broken reed, there was Monsieur. Monsieur was not likely to sit
smug and declare prison the best place for his son.</p>
<p>The slow twilight faded altogether, and the dark came. The city
was very still. Once in a while a shout or a sound of bell was
borne over the roofs, or infrequent voices and footsteps sounded in
the street beyond our gate. The men in the court under my window
were quiet too, talking among themselves without much raillery or
laughter; I knew they discussed the unhappy plight of the heir of
St. Quentin. The chimes had rung some time ago the half-hour after
nine, and I was fidgeting to be off, but huffed as I was with him,
I could not lower myself to go ask Vigo's leave to start. He might
come after me when he wanted me.</p>
<p>"Félix! Félix!" Marcel shouted down the corridor.
I sprang up; then, remembering my dignity, moved no further, but
bade him come in to me.</p>
<p>"Where are you mooning in the dark?" he demanded, stumbling over
the threshold. "Oh, there you are. Dame! you'd come down-stairs
mighty quick if you knew what was there for you?"</p>
<p>"What?" I cried, divided between the wild hope that it was
Monsieur and the wilder one that it was M. Étienne.</p>
<p>"Don't you wish I'd tell you? Well, you're a good boy, and I
will. It's the prettiest lass I've seen in a month of
Sundays—you in your petticoats don't come near her."</p>
<p>"For me?" I stuttered.</p>
<p>"Aye; she asked for M. le Duc, and when he wasn't here, for you.
I suppose it's some friend of M. Étienne's."</p>
<p>I supposed so, indeed; I supposed it was the owner of my
borrowed plumage come to claim her own, angry perhaps because I had
not returned it to her. I wondered whether she would scratch my
eyes out because I had lost the cap—whether I could find it
if I went to look with a light. None too eagerly I descended to
her.</p>
<p>She was standing against the wall in the archway. Two or three
of the guardsmen were about her, one with a flambeau, by which they
were all surveying her. She wore the coif and blouse, the black
bodice and short striped skirt, of the country peasant girl, and,
like a country girl, she showed a face flushed and downcast under
the soldiers' bold scrutiny. She looked up at me as at a rescuing
angel. It was Mlle. de Montluc!</p>
<p>I dashed past the torch-bearer, nearly upsetting him in my
haste, and snatched her hand.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle! Come into the house!"</p>
<p>She clutched me with fingers as cold as marble, which trembled
on mine.</p>
<p>"Where is M. de St. Quentin?"</p>
<p>"At St. Denis."</p>
<p>"You must take me there to-night."</p>
<p>"I was going," I stammered, bewildered; "but you,
mademoiselle—"</p>
<p>"You knew of M. de Mar's arrest?"</p>
<p>"Aye."</p>
<p>"What coil is this, Félix?" demanded Vigo, coming up. He
took the torch from his man, and held it in mademoiselle's face,
whereupon an amazing change came over his own. He lowered the
light, shielding it with his hand, as if it were an impertinent
eye.</p>
<p>"You are Vigo," she said at once.</p>
<p>"Yes; and I know not what noble lady mademoiselle can be,
save—will it please her to come into the house?"</p>
<p>He led the way with his torch, not suffering himself to look at
her again. He had his foot on the staircase, when she called to
him, as if she had been accustomed to addressing him all her
life:</p>
<p>"Vigo, this will do. I will speak to you here."</p>
<p>"As mademoiselle wishes. I thought the salon fitter. My cabinet
here will be quieter than the hall, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>He opened the door, and she entered. He pushed me in next,
giving me the torch and saying:</p>
<p>"Ask mademoiselle, Félix, whether she wants me." He
amazed me—he who always ordered.</p>
<p>"I want you, Vigo," mademoiselle answered him herself. "I want
you to send two men with me to St. Denis."</p>
<p>"To-morrow?"</p>
<p>"No; to-night."</p>
<p>"But mademoiselle cannot go to St. Denis."</p>
<p>"I can, and I must."</p>
<p>"They will not let a horse-party through the gate at night,"
Vigo began.</p>
<p>"We will go on foot."</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," Vigo answered, as if she had proposed flying to
the moon, "you cannot walk to St. Denis."</p>
<p>"I must!" she cried.</p>
<p>I had put the flambeau in a socket on the wall. Now that the
light shone on her steadily, I saw for the first time, though I
might have known it from her presence here, how rent with emotion
she was, white to the lips, with gleaming eyes and stormy breast.
She had spoken low and quietly, but it was a main-force composure,
liable to snap like glass. I thought her on the very verge of
passionate tears. Vigo looked at her, puzzled, troubled, pitying,
as on some beautiful, mad creature. She cried out on him suddenly,
her rich voice going up a key:</p>
<p>"You need not say 'cannot' to me, Vigo! You know not how I came
here. I was locked in my chamber. I changed clothes with my Norman
maid. There was a sentry at each end of the street. I slid down a
rope of my bedclothes; it was dark—they did not see me. I
knocked at Ferou's door—thank the saints, it opened to me
quickly! I told M. Ferou—God forgive me!—I had business
for the duke at the other end of the tunnel. He took me through,
and I came here."</p>
<p>"But, mademoiselle, the bats!" I cried.</p>
<p>"Yes, the bats," she returned, with a little smile. "And my
hands on the ropes!" She turned them over; the skin was torn
cruelly from her delicate palms and the inside of her fingers.
Little threads of blood marked the scores. "Then I came here," she
repeated. "In all my life I have never been in the streets
alone—not even for one step at noonday. Now will you tell me,
M. Vigo, that I cannot go to St. Denis?"</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle, it is yours to say what you can do."</p>
<p>As for me, I dropped on my knees and laid my lips to her
fingers, softly, for fear even their pressure might hurt her
tenderness.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle!" I cried in pure delight. "Mademoiselle, that you
are here!"</p>
<p>She flushed under my words.</p>
<p>"Ah, it is no little thing brought me. You knew M. de Mar was
arrested?"</p>
<p>We assented; she went on, more to me than to Vigo, as if in
telling me she was telling M. Étienne. She spoke low, as if
in pain.</p>
<p>"After supper M. de Mayenne went back to his cabinet and let out
Paul de Lorraine."</p>
<p>"I wish we had killed him," I muttered. "We had no time or
weapons."</p>
<p>"M. de Mayenne sent for me then," she went on, wetting her lips.
"I have never seen him so angry. He was furious because M. de Mar
had been before his face and he had not known it. He felt he had
been made a mock of. He raged against me—I never knew he
could be so angry. He said the Spanish envoy was too good for me; I
should marry Paul de Lorraine to-morrow."</p>
<p>"Mordieu, mademoiselle!"</p>
<p>"That was not it. I had borne that!" she cried. "Mayhap I
deserved it. But while my lord thundered at me, word came that M.
de Mar was taken. My lord swore he should die. He swore no man ever
set him at naught and lived to boast of it."</p>
<p>"Will—"</p>
<p>She swept on unheeding:</p>
<p>"He said he should be tried for the murder of Pontou—he
should be tortured to make him confess it."</p>
<p>She dropped down on her knees, hiding her face in her arms on
the table, shaking from head to foot as in an ague. Vigo swore to
himself, loudly, violently: "If Mayenne do that, by the throne of
Heaven, I'll kill him!"</p>
<p>She sprang to her feet, dry-eyed, fierce as a young lioness.</p>
<p>"Is that all you can say? Mayenne may torture him and be killed
for it?"</p>
<p>"I shall send to the duke—" Vigo began.</p>
<p>"Aye! I shall go to the duke! I can say who killed Pontou. I
know much besides to tell the king. I was Mayenne's cousin, but if
he would save his secrets he must give up M. de Mar. Mother of God!
I have been his obedient child; I have let him do so with me as he
would. I sent my lover away. I consented to the Spanish marriage.
But to this I will not submit. He shall not torture and kill
Étienne de Mar!"</p>
<p>Vigo took her hand and kissed it.</p>
<p>"Shall we start, Vigo? Once at St. Denis, I am hostage for his
safety. The king can tell Mayenne that if Mar is tortured he will
torture me! Mayenne may not tender me greatly, but he will not
relish his cousin's breaking on the wheel."</p>
<p>"Mayenne won't torture M. Étienne," Vigo said, patting
her hand in both of his, forgetting she was a great lady, he an
equery. "Fear not! you will save him, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"Let us go!" she cried feverishly. "Let us go!"</p>
<p>Gilles was in the court waiting, stripped of his livery, dressed
peaceably as a porter, but with a mallet in his hand that I should
not like to receive on my crown. I thought we were ready, but Vigo
bade us wait. I stood on the house-steps with mademoiselle, while
he took aside Squinting Charlot for a low-voiced, emphatic
interview.</p>
<p>"Must we wait?" mademoiselle urged me, quivering like the arrow
on the bow-string. "They may discover I am gone. Need we wait?"</p>
<p>"Aye," I answered; "if Vigo bids us. He knows."</p>
<p>We waited then. Vigo disappeared presently. Mademoiselle and I
stood patient, with, oh! what impatience in our hearts, wondering
how he could so hinder us. Not till he came back did it dawn on me
for what we had stayed. He was dressed as an under-groom, not a tag
of St. Quentin colours on him.</p>
<p>"I beg a thousand pardons, mademoiselle. I had to give my
lieutenant his orders. Now, if you will give the word, we go."</p>
<p>"Do you go, M. Vigo?" She breathed deep. It was easy to see she
looked upon him as a regiment.</p>
<p>"Of course," Vigo answered, as if there could be no other
way.</p>
<p>I said in pure devilry, to try to ruffle him:</p>
<p>"Vigo, you said you were here to guard Monsieur's interests-his
house, his goods, his moneys. Do you desert your trust?"</p>
<p>Mademoiselle turned quickly to him:</p>
<p>"Vigo, you must not let me take you from your rightful post.
Félix and your man here will care for me—"</p>
<p>"The boy talks silliness, mademoiselle," Vigo returned
tranquilly. "Mademoiselle is worth a dozen hôtels. I go with
her."</p>
<p>He walked beside her across the court, I following with Gilles,
laughing to myself. Only yesterday had Vigo declared that never
would he give aid and comfort to Mlle. de Montluc. It was no marvel
she had conquered M. Étienne, for he must needs have been in
love with some one, but in bringing Vigo to her feet she had won a
triumph indeed.</p>
<p>We had to go out by the great gate, because the key of the
postern was in the Bastille. But as if by magic every guardsman and
hanger-about had disappeared—there was not one to stare at
the lady; though when we had passed some one locked the gates
behind us. Vigo called me up to mademoiselle's left. Gilles was to
loiter behind, far enough to seem not to belong to us, near enough
to come up at need. Thus, at a good pace, mademoiselle stepping out
as brave as any of us, we set out across the city for the Porte St.
Denis.</p>
<p>Our quarter was very quiet; we scarce met a soul. But afterward,
as we reached the neighbourhood of the markets, the streets grew
livelier. Now were we gladder than ever of Vigo's escort; for
whenever we approached a band of roisterers or of gentlemen with
lights, mademoiselle sheltered herself behind the equery's broad
back, hidden as behind a tower. Once the gallant M. de Champfleury,
he who in pink silk had adorned Mme. de Mayenne's salon, passed
close enough to touch her. She heaved a sigh of relief when he was
by. For her own sake she had no fear; the midnight streets, the
open road to St. Denis, had no power to daunt her: but the dread of
being recognized and turned back rode her like a nightmare.</p>
<p>Close by the gate, Vigo bade us pause in the door of a shop
while he went forward to reconnoiter. Before long he returned.</p>
<p>"Bad luck, mademoiselle. Brissac's not on. I don't know the
officer, but he knows me, that's the worst of it. He told me this
was not St. Quentin night. Well, we must try the Porte Neuve."</p>
<p>But mademoiselle demurred:</p>
<p>"That will be out of our way, will it not, Vigo? It is a longer
road from the Porte Neuve to St. Denis?"</p>
<p>"Yes; but what to do? We must get through the walls."</p>
<p>"Suppose we fare no better at the Porte Neuve? If your Brissac
is suspected, he'll not be on at night. Vigo, I propose that we
part company here. They will not know Gilles and Félix at
the gate, will they?"</p>
<p>"No," Vigo said doubtfully; "but—"</p>
<p>"Then can we get through!" she cried. "They will not stop us,
such humble folk! We are going to the bedside of our dying mother
at St. Denis. Your name, Gilles?"</p>
<p>"Forestier, mademoiselle," he stammered, startled.</p>
<p>"Then are we all Forestiers—Gilles, Félix, and
Jeanne. We can pass out, Vigo; I am sure we can pass out. I am
loath to part with you, but I fear to go through the city to the
Porte Neuve. My absence may be discovered—I must place myself
without the walls speedily.</p>
<p>"Well, mademoiselle may try it," Vigo gave reluctant consent.
"If you are refused, we can fall back on the Porte Neuve. If you
succeed—Listen to me, you fellows. You will deliver
mademoiselle into Monsieur's hands, or answer to me for it. If any
one touches her little finger—well, trust me!"</p>
<p>"That's understood," we answered, saluting together.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle need have no doubts of them," Vigo said.
