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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/78828-0.txt b/78828-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c5edb8 --- /dev/null +++ b/78828-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6826 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78828 *** + + + + + [Illustration: With a Low Warning Roar the Beast sprang.] + + + + + Queen of the Jesters + + _And Her Strange Adventures + in Old Paris_ + + By + Max Pemberton + Author of “Christine of the Hills” + “A Puritan’s Wife,” etc. + + + + + New York + Dodd, Mead and Company + 1897 + + + + + [COPYRIGHT] + + _Copyright, 1897,_ + By Max Pemberton + + + + + AUTHOR’S NOTE + + The adventures set out in these pages are taken from certain + episodes in the life of Corinne de Montesson, who was long a famous + figure in the Paris of Louis XV. Disdaining alike the salons of the + great, where her wit would have given her a distinguished place, and + the galleries of Versailles, where her indisputable beauty would have + commanded a royal welcome, Mademoiselle de Montesson established + herself in an old house in Rue St. Paul, and there, surrounded by a + little band of wits, scientists, and adventurers, she made it her + ambition to become acquainted with the dens of the city. To which end, + she practised a generous charity, and rescued more than one notorious + rogue from the gibbet. While the lower classes looked upon her now as + a worker of miracles, now as a witch, the Court was greedy to hear of + those exploits by which her name has come down to us. She had the + privilege of entertaining the King on more than one occasion, and + enjoyed to the end his support against the Lieutenant of Police, who + bewailed her authority over the vagabonds of the city; and against her + guardian, the Abbé Morellet, who demanded that she should be sent to + a convent of Benedictine nuns. Sufficient to record that her influence + was a continuing power in Paris until the year 1779, and that she died + at the age of sixty-four years in her château at Fontainebleau. + + + + + CONTENTS + + I. The Hunger of Ferdinand Dauberval + II. The Liberty of the Little Red Man + III. A Prison of Swords + IV. At the House of the Scarlet Witch + V. The Purple Glass + VI. The Kingdom of Bourgorieau + VII. The Devil’s Bowl and the Strange Affair at Fontenay + VIII. Yerut the Dwarf + Endnote + + + + + Queen of the Jesters + + I. + THE HUNGER OF FERDINAND + DAUBERVAL + +It wanted about an hour to sunset when Ferdinand Dauberval, sick +with hunger and fatigue, passed through the Porte St. Denis and asked +of the guard there the way to the Rue St. Paul. + +“I am from Avranches, monsieur,” said he, “and though you may not +think it from my appearance, this is the first time that I have set +eyes upon the city of Paris.” + +The guard thus addressed was a tall, good-humoured fellow, mounted +upon a great black horse. He looked down, half in pity, half in +amusement, at the dust-begrimed young man, who now clung to his +stirrup-leather, if possible to rest his weary legs for a moment. + +“_Sang bleu!_” said the guard. “If I took note of your appearance, my +friend, I should think a good many things. You are from Avranches, you +say? Then what have you to do in the Rue St. Paul?” + +“That is my business,” replied Dauberval, sulkily; but correcting +himself in a moment, he added, “though I don’t know why I should not +tell you. I seek Mademoiselle de Montesson at the Hôtel Beautreillis. +You know her house?” + +The guard answered with a merry sneer. + +“Oh,” cried he, “I should know that house pretty well--all the beggars +in Paris go there. Follow the first blind man from the Quinze-Vingts +Infirmary and he will lead you to the door like a dog at the end of a +string.” + +Dauberval, weak as he was, flushed with anger at the insult. + +“Do you think that I ask alms?” he exclaimed. + +“I am sure of it,” answered the guard, smiling maliciously; “_Dame!_ +you look as though you had not seen a crown for a twelvemonth. I +should advise you to make haste. They close the gate at curfew, and +then there is no more bread nor hot bean soup. You would not like to +hear that, eh?” + +Dauberval swore a big oath. + +“If I had you upon the stones,” he snarled, “I would knock some sense +into your silly head. Do you not see to whom you are talking? Oh, this +Paris is a pretty place for a gentleman!” + +He could have cried with his vexation, for pride, and pride alone, had +brought him to the capital. It was true that his boots were in holes, +while his clothes were so covered with the dust that their quality was +not to be discerned; but still he plumed himself that his bearing and +his manner of speaking were such as became the son of the advocate of +Avranches, and it was galling to the point of madness that the first +Parisian he met should talk to him as one would talk to a leper upon +the steps of a parish church. + +“To-morrow,” cried he, shaking his fist at the little group of idlers +who had gathered about the horseman,--“to-morrow, I will return with +my friends.” + +“Hark to that,” roared a bellman, who was one of the first to come up, +“the dusty gentleman has friends. He will return with them to-morrow. +Let the Grand Chamberlain be informed, and the pages provided. Where +is his excellency’s horse?” + +“Do we know to whom we are talking?” chimed in a merry cooper, who +stood with his hoops flung over his shoulder,--“well, it’s my belief +that we talk to our Lord the Pope--” + +“Or to the Captain of the Gate,” suggested a laughing hussy. + +“Or to both,” said a rat-catcher. + +Dauberval answered them with a word hissed out between his teeth. If +he had not been so weak from hunger and fatigue, he would have run +away from them, but as it was, he only walked on down the Rue St. +Denis, cursing the day which had carried him to Paris; and that other +day when he staked his last crown on a throw of the dice at +Couches--and had lost it. Never had he thought that he, whose younger +brother was high in the service of the Grand Equerry, would come to +look with hungry eyes upon the bread which the very beggars ate,--much +less that he himself would be mistaken for a beggar. + +“Pah!” he muttered, while he fought the phantoms of hunger who seemed +to dance up from the dirty gutters bearing loaves of sweet white bread +in their hands, “why should I despair? The Rue St. Paul cannot be far +from here, and Mademoiselle Corinne will know how to cure my troubles. +Did she not find a place for Armand, my brother--and what a place! It +is true that he has told her lies about me--but I shall answer them. +And she will believe me. A pretty woman always believes a man when he +is young and--” + +He added in his heart “good-looking;” although it did occur to him +that he would need a great deal of brushing and mending before he +could appear without shame in Mademoiselle Corinne’s presence. He +consoled himself, however, with the thought that her lacqueys would do +this for him while their mistress was causing a good hot dinner to be +prepared; and so keen was his imagination that the warmth of the food +he awaited seemed already to fill his body with a delicious glow of +heat. He began, in his fancy, to smell the pungent odour of spices; he +said that he would arrive in the Rue St. Paul about the hour of +supper, and that a fat capon might possibly be set before him. The +horrible overpowering nausea, which was the result of his hunger, +almost left him in the presence of these suggestions. He moved his +mouth with the action of a man eating heartily, and a momentary return +of his bodily strength enabled him to run straight on until he came +out upon the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, and beheld the spires of Notre +Dame stand up before him. + +Paris was beginning to wake to the pleasures of her night then; and +although it was early in the month of April in the year 1760, many +people were abroad in the streets, sitting before the doors of their +houses, or returning from their walk upon the ramparts. The great +river itself was alive with boats; some filled by noisy students who +played upon horns and drums; others with more orderly citizens bound +for the wine-gardens and taverns of Passy. Dauberval stood a minute +upon the quay to let the cool breeze play upon his burning face, and +to watch the many strange figures and the many strange sights about +him. He saw that he had never thought Paris could be so big. What a +maze of threatening, cramped, yet picturesque houses was that upon the +great island before him! How the cathedral dominated it all. Were +there ever such fine fellows as these bucks and gallants on their way +to dance with the butter-girls at the Quai de Gesvreo! Did any one +ever hear such gibberish as these German mountebanks were talking! How +the professional psalm-singers drawled! And there was a puppet-show +too; and an acrobat from Italy, and a peoples’ letter-writer, and a +hundred others; all merry, and busy, and withal good-humoured, because +the day was done with and the lights had begun to twinkle in the city. + +Dauberval would have been content at any other time to have spent a +day upon this busy quay, but the hunger tearing at his vitals quickly +made him remember his errand. He asked of a petty wench who was +selling cocoa--“two goes for a liard”--the way to the Rue St. Paul, +and she answered him with a saucy laugh. + +“_Ventrebleu!_” she cried, “that you should be so blind--yonder it +stands as close to your feet as a fool’s cap to his head. Oh, all the +world can see where you come from.” + +“And the Hôtel Beautreillis?” asked Dauberval, too weak to argue with +her. + +“At the corner past the Rue Charlemagne. Stop under the great bronze +lamp and tell the concierge that you are a simple young man from the +country. He will give you five sous to buy your supper with, and I +will give you a drink of cocoa for nothing.” + +She held out her can to him, and he took a little sup of the cocoa; +but so great was his impatience to get to Mademoiselle Corinne’s house +that he would not wait for the boiling stuff to cool, but ran on when +he had gulped down a few drops of it. A minute later, he found himself +under the shadow of the great walls of the Hôtel Beautreillis; and he +saw the bronze lamp which the hussy had named. But it was unlighted, +and the forbidding iron-sheathed door in the quaint Norman tower at +the corner of the street offered to him a heart-breaking welcome. How, +he asked, if the pretty philanthropist whom he had walked all the way +from Avranches to see, were at her country house near Gros Bois? His +brain went whirling round at the thought! He prayed to God--and it was +many a year since a prayer had come to his lips--that his burden of +suffering might not have this new evil added to it. + +The Rue St. Paul was almost deserted at that hour. Long black shadows +were stealing over the muddy flags of the wretched street. A few +flickering lanterns cast a dull gleam of yellow light upon the dirty +water of the open gutter. In the great house itself a dreadful silence +reigned. Not a lamp shone in any of the narrow windows; not a footfall +was to be heard in any of the courts. Dauberval beat with his fists +upon the heavy oaken door, but he might as well have struck at the +wall of the Bastille. No one answered to his puny knocking. He picked +up a flag from the gutter and hurled it at the iron armour of the +gate, but got for his pains only the weird echoes which went booming +from cloister to cloister, and from tower to tower. And his hunger was +now irresistible, horrible. His whole body seemed to be wasting away +as he stood. + +“Oh, _mon Dieu!_” he wailed, wringing his hands, and sobbing for very +weakness, “have pity, have pity--one little drink of milk, oh, for +Christ’s sake.” + +He thought surely that he was dying; and it was cruel, he said, that +he must perish of hunger at the very gate of his fortunes. The +possibility that pretty Mademoiselle Corinne, who had done so much for +his younger brother, Armand, might be at her château near Gros Bois, +had not come into his reckoning until that moment. Never before in all +his life had he known the meaning of hunger. He sat upon the stone +steps before the unyielding door, and it seemed to him that a hundred +demons were dancing round him, each bearing a tempting dish or a +goblet of rich red wine. He beat them off with his fists, and others +arose to caress him with visions of splendid feasts and tables +groaning. His greedy eyes searched the gutters in the vain hope that +an untrodden crust might lie there. He dipped his hands in the water +of a shining puddle and bathed his burning forehead; but it only +burned the more. He muttered a new prayer; and it was this--that his +death might come quickly, and that he might suffer such agony no +longer. And this was a prayer to which an answer was vouchsafed--but +not such an answer as he had looked for. + +Truth to tell, it all came upon him very suddenly. He had sunk down +upon the step then, and his cheek was resting upon a slab of marble. +Pain had begun to give way to unconsciousness; the turbid dreams to +utter darkness of the mind. But from such a state of trance he awoke +presently to find that the rays of a lantern were flashing in his +eyes, and that a man dressed from head to foot in black had gripped +him firmly by the arm. He had heard strange tales of the footpads of +Paris; and his yawning imagination convinced him, for an awakening +idea, that one such rogue sought to rob him. At any other time he +would have laughed loudly at the notion; but now he was too weak to +laugh--too weak almost to stand. + +“_Pardieu!_” he snarled, “what the devil do you want with me? Can’t +you see--?” + +The man answered him with a word spoken to another at his elbow. + +“Aubin,” said he, “take the right arm of Monsieur Dauberval, and let +Joseph bring another lantern.” + +Dauberval started up when he heard his name. The dazzling rays no +longer blinded his eyes. He saw that the stranger’s black vest was +richly embroidered with silver, and that diamonds sparkled upon the +hilt of his sword. Beyond this, the great door of the Hôtel +Beautreillis was now wide open, and servants were busy in its +courtyard. Dauberval, who had been ready to declare that the +apparition was a new cheat of his fancy, doubted no longer. +Mademoiselle Corinne was in Paris. What was more, she knew that he was +hungering at her gates. Never did a man’s fortune seem to be made so +readily. + +“Monsieur,” said he to the unknown, as they passed the lodge of the +concierge, and so entered the vast central courtyard, “you have my +name!” + +“Assuredly,” said the other. “Your name is Ferdinand Dauberval, and +you are the son of the advocate of Avranches. Five days ago, you left +your home to walk to this house--having first robbed your father of a +hundred crowns, the last of which you lost over the dice at Couches +two days ago. I speak rightly, monsieur?” + +Dauberval stood still with his astonishment. + +“_Ciel!_” he cried, “you insult me, monsieur?” + +“Oh, not at all,” replied the unknown. “You put a question to me, and +I answer it. Is that an insult?” + +“You say that I robbed?--” expostulated Dauberval. + +“Come, come,” said the other, a little severely. “I really cannot +argue with you, Monsieur Dauberval. While we wait in this draughty +courtyard, your supper is getting cold. Remember how hungry you are.” + +Dauberval, trembling with excitement, permitted himself to be led +across the court and so to the smaller pavilion upon the left-hand +side of it. + +“I shall make up some tale,” he thought, “and she will believe me. +Meanwhile, there will be food to eat and wine to drink. _Dieu_, how I +could drink a cup of Burgundy! It will be time after that to remember +my misfortunes.” + +Like all rogues, he was easily elated. And the things which he saw +about him were of a quality to satisfy any man. No sooner had he +entered the pavilion than lacqueys came unbidden to brush his clothes +and to bring a golden basin for his hands. While one fellow begged him +to be seated and to remove his dirty shoes, another offered him a coat +of velvet heavily laced with silver braid. Everything that greed of +show and of wealth could prompt him to wish for was now thrust upon +him unasked. Silk stockings took the place of his dusty woollen ones; +the perfume of attar of roses exuded from the cooling water in which +he washed the dust from his face; the lacqueys waited upon him with a +homage which might have served a king. And this was the mystery of it +all--that they did these things for one whom their mistress knew to be +a thief. + +Dauberval was too hungry at the first to debate upon such a nice +problem. He did observe that the unknown man in black watched him with +a curious smile--the smile of one who enjoyed some secret, but did not +wish to share it. Yet this, he said, was the man’s satisfaction at his +new appearance. Indeed, the stranger told him so presently, when he +rose to conduct him to his supper. + +“_Ma foi_, Monsieur Dauberval,” said he, “you will break some hearts +in Paris. I never saw a coat sit so well upon a man. And you know how +to carry it, too. Saint Denis, we must find you a sword presently, +when the perruquier has done with you. You can use a sword, I will +wager?” + +Dauberval, who was the greatest coward in Normandy, drew himself up +and bowed at the compliment. + +“Sir,” said he, “if I were not so hungry--” + +“Exactly, my friend. And since you are very hungry--come, supper is +prepared for you.” + +He opened a door in the ante-chamber to which they had first come, and +motioned the other to go forward. Dauberval could scarce suppress a +cry of delight when he saw that a table was spread in an exquisitely +furnished cabinet; and that other lacqueys waited to serve him with +all those good things of which he had lately dreamed. Nay, he was not +sure that he did not dream still, for this room, he said, must surely +be one in which kings supped. Such divinely wrought candelabra, such a +painted ceiling, such a profusion of wax tapers, so soft a carpet, +were not to be looked for except at the palace of the Tuilleries or at +Versailles. Dauberval declared that the owner of it all must be rich +beyond any woman in Paris. “And,” he said, “she means well to me or I +should not be here.” + +This self-assurance brought him to the table in wondrous good spirits. +Although he had suffered much from his hunger, he was not so far gone +that eating would be a danger to him; and when a lacquey put a little +bowl of soup before him, he drank it down in great gulps. The warmth +of it seemed to fill his body to the very toes. + +“Oh,” he said, “how good it is--how good! Surely it is well to have +suffered, monsieur, if one may--” + +At this moment he turned round to find himself alone with the lacquey +in the cabinet. The unknown had left him at the door; and Dauberval +really was not sorry to be quit of his company. + +“One can do nothing with a man,” he thought; “and he is gone to tell +pretty Mademoiselle Corinne that I am here. She will come to see me +presently, and I shall persuade her that I am a very honest fellow. +After that, she will find me some place in Paris, and I shall have +lacqueys of my own, and wine like this Burgundy. Saint John, how it +warms my heart! And I have yet the half of a bottle to drink! Oh, it +was a great day that took me from Avranches to my fortune at the +Hôtel Beautreillis!” + +Hopes like these, with a hundred others, filled his brain, while he +helped himself to a dish of artichokes fried in marmalade, and +afterwards to the breast of a well-boiled capon. He was careful to eat +sparingly of the food, remembering how long he had fasted; but of the +wine he drank abundantly. Nor did the lacqueys once speak to him while +he ate. They might have been machines answering to some invisible +wires. Dauberval, warmed with the Burgundy, began to assume lofty and +patronising airs. He even attempted to enter into conversation with +one of those who waited upon him. + +“My good fellow,” said he, “is your mistress in Paris?” + +The man bowed, but that was all his answer. Dauberval, more than ever +anxious to play the part of the fine gentleman, pushed his chair away +from the table and leant back in it posingly. + +“Have the goodness,” he cried, “to inform Mademoiselle de Montesson +that I crave a word with her so soon as it may please her to give me +audience.” + +The lacquey bowed again, and left the room with his fellows. He was +careful not to laugh until he had shut the door upon his mistress’s +guest; but then he laughed very heartily. Dauberval, meanwhile, was +leaning back in his chair, and telling himself that this for a surety +was the day of his life. + +“She cannot mean to punish me for borrowing two hundred crowns of my +father,” he said to himself, “or she would not have treated me like +this. No doubt she has heard some slander; but I shall correct all +that. And then she will give me a place. Possibly it will be with the +Grand Equerry, where my brother is; or should there be no vacancy +there, I would even submit to serve for a while as page to his +highness the Duke of Nevers. In any case she will make my fortunes. +Who knows, she might even think me handsome, as the girls of Avranches +did. And then--_pardieu!_--and then--” + +To his utter confusion, a voice of singular sweetness answered his +question, which he had intended for no other ears than his own. + +“And then, Monsieur Dauberval?” + +“_Diable!_” cried the man, as he sprang up from his chair and turned +round to face the intruder. But the other words he would have spoken +died away upon his lips; for there, standing behind him, with the +merriest laugh possible upon her pretty face, was Mademoiselle +Corinne. And so great was the shame of the fellow because his silly +talk was overheard that he would have thanked God if the earth had +opened and swallowed him up. + +“Mademoiselle,” he stammered, and he was sure that he had never seen a +more exquisite vision than this of the owner of all these +riches,--“mademoiselle, I do not--indeed.” + +“Oh,” she said, laughing more than ever at his confusion, “but you +did. And let me tell you, monsieur, that I think the girls of +Avranches showed exceedingly good taste.” + +Dauberval, like most rogues, could bear himself well in ordinary +circumstances before a woman. He had looked to find a grand dame, +haughty, imperious, exacting; but now that Mademoiselle Corinne really +stood before him, and he saw that she was an exceedingly beautiful +girl, whose face wore the kindliest smile he had ever beheld, he took +new courage and began to look up. + +“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “you overheard me just now saying some +very foolish things. I thought that I was alone or I should not have +uttered them. I beg you to forgive me.” + +“Indeed, monsieur,” she answered, still smiling, “I shall do nothing +of the sort. You have yet to answer my question. Here am I agreeing +with the young ladies you speak of, and dying to know what next--yet +you tell me nothing. For shame, monsieur, to leave a lady ailing with +her curiosity.” + +“Misfortune overtake me if I do any such thing,” cried Dauberval, +bowing gallantly, “yet, for the life of me, mademoiselle, I cannot +remember what I was saying.” + +“Oh, but I remember it perfectly, Monsieur Dauberval,” she answered; +“you were saying ‘and then--’ I want to know what comes after ‘and +then’--” + +A quick thought passed like an inspiration through the man’s mind. + +“Mademoiselle,” he cried, “you insist?” + +“Certainly I do.” + +“Then I will tell you in a word. I was saying to myself as you came in +that if I should be happy enough to merit your favor, you would find +me some place in Paris.” + +He stood watching her keenly to see how his boldness would be repaid; +but her immediate answer was only a command. + +“Sit, _mon ami_,” she said, “and then we will talk of things.” + +Dauberval took a chair and drew it near to the little couch upon which +she was resting. He was so close to her now that he could count the +diamonds which made a rope about her lovely neck. He said that he had +never seen such surpassing loveliness of skin or face; never a woman +worthy to sit at the feet of Corinne de Montesson. The very air about +her was laden with the breath of roses. Her girlish face was like the +face of one of the Madonnas which the great masters had painted. Her +voice was like the note of a silver bell. + +“You wish me to find you a place in Paris, Monsieur Dauberval,” she +said, when they were seated. “Well, that is already done--” + +“What,” cried Dauberval, forgetting himself in his surprise,--at the +same time he said to himself, “My fortune is made.” + +“Yes,” she continued, “after making all inquiries about you, I am +willing to take you into my service.” + +Dauberval’s expectation became tremendous. “She knows nothing,” he +thought. + +“You will consent, I am sure, monsieur,” Corinne went on, “to do as my +other servants have done, and to attain promotion by your diligence +and fidelity. Yet I do not forget that you were educated by the curé +of Avranches, and are a man of some learning. On that account, I have +determined to overlook all that I might remember about you, and to +make you an usher of the table.” + +Dauberval listened no more, but sprang from his chair. He was white +with passion when he answered her. + +“_Dieu!_ mademoiselle,” he cried, “would you make a lacquey of me?” + +“Exactly,” she replied, without so much as noticing his temper; “an +usher of my table to begin with, and after that clerk to my household, +if your service in the first employment warrants it. It is even +possible, should you seek by the future to blot out the sins of your +past, that I may remember you as the brother of Armand Dauberval--whom +you drove from his home after accusing him falsely of a robbery.” + +“It is a lie!” stammered Dauberval, hoarse with his anger. “I am the +victim of--” + +Corinne de Montesson rose from her seat, and touched a gong at her +side. + +“Monsieur,” she said very quietly, “to-night you remain here as my +guest. If you are willing to accept the post which I offer you, hold +yourself ready to begin your work at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. +But I warn you that should you speak to me again as you spoke just +now, my servants shall flog you at the tail of a cart. You understand +me?” + +There was laughter in her eyes no longer, and her cheek was warmed +with a red flush. Dauberval realised for the first time what a great +gulf lay between them. His hopes had gone tumbling down already +pell-mell, like stones into a pit. He was cowed, and he trembled with +rage and disappointment. + +“_Ciel!_” said he, wringing his hands, “that you should wish to make a +lacquey of me! Oh, mademoiselle, have pity--you know what I have +suffered.” + +“Say rather, that I remember what your brother suffered at your +hands,” she replied. “Indeed, Monsieur Dauberval, you reap that which +you have sown. Have a care, then, to treasure in the future the seeds +of honesty and of love. I wish you good-night, monsieur.” + +She retired with a gentle grace, a lacquey holding the door as she +passed to her own apartments. Dauberval followed her with eyes in +which the tears of shame and cowardice welled up plenteously. Her +words had stung him like a whip; yet, he said, he could have forgotten +them quickly enough had she not sought to put this insult upon him. +But to make a lacquey of him! Better by far to have remained in +Avranches, he thought, and to have extorted money from his father. +There, at any rate, people did not forget that he was born a +gentleman. But here, in this unpitying Paris--to make a menial of him, +he who had dreamed that he was soon to have lacqueys of his own! Oh, +it was not to be tolerated! + +He had been pacing the room for some little time, gathering the +threads of his anger, when the servant returned to tell him that his +bed-chamber was prepared. He followed the fellow sullenly, determined +already in his own heart that he would never submit to the proposed +degradation. After all, he could still return to his home and say, +“Father, I have sinned.” It would be a terrible humiliation; but he +preferred the thought of facing it to that of remaining in the Hôtel +Beautreillis. As for his brother Armand--it would be no use to beg of +him. Dauberval knew well enough that he had driven his brother from +their home, caring nothing if he lived or died. How then should that +brother pity him? + +The lacquey, meanwhile, had conducted him down a long stone corridor; +thence across a little garden, and through a second passage, which +terminated in a small circular hall off which five doors opened. +Dauberval scarce took notice of anything that he passed; but when the +lacquey opened the third of the five doors and informed him that here +was his bed-chamber, a new interest occupied him. None of Mademoiselle +Corinne’s reproaches seemed to fit in with the elegance of the room to +which he had been conducted. It was a room for the king, he said for +the second time, while the man lighted the candles in the gilt sconces +and set a cup of wine upon the table. The great bed with the canopy of +gold above it; the superb tapestries hung upon the wall; the many +candelabra of solid silver; the luxurious carpet beneath his +feet,--all these things should have been at Versailles, he thought, +and not at the Hôtel Beautreillis. And it was maddening to him to +remember that he was to enjoy such splendours for one night, and only +for one night. + +“To-morrow,” he snarled, for the servant had left him +then,--“to-morrow they will make a lacquey of me! Oh, that shall never +be! I swear it on the cross. She shall listen to me in the morning--I +will go on my knees to her--I will humble myself--she will surely +relent then. She must relent.” + +He repeated these words again and again, and they were still upon his +lips when he climbed into the high bed and stretched himself +luxuriously upon the downy cushions. The candle was out now, and the +moon’s beams flooded the room picturesquely, seeming to magnify its +size and beauty. Indeed, the very splendours of the apartment awed the +man. He lay for a long while unable to sleep, or to do anything but +contemplate the things he would plan and say when morning came. When +he had settled those to his satisfaction, and sleep still refused her +friendship, he began to follow the path of the pale yellow rays and to +observe the beauty of the things they touched with their caressing +light. He remarked then for the first time a little picture of a +Madonna hung near the wall by his bed; and when he had looked at this +for some moments, he saw that it was the central piece of a shrine +upon which there was a cross with a great diamond blazing in the +centre of it. So beautiful were the lights which the jewel scattered, +so large was it, that Dauberval asked himself why he had not seen it +before. Then he sat up in bed the better to observe it, but lay down +again quickly lest the thought which came to him so powerfully should +remain and prevail. + +“She must be very rich,” he said, as he drew the clothes over his head +and fought anew for sleep. “That diamond alone would keep a man in +food and wine for life. She has many more like it, I am sure, and +would never miss it. If a rogue were sleeping here, he would put that +cross in his pocket and she would never know its loss. Besides, she is +going to make a lacquey of me. Saint John--I could be even with her if +I had the mind to!” + +He lay for some moments trembling with the excitement of the thought. +He knew that such a diamond as the one which lay within reach of his +hand would enrich him for life. He had but to slip the cross into his +pocket and to climb the wall of the garden through which he had passed +to his room, and he need think of being a lacquey no more. What a +revenge that would be, he said. And why did he owe her any mercy? She +had shown him none. Nay, she had threatened to have him beaten at a +cart’s tail. “We shall see about that,” he muttered--and then he sat +up in bed again. The diamond shone now with a finer, richer lustre. +All the loveliest hues seemed to be commingled, and to be poured out +together from its sparkling wells of light. Dauberval had not dreamed +that there was such a jewel in all the world. The sight of it was to +him like a cup of wine to a drunkard. “Heaven!” he muttered, “it is a +prince’s ransom--and I am alone.” + +He was out of bed now, and his teeth were chattering with dread of his +determination. While he said all the time that he was not going to +steal the diamond, he knew perfectly well that he had made up his mind +to do so. Quickly and with trembling hand he drew on his boots and his +fine new coat. He opened his bedroom door, and found to his +satisfaction that the little hall outside was in darkness and as +silent as the grave. Everything drove him on to the crime which he +declared that he would never commit, but which he was even then +committing. Twice he touched the diamond, and drew back his hand as +though it had been burned by fire. + +“Coward,” he cried, “coward, coward--to turn your back on a fortune +which lies there before your eyes. Ten steps and you are in the +garden; you leave Paris at dawn and set out for England--a little +hiding by the way, perhaps, a little privation--and then, and then--!” + +Visions of luxury, of ease, even of vice, passed before his burning +eyes. A new hunger, the hunger of wealth, was upon him now. The +agonies of the temptation were like the agonies of a burning fever. He +stood rocking on his heels before the shrine, saying, “I will not, I +will not.” He covered his face with his hands, yet the lights from the +sparkling jewel seemed to flash into his very brain. When at last he +grasped the stone with trembling fingers, and thrust it deep down into +his bosom, phantoms of the night gathered about him in his fancy and +cried, “We see, we see.” + +With possession, the fever abated a little. He was in a cold sweat +now; but his ideas were less confusing. When he opened his bedroom +door to pass into the circular hall, he knew well enough what plan to +follow. The garden, he was sure, lay not more than twenty yards from +him. He had seen, while they had conducted him to his room, great +trees growing against the walls of it, and he determined to climb this +wall by their help and so to gain the street. + +He opened his door, and stood for a moment to listen if there were any +sound about the house. A little whisper of the wind sighing in the +dome of the hall was the only answer to his silent question. +Encouraged by the stillness, he stepped from his chamber and began to +creep towards that door of the five through which he believed that he +had passed to his bedroom. And here a difficulty which he had not +foreseen suddenly presented itself and demanded consideration. The +five doors in the hall were as alike as five drops of water. How if he +opened the wrong one, and found himself, not in the garden, but in the +bed-chamber of some lacquey or page? That, he declared, would mean the +galleys at the least. And he blamed himself now that he had not tried +the doors before leaving his bedroom. To be taken with the jewel in +his possession were a folly indeed. + +Dauberval was a cunning rogue at all times; but he did not know what +forces of cunning and trickery were being pitted against him as he +stood debating the puzzle of the doors. At the very moment when he +thought he was alone, six pairs of eyes were watching him with +interest and not a little amusement. True, there was a moment when he +had an instinctive warning of peril hovering about him, and that was +the moment when the door of the bedroom he had just quitted shut +suddenly and the key grated ominously in the lock. + +“_Mort Christ!_” he muttered, “my door has locked itself--I heard the +key turn--what a thing to happen!” + +There was no doubt about it at all. The door had shut and the key had +turned. Dauberval stood like one petrified, pressing the jewel to his +breast with both his hands, and telling himself that the wind had done +the work. So unnerved was he that he did not lift a foot until minutes +had passed and no other sound had come to break the whispers of the +night. The vision of the galleys and the whip was ever before his +eyes. When at length he moved again, it was this vision which gave him +strength. + +“Bah!” he said, “am I a woman to start at the fall of a pebble? If I +stand here much longer I shall go to sleep, and a lacquey will find me +at daybreak. Courage, then--a little courage and all is well.” + +The idea put new life into him. He tried the first of the doors, but +it was locked; and the second, in like manner, refused to yield to his +hand. Only when he came to the fourth door did he take heart and say +that success was near to him. For that door opened readily at his +touch; and when he had hesitated a moment lest it should lead him to a +room and not to a passage, he pushed it back inch by inch that the +little light in the hall might break the darkness which now blinded +him. He would have given half he possessed to hold a lantern for a +minute then, so dark was the place in which he found himself; but he +knew that he could not work miracles, and so he nerved himself for a +last effort and boldly passed the door. In the same instant, the place +was flooded by a soft yellow light, and Mademoiselle Corinne stood +face to face with him. + +She was dressed in a loose gown of muslin, spotlessly white and +unornamented, and she held a golden candlestick high above her head +that the light might fall upon the face of the man. Dauberval, +staggering with terror, observed that a small diamond cross glittered +upon her white neck, and that a great Russian hound crouched by her +side and pressed his nose into her hand. She had entered the little +cabinet through a panel opening in the wall at a spot exactly opposite +to the door which led the rogue to this trap; but she appeared to be +quite alone, and to know the purpose of her coming. + +“Well, Monsieur Dauberval,” she cried, and there was merriment in her +voice,--“well, Monsieur Dauberval, are you not pleased to see me?” + +Deceived by her manner, the robber looked up. “She is alone,” he +thought, “and she is a woman.” But he made no attempt to answer her, +seeking rather to escape from the room into the hall behind him. And +at this she laughed aloud. + +“For a truth, you are a bold fellow,” she continued, as the man backed +towards the door, “and I am very glad that you did not die at my gate +to-night. Have a care to your steps, I beg of you, Monsieur Dauberval, +or you will be of little service to the galleys. Shall I summon a +lacquey to carry your plunder? How unfortunate that you should awake +me at the very moment you were robbing my house!” + +Something in the tone of her voice, a note of scorn mingling with the +chord of her laughter, compelled the man to stand. It occurred to him +that he must deal with her before he left the room, or assuredly she +would awake the house, and he would be taken in the gardens of it. He +determined to play first upon her pity. + +“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, coming a little nearer to her, and +speaking with an effort, “you are very cruel to me--I could not +sleep--I wished to walk a little way in your gardens--do you think +that I am a robber? God forbid--I swear it on the cross.” + +“On the cross which you carry at your breast, Monsieur Dauberval?” + +“_Ciel!_” he gasped, drawing back again, “you know about that?” + +“You hear that I do; and since I know about it my servants are now +going to carry you to the Palais de Justice, where you will have +leisure to regret that you did not become a lacquey.” + +She said this, and with the words she took up a padded stick and +raised it as though to beat upon the gong by which she stood. For a +moment, however, she held her hand; and forgetting that she had +laughed, she went on to remind the man of that which he had lost. + +“When you came to my house to-night,” she said, “I was content to +forget the life you have lived and the crimes you have committed. For +your brother’s sake, I thought to give you one more opportunity of +becoming that which you will never be--an honest man. To-morrow, had +you submitted for a day to the test which I chose for you, I would +have remembered again that you were the son of the advocate of +Avranches. You will not ask me to do that now, Monsieur Dauberval?” + +Dauberval listened to her with burning ears. He watched the upraised +stick as he would have watched a tiger about to leap upon him. He knew +that if the gong were struck, his hope of life would die away with the +echoes of the note. + +“Mademoiselle,” he wailed, “for God’s sake spare me--you will never +regret it--I swear it on my knees--hear me--you will not summon your +servants?” + +He fell upon his knees before her and raised his hands in cowardly +entreaty. But her answer was unpitying. + +“Nay,” she said, “I am about to summon my servants now.” + +“_Dieu!