"Félix is M. le Comte's own henchman. And Gilles is the best
man in the household, next to me. God speed you, my lady. I am
here, if they turn you back."</p>
<p>We went boldly round the corner and up the street to the gate.
The sentry walking his beat ordered us away without so much as
looking at us. Then Gilles, appointed our spokesman, demanded to
see the captain of the watch. His errand was urgent.</p>
<p>But the sentry showed no disposition to budge. Had we a
passport? No, we had no passport. Then we could go about our
business. There was no leaving Paris to-night for us. Call the
captain? No; he would do nothing of the kind. Be off, then!</p>
<p>But at this moment, hearing the altercation, the officer himself
came out of the guard-room in the tower, and to him Gilles at once
began his story. Our mother at St. Denis had sent for us to come to
her dying bed. He was a street-porter; the messenger had had
trouble to find him. His young brother and sister were in service,
kept to their duties till late. Our mother might even now be
yielding up the ghost! It was a pitiful case, M. le Capitaine;
might we not be permitted to pass?</p>
<p>The young officer appeared less interested in this moving tale
than in the face of mademoiselle, lighted up by the flambeau on the
tower wall.</p>
<p>"I should be glad to oblige your charming sister," he returned,
smiling, "but none goes out of the city without a passport. Perhaps
you have one, though, from my Lord Mayenne?"</p>
<p>"Would our kind be carrying a passport from the Duke of
Mayenne?" quoth Gilles.</p>
<p>"It seems improbable," the officer smiled, pleased with his wit.
"Sorry to discommode you, my dear. But perhaps, lacking a passport,
you can yet oblige me with the countersign, which does as well.
Just one little word, now, and I'll let you through."</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="408.jpg"></a> <a href="images/408.jpg"><img src=
"images/408.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"IT DESOLATES ME TO HEAR OF HER EXTREMITY."</b>
<br /></div>
<p>"If monsieur will tell me the little word?" she asked
innocently.</p>
<p>He burst into laughter.</p>
<p>"No, no; I am not to be caught so easy as that, my girl."</p>
<p>"Oh, come, monsieur captain," Gilles urged, "many and many a
fellow goes in and out of Paris without a passport. The rules are a
net to stop big fish and let the small fry go. What harm will it do
to my Lord Mayenne, or you, or anybody, if you have the gentleness
to let three poor servants through to their dying mother?"</p>
<p>"It desolates me to hear of her extremity," the captain
answered, with a fine irony, "but I am here to do my duty. I am
thinking, my dear, that you are some great lady's maid?"</p>
<p>He was eying her sharply, suspiciously; she made haste to
protest:</p>
<p>"Oh, no, monsieur; I am servant to Mme. Mesnier, the grocer's
wife."</p>
<p>"And perhaps you serve in the shop?"</p>
<p>"No, monsieur," she said, not seeing his drift, but on guard
against a trap. "No, monsieur; I am never in the shop. I am far too
busy with my work. Monsieur does not seem to understand what a
servant-lass has to do."</p>
<p>For answer, he took her hand and lifted it to the light,
revealing all its smooth whiteness, its dainty, polished nails.</p>
<p>"I think mademoiselle does not understand it, either."</p>
<p>With a little cry, she snatched her hand from him, hiding it in
the folds of her kirtle, regarding him with open terror. He
softened somewhat at sight of her distress.</p>
<p>"Well, it's none of my business if a lady chooses to be
masquerading round the streets at night with a porter and a lackey.
I don't know what your purpose is—I don't ask to know. But
I'm here to keep my gate, and I'll keep it. Go try to wheedle the
officer at the Porte Neuve."</p>
<p>In helpless obedience, glad of even so much leniency, we turned
away—to face a tall, grizzled veteran in a colonel's
shoulder-straps. With a dragoon at his back, he had come so softly
out of a side alley that not even the captain had marked him.</p>
<p>"What's this, Guilbert?" he demanded.</p>
<p>"Some folks seeking to get through the gates, sir. I've just
turned them away."</p>
<p>"What were you saying about the Porte Neuve?"</p>
<p>"I said they could go see how that gate is kept. I showed them
how this is."</p>
<p>"Why must you pass through at this time of night?" said the
commanding officer, civilly. Gilles once again bemoaned the dying
mother. The young captain, eager to prove his fidelity, interrupted
him:</p>
<p>"I believe that's a fairy-tale, sir. There's something queer
about these people. The girl says she is a grocer's servant, and
has hands like a duchess's."</p>
<p>The colonel looked at us sharply, neither friendly nor
unfriendly. He said in a perfectly neutral manner:</p>
<p>"It is of no consequence whether she be a servant or a
duchess—has a mother or not. The point is whether these
people have the countersign. If they have it, they can pass,
whoever they are."</p>
<p>"They have not," the captain answered at once. "I think you
would do well, sir, to demand the lady's name."</p>
<p>Mademoiselle started forward for a bold stroke just as the
superior officer demanded of her, "The countersign?" As he said the
word, she pronounced distinctly her name:</p>
<p>"Lorance—"</p>
<p>"Enough!" the colonel said instantly. "Pass them through,
Guilbert."</p>
<p>The young captain stood in a mull, but no more bewildered than
we.</p>
<p>"Mighty queer!" he muttered. "Why didn't she give it to me?"</p>
<p>"Stir yourself, sir!" his superior gave sharp command. "They
have the countersign; pass them through."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXVIII" id="XXVIII"></a>XXVIII</h2>
<h3><i>St. Denis—and Navarre!</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-a.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>s the gates clanged into place behind us, Gilles stopped short
in his tracks to say, as if addressing the darkness before him:</p>
<p>"Am I, Gilles, awake or asleep? Are we in Paris, or are we on
the St. Denis road?"</p>
<p>"Oh, come, come!" Mademoiselle hastened us on, murmuring half to
herself as we went: "O you kind saints! I saw he could not make us
out for friends or foes; I thought my name might turn the scale.
Mayenne always gives a name for a countersign; to-night, by a
marvel, it was mine!"</p>
<p>I like not to think often of that five-mile tramp to St. Denis.
The road was dark, rutty, and in places still miry from Monday
night's rain. Strange shadows dogged us all the way. Sometimes they
were only bushes or wayside shrines, but sometimes they moved. This
was not now a wolf country, but two-footed wolves were plenty, and
as dangerous. The hangers-on of the army—beggars, feagues,
and footpads—hovered, like the cowardly beasts of prey they
were, about the outskirts of the city. Did a leaf rustle, we
started; did a shambling shape in the gloom whine for alms, we made
ready for onset. Gilles produced from some place of
concealment—his jerkin, or his leggings, or somewhere—a
brace of pistols, and we walked with finger on trigger, taking
care, whenever a rustle in the grass, a shadow in the bushes,
seemed to follow us, to talk loud and cheerfully of common things,
the little interests of a humble station. Thanks to this diplomacy,
or the pistol-barrels shining in the faint starlight, none molested
us, though we encountered more than one mysterious company. We
never passed into the gloom under an arch of trees without the
resolution to fight for our lives. We never came out again into the
faint light of the open road without wondering thanks to the
saints—silent thanks, for we never spoke a word of any fear,
Gilles and I. I trow mademoiselle knew well enough, but she spoke
no word either. She never faltered, never showed by so much as the
turn of her head that she suspected any danger, but, eyes on the
distant lights of St. Denis, walked straight along, half a step
ahead of us all the way. Stride as we might, we two strong fellows
could never quite keep up with her.</p>
<p>The journey could not at such pace stretch out forever.
Presently the distant lights were no longer distant, but near,
nearer, close at hand—the lights of the outposts of the camp.
A sentinel started out from the quoin of a wall to stop us, but
when we had told our errand he became as friendly as a brother. He
went across the road into a neighbouring tournebride to report to
the officer of the guard, and came back presently with a torch and
the order to take us to the Duke of St. Quentin's lodging.</p>
<p>It was near an hour after midnight, and St. Denis was in bed.
Save for a drowsy patrol here and there, we met no one. Fewer than
the patrols were the lanterns hung on ropes across the streets;
these were the only lights, for the houses were one and all as dark
as tombs. Not till we had reached the middle of the town did we
see, in the second story of a house in the square, a beam of light
shining through the shutter-chink.</p>
<p>"Some one in mischief." Gilles pointed.</p>
<p>"Aye," laughed the sentry, "your duke. This is where he lodges,
over the saddler's."</p>
<p>He knocked with the butt of his musket on the door. The shutter
above creaked open, and a voice—Monsieur's voice—asked,
"Who's there?"</p>
<p>Mademoiselle was concealed in the embrasure of the doorway;
Gilles and I stepped back into the street where Monsieur could see
us.</p>
<p>"Gilles Forestier and Félix Broux, Monsieur, just from
Paris, with news."</p>
<p>"Wait."</p>
<p>"Is it all right, M. le Duc?" the sentry asked, saluting.</p>
<p>"Yes," Monsieur answered, closing the shutter.</p>
<p>The soldier, with another salute to the blank window, and a nod
of "Good-by, then," to us, went back to his post. Left in darkness,
we presently heard Monsieur's quick step on the flags of the hall,
and the clatter of the bolts. He opened to us, standing there fully
dressed, with a guttering candle.</p>
<p>"My son?" he said instantly.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle, crouching in the shadow of the door-post, pushed
me forward. I saw I was to tell him.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, he was arrested and driven to the Bastille to-night
between seven and eight. Lucas—Paul de Lorraine—went to
the governor and swore that M. Étienne killed the lackey
Pontou in the house in the Rue Coupejarrets. It was Lucas killed
him—Lucas told Mayenne so. Mlle. de Montluc heard him, too.
And here is mademoiselle."</p>
<p>At the word she came out of the shadow and slowly over the
threshold.</p>
<p>Her alarm and passion had swept her to the door of the
Hôtel St. Quentin as a whirlwind sweeps a leaf. She had come
without thought of herself, without pause, without fear. But now
the first heat of her impulse was gone. Her long tramp had left her
faint and weary, and here she had to face not an equery and a page,
hers to command, but a great duke, the enemy of her house. She came
blushfully in her peasant dress, shoes dirty from the common road,
hair ruffled by the night winds, to show herself for the first time
to her lover's father, opposer of her hopes, thwarter of her
marriage. Proud and shy, she drifted over the door-sill and stood a
moment, neither lifting her eyes nor speaking, like a bird whom the
least movement would startle into flight.</p>
<p>But Monsieur made none. He kept as still, as tongue-tied, as
she, looking at her as if he could hardly believe her presence
real. Then as the silence prolonged itself, it seemed to frighten
her more than the harsh speech she may have feared; with a
desperate courage she raised her eyes to his face.</p>
<p>The spell was broken. Monsieur stepped forward at once to
her.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle, you have come a journey. You are tired. Let me
give you some refreshment; then will you tell me the story."</p>
<p>It was an unlucky speech, for she had been on the very point of
unburdening herself; but now, without a word, she accepted his
escort down the passage. But as she went, she flung me an imploring
glance; I was to come too. Gilles bolted the door again, and sat
down to wait on the staircase; but I, though my lord had not bidden
me, followed him and mademoiselle. It troubled me that she should
so dread him—him, the warmest-hearted of all men. But if she
needed me to give her confidence, here I was.</p>
<p>Monsieur led her into a little square parlour at the end of the
passage. It was just behind the shop, I knew, it smelt so of
leather. It was doubtless the sitting-and eating-room of the
saddler's family. Monsieur set his candle down on the big table in
the middle; then, on second thought, took it up again and lighted
two iron sconces on the wall.</p>
<p>"Pray sit, mademoiselle, and rest," he bade, for she was
starting up in nervousness from the chair where he had put her. "I
will return in a moment."</p>
<p>When he had gone from the room, I said to her, half hesitating,
yet eagerly:</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle, you were never afraid on the way, where there was
good cause for fear. But now there is nothing to dread."</p>
<p>She rose and fluttered round the walls of the room, looking for
something. I thought it was for a way of escape, but it was not,
for she passed the three doors and came back to her place with an
air of disappointment, smoothing the loose strands of her hair.</p>
<p>"I never before went anywhere unmasked," she murmured.</p>
<p>Monsieur entered with a salver containing a silver cup of wine
and some Rheims biscuit. He offered it to her formally; she
accepted with scarcely audible thanks, and sat, barely touching the
wine to her lips, crumbling the biscuit into bits with restless
fingers, making the pretence of a meal serve as excuse for her
silence. Monsieur glanced at her, puzzled-wise, waiting for her to
speak. Had the Infanta Isabella come to visit him, he could not
have been more surprised. It seemed to him discourteous to press
her; he waited for her to explain her presence.</p>
<p>I wanted to shake mademoiselle. With a dozen swift words, with a
glance of her blue eyes, she could sweep Monsieur off his feet as
she had swept Vigo. And instead, she sat there, not daring to look
at him, like a child caught stealing sweets. She had found words to
defend herself from the teasing tongues at the Hôtel de
Lorraine, to plead for me, to lash Lucas, to move Mayenne himself;
but she could not find one syllable for the Duke of St. Quentin.
She had been to admiration the laughing coquette, the stout
champion, the haughty great lady, the frank lover; but now she was
the shy child, blushing, stammering, constrained.</p>
<p>Had Monsieur attacked her with blunt questions, had he demanded
of her up and down what had brought her this strange road at such
amazing hour and in such unfitting company, she must needs have
answered, and, once started, she would quickly have kindled her
fire again. Had he, on other part, with a smile, an encouraging
word, given her ever so little a push, she had gone on easily
enough. But he did neither. He was courteous and cold. Partly was
his coldness real; he could not look on her as other than the
daughter of his enemy's house, ward of the man who had schemed to
kill him, will-o'-the-wisp who had lured his son to disaster.
Partly was it mere absence; M. Étienne's plight was more to
him than mademoiselle's. When she spoke not, he turned impatiently
to me.</p>
<p>"Tell me, Félix, all about it."</p>
<p>Before I could answer him the door behind us opened to admit two
gentlemen, shoulder to shoulder. They were dressed much alike,
plainly, in black. One was about thirty years of age, tall,
thin-faced, and dark, and of a gravity and dignity beyond his
years. Living was serious business to him; his eyes were
thoughtful, steady, and a little cold. His companion was some ten
years older; his beard and curling hair, worn away from his
forehead by the helmet's chafing, were already sprinkled with gray.
He had a great beak of a nose and dark-gray eyes, as keen as a
hawk's, and a look of amazing life and vim. The air about him
seemed to tingle with it. We had all done something, we others; we
were no shirks or sluggards: but the force in him put us out, penny
candles before the sun. I deem not Jeanne the Maid did any marvel
when she recognized King Charles at Chinon. Here was I, a common
lout, never heard a heavenly voice in all my days, yet I knew in
the flick of an eye that this was Henri Quatre.</p>
<p>I was hot and cold and trembling, my heart pounding till it was
like to choke me. I had never dreamed of finding myself in the
presence. I had never thought to face any man greater than my duke.
For the moment I was utterly discomfited. Then I bethought me that
not for God alone were knees given to man, and I slid down quietly
to the floor, hoping I did right, but reflecting for my comfort
that in any case I was too small to give great offence.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle started out of her chair and swept a curtsey almost
to the ground, holding the lowly pose like a lady of marble. Only
Monsieur remained standing as he was, as if a king was an every-day
affair with him. I always thought Monsieur a great man, but now I
knew it.</p>
<p>The king, leaving his companion to close the door, was across
the room in three strides.</p>
<p>"I am come to look after you, St. Quentin," he cried, laughing.
"I cannot have my council broken up by pretty grisettes. The
precedent is dangerous."</p>
<p>With the liveliest curiosity and amusement he surveyed the top
of mademoiselle's bent head, and Monsieur's puzzled, troubled
countenance.</p>
<p>"This is no grisette, Sire," Monsieur answered, "but a very
high-born demoiselle indeed—cousin to my Lord Mayenne."</p>
<p>Astonishment flashed over the king's mobile face; his manner
changed in an instant to one of utmost deference.</p>
<p>"Rise, mademoiselle," he begged, as if her appearance were the
most natural and desirable thing in the world. "I could wish it
were my good adversary Mayenne himself who was come to treat with
us; but be assured his cousin shall lack no courtesy."</p>
<p>She swayed lightly to her feet, raising her face to the king's.
Into his countenance, which mirrored his emotions like a glass,
came a quick delight at the sight of her. The colour waxed and
waned in her cheeks; her breath fluttered uncertainly; her eyes,
anxious, eager, searched his face.</p>
<p>"I cry your Majesty's good pardon," she faltered. "I had urgent
business with M. de St. Quentin—I did not guess he was with
your Majesty—"</p>
<p>"The king's business is glad to step aside for yours,
mademoiselle."</p>
<p>She curtseyed, blushing, hiding her eyes under their sooty
lashes; thinking as I did, I made no doubt, here was a king indeed.
His Majesty went on:</p>
<p>"I can well believe, mademoiselle, 'tis no trifling matter
brings you at midnight to our rough camp. We will not delay you
further, but be at pains to remember that if in anything Henry of
France can aid you he stands at your command."</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="422.jpg"></a> <a href="images/422.jpg"><img src=
"images/422.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>ON THE WAY TO ST. DENIS.</b>
<br /></div>
<p>He made her a noble bow and took her hand to kiss, when she,
like a child that sees itself losing a protector, clutched his hand
in her little trembling fingers, her wet eyes fixed imploringly on
his face. He beamed upon her; he felt no desire whatever to be
gone.</p>
<p>"Am I to stay?" he asked radiantly; then with grave gentleness
he added: "Mademoiselle is in trouble. Will she bring her trouble
to the king? That is what a king is for—to ease his subjects'
burdens."</p>
<p>She could not speak; she made him her obeisance with a look out
of the depths of her soul.</p>
<p>"Then are you my subject, mademoiselle?" he demanded slyly.</p>
<p>She shook the tears from her lashes, and found her voice and her
smile to answer his:</p>
<p>"Sire, I was a true Ligueuse this morning. But I came here half
Navarraise, and now I swear I am wholly one."</p>
<p>"Now, that is good hearing!" the king cried. "Such a recruit
from Mayenne! Also is it heartening to discover that my conversion
is not the only sudden one in the world. It has taken me five
months to turn my coat, but here is mademoiselle turns hers in a
day."</p>
<p>He had glanced over his shoulder to point this out to his
gentleman, but now he faced about in time to catch his recruit
looking triste again.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," he said, "you are beautiful, grave; but, as you
had the graciousness to show me just now, still more beautiful,
smiling. Now we are going to arrange matters so that you will smile
always. Will you tell me what is the trouble, my child?"</p>
<p>"Gladly, Sire," she answered, and dropped down a moment on her
knees before him, to kiss his hand.</p>
<p>I marvelled that Mayenne and all his armies had been able to
keep this man off his throne and in his saddle four long years. It
was plain why his power grew stronger every day, why every hour
brought him new allies from the ranks of the League. You had only
to see him to adore him. Once get him into Paris, the struggle
would be over. They would put up with no other for king.</p>
<p>"Sire," mademoiselle said with hesitancy, "I shall tire you with
my story."</p>
<p>"I am greatly in dread of it," the king answered, ceremoniously
placing her in a chair before seating himself to listen. Then, to
give her a moment, I think, to collect herself, he turned to his
companion:</p>
<p>"Here, Rosny, if you ache to be grubbing over your papers, do
not let us delay you."</p>
<p>"I am in no haste, Sire," his gentleman answered, unmoving.</p>
<p>"Which is to say, you dare not leave me alone," the king laughed
out. "I tell you, St. Quentin, if I am not dragooned into a staid,
discreet, steady-paced monarch, 'twill be no lapse of Whip-King
Rosny's. I am listening, mademoiselle."</p>
<p>She began at once, eager and unfaltering. All her confusion was
gone. It had been well-nigh impossible to tell the story to M. de
St. Quentin, impossible to tell it to this impassive M. de Rosny.
But to the King of France and Navarre it was as easy to talk as to
one's playfellow.</p>
<p>"Sire, I am Lorance de Montluc. My grandfather was the Marshal
Montluc."</p>
<p>"Were to-day next Monday, I could pray, 'God rest his soul,'"
the king rejoined. "But even a heretic may say that he was a
gallant general, an honour to France. He married a sister of
François le Balafré? And mademoiselle is orphaned
now, and my friend Mayenne's ward?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Sire. I came here, Sire, to tell M. de St. Quentin
concerning his son. And though I am talking of myself, it is all
the same story. Three years ago, after the king died, M. de Mayenne
was endeavouring with all his might to bring the Duke of St.
Quentin into the League. He offered me to him for his son, M. de
Mar."</p>
<p>"And you are still Mlle. de Montluc?"</p>
<p>She turned to Monsieur with the prettiest smile in the
world.</p>
<p>"M. de St. Quentin, though he has not fought for you, Sire, has
ever been whole-heartedly loyal."</p>
<p>"Ventre-saint-gris!" the king exclaimed. "He is either an
incredible loyalist or an incredible ass!"</p>
<p>Even the grave Rosny smiled, and the victim laughed as he
defended himself.</p>
<p>"That my loyalty may be credible, Sire, I make haste to say that
I had never seen mademoiselle till this hour."</p>
<p>"I know not whether to think better of you for that, or worse,"
the king retorted. "Had I been in your place, beshrew me but I
should have seen her."</p>
<p>Monsieur smiled and was silent, with anxious eyes on
mademoiselle.</p>
<p>"M. de St. Quentin withdrew to Picardie, Sire, but M. de Mar
stayed in Paris. And my cousin Mayenne never gave up entirely the
notion of the marriage. He is very tenacious of his plans."</p>
<p>"Aye," said the king, with a grimace. "Well I know."</p>
<p>"He blew hot and cold with M. de Mar. He favoured the marriage
on Sunday and scouted it on Wednesday and discussed it again on
Friday."</p>
<p>"And what were M. de Mar's opinions?"</p>
<p>She met his probing gaze blushing but candid.</p>
<p>"M. de Mar, Sire, favoured it every day in the week."</p>
<p>"I'll swear he did!" the king cried.</p>
<p>"When M. le Duc came back to Paris," mademoiselle went on, "and
it was known he had espoused your cause, Sire, Mayenne was so loath
to lose the whole house of St. Quentin to you that he offered to
marry me out of hand to M. de Mar. And he refused."</p>
<p>"Ventre-saint-gris!" Henry cried. "We will marry you to a king's
son. On my honour, mademoiselle—"</p>
<p>"Sire," she pleaded, "you promised to hear me."</p>
<p>"That I will, then. But I warn you I am out of patience with
these St. Quentins."</p>
<p>"Then you are out of patience with devotion to your cause,
Sire."</p>
<p>"What! you speak for the recreants?"</p>
<p>"I assure you, Sire, you have no more loyal servant than M. de
Mar."</p>
<p>"Strange I cannot recollect the face of my so loyal servant,"
the king said dryly.</p>
<p>But she, with a fine scorn of argument, made the audacious
answer:</p>
<p>"When you see it, you will like it, Sire."</p>
<p>"Not half so well as I like yours, mademoiselle, I promise you!
But he comes to me well commended, since you vouch for him. Or
rather, he does not come. What is this ardent follower doing so
long away from me? Where the devil does this eager partizan keep
himself? St. Quentin, where is your son?"</p>
<p>"He had been with you long ago, Sire, but for the bright eyes of
a lady of the League. And now she comes to tell me—my page
tells me—he is in the Bastille."</p>
<p>"Ventre-saint-gris! And how has that calamity befallen?"</p>
<p>She hesitated a moment, embarrassed by her very wealth of
matter, confused between her longing to set the whole case before
the king, and her fear of wearying his patience. But his glance
told her she need have no misgiving. Had she come to present him
Paris, he could not have been more interested.</p>
<p>In the little silence Monsieur found his moment and his
words.</p>
<p>"Sire, may I interrupt mademoiselle? Last night, for the first
time in a month, I saw my son. He was just returned from an
adventure under her window. Mayenne's guard had set on him, and he
was escaped by the skin of his teeth. He declared to me that never
till he was slain should he cease endeavour to win Mlle. de
Montluc. And I? Marry, I ate my words in humblest fashion. After
three years I made my surrender. Since you are his one desire,
mademoiselle, then are you my one desire. I bade him
God-speed."</p>
<p>She gave her hand to Monsieur, sudden tears welling over her
lashes.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I thought to-night I had no friends. And I have so
many!"</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," the king cried in the same breath, "fear not. I
will get you your lover if I sell France for him."</p>
<p>She brushed the tears away and smiled on him.</p>
<p>"I have no fear, Sire. With you and M. de St. Quentin to save
him, I can have no fear. But he is in desperate case. Has M. de St.
Quentin told you of his secretary Lucas, my cousin Paul de
Lorraine?"</p>
<p>"Aye," said the king, "it is a dolourous topic—very
painful! Eh, Rosny?"</p>
<p>"I do not shrink from my pains, Sire," M. de Rosny answered
quietly. "I hold myself much to blame in this matter. I thought I
knew the Lucases root and branch—I did not discover that a
daughter of the house had ever been a friend to Henri de
Guise."</p>
<p>"And how should you discover it?" the king demanded. He had made
the attack; now, since Rosny would not resent it, he rushed himself
to the defence. "How were you to dream it? Henri de Guise's side
was the last place to look for a girl of the Religion. But I
forgive him. If he stole a Rochelaise, we have avenged it deep: we
have stolen the flower of Lorraine."</p>
<p>"Paul Lucas—Paul de Lorraine," she went on eagerly, "was
put into M. le Duc's house to kill him. He went all the more
willingly that he believed M. de Mar to be my favoured suitor. He
tried to draw M. de Mar into the scheme, to ruin him. He failed.
And the whole plot came to naught."</p>
<p>"I have learned that," the king said. "I have been told how a
country boy stripped his mask off."</p>
<p>He glanced around suddenly at me where I stood red and abashed.