_ mademoiselle,” muttered the man, springing to his feet, “you +shall do nothing of the sort.” But to himself he said again--“She is a +woman, and she is alone.” + +All the devils of evil were spurring him on now. He knew that it was +his life or hers--the life of a helpless girl or of a man with one +foot already upon the scaffold. And he was going to plead with her no +more. When he rose from the floor, he told himself that he would kill +her. The madness of his mood magnified and became uncontrollable. He +raised his hand to strike her down, shutting his eyes that he might +not see the exquisite beauty of her face. + +“You shall not do it,” he cried savagely. “By Heaven, I will prevent +you.” + +“Indeed,” she cried, stepping back quickly, “it is already done;” and +even as she spoke the blows fell,--that of the man in the air, that of +the woman upon the silver gong. + +Dauberval had struck wildly; but he struck no second blow. He had said +“She is alone;” but never was she less alone. The great dog at her +side, who had curled himself up to sleep while his mistress had no +need of him, awoke at the booming of the gong, and was at the throat +of the man, even while he reeled back for a new attack. With a low +warning roar, the beast sprang at the robber, and felled him as an ox +is felled by a butcher’s axe. Over and over upon the wooden floor the +two rolled; the dog growling ferociously, the man imploring, +screaming, fighting. Death seemed to breathe into his very face now. +He had his arm across his throat, and the hound’s fangs touched the +bone of it. He struck the brute again and again with his clenched +fist; and for every blow his whole body was shaken until his teeth +gnashed like the teeth of a madman. + +“Kill me, kill me,” he screamed, “for God’s sake!--oh, he is tearing +me limb for limb! Heaven!--what suffering!” + +He had rolled now almost to the door of the room, and there the hound +drew back for a moment, hearing his mistress’s voice. Dauberval, mad +with fear and pain, scrambled to his feet and staggered out into the +hall of the unyielding doors. A light was there now; and one of the +five doors stood wide open before him; but he had no thought of asking +how or for what reason. Dread of the dog drove him onward recklessly. +“Anything, anything but that,” he cried; and reeling, staggering, +sobbing, he passed through the door and down the long passage to which +it gave access. Whither he was going or to what end, he knew not nor +cared to think. One idea dominated him to the exclusion of all +others--it was the idea of flight--flight to any refuge, even the +refuge of the scaffold. + +There was very little light in the corridor where he now found +himself, and when he had run perhaps twenty yards he turned a sharp +corner and was then in utter darkness. So black was it that he could +not see the ground at his feet. He guided himself only by touching the +wall with his fingers. It was a smooth wall, a panelled one, he saw at +first; and though he knew that he might go tumbling headlong down a +staircase, or crashing against a door at any step, so great was his +terror that he ran heedlessly, believing ever to hear the patter of +the hound’s paws upon the ground behind him, even to feel his wet and +frothing lips against his hand. And he was becoming exhausted now. +Often he reeled against the wall and thought that he was fainting. +Would he never come into the garden, he asked? He had been running for +long minutes now, and still the dreadful wall guided him onward, +onward. Once he paused, panting for his breath, but his ear told him +plainly that the hound had followed him. There was no mistaking that +haunting “pat, pat, pat,” behind him. “God have mercy--he will tear me +limb from limb,” he cried, and so wailing he began to run again. + +Dauberval was a man who had known few hardships in life; but just as +the past two days had taught him what it is to hunger, so did this +night of agony teach him the meaning both of fear and fatigue. He had +not dreamed that a man could conceive so great a horror and loathing +as this horror and loathing of the hound which now possessed him. As +to his fatigue, there were no words to tell of that. His life seemed +to exude from his body drop by drop. Every step was a torture to him. +The tears ran down his face like rain; a spasm gripped his heart and +seemed to hold it still; his legs were so weary that he could scarce +lift them from the ground. And to his terror of the seen, the terror +of the unseen was now added. He had run for the third part of an hour +by this time; and still the terrible wall led him on. He began to say +that fiends were cheating him--for how could the Hôtel Beautreillis +possess a corridor down which a man might run for twenty minutes? That +would carry him half across Paris. Under any other circumstances he +would have tried to reason with the situation, but the ominous patter +of the hound banished reason from his head. More than this, he heard +the soft tread of other hounds now before him, now behind him. He +shrieked aloud with his fear, and fled again like a madman. + +There is an end to the endurance of terror and of the false strength +which it inspires. Dauberval kept his legs to the ultimate moment, for +he told himself that if he fell, the hounds would tear him as they +would tear a deer. But at last pitying nature came to his aid. He +remembered only that he stretched out his hands before him, staggering +blindly into the darkness. Then, with a terrible cry, for he heard the +dogs at his very feet, he fell senseless to the floor and lay like a +dead man. + +When he opened his eyes, hours had passed. The ghostly dawn light +streaming through a lantern tower above him told him that day had +broken; but he lay motionless for long minutes, unable to remember how +he had come into the place where now he was, or why he slept upon a +wooden floor. He was still very weak, and his limbs were cold and +stiff and painful; his brain burnt, and would shape no story for him. +When at last he began to remember the events of the dreadful night, he +thought first of the diamond, and pressed his hands to his breast +instinctively; but the jewel was gone; nor could he recollect how he +had lost it. By and by he recalled the moment when he had left his +bed-chamber; and that other moment when pretty Mademoiselle Corinne +stood before him and he had struck her, and from that thought he +passed to memory of the hound. So potent was this in terror, that it +compelled him to stagger to his feet. Half awake as he was, the whole +dread of the night came rushing back to him. He could hear the hound +still--that he would swear; and even when he stood up and asked +himself, “Where am I?” the haunting “pit, pat” still sang in his ears. + +“Oh, _mon Dieu!_” he wailed, “have I lost my reason? Where am I? What +do I hear? Oh, pity me, pity me!” + +He looked all about him and could make nothing of his environment. He +was in a great building, certainly,--a building which looked like a +riding-school, and was in the shape of an oval. He observed clearly +that a high wall ran round this building, and that he had been lying +upon a wooden corridor which made a little platform beneath the wall. +Dense as he was, it began to dawn upon him that he had been running +round and round this corridor; and at this thought he trembled with +passion. + +“Heaven!” he cried, “that I should have run round and round like a +horse which amuses the people--oh, what cruelty to play me such a +trick--what cruelty--” + +His distress was so great that he began to wring his hands and to pace +the corridor distractedly. And he had been engaged in this employment +for the space of a minute, when the second of his delusions was taken +from him. For, suddenly, he came upon a little fountain built into the +wall of the riding-school; and as he stood a minute to bathe his hands +and forehead at it, it occurred to him that the music of it was +familiar; and that its “drip, drip, drip” was just like the pat of a +dog’s paw upon the ground. “Holy Saints!” he cried with a sob, “that I +should have run away from a basin of water. There is the patter of my +hound. Oh, God! what a night of agony!” + +A mocking laugh was the answer to his word of ultimate distress. He +turned round to find himself in the presence of the man in black, who +had met him at the gate yesterday; and he saw that a lacquey awaited +the orders of the unknown. + + +At sunset that evening, Ferdinand Dauberval passed through the Porte +St. Denis on his way to his father at Avranches. + +“Halloa,” cries the bellman, “here is the dusty gentleman who has +friends. _Bon soir_, monsieur--was the king well when your excellency +dined with him?” + +“It is my belief that we talk to our Lord the Pope,” exclaimed the +cooper. + +“Or to the Captain of the Gate,” said the saucy wench. + +“Or to both,” shouted the rat-catcher. + +But the mounted guard laughed heartily, and cried:-- + +“Good-day, little fire-eater! Did they give you alms at the Hôtel +Beautreillis. Saint John, what an honest face you have! Oh, it is +plain that you are a loss to Paris!” + +Dauberval stood for a moment to shake his fist at them. Then he passed +the gate, and Paris knew him no more. + + + + + II. + THE LIBERTY OF THE LITTLE + RED MAN + +Coq le Roi, the highwayman, started up in his bed when the great +bell of Notre Dame struck midnight. Silently, and with a waking man’s +curiosity, he counted the strokes, nodding his head at each one, and +thinking to himself that it would be five or six of the morning, and +time for him to be about. But when the clock went on to tell the hour +of twelve, an exclamation burst from his lips. + +“_Mort Christ!_” said he to himself, “I have not slept an hour. I +might know that by the music below. Saint Paul! what throats they +have!” + +No man cares to be deceived with the tricks of sleep; nor was Coq le +Roi,--otherwise the Little Red Man, otherwise Jacques Cabot, the +notorious scourge of the highways about Paris, and one of the most +successful robbers that ever set spurs to a horse,--an exception to +the rule. He concluded that he had a personal grievance against the +night for thus cheating him. He began to tell himself that he was +thirsty, and would do well to draw on his boots and venture out to a +cabaret for a cup of wine. Then he remembered that he was not in the +habit of losing his sleep because a few cutthroats bawled beneath the +window of his garret. Some strange sound, some unusual omen of the +night, must have troubled his ears while he slept, he said. And for +the first time for many a day he began to remember that the guards of +the new Lieutenant of Police were then hunting for him out in the +woods beyond Fontenay. + +“_Sang bleu!_” he cried, springing suddenly from his bed, and going to +the window of his garret that he might look down thence to the narrow +street below, “am I a woman that I should start at shadows on the +wall? What a thing to tell--at the house of the Red Cock too!” + +He put his head out of the window, and the moving panorama of the slum +below reassured him. There, in the heart of the thieves’ quarter of +the Paris of 1761, he might well think himself safe even from the +early energies of Monsieur de Sartines who had just come to be +Lieutenant of Police. Though the day had begun with driving sleet and +bitter wind, few of the beggars in that Rue St. Sauveur thought of +sleep, or indeed of anything but their pleasures. Regularly, when +night fell, these rogues whom Coq le Roi now looked down upon with +satisfaction, hastened to quit the church doors and the gates of the +hôtels, and hurried to the labyrinth of filthy lanes and tottering +houses which had marked their kingdom behind Rue Mauconseil almost +since Paris had risen about the islands of the marshes. A motley group +they were; blind men counting their sous; lepers washing off their +sham sores; lame men carrying their crutches; orphans cursing their +fathers and mothers, who cursed them back again; venders of oranges +with their cry, “Portugal, Portugal;” rogues whom the gibbet long had +claimed in vain. Weary with the labours of the unbefriending day, +eager for the shelter of the cabaret, ripe for quarrel, or drink, or +play, they now rioted in the security of the alleys behind the +markets, and so hid from the night of the greater Paris, the cankering +sore, which was her reproach by day. + +Coq le Roi permitted the bitter wind to blow upon his face for some +minutes, then he drew back his head, for he remembered his intention +to drink a cup of wine at the nearest cabaret, and he found the idea a +very good one. + +“Bah!” said he to himself, as he tugged at his long boots and looked +to his pistols, which lay, ready for priming, upon the table by his +ragged bed, “what have I to do with woman’s tattle here? Guards in the +Rue St. Sauveur! what a day that would be! I should like to see it.” + +The notion amused him, and he chuckled to himself pleasantly; but of a +sudden the laugh died down upon his lips, and he sat upon the bed like +one petrified. He had become aware, in that instant, of the presence +of another in the room,--a gaunt figure dressed from head to foot in +black, and masked so closely that even his eyes were not visible. +Noiselessly, with no drawing of bolt or creak of foot, the apparition +had come to his bedside. The robber feared nothing human--but now he +trembled so that the whole bed shook, and the sweat fell in icy cold +drops from his brow down upon his naked chest. + +“God have pity, who are you?” he asked, not daring so much as to raise +his hand to the pistol beside him. + +The stranger laughed merrily, and crossing before the robber, he sat +himself down upon a rough oak bench which was the only seat, other +than the bed, in the miserable attic. Coq le Roi could see by the +little light which fell through the lattice that the visitor wore very +good clothes, and that the hilt of his sword was a-glitter with +diamonds. + +“_Bon soir_, Monsieur Jacques Cabot,” said the man, leaning back +against the wall, and crossing his legs for comfort,--“_Bon soir_; or +perhaps I should say rightly, _Bon jour_. The clock has just gone +twelve, I think.” + +Coq laughed nervously. He was ashamed now that he should have so +carried himself. + +“I thought you were the devil,” said he. + +The man neglected to see that he was unanswered. + +“You are an early riser, Monsieur Cabot,” he continued playfully, “to +be out of your bed at midnight. What a monk you would make!” + +The robber shrugged his shoulders, and since he feared his visitor no +longer, he stretched out a hand and took up one of his pistols. In the +same moment the man in the mask gave a sharp lunge with his foot, and +so cleverly was it done that the pistol went flying up to the roof and +there exploded with a crash like that of cannon. + +“Imbecile,” said he, “would you fire upon one who comes to save your +neck?” + +Coq le Roi sank back upon the bed with a sigh. After all, he said to +himself, there was something uncanny about the coming of this mask. + +“Well,” he asked doggedly, “and what next?” + +The man rose and opened the window. + +“This is no time for words,” said he; “let your ears tell you the +tale.” + +He held up his hand warningly, bidding the other to listen; and while +the two stood there at the little casement a strange sound arose above +the hum of the city life. It was a sound neither of beggars brawling +nor of rogues at their play. When it had continued a little while, +there was added to it the loud rattle of musketry, the clash of +swords, and the tramp of many feet; while clear above all, and +resounding like the note of a trumpet, was the cry, “The guards, the +guards!” + +“You hear,” exclaimed the unknown, drawing back from the window, “our +friends, the cutthroats, are welcoming the guards of the new +Lieutenant of Police. Shall I tell you, Monsieur Cabot, how many years +it is since a dragoon dared to pass the Virgin’s statue? You have no +love for history, you say. Saint Denis, I do not wonder at it, since +it is for you that Monsieur de Sartines has brought about this pretty +play and come into this den of beasts.” + +Coq le Roi, quickened by the danger, began to prime his second pistol. +His natural courage had returned to him now. Little man that he was, +little and with a face like a young girl’s, he had made danger so good +a bedfellow that surprise was rather pleasant than alarming to him. + +“Bah!” cried he, “that Sartines should be such a fool as to look for +me at the house of the Red Cock. Oh, we shall have a merry night, +comrade--yet who you are and why you are here, the devil take me if I +can say.” + +He buttoned his cloak around his shoulders with itching fingers, +convinced, though he did not say so, that this man who had come to him +so mysteriously had come as a friend. Meanwhile, the whole quarter +without was thundering with the clamour of the mob--hell itself seemed +to have been loosed in that labyrinth of crime and squalor. + +Coq le Roi was sure that his liberty was a matter of moments. + +“Look you, my friend,” he continued to the unknown, who had watched +him with some amusement and perhaps a little malice, “I am now going +upstairs to get some fresh air upon the roof. But I shall not forget +that you, whoever you may be, warned me of to-night’s affair. I wish +you good-night, monsieur. When we meet again it may be your turn to +thank me and to tell me how you got into this house. I hope it will be +so.” + +The stranger laughed aloud, insolently indifferent to the haste of the +other. + +“You are going on the roof, Monsieur Cabot?” he exclaimed mockingly; +“surely that is very thoughtless of you.” + +“And why, monsieur?” + +“You shall be the judge of that when I tell you that five of Sartines’ +men are there before you.” + +Coq le Roi swore a full-mouthed oath. He even thought for a moment +that this man had betrayed him; but he was too wise to act upon his +suspicions. + +“I shall see for myself,” said he, and with that he quitted the room, +only to return a moment later with a face white with fear. + +“Monsieur,” said he, trying to force a jest, “you reckon well. There +are exactly five of Sartines’ men above us. How many there may be in +the street below, I will not venture to hazard. Nor will I dispute +with you any longer. If you come here to aid me, this is the time to +do your work; but if you are upon any other errand--then God help you, +for I will certainly blow out your brains.” + +The stranger laughed again. + +“I do not keep my brains in the ceiling of your garret,” said he. +“Upon my word you are a very impertinent fellow, Monsieur Cabot. I am +half of the mind to leave you to Sartines, who has sworn to dig up the +stones of Paris rather than lose the pleasure of your company.” + +“He has sworn that?” muttered Coq le Roi, beginning to tremble again. + +“As I say. Did you not stop the coach of Madame Geoffrin but a week +ago and wound two of her lacqueys? Very well, Madame Geoffrin +complained to the king and the king to Monsieur de Sartines. And now, +you see, the dragoons are coming to beat in the door of your house. +Oh, the lieutenant knows well that he could only take you with +dragoons. What a man he is--to trap you here like a bear in a cage! +For you are trapped, Monsieur Cabot. Yon street is as full of police +as an orange of pips. And hark, there are the troopers themselves.” + +The clamour without, a clamour in which were commingled the hoarse +cries of men, the shrieks of women, the ringing of hoofs upon the +flags, the clash of steel, the loud note of command now rose up from +the street below them. Coq le Roi listened to the hubbub and his knees +quaked under him; but the unknown, who had timed his play to the +ultimate moment, seemed at last to turn from his humour and to take +pity on the trembling robber. + +“Come,” said he, “follow me and ask nothing. You have a lantern +there--bring it.” + +The hunted man was now as clay in the hands of this maker of +mysteries. He lighted his lantern mechanically; mechanically he +followed the stranger down the dark and narrow stairs of the house of +the Red Cock. He could hear those without beating already upon his +door; but he trembled no longer. The man who went before him seemed to +fill him with a new courage, as a measure is filled with wine. He did +not ask, “Whence does he come, whither does he go?” He said only, “He +will save me.” And when at length he found himself out in the narrow, +high-walled courtyard which was called by courtesy his garden, he was +like a child obeying a father, and trusting him unquestioningly. + +“Monsieur,” he exclaimed with humble civility, “there is no door to +the street here.” + +“You lie,” said the stranger, curtly; “give me your lantern.” + +Coq le Roi watched him with amazement now. When he had taken the +lantern in his hand, he walked straight to the mouth of the old well, +which was the one conspicuous thing in that filthy and deserted court. +Then he unwound a long coil of thin rope, and attaching the lantern to +this, he lowered it into the orifice. Coq le Roi, looking over his +shoulder timidly, watched him as one watches a conjuror at his tricks. + +“Monsieur,” cried he, “you cannot hide me in the well.” + +The unknown laughed scornfully. + +“St. Denis,” exclaimed he, “that a man should live five years in a +house and yet know nothing of its resources! Do you follow the path of +that light, my friend? Well, tell me what you see.” + +“The light shows me walls green with slime and fungus,” said the +robber. “I see great gaps where bricks have been; there are lizards of +strange shapes, and rats feeding--and now I see the water. Holy +Virgin!--you would not send me down there, monsieur?” + +“Look again,” cried the other, unmoved at the plea, “upon the +right-hand side of the well at a little distance above the water’s +edge,--what see you now?” + +Coq le Roi stretched out his neck and searched the fœtid depths with +eager eyes. The twinkle of the light below was like a star seen +through a black tube. The rats fled at its light; stones fell with +resounding splashes while they ran; cold air oozed up and seemed to +freeze the robber’s face. + +“_Mon Dieu!_” said he, “you have discovered something, monsieur; there +is a little tunnel running into the well, and the water does not cover +its mouth.” + +“You have said well,” answered the unknown; “through that tunnel we +shall pass to our friends. After you, Monsieur Cabot. The rope which +holds the bucket will bear the weight of three men. Trust your life to +it rather than to your friends without. I wait for you.” + +Coq le Roi shuddered. + +“Holy Virgin!” said he, “I dare not go down there.” + +“You dare not--do you hear those blows? They are from the sabres of +the guards who beat in your door. Shall I leave you to receive your +guests? I give you one minute.” + +He folded his arms and waited. Coq le Roi, now wringing his hands, or +running to and fro in his distress, or peering with a horrid fear into +the well below, was like a woman distracted. + +“God have pity,” cried he; “I cannot--I cannot.” + +“The half of a minute is gone,” answered the unknown in a voice hard +as iron. + +“Do you wish to kill me, Monsieur?” moaned the robber. + +“You have ten seconds yet,” cried the unknown. + +“You torture me,” wailed the robber. + +“The guards are just beating in your door,” replied the unknown. + +It was as he said. The great iron-bound gate was giving way to the +crashing blows which fell upon it. Coq le Roi listened for one long +instant--and then, reeling, staggering toward the well, he clutched +the rope and began to descend. + +“When you come to the tunnel, kick against the wall, and that will +swing you in,” cried the masked man, bending over to watch him; “leave +the lantern until I follow.” + + [Illustration: “You will find my Body,” howled the Robber.] + +“You will find my body,” howled the robber from the darkness. + +Lowering himself hand under hand, Coq le Roi descended to the well. +The unknown waited until he had reached the light, and had entered the +dark hole above the water. Then he, too, clutched the rope--but he +could not keep back the laugh from his lips. + +“_Ventrebleu!_ Sartines,” said he to himself, “a merry night to you, +and a merrier day to-morrow. To be fooled by a woman at your time of +life! Oh, you amuse us finely.” + +“Are you coming, monsieur,” roared Coq le Roi below, “Oh, for pity’s +sake, be quick!” + +The unknown hesitated no longer, but swung himself cleverly upon the +rope and so disappeared into the darkness of the well. + +Five minutes later a terrible cry, like a cry of victory, arose +suddenly from the ranks of the sweltering mob gathered in the narrow +alley before the house of the Red Cock. From lane to lane, and street +to street, it spread until it was echoed in long-drawn hooting even +across the frilling waters of the Seine. + +“Coq le Roi has escaped! _Holà! Holà! Holà!_ Coq le Roi is free. +Long life to the little red man. _Viva!_ Down with the guard. _À +bas_, Sartines! _Holà! Holà!_” + +Loud, terrible, long sustained was the cry. Exhilarated at these +unexpected tidings, spurred to new courage by the joyous news, the mob +fell upon the sulking troopers with any weapon that came to its hand; +and in the stifling courts and alleys there was soon to be heard the +shrieks of dying men, the booming of muskets, the shriller wailing of +the women. Yet it was not until dawn broke that the beggars began to +number their dead, and to forget that Coq le Roi was free. + +Monsieur de Sartines had supped well, as he always did at the Hôtel +Beautreillis. Though he declared that the gloomy old house in the Rue +St. Paul was more forbidding than the Bastille where its exterior was +concerned, there was no one readier to admit that Mademoiselle Corinne +de Montesson, its mistress, was the cleverest woman in Paris and the +most fascinating. Besides, was she not the particular patron of all +the rogues and vagabonds in the thieves’ quarter, and could she not, +if she would, be of more service to the court in general and to +himself, Monsieur de Sartines in particular, than a squadron of +dragoons? It was a big “if,” since mademoiselle’s charity and +large-heartedness were traditions in the city; but the lieutenant +still hoped--and supped. + +On this particular evening, the excellent man had much need of +consolation, and of the rich red wine which added the lustre of the +ruby to the sparkling Venetian glass in which Corinne’s guests were +always served. For it was the evening of the day when Coq le Roi had +slipped through his fingers in so miraculous a manner; and in escaping +had set the whole city laughing at her Lieutenant of Police. Nor had +the good Sartines secured at that time the reputation which in after +years brought him fame beyond the fame of any who had occupied the +office which he glorified. He had yet to prove himself; and in proving +himself he had begun with this disastrous and long-remembered fiasco. + +Depressed by the reflection, gloomy, and not a little irritable, he +had gone to Mademoiselle de Montesson’s house, scarce daring to hope +that she would aid him; convinced, none the less, that she would amuse +him. He had found her, to his satisfaction, alone save for the +presence of her wonder-loving old physician, Antonio, and of her young +kinsman, Bénoît, who was said to be the finest swordsman in Paris. +The supper had been unsurpassable, as it was always at the Hôtel +Beautreillis; and when it was done, mademoiselle carried her guest to +the great music-room, and there caused her servants to bring the +delicious coffee of the East. And this being served, Hátrin, her +harpist, began to touch the strings of his instrument caressingly; +while mademoiselle herself, sharing a rest-giving lounge with the +gloomy lieutenant, endeavoured to play wittily upon his melancholy. + +“I read your thoughts, my dear friend,” said she. + +“They would make a dull book, mademoiselle,” replied the other. + +“Oh, not at all; such a book has yet to be finished. Gloom is the +seasoning which gives joy its savour, Monsieur de Sartines--just as +failure is the salt which provokes the appetite for success.” + +“Of what are you thinking, my dear lady?” + +“I--of what should I think but the happiness of my friends? And you +are not happy, monsieur. Indeed, you are the picture of misery.” + +“And you are of merriment, mademoiselle--and of beauty.” + +The lieutenant bowed pompously when he uttered the compliment. +Mademoiselle herself laughed a rippling girlish laugh--she had lived +but twenty-three years, and the fountain of her youth still played +abundantly. + +“Ho, ho,” she cried, “a compliment from Monsieur de Sartines. I shall +look for the question next. You will spare me the torture of the boot, +monsieur.” + +“It would have to be a very pretty boot, dear lady.” + +“Another compliment. Oh, surely, Monsieur de Sartines is about to put +the question.” + +“How! You think that I have something to ask--of you?” + +“And why not? There would be stranger questions.” + +“You must prove that before I admit it.” + +“Certainly, I will prove it in a word. You came here to-night to speak +about Coq le Roi.” + +Monsieur de Sartines, when he heard this, sat straight up like a man +who has been hit in the back with the flat of a sword. + +“_Pardieu!_” cried he, “what do you know about Coq le Roi?” + +She laughed at him girlishly and very sweetly. + +“I know much more than the Lieutenant of Police,” she said. + +“You are pleased to jest, mademoiselle.” + +“I--to jest--what an accusation!” + +“Then convince me that you do not.” + +“With the greatest pleasure possible--for instance, you would like to +learn--” + +The lieutenant laughed savagely. + +“I would like to learn where the man is at this moment,” exclaimed he. + +“Is that all--surely, nothing could be more simple. I will summon +Antonio.” + +“Oh! it is Antonio who is the friend of assassins, then?” + +“Certainly, he is a brother to them all. Does that shock you, dear +Monsieur de Sartines? If so, we will not trouble him.” + +“By no means,” cried the lieutenant, who was boiling over with +curiosity; “at least he will amuse me.” + +“I promise that,” replied Corinne. + +Sartines had expected that she would rise from her seat to summon the +physician as she had promised; but she did not so much as move a +finger; and when some minutes had passed the lieutenant became +impatient. + +“Well,” he said, “are you not going to exhibit this godfather of +assassins?” + +“Surely, since he is here now.” + +It was as she said. The old doctor, Antonio, had entered the room +during their talk; and the lieutenant felt a cold chill run down his +spine, when suddenly he became aware that a strange figure stood at +his side. Whence the apparition had come; from the shelter of what +trap, or panel, or hiding-place, Sartines could not tell. He knew only +that the old man was before him, clad in his Geneva gown, wearing a +full-bottomed wig, the curls of which almost touched his elbows. + +“_Ciel!_” cried he, “you have a light foot, doctor.” + +Antonio bowed with the grace of a prince-bishop. + +“At your service, lieutenant,” said he. “If all report be true, you +will need many light feet for your work in Paris.” + +Sartines bit his lip. The physician’s words seemed a reflection upon +his mishap with Coq le Roi. + +“Come,” said he, “let us talk of other things. Mademoiselle has +promised that you will amuse me--” + +“I am here to obey my mistress,” said the old man, “--what is your +pleasure, lieutenant?” + +“Oh, my pleasure is not in question, but mademoiselle has said--” + +“I have said that you will tell him what the highwayman named Coq le +Roi, is doing to-night,” cried Corinne, interrupting suddenly; “there +is nothing more simple than that, eh, Antonio?” + +“It is a child’s task, mademoiselle.” + +Sartines, who had begun by treating the whole thing as an elaborate +jest, listened to this talk incredulously. While he told himself that +Antonio’s claim was absurd, preposterous, ridiculous, nevertheless the +idea that he should put the physician to the trial was strong and +fascinating. He felt like one in the presence of a conjuror. He would +watch the trick closely--perhaps learn something from it. Besides, if +he should get any information about Coq le Roi--but that, he said, was +impossible. + +Antonio, meanwhile, had crossed the great room and had seated himself +before a little table upon which was an astrolabe in brass, a lamp +with a green shade, and a large sheet of drawing-paper, all scrawled +over with hieroglyphics and strange lettering like the lettering of an +Eastern manuscript. When he had turned back the long sleeves of his +gown, and had taken a pair of compasses in his hand, the doctor bade +the others come near. + +“Monsieur,” said he to Sartines, “you desire to know in what +occupation the man Jacques Cabot, sometimes called Coq le Roi, has +been employed during the last twelve hours. If you will be good enough +to sit by my side, and to say nothing until the clock shall strike +again, I will tell you.” + +The lieutenant, assuring himself that he was a fool to take part in +such mummery, sat as the physician directed. Corinne took her stand +beside him; Antonio, resting his head upon his hands, cried suddenly +for less light; and at the words, lacqueys entered the room +noiselessly and extinguished the candles. Only the shaded green lamp +remained; and from its aureole of light the figure of the old doctor +stood out--motionless, stern--the figure of some weird magician risen +up from the ages of the past. + +Five minutes passed, and nothing was to be heard in the great room but +the ticking of the clock. Sartines found himself spellbound; Corinne +herself stood like a statue, scarce seeming to breathe. When, at last, +Antonio broke the spell, he did so by beginning to speak in a low +voice, accompanying the words with the tracing of strange lines upon +the paper before him. + +“Monsieur,” said he, addressing Sartines, but keeping his eyes upon +the paper, “at twelve o’clock to-day Coq le Roi was at Soisy robbing +the coach of his lordship, the Duke of Sabran.” + +“_Dieu!_” cried Sartines, rising from his chair, “you say--” + +Antonio, without so much as turning his head, continued to draw upon +the paper. Corinne touched the lieutenant gently upon the arm, and +made a sign to him that he should say nothing. + +“At three o’clock,” continued the physician, whose voice was now +strong and clear as the note of a bell, “I find that Coq le Roi was at +Gros Bois after stopping the coach of the Grand Master of Artillery, +the Comte d’Eu, and robbing him of three hundred louis d’or.” + +“_Ventre bleu!_” cried Sartines, while he threw himself back in his +chair and laughed heartily, “what a play! Oh, you amuse me very well, +my dear doctor.” + +Antonio ignored the interruption. His head was now so near to the +paper that his eyes almost touched it. His voice was the voice of a +man who speaks his thoughts aloud, unconscious that any listen. + +“It is six o’clock,” he said, after a long pause, “and the rain falls +heavily upon the road to Fontenay. I see a great hill, and at its foot +the woods stretch out to meet the waters. One horseman keeps watch in +the dark place of the valley. He is waiting for the coming of his +highness, the Duke de Nevers--” + +“Thousand devils,” cried Sartines, unable to control himself, “you +lie, monsieur--” + +Antonio turned his head swiftly; Corinne pressed the lieutenant’s arm +warningly. + +“Your pardon,” cried Sartines, nettled at his outburst, and now pale +with excitement, “but has not this jest gone far enough?” + +“It is as monsieur pleases,” cried the old physician, pushing his +paper away from him; “he has asked me what the highwayman known as Coq +le Roi has done to-day and I have told him, reading from the signs +which have been given to me.” + +“Certainly,” replied the lieutenant, “you have amused me very well; +but is it not possible, monsieur, that you have not read your signs +aright?” + +“Oh, indeed, if you think that,” cried Corinne, interrupting quickly, +“why not ask Coq le Roi himself?” + +“Ask Coq le Roi?” + +“As I say. Had you allowed Antonio to finish his work, he would have +told you that, after stopping the coach of his highness, the Duke de +Nevers, Coq le Roi turned his horse towards Paris; and that, even +while we were speaking of him, he entered this house, and is now my +guest in the Tower of St. Paul--which, I need not tell you, +lieutenant, is still part of the Hôtel Beautreillis.” + +Sartines heard her out, and when she had finished, his face was almost +as green as the shade of the physician’s lamp. The sweat poured from +his brow like rain; he gnashed his teeth; he laughed with the +hysterical laugh of a woman. + +“Am I a child, mademoiselle,” he blurted out at last, “that you should +tell me such tales?” + +Corinne, holding herself with great dignity, struck a gong at her +side; this was her answer to him. + +A lacquey answered the summons while the note was still reverberating +in the hall. + +“Edouard,” she said to the servant, “Monsieur Jacques Cabot, is he in +his apartment?” + +“He arrived an hour ago, mademoiselle.” + +“And now?” + +“He is sleeping, mademoiselle.” + +Corinne clapped her pretty hands. + +“Could anything be better?” she said. “We will have a peep at him and +apologise afterwards. Come, Monsieur de Sartines, you shall doubt no +more.” + +She led the way from the room while the lieutenant was still gaping +with his astonishment, and he, not knowing whether he stood upon his +head or his heels, followed her into the courtyard of the old house, +and thence across a pretty garden, darkened by great chestnut-trees +and a labyrinth of bushes. The Hôtel Beautreillis, as Corinne’s home +was called, formed a part of the once royal palace of St. Paul; and +many strange old towers and turrets and pavilions then stood in its +beautiful gardens. It was to one of these pavilions that the girl now +conducted Sartines; and the excellent lieutenant was not a little +surprised to find two sturdy Swiss guards standing sentry at its +iron-bound door. + +“_Parbleu!_” cried he, “you watch your guests well, my dear lady.” + +“Nay,” she said, “it is the king’s wish.” + +“How? The king knows that the man is here?” + +“Certainly--or rather, he knows that I await him.” + +Sartines asked himself for the fifth time what wine he had drunk and +from what malady he suffered. Then he stumbled up the narrow stairs; +and, while Corinne held aloft the lantern which a servant had given to +her, he entered a small and exquisitely furnished room--and there he +saw Coq le Roi. + +The highwayman was no typical robber. Short to the point of absurdity, +with hair as red as the sands of the sea, and clothes which spoke of +long hours in the saddle, you might have taken him for a hunchback of +Notre Dame or a tailor of the Rue St. Severin. All the city called him +the “Little Red Man,” and the title fitted him like a glove. When +Sartines then saw him he was sleeping, still dressed, upon a couch; +and the light from Mademoiselle’s lantern, playing upon his strange +little face, lit up features which might have been those of a girl. +Beyond this, the man was splashed to his shoulders with mud; and two +great pistols he always carried were displayed threateningly upon the +table beside the relics of the admirable supper he had just partaken +of. + +“_Dame!_” cried Sartines, feasting his eyes upon the motionless figure +of the robber, “that is Coq le Roi right enough. I could pick him from +a hundred.” + +“Certainly you could,” whispered Corinne, drawing back from the room. + +“Very well,” cried the lieutenant, “I am content to ask no questions, +mademoiselle, but in ten minutes my officers will call for their +prisoner.” + +“One moment, lieutenant. Be pleased first to read the king’s +pleasure.” + +At this word she held her lantern quite close to the lieutenant’s +eyes, and showed him a little sheet of parchment which she had brought +with her from the music-room. At the foot of this there was the royal +seal and the signature of King Louis. Sartines took the document with +trembling hands and read these words:-- + +“Jacques Cabot, sometimes called Coq le Roi, is to be the prisoner of +Mademoiselle de Montesson until he shall steal the diamond ring from +the finger of Monsieur de Sartines.” + +A smile, a terrible smile, played in the eyes of the now thoroughly +enraged lieutenant. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he, bowing low, “I congratulate you upon the +farce you are playing; at the same time his majesty’s wish is a +command to me. I shall make it my business to see him to-morrow and to +alter this.” + +“Very well, my dear Monsieur Sartines--but remember, it is half past +ten o’clock.” + +“Half past ten o’clock--why should I remember that?” + +“You will learn presently.” + +He turned upon his heel with another stately bow, and the voices of +the lacqueys were heard immediately crying for his coach. Two minutes +later his horses were galloping furiously toward the Hôtel de Ville; +but Corinne de Montesson was still laughing in her garden. + +“Oh,” she said, “if only he will go to the king!” + +Monsieur de Sartines did not go to the king--that night at any rate. +His first act was to call the Captain of the Guard, and to give him +precise instructions for the good of Coq le Roi. + +“Take a file of men,” said he to the captain, “and surround the +pavilion of St. Paul in the garden of the Hôtel Beautreillis. Coq le +Roi, the highwayman, is there. Shoot him if he attempts to leave the +place. Otherwise, keep the guard posted until you hear from me.” + +The captain saluted and withdrew. When he had gone, Sartines called +for a cup of white wine and drank it at a draught. Then he took snuff +in huge quantities, seeking vainly to compose his thoughts. + +“_Dame!_” said he to himself, “what a tale to tell! That she should be +the friend of assassins--And the king supports her. Either I am mad or +I have dreamed the things of this night. Jacques Cabot her guest! Holy +Virgin--she will burn the Bastille next!” + +Long he paced his apartment, his brain burning with his changing +thoughts. Twelve o’clock rang out from Notre Dame, one o’clock was +told by all the churches of Paris, and still his coach waited to carry +him to his own house in the Faubourg St. Germain. At a quarter past +one, when sleep had begun to battle with his perplexity, a new clatter +of hoofs disturbed the silent courts of the Hôtel de Ville, and awoke +him from his stupor. He had scarce started up from his chair to learn +the moment of the interruption when a horseman, dripping wet and +splashed from head to foot with mud, burst into his room and stood at +the salute before him. + +“Well,” cried Sartines. + +“I have the honour to inform your excellency,” cried the man, “that +Monsieur l’Abbé Lamotte was stopped upon the road to Choisy at half +past ten to-night and robbed of a hundred crowns by the man called Coq +le Roi.” + +“What,” roared Sartines, “at half past ten! You lie, rogue--I was with +Coq le Roi myself at that hour.” + +“It is as I say, sir--I was one of the company, and I could pick the +man from a thousand.” + +“God deliver me from all devils!” ejaculated the lieutenant; “it was +the hour she told me to remember.” + +Monsieur de Sartines was, perhaps, as little in love with hag’s tales +and superstitions as any man in Paris; but the events of that night, +the strange mysteries of it, the surprises he had known, confused his +brain and distracted him until he had no longer command of his reason. +While the messenger was speaking to him, he found himself looking +instinctively for the diamond ring upon the third finger of his left +hand. It still glistened there, and he chuckled grimly when he saw it. + +“Bah!” said he, “it is the king’s jest. He has posted his own guards +in the Rue St. Paul, and to-morrow he will deliver up Cabot to my +charge. His words prove that. ‘Until he shall steal the diamond ring +from the finger of Monsieur de Sartines.’ _Dame!_ if the liberty of +Coq le Roi depends upon that, he will remain a prisoner until the day +of judgment. Steal my ring--Holy Virgin, I would like to see the man +who could do it!” + +The thought somewhat comforted him. He determined to go to his own +house and to get what sleep he could before dawn broke. He said that +this report of a new outrage must be untrue, since Coq le Roi was +watched by his own guards in the Rue St. Paul. He remembered that the +king was still at Versailles, and that if luck were willing, he would +be able to find his Majesty there in the early hours of daylight. As +for the stupendous mystery now hovering about the Hôtel Beautreillis +and Corinne de Montesson, his tired brain could not grapple with that. +He swore when he thought of it. He recalled the days when the people +had declared the girl to be a witch. He fell to sleep in his own bed +at last only to dream that Coq le Roi had stolen his ring and that the +king himself was wearing it. + +The sun had been up an hour, when the lieutenant awoke from his +troubled sleep. He found his valet standing at his bedside, profuse in +apology for the intrusion. + +“I am sorry to disturb your excellency,” he said, “but there is a +mounted messenger below who has news which will not wait.” + +“Send him up,” cried the lieutenant, springing from his bed, and +beginning to dress hurriedly. “Does he come from the provost?” + +“I know nothing,” said the man, “save that he craves audience.” + +A moment later, the messenger, one of the new guard, was saluting his +chief. + +“I am to tell you, sir,” said he, “that Coq le Roi, the highwayman, +was seen this morning in the woods beyond Yères.” + +“Oh,” cried the lieutenant, bristling with anger, “you come to tell me +that--then tell it to the devil.” + +The man crossed himself devoutly. + +“God save us all!” said he; “here is your excellency’s own guard in +the Rue St. Paul declaring that the fellow has slept all night and has +never so much as turned in his sleep.” + +The lieutenant waited to hear no more. Refusing even the coffee which +his servants offered to him, he called for his coach and set out at a +gallop for Versailles. No fool under any circumstances, this mystery +seemed to be making a fool of him. He told himself while he drove that +all Paris would be laughing at him before night fell. He could have +wagered his life that he had seen Coq le Roi fast asleep in the +turreted pavilion of Corinne’s house. He declared either that he had +dreamed the thing, or that these new stories were false. The king had +made the robber a prisoner in this way for some secret purpose. That +purpose he must find out. Perhaps, after all, it was only his +Majesty’s love for a pair of pretty blue eyes. + +He arrived at Versailles at eight o’clock, but learnt to his chagrin +that the king had set out to the hunt, and was not to return to the +palace until the afternoon. This was an irritating foil to his plans; +but he spent the day in seeking audiences of his friends, and +endeavouring vainly to glean some hints from which he could forge a +key to his perplexity. Disappointed in this, he conceived the notion +of walking a little way into the park; and so of catching his Majesty +before he was surrounded by the host of idlers and pleasure-seekers +who lay waiting to whisper a word into the royal ear. + +It was nearly five o’clock in the evening when he set out on this +quest; and an unusual stillness reigned in the magnificent gardens of +the château. Here and there, daintily coloured lanterns gave dancing +light beneath the trees; a few richly dressed fops were making love to +pretty women; but the great world of pleasure was resting until the +zenith of the night should awake it to new occupations. Sartines, +indeed, found himself almost alone, when absorbed in his unending +speculations he crossed the gardens where the fountains foamed redly +in the glowing rays of the setting sun, and passed down the Avenue de +Trianon into the groves of the more open park. This was quite deserted +at such an hour. Valets, stablemen, gardeners--all were taking what +rest they could, knowing well that the night would have need of them. +The silence and the twilight suited the lieutenant’s mood well. He +began to pace a deserted avenue of yew elms with the slow steps of a +man bearing a burden of worry and of doubt. He looked often across the +park for the advance guards of the royal party. He believed himself to +be alone, and even spoke his thoughts aloud. + +“Bah!” said he, remembering still the letter which Corinne had read to +him, “when any highwayman shall steal my ring, then will I hang myself +from the king’s bed-post. What an idea to suggest! It really amuses +me--it really--ha, ha!--” + +To his surprise, a mocking laugh answered his spoken thoughts. He +turned round swiftly, abashed at his words, to find that the intruder +was no other than an exceedingly pretty girl, apparently not yet +twenty years of age, who was then sitting upon a mouldy stone bench +under the shadow of the elms. She was dressed in an exquisite riding +habit of green velvet, and the merriment of her laugh, together with +the brightness of her eyes and the exceeding suppleness of her figure, +completed a picture which arrested even the wandering attention of the +Lieutenant of Police. + +“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” cried he, bowing very low, “have I +the honour--?” + +“Oh,” said the young girl, laughing again, “the honour is mine, +monsieur--to be forgotten by the chief of his Majesty’s police.” + +“I see so many faces,” pleaded Sartines, gallantly, “but that I should +forget your face, mademoiselle--oh, that were impossible.” + +“I think not, monsieur--since you do not remember that you met me at +the château of the Comte d’Eu.” + +The name of the Comte d’Eu sent a shiver down the lieutenant’s back. +It recalled the old physician and his mystic prophecies. + +“_Pardieu!_” cried he, “I remember, of course. You are a kinswoman of +the count’s, I doubt not--and that being so, you know something of the +misfortune which overtook him yesterday.” + +“Indeed, I do,” said the girl, “since I was with him in his coach when +he was stopped by the highwayman they call Coq le Roi.” + +Sartines gasped. Such a striking confirmation of the old physician’s +words he had never looked to hear. + +“Mademoiselle,” cried he, very anxiously, “will you permit me to sit a +moment while you tell me more of this affair?” + +She made way for him readily upon the bench. + +“Oh,” she said, “I will tell you anything you please--and I know a +good deal more about Coq le Roi than you do, Monsieur de Sartines.” + +The lieutenant looked at the girlish figure beside him and laughed a +little contemptuously. + +“You must convince me of that,” said he. + +“Certainly I will--though I ought not to do so. It is dangerous to +play with other people’s secrets, Monsieur de Sartines.” + +“Secrets,” exclaimed the lieutenant, “why--what secrets can there be +in a case like this?” + +“If I were sure we were alone, I might be tempted to tell you. But +look how dark it grows. Upon my word I must not stay any longer, +monsieur--another time you shall learn all.” + +Sartines’ eagerness was now beyond control. + +“Indeed,” said he, “I beg you will do me the favour to remain, if it +is only for ten minutes. Are you not safe with me?” + +“I should be--but you know it is lonely here--and hush, is there not +some one coming?” + +They both listened a moment, but the murmur of the fountains and the +echo of distant music were the only sounds in the darkness of the +grove. + +“Well,” resumed Sartines, “you see that we are alone--and now, I beg +of you--” + +The girl sighed--a sigh of regret and hesitation. + +“It is very wrong of me,” she said, “and Corinne will never forgive +me.” + +“Corinne!” ejaculated the lieutenant, “do you refer to Mademoiselle de +Montesson?” + +“Certainly.” + +“And what of her?” + +The girl appeared to hesitate, and it was only after a long pause that +she said: “Oh, she has been very unkind to you. She made a wager with +the king that she would find an actress from the Opéra Comique and +pass her off on you as Coq le Roi himself. And she has won, you know!” + +“What!” roared Sartines. + +“It is as I say. The man you thought you saw in her house last night +was not a man at all. It was Mademoiselle Guérin, from the Opéra +Comique.” + +“Thousand devils,” exclaimed the lieutenant, rising from his seat, “I +never thought of that!” + +“Of course you did not. You forgot that your robber has the face of a +young girl. Corinne, you know, remembered that, and so she tricked +you. She has always been the friend of Coq le Roi. She warned him two +days ago that spies were in the Rue St. Sauveur, and lent him the +disguise in which he escaped. He told her himself what coaches he was +going to rob and where. Her old physician helped her with his nonsense +and his gown. And now she has set all Paris laughing at you.” + +Sartines groaned like a wounded man. + +“What, then, in heaven’s name means this farce about stealing my +ring?” he cried, more to himself than to the pretty creature at his +side. + +“My dear Monsieur de Sartines, where are your wits?” said the girl. +“Don’t you see that she wishes to get the king’s pardon for her +friend? And the king makes this ridiculous condition, meaning that the +man shall not be pardoned. Oh, it is all as plain as the Trianon +there.” + +“Of course it is, of course it is,” snarled the lieutenant, whose +hands were trembling with rage and shame. + +“I could tell you many more things, monsieur,” continued the girl, “if +the sun were not in such a hurry to set--but see how dark it grows. +Meanwhile, here is a letter which you may keep and read when you +return to Paris to-night--it will tell you much.” + +She took a letter from the breast of her habit and pressed it into the +hand of the lieutenant, allowing her fingers to rest for some moments +in his. Sartines, tormented by a thousand reproaches, did not even +notice the pressure. + +“Do you know,” he asked abstractedly, “in what disguise Coq le Roi +left the Rue St. Sauveur?” + +“Indeed I do, monsieur; it was in the disguise of a woman of +fashion,--in fact, he wore a green velvet riding-habit which Corinne +gave to him.” + +“A green velvet riding-habit,” repeated Sartines, thinking of anything +but the green velvet habit at his side. + +“Nothing else,--a green velvet riding-habit and a little +three-cornered hat. Oh, they cheated you well--but read that letter, +and it will save you being fooled a third time.” + +“A third time!” exclaimed the lieutenant, looking round quickly, while +the clasp of the girl’s pretty fingers was strong upon his left hand, +into which she was forcing the letter. + +“As I say--a third time,” she explained boisterously. “Corinne has +cheated you once in making you believe that a woman is a man; I have +cheated you a second time in making you believe that a man is a +woman.” + +Her words came in a torrent; and even while they were upon her lips, +she raised the gloved hand which was free, leaving the other hand +still in that of the man; and very dexterously and suddenly she cast +the contents of a tiny bottle she had concealed in her palm into the +eyes of Monsieur de Sartines. At the same moment she grasped his +fingers with a strange twist, and so sprang to her feet. But the +lieutenant, whose eyes seemed on fire and who believed himself to be +blind, roared like a stricken bull. + +“Who, in heaven’s name, are you?” he cried. + +“I am Jacques Cabot, otherwise Coq le Roi, otherwise the Little Red +Man--very much at your service. _Bon soir_, Monsieur de Sartines. You +will see very well in ten minutes. I have your diamond ring upon my +left hand.” + +The lieutenant uttered a terrible cry and staggered across the path, +in a vain endeavour to grapple with the robber. But when the guard at +last answered his cries he was quite alone, and the silence of the +night reigned in the grove. + + + + + III. + A PRISON OF SWORDS + +Jacques de Serrefort was sleeping when the jailor opened the door of +his cell; but he awoke while the keys still rattled in the lock, and +sat up in his bed half blinded by the sunlight which streamed through +the high window of his prison. It was a morning of early June, fresh +with sweet breezes of the summer and the odour of roses in the air; +but the captive, who had lived a day of the long ago in his dreams, +regarded neither the hour nor the freshness of it. Every morning for +fifteen years had he arisen from such dreams of the old time to forget +them quickly in the terrible realities of his doom. The gentle smile +upon his face, born of the visions of the night, passed at once in the +first moments of the day. Sleep had carried him to the fair fields of +Brittany, to the pastures of his homestead, to the ingle wherein his +wife, and the daughter he had loved more than life, had been wont to +greet him when the day’s work was done. But the dawn destroyed +illusions so welcome. He became the slave again. Nothing to him that +it was the height of summer, when all Paris was alive with merry music +and feasting and the notes of bells calling lovers to the altars. Day +or night, the fall of the leaf or the flowering of the blossom--the +hour was long since passed when he remembered these. No more did he +rave against the destiny which had made him a perpetual prisoner in +the Conciergerie. His mind was rusted from long disuse; he talked and +acted like a little child; tears refused him their consoling +friendship. He prayed that the end might be soon; he sorrowed only +because death was not given to him. + +The jailor entered the cell as he had entered it every morning during +those terrible years. He and Serrefort had grown old together; old in +association, almost in captivity. True, Baptiste, as they called the +fellow, had a little house out in the cathedral close yonder, and went +there at odd hours to gossip with his neighbours; but nine-tenths of +his years were spent in the Conciergerie, and he knew every stone in +it, nay, almost every crack in its tremendous walls. In his way, he +had been a good friend to Jacques de Serrefort--a friend in the little +things of kindness whose worth to a prisoner is inestimable. Every +morning, as soon as the bells of Notre Dame struck six o’clock, he +would enter the wretched man’s cell to cry: “Courage, comrade; here is +the day. Who knows what it will bring?” Jacques would declare +sometimes that he had said the same thing every day for fifteen years. +But it came out of the goodness of his heart, and was not to be +resented. Indeed, the prisoner welcomed the sound of the homely voice; +and when on this particular morning of June, in the year 1761, the +customary greeting was not given, Serrefort turned quickly to his +jailor with a question upon his lips. + +“How now, Baptiste,” cried he, “you are silent this morning!” + +Baptiste shook his head, and went toward the window that Serrefort +might not see his face. + +“Courage, comrade,” said he; “it will not be for long--your daughter +will return to Paris presently, and then all will be well.” + +Serrefort, who had begun to dress, sat down upon his bed again. He +divined that some great misfortune was about to overtake him, though +of its nature he could foresee nothing. + +“Come, Baptiste,” said he, “you speak in riddles. What has my daughter +to do with the Conciergerie--have I not enough to bear that you should +talk of her?” + +“_Dame!_” replied the old jailor, “I must speak of her since she alone +has kept you from the Bombec Tower[1] these two years and more. Think +you, comrade, that the bailiff gives windows and red wine to all who +ask them? Saint Denis, you have the best quarters in the prison, and +the best food. And why?--why, because your daughter has paid for such +things. You don’t know that?” + +“I swear to heaven that I know nothing,” exclaimed Serrefort. “You say +that I have these things through my daughter, and that she pays for +them?” + +“How else should you have them? _Sapristi!_ a child would not be so +simple. She has paid for them since your old protector, the Sieur +Buchot, died. And she will pay for them again--when she comes back to +Paris. Oh, be sure of it. She is a good child, and rare is the week +when she does not tell me what she means to do for you. Do not lose +heart, old friend. Who knows?--she may be ill or gone away upon an +affair of importance. If the bailiff were reasonable, he would think +of these things. But he will not hear me, and the order now is that I +am to carry you to the Bombec Tower this morning, and to show you no +more favours until you can pay for them again.” + +Serrefort shuddered. He had not lived in the great prison for fifteen +years without hearing many a grim story of the terrible _oubliettes_ +below the level of the river Seine, wherein, shut out from God’s day +and surrounded by horrors unnameable, the more wretched and poorer +victims of the bailiff Hubert’s greed went all too slowly to their +doom. Captivity is apt to obliterate from a man’s heart those finer +affections which are fed upon freedom. Serrefort was tempted for a +moment to bitter thoughts of the daughter who had left him to a fate +so horrible. But anon he remembered Baptiste’s words, that she must be +ill or away upon an affair of importance. And then he complained no +more, but fell to wondering what her life had been since he had left +her, a child of fifteen, in the old home in Brittany. He could not +forget altogether that he owed this enduring punishment to her, and +her alone. The hardness born of prison life closed about his heart +when he told himself that if he had not struck the man who had been +the shadow upon her life, he would not now be a prisoner in the +Conciergerie. Such thoughts, however, passed upon the instant, and his +great love of her came flowing into his heart like a freshet, and he +longed, with the accumulated longing of years, to take her to his +heart again. + +“Lord, let me see her once more,” he prayed, and so praying he dressed +himself and told Baptiste that he was ready. + +“Old friend,” said he, “I have been blind indeed, to take these gifts +from the hand of one whose own need must be so great. Think you that I +would have permitted Irène to work for me at a time when she has +neither friends nor helpers in all the city? Heaven forbid that I +should have so little love for her. Oh, I am ready to follow you, +Baptiste. I care not where you carry me if only you bring me news that +she is well. Have I aught else in the world to remember but my little +Irène? God shield her always in the shadow of His love.” + +He stood up dressed now, and the sunlight fell, bright and golden, +upon his clear features and snow-white hair. He had been one of +Condé’s legion in the old time; a type of fine manhood and dashing +courage. They said that there was no finer swordsman in the regiment; +no better horseman. Nor had fifteen years of captivity robbed him +altogether of that magnificent figure and soldierly carriage which had +been the envy of his comrades in the long ago, when Brittany was the +fairest country in the world to him, and the face of his young wife +the sweetest face in all France. He stood up now, the sun showing the +pallor of his face and the deep black lines beneath his eyes; but his +body was erect, his shoulders square, his step firm. And so, like a +soldier upon parade, he quitted the cell which had harboured him so +long, and followed Baptiste to the corridor without. + +There was a file of men in the passage armed with harberds and +spontoons; a little army to guard a prisoner, who had never in his +wildest moments dreamed of escape from a citadel so formidable as the +Conciergerie. Serrefort exchanged no greeting with them; but he +surveyed them with some scorn when they closed about him and began to +march down the corridor, and so to the head of a flight of steps which +appeared to lead into the very bowels of the earth. For one short +instant a window showed him the city, and beyond that the river, +bright with lapping green waves and busy boats, and the houses all +huddled together in the sunlight, and the streets full of hurrying +throngs, glad because the new day had come. He said that the world lay +there,--the world where men hoped and loved and worked; the world he +would never know again. And then the window was passed, and he found +himself descending the winding stairs of the great Bombec Tower, which +seemed to rise up from the very river itself. Though his guards held +torches high above their heads, the place was so dark that even the +garish yellow light could not penetrate the terrible blackness. +Serrefort feared almost to set foot upon the ground, lest he should +tumble into some horrid pit or go headlong into the waters of the +Seine. So heavy and damp was the air that his lungs seemed to be +filled with noxious vapours at every breath. Even the floor of the +staircase was covered with wet and slime, while water dripped from the +walls in a ceaseless “pat-pat-pat,” which spoke eloquently of the +surpassing misery of those who must live in depths so terrible. +Serrefort had heard often of the Bombec Tower. He remembered that when +as a little child his father had brought him to Paris, they had shown +him this great stone bastille, one of the towers of the Conciergerie +springing up from the very river’s bed, and they had spoken in hushed +voices of the suffering of those doomed to such a prison. And now he +must learn of these things for himself. Indeed, the lesson had begun +already when the sunshine was left far above him; and an intolerable +longing for air and light forced him to say that he must lose his +reason if they did not carry him up again to the day he had left. And +so he came to the foot of the staircase, and his guards having gone +some little way down a narrow and sinuous passage, one of them held a +torch aloft, while old Baptiste unlocked the door of a cell and bade +the prisoner enter. + +“Courage,” said he, “for the love of Heaven. It is only for a little +while, and your daughter will be back again. You will find a seat +there--do not quit it until I come to you. It is the prison of swords +you enter, God help you.” + +There was a quaver in the old man’s voice when he spoke; but Serrefort +did not hear. His eyes were staring horribly into the hole which +henceforth must be his home. Bright as the flare of the torch was, its +light could penetrate but a little way into that den wherein the sun’s +rays had not entered for centuries, nor any sound been heard but the +groans and sobs of the wretched victims of the dungeon. + +“Oh,” cried Serrefort, pitifully drawing back, “if I might die! I +cannot enter--I cannot--” + +But old Baptiste cried again,-- + +“Courage, my son, courage; she will come back--I shall see her +to-day--oh, she has not forgotten you, be sure of it.” + +He spoke as a father might have spoken to a son; and pushing the +trembling prisoner gently forward, he closed the door upon him and +hurried back to the light and the life above. Penalty enough that he +should spend moments in an abode of such horrors. Serrefort, on the +other hand, took two steps forward and then sank down upon the mouldy +straw with which the floor of his new prison was covered. There was no +braver man in Paris, none with a stouter heart nor more noble courage; +but the Bombec Tower was quick to conquer him. Fear now dominated his +mind, until his whole body trembled, and his very heart seemed to +stand still. The darkness weighed upon him like a crushing burden. The +foul cell appeared to be full of the shapes of those who had gone +before him to this agony. His lungs were scorched by the stifling air; +the dreadful silence, he said, was the silence of the tomb. Every +moment he waited to feel the touch of some creeping thing upon his +face; he crouched like a driven animal, putting out his hand to find +the walls with his fingers. But his hand was cut by the blade of a +knife protruding from the stone work, and as he drew it back bleeding, +he remembered what Baptiste had said, that he was then in the prison +of swords. Full well he knew what the words meant. Many a time had he +heard of this infamous cell wherein the walls bristled with knives, +and the floor of which, as tradition told, was covered with creeping +things, and even with loathsome reptiles. + +“Oh, my God,” he prayed again, “have pity upon me, have pity upon +me--I cannot suffer it--I cannot!” + +Maddened, as many prisoners before him, he hurled himself ferociously +upon the floor and writhed there with burning brain, and hands and +arms cut by the sharp blades which protruded from the walls. When the +fever passed, and he lay weak and motionless upon the straw, he began +to ask himself by what right the bailiff inflicted these wrongs upon +him. Years had gone by since he had sinned in striking the Comte de +Châteauneuf, the lord of his province, who had robbed him of a fame +which was more precious to him than wealth, and had sought to injure +the one being for whom he would have given his life willingly. Had +they such memories that they remembered the crime still? He could not +believe it; but as misery grew upon him, there came back, strong and +clear and life-giving, his hate of the man who had doomed him to such +agonies. Often in his prison above had he prayed that the day might be +his when he would meet the Comte de Châteauneuf face to face and +reckon with him for these years. His brightest dreams were those +wherein he fancied that his enemy lay dead at his feet, and that he, +Jacques de Serrefort, had the dripping sword of victory in his hand. +But these dreams were sent for his punishment, since how could he, a +helpless prisoner, revenge himself upon a man who commanded in Paris +an influence no less powerful than in Brittany. He knew that it could +not be; yet hoped the more, and in his hope found the will to live. + +It had been very early in the morning when they carried him to the +Bombec Tower and old Baptiste had brought a manchet of bread and a +flask of wine to the dungeon, so that Serrefort could not hope to see +his jailor again before night fell. For the matter of that, he had +nothing to tell him the hour; and he lay, it seemed for days, quite +still in his cell, while the rats ran over his arms, and ever and anon +some living thing would touch his face and fill him with loathing +inexpressible. The patter of these animals was for a long time the +only sign of life down there below the river’s flood; but anon he +heard a gentle lapping of water, and knew that the tide was rising. It +was good at the first to think of Mother Seine, which ran without like +some friend of the world he had forgotten, and he took pleasure in +calling to mind its aspect when last he had seen it. That was when +they carried him over the Pont Neuf to prison. The river had been +alive with boats then; with boats and barges, and gallant going down +to Passy, and merry jesters making merry music, and all the life and +brightness of the great city. To-day, he said grimly, all that world +passed within a stone’s throw of him; yet his eyes were blinded to the +sights; his ears deaf to the music; he would never see that river +again; the world would pass for ever by and no cry of his go out, no +hand of pity be offered to him. And while this thought was in his +mind, the lap of the waves grew stronger; the sound of water began to +fill the whole cell. He realised quite suddenly, yet with a new, an +immeasurable dread, that the river would rise above the level of his +cell. When at last a cold stream of water touched his feet, he cried +out anew, thinking that they meant to drown him and had brought him to +the Bombec Tower with that intent. + +The water rose slowly, lapping about the feet and knees and hands of +the prisoner. But he had imagined a fate which was not in the minds of +those who had sent him to the dungeon. Twice every day the Seine +washed the floor of this cell, bringing up great rats in its flood and +leaving the oozing slime and filth of its waters upon the straw which +made the prisoner’s bed. Just when Jacques de Serrefort was telling +himself that the water would cover his mouth presently, its flow +ceased, and taught him the devilish malignity of his captors. Wet and +cold and shivering, the wretched man stood for long hours while the +stream ebbed. Then he sank again upon his reeking bed to ask how he +should support another day of torture so revolting and cruel. He could +not forget that there had been prisoners who had spent long years in +this very cell, who had become raving madmen and yet had lived on; +sport for their jailors, but not food for death. Serrefort swore that +no such fate should be his; he would find another way; he would cast +himself upon the mercy of heaven and end the terror before reason +robbed him of the power. + +Until this time, and he judged that it must now be night, no sign had +been given that those above remembered his existence. Though he +listened long and called out with all his strength, he heard no +answering voice, no tread in the passage without. The massive walls +shut down his cries and entombed them. A fearful roof of earth seemed +to weigh upon his prison and heat it with hot and choking air. +Serrefort declared that he realised for the first time what anguish +must be the lot of those who wake in a tomb. He would have welcomed +death as a gift of mercy; but for the time being he had neither the +strength nor the will to compel death. Rather he turned to think of +old Baptiste’s promise that he would come again; of his assurance that +his daughter Irène would return to Paris to bring him the comforts of +the cells above. But the hours wore on and no one came, and hope +ebbed, and the fever of the cell racked his bones. He had been known +ever as one who had a clear mind, quick, active, far-seeing; but the +darkness of the dungeon in the Bombec already warred upon his brain. A +drowsiness crept upon him, nature’s medicine against his terror; he +could not sleep, yet became almost insensible to the horrors of the +cell; he forgot where he was; visions of his home and wife came back +to him, so that when his cell door was opened presently and the flare +of a torch lit up its inmost recesses, those who visited him found +tears running down his cheeks and a word of love upon his lips. + +Serrefort had thought when he heard the key grate in the lock that it +was old Baptiste come back as he had promised; but as soon as his eyes +were awake to the light, he looked up to see the bailiff Hubert, the +governor of the prison, and with him a tall grey-haired man, whose +fine dress and white ruffles were strange things to find in the +Conciergerie. The same soldiers who had conducted the prisoner to the +cell in the morning now accompanied the governor and ranged themselves +on either side of the prisoner, bidding him rise and salute the +bailiff. Serrefort did so mechanically, shutting his eyes that he +might not behold the dreadful sights which the torches disclosed. All +his old spirit was broken now; he held his head erect no more--one day +in the Bombec had made him an old man. + +“Sirs,” said he, with a sob in his voice, “I beg of your pity carry me +from this place--you see how I suffer--oh, God knows what my +sufferings have been.” + +He stood before them sobbing like a child, fearful that they would +leave him to the silence of the pit again, to the flowing waters and +the maddening darkness. At any other time, his distress would have +been a fine subject for merriment to the bailiff Hubert; but the man +was dumb in the presence of a stranger, who did not conceal his +sympathy nor hesitate to utter it. + +“Monsieur,” said this stranger, presently, “you are Jacques de +Serrefort, I believe, sent to this place now fifteen years ago for +threatening to kill Monsieur le Comte de Châteauneuf--is that so?” + +Serrefort raised his head quickly at the mention of his crime. His +shoulders were squared again; he stood before them erect and fearless, +as he had stood before his officers in the old days. + +“Monsieur,” he said, “it is quite true that I am the Jacques de +Serrefort you name. Yet whether it were a crime or no which sent me to +this place I leave my God to judge.” + +“Impudent fellow,” cried the bailiff, “I will have you branded upon +the face with an iron.” + +The stranger, who did not appear to love the bailiff, hushed him with +a gesture of his hand. + +“Please to hold your tongue, monsieur,” cried he, with the air of one +accustomed to command; “I am here to interrogate the prisoner, not to +listen to your angers.” + +The bailiff bit his lip and scowled at Serrefort. It was with +difficulty that he turned a smiling face to the stranger at last, and +said as pleasantly as possible:-- + +“Your pardon, Monsieur le Comte. Yet have a care, I beg of you, how +you deal with this fellow, for he is very dangerous.” + +“I will be the judge of that myself,” said the man addressed as count; +and then turning to Serrefort, he continued:-- + +“Hark you, my friend, you are not to deceive yourself with any hope +that I am come here to serve you. If I carry you away from the +Conciergerie to-night, it will be that I may send you back when a few +hours are passed to do as the bailiff shall bid you. But first you +must give me your word as a man of honour--for such I know you to be, +monsieur--that you will obey me faithfully and return here when +midnight is struck. Are we agreed upon that, Monsieur de Serrefort?” + +Serrefort rubbed his eyes; the men, the light, the voices were unreal +to him. He heard the injunction and yet could not gather the words +together. + +“Monsieur,” cried he at last, “if you should take me out of this +place, be it only for an hour, I will thank you from my heart. You +know not what a place it is--oh, there is no crime which merits such a +punishment as this, monsieur.” + +The count surveyed him with pity in his glance. + +“Very well, Monsieur de Serrefort,” cried he, after a moment; “we are +agreed upon the bargain then. You are to have your liberty until +twelve o’clock in return for some information you shall give me +presently. But it is understood that you return here at midnight, and +that you will not seek to escape those who accompany you. I have your +word, monsieur?” + +“A hundred times,” replied Serrefort, to whom the thought of an hour’s +liberty was dear beyond price. + +The count turned swiftly to the bailiff Hubert. + +“Let your prisoner be taken to my carriage at once,” said he; “what +else is to be done you have learnt already. Is it not so?” + +The bailiff stammered an answer. + +“Monsieur le Comte,” exclaimed he, “this is a serious matter--I have +no authority from the king--and--as monsieur knows--” + +“Silence!” cried the count. “Should any ask you upon what authority, +answer them upon the authority of the Count de Saint Florentin and of +this ring.” + +He held up a gold signet ring--the ring of Louis, the well-beloved +king of France. That was a talisman powerful even to conquer the +bailiff, who drew back with a little cry when the count spoke, and now +made haste to offer his apologies. + +“Sir,” cried he, “had I known that you came upon the king’s business, +it would have been different. Hold me not to blame in that I remember +my duty and the security of those intrusted--” + +“Oh, monsieur,” said the count, whose impatience now amounted almost +to anger, “if you would remember that I wait, I would even forget all +your stupidities. Lead the way, sir, and let us hear less of your +pestilent tongue.” + +The bailiff, astounded at the rebuke and snarling with temper, +commanded the guards to lead out the prisoner. Serrefort, who said +still that this must be a vision of his sleep, followed the soldiers +with trembling steps. Never in all his life had he known so sweet a +moment as that which carried him from the foul depths of the Bombec +Tower to the world above and the gentle breezes of the night. Had it +not been ever in his mind that he must return to that abode of +suffering when a few hours had passed, he would have said that heaven +had been too good to him and that he was not worthy of such happiness. +But the shadow of the dungeon lay upon him like the shadow of the +living death. He thought still to hear the dreadful lapping of the +water; still to feel the touch of the creeping things; still to be +entombed in the very bowels of the earth, with all the weight of that +mighty stone crushing him down. Nothing could free him from the +loathing and the fear. He saw all things about him, the figures of the +men, the torches and lanterns of the guards, the open square before +the Halls of Justice, of which his prison was a part, and he said that +they were phantoms of his burning brain. Nor was it different when the +Count of Saint Florentin bade him enter a coach drawn up at the gates, +and they drove him quickly across the Pont Neuf and to the heart of +the city which he had not seen for fifteen long years. He was like a +man walking in his sleep. The hum of Paris, awake to the pleasures of +the night, the merry cries from the boatmen upon the river, the crowds +in the streets, the flickering lamps, the great buildings--here was +the world for which he had longed; but it meant nothing to him. “At +midnight,” he said always,--“at midnight they will carry me to the +Bombec again--oh, God have mercy upon me!” + +The Count of Saint Florentin, meanwhile, sat back in his carriage and +surveyed the prisoner with curious eyes. He was asking himself a +remarkable question, and was busy in speculation as to the answer. And +his question was this--would Jacques de Serrefort return to his cell a +miserable or a contented man? “The king,” said he to himself, “has +wagered pretty Corinne de Montesson a thousand gold pieces and the +man’s liberty that she will not send him back to the Conciergerie +willingly. She is to have him in her house until the clock strikes +twelve. If then he confesses himself content to go back to his cell, +Corinne wins the wager. Oh, it is a pretty question--yet, I make sure, +she has lost it already. For who ever saw a fellow so gloomy? Saint +Denis, the man is at death’s door now.” + +The count, who was then one of the most powerful men in Paris, did not +usually concern himself much about the sufferings of rogues in the +Conciergerie; but something in the face of Jacques de Serrefort +appealed to his pity; and beyond that, he was, like all the world, in +love with Corinne de Montesson, who owned the great Hôtel +Beautreillis. He began to hope that she would win her wager; though, +for the life of him, he had no idea as to the way she would set about +it. He, at any rate, had performed his part faithfully; and when, +anon, the coach drew up before the gates of Corinne’s house, he had +become as much interested in the strange experiment as though his own +money had been ventured upon it. + +The gates of the Hôtel Beautreillis were open when the coach rolled +up. Many lights shone from the windows of the great house, and it was +plain that Serrefort had been expected. No sooner did the coachman +rein in the horses than lacqueys came running from the house to greet +the count and to help the prisoner. Serrefort, accustomed to the gloom +and silence of the prison, was half blinded by the brilliancy of all +he saw; deafened by the clamour and the cries of the many servants. +Indeed, he stood for a spell gazing about him wildly, pitifully; and +would have remained so had it not been for a lacquey who touched him +upon the arm and bade him follow. And so he passed the open courtyard +to a pavilion of the house just as a clock in one of the turrets +chimed the hour of nine. The bell reminded him that he had three hours +of liberty before him; three hours when he might live in the world and +hear men’s voices and forget the cell--if that were possible. But the +promise only added to his gloom. “They torture me with a little +liberty,” he said, “to make my punishment more cruel.” Nor could he +imagine what strange mystery had brought him to the house. All the +events of that wonderful night had put a spell upon his mind. He was +like a child, obeying his master in awe and wonder. + +But they had conducted him to a room in the house by this time; a +cabinet with painted frieze and thick carpets, and gilded chairs and +many tapers shedding a soft light. He opened his eyes when he saw the +richness of the apartment, and was the more surprised when two or +three servants came up and began to busy themselves with his ragged +clothes. + +“Monsieur,” said one of the fellows, bowing with great deference, +“will you be pleased to dress now? Mademoiselle waits and will sup +directly.” + +“To dress?” cried Serrefort, wonderingly. “Where am I, then, and whose +house is this that I should be carried here?” + +“Oh, sir,” said the man, surprised that such a question should be put, +“you are in the house of Mademoiselle Corinne de Montesson, and be +sure that she wishes well to you. Indeed, you are lucky to have found +such a friend, monsieur.” + +“A friend to me,” gasped Serrefort; “how then is that--you jest, sir.” + +The lacquey did not heed the question. Rather, he made haste to take +Serrefort’s coat from him and to bring him water for his hands. When +this was done, he spread out a uniform upon the couch and invited his +mistress’s guest to put it on. + +“Monsieur,” said he, “my mistress thinks that you would wish to appear +here to-night in the uniform of your old regiment. It is all laid out +there, and I beg you to hasten, for they will sup before the clock +strikes.” + +He indicated the articles one by one as he spoke, the coat of bright +blue with the gold facings, the brass helmet, the high boots, the +cunningly wrought sword. Serrefort gave a little cry of delight and +hesitated no longer. His weary brain, thinking ever of the Bombec, +forgot its task for a moment, and carried him back swiftly to the +years when there had been no finer horseman, no more dashing trooper +in all France, than Jacques de Serrefort. They said afterwards that +his hands trembled, that there were tears in his eyes when he stood +before the long glass and buckled the sword to his belt. It was +pitiful to see his snowy white hair straggling beneath the rim of the +great brass helmet, to watch the effort it cost him to square his +shoulders and walk as he had walked in the years long ago. But courage +came with the memories, and erect, proud, almost defiant, he turned to +those who served him and declared that he was ready. + +“Tell your mistress,” said he, “that Jacques de Serrefort awaits her +commands.” + +The lacquey bowed and bade him, for the second time, to follow. Had it +been any other who had thrown off the veteran to ape the young man, +the fellow would have laughed aloud; but there was a light in +Serrefort’s eyes, a boldness in his carriage, before which many a man +would have quailed. The lacquey said to himself that here was a true +soldier, and there was a certain pride in his voice when he threw open +the doors of a vast salon and announced-- + +“Monsieur Jacques de Serrefort.” + +The great room was magnificently lighted, hundreds of tapers burning +brightly in chandeliers and candelabra of Venetian work. Though the +floor of it was of wood, none the less were the boards polished and +waxed until they shone like glass; while the walls were hid by +paintings of colossal size and all the ceiling was a blaze of mosaic. +So vast was the place that Serrefort remained at the door silent in +awe and wonder; but when he had stood an instant he heard a sweet +young voice greeting him, and looking up, he beheld Mademoiselle +Corinne herself. She was standing by a great armchair, set up like a +throne at the other end of the chamber, a pretty figure superbly +dressed, and surrounded by fifteen men and women, whose fine clothes +and graceful manners were in keeping with the magnificence of the +apartment. + +“Monsieur,” she said, holding out both hands, “I welcome you with all +my heart to this house. These are my friends,--the Duc de Richelieu, +the Duc de Cosse-Brissac, the Comte de Vaudreuil, the Duchesse de +Lauzan, the Comtesse d’Egmont--oh, make haste to know them all, for +they will be your friends presently.” + +Serrefort was stupefied. He stood motionless, staring at the gorgeous +dresses, the gold, the silver, the diamonds, of the company. Though +his liberty had been offered him for a word of thanks, he could not +have uttered it. Minutes, indeed, passed before emotion conquered him, +and he turned away with a sob in his voice. + +“Oh,” cried he, “it is a dream--a dream! I shall awake presently to +the darkness and the silence--God help me.” + +That was a cry wrought of long years of misery, and it stilled the +company to a hush of deep sympathy. As for the mistress of the house, +there were tears in her eyes when she advanced swiftly to the old +soldier’s side and took his hand in hers. + +“Monsieur,” she said in a low voice, “have courage, I beg of you. I am +your friend; you will trust me. Were you not one of Condé’s legion? +Remember that and forget all else.” + +She raised her pretty blue eyes to his in encouragement, and spoke so +tenderly that a memory of his daughter’s voice came back to him. But +chiefly he thought of this--that he had been one of Condé’s legion, +and that he wore the beloved uniform again now at the eventide of his +life. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he, proudly, “I will remember naught but your +kindness--do with me what you will.” + +His voice was strong now, and he faced the company unflinchingly. +They, in turn, anxious only that he should forget, began to speak of +trivial things; and one of them--a fine fellow who was addressed as +Bénoît--came to Serrefort’s side and talked to him of the old days +in Germany, of the wars which had been his glory, and the triumphs he +had won. And so well did the young man contrive things that when +supper was ready and the company passed into a neighbouring cabinet, a +pretty little room fit for the king, the prisoner had forgotten the +Bombec, even the Conciergerie, and all that he had suffered there. + +There were sixteen guests at the table, Serrefort being placed at the +right hand of the hostess, while the old Duc de Richelieu sat opposite +to him, and Bénoît upon his left hand. It was a long meal +exquisitely served, and offering those rare and dainty dishes in which +the cooks of the eighteenth century excelled. Two soups, a bisque of +pigeon and cock’s combs, a side soup of hashed capon, a quarter of +veal, a partridge pie, a grilled turkey, salads, creams, rissoles +beignets--the dishes were multiplied in an abundancy which was to be +found nowhere at that time but in the houses of the French nobles. +Serrefort discovered first that he had little relish for the +delicacies; his palate had been hardened for years of coarse food and +sour wine; but when he had drunk some champagne from a foaming goblet +and had tasted a dish of capon, his old love for good things came back +to him, and he set to work to sup as heartily as the others. As for +his pretty hostess, she babbled away incessantly, telling him all the +news of Paris; all the jests, the humours, the intrigues, just as +though he were a freeman like the rest of them, and not a prisoner +enjoying a terrible furlough. For the matter of that, he began himself +to forget his condition; he ceased to ask after a while, “Why am I +brought here?” He said that some trick of sleep cheated him--but the +sleep was very sweet, and he would enjoy it. Nor would he let himself +willingly remember that when twelve o’clock struck he must set off to +his prison again. The oasis in his life was too dear; heaven had taken +pity upon him, he thought, and here was the answer to his prayer. + +In this spirit, he began to talk presently, adding to the anecdotes +and the jests. He spoke of his old deeds with the army; of the duels +he had fought and the intrigues he had known. When at last supper was +done, and the guests went out to enjoy the night air in the beautiful +gardens, he accompanied young Bénoît readily, and found himself +almost in a merry mood. For the garden was fresh and sweet at that +hour; it was good to tread the soft grass; to walk upon the white +moonlit paths; to smell the strong odours of the plants. No memory of +a prison came to mar that hour. He was old Jacques de Serrefort again, +the pride of his regiment. + +This forgetfulness endured, it might have been, for the half of an +hour. Young Bénoît had brought him by this time to a little grove +where an arbour stood, and old trees rich in leaf; a flowery dell hid +away from the world like a pool in a forest. Here they walked awhile, +earnest in merry talk; but of a sudden Serrefort stood quite still, +his face paled, his hand trembled. A clock in a church near by was +striking the hour. The wretched man counted the bells as one doomed to +death may count them upon the morning of his execution. + +“Eleven o’clock,” he exclaimed at last in a hoarse voice; “you heard +it strike, monsieur?” + +“Certainly,” answered the young man; “it is eleven o’clock, as you +say, Monsieur de Serrefort. An hour yet to midnight--when we lose you, +I fear. I am sure that you will remember us all the same--as we shall +remember you in our affection.” + +Serrefort did not hear him. His face was set, his shoulders stooped +again. “_Mon Dieu!_” he cried, “I cannot go back--I cannot.” + +Bénoît, whose heart was cut by his piteous cry, pretended not to +hear it; but turning quickly to the old soldier he said:-- + +“Monsieur, when our friend, the Comte de Saint Florentin, brought you +here to-night, he told you that my mistress counted upon you for +certain information. I am sure you will serve her so far as may be +possible. As the time presses, let us talk of it without delay.” + +Serrefort answered with an inclination of the head. His thoughts were +set upon the dungeon below the river. The garden, the house, the fine +people--he had forgotten them all again in his overwhelming dread of +the cell. Bénoît observed his abstraction, but continued +nevertheless:-- + +“Since you are willing, Monsieur de Serrefort, will you permit me to +present to you one whose acquaintance you made in Brittany many years +ago, a man who desires exceedingly to speak with you, and who is +coming here to-night for that purpose?” + +Serrefort bowed again. + +“Sir,” said he, “your mistress’s wish is my wish. I knew many in the +old days at Brittany, many whom I would well speak of, though, heaven +knows, I shall never see them again.” + +“I understand that, Monsieur de Serrefort,” cried Bénoît, “but the +man in whom we are interested should even now be in this garden. I +will go and seek him if you are content to rest here awhile.” + +Serrefort assented indifferently. He heard the other’s words with +difficulty; followed his argument at a hazard; had no mind to reason +the proposition. The cool night air, the gentle rustling trees, the +seclusion of the garden, brought back to his memory the years when he +had known the peace of a haven like this in his own fair home at +Brittany. He remembered that the sin of one man had driven him forth +from that home to endure the living death of the prison. Never had his +hate of the Comte de Châteauneuf, the man who had sent him to the +Conciergerie, waxed so strong as it did in that instant. There was a +fever in his blood at the thought of the name. “_Ciel!_” he murmured, +“if I might meet him face to face before I die.” + +It was an angry exclamation; his hand was hot upon the hilt of his +sword, while the impulse of vengeance maddened him. He uttered the +name of Monsieur de Châteauneuf again and again, as he paced the path +with unresting steps. When he stopped at last, a great cry frothed +upon his lips, the strength of ten men filled his veins; he knew that +his prayer had been answered. For Monsieur de Châteauneuf stood +before him in the grove--and the two were face to face at the hour of +reckoning. + +The count stood before him,--a man in the prime of life, dressed as +the fashion of the hour dictated, in a suit of violet silk slashed +with gold, and embroidered with precious stones. A sword whose hilt +sparkled with diamonds hung at his side; there were diamond buckles +upon his shoes; diamond pins glittering in his snow-white ruffles. But +the easy placid smile which usually characterised his handsome face +lighted it no longer. He stood before Serrefort with terror shining in +his eyes, with quaking knees and beating heart. Ten minutes before +that supreme moment, he had entered the Hôtel Beautreillis, thinking +that little Corinne had some favour to grant him. They had conducted +him to the garden upon that excuse, and young Bénoît had met him and +brought him to the grove. But Bénoît was at his side no longer. +Mysteriously, silently, he and the other guests had withdrawn from the +garden. The two men, he who had sinned and he who had suffered, stood +face to face in the deserted glade, and both of them knew that this +was an hour momentous beyond any they had lived. + +The count was the first to speak. He had suppressed a cry at the +moment when first his eyes encountered those of his victim; but now, +after it was plain to him that Serrefort was mad and exultant at the +meeting, he turned round, thinking his guide was still at his heels. + +“Monsieur, what liberty is this?” + +But no one answered him. Bénoît had vanished. It seemed to the count +that the silence of death was in the place. He had the impulse to flee +the garden; a stupefying fear paralysed his limbs, choked his voice; +the sweat of death seemed already to gather upon his forehead. Since +the day when a word of his had sent Jacques de Serrefort to the +Conciergerie he had forgotten the very fact that his victim lived. +Now, however, it were as though a dead man had come out of his grave +to demand reckoning. As for Serrefort, the ferocity of a wild beast +was upon him. Anger, joy, lust for vengeance, gave incoherency to his +words. The sword with which Corinne de Montesson had armed him flashed +already at the count’s throat. Age, debility, long years of suffering, +were powerless to mar that strength of hate and of victory. Never, in +his day of youth and skill, did the trooper of Condé’s legion stand +up with such confidence. The ring of triumph was already in his voice; +his hand was the hand of a man who knows no mercy. + +“Monsieur le Comte de Châteauneuf,” he cried, with terrible +deliberation, “God surely has sent you here that I may kill you. Draw, +monsieur, for your hour has come.” + +The count reeled back, crying with all his voice for help. The cry +moved his antagonist to a peal of mocking laughter. + +“Ha,” cried he, “you would run like a lacquey, Monsieur le Comte; you +who have boasted of your skill in every salon of Paris--shame on you! +Must I call for a whip to beat you like a dog?--draw, I beg of you, +for my patience is worn. Oh, monsieur, I have waited fifteen long +years for this hour. I swear that all Paris shall not save you now.” + +He pressed upon the doomed man with a new ferocity, adding light blows +of his sword to the stinging taunts of invitation. Châteauneuf, who +saw that he had fallen into a trap, hesitated no longer, but drew his +sword and sprang to the engagement. And at this, Serrefort cried out +again, and then, clenching his teeth, began to fight with the cunning +and the resolution of a _maître d’armes_. The night, the garden, the +mystery, the prison--all were gone from his thoughts. He saw but one +object, the pale face of the man who had sent him fifteen years ago +from the happiness of his home to the grave of the Conciergerie. Hate +gave him a skill which had never been his, even in the best hour of +the old time. And to the strength of hate was added the terror and the +confusion and the conscience of Monsieur de Châteauneuf. The count, +indeed, had death at his heart from the first. He fought with +trembling hand, with quaking limbs. There was ever dinning in his ears +the cry--“This is the justice of God.” He knew that he was to die, +there in the silence of the garden; knew that the sun would never +shine for him again. + +Twice round the grove the men fought, Serrefort playing with the other +like a beast with its prey. Though the ring of swords made strange +music of the night, though the sharp cries and the fierce stamping of +the two were to be heard even in the street without, the men remained +alone. No witness of the deed was to be found in all the great house; +the silence of desolation was upon it; little Corinne and her guests +had vanished in the darkness. When, at last, the count raised his +voice again to call out that he was the victim of an assassin, +Serrefort answered with a yell of derision. + +“Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “ask help of heaven and not of men, for +that shall be your last cry. Ha, you have a cunning hand, monsieur, +but it cannot stand the burden of your sin. Shall I tell them that I +fought with a lacquey? Never let it be said.” + +Goaded to madness at the taunt, the Count of Châteauneuf permitted +his anger to master him. He disengaged with the skill and quickness of +an old swordsman, and made to lunge in _quarte_; but his foot failed +him in the heat of the feint, and before he could regain his position +the sword of Serrefort was running through his heart. + +“Assassin!” he gasped; but the word was choked upon his lips. For an +instant, he stood quite still, with the sword cutting his flesh; then, +turning sharply upon his heel, he fell headlong, and lay face +downwards upon the grass. + +But Serrefort, withdrawing his sword and running wildly into the +lighter place of the garden, stood with the moonlight falling upon his +face and tears glistening in his eyes. It seemed to him that some +mighty miracle was wrought in that hour, for of a sudden men and +women, and lacqueys with lanterns, came running out of the house, and +that which had been a scene of desolation was now a glittering picture +of life. + +Nevertheless, had he no care for a pageant so + + [Illustration: The Sword of Serrefort was running through his Heart.] + +strange, but standing like one in a trance, he raised his eyes to +heaven and exclaimed,-- + +“My God, I thank Thee for this night, for surely my prison shall be a +prison to me no more. Nay, Lord, I go gladly, since Thou hast given me +his life.” + +And so saying, he fell in a swoon, and they carried him into the +house. + + +When Jacques de Serrefort came to his senses again, he was lying upon +a couch in a little pavilion of the Hôtel Beautreillis, and his +daughter, Irène, had her arms about him. + +“Dear father,” she said, “turn not away from me. It is your daughter +Irène who speaks,--she whom you loved in the long ago.” + +Serrefort looked at her with a loving regard. Then taking her hand as +he used to do in the old days in Brittany, he exclaimed:-- + +“Little one, you will never leave me more?” + +“Oh, never,” she exclaimed, covering his hands and face with kisses. +“Dear father, the king, who learnt all to-night, has pardoned you. It +is Mademoiselle Corinne’s work--she who owns this house and has taken +pity upon us. We are to go to Brittany to-morrow, for she has the +king’s promise. I will never leave you more, beloved father.” + +But Serrefort closed his eyes again. The great clock of Notre Dame was +striking twelve, and all the phantoms of the Bombec came winging into +the room to torture him with a memory of that which might have been. +When the hour was struck, he raised himself upon his couch and kissed +his daughter. + +“Little one,” said he, “our God is good--let us go and thank your +mistress.” + + + + + IV. + AT THE HOUSE OF THE SCARLET + WITCH + +The Abbé Morellet heard the ring of hoofs upon the dusty road +behind him and instantly stopped his long-suffering white pony. He was +a man of alarms, was this good abbé; and his two servants, being +dutiful servants, were for the occasion men of alarms also. All three +had heard strange stories of the perils of those travellers rash +enough to venture after sunset upon the great Western highway to +Paris; all three had begun to regret the necessity which had carried +them from the peaceful presbytery near Rambouillet to the woods upon +the outskirts of the great city. Yet here they were at eight o’clock +of a summer’s evening in the year 1762 still three leagues from Paris, +with dark already threatening them, and all the tales of bogies and of +robbers ringing in their ears like a passing bell in the ears of men +about to be hanged. + +“It is my opinion,” said the abbé, addressing François, his +valet,--“it is my opinion that we are followed by the three young men +who delayed us at the Maison Rouge. I can see a cloud of dust upon the +horizon and I count three horses.” + +François, the valet, and Jean, the groom, hastened in their turn to +check the asses which they rode and to inspect the winding highway +which they had traversed with so many misgivings. Being ready men, +their tongues presently wagged together, and they declared themselves +willing to submit to untold tortures if they also did not see a cloud +of dust upon the horizon and count three horses. + +“_Sapristi!_” cried François, the valet, “I suspected those fellows +from the beginning. What says the proverb, my master?--he who makes +friends in an inn has the devil for his comrade. Body of Saint John, I +was for going on as your reverence is well aware.” + +Jean, the groom, who watched the approaching horsemen with fearful +eyes, yet was unwilling to betray himself, remembered now that he had +been for going on too. + +“Oh,” cried he, “if yon rogues are not footpads I never saw one. Did +you mark how they kept their faces masked even when they sat at meat? +Put me in the pillory if ever I heard of an honest man who was afraid +to show his nose to his neighbour. We shall all be dead men presently, +rely upon it.” + + [Illustration: “If yon Rogues are not Footpads, put me in the + Pillory.”] + +The abbé, who nursed a secret suspicion that the groom spoke the +truth, told him nevertheless to hold his tongue. He consoled himself +with the thought that his personal property was not worth a louis to +any rogue; he knew that he had but ten crowns in his pouch; and those +he would surrender readily. Indeed, he began to frame a little speech +in which he determined both to rebuke the robbers and to conciliate +them. And this was still troubling his mind when the three men rode up +at a gallop, and began to parley with him. They were a strange +trio--all dressed elegantly, all mounted upon horses which might well +have come from the king’s stable. The abbé, stealing glances at them +when he lifted his eyes a moment from his breviary, did not fail to +observe the shining embroidery upon their vests nor the rich ruffles +falling delicately upon their wrists, nor the diamonds glistening upon +their fingers. These things had been hidden from him in the dark room +of the tavern at Sèvres, where the merry fellows had kept him +dallying long over a bowl of claret. Now he saw plainly that his +pursuers were men of quality, and that two of them were singularly +finely built, while the third possessed a figure so slim and +delicately proportioned that it might well have been the figure of a +young girl. But all three were masked as they had been at the +tavern--and this fact alone kept the abbé’s suspicions alive. + +“Sirs,” said he, closing his breviary with a sudden snap, “I observe +that you wish to speak with me.” + +“My lord, the Bishop of Blois,” began the tallest of the men, while he +doffed his plumed hat with a gesture of profound respect, “it is +evident that you are a stranger upon the road to Paris--” + +The abbé interrupted him with a momentary display of irritation. + +“My son,” said he, “I pray you address me by my own name and not by +that to which I have no title. It is true that the Bishop of Blois is +unhappily dead, but under no circumstances is it possible that so +unworthy a successor should be found for the See as the humble priest +who has lately enjoyed your hospitality. I, gentlemen, am the Abbé +Morellet, curé of the village of Yvette, a man with whom the princes +of the Church may well concern themselves but little. I go to Paris +now to carry my ward Corinne--you may know her as Mademoiselle de +Montesson, gentlemen--to a convent of Benedictine nuns at Charenton. +And Heaven forbid that I should aspire to such a distinction as you +have named.” + +He spoke with great dignity, being a man accustomed to command in his +own little world. His manner was that of one who has made an end of +the argument; but the three horsemen, who maintained a fine gravity of +demeanour during the parley, would not be put off by it; and they now +held their horses at the walk while the leader answered the obstinate +abbé. + +“My Lord Bishop,” said he, “I fear that you jest with us. We know you +well, and we are concerned to find you abroad here at such an hour. +The Church has too few faithful servants that one of the stoutest of +her champions should make himself a mark for footpads. Do you forget +that you are about to enter the woods of St. Cloud--and that it is +sunset?” + +The abbé looked surprised. + +“Sirs,” said he, “I have never ridden to Paris but once before in all +my life, and whether this be St. Cloud or another place, I am, indeed, +unable to tell you. Yet for any warning or direction you may be +pleased to give me, you will find a grateful listener. I am but a +simple priest, gentlemen, and I cannot think that any robber would +stoop to find a victim so unprofitable. Heaven be my witness that I +have an unpleasant duty to perform in the city yonder. Authority, +sirs, is a physic which the surgeon may hesitate to employ, until both +persuasion and counsel have been administered. Too long have I been +patient--the day for that has passed. Even though the king himself +were to intercede, my purpose should be delayed no more. To-morrow, +gentlemen, all Paris shall hear that the Hôtel Beautreillis is +closed, and that its mistress, my ward, is safe within the convent +walls at Charenton.” + +The abbé was emphatic. He brought this pompous speech to a fitting +close with a good thwack of the cudgel nicely laid upon the pony’s +quarters. His two servants, always imitative, laid two sticks smartly +upon the backs of their asses, and all began to ride at a good trot +towards the park of St. Cloud. As for the three horsemen, they seemed +to enjoy the abbé’s company immensely; and they kept close at his +side, while merry glances passed between them, and the youngest of the +three--who had the figure of a girl--bent low, the better to escape +observation. Thus they came altogether to the summit of the hill +wherefrom they could see the thick woods about the château of St. +Cloud with the river Seine flowing like a river of blood in the +valley, and Paris herself away in the distance, the sunlight making +red blotches of her domes and towers, and shining with a deep crimson +from a thousand west-turned windows. Here, the three strangers drew +rein, and one of them, who had not spoken before, addressed the abbé +in a parting word. + +“My Lord Bishop,” said he, regardless of the abbé’s protests, “you go +on a bold task. There have been many before this who have sought to +stand between Corinne de Montesson and her pleasures. Do you seek for +them, you will find them in all the prisons of Paris--or gone to the +wars for shame of their defeat. Beware how you act, then, and think +yourself a lucky man if you ride into Paris at all. Nay, I will wager +you a thousand crowns that this time to-morrow night you shall be very +glad to see us and to get back to Yvette with what speed you may. Yon +wood is full of strange sights and sounds, monsieur--many a man who +has entered it at sundown has been known no more when dawn has come. +Look to your steps, I beseech you; and Heaven grant that the witches +of St. Cloud may respect the path of the Lord Bishop of Blois.” + +He doffed his cap as the other had done, and all three bowing with +ready grace, presently they set spurs to their horses and disappeared +at a gallop into the heart of the wood. The good abbé, who had been +content at first to think that some mistake had led them to give him +so distinguished a title, now became very angry, and not a little +alarmed. + +“A plague on them and their Bishop of Blois as well!” cried +he,--“three tipsy gallants, I will wager, ridden out of the palace to +point the finger at me. I should not be surprised to hear that Corinne +had sent them. It is well known that she is a friend to footpads. +Possibly she has saved them from the gallows. But she shall gain +nothing by this. Though she fall on her knees before me, I will carry +her to the convent. The day for mercy has passed.” + +The reflection pleased the abbé. He had been made guardian of pretty +Corinne de Montesson, who, as all the world knew, was mistress of the +great Hôtel Beautreillis in Paris, upon the death of her father, the +count. For his part, he would have sent her to a convent at once, +there to complete her education, which, he thought, had been sadly +neglected. But the king had put in a word; and so Corinne was left in +her great house to be the friend of all the ne’er-do-weels in the city +and to disgrace, as the good abbé said, the proud position to which +she had been called. Had she done anything for him personally, his +anger possibly would have been more moderate. But, notwithstanding her +professions of love, he remained the simple curé of Yvette--and there +he had fretted two years over his misfortunes. Then came the tidings +that Corinne had helped the notorious Coq le Roi, the highwayman, to +escape from Sartines, the new lieutenant of police. The news awoke the +abbé to his old resolutions. + +“I will go to Paris,” said he, “and place her with the good nuns of +Charenton. She is like a little wild animal; her claws must be cut. I +have been merciful too long.” + +This seemed a very simple resolution in theory; but when the abbé +entered the dark woods of St. Cloud after his conversation with the +three jesters in the masks, the practice of it began to be difficult. +He remembered that the last time he had been to Paris they had led him +such a life in the great house that he had been truly thankful to get +back to his little hamlet and to his own poor people. He had just a +lurking suspicion that his authority might be laughed at again. +Besides, he was not in Paris yet, and there before him lay the dark +woods against which the three strangers had warned him. + +“Bah!” said he, as he quitted the high-road and plunged into the +darkness of the silent thicket, “strange sights and sounds, indeed. Am +I a child, to be frightened by old women’s tales? Never let it be +said. Thank God, there is a ducking-stool still for witches; and I +shall know where to complain if I am molested. We must be in Paris +before midnight--that is certain.” + +The reflection comforted him. It was very dark in the woods, and so +silent that the sound of distant church bells or the barking of dogs +sounded like voices from a far-off world. The sun had sunk below the +rim of the western hills now, and only a deep blue-grey light, blended +with pink at the peaks of the clouds, marked the lingering day. In the +thickets themselves the mystery and spell of the night were already +omnipotent. The abbé could not put off a certain dread and +foreboding. His two servants did not attempt any such task. They told +each other, consolingly, that they would be dead men before morning; +and so they rode hand in hand, each devoutly hoping that the other +would be the victim of the night, and that the abbé, their master, +would precede them to the grave. No superstition was too gross for +them to believe. They swallowed every goblin and witch and demon dwarf +that tradition had named for a hundred years or more. There was not a +ghost in all France that they would not have staked their lives upon. +And here at St. Cloud--where every village lad could tell you of the +scarlet witch who rode upon the wings of the wind when the sun had set +and the elves were abroad in the forest--what miracle, they asked, +could save them from the perils of an encounter with her? + +“I have heard it said,” muttered François to Jean as they drove their +stubborn asses still deeper into the woods,--“I have heard it said +that you have but to look upon the woman to be for ever blind.” + +Jean groaned. + +“God grant that our master sees her first,” said he. + +“And worse than that,” said the valet, “if you are young and +good-looking, she will kiss you upon the forehead, and then you are +branded like one who has been sent to the galleys.” + +Jean signed. + +“Saint Denis!” said he, “I knew how it would be. We shall die here, +comrade--and for what? Because we follow our master. Is that our duty? +I tell you he is no longer himself. Did you hear how yon fellows +called him? Be sure of it--they have bewitched him already. I am ready +to die for the abbé of Yvette; but a plague upon me if I ride another +league for the Lord Bishop of Blois.” + +He stopped his ass with the word, and François the valet made haste +to imitate him. They were at this moment in a glade so deeply bordered +by chestnut-trees that you could scarce see a patch of the grey sky +above. The moss beneath their feet was soft and yielding, and the +asses’ feet sunk in it almost to the hocks. The figure of the abbé +was scarce to be discerned, although he rode but twenty paces before +them. It was a gloomy spot, dark, threatening, lonely. A stag, which +leaped up at their coming, set the hearts of the cowardly pair beating +like pumps. And just at the supreme moment of their alarm what should +they see in the hollow but a great flash of crimson light, which lit +up the brake about them until every twig seemed to have been dipped in +blood, every tree trunk to be a scarlet phantom conjured up by the +ghostly flames! Twice the light flashed, lurid, smoking, +terrible--then darkness fell; and from the wood there came a scream of +many voices raised in an awful wail, like the wail of departed spirits +or of men in their agony. + +At the first flashing of the fire, the abbé’s pony stood quite still, +shivering with fear. Nor was his master in any better plight. + +“François,” roared the abbé, “Jean! do you not hear me? God help us +all--what a thing to see!” + +But François and Jean heard nothing. They were even then on their way +back to Yvette, at all the speed of which asses are capable. Long the +abbé called them in language which the Church might not have +approved, but which the occasion and the abbé’s fear demanded. When +he found at last that he was alone, beads of perspiration stood upon +his forehead, and it seemed that a hundred spirits were mocking him in +the wood. + +“Oh,” groaned he, “what do I see--where am I--who is it that follows +me? That I should have left my home to come to such a place! Heaven +help me or I am surely lost.” + +He beat his pony the more in his fear, and driving the unwilling beast +through the thicket only by a generous application of his cudgel, he +came at last out upon a sward upon which great trees cast shadows of +fantastic shape. The spot was desolate enough for anything; but it was +lighter than the copse he had just quitted; and the stars shining +brightly in the grey heaven above seemed to cast down a message of +courage. + +“Come,” said the abbé to himself as he wiped the perspiration from +his forehead and began to take heart a little, “why do I fear when I +have but ten crowns in my pocket? Who would harm the curé of +Yvette?--not the footpads of St. Cloud, I am sure. And I do not +believe in spirits--certainly they are for hags’ tales. What I saw was +the fire of some charcoal-burner. No doubt that was it. My men will +come up presently, and we will all go on together. I could laugh to +remember what a figure I cut.” + +He did laugh at the remembrance, but it was a poor attempt--hollow and +mocking, like the thought which bred it. And he began now to be very +anxious for the company of his servants, bidding them come forth from +the thicket where he believed them still to lie. + +“François, Jean!” he bawled, “it is I, your master, who calls you. +What do you fear, knaves? Am I not here to protect you? Oh, surely I +will lay my cudgel upon your backs to-morrow.” + +To his amazement, neither Jean nor François answered his appeal; but +in the wood behind him there arose again the eerie wail, and now it +was long sustained and piercing, like the wail of witches upon the +wing. + +“Hail to the Lord Bishop of Blois,” was the cry, “hail, hail! Whither +he goes, there go we--lolalla--lolalla--lolalla!” + +The echo fled from wood to wood and grove to grove, until it died away +in moaning sighs, afar, at the heart of the forest. When the last note +was stilled, the abbé heard a voice, sweet and fresh and young, +crying,-- + +“What shall be done to the Lord Bishop of Blois?” + +And from the woods the answer came,-- + +“He must suffer, he must suffer--lolalla--lolalla--lolalla!” + +A loud peal of laughter followed the words, and while the laughter +rang, the thicket was lit again with the flaming scarlet light. The +abbé’s heart threatened to stand still when he saw, grouped there +upon the green, the strangest company he had ever beheld in all his +life. Dressed in scarlet, some like devils, some like dwarfs, some +like hideous creatures with horns protruding from their brows, the +throng appeared to be led by a woman whose sugar-loaf cap and sweeping +crimson skirts answered in all things to the popular pictures of a +witch. When the abbé beheld her she rode upon a great black horse, +but those around her were mounted upon white ponies; and the whole +company galloping out of the wood, presently they surrounded the +trembling ecclesiastic and roared until the very woods rang as with +demon voices,-- + +“Long live the Lord Bishop of Blois--lolalla--lolalla!” + +It was a strange scene; the torches, which many of the masqueraders +had now lighted, casting a lurid glow upon the scarlet dresses and +masks and whitened faces of the dwarfs and demons--horrid monsters, +who now flocked about the amazed curé of Yvette. He, on his part, +knew not whether the whole were a hideous dream, or the perpetration +of some masquerade of which he was to be the victim. Possibly deep +down in his mind there was born the question--are these human things +or spiritual? Even the learned were gross in superstition in the +middle of the eighteenth century; and the excellent abbé was no wiser +than other men--perhaps even a little more prone to believe in omens +and the unseen than the common citizen. No wonder if the terror of the +wood and the dark of the night and the horrid yells of the horned and +hoofed company which now swarmed about him contributed to his +bewilderment. A hundred possibilities occurred to him while the cries +were still ringing in his ears. He had heard of the terrible jests +which courtly masqueraders had perpetrated on those who were obnoxious +to them. Could he have given offence in high places--or was it true, +after all, that the woods of St. Cloud were peopled by spirits and +elves and witches, and that he had fallen into their power? He said he +would believe no such tale. Rather would he take courage; and if this +were a jest of Corinne’s, then should two years instead of one be her +portion in the convent. + +With this resolution to nerve him, he turned of a sudden upon the +horde who pressed about him and began to argue with them. + +“Sirs,” said he, “I have heard much talk of the Lord Bishop of Blois, +and I see plainly that you mistake me for him. Know then that I am but +a simple priest, the curé of Yvette, sirs, and that I ride to Paris +upon an affair of very great importance.” + +He spoke the words very slowly, but to his astonishment no one gave +any answer. All together, witches, dwarfs, and demons, they began to +repeat his explanation in a sort of monotone, the key of which changed +note by note until it rose to a discordant, unearthly shriek. + +“Sirs,” cried they, “we have heard much talk of the Lord Bishop of +Blois, and we see plainly that you mistake us for him. Know then that +we are but simple priests, the curés of Yvette, and that we ride to +Paris upon an affair of very great importance.” + +The abbé, deafened by the clamour, put his fingers into his ears and +began to shiver with fear. + +“_Ciel!