He was so quick that he grasped everything at half a word.
Instantly he had turned to the lady again. "Pray continue, dear
mademoiselle."</p>
<p>"Afterward—that is, yesterday—Paul went to M. de
Belin and swore against M. de Mar that he had murdered a lackey in
his house in the Rue Coupejarrets. The lackey was murdered there,
but Paul de Lorraine did it. The man knew the plot; Paul killed him
to stop his tongue. I heard him confess it to M. de Mayenne. I and
this Félix Broux were in the oratory and heard it."</p>
<p>"Then M. de Mar was arrested?"</p>
<p>"Not then. The officers missed him. To-day he came to our house,
dressed as an Italian jeweller, with a case of trinkets to sell.
Madame admitted him; no one knew him but me and my chamber-*mate.
On the way out, Mayenne met him and kept him while he chose a
jewel. Paul de Lorraine was there too. I was like to die of fear. I
went in to M. de Mayenne; I begged him to come out with me to
supper, to dismiss the tradespeople that I might talk with him
there—anything. But it availed not. M. de Mayenne spoke
freely before them, as one does before common folk. Presently he
led me to supper. Paul was left alone with M. de Mar and the boy.
He recognized them. He was armed, and they were not, but they
overbore him and locked him up in the closet."</p>
<p>"Mordieu, mademoiselle! I was to rescue M. de Mar for your sake,
but now I will do it for his own. I find him much to my liking. He
came away clear, mademoiselle?"</p>
<p>"Aye, to be seized in the street by the governor's men. When M.
de Mayenne found how he had been tricked, Sire, he blazed with
rage."</p>
<p>"I'll warrant he did!" the king answered, suppressing, however,
in deference to her distress, his desire to laugh.
"Ventre-saint-gris, mademoiselle! forgive me if this amuses me here
at St. Denis. I trow it was not amusing in the Hôtel de
Lorraine."</p>
<p>"He sent for me, Sire," she went on, blanching at the memory;
"he accused me of shielding M. de Mar. It was true. He called me
liar, traitor, wanton. He said I was false to my house, to my
bread, to my honour. He said I had smiling lips and a
Judas-heart—that I had kissed him and betrayed him. I had
given him my promise never to hold intercourse with M. de Mar
again, I had given my word to be true to my house. M. de Mar came
by no will of mine. I had no inkling of such purpose till I beheld
him before madame and her ladies. He came to entreat me to
fly—to wed him. I denied him, Sire. I sent him away. But was
I to say to the guard, 'This way, gentlemen. This is my
lover'?"</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," the king exclaimed, "good hap that you have
turned your back on the house of Lorraine. Here, if we are but
rough soldiers, we know how to tender you."</p>
<p>"It was not for myself I came," she said more quietly. "My lord
had the right to chasten me. I am his ward, and I did deceive him.
But while he foamed at me came word of M. de Mar's capture. Then
Mayenne swore he should pay for this dear. He said he should be
found guilty of the murder. He said plenty of witnesses would swear
to it. He said M. de Mar should be tortured to make him
confess."</p>
<p>With an oath Monsieur sprang forward.</p>
<p>"Aye," she cried, starting up, "he swore M. de Mar should suffer
the preparatory and the previous, the estrapade and the
brodekins!"</p>
<p>"He dare not," the king shouted. "Mordieu, he dare not!"</p>
<p>"Sire," she cried, "you can promise him that for every blow he
strikes Étienne de Mar you will strike me two. Mar is in his
hands, but I am in yours. For M. de Mar, unhurt, you will deliver
him me, unhurt. If he torture Mar, you will torture me."</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," the king cried, "rather shall he torture every
chevalier in France than I touch a hair of your head!"</p>
<p>"Sire—" the word died away in a sigh; like a snapt rose
she fell at his feet.</p>
<p>The king was quick, but Monsieur quicker. On his knees beside
her, raising her head on his arm, he commanded me:</p>
<p>"Up-stairs, Félix! The door at the back—bid Dame
Verney come instantly."</p>
<p>I flew, and was back to find him risen, holding mademoiselle in
his arms. Her hair lay loose over his shoulder like a rippling
flag; her lashes clung to her cheeks as they would never lift
more.</p>
<p>"St. Quentin," his Majesty was saying, "I would have married her
to a prince. But since she wants your son she shall have him,
ventre-saint-gris, if I storm Paris to-morrow!" And as Monsieur was
carrying her from the room, the king bent over and kissed her.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle has dropped a packet from her dress," M. de Rosny
said. "Will you take it, St. Quentin?"</p>
<p>The king, who was nearest, turned to pass it to him; at the
sight of it he uttered his dear "ventre-saint-gris!" It was a flat,
oblong packet, tied about with common twine, the seal cut out. The
king twitched the string off, and with one rapid glance at the
papers put them into Monsieur's hand.</p>
<p>"Take them, St. Quentin; they are yours."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXIX" id="XXIX"></a>XXIX</h2>
<h3><i>The two dukes.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-m.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>ademoiselle being given into Dame Verney's motherly hands,
Gilles and I were ordered to repose ourselves on the skins in the
saddler's shop. Lying there in the malodourous gloom, I could see
the crack of light under the door at the back and hear, between
Gilles's snores, the murmur of voices. The king and his gentlemen
were planning to save my master; I went to sleep in perfect
peace.</p>
<p>At daybreak, even before the saddler opened the shop, Monsieur
routed us out.</p>
<p>"I'm off for Paris, lads. Félix comes with me. Gilles
stays to guard mademoiselle."</p>
<p>I felt not a little injured, deeming that I, whom mademoiselle
knew best, should not be the one chosen to stay by her. But the
sting passed quickly. After all, Paris was likely to be more
exciting than St. Denis.</p>
<p>The day being Friday, we delayed not to eat, but straightway
mounted the two nags that a sunburnt Béarn pikeman had
brought to the door. As we walked them gently across the square,
which at this rath hour we alone shared with the twittering birds,
we saw coming down one of the empty streets the hurrying figure of
M. de Rosny. My lord drew rein at once.</p>
<p>"You are no slugabed, St. Quentin," the young councillor called.
"I deserved to miss you. Fear not! I come not to hinder you, but to
wish you God-speed."</p>
<p>"Now, this is kind, Rosny," Monsieur answered, grasping his
hand. "The more that you don't approve me."</p>
<p>Rosny smiled, like a sudden burst of sunshine in a December day.
Another man's embrace would have meant less.</p>
<p>"I approve you so much, St. Quentin, that I cannot composedly
see you putting your head into the lion's jaws."</p>
<p>"My head is used to the pillow. Do the teeth close, I am no
worse off than my son."</p>
<p>"Your death makes your son's no easier."</p>
<p>"Why, what else to do, Rosny?" Monsieur exclaimed. "Mishandle
the lady? Storm Paris? Sell the Cause?"</p>
<p>"I would we could storm Paris," Rosny sighed. "It would suit me
better to seize the prisoner than to sue for him. But Paris is not
ripe for us yet. You know my plan—to send to Villeroi. I
believe he could manage this thing."</p>
<p>"I am second to none," Monsieur said politely, "in my admiration
of M. de Villeroi's abilities. But to reach him is uncertain; what
he can or will do, uncertain. Étienne de Mar is not
Villeroi's son; he is mine."</p>
<p>"Aye, it is your business," Rosny assented. "It is yours to take
your way."</p>
<p>"A mad way, but mine. But come, now, Rosny, you must admit that
once or twice, when all your wiseacres were deadlocked, my madness
has served."</p>
<p>Rosny took Monsieur's hand in a silent grip.</p>
<p>"Maximilien," the duke said, smiling down on him, "what a pity
you are a scamp of a heretic!"</p>
<p>"Henri," Rosny returned gravely, "I would you had had the good
fortune to be born in the Religion."</p>
<p>Again he wished us God-speed, and we gathered up our reins. As
we turned the corner I glanced back to find him still standing as
we had left him, gazing soberly after us.</p>
<p>The man who was going into the lion's den was far less solemn
over it. By fits and starts, as he thought on his son's great
danger, he contrived a gloomy countenance: but Monsieur had ridden
all his life with Hope on the pillion; she did not desert him now.
As we cantered steadily along in the fresh, cool morning, he
already pictured M. Étienne released. However mad he
acknowledged his errand to be, I think he was scarce visited by a
doubt of its success. It was impossible to him that his son should
not be saved.</p>
<p>We entered with perfect ease the gate of Paris, and took our way
without hesitancy through the busiest streets. Nowhere did the
guard spring on us, but, instead, more than once, the passers-by
gathered in knots, the tradesmen and artisans ran out of their
shops to cheer St. Quentin, to cheer France, to cheer peace, to
cheer to the echo the Catholic king.</p>
<p>"I hope Mayenne hears them," Monsieur said to me, doffing his
hat to a big farrier who had come out of his smithy waving
impudently in the eye of all the world the white flag of the
king.</p>
<p>We kept a brisk pace alike where they cheered us and where, in
other streets, they scowled and hooted at us, so that I looked out
for men with pistols in second-story windows. But, friend or foe,
none stopped us till at length we drew rein before the grilles of
the Hôtel de Lorraine.</p>
<p>They made no demur at admitting us. Monsieur went into the
house, while I led the horses to the stables, where three or four
grooms at once volunteered to rub them down, in eagerness to pump
their guardian. But before the fellows had had time to get much out
of me came Jean Marchand, all unrecognizing, to summon me indoors.
I followed him in delight, partly for curiosity, partly because it
had seemed to me when the doorway swallowed Monsieur that I might
never see him more. Jean ushered me into the well-remembered
council-room, where Monsieur stood alone, surprised at the sight of
me.</p>
<p>"A lackey came for me," I said. "Look, Monsieur, that's where we
shut up Lucas."</p>
<p>I ceased hastily, for I knew the step in the corridor.</p>
<p>It was difficult to credit mademoiselle's tale, to believe that
Mayenne could ever be in a rage. In he came, big and calm and
smiling, whatever emotion he may have felt at Monsieur's arrival
not only buried, but with a flower-bed blooming over it. He greeted
his guest with all the courteous ease of an unruffled conscience
and a kindly heart. Not till his glance fell on me did he show any
sign of discomposure.</p>
<p>"What, you!" he exclaimed brusquely.</p>
<p>"Your servant brought him hither," Monsieur said for me.</p>
<p>"I understood that one of your gentlemen had come with you. I
sent for him, deeming his presence might conduce to your ease, M.
de St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"I am at my ease, M. de Mayenne," my lord answered, with every
appearance of truth. "You may go, Félix."</p>
<p>"No," said Mayenne. "Since he is here, he may stay. He serves
the purpose as well as another."</p>
<p>He did not say what the purpose was, nor could I see for what he
had kept me, unless as a sign to Monsieur that he meant to play
fair. I began to feel somewhat heartened.</p>
<p>"You have guessed, M. de Mayenne, my errand?"</p>
<p>"Certainly. You have come to join the League."</p>
<p>Monsieur laughed out.</p>
<p>"On the contrary, M. de Mayenne, I have come to persuade you to
join the King."</p>
<p>"That was a waste of horse-flesh."</p>
<p>"My friend, you know as well as we do that before long you will
come over."</p>
<p>"I am not there yet, nor are my enemies scattered, nor is the
League dead."</p>
<p>"Dying, my lord. It will get its coup de grâce o' Sunday,
when the king goes to mass."</p>
<p>"St. Quentin," Mayenne made quiet answer, "when I am in such
case that nothing remains to me but to fall on my sword or to kneel
to Henry, be assured I shall kneel to Henry. Till then I play my
game."</p>
<p>"Play it, then. We have the patience to wait for you, monsieur.
Be assured, in your turn, that when you do come on your knees to
his Majesty you will do well to have a friend or two at court."</p>
<p>"Morbleu," Mayenne cried, suddenly showing his teeth, "you will
never go back to him if I choose to stop you!"</p>
<p>Monsieur raised his eyebrows at him, pained by the
unsuavity.</p>
<p>"Of course not, monsieur. I quite understood that when I entered
the gate. I shall never leave this house if you will
otherwise."</p>
<p>"You will leave the house unharmed," Mayenne said curtly. "I
shall not treat you as your late master treated my brother."</p>
<p>"I thank your generosity, monsieur, and commend your good
sense."</p>
<p>Mayenne looked for a moment as if he repented of both. Then he
broke into a laugh.</p>
<p>"One permits the insolences of the court jester."</p>
<p>Monsieur sprang up, his hand on his sword. But at once the quick
flush passed from his face, and he, too, laughed.</p>
<p>Mayenne sat as he was, in somewhat lowering silence. My duke
made a step nearer him, and spoke for the first time with perfect
seriousness.</p>
<p>"My Lord Mayenne, it was no outrecuidance brought me here this
morning. There is the Bastille. There is the axe. I know that my
course has been offensive to you—your nephew proved me that.
I know also that you do not care to meddle with me openly. At
least, you have not meddled. Whether you will change your
method—but I venture to believe not. I am popular just now in
Paris. I had more cheers as I came in this morning than have met
your ears for many a month. You have a great name for prudence, M.
de Mayenne; I believe you will not molest me."</p>
<p>I hardly thought my duke was making a great name for prudence.
But then, as he said, he had to work in his own way. Mayenne
returned, with chilling calm:</p>
<p>"You may find me, St. Quentin, less timid than you suppose."</p>
<p>"Impossible. Mayenne's courage is unquestioned. I rely not on
his timidity, but on his judgment."</p>
<p>"You take a great deal upon yourself in supposing that I wanted
your death on Tuesday and do not want it on Friday."</p>
<p>"The king is three days nearer the true faith than on Tuesday.
His party is three days stronger. On Tuesday it would have been a
blunder to kill me; on Friday it is three days worse a
blunder."</p>
<p>"But not less a pleasure. I have had something of the kind in
mind ever since your master killed my brother."</p>
<p>"You should profit by that murderer's experience before you take
a leaf from his book, M. de Mayenne. Henry of Valois gained
singularly little when he slew Guise to make you head of the
League."</p>
<p>Mayenne started, and then laughed to show his scorn of the
flattery. But I think he was, all the same, half pleased, none the
less because he knew it to be flattery. He said unexpectedly:</p>
<p>"Your son comes honestly by his unbound tongue."</p>
<p>"Ah, my son! Now that you mention him, we shall discuss him a
little. You have put my son, monsieur, in the Bastille."</p>
<p>"No; Belin and my nephew Paul, whom you know, have put him
there."</p>
<p>"But M. de Mayenne can get him out if he choose."</p>
<p>"If he choose."</p>
<p>Monsieur sat down again, with the air of one preparing for an
amiable discussion.</p>
<p>"He is charged with the murder of one Pontou, a lackey. Of
course he did not commit it, nor would you care if he had. His real
offence is making love to your ward."</p>
<p>"Well, do you deny it?"</p>
<p>"Not the love, but the offence of it. Palpably you might do much
worse than dispose of the lady to my heir."</p>
<p>"I might do much better than bestow my time on you if that is
all you have to say."</p>
<p>"We have hardly opened the subject, M. de Mayenne—"</p>
<p>"I have no wish to carry it further."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, the king's ranks afford no better match than my
heir."</p>
<p>"No maid of mine shall ever marry a Royalist."</p>
<p>"I swore no son of mine should ever marry a Leaguer, but I have
come to see the error of my ways, as you will see yours, Mayenne.
It is for you to choose where among the king's forces you will
marry mademoiselle."</p>
<p>A vague uneasiness, a fear which he would not own a fear, crept
into Mayenne's eyes. He studied the face before him, a face of gay
challenge, and said, at length, not quite confidently himself:</p>
<p>"You speak with a confidence, St. Quentin."</p>
<p>"Why, to be sure."</p>
<p>Mayenne jumped heavily to his feet.</p>
<p>"What mean you?"</p>
<p>"I mean that mademoiselle's marrying is in my hands. Where is
your ward, M. de Mayenne?"</p>
<p>"Mordieu! Have you found her?"</p>
<p>"You speak sooth."</p>
<p>"In your hôtel—"</p>
<p>"No, eager kinsman. In a place whither you cannot follow
her."</p>
<p>Mayenne looked about, as if with some instinctive idea of
seeking a weapon, of summoning his soldiers.</p>
<p>"By God's throne, you shall tell me where!"</p>
<p>"With pleasure. She is at St. Denis."</p>
<p>Mayenne cried helplessly, as numbed under a blow:</p>
<p>"St. Denis! But how—"</p>
<p>"How came she there? On foot, every step. I suppose she never
walked two streets in her life before, has she, M. de Mayenne? But
she tramped to St. Denis through the dark, to knock at my door at
one in the morning."</p>
<p>Mayenne seized Monsieur's wrist.</p>
<p>"She is safe, St. Quentin? She is safe?"</p>
<p>"As safe, monsieur, as the king's protection can make her."</p>
<p>"Pardieu! Is she with the king?"</p>
<p>"She is at my lodgings, in the care of the saddler's wife who
lets them. I left a staunch man in charge—I have no doubt of
him."</p>
<p>"You answer for her safety?" Mayenne cried huskily; his breath
coming short. He was flushed, the veins in his forehead corded.</p>
<p>"When she came last night, it happened that the king was there,"
Monsieur went on. "Her loveliness and her misery moved him to the
heart."</p>
<p>"Thousand thunders of heaven! You, with your son, shall be
hostages for her safe return."</p>
<p>"The king," Monsieur went on, as immovably as Mayenne himself at
his best, "with that warm heart of his pitying beauty in distress,
is eager for mademoiselle's marriage with her lover Mar. But he did
not favour my venture here; he called it a silly business. He said
you would clap me in jail, and he told me flat I might rot my life
out there before he would give up to you Mlle. de Montluc."</p>
<p>"Well, then, pardieu, we'll try if he means it!"</p>
<p>"He gave me to understand that he meant it. The St. Quentins out
of the way, there is Valère, stout Kingsman, to succeed. The
king loses little."</p>
<p>"Then are you gone mad that you put yourself in my grasp?"</p>
<p>"I was never saner. I come, my friend, to make you listen to
sanity."</p>
<p>I had waited from moment to moment Mayenne's summons to his
soldiers. But he had not rung, and now he flung himself down again
in his arm-chair.</p>
<p>"What, to your understanding, is sanity?"</p>
<p>"If you send me to join my son, monsieur, you leave mademoiselle
without a protector, friendless, penniless, in the midst of a
hostile army cursing the name of Mayenne. Have you reared her
delicately, tenderly, for that?"</p>
<p>Mayenne sat silent, his face a mask. It was impossible to tell
whether the shot hit. Monsieur went on:</p>
<p>"You can of course hold us in durance, torture us, kill us; but
you must answer for it to the people of Paris."</p>
<p>Still was Mayenne silent, drumming on the edge of the table.
Finally he said roughly, as if the words were dragged from him
against his will:</p>
<p>"I shall not torture you. I never meant to torture Mar. The
arrest was not my work. Since it was done, I meant to profit by it
to keep him awhile out of my way—only that. I threatened my
cousin otherwise in heat of passion. But I shall not torture him. I
shall not kill him."</p>
<p>"Monsieur—"</p>
<p>"I put a card in your hand," Mayenne said curtly. His pride ill
brooked to concede the point, but he could not have it supposed
that he did not see what he was doing. "I give you a card. Do what
you can with it."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, you show what little surprises me—knightly
generosity. It is to that generosity I appeal."</p>
<p>"Is the horse of that colour? But now you were frightening my
prudence."</p>
<p>"Ah, but how fortunate the man to whom generosity and prudence
point the same path!"</p>
<p>It may have been but pretence, this smiling bonhomie of
Monsieur's. Mayenne doubtless gauged it as such, but, at any rate,
he suffered it to warm him. He regained of a sudden all the
amiability with which he had greeted his guest. Smiling and calm,
he answered:</p>
<p>"St. Quentin, I care little for either your threats or your
cajoleries. They amuse me alike, and move me not. But I have a care
for my sweet cousin. Since you threaten me with her danger, you
have the whiphand."</p>
<p>Now it was Monsieur's turn to sit discreetly silent,
waiting.</p>
<p>"I went last night to tell the child I would not harm her lover.
Lo! she had flown. I had a regiment searching Paris for her. I was
in the streets myself till dawn."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, she made her way to us at St. Denis to offer herself
to our torture did you torture Mar."</p>
<p>"Morbleu!" Mayenne cried, half rising.</p>
<p>"God's mercy, we're not ruffians out there! I tell it to show
you to what the maid was strung."</p>
<p>"I never thought it great matter whom one married," Mayenne said
slowly: "one boy is much like another. I should have mated her as
befitted her station—I thought she would be happy enough. And
she was good about it: I did not see how deep she cared. She was
docile till I drove her too hard. She's a loving child. You are
fortunate in your daughter, St. Quentin."</p>
<p>Monsieur sprang up radiant, advancing on him open-armed. Mayenne
added, with his cool smile:</p>
<p>"You need not flatter yourself, Monsieur, that it is your doing.
I laugh at your threats. 'Twere sport to me to clap you behind
bars, to say to your king, to the mob you brag of, 'Come, now, get
him out.'"</p>
<p>"Then," cried Monsieur, "I must value my sweet daughter more
than ever."</p>
<p>He was standing over Mayenne with outstretched hand, but the
chief delayed taking it.</p>
<p>"Not quite so fast, my friend. If I yield up the Duc de St.
Quentin, the Comte de Mar, and Mlle. Lorance de Montluc, I demand
certain little concessions for myself."</p>
<p>"By all means, monsieur. You stamp us churls else."</p>
<p>My duke sat again, his smile a shade uneasy. Which Mayenne
perceived with quiet enjoyment, as he went on blandly: "Nothing
that I could ask of you, M. de St. Quentin, could equal, could
halve, what I give. Still, that the knightliness may not be, to
your mortification, all on one side, I have thought of something
for you to grant."</p>
<p>"Name it, monsieur."</p>
<p>"Another point in your favour I had forgot," Mayenne observed,
with his usual reluctance to show his cards even when the time had
come to spread them. "Last night I laid on this table a packet,
just arrived, which I was told belonged to you. When I had time to
think of it again, it had vanished. I accused my lackeys, but later
it occurred to me that Mlle. de Montluc, arming for battle, had
purloined it."</p>
<p>"Your shrewdness does you credit."</p>
<p>"You see you have scored a fourth point, though again by no
prowess of your own. Therefore am I emboldened to demand what I
want."</p>
<p>"Even to half my fortune—"</p>
<p>"No, not your gear. Save that for your Béarnais's itching
palm."</p>
<p>"Then what the devil is it you want? You will not get my name in
the League."</p>
<p>"I am glad my nephew Paul bungled that affair of his," Mayenne
went on at his own pace. "It might have been a blunder to kill you;
it had certainly been a pity. Though we Lorraines have two murders
to avenge, I have changed my mind about beginning with yours."</p>
<p>"You are wise, monsieur. I am, after all, a harmless
creature."</p>
<p>Mayenne laughed.</p>
<p>"Natheless have you done your best here in Paris to undermine
me. Did I let you carry on your little works unhindered, they might
in time annoy me. Therefore I request that so long as I stay in
Paris you stay out."</p>
<p>"Oh, I don't like that!"</p>
<p>The naïveté amazed while it amused Mayenne.</p>
<p>"Possibly not, but you will consent to it. You will ride out of
my court, when we have finished some necessary signing of papers,
straight to the St. Denis gate. And you will pledge me your honour
to make no attempt hereafter to enter so long as the city is
mine."</p>
<p>Mayenne was smiling broadly, Monsieur frowning. He relished the
condition little. He was enjoying himself much in Paris, his
dangers, his successes, his biting his thumb at the power of the
League. To be killed at his post was nothing, but to be bundled
away from it to inglorious safety, that stuck in his gorge. For a
moment he actually hesitated. Then he began to laugh at his own
hesitation.</p>
<p>"Well, ma foi! what do I expect? To walk, a rabbit, into the
lion's den and make my own terms to Leo? I am happy to accept
yours, M. de Mayenne, especially since, do I refuse, you will none
the less pack me off."</p>
<p>"You mistake, St. Quentin. You are welcome to spend the rest of
your days with me."</p>
<p>"In the Bastille?"</p>
<p>"Or in the League."</p>
<p>"The former is preferable."</p>
<p>"You may count yourself thrice fortunate, then, that a third
alternative is given you."</p>
<p>"It needs not the reminder. You have treated me as a prince
indeed. Be assured the St. Quentins will not forget."</p>
<p>"Every one forgets."</p>
<p>"Perhaps. But when you need our good offices we shall not have
had time to forget."</p>
<p>"Pardieu, St. Quentin, you have good courage to tell me to my
head my course is run!"</p>
<p>"My dear Mayenne, none punishes the maunderings of the court
jester."</p>
<p>Monsieur laughed out with a gay gusto; after a moment Mayenne
laughed too. My duke cried quickly, rising and walking the length
of the table to his host:</p>
<p>"You have dealt with me munificently, Mayenne. You have kept
back but one thing I want. That is yourself. You know you must come
over to us sooner or later. Come now!"</p>
<p>The other did not flame out at Monsieur, but answered
coldly:</p>
<p>"I have no taste to be Navarre's vassal."</p>
<p>"Better his than Spain's."</p>
<p>Mayenne shrugged his shoulders, his face at its stolidest.</p>
<p>"Well, I am no astrologer to read the future."</p>
<p>Monsieur laid an emphatic hand on his host's shoulder.</p>
<p>"But I read it, my friend. I see a French land under a French
king, a Catholic and a gallant fellow, faithful to old friends,
friendly to old foes. I see the dear land at peace at last, the
looms humming, the mills clacking, wheat growing thick on the
battle-fields."</p>
<p>Mayenne looked up with a grim smile.</p>
<p>"I have still a field or two to water for that wheat. My
compliments to your new master, St. Quentin; you may tell him from
me that when I submit, I submit. When I have made my surrender,
from that hour forth am I his hound to lick his hand, to guard and
obey him. Till then, let him beware of my teeth! While I have one
pikeman to my back, one sou in my pouch, I fight my cause."</p>
<p>"And when you have none, you yet have three pairs of hands at
Henry's court to pull you up out of the mire."</p>
<p>"I thank their graciousness, though I shall never need their
offices," Mayenne said grandly. He stood there stately and proud
and confident, the picture of princeliness and strength. Last night
at St. Denis it had seemed to me that no power could defy my king.