_” he murmured, “you are all mad.” + +“_Ciel!_” repeated the scarlet company, “we are all mad.” + +The sally was roared rather than intoned; and at the end of it, the +whole company bent low in their saddles, the men doffing their hats to +the terrified abbé, the women blowing kisses to him. + +Then the scarlet woman who appeared to be the mistress of the throng, +raised her fresh young voice and asked again,-- + +“What must be done to the Lord Bishop of Blois?” + +And for the second time the answer came,-- + +“He must suffer--he must suffer--lolalla--lolalla--lolalla!” + +The abbé was really frightened now. The wailing melancholy of the +chaunt, the hideous shapes of the men who rode at his side, the +strange, distorted whitened faces, seemed to him to resemble nothing +human, nothing known. Minute by minute the conviction crept upon him +that here was the scarlet witch of whom the common people spoke in +their folk-tales. The more he said to himself “It is a jest,” the +farther was his mind from accepting that assurance. He shuddered when +he remembered that he was alone with jesters so terrible. + +“Oh,” he moaned at last, “what do you want with me, what would you do +with me?” + +“Oh,” echoed the crowd with stentorian voice, “what do you want with +us, what would you do with us?” + +“Sirs,” wailed the abbé, “for pity’s sake have done with it and take +me where you will. I have but ten crowns upon me, and those you shall +find in my pouch. Get them, I pray you, and permit me to go in peace.” + +A mocking peal of laughter attended this simple confession. + +“What shall be done with the ten crowns of the Lord Bishop of Blois?” +asked a great horned goblin who rode upon the smallest of the small +white ponies. + +The girl with the crimson hat answered,-- + +“He shall buy a supper at the house of the scarlet witch.” + +The command moved the company to frenzies of turbulent delight. Before +the bewildered abbé could protest or answer, strong hands had clapped +a bandage to his eyes, and knotted it so tightly behind his ears that +the whole of the strange vision of grotesque and grinning figures was +shut instantly from his view. He knew only that his pony was carrying +him rapidly through the forest, that the air became fresher as he +mounted to the higher places of the park, that he was led it might +have been for the space of ten minutes before his beast was stopped +and he was lifted gently to the ground. Never once, however, while the +procession moved, did the throng cease their unearthly monotone. The +chaunt rose ever like a voice of the night, the wail of spirits +wandering, or of phantoms at their pleasures. When it stopped at last +with a sudden crash, the abbé’s pony stopped too. A strong arm +encircled his waist; he was lifted from the saddle and bidden to +walk,--he knew that he was entering some room in a house,--a gentle +hand forced him into a seat, it removed his bandage; the abbé could +see again. + +By this time the unhappy man was incapable of surprise. The scene in +the wood had robbed him of all power of reason. When they stripped him +of his bandage, and he was able to look about him, he neither spoke +nor wondered. Yet the spectacle was strange enough to have amazed a +bolder man. For the abbé sat at that moment in a room draped in +scarlet; and more than that, he sat in a high chair before a long +table lit pleasingly by the soft light of many wax candles, and so +weighed down with plate and exquisite cut glass that the scarlet +drapery below was hardly to be seen. As for the company, that also was +a scarlet company,--devils, demons, witches; their whitened faces now +hidden by crimson masks, their very hair appearing to be of the +brightest red. Even the walls were draped in the same glaring colours; +while the attendants, some in hideous masks, some garbed like scarlet +elves, capped the scheme fittingly. Yet this was the curious thing--no +word was spoken, no greeting given. The company sat like mutes. The +abbé shuddered again, for he could not altogether suppress the +thought that he might be supping with the risen dead. + +Such a haunting suggestion was quick to pass. Though a grim foreboding +pursued him while he asked himself, “Where will it end, what did they +mean when they called me the Lord Bishop of Blois and said that I must +suffer?”--the abbé, good man that he was,--and there was none better +in France,--was like other men in possessing a healthy appetite. The +groaning table put some heart into him. “I have ridden far, and a well +boiled capon with a cup of Burgundy will not come amiss to me,” he +thought. And so, for the first time since he had entered the terrible +wood, he permitted himself to hope. “They will let me ride on when +supper is done,” he assured himself, “and I shall be in Paris, after +all, by the last day of the month. It would never do to be delayed +over to-morrow, for the king returns to Paris then, and Corinne will +see him and cheat me once more. Certainly, I must be in Paris +to-morrow. Meanwhile, I will see what sort of a supper it is, for I am +very hungry.” + +One of the servants had set a plate before him now,--a plate upon +which was a little silver dish exquisitely garnished and served. So +tempting did the morsel look that the good abbé hastened to plunge +his fork into it--but at the first mouthful he made an ugly grimace +and was unable to withhold an exclamation. + +“How now!” cried he, “that is nothing but bread-crumbs!” + +He looked round the table appealingly, but no one in the masked +company vouchsafed to him an answer. All were busy upon similar +dishes, of which they appeared to partake with exceeding relish. +Indeed, they had finished their portions before the abbé had +recovered from his astonishment; and while he was still looking at +them, a lacquey, dressed in crimson, carried in a dish upon which was +a smoking fish of great size, and began to serve slices of it--to the +abbé first, and afterwards to the other suppers. At the same moment, +another attendant filled the abbé’s glass--a magnificent glass of the +rarest Venetian work--with wine from a crystal goblet, and then did a +similar service for the rest of the company. The action reassured the +hungry curé. For the second time he plunged a ready fork into the +dish before him. “Fish is fish,” he said to himself, while he smacked +his lips in famished anticipation. The assurance scarce had comforted +him when he broke out with a word which was neither ecclesiastical nor +abbatorial. + +“Name of the devil!” he exclaimed, “but this is bread too.” + +How it came to be, in what manner the cheat had been contrived, the +abbé knew no more than the dead. Yet there was the fish right enough, +and a second mouthful convinced him that it was made of nothing but +bread. + +“Saint John,” cried he, sitting back in his chair, “who ever heard of +that--a fish made of bread-crumbs--and every one eating of it as +though it were a mullet from the king’s table! Body of Saint +Paul!--they are all mad.” + +Mad or sane, the scarlet company appeared to enjoy the fish very much. +Their heads bent over their plates, the suppers varied their +occupation of eating only by the equally pleasant one of taking long +draughts from the crystal goblets before them. They did not appear so +much as to notice that the abbé was appealing to them. His words, his +exclamations, his questions fell alike upon deaf ears. Not a man +listened to him, not a woman raised her eyes to watch him. Nor did his +anger, which succeeded presently to his hunger, help him at all. That, +too, was absolutely unobserved. Had he roared like a bull, the masked +company would have remained oblivious of his presence. + +“Ho, ho!” said he at last, while he leant back in his chair and raised +the goblet in his hand, “a plague upon the table which sets +bread-crumbs before a hungry man!” + +He put the goblet to his lips and took a long draught from it. The +wine, he had said, would at any rate wash the tasteless bread from his +mouth--and so he held the cup long. When at length he put it down, +there was upon his face the most unclerical grimace that had ever sat +there. + +“_Maledetto!_” cried he, “but that is water.” + +He spoke loudly; nor did he look for an answer, being quite assured by +this time that he was dreaming, or if he were not, then that he had +become the victim of the strangest jest yet played in France. And he +was very much surprised when a voice behind him greeted him with the +first word he had heard since he entered the room. For the matter of +that, the voice was hardly raised before all the suppers leaped to +their feet and stood in an attitude of respectful attention. + +“And what is the trouble of the Lord Bishop of Blois?” asked the +speaker, as he advanced to the abbé’s chair. + +He was a man slightly above the medium height, and he wore a dress of +white velvet, upon which a lace-work of the whitest diamonds +glittered. The abbé observed that he was somewhat advanced in years, +and that his features were clear-cut and singularly handsome. He was +attended now by two pages, who wore trunk-hose of purple and purple +cloaks above them; while an officer in the blue uniform of the +Corsican legion stood at his heels as though expecting some command. + +“Ho, ho,” thought the abbé, as he watched the stranger, “here then is +the rogue who has played this jest upon me. I will find a word for him +at any rate.” And so he spoke aloud. + +“Sir,” said he, “who you may be I do not wish to know; but if this be +your house, permit me to tell you that I have been the victim of a +great liberty.” + +The stranger feigned astonishment. + +“What,” cried he, “have you not supped well, ’seigneur?” + +“Sir,” answered the abbé, “I beseech you that you will not call me +‘’seigneur,’ for to such a title I have no claim. As for your +supper--I would not offer it to a dog.” + +“But surely,” cried the other, feigning great astonishment, “that is +turbot which you eat, my friend--and do you not hold a cup of the wine +of Burgundy in your hand?” + +“Monsieur,” said the abbé, with hungry dignity, “whoever has told you +that has lied. There is nothing but water here.” + +“Oh, indeed,” cried the new-comer; “pray permit me to put it to my +lips, ’seigneur. You say that is water?--Saint Louis, I would like to +have a cellar full of such water as that!” + +He tasted the draught as he spoke, and smacked his lips over it as +though it had been a delicious nectar. The abbé, staggered at the +action, was silent for some moments; but after a pause he took the cup +up in his hands, and did that which was a rare thing for him to do--he +lost his temper. + +“My son,” he asked, “you declare that to be the wine of Burgundy?” + +“Most certainly,” replied the stranger; “most admirable wine.” + +“Then I pray you drink it,” exclaimed the abbé--and at the invitation +he threw the contents of his goblet into the new-comer’s face. + +It was a deserved retort, perhaps, but the miserable curé, had he +foreseen that which was to follow, would have cut off his right hand +before he allowed his temper to carry him so far. Scarce was the thing +done when a cry of horror burst from the company about the table. +Fifty hands were raised as if to strike the cowering priest. Threats, +execrations, remonstrances were hurled at him until his head buzzed +with the clamour. The stranger alone appeared to be unmoved. He wiped +his face with a handkerchief of lace, and then turned to the Corsican +at his elbow. + +“I am sorry,” said he, “but I must ask you to arrest monsieur, the +Bishop of Blois. You will take him to his room and keep him there +until my pleasure is known.” + +“Your majesty is obeyed,” was the answer. + +There was a great silence in the place now; and it lasted while the +Corsican stepped forward and bade the quaking priest follow him. As +for the abbé, he was like one petrified. + +“Great Heaven!” he moaned, when they led him from the room, “it is the +king who speaks. And I have thrown my wine in his face. God help me, +for my day has surely come.” + +All else was forgotten in this; the visions of the night, his purpose +in riding to Paris, even the offences of little Corinne, gave place to +the tremendous fear which his folly had brought upon him. He saw it +all now--mystery no longer perplexed him. The masquerade in the woods, +the horrible apparition, the flashing of the crimson fire--what was it +all but the work of the jesters at the palace of St. Cloud! They had +gone out to seek whom they could devour, and they had lighted upon the +curé of Yvette, he said. Then the king--he had heard, of course, of +their pastime, and had come to witness its consummation. And thus had +the abbé been led to the perpetration of a crime so terrible. +Nothing, not even religion, was held as sacred, in that year 1759, as +the body of the king. The abbé knew full well that unless mercy were +shown to him, he might spend the remaining years of his life in the +prison of Fort-l’Évêque or even in the Bastille. Men had come to +such a punishment for mere words--but to throw a goblet of wine in his +majesty’s face! The very memory of his offending compelled him to +shudder like one who was already doomed. + +But the Corsican officer had led him to a bedroom now; a pretty room +lighted by many wax candles, and furnished with all the taste +characterising a period so tasteful. It was a large apartment, with a +cabinet giving off it--and the abbé observed in this smaller chamber +a supper-table decked prettily with lighted candles and flowers. For +this, however, he had no appreciating eyes. He felt at the moment as +though he could never eat again. Foreboding, real and stern, had set +his nerves itching. He began to question his conductor, hoping for +some little word of comfort. + +“Monsieur,” he said with pitiable anxiety, “I beg you tell me--whose +house is this and where does it lie?” + +“Readily,” answered the young officer. “This is the pavilion of Madame +Doublet de Persau. The villagers call it the House of the Scarlet +Witch. I regret, monseigneur, that your first acquaintance of it +should be made so unpropitiously. Saint Denis! who would have thought +that his majesty was unknown to you!” + +“God help me,” answered the abbé, “I never saw him but once, +monsieur, and then it was from a bench in the Place Louis Quinze. Oh, +surely he will remember that!” + +The Corsican shook his head, implying that he doubted. + +“My Lord Bishop,” said he, “I am but a very humble servant of his +majesty, and Heaven forbid that I should anticipate his decision. If +you have friends, however, let me beg of you to write to them. It is +possible, should their influence be not delayed, that you may yet +atone for this offence with a year in the Bastille.” + +“A year in the Bastille,” murmured the abbé, “a year--the Saints help +me--a year for a moment’s loss of temper! Oh, _mon Dieu_, will you not +plead for me, monsieur? I am no Lord Bishop, but only a poor curé, +who is friendless and helpless as you see, my son. I conjure you, of +your charity be a friend to me.” + +“How!” cried the soldier, with a wondrous assumption of surprise, “you +tell me, my lord, that you are not the Bishop of Blois! Oh, surely, +this night’s work has robbed you of your memory. Think a little and +you will recall the circumstances. Here to-day you were riding to +Paris upon the business of your diocese when you fall into the hands +of Madame Doublet de Persau’s merry fellows, who bring you to this +house to supper. The king, learning of the jest, is driven over from +the palace to enjoy it, when you, losing your temper, throw a goblet +of wine in his majesty’s face, and so become my prisoner until your +sentence is delivered. I exhort you, my lord, hide none of these +things from yourself, but send at once to your friends and conjure +them to intercede for you.” + +There was a wondrous air of honesty about the Corsican’s tale; and +although the abbé was more perplexed than ever when the soldier had +done, he determined to trust him, and to make a last effort to help +himself. Indeed, a sudden inspiration seized upon him, and when he +spoke his words came quickly and his white cheeks flushed scarlet. + +“Monsieur,” he said, “I see it all plainly; they have mistaken me for +the Lord Bishop of Blois, and so this misfortune has fallen upon me. I +have but one friend in Paris, if, indeed, she be in Paris now. I speak +of my ward, Corinne de Montesson, who is to be found at the Hôtel +Beautreillis in the Rue St. Paul. Could you but convey a word to her +of my necessity, I know that it would not be unavailing. Indeed, she +is very gentle and loving to all, and never fails to help those who +are in adversity. Send to her, I beg of you, and tell her to come to +St. Cloud at once. Say that the Abbé Morellet implores her +assistance--” + +“_Ciel!_” cried the Corsican, “I will tell her no such tale--for why +should she come to the help of the Abbé Morellet when it is +Monseigneur the Bishop of Blois whom she is to assist?” + +“Sir,” said the abbé, with humble entreaty, “if you tell her that, I +am surely lost.” + +“Courage,” said the Corsican, “you forget, monseigneur. In a little +time your memory will come back to you. I shall send to Paris at once. +Meanwhile you will pardon me if I must hold you under lock and key. +You heard the king’s command, my lord?” + +“God help me,” cried the abbé, “I heard it too well.” + +At this the Corsican withdrew and went downstairs to the supper-table. +The scarlet masks of the company were all laid aside now, and the +suppers no longer ate fish made of bread-crumbs. On the contrary, they +were very merry over flagons of rare red wine and goblets of +champagne, and trout from the Lake of Geneva, and dishes of carp’s +tongues and sturgeon and mullet, and legs of venison, and fat capons. +When they saw the officer, they cried out joyfully, and hastened to +ask how the abbé did. + +“Grimod, Grimod, what does he say, what does he do--oh, tell us +quickly--we die with impatience--you have news, Grimod?” + +The Corsican held up his hand for quiet. Then, addressing the scarlet +witch,--whose fresh and piquant face belied her rôle now that the +mask was laid aside,--he said,-- + +“_Ma foi!_ Mademoiselle Corinne, the abbé asks for you.” + +“For me?” said the girl; “then you have told him, Grimod?” + +“Upon my word, mademoiselle, I have told him nothing. He thinks you +are at the Hôtel Beautreillis, and he begs me to send a messenger +there.” + +Corinne clapped her pretty hands. + +“Oh,” she said, “how I love him! But he will not send me to a convent +after all.” + +The idea that Corinne de Montesson would ever succumb to such a fate +seemed to amuse the masqueraders very much. They greeted her words +with extravagant enthusiasm. One love-sick swain--whose devil’s head +was set mockingly upon a plate before him--turned toward her, eyes +full of sheepish affection, and exclaimed,-- + +“Saint John, Corinne, if you go to the nuns at Charenton, you will +take half Paris with you.” + +“We shall have to build a city there,” cried another. + +“Such a place of worship will never have been seen,” said a third. + +“I go as maid-in-waiting,” lisped a pretty boy, who was busy with a +dish of venison. + +“And the king, what does he go as?” asked a demon, whose head was +tucked away under his chair. + +“Yes,” cried Corinne, joyfully, “the king, where is he? Come forth, +sir, and let us see you.” + +“_Sacrebleu!_” answered a voice from the further end of the table, +“the king is very well, thank you, mademoiselle--but he will be the +better when he has eaten this pasty.” + +Could the abbé have seen the king at that moment his fears would have +vanished like the wind. Truth to tell, his majesty looked exceedingly +unkingly, seated as he was astride a small chair and holding a very +large pasty between his knees. But the wretched priest in the bedroom +above knew of none of these things. While the masqueraders below were +at the zenith of their merriment, the miserable abbé was pacing his +elegant prison; and every turn he took brought a fresh exclamation to +his lips. + +“Oh,” he would moan, “a year in the Bastille at the least--that I +should have left my home for this! A year in the Bastille, where they +put you in cages so that your bones are bent; or in ditches, where the +floors are deep in slime! Heaven be merciful to me--I have thrown wine +in the king’s face! Fool that I was!--his dress should have taught me +better manners. And now they will punish me--oh, miserable day, +unhappy hour--what would I not give to be in my bed at Yvette again!” + +He, good man, had lived so noble a life that fear had not in all his +years been an enemy to him. But now he feared exceedingly,--feared so +that for a long while he started at every whisper of the wind or creak +of board; feared until he forgot that he was hungry and had not +supped. By and by, however, one of his restless pacings carried him +into the cabinet which opened off the bed-chamber; and then he beheld +the little table with the flowers and the wax-lights and the flagon of +red wine and the well-dressed capon. + +“Bah!” he exclaimed angrily, “the wine is but coloured water, the +capon is made of bread--they shall not befool me a second time.” + +He thought it a cruel jest, and vowed he would not be the victim of +it; and so he began to pace the room again; but his steps carried him, +despite his resolution, straight into the cabinet again; and at the +third time of his coming, hunger and thirst so far prevailed that he +poured a little of the wine from the flagon and ventured to taste it. + +“Oh,” cried he, filling a goblet to the brim, “can it be true?--upon +my word, this is very like the wine of Burgundy--Saint John! I have +never tasted a better imitation.” + +There was almost a smile upon the abbé’s face now, and he began with +eager hands to help himself to the capon. A moment later he had seated +himself at the little table and was busy with a groaning plate. Only +when the meal was done did a haunting memory of his night’s work come +back to him--and at that, the wine was soured and the bread turned +bitter. He looked at the great carved bed, and told himself that sleep +was not for such as him. He heard a bell without strike the hour of +midnight, and the new-come day seemed to be the herald of his +misfortunes. Once or twice he went to the door of his prison-chamber +and listened, but could distinguish no sound, neither of voices nor of +steps. + +“Holy Saints!” cried he, beginning to pace his room again, “if I could +only lie this night in my bed at Yvette!” + +He sighed at the hopelessness of the desire; but, to his intense +amazement, his sigh was echoed from the opposite side of the room. And +he was very surprised when, upon turning round, he beheld, standing +there by a picture let into the panel of the wainscoting, two of the +masked men who had met him on the road earlier in the evening. Indeed, +the abbé rubbed his eyes to make sure that he did not dream; and it +was not until the tallest of the two spoke that he believed altogether +in the reality of that which he saw. + +“My Lord Bishop,” said the stranger, “we have kept our promise, and +you see us again. Is it gladly?” + +“Gentlemen,” cried the abbé, “gladly indeed--oh, Heaven knows! You +have heard of my misfortune?” + +The masked man raised his hand. + +“Hush,” said he; “a word may cost you your life. We know all, and have +come to save you. Follow me, ’seigneur, and say nothing, whatever you +may see or hear.” + +With this, he laid his hand upon a button in the picture, and the +panel slid back noiselessly, showing a narrow aperture through which +the three men passed--and then, the dazed abbé! The aperture thus +disclosed gave access to a narrow flight of stairs, at the foot of +which was a little door opening at the back of the pavilion directly +upon the park of St. Cloud. Before the abbé had realised anything of +that which was being done, he found himself out upon the soft grass +with the bridle rein of a horse in his left hand and a groom at his +right hand waiting to assist him to mount. The two men in their turn +went to horses waiting for them, and all leaping into the saddles, the +leader said presently,-- + +“’Seigneur, mount, I beg of you. We ride to Blois for your life.” + +“To Blois?” gasped the abbé. + +But the groom had helped him into the saddle now, and the man having +sent the horse off to join the others with a lusty smack upon the +quarters, the abbé found himself, for good or ill, galloping wildly +through the park towards the road for Sèvres. So absorbed was he in +doubt and wonder that he failed to observe that a young girl now rode +with his guides--though she was masked as the others were. Indeed, +those with him never drew rein nor spoke a single word until dawn +broke in the sky and St. Cloud and its woods lay far behind them. Then +for the first time they permitted their foaming beasts to go at the +walk and the fresh wind of the morning to breathe upon their heated +faces. + +The place was the summit of a hill some five miles from the town of +Rambouillet. Below them a valley stretched pleasantly, and in the far +distance the spire of the church at Yvette stood up like a needle +against the cloudless sky. + +“My lord,” said the leader of the strangers as he halted suddenly at +the spot, “yonder is your home. As for us, our work is done. We have +but to give you this paper and to bid you make your way to Blois with +all speed. I doubt not that you will obey faithfully the king’s wish +that you shall not leave your new diocese for the space of one year.” + +“My diocese--the king’s wish!” exclaimed the abbé, whose face was +bathed with perspiration and whose limbs were so sore that he could +scarce sit upon his horse. + +“Certainly,” answered the masked man, pressing the paper into the +priest’s hands; “read that and all will be known to you.” + +The abbé read the paper; then he raised his hands in an attitude of +humble thankfulness. + +“Merciful Heaven be praised,” cried he, “they have made me Bishop of +Blois, me--the unworthy--the simple priest--the humble curé of +Yvette! Surely the king has forgiven me then. Gentlemen, I thank you +from my heart for this night’s work. Never shall your services be +forgotten. Tell me your names, I beg of you, that I may remember them +in my prayers.” + +The first of the men removed his mask. + +“’Seigneur,” said he, “they call me Bénoît, the swordsman.” + +“’Seigneur,” cried the second, unmasking in his turn, “I am the Comte +de Guibert--the oldest friend of your ward, Mademoiselle Corinne de +Montesson.” + +It was the moment for the young girl now. Swiftly unmasking and +turning her pretty face upon the astonished abbé, she said,-- + +“And I, ’seigneur, am Corinne herself.” + +The abbé sat as one dumfounded. Tears welled up in his eyes. +Gratitude choked his words. + +“Corinne,” he said, “oh, it is to you that I owe my pardon and my +fortune then! God bless you a thousand times.” + +“But not at Charenton,” cried Corinne, merrily. + +“Heaven forbid,” cried the abbé. “Return to your home and carry an +old man’s blessing with you.” + + * * * * * + +The Bishop of Blois was wont to tell, even in his old age, how that at +St. Cloud he had once thrown a glass of wine in the king’s face. But +the knowing ones shook their heads. + +“Bah!” said they among themselves, “it was one of pretty Corinne’s +jests. The only king our good bishop ever met was Lekain, the actor +from the king’s theatre.” + + + + + V. + THE PURPLE GLASS + +The Chevalier Eugène Sabatier was accounted one of the handsomest +rogues in all Paris; but he looked neither handsome nor roguish when +he stood in the music-room of the Hôtel Beautreillis on the third day +of May in the year 1763, and reflected earnestly upon the strange tale +which Antonio, the physician, had just told him. + +The glorious afternoon was coming to a close then, and the old gardens +in the Rue St. Paul began to be filled with the first sweetness of the +night. Trees laden with blossoms, bushes with roses, rustled gently as +the warm south wind breathed upon them; lengthening shadows upon the +grass waged war with the delaying patches of sunlight and drove them +inch by inch from the garden. The spires and turrets of the great +house shone radiant a little while with fiery beams which struck upon +their windows and copper domes and made them like burning beacons +above the surrounding streets. In the music-room itself, a soft +twilight prevailed; and this was in keeping with the gloom which had +come upon those in the chamber. + +There were three persons in the great room at that hour; but the young +chevalier was the most prominent figure, standing as he did where the +deep red light of the setting sun could strike upon the gold and blue +of his dragoon’s uniform, and even send fire flashing from the heavy +brass helmet he held in his hand. As for Mademoiselle Corinne, the +mistress of the Hôtel Beautreillis, she sat in a low chair drawn so +far behind the curtain of the window that her pretty face was all in a +shadow; nor could you distinguish the colour of her robe nor the tint +of the lace which hid her exquisitely white neck. But it was plain +that she was very serious; and the same might have been said of her +old physician Antonio, who sat at a great writing table in the centre +of the apartment, and dipped his long quill pen into the ink-horn +before him with irritating regularity. Never once did he look at the +young officer, nor seem to remember the astonishment which a word of +his had just created. And this was the more surprising since that word +had told of the officer’s death. + +“Monsieur,” he had said, “if you go to the Château Saint Mandé +to-night, you go to the house of a man who is waiting to kill you.” + +The chevalier sprang from his chair, and standing a moment with the +crimson light flashing upon his young face, he appeared like one about +to resent a savage insult. + +“_Dieu!_” cried he, “do you forget that I am going to the house of my +brother?” + +“I forget nothing,” answered the old man, without looking up from his +paper. “Should you doubt my words, monsieur, it is easy to prove them +by continuing your journey immediately to the château. But the proof +will be with us--for your body will lie in the Marne before midnight.” + +The prophecy was that of one who weighed his words well; but so +terrible was it to hear, that long minutes passed and no voice broke +the silence in the music-room. As for Eugène Sabatier, he might have +been stricken dumb. Doubt, dread, anger, fear--each of these played +upon his boyish face in their turn. Saying to himself at one moment +that the story was a hideous calumny, in the next he remembered the +untold wrongs he had suffered at his brother’s hand, and a voice +whispered in his ear, “The physician is right.” Corinne, meanwhile, +watched her guest with sad eyes and a troubled mind. There was +something beyond mere friendship in a glance like that. Had her +thoughts been uttered aloud, she would have said, “I love him.” +Happily for her, the curtain hid her face, and the pretty flush which +added ornament to it. When she spoke, there was scarce a ring of +tenderness in her voice. + +“Eugène,” she said, for they had been children together, and no +formalities stood between them,--“Eugène, do not think that Antonio +would jest with you at such a moment. This is no new thing to him. He +has known your brother, the Count of Brives, for twenty years. I sent +for you to-night to save your life--repay me by forgetting everything +but the fortune and the future which to-night may bring you.” + +The young soldier, distracted by a hundred thoughts, turned upon her a +glance full of affection yet hardly followed her words. + +“Corinne,” cried he, “I know that my brother hates me--yet, that he +would kill me--_mon Dieu_, I cannot believe that.” + +“Nevertheless,” chimed in the old physician, “he killed your brother +Gilbert.” + +An exclamation almost of resentment broke from Sabatier. + +“Monsieur,” he gasped, “you say--?” + +“That your brother Gilbert was poisoned by the Count of Brives in the +Château Saint Mandé two years ago to-night.” + +“Oh,” exclaimed Sabatier, sinking into a seat and burying his face in +his hands, “God grant that you are wrong!” + +“Antonio is never wrong,” said Corinne, sadly. “If you ask him, he +will tell you that your brother was poisoned three weeks after he +became marshal of the palace--an appointment the Count of Brives had +applied for but had failed to obtain.” + +“In the same way that you, monsieur,” added Antonio, “having been +ordered to Westphalia to supplant the count in a command there, will +be poisoned by him on the eve of your departure.” + +The old man spoke with such deliberate emphasis and conviction, his +story was so plausible, that Sabatier could suffer it no longer. + +“Corinne,” cried he, rising from his seat and suppressing the many +emotions which rushed upon his brain, “it is all like a terrible dream +to me. I must go home to reason with it. And if it be as you say, then +I thank God that my brother is saved from this new crime.” + +He held out his hand to her; but she did not take it. + +“Eugène,” she exclaimed, “before you go home to-night you have work +to do.” + +“Which is, Corinne?” + +“To avenge your brother Gilbert and to become the Count of Brives.” + +Perplexed as he was, Sabatier smiled. + +“Oh,” said he, “now you speak to me in riddles. What miracle shall +make me Count of Brives to-night?” + +“Supper at the Château Saint Mandé is the only miracle necessary, +Eugène.” + +The young man drew back with an impatient gesture. + +“Corinne,” he cried, “is it an hour for jests?” + +“I do not jest with you, Eugène,” she answered very tenderly. “Did +not I tell you that fortune and a future awaited you to-night? It is +for you to say whether you will take the gift or refuse it.” + +She spoke very simply, though deep feeling gave a quaver to her voice. +As for Sabatier, he began to tell himself that he had lost his wits; +and he walked up and down the room like a man distracted. + +“Come,” cried he, stopping suddenly at last; “what mystery is this? +You say that my brother will poison me, yet you tell me to sup with +him. I beseech you be plain with me--oh, do I not suffer enough that +you should add to my burden?” + +He turned from one to the other appealingly, his distress being so +great that tears stood in his eyes, and his voice was husky and +broken. But it was the old physician who answered him. + +“Monsieur,” said he, laying down his pen for the first time, “you +beseech me to be plain with you, and I will hasten to obey your wish. +Mademoiselle tells you truly that fortune and a future await you at +the Château Saint Mandé to-night; but if they are to be won, they +will be won by your own courage. The Count of Brives asks you to his +home that he may kill you as he killed your brother Gilbert. If you +turn back now, thinking to spare him the crime, you will dishonour +your father’s memory and add new shame to a house which knew shame for +the first time when your eldest brother was born to it. Let me conjure +you, then, to do no such thing, but to ride hence at once for the +Château--” + +“Where they will poison me?” interrupted Sabatier, a little angrily. + +“Exactly,” continued Antonio, “where they will poison you. But you, if +you are careful to do exactly as I bid you, you will awake presently +from the death you shall seem to die, and being awakened, will find +yourself in twenty hours Count of Brives and master of his fortune.” + +Sabatier stood wonder-struck. The old man, excited now by the story he +was telling, raised his hand as in warning, and continued rapidly,-- + +“Monsieur, there is no other in the world who is called, as you are +now called, to be God’s messenger in this work of vengeance and of +right. Go, then, before the clock strikes again, to Saint Mandé; and +say to yourself as you enter, ‘I am come to avenge my brother +Gilbert.’ Whatever you see there, whatever may happen to you--fear +nothing. The eyes of those that send you to this work will watch you +even as you sit. I say no more--the minutes pass swiftly; and what +further counsel I can give is written here upon this parchment. Let me +exhort you to read every letter of that injunction--not once, but +twelve times, as you ride toward the château. For that writing is +life or death--as you remember or forget it.” + +There was a great stillness in the room when the old man ceased to +speak. Sabatier, scarce knowing whether the words were real or the +echo of a dream, took with trembling hands the paper which the +physician thrust upon him. Then he turned questioningly to Corinne; +but she had now risen from her seat, and coming forward she laid her +pretty fingers caressingly upon his arm. + +“Eugène,” she asked earnestly, “you will avenge your brother?” + +“As God is my witness,” he answered, “I will know the truth this +night.” + + +The woods of Vincennes were very dark when Eugène Sabatier passed +through them on his way to his brother’s house. But his head was too +full of terrible thoughts to permit him to notice the state of the +night or even the dangers of the road. For the matter of that he had +ridden at a hand-gallop from Mademoiselle Corinne’s courtyard; and +skirting the right bank of the Seine, he drew rein but twice before +the grim and forbidding home of the Count of Brives stood up in the +valley before him. Then, indeed, with a little shiver of fear he +permitted his horse to walk, while he took off his heavy brass helmet +and wiped the sweat from his forehead. + +“_Ciel!