Now it seemed to me that no king could nick the power of my Lord
Mayenne. When suddenly, precisely like a mummer who in his great
moment winks at you to let you know it is make-believe, the
general-duke's dignity melted into a smile.</p>
<p>"After all," he said, "it's as well to lay an anchor to
windward."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXX" id="XXX"></a>XXX</h2>
<h3><i>My young lord settles scores with two foes at once.</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-o.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>ccupied in wrangling with the grooms over the merits of our
several stables, with the soldiers over politics and the armies, I
awaited in a shady corner of the court the conclusion of
formalities. I had just declared that King Henry would be in Paris
within a week, and was on the point of getting my crown cracked for
it, when, as if for the very purpose—save the mark!—of
rescuing me, entered from the street Lucas. He approached rapidly,
eyes straight in front of him, heeding us no whit; but all the
loungers turned to stare at him. Even then he paid no heed, passing
us without a glance. But the tall d'Auvray bespoke him.</p>
<p>"M. de Lorraine! Any news?"</p>
<p>He started and turned to us in half-absent surprise, as if he
had not known of our presence nor, indeed, quite realized it now.
He was both pale and rumpled, like one who has not closed an eye
all night.</p>
<p>"Any news here?" he made Norman answer.</p>
<p>"No, monsieur, unless his Grace has information. We have heard
nothing."</p>
<p>"And the woman?"</p>
<p>"Sticks to it mademoiselle told her never a word."</p>
<p>Lucas stood still, his eyes travelling dully over the group of
us, as if he expected somewhere to find help. At the same time he
was not in the least thinking of us. He looked straight at me for a
full minute before he awoke to my identity.</p>
<p>"You!"</p>
<p>"Yes, M. de Lorraine," I said, with all the respectfulness I
could muster, which may not have been much. Considering our
parting, I was ready for any violence. But after the first moment
of startlement he regarded me in a singularly lack-lustre way,
while he inquired without apparent resentment how I came there.</p>
<p>"With M. le Duc de St. Quentin," I grinned at him. "We and M. de
Mayenne are friends now."</p>
<p>I could not rouse him even to curiosity, it seemed. But he
turned abruptly to the men with more life than he had yet
shown.</p>
<p>"You've not told this fellow?"</p>
<p>"We understand our orders, monsieur," d'Auvray answered, a bit
huffed.</p>
<p>Now this was eminently the place for me to hold my tongue, but
of course I could not.</p>
<p>"They had no need to tell me, M. de Lorraine. I know quite well
what the trouble is. I know rather more about it than you do
yourself."</p>
<p>He confronted me now with all the fire I could ask.</p>
<p>"What mean you, whelp?"</p>
<p>"I mean mademoiselle. What else should I mean?"</p>
<p>"What do you know?"</p>
<p>"Everything."</p>
<p>"Her whereabouts?"</p>
<p>"Her whereabouts."</p>
<p>He had his hand to his knife by this. I abated somewhat of my
drawl to say, still airily:</p>
<p>"Go ask M. de St. Quentin. He's here. He'll be so glad to see
you."</p>
<p>"Here?"</p>
<p>"Certes. He's closeted now with M. de Mayenne. They're thicker
than brothers. Go see for yourself, M.—Lucas."</p>
<p>"Where is mademoiselle?"</p>
<p>"Safe. She's to marry the Comte de Mar to-morrow."</p>
<p>He stared at me for one moment, weighing whether this could be
true; then without further parley he shot into the house.</p>
<p>"Is that true?" d'Auvray demanded.</p>
<p>Their tongues loosened now, they flooded me with questions
concerning mademoiselle, which I answered warily as I could,
heartily repenting me by this of baiting Lucas. No good could come
of it. He might even turn Mayenne from his bargain, upset all our
triumph. I hardly heard what the soldiers said to me; I was almost
nervous enough, wild enough, to dash up-stairs after him. But that
was no help. I stayed where I was, fevered with anxiety.</p>
<p>At the end of five minutes he came out of the house again, and,
without a glance at us, went straight through the gate with the
step and air of a man who knows what he is about. I was no easier
in my mind though I saw him gone.</p>
<p>Soon on his steps came a lackey to order M. de St. Quentin's
horses and two musketeers to mount and ride with him. On reaching
the door with the nags, I discovered I was not to be of the party;
our second steed must carry gear of mademoiselle's and her
handwoman, a hard-faced peasant, silent as a stone. Though the men
quizzed her, asking if she were glad to get to her mistress again,
whether she had known all this time the lady's whereabouts, she
answered no single word, but busied herself seeing the horse loaded
to her notion. Presently, in the guidance of Pierre, Monsieur
appeared.</p>
<p>"You stay, Félix, and go to the Bastille for your master.
Then you will wait at the St. Denis gate for Vigo, with
horses."</p>
<p>"Is all right, Monsieur?" I had to ask, as I held his stirrup.
"Is all right? Lucas—"</p>
<p>His face had been a little clouded as he came down the stairs,
and now it darkened more, but he answered:</p>
<p>"Quite right, Achates. M. de Mayenne stands to his word. Lucas
availed nothing."</p>
<p>He stood a moment frowning, then his countenance cleared up.</p>
<p>"My faith! I have enough to gladden me without fretting that
Lucas is alive. Fare you well, Félix. You are like to reach
St. Denis as soon as I. My son's horse will not lag."</p>
<p>He sprang to the saddle with a smiling salute to his guardians,
and the little train clattered off.</p>
<p>Pierre came to my elbow with an open paper—the order
signed and sealed for M. de Mar's release.</p>
<p>"Here, my young cockerel, you and d'Auvray are to take this to
the Bastille, and it will be strange if your master does not walk
free again. His Grace bids you tell M. de Mar he remembers
Wednesday night, underground."</p>
<p>"And I remember Tuesday night in the council-room, Pierre," I
was beginning, but he cut me short. Even now that I was in favour,
he risked no mention of his disobedience. He packed me off with
d'Auvray on the instant; I had no chance to ask him whether he
suspected us yesterday. Sometimes I have thought he did, but I am
bound to say he gave us no look to show it.</p>
<p>D'Auvray and I walked straight across Paris to the many-towered
Bastille. It seemed a little way. Before the potent name of Mayenne
bars flew open; a sentry on guard in the court led us into a small
room all stone, floor, walls, ceiling, where sat at the table some
high official, perhaps the governor of the prison himself. He was
an old campaigner, grizzled and weather-beaten, his right sleeve
hanging empty. An interesting figure, no doubt, but I paid him
scant attention, for at his side stood Lucas.</p>
<p>"I come on M. de Mayenne's business," he was expostulating,
vehement, yet civil. "I suppose he did not think it necessary to
write the order, since you know me."</p>
<p>"The regulations, M. de Lorraine—" The officer broke off
to demand of our escort, "Well, what now?"</p>
<p>I went straight up to him, not waiting permission, and held out
my paper.</p>
<p>"An order, if it please you, monsieur, for the Comte de Mar's
release."</p>
<p>Lucas's hand went out to snatch and crumple it; then his
clenched fist dropped to his side. It seemed as if his eyes would
blacken the paper with their fire.</p>
<p>"Just that—the requisition for M. de Mar's release," the
officer told him, looking up from it. "All perfectly regular and in
order. In five minutes, M. de Lorraine, the Comte de Mar shall be
before you. You may have all the conversation you wish."</p>
<p>Lucas's face was as blank as the wall.</p>
<p>"I am a soldier, and a soldier's orders must be obeyed," the
officer went on to explain, evidently not caring to offend the
general's nephew. "Without the written order I could not admit your
brother of Guise. But now you can have all the conversation you
desire with M. de Mar."</p>
<p>Lucas's face did not change, save to scowl at the very name of
his brother Guise. He said curtly, "No, I must get back to his
Grace," and, barely bowing, went from the room.</p>
<p>"Now, I don't make that out," the keeper muttered in his beard.
That Lucas should be in one moment cured of his urgent need of
seeing the Comte de Mar was too much for him, but no riddle to me.
I knew he had come to stab M. Étienne in his cell. It was
his last chance, and he had missed it. I feared him no longer, for
I believed in Mayenne's faith. My master once released, Lucas could
not hurt him.</p>
<p>What was as much to the point, the officer had no doubt of
Mayenne's good faith. He went with his paper into an inner room,
where we caught sight, through the door, of big books with a clerk
or two behind them, and in a moment appeared again with a key.</p>
<p>"Since the young gentleman's a count, I'll do turnkey's office
myself," he said, his grim old battlement of a face smiling.</p>
<p>This was our day; from Mayenne down, everybody went out of his
way to pleasure us. I was suddenly emboldened by his manner.</p>
<p>"Monsieur, perhaps it is preposterous to ask, but might I go
with you?"</p>
<p>He looked at me a moment, surprised.</p>
<p>"Well, after all, why not? You too, Sir Musketeer, an you
like."</p>
<p>So the three of us, he and d'Auvray and I, went to rescue the
Comte de Mar.</p>
<p>We passed through corridor after corridor, row after row of
heavy-barred doors. The deeper we penetrated the mighty pile, the
fonder I grew of my friend Mayenne, by whose complaisance none of
these doors would shut on me. We climbed at last a steep turret
stair winding about a huge fir trunk, lighted by slits of windows
in the four-foot wall, and at the top turned down a dark passage to
a door at the end, the bolts of which, invisible to me in the
gloom, the veteran drew back with familiar hand.</p>
<p>The cell was small, with one high window through which I could
see naught but the sky. For all furniture it contained a pallet, a
stool, a bench that might serve as table. M. Étienne stood
at the window, his arm crooked around the iron bars, gazing out
over the roofs of Paris.</p>
<p>He wheeled about at the door's creaking.</p>
<p>"I go to trial, monsieur?" he asked quickly, not seeing me
behind the keeper.</p>
<p>"No, M. le Comte. The charge is cancelled. I come to set you
free."</p>
<p>I dashed in past the officer, snatching my lord's hand to
kiss.</p>
<p>"It's true, monsieur! You're free! It's all settled with
Mayenne. Monsieur's seen him; he sets you free. He said, 'In
recognizance of Wednesday night.'"</p>
<p>Incredulous joy flashed over his face, to give way to belief
without joy.</p>
<p>"Now I know she's married."</p>
<p>"Nothing of the sort!" I fairly shouted at him, dancing up and
down in my eagerness. "She's to marry M. le Comte. She's at St.
Denis with Monsieur. She's to marry you. It's all arranged. Mayenne
consents—the king—everybody. It's all settled. She
marries you."</p>
<p>Preposterous as it seemed, he could not discredit my fervour. He
followed us out of the cell and through the fortress in a radiant
daze. He half believed himself dreaming, I think, and feared to
speak lest his happiness should melt. I fancied even that he walked
lightly and gingerly, as if the slightest unwary movement might
break the spell. Not till we were actually in the open door of the
court, face to face with freedom, did he rouse himself to
acknowledge the thing real. With a joyous laugh, he turned to the
keeper:</p>
<p>"M. de La Motte, you should employ your leisure in writing down
your reflections, like the Chevalier de Montaigne. You could give
us a trenchant essay on the Ingratitude of Man. Here are you host
of the biggest inn in Paris—a pile more imposing than the
Louvre itself. Your hospitality is so eager that you insist on
entertaining me, so lavish that you lodge me for nothing, would
keep me without a murmur till the end of my life. Yet I, ingrate
that I am, depart without a thank you!"</p>
<p>"They don't leave in such case that they can very well thank me,
most of my guests," La Motte answered, with a dry smile. "You are a
fortunate man, M. de Mar."</p>
<p>"M. le Comte, will you come quietly with me to the St. Denis
gate?" d'Auvray asked him. "Or must I borrow a guard from M. de La
Motte?"</p>
<p>M. Étienne's whole face was smiling; not his lips alone,
but his eyes. Even his skin and hair seemed to have taken on a
brighter look. He glanced at d'Auvray in surprise at the absurd
question.</p>
<p>"I will come like a lamb, M. le Mousquetaire."</p>
<p>We saluted La Motte and walked merrily out into the Place
Bastille. I think I never felt so grand as when I passed through
the noble sally-port, the soldiers making no motion to hinder us,
but all saluting as if we owned the place. It had its advantage,
this making friends with Mayenne.</p>
<p>The first thing my lord did, still in the shadow of the prison,
was to come to terms with d'Auvray.</p>
<p>"See here, my friend, why must you put yourself to the fatigue
of escorting me to the gate?"</p>
<p>"Orders, monsieur. The general-duke wants to know that you get
into no mischief between here and the gate. You are banished, you
understand, from Paris."</p>
<p>"I pledge you my word I shall make no attempt to elude my fate.