_” he said to himself, “what an errand to go upon! That my +brother should be a poisoner. Bah, I will not believe it! Corinne has +been too clever for once. That old fool of a physician has deceived +her with his nonsense. As well might I expect to be Pope as to step +into Charles’s shoes and become Count of Brives to-morrow. Yet I +cannot forget that poor Gilbert’s body was found in the river the +morning after he supped at Saint Mandé. God help me--what am I to +think?” + +He was riding at that moment through a wood of shivering aspens; and +what with the strange, haunting music of their leaves, and the +darkness of the thicket, and the weird light playing upon the river, +whose course he could mark, like a great silver vein of the valley, he +began to be more fearful than ever he had been in all his life. And +this was surprising, since there was no braver man in Condé’s legion +than Eugène Sabatier; none readier with the rapier, or more skilled +in all those arts which are a soldier’s boast. It was the hidden +danger--the death in the cup--that now made his heart beat so loudly. +He could not hide it from himself that this old man, who had warned +him, might be a fool and a boaster. How, he asked himself, if the +scheme should fail and his own body be found to-morrow in the Marne? +He had little to hope for in life, for he was a penniless soldier, who +must make his own future; but so long as he could treasure up in his +heart love for little Corinne, he was content to live, and to dream of +a day when there should be no gulf of wealth and station between them. +That day would come quickly enough if his brother, the Count of +Brives, were to die, since the count had neither wife nor child; and +title and lands would then descend to him. He remembered that Corinne +had promised that all this should happen twenty hours after he had sat +down to supper at the château; and he laughed again at the absurdity +of her promise. Only when he remembered poor Gilbert did his own +courage come back to him; and riding quickly out of the wood he swore +that the truth should be hidden no longer. + +He was not more than a hundred yards from the gloomy house now; and he +could hear the voices of boatmen rising up from the river’s bank. +Behind him lay Paris, her lights beginning to shine brightly as in joy +of the newly come night; before him the road sloped gently toward the +Seine, meeting it at last at a point where the Marne flows into the +greater stream. He could see his brother’s château, which had the +shape of an old-time fortress, standing up black and threatening +almost at the water’s edge. In the distance it appeared to be the +stronghold of the hamlet which lay in its shadow; a hamlet of tumbling +cottages, with an old Norman church, red-roofed, squat, yet withal +picturesque. But when you rode into the one street of this village, +you observed that a meadow lay between the great house and its humbler +children; and that the former was girded about with a wood of poplars. +Indeed, it was a very lonely house, and all the villagers shunned it, +as they shunned its melancholy, silent, solitude-loving master, the +Count Charles of Brives. + +These villagers were all going to their beds when the young captain of +Condé’s legion rode at a canter through their hamlet. He, on his +part, took little notice of them or of their dwellings, so entirely +did apprehension of the peril to come play upon his mind. Twice +already had he perused the slip of parchment which old Antonio +intrusted to him with so solemn a warning; but now, at the mouth of +the village, he drew rein for the third time, and holding the paper so +that the light from the lantern of the inn fell upon it, he read every +word of it again and again; and having read it, he repeated it twenty +times aloud, to be sure that his memory had it. There were but three +lines of writing in all--done clearly, in great bold characters; and +Eugène soon knew them so well that he could say them backwards or +forwards as he pleased:-- + + + BEWARE OF THE PURPLE GLASS + THE HALF OF THAT WITHIN IT IS LIFE + THE WHOLE IS DEATH. + + +“Bah!” said he, tearing the paper into shreds and letting the night +wind scatter it, “they tell a tale to frighten children--not men. What +an injustice to believe this of my brother until I have something +beyond an old man’s cackle to go upon. How should he know of a purple +glass, and how can there be both life and death within it? I will +listen to no such slander, but sup with the count as brother should.” + +This was all very well in promise, but the performance was a different +matter. Though Sabatier kept telling himself that he had nothing to +fear, his heart beat wildly when ultimately he stood at the gate of +the château and heard the great bell booming in the tower above him. +What, he asked, if that gate, which now shut behind him with such an +ominous clang, should never open to his knock again! How if the morn +should find his body lapped upon by the waters yonder, sedge grass +hiding his face, and the reeds trying vainly to clothe him with +warmth! He could not suppress a shudder when a voice whispered in his +ear--“All this is possible.” Nor did the croaking welcome of the +evil-eyed, stooping, lank old servant, Armand, reassure him. + +“The count, my master, awaits you in the salon, monsieur,” said he. “I +pray you be careful of the steps--they are, like all else here, a +little grown in age. Shall Germain bed your horse, or do you ride away +to-night?” + +“Ay, surely, Armand; I leave Paris to-morrow, and must be in my own +bed before midnight is struck,” answered Eugène, merrily--though his +heart sank lower and lower at the gloomy aspect of all he saw about +him. “Let the horse have a mouthful of sweet hay and a loosened +girth,” he added presently; “who knows that my hand will be steady +enough to saddle him when I have done supping with the count!” + +The old servant, who had thrown the reins to the lad Germain, looked +up quickly at this remark, his toothless mouth opening in a horrid +smile. + +“Who knows, monsieur?” he said; “there was never one of your race that +refused a flask of Armagnac yet. And there is none better in France +than the wine in my master’s cellars. I pray you follow me lest the +supper be already cold.” + +With this, he took up his lantern and mounted a steep, tortuous narrow +staircase, above which the great black walls of the château loomed +forbiddingly. There was a wicket in an old iron-sheathed door at the +stair’s head, and when they had passed through it, they stood in a +vast hall, the walls of which were covered with rusting armour. But +the place was forsaken and unlighted, save for the poor rays which +fell from the candle in the lantern; and, indeed, the whole house was +full of a silence as of the silence of death. It was a tremendous +relief to Eugène when at last he entered the great salon and beheld +his brother standing near the door to receive him. Every suspicion, +every doubt, all the horrid stories he had heard at the Hôtel +Beautreillis, were forgotten in a moment. Kinship, even affection, +succeeded to them during the instant of warm welcome. + +“Brother,” he said, coming forward with a light step, and stooping to +kiss the count upon the cheeks,--“brother, it is good to see you +again.” + +Count Charles suffered rather than returned the greeting. He was a man +perhaps of forty years of age: his face pitted with the small-pox; his +nose squat and up-turned; his beard short and stubby; his eyes very +bright and very small. He wore a suit of black velvet with ruffles of +white lace; but his vest was embroidered with silver, and the buttons +of it were picked out with diamonds. + +“My brother,” said he, his restless eyes blinking the while, “I heard +that you were named for a command in Westphalia. It was natural that I +should wish to see you before you go.” + +It sounded almost like an apology; but Eugène, refusing to notice the +hesitation and halting manner, became frankness itself. + +“It is true,” he answered, “that I have a command, Charles--though +there is little hope left to us of the war. I am sure you wish me +God-speed, for I am to have your old company in Condé’s legion.” + +The count shrugged his shoulders. + +“Pah!” said he, curtly, “if you can make those rats fight, you are a +clever man. They ran at Minden like deer from the dogs. Let us sit to +supper and forget them.” + +He led the way to an adjoining dining-room, even a larger chamber than +the one they quitted; and they sat together at the end of a long +table, feebly lit by eight wax lights. The toothless old man, Armand, +waited upon them, like a ghostly image from the gloom in which the +greater part of the room was plunged. For a while, neither of the +brothers spoke a word, eating silently and scarce looking at one +another. The supper itself was of the plainest--a capon, a dish of +spinach, some tender slices of venison--and for drink, champagne in +long goblets of sparkling cut glass. Eugène said to himself for the +second time when he lifted such a goblet and drank deeply of the +foaming draught, that old Antonio, the physician to Mademoiselle +Corinne, was a fool. There was no such thing as a purple glass upon +the table. How, then, could he avoid that within it? They had told him +a hag’s tale. Surely it was one of pretty Corinne’s jests. For a +truth, he was half of a mind to hint to his brother the cruel slander +put abroad about him; but restraining himself, he began to talk of the +Hôtel Beautreillis and of its fascinating mistress. + +“You have seen Corinne lately?” he asked indifferently. + +The count looked up quickly. + +“You speak of Mademoiselle de Montesson?” said he. + +“Certainly I do; but I thought you were such good friends.” + +Count Charles shrugged his shoulders. + +“I know her a little,” said he, with assumed nonchalance, “and you--” + +“Oh,” said Eugène, with whole-hearted energy, “I know her very well +indeed, brother.” + +The count put out his glass that Armand might fill it with champagne. +The action helped him to conceal from Eugène the deep flush upon his +face, and the angry brightness of his eyes. But he said no word to +betray himself, and began cleverly to talk of other subjects with a +loquacity quite foreign to him. As for the younger man, though he was +quite content now to believe that Corinne had told him a silly story, +none the less did the influence of his surroundings weigh heavily upon +him. His heart was dark as the great room in which he sat; and just as +in that chamber eight candles cast an aureole of light at its centre, +so in his own heart was there a glow of light when he remembered his +love for pretty Corinne. “Shall I ever see her again?” he asked. A +relentless foreboding warned him that he might not. Danger seemed all +about him. He knew that his brother hated him--hated him because his +mother had loved him; hated him for his looks, his friends, his +successes. But he knew then that he hated him most of all because of +the word which he had spoken about little Corinne. + +Supper was done now; and the count, pushing back his chair from the +table, seemed to be in a more generous mood. + +“Armand,” he cried to the toothless old serving man, “bring a flask of +Armagnac and set glasses. You can go to the lodge then.” + +Eugène was surprised at the request. + +“Do you live here alone, brother?” he asked. + +“Certainly,” replied the count; “am I not a soldier who has been alone +all my life?” + +It was a bitter question, and Eugène shuddered--he knew not why. Far +from fearing his brother now, he pitied him, and would have been very +glad to say so; but just when the word was upon his lips, Armand +returned with the flask of the wine of Armagnac and two long glasses, +which he wiped and set carefully upon the table. Eugène observed +their colour immediately. They were of a deep purple tint. “_Ciel!_” +he murmured to himself, while his heart beat fast and the blood rushed +to his brain, “_the purple glass_.” In the same instant, Armand left +the room; and a little while after a gate in the courtyard was shut +with a loud clang. The brothers were alone in the house of gloom. + +The count was the first to speak. He had the flask of wine in his +hand; and Eugène, who watched him like one fascinated, observed that +his arm trembled when he raised it. + +“Come,” said he, in a thick, unnatural voice, “there is no finer +Armagnac in Paris than this. Let me give you some.” + +Eugène bowed his head. His face was almost livid now. For that which +he must suffer, he cared nothing. He would sooner have died there and +then than make sure of so horrible a truth. “My brother a poisoner,” +he said to himself a a hundred times, “oh, what shame, what +dishonour!” + +The count filled his glass and pushed it over to him. Eugène was +surprised to see that his brother helped himself also to the wine, +drinking the half of a glass at a draught. The action reassured him. +“They have told me a lie,” he said to himself for the twentieth +time--and with this upon his lips and the warning of old Antonio +ringing in his ears like a knell, he lifted the purple glass and drank +from it. “The half is life,” said the voice. Eugène drank exactly one +half and put the glass upon the table. The count did not appear to +notice the action. + +“So you leave Paris to-morrow?” said he, pleasantly. + +The dragoon answered incoherently. A strange joy began to quicken the +blood in his veins. He had looked to fall senseless after drinking the +wine, but to his amazement nothing happened. Rather he felt elated, +eager to talk nonsense, light-headed as a child. “Pish,” said he to +himself, “what a calumny to spread!” The reaction was terrible, +overwhelming. He had the desire to rise and embrace his brother. He +spoke of little Corinne freely--even of his love for her. The count +replied in monosyllables. He, too, was watching, but the light of long +years of hate was in his eyes. The moment of his vengeance had come, +he said. + +Five minutes had passed now since Eugène drank the wine; five minutes +which he declared were the happiest in his life. But, of a sudden, his +joy was turned to great fear; his words were broken on his lips; cold +sweat started to his forehead; his heart quickened with a pulse of +weakness. In that instant he knew that the old physician had not +cheated him. Death himself seemed to have touched him upon the +forehead. A dreamy, irresistible sleep stole upon him, surely. +Everything in the room was still clear to his eyes; but the power of +action and of speech was becoming less every moment. He felt that he +was sinking down into unconsciousness. “Oh,” he moaned, “I shall never +see little Corinne again.” All his love for her was magnified a +thousand times at the thought. He clenched his hands and swore that he +would not die. With a last effort, and a last loud cry, he raised +himself from his chair--only to fall headlong at his brother’s feet; +and to lie there, seeing all, hearing all, but unable to move a limb +or utter a word. + +The Count of Brives, who had waited for the moment, rose for the first +time since his brother had drunk the wine. Eugène, lying there in the +trance which the poison put upon him, could observe all the other’s +actions--and he watched him as a prisoner may watch a captor from whom +he has no hope of mercy. Deliberately and with all the nerve of a man +grown callous to crime, the count began to finish his work. He put out +the lights upon the table one by one, until a single candle alone +lighted the vast chamber. Then, taking this candle in his hand, he +bent over the body before him and looked at it with a malignity woeful +to see. + +“Pah!” he said, placing the light upon the table again, “Condé’s +legion will want a captain to-morrow, and Corinne a lover. He brought +it upon himself--why should I pity him?” + +The dragoon heard the words very plainly, and the hate in them added +to that which he suffered. It was true, then, as Antonio had told him, +that his brother meant to kill him when he asked him to the Château +Saint Mandé. He recollected at the same time that the old man had +prophesied things which he did not understand at the moment of their +utterance. “You will awake presently from the death you shall seem to +die, and being awakened, will find yourself in twenty hours Count of +Brives and master of his fortunes.” Or again: “The eyes of those that +send you to this work will watch you even as you lie.” Would he, +indeed, he asked himself, wake again from this paralysis which had +fallen upon heart and tongue and limb? Did some friendly eyes indeed +watch him as he lay there in all the agony of a trance? He could not +answer; could do nothing but think of little Corinne and pray that he +might see her once again. + +The Count of Brives had opened the window of the salon now, and the +cool air of the May night flooded the chamber refreshingly. Eugène +heard his brother pass out into the garden beyond, and when he +returned to the table he had a lantern in his hand. Nerved by all the +resolution of daring and cruelty, he was quick to act, that his crime +might be hidden from men and from his own eyes. Ever and anon Eugène +could observe his pale face as he moved swiftly about the room, or +listened with strained ear to catch any sound in the house. But the +silence of ultimate night reigned in the château. No human thing +moved there. Not a clock ticked, not a door creaked. The wind moaned +its song of solitude in the poplars of the garden--but the count was +alone with his victim. + +Twice he walked up to the body of the man he believed to be dead; +twice he drew back with a tremor of nerve and a gesture of repugnance. +When at last his iron will conquered, he stooped quickly, and bringing +all his great strength to the work, he began to drag the body toward +the window. It was a horrid effort even for him; and he had but begun +it when a loud sound, like the sound of a door shutting in a chamber +above, caused him to spring up with a great cry, and to stagger from +the room as though unnumbered phantoms had come about him to proclaim +the deed. Eugène heard the sound well enough, and began to hope for +the second time. “They watch me, they watch me!” he cried,--“oh, how I +need my courage!--if they should be too late!” The thought was +unbearable, almost maddening; the agony of the bondage of helplessness +greater than any man could conceive. He prayed for unconsciousness, +even for death--but these were denied to him. The drug had quickened +his life--and yet had robbed him of all that which life is. + +In this the mood of fear unspeakable, he lay and listened while his +brother passed quickly from room to room, opening and shutting the +doors loudly, and often crying “Who goes there?” as though he was sure +that some one else had entered the château. Nor was the count content +until he had searched even the garrets, and had told himself a hundred +times that the wind cheated him in his alarm. When at last he returned +to the dining-room, his step was stronger and his will more sure. He +picked up the body now as though it had been a common burden, and +staggering from step to step down the stairs upon which the window +opened, he dragged it into the garden, and so out into the moonlight, +which fell plenteously upon the damp grass. There for a moment he +stood panting for his breath and shading his eyes, that he might see +more clearly into the garden. As for Eugène, he had felt the strength +of the arms which clasped him so surely; and now when he lay stiff and +voiceless upon the grass, he said that death had become his neighbour. +“He means to throw my body in the Seine,” he thought; “they will come +too late--they have left me to die--what cruelty!--what a night of +suffering!” Had a voice then been given to him, he would have screamed +in his terror. But the drug had tied his tongue; the trance held him +too surely--he was dead, yet suffered as the living rarely have +suffered. + +Once more the count stooped to his dreadful work. The spot whereon he +stood was scarce a hundred yards from the black waters of the Seine. +There was to be no delay this time. Turning his + + [Illustration: He picked up the Body and staggered down.] + +eyes away that he might not look upon his brother’s face again, he +gripped him by the left arm and began to drag him toward the river. +Two paces he took; his foot was raised for a third--when the second +omen of the night sent him staggering back from his burden like one +stricken with a mortal sickness. The omen was nothing less than the +sound of his name uttered from a window high up in the looming wall of +the château. Clear above the river’s moaning and the song of the +poplars, the call came:-- + +“Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur le Comte, where is your brother Eugène?” + +The count turned round on his heel--a cry frothed upon his lips--he +reeled backward, backward, saying that the judgment of God was upon +him. The château, which had been dark when he left it five minutes +before, was now blazing with light. Every room on the upper story shed +bright golden rays from its windows. Seen in the strong moonlight, the +great house had become like a palace of the fairies. The panes of +glass were so many stars shining in a setting of black stone; the very +attics were beacons to guide those far away in the valley. More than +all, a man clothed from head to foot in black stood plain to be seen +at a casement above the salon; and he it was who called to Count +Charles,-- + +“Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur le Comte, where is your brother Eugène?” + +The count heard the call, and for a moment terror convulsed him. But +fury was quick to prevail above fear; and with a great oath upon his +lips, he drew a dagger and ran back to the château. In the same +instant, the man in black disappeared from the window; and Eugène, +watching it all with a hope not to be described, observed that the +bushes near to him on the lawn opened suddenly, and that men came out +of them. The face of the first of these new-comers was hidden by a +mask; but when the man stooped presently to pour the contents of a +phial upon the dragoon’s lips, the mask slipped and Eugène knew that +old Antonio was at his side. + +“My son,” said the old man, watching the red drops fall upon the +feverish lips, “awake--and sleep.” + +“_Ciel!_ is it thou, Antonio?” murmured Eugène, knowing that the +trance had passed from him the moment the drops fell, “Oh, blessed be +God--I live--I live!” + +That minute was the most exquisite of his life; but scarce had he +realised the meaning of it when a sweet unconsciousness stole upon +him, and he slept. And so sleeping, the men raised him in their arms +and carried him quickly out of the garden. + +The afternoon of the following day was drawing to its close when +Eugène Sabatier awoke from his deep sleep. A ray of burning sunlight +striking down through the open window of his room in the Rue Charles +V., fell at length upon his eyes, and caused him to turn uneasily upon +his bed. A moment later, he sat upright and began to stare about him +with the air of one who is not quite sure either of the hour or of his +environment. In which operation, he encountered the gaze of his +servant Barnardin, who stood at the bed’s head as though he had long +been awaiting the moment. + +“Sir,” said the valet, advancing with his master’s clothes, “it is +five o’clock, and you know that we leave Paris at eight. Will you be +pleased to rise?” + +“_Diavolo!_” cried Eugène, springing from the bed with a light +step--and he was very much surprised to find how strong he was--“have +I slept long, Barnardin?” + +Barnardin shook his head. + +“You were away from home when I left here at ten o’clock last night, +my master,” said he; “but when I brought your coffee at eight o’clock +this morning you slept so soundly that I could not wake you.” + +The dragoon began to dress himself quickly, remembering only that he +had orders to leave Paris at eight o’clock that night. + +“_Sang-bleu!_” muttered he to himself, “I must have supped in some +cabaret--and drunk too much Armagnac. What a thing to dream--that my +brother poisoned me! Pah! it was a fool’s sleep, and I am paid for my +folly. And yet I could swear that I talked with Corinne at her house +yesterday, and that she promised to make me Count of Brives in twenty +hours. _Dame!_ I am like to wait long for that!” + +The reflection made him a little gloomy, reminding him as it did how +small had been fortune’s gifts to him, and how childish was his hope +that he might ever speak to Corinne of his love for her. Were he Count +of Brives, then would it be a very different thing; for he could hurry +back from the war and make haste to deal with those estates which +Count Charles treated so ill. But he told himself again and again that +all his visions of the night had been phantoms of sleep come to +torment him with illusions and vain words. He was still Eugène, the +dragoon--with scarce ten gold pieces in his pocket and no prospect for +the future save that which the war offered to him. Little Corinne +remained the mistress of the Hôtel Beautreillis and of the great +station which her possessions gave to her. What folly to dream that he +might ever tell her that he loved her! + +Saying this to himself, he made a hurried meal; and all being ready, +set out for the Barrière du Trône when the clocks of Paris were +striking half-past six. His baggage had gone already in the waggons of +the regiment, which he was to join at Chalons; and he rode now +accompanied only by his servant Barnardin, who led his second charger. +Many turned in the streets to look at the handsome dragoon in the +sky-blue uniform; many muttered, “There goes that rogue Sabatier to +the wars;” but Eugène noticed none of them. A deep depression weighed +him down; his accustomed gaiety and readiness of speech had forsaken +him; he struck again into the heart of the woods of Vincennes, and the +silence of the thickets was like balm to his weary mind. He was +absolutely convinced that the events of the dreadful night were the +events of a dream. He remembered that he must pass his brother’s +château on his way to Chalons. “I will call and ask a God-speed of +him,” said he to himself; “I owe him that for allowing myself ever to +repeat so cruel a calumny.” + +He had come by this time to that little place upon the hill whence he +could look down to the Seine, and observe the gloomy towers of his +brother’s house. Here, despite his resolution, a shudder of fear +trembled upon all his limbs. Strange as he thought it, the dream +seemed more real with every mile he rode. He could have sworn that he +stood last night upon that very spot; he remembered the blood-red +light upon the river; the shiver of the aspens; the foreboding which +possessed him. Angry with himself that these thoughts prevailed, he +set spurs to his horse, and rode at a gallop toward the village. + +“A plague upon it,” said he, “it was a dream, a silly dream. I did not +sup with my brother, and never shall I be Count of Brives--fool that I +am to think of it!” + +“Monsieur,” said a voice at his side, “permit me to tell you that you +are mistaken.” + +Eugène checked his horse and looked round quickly. He saw to his +astonishment that a man who wore a rich dress of black cloth, and a +black plumed hat, rode at his side upon a magnificent beast who kept +pace with the other as easily as though he had been walking for the +show of it in the Place Louis Quinze. + +“Monsieur,” said the dragoon, civilly, “you said--?” + +“That you are very much mistaken, sir,--you did sup with your brother +last night, and you will be Count of Brives before the clock strikes +again.” + +The words were spoken with such a fine air that Sabatier began to ask +himself if this were some new apparition come to cheat him as the +others had done. + +“Oh,” cried he, impatiently, “what mystery is all this! Am I in my +senses, or do I still sleep?” + +He reined in his horse, and the stranger came close up to his side. + +“Monsieur,” said he, “you neither sleep nor dream. Ask yourself no +such silly question. It is quite true that your brother attempted to +poison you last night with a flask of Armagnac in which, as the +physician Antonio would tell you, there were four grains of one of the +most deadly drugs known to the East. You, however, remembering the +warning, drank but a half of the glass set before you--and so you +become Count of Brives.” + +“I?” cried Eugène, impatiently, “I become Count of Brives?” + +“Exactly,” said the other; “you have only to ride to yonder château +to make it your own.” + +The dragoon laughed scornfully. + +“Pah!” said he, “how could the wine have been poisoned when my brother +drank of it; and how could your physician know what the flask +contained?” + +The man in the plumed hat betrayed no sign of impatience. + +“Monsieur,” said he, slowly, “you ask me two questions, and I will +answer them. We knew what the wine contained because Armand, your +brother’s servant, has long been good enough to sell us for money an +account of your brother’s life. Three weeks ago the Count of Brives +was offered by an agent of my mistress, Mademoiselle Corinne, a +preparation of the poppy leaf brought from Yezd. So fatal is this to +those whose bodies are not fortified against it by the continued and +gradual habit of eating the drug, that two-thirds of a grain will kill +the strongest man. You, however, drinking but a half of that which was +offered to you, suffered but a passing loss of your senses. It is +obvious to you that the count, having been long in the East and +accustomed to the use of opium, could drink that which would mean the +death of another not so prepared. The draught last night steeled his +will to the dreadful crime he sought to commit. You, however, +succumbed to it; and never, I swear, did the living wear the cloak of +the dead as you wore it in the Château Saint Mandé.” + +Sabatier groaned at the remembrance. It seemed to him that he began to +suffer the terror of the garden for the second time. + +“_Ciel!_” cried he, “it is all a miracle--I cannot believe it--I +cannot.” + +“It is no miracle,” said the stranger, solemnly; “it is the hand of +Almighty God avenging your brother who was slain. Go then to the +château--but go alone, that the eyes of no other may witness the deed +which must be. I wait here until yonder church bell shall tell me that +you are Count of Brives.” + +He pointed with outstretched arm to the gate of the darkening house +upon whose blackened walls the last crimson rays of the setting sun +were dying down quickly. As Eugène rode away, he remembered that he +had seen the stranger before, and he said--it was he who called from +the window last night--“Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur le Comte, where is +your brother Eugène?” Drawn on at the recollection as by a fatality, +eager to prove, to make sure, now buoyed up with hope, now trembling +with excitement, he galloped through the street of the village, and +never drew rein until his hand was upon the bell at the outer gate of +the château and the birds were winging upward at his clamorous peal. +As it had been last night--that night of nights--so was it to-day. The +toothless old Armand gave him welcome; the lad Germain held his horse. +Nothing seemed altered in the great house; nothing of its silence nor +of its mystery. But Sabatier’s heart beat until his whole body shook +with the pulsations; and so great was his dread that he could scarce +frame the question-- + +“Where is my brother, the count?” + +“Monsieur,” said the old man, with a horrible leer, “your brother +awaits you in the garden.” + +Bidding him stay where he was, Sabatier ascended the rotting staircase +and passed rapidly through the hall. “I will know the truth, I will +learn all,” he said to himself--determined now that the mystery should +blind him no more. Many as were his sensations while he strode across +the great dining-room to the garden beyond, he quitted them all in the +greater doubt--“Can this thing have been?” And doubting of it to the +last, he opened the window and so beheld his brother. + +The count was dressed as he had been on the previous evening; but his +eyes were now bloodshot and inflamed; his step halting and restless; +his hair dishevelled. When Sabatier saw him thus, he was walking, with +bent head, to and fro upon the grass plot by the bushes; but his +glance was ever upon the ground, and he muttered unceasingly, “Where +is my brother Eugène?” This haunting cry had been upon his lips +through every hour of that dreadful night. He had never left the scene +of his crime--had touched no food, had spoken no word. From the moment +when he discovered that some unseen eye watched him in his horrid +task--the Count of Brives lost his reason. + +“Oh, my God!” cried Eugène, aloud, moved to exceeding pity by a sight +so woeful, “my brother is mad.” + +The count heard the cry and looked up. For one long-drawn instant he +stood quite still; then, with a moan upon his lips, he began to walk +backwards down the garden. But at the third step, he fell heavily upon +the grass. + +“Brother,” said Eugène, running to his side,--“brother, I forgive.” + +It was a word of surpassing love--but the heart of the Count of Brives +had ceased to beat when it was spoken. + + +When Eugène Sabatier rode from the Château Saint Mandé that night +to join the army at Chalons, the villagers cried after him,-- + +“_Bon soir_, Monsieur le Comte.” + +And the bells of the little church soon told all Paris that Charles, +Count of Brives, was no more. + + + + + VI. + THE KINGDOM OF BOURGORIEAU + +The Feast of the Precious Blood, on the fourth day of July, in the +year 1763, sent many of Old Paris to the gardens of the _Courtille des +Porcherons_, famous at that time for the great sign-board upon which +Master Ramponeau, the host of the _guinguette_, was depicted, sitting +astride a hogshead, and therefrom beckoning all the city to taste of +his unsurpassable wines. Other _courtilles_, it is true, waged a good +fight against the booths and bazaars of the _Tambour Royal_, as old +Ramponeau’s house was called; but the fame of his tavern was built +upon the rock of a royal patronage, and rare was the day when some +masquerader from the palace did not drive to that place of arbours and +of shade in quest of adventure which should oil his tongue at Trianon. +Thither, too, went the butter girls from the Quai de Gesvres, ready +with their pretty patois to answer the dragoons of the guard--thither, +as rumour said, Madame herself had gone under the escort of the Duc de +Richelieu. Bourgeois or aristocrat, priest or clerk, student or +philosopher, trooper or captain,--it mattered not in the gardens of +Ramponeau. He had the same welcome for all--the same witty greeting, +the same civility. And he knew more of the secrets of Paris than the +Canons of Notre Dame themselves. “Oh, ce bon Ramponeau, comme il est +drôle,” said the women. The men spoke of his wines. There were no +better in Paris. To drink them you could suffer even the music of +Ramponeau’s fiddler and the dust of the drive to the Porcherons. + +The Feast of the Precious Blood was a day of sun and heat; but a cool +breeze came up with the evening, and many masqueraders gathered at the +hour of eight o’clock in the shady avenues of the _Tambour Royal_. +Ramponeau, whose long neck twisted unrestingly in his greetings to +this great man or to that, was hoarse with proclaiming the merits of +his wine of Burgundy and of his Armagnac. The weary fiddler in the +great tent beat his instrument savagely, as though angry with it and +the world which compelled him. The jaded dancers had abandoned the +more stately steps of the Basque for the fever of the Poitou jig. +Everywhere in the cool of the gardens the lovers walked--here a wit of +Trianon impatient at the slow understanding of a Corydon; there a +dragoon, who told himself that the masked unknown who clung timorously +to his arm must certainly be a duchess. Uniforms, gorgeous in gold and +lace, were to be observed through a tracery of boughs and leaves still +green--the scarlet of the gendarmerie, the blue of the Corsican +legion, the towering brass helmets of Condé’s men. Even cassocked +priests took pleasure with circumspection, and drank the wines of +Italy served from dainty flasks. So great was the press of aristocrat +and of citizen that a table apart was a possession of great price. One +man alone in all the throng commanded such a privilege and was not +denied. He was Bourgorieau, the king’s swordsman. + +A man of small stature, slightly pock-marked yet pleasant of +countenance, with a beard trimmed in the Spanish fashion, and a suit +of violet cloth to cover a frame of iron,--such was Bourgorieau, the +swordsman. Many turned to look at him when they passed, but none so +long as to draw upon himself the gaze of one who was the master even +of the masters of his art. At any other time, perhaps, in the garden +of the Tuileries or the theatre of the palace, it had been possible to +exchange a greeting with this man of Nantes, whose sword had cut for +him such a broad road to fame. But at the _Tambour Royal_, such a +thing was not to be thought of. Even Ramponeau would cease to twist +his long neck, and to speak of Armagnac when he approached the arbour +of wild roses before the doors of which the _maître d’armes_ sat. +Swaggering troopers ceased to swagger when they beheld the pock-marked +face and the suit of violet. Even a dancing girl had not the temerity +to thrust out her tambourine for the sous of Bourgorieau. He sat +alone, silent, asking friendship of none nor seeking it. + +It was seven o’clock when Bourgorieau entered the tavern of old +Ramponeau; it was half past eight before he remembered that Javotte, +his daughter, would be waiting for him in the little house upon the +island of St. Louis. She would have supper prepared against his +coming. He was not one who cared very much for the hospitality of +taverns; nor would he have gone to the _Tambour Royal_ at all had not +the vanity of his art compelled him. While men said that he was a +sullen rogue who sat apart because of the grim shadows upon his life, +he, in turn, was telling himself that it was good to observe the fear +of his fellows and to assert, wherever it might be, that title of +mastership which his sword had won for him so readily in Paris. For +the poltroons who passed swiftly by his table he felt nothing but +contempt; but the contempt was a thought of gain; and he reminded +himself often that it would be a bad day for him when men ceased to +remark his coming or to give him the chief seats in the _guinguette_. +For the rest, the tipsy masquerader, the hollow wit, the glitter of +colour and the music of fiddlers, he cared not at all. His life lay in +his house, in the love of child and home. His arm had quivered many a +time when he stood to the encounter and told himself that he might +never see Javotte again. Yet the world said he did not know fear. He +laughed at the world and kept his secret. + +The tavern clock chimed the hour; the throng was increasing in the +grove when the king’s swordsman drained his glass of Chianti and began +to feel in his pocket for a crown wherewith to pay the score of old +Ramponeau. He was upon the point of rising from the table when an +exclamation uttered by one who passed by caused him to look up quickly +and to discover that he was no longer alone in the arbour. A young +man, shabbily dressed in a suit of brown cloth and carrying a +traveller’s bundle upon his shoulder, had left the ranks of the +masqueraders to trespass upon that forbidden ground which all Paris +had conceded to the Kingdom of Bourgorieau. So quick had the action +been, so little expected, that none put out a hand to touch the youth +upon the shoulder or to tell him whither he went. Seeming to know +nothing of the place or the people, the stranger advanced boldly to +the sacred table, upon which he cast his bundle with the air of one +very much fatigued. Then he fell rather than sat in the chair which +awaited any person fortunate enough to enjoy the hospitality of the +_maître d’armes_. The half-suppressed exclamation of anger which the +swordsman uttered was lost upon him. He saw nothing of the gaping +amazement of those who stood in the shadow of the trees; he did not +hear the words of sympathy and surprise which the women uttered. + +“_Oh, c’est ben_,” he exclaimed, as he sat, and his idiom was that of +Eastern France. “I have walked far, monsieur, and there is dust upon +the road to Strasbourg. You will let me sit a little while at your +table and drink a cup of wine with you?” + +Bourgorieau looked upon the lad as upon some curiosity fallen from the +heavens at his feet. His first thought had been to call for a cudgel +and to thrash the impertinent fellow soundly; but the music of the +young man’s voice, his soft, pleasing, almost girlish face, his +tremendous ignorance, stayed the other’s hand. He glanced quickly to +that place between the trees where the carousal was at its height, and +saw that many waited for him to act. How if he did not humour them? he +asked himself. It was a pleasing whim, this idea of suffering the +stranger at his table. And if any came to question him he would know +how to answer. + +“So you are from Strasbourg, _mon vieux_,” he said, surprised not a +little at the sound of his own voice, “and yet you come in by the +Porte St. Denis?” + +“I live by the lodge of Neuilly,” answered the youth, simply; +“to-morrow, if all goes well, I shall see my home again--but first I +have my work to do in Paris, and it is for that I am come to this +tavern. Oh, surely, sir, these are very great people, and I shall hear +from them of him whom I seek. Is not this the house of Maître +Ramponeau, whom even the queen has honoured? They said so out yonder. +‘You will find him,’ they said, and I know they speak well. To-morrow +I shall go on again--the work will be done, it must be done, for God +has willed it.” + +He laid his head upon his arms wearily, as though all the light and +music of the house could not keep sleep from his eyes. Bourgorieau +knew not what chord of sympathy was struck at the note of the young +man’s voice, but somehow he began to think of Javotte waiting for him +at home. He said that they would make a pretty pair--this curly headed +lad of Strasbourg who talked so blithely of having work to do and the +little maid of his own house who alone in all Paris could find love +for him. He was half a mind to bid the stranger follow him to the +island of St. Louis and there to share his supper; but first he asked +a question, and the answer to it was a word to set him laughing as he +had not laughed since he left the _salle d’armes_ of old Andrea at +Nantes. + +“You say, lad, that you are looking for some one in Paris? Who is he +that his business should bring him to this tavern?” + +“I seek Bourgorieau, he whom they call the king’s swordsman. You know +him, monsieur?” + +Bourgorieau leaned back in his chair and stared, open-mouthed, at the +speaker. + +“If I know him--what then?” + +“Be so good as to tell me where I may find the man who murdered my +father.” + +Bourgorieau laughed so loudly that many came out of the grove to +listen. “It is his son who has returned,” said some; others, that he +had drunk overmuch Burgundy. But the stranger neither laughed with the +_maître d’armes_ nor observed those who watched him so curiously. + +“I am Lucien,” he continued, “the son of Georges Duroc, who was killed +in this tavern eight years ago, monsieur. I was a boy then, but to-day +I am a man. I come to Paris to do the work appointed to me. Laugh as +you please, I know well that God sends me here, and that my journey +will not be in vain. To-morrow Bourgorieau will be dead and I shall be +in my mother’s house again.” + +He spoke neither loudly nor with a boaster’s voice. In his eyes there +was a light as of a spiritual force working in his mind and creating +visions for him. Bourgorieau laughed no longer. The frail and prettily +rounded arms, the white skin, the gentle face of the youth were +forgotten by him. He recalled, rather, the day when he had killed +Georges Duroc in that very garden. Some trivial excuse of insult had +served for the deed of that night. And this was the man’s son--sent, +as he said, by God to demand a reckoning. Bourgorieau tried to laugh +scornfully at all superstitions. He told himself that he could fight +this lad of Strasbourg with a bandage over his eyes. But his mouth was +parched when he sought to answer the youth; and he called to one near +him to send another flask of Chianti. + +“So you are Lucien Duroc,” he said, when he had drunk a deep draught, +“and you come here to settle with old Bourgorieau? _Ma foi!