I go straight to the gate. But, with all politeness to you, Sir
Musketeer, I could dispense with your company."</p>
<p>"I am a soldier, and a soldier's orders must be obeyed,"
d'Auvray quoted the keeper's words, which seemed to have impressed
him. "However, M. le Comte, if I had something to look at, I could
walk ten paces behind you and look at it."</p>
<p>"Oh, if it is a question of something to play with!" M.
Étienne laughed.</p>
<p>D'Auvray was provided with toys, and M. Étienne linked
arms with me, the soldier out of ear-shot behind us. He followed
till we were in the Rue St. Denis, when, waving his hand in
farewell, he turned his steps with the pious consciousness of duty
done. Only I looked back to see it; monsieur had forgotten his
existence.</p>
<p>"I am not proud; I don't mind being marched through the streets
by a musketeer," M. Étienne explained as we started; "but I
can't talk before him. Tell me, Félix, the story, if you
would have me live."</p>
<p>And I told him, till we almost ran blindly into the tower of the
St. Denis gate.</p>
<p>We learned of the warder that M. de St. Quentin had recently
passed out, but that nothing had been seen of his equery. No steeds
were here for us.</p>
<p>"Well, then, we'll go have a glass. But if Vigo doesn't come
soon, by my faith, I'll walk to St. Denis!"</p>
<p>But that promised glass was never drunk, nor were we to set out
at once for St. Denis; for in the door of the wine-shop we met
Lucas.</p>
<p>I had dismissed him from thought, as something out of the
reckoning, dead and done with, powerless as yesterday's broken
sword. I thought him gone out of our lives when he went out of
prison—gone forever, like last year's snow. And here within
the hour we encountered him, a naked sword in his hand, a smile on
his lips. He said, in the flower of his easy insolence:</p>
<p>"Tuesday I told you our hour would come. It is here."</p>
<p>"At your service," quoth my lord.</p>
<p>"Then it needs not to slap your face?"</p>
<p>"You insult me safely, Lucas. You have but one life. That is
forfeit, be you courteous."</p>
<p>"You think so?"</p>
<p>"I know it."</p>
<p>Lucas held out the bare sword, hilt toward us.</p>
<p>"Monsieur had a box for weapon yesterday, but as I prefer to
fight in the established way, I ventured to provide him with a
sword."</p>
<p>"Thoughtful of you, Lucas. Is this the make of sword you elect
to be killed with?"</p>
<p>He was bending the blade to try its temper. Lucas unsheathed his
own.</p>
<p>"M. de Mar may have his choice."</p>
<p>M. de Mar professed himself satisfied with the blade given
him.</p>
<p>"Have you summoned your seconds, Lucas?"</p>
<p>Lucas raised his eyebrows.</p>
<p>"Is that necessary? I thought we might settle our affairs
without delay. I confess myself impatient."</p>
<p>"Your sentiments for once are mine."</p>
<p>"It is understood you bring your spaniel with you. He will watch
that I do not spring on you before you are ready," Lucas said, with
a fine sneer.</p>
<p>"And who is to watch me?"</p>
<p>"Oh, monsieur's chivalry is notorious. Precautions are
unnecessary. It is your privilege, monsieur, to appoint the happy
spot."</p>
<p>"The spot is near at hand. Where you slew Pontou is the fitting
place for you to die."</p>
<p>"It is fitting for you to die in your own house," Lucas
amended.</p>
<p>Without further parley we turned into the Rue des Innocents, on
our way to that of the Coupejarrets.</p>
<p>Now, I had been on the watch from the first instant for foul
play. I had suspected something wrong with the sword, but my lord,
who knew, had accepted it. Then, when Lucas proposed no seconds, I
had felt sure of a trap. But his inviting my presence at the place
of our choice smelt like honesty.</p>
<p>M. Étienne remarked casually to me:</p>
<p>"Faith, there'll soon be as many ghosts in the house as you
thought you saw there—Grammont, Pontou, and now Lucas. What
ails you, lad? Footsteps on your grave?"</p>
<p>But it was not thoughts of my grave caused the shudder, but of
his. For of the three men of the lightning-flash, the third was not
Lucas, but M. Étienne. What if the vision were, after all,
the thing I had at first believed it—a portent? An appearance
not of those who had died by steel, but of those who must. One,
two, and now the third.</p>
<p>Next moment I almost laughed out in relief. It was not Pontou I
had seen, but Louis Martin. And he was living. The vision was no
omen, but a mere happening. Was I a babe to shiver so?</p>
<p>And yet Martin, if not dead, was like to die. He was in duress
as a Leaguer spy, to await King Henry's will. All who entered this
house lay under a curse. We should none of us pass out again, save
to our tombs.</p>
<p>We entered the well-remembered little passage, the
well-remembered court, where shards of glass still strewed the
pavement. Some one—the gendarmes, I fancy, when they took
away Pontou—had put a heavy padlock on the door Lucas and
Grammont left swinging.</p>
<p>"We go in by your postern, Félix," my master said. "M.
Lucas, I confess I prefer that you go first."</p>
<p>Lucas put his back to the wall.</p>
<p>"Why go farther, M. le Comte?"</p>
<p>"Do you long for interruption'?"</p>
<p>"We were not noticed coming in. The street was quiet."</p>
<p>He crossed the court abruptly and went down the alley to look
into the street.</p>
<p>"Not a soul in sight," he said, coming back. "I think we shall
not be interrupted. Still, it is wise to use every care. We will
fight, if you like, in the house."</p>
<p>He opened with his knife the fastened shutter, and leaped
lightly in. Monsieur followed. I, the last, was for closing the
shutter, but he stopped me.</p>
<p>"No; leave it wide. I have no fancy for a walk in pitch-darkness
with M. Lucas."</p>
<p>"Do we fight here?" Lucas asked, facing us in the wide, square
hall. "We can let in more light."</p>
<p>"You seem anxious, my friend, to call attention to your
whereabouts. As I am host, I designate the fighting-ground.
Up-stairs, if you please."</p>
<p>"I suppose you insist on my walking first," Lucas sneered.</p>
<p>"I request it, monsieur."</p>
<p>"With all the willingness in the world," his rogue-ship
answered, setting foot straightway on the stair and mounting
steadily, never turning to see how near we followed, or what we did
with our hands. His trust made me ashamed of our lack of it. I
almost believed we did him injustice. Yet at heart I could not
bring myself to credit him with any fair dealing.</p>
<p>We went up one flight, up two. We had left behind us the
twilight of the lower story, had not reached dawn again at the top.
We walked in blackness. Suddenly I halted.</p>
<p>"Monsieur!"</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"I heard a noise."</p>
<p>"Of course you did. The place is full of rats."</p>
<p>"It was no rat. It was footsteps."</p>
<p>We all three held still.</p>
<p>"There, monsieur. Don't you hear?"</p>
<p>"Nothing, Félix; your teeth are chattering. Cross
yourself and come on."</p>
<p>But I could not stand it.</p>
<p>"I'll go back and see, monsieur."</p>
<p>"No," Lucas said, striding back from the foot of the next
flight. "I will go."</p>
<p>We saw a glint in the gloom, monsieur's bared sword.</p>
<p>"You will go neither one of you. Hush! If we show ourselves,
there'll be no duel to-day."</p>
<p>We kept still, all three leaning over the banister, peering down
to where the white tiles picked themselves out of the floor of the
hall far beneath. We could see them better than we could see one
another. All was silent. Not so much as a rustle came up from
below. Suddenly Lucas made a step or two, as if to pass us. M.
Étienne wheeled about, raising his sword toward the spot
where from his footfalls we supposed Lucas to be.</p>
<p>"You show an eagerness to get away from me, M. de Lorraine."</p>
<p>"Not in the least, M. de Mar. This alarm is but Félix's
poltroonery, yet it prompts me to go down and close the
shutter."</p>
<p>"On the contrary, you will go up with me. Félix will
close the shutter."</p>
<p>They confronted each other, vague shapes in the darkness, each
with drawn sword. Then Lucas raised his in salute.</p>
<p>"As you will; so be some one sees to it."</p>
<p>"Go, Félix."</p>
<p>Lucas first, they mounted the last flight of stairs, and their
footsteps passed along the corridor to the room at the back. I, as
I was ordered, set my face down the stairs.</p>
<p>They might mock me as they liked, but I could not get it out of
my head that I had heard steps below. Cautiously, with a thumping
heart, I stole from stair to stair, pausing at the bottom of the
flight. I heard plainly the sound of moving above me, and of
voices; but below not a whisper, not a creak. It must have been my
silly fears. Resolved to choke them, I planted my feet boldly on
the next flight, and descended humming, to prove my ease, the
rollicky tune of Peyrot's catch. Suddenly, from not three feet off,
came the soft singing:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><i>Mirth, my love, and Folly dear</i>—</p>
</div>
<p>My knees knocked together, and the breath fluttered in my
throat. It seemed the darkness itself had given tongue. Then came a
low laugh and the muttered words:</p>
<p>"Here we are, M. de Lorraine. Are you ready?"</p>
<p>There was a stir of feet on the landing before me, behind the
voice. The house, then, was full of Lucas's cutthroats, the first
of them Peyrot. In the height of my terror, I remembered that M.
Étienne's life, too, depended on my wits, and I kept them. I
whispered, for whispering voices are hard to tell apart:</p>
<p>"Not yet. The two of them are up there. Keep quiet, and I'll
send the boy down. When you've finished him, come up."</p>
<p>"As you say, monsieur. It is your job."</p>
<p>I turned, scarce able to believe my luck, and, not daring to
run, walked up-stairs again. Prick my ears as I might, I heard no
movement after me. Actually, I had fooled Peyrot. I had gone down
to meet my death, and a tune had saved me.</p>
<p>When I reached the uppermost landing, I rushed along the passage
and into the room, flinging the door shut, locking and bolting
it.</p>
<p>They had not begun to fight, but had busied themselves clearing
the space of all obstacles. The table was pushed against the wall
in the corner by the door; the chairs were heaped one on another at
the end of the room. Both shutters were wide open. M.
Étienne, bareheaded, in his shirt, stood at guard. Lucas was
kneeling on the floor, picking up with scrupulous care some bits of
a broken plate. He sprang to his feet at sight of me.</p>
<p>"What is it?" cried M. Étienne.</p>
<p>"Cutthroats. They'll be here in a minute."</p>
<p>Even as I spoke, I heard tramping on the stairs below. My slam
of the door had warned them that something was wrong.</p>
<p>"Was that your delay?" M. Étienne shouted, springing at
his foe.</p>
<p>"I play to win!" Lucas answered, smiling.</p>
<p>The blades met; the men circled about and about. Lucas, though
he preferred to murder, knew how to duel.</p>
<p>We were doomed. With monsieur's sword for only weapon, we could
never hope to pass the gang. In another minute they would be here
to batter the door down and end us. Our consolation lay in killing
Lucas first. Yet as I watched, I feared that M. Étienne, in
the brief moments that remained to him, could not conquer him, so
shrewd and strong was Lucas's fence. Must the scoundrel win? I
started forward to play Pontou's trick. Lucas sought to murder us.
Why not we him?</p>
<p>One flash from my lord's eyes, and I retreated in despair. For I
knew that did I touch Lucas, M. Étienne would let fall his
sword, let Lucas kill him. And the bravos were on the last
flight.</p>
<p>Was there no escape? There were three doors in the room. One led
to the passage, one to the closet, the third—I dashed through
to find myself in a large empty chamber, a door wide open giving on
the passage. Through it I could see the dusky figures of four men
running up the stairs.</p>
<p>I was across the room like an arrow, and got the door shut and
bolted before they could reach the landing. The next moment some
one flung against it. It stood firm. Delaying only a moment to
shake it, three of the four I could hear run to the farther door,
whence issued the noise of the swords.</p>
<p>I, inside the wall, ran back too. The combat still raged.
Neither, that I could see, had gained the least advantage. Outside,
the murderers dashed themselves upon the door.</p>
<p>I dragged at the heavy table, and, with a strength that amazed
myself, pushed and pulled it before the door. It would make the
panels a little firmer.</p>
<p>Was there no escape? None? I ran once more into the second
chamber. Its shutters were closed; I threw them open. There was no
other door to the room, no hiding-place. There was a chimney, but
spanned a foot above the fireplace by two iron bars. The thinnest
sweep that ever wielded broom could not have squeezed between
them.</p>
<p>In despair, I ran to the window again. Top of the house as it
was, I thought I would sooner leap than be stabbed to death. I
stuck my head out. It was the same window where I had stood when
Grammont seized me. There, not ten feet away, eight at the most,
but a little above me, was the casement of my garret in the Amour
de Dieu. Would it be possible to jump and catch the sill? If I did,
I could scarce pull myself in.</p>
<p>I looked below me. There swung the sign of the Amour de Dieu.
And there beside it stood a homespun figure surely known to me.