_ you have +a fine conceit, my friend.” + +Lucien sipped at the wine offered to him and began to bind his bundle +more securely. + +“Monsieur,” he replied very earnestly, “you do not understand me; I do +not know if I understand these things myself, for they are God’s +mysteries. It is true, as you say, that Maître Bourgorieau is the +first blade in Paris; we have heard even in Strasbourg of the things +he has done and the favour he has won. For myself, I have not held a +sword in my hand but two or three times in all my life. How then, you +ask, shall I bring such a one to his account? Sir, I know not what +answer I can make if it be not to tell you of all the things I have +heard and seen in the long nights of this last year at Strasbourg. Oh, +monsieur, the gate of heaven has been opened for me, and I have heard +the Divine voice commanding me that I should arise and go to Paris and +do this thing. Often in my dreams have I heard the voices bidding me +to leave the city and to delay no longer. ‘Seek and you shall find, +and the angels shall keep watch over you,’ they said always. Sir, +should I fear any man because I have listened to the message and have +come here as I am commanded? Am I not right to say that to-morrow the +justice of Heaven will fall upon him who killed my father, and that I +shall go back to my mother’s house and tell her to mourn no more for +him whom we loved, but to be glad because justice has been done? I am +young, and I know that my life is before me. I have seen gardens of +flowers in my sleep, and have walked there with those who will be with +me to my life’s end. I have stood upon the banks of a great river, and +the sweet breezes have blown upon my face, and I have heard the +message that I shall follow the river to the new country of my dreams. +Life is sweet to me, for I am young; but I shall not lose my life +because God sends me to Paris; there is none that can harm me while I +go to my duty and defend my father’s honour. Think not, monsieur, that +I boast when I say that to-morrow Bourgorieau will be dead. The king +himself could not save him now; it is written in the book of fate, and +no human hand shall blot that writing out.” + +He rose from the table at the words and took up his bundle as though +the rest were in itself the enemy of his mission. Bourgorieau, who had +sat white and silent while he spoke, now awoke as from a spell and +touched the speaker upon the arm. + +“Sit,” he said in a low voice,--“sit and tell me more of these dreams +of yours, my friend. Who knows that this meeting is not written also +in the book you name!” + +Lucien rested his bundle upon the table. Bourgorieau saw that his +hands trembled; there was in his eyes the light of the mystic +awakened, of the dreamer made strong by the fevers of dreams. + +“What will it serve me to tell you if you cannot bring me face to face +with the man I seek?” he asked. + +“Has he no love of life too?” asked Bourgorieau, upon whose forehead +heavy drops of sweat were starting. “Has he no home to which he would +return; is there none there to welcome his coming or to mourn if he +should not go back? Would you make me the servant of his murderer, +Monsieur Lucien? Nay, how shall I answer to his child--how shall I +tell her--?” + +“You shall say that you are the servant of a servant of God, monsieur. +Yet do not think that I compel you if your will is not in this matter. +The same hand which beckoned me from Strasbourg will point the way +still. I seek the aid of none--the friendship of none. I need no +courage nor skill. To-morrow my work will be done, for the voices have +promised so--to-morrow Paris will know of it. And the world will be a +better world for the death of this man, monsieur.” + +He bowed with the grace of one born to high place, and before the +other could arrest him, disappeared in the grove. For many minutes +after he had gone, Bourgorieau sat staring at the masqueraders as +though some after-thought would send the youth back to him and permit +that opportunity of defence and argument of which surprise had robbed +him. But the throng passed on, the music of the fiddlers waxed more +discordant, the laughter was shriller and more brutal; and still the +old swordsman sat alone. There were moments, in truth, when he +believed that he had dreamed of the youth’s coming and of the words he +remembered so distinctly. But this did not help him to shake off the +strange foreboding which now began to possess him. It seemed to him +that some miracle must have sent the lad to the gardens of the +_Tambour Royal_. He recalled the boyish face, the dreamy eyes, the +spiritual enthusiasm of Lucien’s quest. He remembered his confession, +that he knew nothing of the sword, and fell to uttering the names of +those great fencers who had fallen in a brawl with the untutored or +the unskilled. Minute by minute his fear magnified. How if this were, +indeed, the justice of God come to overtake him, he asked himself. +None had dared to tell him hitherto that Paris would be a better city +for his death. The words which Lucien had uttered so solemnly echoed +in his ears--“it is written in the book.” All the superstitions of the +superstitious West crowded upon his mind. He laughed aloud to think of +them, yet racked his brain the more for any omen of the past which +would explain away the mystery of the night. When he left the garden +at last, he staggered through the press blindly, caring nothing for +the muttered curses which followed him. At the gate of the tavern he +told himself that he was already a rich man, and had promised himself +some day a home in Nantes among his own people and the children of his +boyhood. + +The great clock of Notre Dame was striking eleven when Bourgorieau +crossed the moonlit Pont Mairie and beheld again the lamp set in the +latticed window of his house upon the island. Crooked and gabled and +lofty, the neighbour of the little church of Saint Louis of the Isle, +leaning against other houses which had looked down upon the Paris of +the dark ages, the tumbling building, nevertheless, was to him a +palace of palaces. Here he could forget the intrigue of court and +camp; the slights of those before whom he must cringe; the slanders of +his unnumbered enemies. Here all pomp and ceremony were forgotten; +here, it was not his to serve nor to remember the darker side of +service. At this hour of night, the city around him was hushed in the +silence of sleep. So clear was the sky that the stars seemed to have +come down very near to the earth, and to hang like golden lamps in the +grey vault of the night. The swirling river lapped rhythmically upon +the piles of the old bridge. By here and there, a belated citizen +clattered across the flags and went tipsily to his home. The guard +paced his beat with measured and echoing steps. + +Bourgorieau stood for a long while watching the light in his house. He +could see Javotte as + + [Illustration: “It is thou, Dear Father.”] + +she waited at the window; a childish figure, weary with the vigil. He +knew that the sound of his steps would animate that figure presently, +would bring laughter to the sleepy eyes. He pictured the moment when +he would hold her in his arms and read the joy of love written upon +her face; the face of the one being in Paris who was sad at his going; +who counted the hours that should bring him back again. And watching +her, he heard, as though a voice answered from the shadows, the words +of Lucien Duroc in the gardens of Ramponeau, “Arise and go.” Even as +the voices had spoken to the lad, so now they warned him. “To-morrow,” +he said, “it would be too late. Javotte would wait at the window as of +old time, but the vigil would be eternal. Never again would the joy of +her love shine in the eyes of the child; never again--” + +Bourgorieau hurried on. The guard standing in the shadow of the church +heard a child’s voice, sweet and melodious, above the murmur of the +river,-- + +“It is thou, dear father; oh, how long I have watched for thee, how +long--” + + * * * * * * * + +At ten o’clock upon the following morning, a horseman rode at a gallop +into the great courtyard of Versailles. To the many who asked him what +news, he answered only, “He is gone; the wager is won.” But to the Duc +de Richelieu who waited for him in the gardens of Trianon he told a +better story. + +“All Paris talks of nothing else,” he said. “The king must hear of it +at once. Last night at the house of Ramponeau, Mademoiselle Corinne of +the Hôtel Beautreillis wagered that she would drive Bourgorieau, the +bully, from the city before twenty hours had passed. She dressed as a +lad of Strasbourg and prated of a divine mission. This morning, the +man set out for Nantes, taking his daughter with him. He will come +here no more, Monsieur le Duc--Saint John, that I should be the first +with such news--” + +The duke stopped in his walk and gazed open-mouthed at the messenger. + +“How--Bourgorieau is gone--you say he will not come back--” + +“I say well, or if he come it will be his last visit. Paris knows now +that he is a coward, and twenty blades will be ready for him. We live +in a day of miracles, and this is one of them. But I go to the king +lest others be before me. A thousand crowns--_ma foi_, she should have +won ten thousand!” + + * * * * * * * + +Bourgorieau heard of the jest in his home at Nantes. He answered those +who told him by showing them the house he had built and the garden he +had planted. They heard Javotte singing there, yet wondered at his +indifference. + +“I care not,” he said, “for she who was sent came to me from God.” + + + + + VII. + THE DEVIL’S BOWL AND THE + STRANGE AFFAIR AT + FONTENAY + +Corinne de Montesson leant back in her coach and sighed. Paris +seemed so far off; the woods of Fontenay were so dark and gloomy that +she began to think the sun would never shine for her again. + +“Antonio,” she said, speaking to the old physician who sat opposite to +her, and asking him a question which she had asked ten times since +they were driven through the deserted street of Noisy le +Grand--“Antonio, what time is it?” + +Antonio, who was making what use he could of the passing daylight to +complete a calculation which engrossed him, put down his book and +began to observe the surrounding woods very closely. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he presently, “it is the hour of sunset on the +third day of April in the year 1764.” + +Corinne laughed when she heard this very precise statement, and +nestling her ruddy cheeks against the cushion of the coach, she fell +to watching Antonio, who dipped his pen regularly into an ink-horn +slung at his waist, and held his book close to the window that the +last rays of the sinking sun might fall upon it. When she had watched +him a little while, and, after that, had counted the trees which +flashed by as the coach rolled down the hill of Fontenay until she had +numbered three hundred, she spoke again,-- + +“Antonio, you know where we are?” + +The old physician stopped in the middle of shaping an 8 and put his +head out of the window. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said, “we are half of a league from the town of +Fontenay at the spot known as the Gorge of the Three Gibbets, +reminding us that very lately his Majesty has caused three rogues to +be hanged in this place.” + +Corinne laughed again. + +“My dear Antonio,” she said, “what a guide you would make!” + +Antonio picked up his pen. + +“My child,” said he, “unless we observe the signposts as we go, life +is likely to show us a heavy road. For my part, I forget nothing when +I am assured that it is worth remembering.” + +“You would say that of Fontenay, Antonio?” + +“Certainly, mademoiselle, I would say that of Fontenay. Strange +indeed, if I forgot the place where they robbed and killed my poor +friend the Count of Charny.” + +Corinne shuddered. She remembered that dreadful story well. The +darkening woods around her, the silence of the gloomy plantations, the +phantom-like shape of tree and bush, compelled her to realise very +forcibly in what a dangerous place she was, and how pleased she would +be to see the lights of Paris again. + +“Oh,” she said, “you are a poor comforter, Antonio--to speak of that +affair now, when Bénoît remains at Gros Bois and we ride alone.” + +Antonio closed his book with a snap, for the light no longer permitted +him to read. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said, “do you say that you ride alone when I am +with you?” + +“Not at all, my dear Antonio; I said that _we_ ride alone--and lack +any protector save the good will which some of these men bear to me. +What a poor thing is that to rely upon! I am sure that I was very +foolish to leave Bénoît behind. The sword is with thieves a better +weapon than a thief’s charity, _mon ami_. And was there ever such a +swordsman as Bénoît?” + +Antonio shrugged his shoulders. + +“All that you claim for our kinsman, that I will admit,” said he; “yet +when you would praise the sword as a weapon, mademoiselle, then you +speak as one who knows nothing of the greater mysteries. I, who am a +child with the rapier in my hand, can become the equal of thousands of +armies when I turn to those allies which exist neither in matter nor +in the schools--but here, in thought, in conception, in, if you will, +my dreams. + +“To-night you ask for your kinsman and his strong arm, yet, believe +me, my daughter, should misfortune overtake us, I, who have no weapon +but my book, no ally but my visions, will prove the better friend. Not +that I anticipate any such necessity. Another hour will see us at the +barrier; we shall pass Fontenay itself before the clock strikes again. +Take courage, then, mademoiselle, and forget that the sun no longer +shines, and that night is in the woods.” + +Corinne, who never ceased to enjoy the pompous self-assurance and the +egotistical pronouncements of old Antonio, laughed in her sleeve now, +and, having laughed, she buried her head in the cushions, and suffered +stoically the terrible lurchings and rollings of the rut-tossed coach. +After all, she said, her name was a great name amongst the robbers +about Paris, and he would be a daring fellow who would venture to stop +her carriage. She recalled again how she had won a pardon for the +notorious Coq le Roi, who had narrated the deed in a hundred taverns +since then, and had made of her, all unwillingly, a very _déesse_ +among patrons. + +Should any one now attack her, she thought that it would be sufficient +if her lacqueys mentioned her name. Nor did she rely at all upon the +mysterious boasts and promises of the old physician, who had forgotten +them already, and slept soundly with his half-open book lying +neglected at his feet. + +The coach rolled on deeper and deeper into the hollow of the night. By +here and there the trees were so thick that the lantern which a +lacquey had kindled scarce saved them from the ditch. At other times +you could see a little way into the clearings of the thickets, or espy +dark and noxious pools suggesting solitude and terrible deeds and the +gloomy mystery of woodland life. + +Corinne needed all her courage to banish the thoughts suggested by the +scenes, but she had a mind powerful in obedience, and when her first +alarms had passed, she compelled herself to think of the gaiety and +life of Paris, and of all she would do during her long summer there. +Indeed, she had made some very pretty plans for herself, and was in +fancy dancing a minuet with the king, when a loud report of a musket, +followed by a great clamour of question and answer and the sudden +stopping of the coach, awoke her from her dream; and all her little +castles came tumbling on the ground. + +“Antonio, Antonio!” she cried, “do you not hear it?--they have stopped +the coach, Antonio--make haste to tell them who I am. Oh, if I had not +left Bénoît at Gros Bois!” + +Antonio, who woke with a start, stopped a moment to pick up his book; +then he put his head out of the window, but drew it back upon the +instant. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “there are three men, and they are tying your +lacqueys to the trees.” + +Corinne, ashamed of her first alarms, attempted to laugh, but the +laugh had a quaver of fear in it. + +“My dear Antonio,” she exclaimed, “pray make haste to tell the +gentlemen whose coach it is.” + +Antonio, thus commanded, put his head out of the window for the second +time, and began to address the robbers. + +“Sirs,” said he, “I beg a word with you. This is the coach of +Mademoiselle Corinne de Montesson, whose name, I make sure, is very +well known to you.” + +To the physician’s surprise the three men made him no answer at all, +but continued quietly to bind the hands of the lacqueys and then to +tie them to the nearest trees. When they had done their work, the +tallest of the three, who was dressed in black and silver and wore a +mask upon his face, came up to the door of the coach and opened it. At +the same time he doffed his cap and bowed with the dignity of a +courtier. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he, addressing Corinne, “a thousand pardons for +the liberty we have taken. Be assured that I know your name well and +that it is held in great reverence here. But I have laid a wager of a +thousand crowns that you shall sup with me to-night at the house of +the Silver Birch, and that I shall kiss you on both cheeks afterwards. +Accord me, I beg of you, a favour so trifling, and earn the lasting +gratitude of Claude Brissac.” + +He stood up, a fine figure even in the sombre flare of the two torches +which his companions had kindled, and now held aloft that Corinne +might see to alight. Very bright eyes shone humorously beneath the +velvet mask; diamonds sparkled upon the ample ruffles of lace at his +wrist and throat. + +Corinne had heard his name often. It was that of one of the most +gallant and successful highwaymen upon the eastern roads to Paris. “La +Force” they called him, for his unquenchable energy and his unfailing +boldness. Corinne knew that such a man would allow nothing to turn him +from his purpose, and she trembled a little when she answered him. + +“Monsieur,” she said in her own pretty way, “I cannot think that you +would compel me against my will. I would eat of your supper very +gladly, did you choose other opportunity to invite me. But I must be +in Paris to-night, and I rely upon you to hasten my journey thither. +Indeed, I am sure that you will do so.” + +“Saint Denis!” replied the man, “and gladly would I help you. Yet, +mademoiselle, if you will but reflect a little, you will see how +reasonable is my request. It must be plain to you, since your lacqueys +are now keeping company with yonder trees, while your coachman is +shedding tears in the ditch, that you cannot arrive in Paris before +dawn at any rate. What more pleasant occupation, then, than a little +supper--where, be assured, the homage due to so great a name shall be +fully paid. Let this old man hasten to get out of the coach, that I +may have the pleasure of feeling your pretty hand upon my arm.” + +He held his plumed hat still in his hand, and his manner was in all +things the manner of Trianon. Corinne did not fail to see that no +words of hers would turn him from his purpose; but old Antonio was by +no means so willing to surrender readily. + +“Sir,” cried he, “you are a very impertinent fellow; if you do not +have a care, all Paris will come presently to see you hang at your own +door.” + +“Saint John!” said the robber, grimly, “if that day come, old man, +surely I will ask for the halter which thou hast worn. Get down, lest +I hasten thy steps with my boot.” + +Then, turning to Corinne, he continued:-- + +“Mademoiselle, our supper is getting cold while we wait. Bid this old +man be silent, I implore you, lest injury befall him. You have heard +of me, I doubt not, and will know how little I am disposed to take +‘no’ for my answer when I have set my mind upon a ‘yes.’ ‘La Force,’ +they call me, mademoiselle, as I shall call you my friend presently.” + +He bowed again, and seeing that Antonio still hesitated, he put his +hand roughly upon the physician’s collar and dragged him from the +coach. Corinne, on her part, convinced that further resistance was +useless, stepped lightly from the carriage and took the robber’s arm. + +“Monsieur,” she said, “I am trusting to you as to one of my own +kinsmen. But I warn you that you will find me a dangerous guest.” + +The robber laughed. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “my own daughter shall not win greater +respect. You have but to command and I obey.” + +“In that case,” said she, “I beg you permit my lacqueys to accompany +me, and to bring the coach to your house, so that when we have supped +I can continue my journey.” + +He answered her very gallantly,-- + +“Your lacqueys are even now following us--and look, your coachman is +again upon his box. If they no longer carry pistols, mademoiselle, it +is that they may not shoot themselves. Take my word for it, they will +never shoot any one else.” + +He laughed gaily, and gave the pretty white arm which rested upon his +own the suspicion of a squeeze. Had Corinne been certain that the +adventure would have begun and ended with the supper at the house of +the Silver Birch, her alarm would have been less. As it was, she had a +great dread of her company and of the very dark wood which the +highwayman now entered. + +As for old Antonio, he stumbled along behind her, muttering to himself +like a man demented. But he still carried his book, his pen, and his +ink-horn; and now and then, had there been light whereby to observe +it, a meaning smile might have been seen playing upon his usually +placid face. The lacqueys, on the other hand, were in the last stages +of fear; and while the coachman cried out that his coach would surely +be found in the ditch, the others behind clung to their straps +desperately and rolled against each other as men drunk with wine. It +was five minutes before this strange cavalcade reached the house of +the Silver Birch. + +The robber’s house lay snug in the thicket as a nest in the hedge. +Save for a small clearing near the door, where a stagnant pool gleamed +as with the face of a blackened mirror, the copse put walls of bramble +and of bracken about the simple chalet, and so sheltered it that only +the eyes of a woodlander might detect a habitation in the vicinity. + +Nor did there seem to be any one to guard a retreat so remarkable. Not +a light shone from the windows when the guests arrived; not a dog +barked or a sound made itself heard. Corinne, who was shivering with +the rasping air of the night and the noxious and humid miasma of the +swamp, began at last to be seriously alarmed. Her coach, perforce, had +been left in the more open glade a hundred yards from the robber’s +home. + +“La Force” was accompanied now by one only of the torch-bearers. He +had left the other heavily armed to watch the terrified lacqueys. Old +Antonio in his turn had become green with anger and cold and +impatience. He mumbled no longer, even to himself. The highwayman +alone remained self-possessed and talkative; indeed, he assumed a more +plausible politeness with every step he took. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said, producing a great key from his pocket, and +bidding his fellow hold the flambeau nearer to the door, “why do you +tremble? Am I not here to protect you? In half an hour you shall have +eaten a good supper, and be on your way to Paris again. Judge me not +harshly since my honour is at stake.” + +Corinne stamped her foot. + +“Your honour, monsieur!” she cried; “if that be at stake, then surely +the wager is trifling.” + +“Saint John! madame, it is no trifle, since my honour intrusts to me +so precious a charge.” + +He spoke with exceeding deference, and stood bareheaded, despite the +raw cold of the night, while he threw open the door for her to enter, +and bade the torch-bearer hold up the light. None the less did Corinne +continue to tremble when she passed into the house and found herself +at once in the chief room of it. She asked only that the adventure +might draw quickly to its end, for she felt very helpless, and thought +how different it would have been had Bénoît accompanied her from +Gros Bois. As for her old physician, who had been so ready with his +boasts and his talk of mysteries, she could have laughed aloud at his +undisguised distress. The shadow of death seemed already upon him. He +started at every sound. + +The robber entered the house, and, quickly divesting himself of his +heavy cloak and his mask, he lighted candles in a heavy silver +candelabrum. Directly the pale yellow light flooded the room, Corinne +uttered a little word of surprise, for she had never thought that so +poor a house could afford such a feast to the eye as this room now +presented. Though the chalet itself was rough hewn of wood from the +surrounding thickets, its internal ornament was worthy of the Louvre. +Rare tapestries hid bare walls; dainty cabinets filled with fine +china, chairs and tables reflecting the delicate taste of the period, +a fine copy of the Apollo and Marsyas of Raphael, a genuine sketch by +Jean de Paris, another by Rigaud, added to the wealth of its +decoration. + +Corinne felt her feet sinking into soft white skins the moment she +passed the door of the house. A blazing fire of fagots spangled with +golden stars the polished wood of the ingle-nook. The table itself was +almost hidden by bouquets of spring flowers and early fruits. The +whole place was redolent with the air of dishes steaming, and of good +things made ready. + +“Come,” said “La Force,” when he had indicated the seat of honour, and +had placed Corinne therein, “you will forgive me that I have no +lacqueys as you have, mademoiselle. I am a lover of solitude, and my +secrets are not well worn in company. But you will find my supper none +the less excellent, believe me. As for our friend here, let there be +no hot blood between us. I have not forgotten the service he did to +Coq le Roi. Saint John! it is I who should fear with such a wizard for +my guest.” + +The bloodless eyes of the old physician twinkled when the compliment +was paid. He, for the first time, appeared to forget the pass to which +things had come, and to observe the supper now being served by the +comrade of their host. When at length he sat down, a smile of +satisfaction played upon his face, and he hastened to admit so much to +the robber. + +“Monsieur,” said he, “it is to my mistress that your friend Coq le Roi +owes thanks. My own share in that business is not worthy of mention.” + +“_Ciel!_” cried the robber, helping Corinne to a goblet of Chianti, +“you are modest, Monsieur le Médecin; did you not, as the story goes, +tell the lieutenant of police everything that Coq le Roi was about to +do during the next four-and-twenty hours? Holy Mother of God! I would +have given a hundred crowns had I been there to hear the jest.” + +Antonio looked up from his plate. + +“My friend,” said he, “it was a jest, I grant; yet had it been my +intention, I could have told the future of Coq le Roi not for one day, +but for a year.” + +“La Force” roared with laughter; the wine had warmed him, and his +wager was nearly won. + +“Name of the devil,” cried he, “you are a true magician, old man; have +a care lest you provoke me to ask a like experiment.” + +“Indeed,” intervened Corinne, who had exchanged a quick glance with +the doctor, “you do Antonio an injustice. A very little provocation, +Monsieur Brissac, will induce him to grant your request. He has been +absorbed in some calculation ever since we left Gros Bois.” + +“La Force” drained a goblet to the dregs. + +“Saint Denis!” said he, “we will put him to the proof upon the spot. +Did not Coq le Roi tell me that he drew little lines upon a piece of +paper? Very well, then, your physician has paper, mademoiselle, and I +see an ink-horn at his waist. Let him tell me what I shall be doing +this time to-morrow night. If he can do that, I will conduct you to +your coach before the clock strikes again.” + +Corinne looked at Antonio inquiringly, but the doctor shook his head. + +“It is true,” said he, “that I told Coq le Roi’s fate, and traced the +orbit of his day; but that, I would ask you to remember, was a jest. +To-night we leave the jester’s mask behind us, and neither pen nor +paper will serve our purpose. Command, I pray you, monsieur, that your +servant bring me yon silver bowl full to the brim with boiling water.” + +“Pah!” exclaimed the robber, “you think that I am a child!” + +“I think nothing, monsieur. I wait to act. But if you do not choose--” + +“La Force” shrugged his shoulders; the wine had quickened his more +brutal instincts. + +“Oh,” replied he, “as for that--I choose; but I tell you plainly, _mon +ami_, if this be another of your jests, you shall drain the bowl to +the dregs.” + +Had the robber been sober enough to detect it, he would have observed +that old Antonio’s eyes were lighted for a moment by a look which +boded no good to him. But he was too busy with the flagons of wine, +and the excellent supper his fellow rogue had cooked, to observe it, +and the look passed upon the instant, to leave the physician unmoved +and apparently unconcerned. Even a close observer would not have +foretold anything of the comedy then about to be played in the house +of the Silver Birch. + +None the less, Corinne foretold it. A subtle instinct warned her from +the first that her old friend had not forgotten altogether his boasts +in the coach. She knew not what plan he had contrived, nor what weapon +he sought; but she began to take heart, hoping that she might, after +all, be revenged on this insolent fellow who had subjected her to such +an insult. In truth, her pride was sore hurt; and although she hid her +feelings very prettily, nevertheless she told herself that the +highwayman known as “La Force” should find her, as she had declared, a +dangerous guest. + +All this passed through her mind when the lesser rogue, who aped the +rôle of lacquey, brought the silver bowl from the kitchen, and the +steam from the boiling water began to moisten the air of the +supper-room. Antonio had now tucked up the sleeves of his heavy gown, +and was prepared, apparently, to fulfil his promise to the ultimate +letter. + +“Monsieur Brissac, you have asked me to tell you upon what employment +you will be engaged at this hour to-morrow night. When the steam from +that bowl shall have cleared away, I will ask you to look at the +surface of the water, and to read your own fate therein.” + +The robber laughed scornfully. + +“At your pleasure, friend,” said he, “though if you fail me, I warrant +you I will keep my word.” + +Antonio bowed, but said nothing. Corinne felt her heart beating +quickly, while the blood surged up into her head and made her dizzy. +She began to fear that Antonio was embarked upon some very dangerous +enterprise, in which failure might leave her alone with this ruffian +who had stopped her coach. She was tempted almost to beg her friend to +desist, but he refused steadfastly to exchange a glance with her, and +she, by a great effort of will, held her peace. + +A minute passed, perhaps, before the steam floated away from the +circle of the bowl. When it was quite clear Antonio rose from his +chair and began to peer into the water very diligently. + +“Monsieur,” said he, with great dignity, “come near and tell me if the +water of life has any message for you.” + +The robber bent over the bowl, and examined its contents very +narrowly. “Bah!” he answered, “you mock me; there is nothing there.” + +Antonio looked again. + +“My son,” said he, speaking now with the air of a doctor, “fate is not +the child of man, that he shall say to her, do this, and she will do +it. Seek rather to approach these mysteries with awe, for they are +mysteries to which God alone holds the key. Let there be obedience in +your heart and humility in your mind, since the hour of your death is +about to be made known to you.” + +“Monsieur,” said he, “for the third time, I tell you, beware how you +jest with me.” + +In spite of his braggadocio, “La Force” trembled. His hand shook a +little when he bent over the table; the colour rushed from his face +and his lips were bloodless. + +“Speak not of jests, I say,” cried the old physician, +solemnly,--“speak not of jests, for the book of God is about to be +opened before your eyes. Nay, my son, let there be a prayer upon your +lips, and the fear of God in your mind. Behold, the picture shapes +itself.” + +Swiftly and deftly he took a phial from his pocket and cast the +contents upon the face of the water. The robber, wound up to a +surpassing dread and curiosity, bent over the bowl until his eyes +almost touched the water. At the same moment the white powder from the +phial began to mix with the liquid and to set up a great +effervescence, with a noxious odour which filled the whole room: a +seething vapour, which hurt the lungs of those who breathed it. “La +Force,” who all unwillingly inhaled the vapour as he bent over the +water, uttered a loud cry and made to draw back from the table; but +old Antonio had gripped him by the neck now, and was strong with the +strength of ten men. + +“Behold, my son, behold, and read the book of life,” he cried, with a +ferocity which was almost devilish, while he forced the robber’s head +down until his brow touched the silver rim. “Did I not tell you that +the hour of your death was written there?--look well then, for the +hour is come.” + +During a terrible instant, the struggle was a doubtful one. The bowl +rocked and spilt the water upon the table; glasses fell and were +crunched under the elbows of the men; the robber, about whose throat +the bony fingers of the physician were twined, fought like a wild +beast. For the first fumes of the drug had robbed him of breath, +almost of sense; his lungs were scorched as by burning needles; his +eyes were blinded and smarting; it seemed as though a hand of iron had +been put upon his heart to still it. + +Presently sense began to leave him; and after a moment of suffering, +when he thought that he was sinking down, down into a vast abyss of +darkness, the idea began to recur in his mind that he was lapping the +water of the bowl; and this quickened and quickened, as ideas will in +the brains of those who are on the point of losing sensibility, until +he sank as one dead upon the floor, and silence fell upon the room +again. + +Silence fell upon the room, but half of a minute was not marked on the +clock before it was broken. The robber’s comrade, awakened to +curiosity by the hush of voices, appeared suddenly at the door of the +supper-room, and stood half choked by the vapours. Corinne herself was +upon the point of fainting, when the old physician unbarred the +shutters of the little window, and let the night breeze come blowing +in like a gift of life. + +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “stand here at the window, and your faintness +will pass; I am going to deal with this fellow as I have dealt with +his master.” + +The second of the robbers gave a great cry, for he saw the body of “La +Force” huddled upon the floor, and did not neglect to observe the +broken glasses and the disordered table. + +“Holy God!” exclaimed he, “‘La Force’ is dead.” + +“As you say, my friend,” answered Antonio, “‘La Force’ is dead. Let me +conjure you to leave this house quickly, lest my art strike you as it +has struck him.” + +The man answered him by levelling a pistol at his head; but, when he +pulled the trigger, the powder did not even flash in the pan. + +“You see,” continued Antonio, “that pistol is my servant also. Begone, +then, lest you lie there with your master.” + +He pointed impatiently to the door, whereto the man slunk in awe, +muttering “‘La Force’ is dead.” They heard him a moment later +galloping wildly through the woods with the same cry upon his lips. + +“Mademoiselle,” said Antonio, very quietly, “it is fortunate that I +took the opportunity to spill my wine upon the pan of yon fellow’s +pistol while we sat at supper, or assuredly he would have blown my +brains out. Now, if it be agreeable to you, we will bind up this rogue +in his own table-cloth and carry him to Paris with us as a souvenir of +this evening.” + +“To Paris!” cried Corinne, in amazement, “and what shall we do with +him in Paris, my dear Antonio?” + +“We shall punish him for his audacity in stopping the coach of Corinne +de Montesson. Did I not tell you that my mysteries were more powerful +than the sword of your kinsman, Bénoît? Have patience a little while +and you shall doubt my word no more.” + +Corinne could not repress a word of fear. + +“You carry your jest far--it seems to me that the man is dead.” + +“Indeed, there is very little the matter with him, mademoiselle--so +little that I fear to hear him tell us so if we delay. Run back to the +coach, then, and bid one of the men attend me. If the third knave +should desire to know what we have done to his master, ask him to come +to the house and I will show him.” + +She did not answer him, but, drawing her cloak about her, ran off +swiftly through the thicket. + + [Illustration: The Man answered him by levelling a Pistol.] + +When the lacqueys and the third of the robbers arrived at the chalet +presently, they found “La Force” already bound hand and foot with the +white cloth from his own table. + +Indeed, a physician alone could have told that he lived; and when the +remaining highwayman saw the body he reeled back as though a pistol +had been fired in his face. + +“Rascal!” cried Antonio, taking advantage of the situation to grip him +by the throat and to clap a pistol to his head--one of the pistols he +had snatched from the belt of “La Force”--“rascal! I have killed your +master as you see, and am taking his body back to Paris as a warning +to those who do not respect the name of my mistress. Choose, then, +whether you will throw down your arms and have your liberty, or be +taken to Paris to die upon the gibbet.” + +The man writhed and gasped under the powerful hand--but +impotently--for the lacqueys had taken heart now and had made haste to +seize him by the arms. When he spoke, it was to beseech the old +physician to give him his liberty. + +“By the God above me, we have trapped the devil this night!” said he; +“show me but the back of a horse and you shall see my face no more, +monsieur.” + +Two minutes later, he also was galloping through the woods, crying +like one demented, “‘La Force’ is dead.” But the body of his master +lay secure upon the top of Corinne’s coach, where, rolling and jolting +like a log, it rested until the barrier was passed and the horses were +driven through the gateway of the Hôtel Beautreillis. Dark as the +night proved, many stopped in the narrow streets of the great city to +point the finger at a burden so curious; many cried, “They carry a +dead man,--what a thing to see!” But others only crossed themselves +and lifted their hats. “She jests with the dead,” they said, and +hurried on, afraid. + + +It was one o’clock in the morning when “La Force,” who had been +conscious of a restless and troubled sleep, and of strange happenings +in his dreams, wholly recovered his senses and sat up in the bed upon +which unknown hands had laid him. He thought at the instant of waking +that he had slept out in the woods by Gros Bois again; but when he +rubbed his eyes and looked well around him, some of the events of the +night began to shape themselves again in his brain, and to be acted +anew, until he remembered all things--even to the silver bowl and the +horrible draught of vapour he had drunk therefrom. + +“_Mort Dieu!