There was no mistaking that bald pate. I yelled at the top of my
lungs:</p>
<p>"Maître Jacques!"</p>
<p>He looked up, gaping at this voice out of the sky, but, despite
his amazement, I saw that he knew me.</p>
<p>"Maître Jacques! We're being murdered! We can't get out!
Help us for the love of Christ! Bring a plank, a rope, to the
window there!"</p>
<p>For an instant he stood confounded. Then he vanished into the
inn.</p>
<p>I waited, on fire. Still from the next room sounded the clash of
steel. White shirt and black doublet passed the door in turn,
unflagging, ungaining.</p>
<p>Suddenly came a new noise from the passage, of trampling and
rending, blows and oaths. My first thought was that they were
fighting out there, that rescuers had come. Then, as I listened, I
learned better. Despairing of kicking down the door, they were
tearing out a piece of stair-rail for a battering-ram. It would not
long stand against that.</p>
<p>I ran back to the window. No Jacques appeared. We were lost,
lost!</p>
<p>Hark, from the next room a cry, a fall! Well, were it Lucas's
victory, he might kill me as well as another. I walked into the
back room. But it was Lucas who lay prone.</p>
<p>"Come, come!" I cried, clutching monsieur's wrist. But he would
not till with Lucas's own misericorde he had given him coup de
grâce.</p>
<p>Crash! Crash! The upper panel shivered in twain. A great
splinter six inches wide, hanging from the top, blocked the
opening. A hand came through to wrench it away.</p>
<p>M. Étienne, across the room at a leap, drove his knife
through the hand, nailing it to the wood. On the instant he
recognized its owner.</p>
<p>"Good morning, Peyrot. We've recovered the packet."</p>
<p>Not waiting for further amenities, I seized my lord and dashed
him into the front room, only a faint hope to lead me, but the
oaths of the bravos a good spur. And, St. Quentin be thanked, there
in the garret window were Jacques and his tapsters, pushing a
ladder to us.</p>
<p>"Go, monsieur! There are four behind us. Go!"</p>
<p>"You first!"</p>
<p>But I, who had snatched up his sword as he stabbed Lucas, ran
back to guard the door. He had the sense to see there was no good
arguing. Crying, "Quick after me, Félix!" he crawled out on
the ladder.</p>
<p>Peyrot was released. Another blow from the ram, and the door
fell to finders. They leaped in over the table like a freshet over
a dam. I darted to the window. M. Étienne was in the garret,
helping hold the ladder for me. I flung myself upon it all too
eagerly. Like a lath it snapped.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="XXXI" id="XXXI"></a>XXXI</h2>
<h3><i>"The very pattern of a king."</i></h3>
<div class="par"><img src="images/letter-t.png" width="30%" alt=""
title="" /></div>
<p>he next world appeared to be strangely like this. I found myself
lying on a straw bed in a little low attic, my head resting
comfortably on some one's shoulder, while some one else poured wine
down my gullet. Presently I discovered that Maître Jacques's
was the ministering hand, M. Étienne's the shoulder. After
all, this was not heaven, but still Paris.</p>
<p>I had no desire to speak so long as the flow of old Jacques's
best Burgundy continued; but when he saw my eyes wide open, he
stopped, and I said, my voice, to my surprise, very faint and
quavery:</p>
<p>"What happened?"</p>
<p>"Dear, brave lad! You fainted!"</p>
<p>My lord's voice was as unsteady as mine.</p>
<p>"But the ladder?" I murmured.</p>
<p>"The ladder broke. But you had hold beyond the break. You hung
on till we seized you. And then you swooned."</p>
<p>"What a baby!" I said, getting to my feet. "But the men,
monsieur? Peyrot?"</p>
<p>"I think we've seen the last of those worthies. They took to
their heels when you escaped them."</p>
<p>"But, monsieur, they've gone to inform! You'll be taken for
killing Lucas."</p>
<p>"I doubt it. Themselves smell too strong of blood to dare bruit
the matter. Natheless, if you can walk now, we'll make good time to
the gate."</p>
<p>But for all his haste, he would not start till I had had some
bread and soup down in the kitchen.</p>
<p>"We must take good care of you, boy Félix," he said. "For
where the St. Quentins would be without you, I tremble to
think."</p>
<p>I set out a new man. In three steps, it seemed to me, we had
reached the city gate, to find the way blocked by a company of
twenty or thirty horse, the St. Quentin uniform flaunting gay in
the sun. The nearest trooper set up a shout at sight of us, when
Vigo, coming out suddenly from behind a nag, took M. le Comte in
his big embrace. He released him immediately, looking immensely
startled at his own demonstration.</p>
<p>M. Étienne laughed out at him.</p>
<p>"Be more careful, I beg you, Vigo! You will make me imagine
myself of some importance."</p>
<p>"I thought you swallowed up," Vigo growled. "You had been
here—I couldn't get a trace of you."</p>
<p>"I was killing Lucas."</p>
<p>"Sacré! He's dead?"</p>
<p>"Dead."</p>
<p>"That's the best morning's work ever you did, M.
Étienne."</p>
<p>"Have you horse for us, Vigo?"</p>
<p>"Of course. Some of the men will walk. I suppose we're leaving
Paris to buy you out of the Bastille?"</p>
<p>"Not worth it, eh, Vigo?"</p>
<p>"Yes," said Vigo, gravely—"yes, M. Étienne. You are
worth it."</p>
<p>Vigo's troop was but slow-moving, as some of the horses carried
double, some were loaded with chattels. M. Étienne and I, on
the duke's blood-chargers, soon left the cavalcade behind us.
Before I knew it, we were halted at the outpost of the camp. My
lord gave his name.</p>
<p>"To be sure!" cried the sentry. "We've orders about you. You
dine with the king, M. de Mar."</p>
<p>"Mordieu! I do?"</p>
<p>"You do. Orders are to take you to him out of hand.
Captain!"</p>
<p>The officer lounged out of the tavern door.</p>
<p>"Captain, M. de Mar."</p>
<p>"Oh, aye!" cried the captain, coming forward with brisk
interest. "M. de Mar, you're the child of luck. You dine with the
king."</p>
<p>"I am the child of bewilderment, captain."</p>
<p>"And you've not too much time to recover from it, M. le Comte.
You are to go straight to the king."</p>
<p>"I may go to M. de St. Quentin's lodgings first?"</p>
<p>"No, monsieur; straight to the king."</p>
<p>"What! in my shirt?"</p>
<p>"I can't help it, monsieur," the captain laughed. "I suppose the
king did not guess you were coming in your shirt. Anyway, his order
was to fetch you direct. And direct you go. But never care. Our
king's no stickler for toggery. He's known what it is himself to
lack for a coat."</p>
<p>"I might wash my face, then."</p>
<p>"Certainly. No harm in that."</p>
<p>So M. Étienne went into the tournebride and washed his
face. And that was all the toilet he made for audience with the
greatest king in the world.</p>
<p>"You'll ride to Monsieur's," he commanded me, when the captain
answered:</p>
<p>"No; he goes with you, monsieur, if he's the boy Choux, Troux,
whatever it is."</p>
<p>"Broux—Félix Broux!" I cried, a-quiver.</p>
<p>"That's it. You go to the king, too. Another luck-child."</p>
<p>I thought so indeed. We followed the sentry through the town in
a waking dream, content to let him do with us as he would. He did
the talking, explained to the grandees in the king's hall our names
and errand. One of them led us up the stairs and knocked at a
closed door.</p>
<p>"Enter!"</p>
<p>It was Henry's own voice. I pinched monsieur's hand to tell him.
Our guide opened the door a crack.</p>
<p>"M. de Mar, Sire, and his servant."</p>
<p>"Good, La Force. Let them enter."</p>
<p>M. La Force fairly pushed us over the sill, so abashed were we,
and shut the door upon us.</p>
<p>The king was alone. But before this simple gentleman in the
rusty black, M. Étienne caught his breath as he had not done
before a court in full pomp. He had seen courts, but he had never
seen the first soldier of Europe. He advanced three steps into the
room, and forgot to kneel, forgot to lower his gaze in the
presence, but merely stared wide-eyed at majesty, as majesty stared
at him. Thus they stood surveying each other from top to toe in the
frankest curiosity, till at length the king spoke:</p>
<p>"M. de Mar, you look less like a carpet-knight than I
expected."</p>
<p>M. Étienne came to himself, to kneel at once.</p>
<p>"Sire, I blush for my looks. But your zealous soldiers would not
let me from their clutches. I am just come from killing Paul de
Lorraine."</p>
<p>"What! the spy Lucas?"</p>
<p>"Himself. And when I left the spot by way of the window in some
haste, I was not expecting this honour, Sire."</p>
<p>"Nor do I think you deserve it, ventre-saint-gris!" the king
cried. "Though you come hatless and coat-less to-day, you have been
a long time on the road, M. de Mar."</p>
<p>"Aye, Sire."</p>
<p>"You might as well have stayed away as come at this hour. Marry,
all's over! Go hang yourself, my breathless follower! We have
fought all our great battles, and you were not there!"</p>
<p>Scarlet under the lash, M. Étienne, kneeling, bent his
eyes on the ground. He was silent, but as the king spoke not, he
felt it incumbent to stammer something:</p>
<p>"That is my life's misfortune, Sire."</p>
<p>"Misfortune, sirrah? Misfortune you call it? Let me hear you say
fault."</p>
<p>"I dare not, Sire," M. Étienne murmured. "It was of
course your Majesty's fault. We cannot serve heretics, we St.
Quentins."</p>
<p>"Ventre-saint-gris! You think well of yourself, young Mar."</p>
<p>"I must, Sire, when your Majesty invites me to dinner."</p>
<p>The king burst into laughter, and his temper, which I believe
was all a play, vanished to the winds.</p>
<p>"Pardieu! you're a glib fellow, Mar. But I didn't invite you to
dinner for your own sake, little as you can imagine it. So you
would have joined my flag four years ago, had I not been a stinking
heretic?"</p>
<p>"Aye, Sire, I needs must have. Therefore am I everlastingly
beholden to your Majesty for remaining so long a Huguenot."</p>
<p>"How now, cockerel?"</p>
<p>M. Étienne faltered a moment. He was not burdened by
shyness, but before the king's sharp glance he underwent a cold
terror lest he had been too free with his tongue. However, there
was naught to do but go on.</p>
<p>"Sire, had I fought under your banner like a man, at Dieppe and
Arques and Ivry, M. de Mayenne had never dreamed of marrying his
ward to me. I had never known her."</p>
<p>"The loveliest demoiselle I ever saw!" the king cried. "I shall
marry her to one of my staunchest supporters."</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a name="478.jpg"></a> <a href="images/478.jpg"><img src=
"images/478.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>THE MEETING.</b>
<br /></div>
<p>The smile was washed from M. Étienne's lips. He turned as
white as linen. In one moment his youth seemed to go from him. The
king, unnoting, picked a parchment off the table.</p>
<p>"To one of my bravest captains. Here's his commission, my
lad."</p>
<p>M. Étienne stared up from the writing into the king's
laughing face.</p>
<p>"I, Sire? I?"</p>
<p>"You, Mar, you. You are my staunch supporter, perhaps?"</p>
<p>"Your horse-boy, an you ask it, Sire!"</p>
<p>He pressed his lips to the king's hand, great, helpless tears
dripping down upon it.</p>
<p>"If I ever desert you, I am a dog, Sire! But the fighting is not
all done. I will capture you a flag yet."</p>
<p>"Perhaps. I much fear me there's life in Mayenne still."</p>
<p>M. Étienne, not venturing to rise, yet lifted beseeching
eyes to the king's.</p>
<p>"What! you want to get away from me, ventre-saint-gris!"</p>
<p>My lord, who wanted precisely that, had no choice but to protest
that nothing was farther from his thoughts.</p>
<p>"Stuff!" the king exclaimed. "You're in a sweat to be gone, you
unmannerly churl! You, a raw, untried boy, are invited to dine with
the king, and your one itch is to escape the tedium!"</p>
<p>"Sire—"</p>
<p>"Peace! You are guilty, sirrah. Take your punishment!"</p>
<p>He darted across the room, and throwing open an inner door,
called gently, "Mademoiselle!"</p>
<p>"Yes, Sire," she answered, coming to the threshold.</p>
<p>The peasant lass was gone forever. The great lady, regal in
satins, stood before us. She bent on the king a little, eager,
questioning glance; then she caught sight of her lover. Faith, had
the sun gone out, the room would have been brilliant with the light
of her face.</p>
<p>M. Étienne sprang up and toward her. And she, pushing by
the king as if he had been the door-post, went to him. They stood
before each other, neither touching nor speaking, but only looking
one at the other like two blind folk by a heavenly miracle restored
to sight.</p>
<p>"How now, children? Am I not a model monarch? Do you swear by me
forever? Do you vouch me the very pattern of a king?"</p>
<p>Answer he got none. They heard nothing, knew nothing, but each
other. The slighted king chuckled and, beckoning me, withdrew to
his cabinet.</p>
<p>So here an end. For if Henry of France leave them, you and I may
not stay.</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14219 ***</div>
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