_” said he, springing from his bed angrily, “it was the +devil’s bowl I drank from--a curse upon them! And now--and now--?” + +He began to examine the room with questioning eyes, but his curiosity +was soon satisfied. It was a small apartment with walls of stone, in +shape, a horseshoe; having for furniture a stool and a table, in +addition to the plain wooden bed whereupon he had slept. Its only +ornament was a crucifix hung high upon the crown of the apse. + +“La Force” saw that the door was sheathed with iron and monstrous +thick, like the door of a dungeon. A little window, heavily barred, +permitted him, when he stood upon the tips of his toes, to see the +world without. At the moment, however, such a privilege was worth +little, for the night was moonless, and his keen eyes could detect +nothing beyond a great black shape, which had no meaning to him. None +the less did he begin to be haunted by the thought that he was in a +prison; and when he had reflected a little while, he said it would be +the prison of the Conciergerie. + +This thought was slow to be accepted, slow to force itself upon his +mind. He found himself at first laughing at the idea as a folly; but +he could pause in his laughter to feel the damp sweat upon his brow +and to sink upon the bed shivering with fear. Well he knew that, if +his surmise were true, he might ask nothing more of life. They would +send him to the galleys--possibly to death. He remembered the dashing +life of the road, the women he had kissed, the gay company he had +enjoyed, the debauches which had been kept in the house of the Silver +Birch; and these pleasant memories helped him to stave off the +dreadful omens of the cell. “God!” he said, “it cannot be that I shall +never see the woods again!” + +It needed a great effort to banish a sense of peril such as this; but +he refused to hear the damning voices which haunted him; and anon, he +got into bed again and tried to sleep. He was very weak after the +trial of the night; and when he lay down and pulled the heavy covering +over his head to shut out the light of the lantern which illumined the +apartment, he found that he was hot as one in a fever, and that there +was a new pain in his lungs which forbade him to rest. + +Do what he would, recall as he might the most pleasant scenes of his +past, a phantom figure ever at his side seemed to whisper, “You are +come to the judgment.” For a while he battled bravely with the +spectre, but when a clock without struck two, he was able to endure +the vision no longer, and he sprang from his bed in an agony of fear +and of foreboding. + +“Jesus!” he said, “it is my dream; that which I see is a thing of +sleep. The sun will shine in my eyes presently, and I shall behold the +forest again. My horse will come to me, and we will--” + +A shadow falling across the floor cut short his pleasant promises. It +was a dreadful shadow, magnified by the lantern’s feeble light until +it represented nothing human, being a horrid shape, eyeless, with +masked face, and a head upon which a cap like a fool’s cap was placed. +“La Force” staggered against the bed when he beheld it, and covered +his eyes with his hand. + +“Mother of God!” he sobbed, “what do I see?” + +“Monsieur,” was the answer, in a low and gentle voice, “fear nothing +from me. I come to warn you.” + +“La Force” turned his head and looked. A figure dressed in the rough +black robe of a monk, but having the head and face covered with a +pointed black hood, like the hood of the Misereri in Rome, stood +motionless at his side. For a moment the highwayman succumbed to an +overwhelming panic. He shrieked aloud at the terrible aspect of the +phantom, believing that the devil stood with him in the cell. + +“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he wailed, “tell me what this means.” + +“My son,” said the monk, “it means that you have stopped the coach of +Mademoiselle de Montesson; for which crime you now find yourself a +prisoner in her house, where--” + +He paused, as though he did not wish to finish the sentence; but the +robber, being assured now that the apparition was no ghostly one, +could not suppress his curiosity. + +“Yes--yes,” he asked eagerly, “where--?” + +“Where you are to die at dawn,” said the monk. + +“La Force” wiped the sweat from his brow and laughed like an +hysterical woman. + +“Bah,” he said, “she will not kill me.” + +“My son,” said the monk, very earnestly, “she will think no more of +killing you than of crushing an insect in her path. Do you hear those +blows? They are the blows of the axes which hew a scaffold for you. If +you doubt me, look from yon window and you shall see--” + +“La Force” ran to the window, and standing upon the tips of his toes +looked into the court. Where darkness had prevailed ten minutes +before, light--the light of fifty torches--now mastered the night. The +highwayman saw that these torches were held by men gowned as his +mysterious visitor, all in deep black, with hoods covering their +faces, and holes for their eyes, which gave them an ogreish aspect +terrible to behold. + +But that which interested him more than all was the great structure +they were helping to build--a structure of wood heavily draped in +black. Very familiar to him was that warning shape--the great +cross-beam, the heavy side supports, the platform for the victim. He +could even see a coil of rope curled like a snake upon the black +carpet. + +“Jesus!” he said, dropping upon his feet again, “they build a +scaffold.” + +“Exactly,” said the monk, “and at dawn they will have finished their +work.” + +“La Force” felt his heart beating quickly, but he nerved himself to +look out of the window again. + +“Holy God, have pity upon me; I see a coffin!” he exclaimed, reeling +back from the casement and falling, terror-struck, upon the bed. “Oh, +monsieur, of your charity beseech a little mercy for me. I cannot +die--I have sin upon my soul.” + +The monk watched his agony unmoved. + +“My son,” said he, “of that which we sow assuredly we must reap. +Forget not that your harvest is death. At dawn you will garner the +fruit you have fostered so well. Remember that the sun will shine down +to-morrow, not upon your eyes glad to behold the day again, but upon +the earth which lies heavy upon a spiritless body. Think of that, and +be warned, for here mercy is unknown.” + +“La Force” answered him with a great oath and a threat, lifting his +clenched hand to strike the speaker; but the monk seized the upraised +arm by the wrist and threw the robber to the ground with such force +that he lay there many minutes stunned and bruised. When he looked up +again the monk had left the cell. + +He heard a clock strike three at this time; but the sound of hammering +still continued in the court without, and although he dared not to +look again, he made sure that the scaffold must be now near its +completion. + +Had it been given him to die upon the high-road in some affair where +swords clashed and pistols made merry music, he would have shown a +bold face enough; but to be killed like a rat in a trap, to swing like +a common thief, simply because he had compelled a woman to sup with +him against her will, was a punishment not to be borne. + +There were moments when he raved like a madman, beating with his fists +against the cold stone wall, or casting himself in rabid fits of fury +at the iron-sheathed door. At other moments he lay upon his bed in a +stupor, scarcely seeming to breathe, trying in his mind to imagine +that the end was passed, and that he lay in his coffin, still and +voiceless, beneath a heavy weight of earth. When at length a glimmer +of day struck the dark court without, and came with timid step even +into his cell, he had no longer the mind either to fear or hope. A +dull and merciful insensibility to thought prevailed. + +It was half-past five precisely when the door of his cell was opened, +and the monk, accompanied by three others similarly habited, +re-entered the prison and bade “La Force” arise. + +“Monsieur,” said the monk, “the hour has come. Have courage, then, and +drink a cup of wine. Remember what a reputation you bear, and do not +let them speak of you as other than the brave man I know you to be.” + +“La Force” opened his eyes, for he was half asleep. + +“Christ!” said he, “I dreamed that I was in the woods again.” + +He was like a man walking in a sleep now; and he drank off the wine +they offered him, protesting that he was ready to die; but no sooner +were the words spoken, than he fell into an uncontrollable fit of +sobbing, and, throwing himself upon his knees, he craved mercy of +them. The four hooded men gave no sign that they heard him, but stood +like messengers of death, silent and unmoved. Nor did they speak when +they led him from the cell presently, and, coming out into the court, +he beheld a towering scaffold with a masked executioner upon the steps +of it, and other hooded men ready to assist in the last great act. + +“La Force” had never thought that death could wear a shape so awful. +The cold light of dawn, the silent, hooded figures, the gaunt black +scaffold, struck his heart with a deadly and overwhelming fear. He +gave one long-drawn cry of agony, and then fell fainting upon the +stone floor. + +But at the moment when he fell, a great shout of laughter went up in +the court, and one of the monks, pulling aside his hood, exclaimed: +“Haste to drive him to Gros Bois. The drug that was in the wine acts +for three hours. Let him be quite alone when he awakes.” + + +“La Force” awoke when the church bells in the village of Gros Bois +were proclaiming the Angelus. They had laid him in the heart of a +solitary thicket, wherefrom, through a bower of the trees, he could +espy a little pond shining like a silver mirror in the generous +sunshine. But he was very weak when the spell of the drug passed, and +he lay for long minutes content to feel the sweet morning air blowing +upon his face, and to gaze up at the cloudless heaven above him. + +“Holy Virgin,” he said, “can it be that I live--that I have dreamed +the things of the night! Is it I, ‘La Force,’ who speaks, or do I hear +voices in the grave? Oh, Heaven pity me, for I have suffered.” + +Slowly and with painful effort he dragged himself to the pond. A horse +whinnied in a neighbouring brake as he went, and he knew that it was +his own horse calling to him. + +“Oh,” he said, “how good it is to live--how good! Last night I died +ten deaths, but to-day--to-day--” + +He tried to collect his thoughts and to knit the story of this night +together, but confused images played with his brain, and he could +recall nothing. Once or twice the old fear came back to him. His heart +quickened when he remembered the masked men and the heavy blows of +those who had hewn out his scaffold. But this mood passed, and at +length he crawled to the pond and began to lap up the water. + +A tree shaded the place where he lay, and the water being clear and +without a ripple, he beheld his own image reflected in it; and at this +he started back from the bank, and his trembling hands clutched the +grass convulsively. + +“God!” he said, “she was right--she _is_ a dangerous guest.” + + + + + VIII. + YERUT THE DWARF + +Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze, entered the garden of the Hôtel +Beautreillis when the clocks of Paris were striking five. He was +dressed with scrupulous care, but the heavy coat of black satin with +the ample skirts, dictated by fashion in the year 1766--the heavy +coat, and the full wig which fell upon his stooping shoulders, were +allies of the summer heat. Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze, also Grand +Marshal of the palace, used his handkerchief very freely, and declared +that the weather was atrociously warm. And this was an observation not +to be contested. + +There was no one in the garden--an old garden umbrageously sweet and +alive with the vesper note of birds--when the lacquey led so +distinguished a visitor to a little bower of chestnut-trees, girt +about with roses in full bloom, and carpeted with ripe grass and the +petals of the flowers of yesterday. Here was a couch of ivory and +satin and a little table, upon which a golden flagon of wine was set, +and cups beside it, and fruit to cool the lips. Chamillart, Marquis de +la Suze, bade the lacquey tell his mistress that his business was +urgent. Then he filled a cup of wine and drank it at a draught. +Certainly, the day was atrociously hot. + +Had it been anywhere else than the Hôtel Beautreillis in the Rue St. +Paul, had the mistress of the house been any one but pretty Corinne, +with whom all Paris was properly in love, the Grand Marshal would have +swollen visibly before the eyes of that lacquey who had asked him to +cool his heels in a garden; but since it _was_ the Hôtel +Beautreillis, and Corinne _was_ unquestionably mistress of it, he +contented himself with a prodigious pinch of snuff and many impatient +shufflings of the feet, and an attempt to stoop and pick a trailing +rose; but there nature hindered him, for he was very stout,--without +doubt it was a hot day. + +Corinne de Montesson came tripping out of the house like a schoolgirl +from a convent. She was dressed in that costume known as the +_négligé apparent_--a girlish dress, suggesting shepherdesses and +Elysian fields, and masquerade at Trianon. A straw hat half concealed +the wealth of pretty silken hair which fell upon her shoulders, and +was rebelliously untrammelled about her little ears. Her arms and neck +were bare, and white as the marble of the fountains. She carried a +volume of Racine in her hand; a merry laugh rippled upon her lips. + +Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze, leaned heavily upon his gold-mounted +cane, and watched the pretty picture. + +“_Ventrebleu!_” he said to himself, “she cannot be twenty-five years +old--I do not believe it; she is eighteen, fifteen--she is an angel, +and I am going to make her cry.” + +It may have been that, among the other reflections of this wicked old +fop, there was one which told him how pleasant it would be to wipe +away the tears of Corinne de Montesson. But that he concealed when he +rose to salute her. Indeed, following the extravagant habit of the +times, he stood bowing for quite a long time; and while he did so, he +covered his heart with his three-cornered hat, as though in heart and +hat lay all the emotions which had prompted his visit. + +“_Chère_ Corinne, you have no pity, you make me wait,--me, +Chamillart--the minutes are hours--I grow old in this garden--” + +She laughed coquettishly, for the day was rare when Chamillart, +Marquis de la Suze, did not amuse her very much. + +“Oh, monsieur, it is really too hot for compliments,” she said, +sinking into a low chair placed by the side of his couch. “Am I not +grateful to any one who comes to the Hôtel Beautreillis on such a +day? Let me give you some wine, and you shall repay me with all the +news.” + +The Grand Marshal put down his hat very carefully, and then took up +that position upon the sofa whence he could look with least effort +into the pretty eyes of his hostess. + +“The news!” he said, “oh, as for that, there is no news. Madame de +Bouffleurs is not in Paris.” + +“She is at Yères, then?” + +“Nowhere else. She left yesterday with two coaches, seven lacqueys, +and a letter full of scolding from her kinsman, the Bishop of Bruges. +She has gone to keep a retreat, and the Chevalier Leduc will follow +her to-morrow. But, of course, we do not know that he is going to +Yères.” + +The Grand Marshal chuckled horribly. Corinne was amused. + +“If Madame de Bouffleurs has gone to Yères,” she cried, “we shall +have a holiday indeed. It will be Lent again, my dear marquis. There +will be no scandals, and think of it, no unhappy lovers. How will +Paris live for a week when that wicked tongue is still?” + +“Impossible, my child. As impossible as the happiness of Chamillart, +without the words of Corinne de Montesson.” + +“A compliment, a compliment! Is not that forbidden, Monsieur le +Marquis?” + +“Mademoiselle, beauty is as far above the law as the stars above the +darkness.” + +He covered his heart with his hand again, and said to himself,-- + +“It is a pity that she must cry presently.” + +But Corinne knew nothing of his thoughts. She was telling herself that +the visit of this doddering old man, whose gallant antics had amused +her so often, was a misfortune of an already troublesome day. How long +was he going to stop? Why was he at the Hôtel Beautreillis at all? + +“You come from the palace, monsieur?” she asked, when the Grand +Marshal had ceased for a moment to ogle her. + +“From the palace, mademoiselle.” + +“And of whom were they talking?” + +“Of the Count of Brives, _chère_ Corinne.” + +Corinne’s face flushed crimson. The Grand Marshal turned away his +head. + +“I would give half my riches if she would flush for me like that,” he +thought. + +“And what did they say of the Count of Brives?” asked Corinne, making +a violent effort to conceal her emotion. + +“They were very sorry for him, mademoiselle.” + +“Sorry, monsieur, for Eugène--that is, for Monsieur le Comte?” + +“Certainly, my child; but have you not heard the news?” + +“Did you not tell me there was no news?” + +“Yes; but how should I know that this would be news--to Corinne de +Montesson?” + +“Oh, for pity’s sake, tell me!” she exclaimed, rising and stamping +with a pretty gesture of impatience. “Tell me, Monsieur le Marquis, +what are they saying of Eugène Sabatier?” + +The Grand Marshal shrugged his shoulders. + +“She is going to cry,” he thought, “and I forgot to bring a second +lace handkerchief.” But Corinne persisted. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said at last, “I thought you would have known. +Madame has prevailed with the king, and the Count of Brives will be in +the Bastille to-morrow.” + +A cry escaped her lips; Corinne’s cheeks were rosy no more. She stood, +white as marble; a blow would not have hurt her more than the tidings +which the Grand Marshal carried. + +“Oh, it cannot be! it cannot be!” she cried. “Eugène--the +Bastille--oh, I will not believe it!--what crime has he +committed--whom has he wronged--is he not the king’s friend, +monsieur?” + +“Without doubt, all that is true, my child; but there are other +friends, and they are more powerful. It has been the misfortune of +Monsieur le Comte to offend one of those friends. He who puts honesty +against a pretty face fights a losing battle, Corinne. When that +pretty face has for its neighbour the ear of a king, poor honesty is +already worsted. Your friend the count is young, or he would know that +the compliments we pay a woman are the apologies for the slander we +shall put about when that woman’s back is turned. He is also very +foolish to be so many months at the palace without finding a word of +flattery for its mistress.” + +He chuckled, for he was grown old in the practice of polished +mendacities. But Corinne was thinking--her quick brain was already at +work; one idea possessed her--she must save Eugène Sabatier. + +“Tell me,” she cried with sudden impatience, “did the king wish this, +monsieur?” And then, without waiting for his answer,-- + +“Oh, I do not believe it; the king is his friend; if Eugène could +speak for himself, it would never be. They have told lies about him; +it is the work of Madame du Barry--she has hated him from the first; +it is her triumph, but it will not last--I shall prevent it, Monsieur +le Marquis, I, Corinne de Montesson--” + +Her face was crimson again, but it was with excitement. Old Chamillart +watched her with chuckling admiration. His little eyes danced; he +leered and ogled like some old man of the sea who found himself, +clothed in satin and jewels and fine lace, in some welcome garden of +delights. + +“_Ma foi_,” he cried enthusiastically, “who would not have such a +deliverer! Of course you will save him. It is for that I am come here. +You will begin work now--to-day, this instant.” + +She stared at him with a new surprise, but began to listen intently. + +“Hark to this,” continued the Grand Marshal, with new gravity, “the +Count of Brives is now at his château by the Weeping Rock of Ussy. If +he could be warned to-day, to-night--if he could be warned by one who +would tell him to ride for his life to the palace and there to see the +king without a moment’s delay, the letter which Villefort, the Captain +of the Gendarmerie, now carries to Ussy, might yet be powerless to +harm him--” + +“They have sent Villefort, then!” exclaimed Corinne. + +“He left Paris at four o’clock; he carries the king’s warrant for the +arrest of Eugène Sabatier; he will arrive at Ussy at midnight. After +that hour, _chère_ Corinne, no one in all France can save Monsieur le +Comte from the woman he has insulted, and whose hour of vengeance has +come. But you will act before then--you will be on the road before the +clock strikes again--you will find a plan. _Ma foi_, it will be a +strange day when Corinne de Montesson, the cleverest woman in Paris, +is outwitted by Villefort, the buffoon of the guard, the lumberer, the +ape! But she will not be outwitted; to-morrow I shall hear a good +story. It will be the story of the confusion of Captain Villefort--” + +But Corinne was listening to him no longer. The great silver gong at +her side already gave out its mellow note warningly; Bénoît, her +kinsman, the first swordsman in Paris, came hurrying to her side. + +“Where is Yerut?” she asked, utterly unable to suppress her +excitement. “Send Yerut to me, and then let them bring horses. We ride +to Ussy before the sun sets.” + +“Bravo! bravo!” cried the Grand Marshal, as he rose to go. “It is my +own Corinne after all; to-morrow all Paris shall laugh at the Captain +of the Guard and his twenty men--” + +“You said twenty, monsieur?” + +“No more, no less; twenty and one against the prettiest wits in Paris. +It is good to have the friendship of those pretty wits, _chère_ +Corinne--but, blood of Paul, who comes here?” + +He started, clutching his cane convulsively, for there came of a +sudden to the bower a figure so strange that nothing like to it had +been seen by any one in Paris. It was the figure of Yerut, the dwarf. +Hideous, stunted, with hair shaggy as the fur of a bear, with hands +like claws, with deep-set shining eyes, agile and quick, ready to leap +or dance--Corinne de Montesson had no more faithful servant in all her +great house than Yerut. And now she knew that the life of her lover +depended upon the sagacity and the fidelity of this poor creature. + +“Yerut,” she said, “you know Villefort, the Captain of the Guard?” + +A grunt of assent seemed to come from the heart of the dwarf. + +“He has ridden from Paris to arrest the Count of Brives. He will pass +the Weeping Rock before midnight. You must overtake him at the Inn of +Ussy and detain him there until we come. Take the swiftest Arab we +have--you understand?” + +Yerut bowed low. He vanished from the garden like an arrow from a bow. + +“To horse! to horse!” cried Corinne, clapping her hands impatiently. +“There is not an instant to lose.” + +But old Chamillart hobbled away to his coach with a heavy heart. + +“I should have postponed the day of my birth for thirty years,” he +said to himself. “Certainly, she will never cry ‘to horse’ for me.” + +And that was another observation not to be contested. + + * * * * * * * + +The great clock in the tower of the monastery of Franchard struck +eleven when Villefort, the Captain of the King’s Guard, found himself +at the foot of the Roche qui Pleure. He could hear the strange note of +that watery bell, melodious as the sound of weird music, in the +silence of the vast forest of Fontainebleau. Winter or summer, drought +or flood, the great rock would shed its silver tear musically into the +pearly shell below it. Guides listened for the splash of the water, +and went on gladly because of it; peasants worshipped before the +heavenly well, and quenched their thirst at the pure fount of +miracles. But to Villefort it was no more than the signal that his +work was almost accomplished; that when another hour had passed he +would lay his hands upon the traitor, Eugène Sabatier. + +He rode slowly, his twenty men following with heavy eyes and hard +words for a task which brought them to the forest when they should +have been in their comfortable beds in Paris. The glory of the hour +was nothing to Henri de Villefort. The enchanting light which fell +upon the mighty thickets, the moonbeams playing upon the rippling +lake, the lengthening shadows, with all their suggestion of elves and +spirits, had no enchantment for him. For Henri de Villefort was +afraid--afraid of the dark places of the wood, afraid of the silence, +afraid of the hag’s tales which his men had not failed to recite to +him during their ride from the Barrière d’Enfer. + +“Bah!” he had said, spurring his horse in anger. “Who would believe +such things, at this time of day? I shall follow the great road to +Ussy; there are twenty men with me. I care not a crown for all the +devils in the legends. Saint John be my witness, I fear no living +man.” + +The trooper addressed shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. + +“They do not live, captain,” he said gloomily. “They are the dead who +died a thousand years ago; they breathe upon you cold breath, and your +skin dries up with fever. You go mad and leave your bones for them to +lie upon. I heard it at Franchard when I was a singing boy there. God +bring us all back to Paris again, is my word.” + +Villefort swore a big oath, and rode on in silence. He did not speak +again until the music of the Weeping Rock was a melodious echo, but +thereafter he began to learn that it was no great highway which led to +the Château of Ussy. Through dreadful copse and darkened brake, by +paths overhung with trailing creeper and thorny bramble, in the gloom +of mighty oaks and spreading chestnuts,--so must this hostile +pilgrimage be made. The glory of the moonbeams, sparkling upon the +dewy grass, did but light up weirdly the tangled heart of the deeper +forest. The fireflies glowing in the woods were for him the evil eyes +of the elves he could not see. The nightingale sang warningly. It was +as though unseen enemies peopled the groves about him. He thought +every minute to feel the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. + +And this was his state of mind when a dreadful cry, like the cry of a +soul in agony, came without warning out of the thicket upon his left +hand and seemed to freeze the very blood of the twenty-one who rode to +Ussy. + +“Saints and angels, hark to that!” cried Villefort, drawing rein with +trembling hands. + +Again the cry arose--again and again. The troopers sat still as +statues in the moonlight. Villefort could hear his heart beating; the +fiend himself, he thought, was at his elbow. + +“Pish!” he said presently, though the words seemed to choke him, “it +is a wolf at supper, and that is the cry of the dish. Are we all +women, to draw rein at shadows?” + +“Not at all, Monsieur de Villefort, not at all,” answered a voice from +the thicket whence the cry came; “I will stake my life that there is +not a woman among you, or if there be, why then she wears a better +face than the Captain of the King’s Guard.” + +A deep laugh, like the boom of a merry bell, followed the words. The +guards were still listening to it when, with a great snapping of twigs +and bursting of bramble, the speaker forced his horse from the covert +and confronted Monsieur de Villefort. + +“Holy Michael, defend us from all devils this night!” groaned +Villefort, while cold sweat stood upon his brow and his quaking hand +closed nervously about the butt of his pistol. + +Yerut, the dwarf, for it was he who had raised the cry and had +answered the Captain of the Guard, was clothed from head to foot in +scarlet. Great boots, which appeared to be almost as large as the +wearer, dangled from his saddle-flaps nearly to the ground. He wore a +three-cornered cap cocked on the side of his shaggy head, and rode an +Arab horse which still champed at his bit, though spurred from Paris +to the Weeping Rock. Never did a stranger apparition confront man. + +“Amen to your prayer, Monsieur de Villefort,” cried the dwarf, +gaily,--“amen and amen. The holy saints save us from all devils, and +give us the light of their lamps to follow the road to Ussy.” + +“You go to Ussy, monsieur?” asked Villefort, taking heart a little +when he saw the diamonds glistening upon the hilt of the stranger’s +sword. At the same time he said to himself, “Here is a brother of all +the fiends.” + +The dwarf did not answer the question put so directly to him, but fell +instead into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The very woods rang +with his merriment; he reeled in his saddle until his forehead touched +the mane of his horse. + +“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed, “how you amuse me, Monsieur de +Villefort!” + +“Amuse _you_,” exclaimed Villefort, losing his temper; “who the devil +are _you_ that you should be amused?” + +“A cat may laugh at a king, monsieur, and I am the cat. Is it not good +to laugh? If it come to that, I have as good a reason to laugh as the +Captain of the King’s Guard to cry.” + +“As good a reason--?” gasped Villefort. + +“Certainly, since I go to Ussy to bury its master.” + +Villefort reined in his horse with a gesture as much of surprise as of +will. + +“To bury its master, monsieur!” he stammered, “but he is not dead. How +can you bury a man who is not dead?” + +The dwarf burst again into a merry fit of laughter. + +“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he roared, “what a dull fellow you are, Monsieur de +Villefort! It is lucky for you that we met this night.” + +“Lucky?” exclaimed Villefort. + +“As I say, lucky. For what is luck but gain, monsieur, and what is +gain but happiness, and what is happiness but laughter, and what is +laughter but wine,--which, by my faith, carries us back _ex argumento_ +to this, that wine is luck, and that Monsieur de Villefort of the +King’s Guard is a fool.” + +Villefort spluttered with rage; the dwarf touched his Arab lightly +with his spurs, and began to hum the popular ballad,--_Voilà la +taverne à la mode_. + +“Name of the devil!” said Villefort, when he had found his tongue, “I +have the mind to write my answer upon your back, _coquin_--” + +The dwarf turned in his saddle, and showed a face so horrible that the +Captain of the Guard felt his blood run cold. It was like the face of +a Barbary ape. Villefort crossed himself instinctively; he prayed to +all the saints to bring him quickly out of the cursed wood. + +“Monsieur,” snarled the dwarf, chattering horribly, “he who writes +upon the back of Yerut the singer will read his own epitaph.” + +Villefort shuddered; the twenty behind him rode with white faces and +prayers upon the bloodless lips. + +“Yerut the singer,” said the Captain of the Guard, in a very humble +voice; “you sing then, monsieur?” + +“Like Lucifer himself,” answered the dwarf; and then he fell into a +strange, weird chaunt in a voice so harsh and grating that the very +leaves of the thicket seemed to tremble-- + + + “De tous les corps de métiers, + Voilà ce fléau redoutable.” + + +“Sing!” he continued, breaking off suddenly; “have I not the charm of +Levasseur and the style of Legros? Do you not admit that, Monsieur de +Villefort?” + +“Certainly he is mad,” muttered Villefort, in a low voice, but not so +low that the dwarf did not hear him. + +“Mad,” he repeated, “ay, surely, as mad as Monsieur de Villefort, who +goes to Ussy and blows a horn to tell all that he is coming.” + +“A horn,--I blow no horn,” cried de Villefort. + +“Let us not chop words. And I will tell you this, monsieur, that if +you think to arrest the Count of Brives you are a fool for your +pains.” + +“Pah!” said Villefort, “I ride with one of his friends.” + +“With so good a friend that at dawn I shall sing a requiem for him.” + +Villefort pricked up his ears. + +“How can that be?” he asked. + +“_Ma foi_,” answered the dwarf, “it is no good asking you riddles, my +captain. A wench at a book would be quicker. Do you not see that if I +am to sing a requiem for the Count of Brives at dawn, some one must +kill him to-night?” + +“Ho, ho!” cried Villefort, “it is a duel, then?” + +“Exactly, a duel.” + +“He goes out with you, monsieur?” + +“With me?--pah, I do not kill men with swords.” + +Villefort bit his lip. His head was clearer now, and fear of the +forest possessed him no longer. They had passed from the darkness of +the wood by this time, and the lights of an inn shone through the +vista of the trees. The Captain of the Guard was perplexed. He did not +know what to make of the dwarf or of his story. + +“Come,” he said after a pause, “there will be no duel to-night; I +shall prevent it.” + +“_You!_” replied the dwarf, who did not attempt to conceal his +contempt. “_You_ will prevent it, Monsieur de Villefort!” + +“Certainly; I shall arrest the Count of Brives.” + +The dwarf roared with laughter. + +“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed; “we will kiss the sun, we will walk with +the moon, we will put the stars in our pockets.” + +Villefort ground his teeth. + +“You think that I cannot arrest him?” he snarled. + +“Think? I think nothing, monsieur; it is for the count to say. Were +there no eyes in yon wood when we rode through? Were there none to +cry, ‘Here comes the fat Villefort to arrest our master’?--none to +gallop to Ussy and give news of you? Body of Paul! if you think that +you came unheralded to the château, you have not the wits of a German +mountebank.” + +Villefort swore lustily. + +“I never thought of that,” said he. “You mean that he has been warned +of my coming?” + +“What else could I mean?” + +“Then I have ridden upon a fool’s errand.” + +“Could you ride upon any other, Monsieur de Villefort? I beg you, if +you can employ those great ears of yours, to listen to that music. It +is a horn winded in the park of the Château of Ussy. What think you +now of your journey?” + +The clarion note of a horn rang out musically in the stillness of the +night. It echoed from copse to copse, and thicket to thicket, as +though phantom horsemen hunted in the purlieus of the forest. + +“Thousands devils!” exclaimed Villefort, “I am too late.” + +“There is no doubt of that, my dear captain. And being too late, you +will do well to draw rein awhile at yonder tavern, where I shall +introduce you presently to the Count of Brives himself.” + +“The Count of Brives is coming _here_?” + +“Unquestionably he is. He will come before the clock strikes again, to +fight my master, who stands before the door there. Meanwhile let me +present you to the Chevalier Guibert.” + +They rode up to the tavern door with a great clatter of spur and +caparison. Villefort, on his part, did not know whether he stood on +his head or his heels; he was saying to himself that the Count of +Brives had escaped him after all. While he did not believe the dwarf’s +story, and was still determined to search the château, he had the +wish, nevertheless, to hear what the stranger might say, and to delay +for that purpose while the host of the _auberge_ could water the +horses of his men and bring cups of wine. The troopers, glad in their +turn to leave the darkness of the wood behind them, dismounted +joyously, and were soon swarming in the little courtyard, to the great +delight of the wenches of the inn, and the great confusion of its +master. + +There were two horsemen before the door of the _auberge_; one a big +fellow dressed in black velvet, the other possessing a figure so +fragile and so pretty, so slim and boyish, that passers-by might well +have called it the figure of a girl. A group of servants, heavily +armed and mounted on magnificent bay horses, stood apart, awaiting the +pleasures of the travellers, the younger of whom was dressed in a suit +of purple silk, and carried a sword in a scabbard frosted with +diamonds of exceeding brilliancy. It was to the latter that Yerut the +dwarf now presented Monsieur de Villefort. + +“My master, the Chevalier Guibert--the Chevalier Guibert, my servant,” +he said, with a gesture of self-importance not to be described. + +“Your servant!” roared Villefort. “Body of Paul, I have the mind to +write that upon your tongue!” + +The dwarf grinned horribly. + +“You could not spell it, Monsieur de Villefort,” said he. + +Corinne, for she it was who wore the purple dress, silenced Yerut with +a look. + +“Monsieur,” she said very sweetly, “you must forgive one who, though +young in years, is old in liberties. That will be easier to do, since +I am able to be of some service to you to-night.” + +“To be of service to me, monsieur?” + +“As I say, to be of service to you. Have you not come to Ussy to +arrest Eugène Sabatier?” + +Villefort regarded the questioner closely. + +“You know that, monsieur?” + +“Undoubtedly, I know it; and since I alone can help you to succeed, +you may not think it a waste of time to drink a cup of wine with me.” + +Villefort bowed stiffly, and entered the house with her. At the same +moment, the dwarf was deep in talk with Gaspard, the rider in black, +who had turned his horse towards the forest. + +“We shall keep him an hour, if that be possible,” said the dwarf. “The +men will be drunk before then. Let the count ride for his life to +Versailles; if time serve, he will find us at the cross-road beyond +Essonne.” + +“The devil dry their throats!” muttered Bénoît, giving rein to his +horse. “I count upon you, Yerut, in all things. Hold yon booty but an +hour, and no woman in France shall keep Eugène Sabatier from the +king.” + +The dwarf stood to watch the darkness of the forest enshroud the +galloping figure. Then he returned to the inn and found that Villefort +and the Chevalier Guibert, his mistress, were already busy over a +flask of wine, set out in a little room upon the first floor. But +while the mock chevalier was comfortable in a low wooden chair, the +Captain of the Guard paced the room as one who delays but an instant, +and that unwillingly. + +“Chevalier,” he was saying, “it may be true that the Count of Brives +is warned of my coming; yet if that be so, what madness will carry him +to this inn when he should be upon the road to the frontier?” + +“The same madness which makes the lark sing at dawn and the sun set at +eve, monsieur,” chimed in the dwarf, who squatted upon the table and +raised a flagon merrily; “the madness of the cow for the moon; the +howl of the dog when the horn is winded--the folly of Monsieur de +Villefort who chases the stag--_ma foi_, the quest of a wench’s pretty +lips, and hey, for her eyes in the dark.” + +Villefort stopped in his walk. The flickering light of spluttering +candles fell upon his angry face weirdly. + +“Heaven deliver me from this madman!” he cried. + +“Monsieur,” said the dwarf, “it is the duty of fools to be sane. Would +you have me dull my wits until they were no brighter than those of +Henri de Villefort? And there you fall upon a plain tale, and shall +see how truly I am mad. For if Nature teaches the lark to call for his +mate, and sheds the dew upon the thirsty ground, shall she less +befriend the man who, learning that the wench is at the inn, has the +mind to sample the lips of yesterday! God’s truth, my captain, it is +writ as large as the nose on your ugly face.” + +Villefort raised his fist as though to strike the dwarf, but Corinne +stood between them. + +“Hold your tongue, Yerut,” she said. “Indeed, monsieur, I know not how +to excuse him, unless it be that with it all he tells you the truth. +The Count of Brives would go a hundred miles to avoid this inn if he +knew that the Chevalier Guibert awaited him here; but he would ride a +hundred miles to reach it if one told him that Corinne de Montesson +was to make it a house of call.” + +Villefort forgot his anger. + +“You mean to say that he will come here to-night to meet her?” + +“As he thinks, monsieur. My servant has even now ridden to the +château to tell him that you have turned back to Franchard, and that +Corinne de Montesson is here with news which will save his life.” + +Villefort roared with laughter. The dwarf roared, too; so that the +very rafters rang with their shouts. + +“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Henri de Villefort, “you tell him that his +mistress is here, and when he comes you will cut his throat. How you +love him, Chevalier!” + +“How I love him!” muttered Corinne; and she meant every word she said. + +“How he loves him!” roared the dwarf, choking with laughter and with +wine. + +But Corinne’s heart beat wildly. She was asking herself if the tale +had, indeed, borne such good fruit. She looked at the clock and saw +that they had been already twenty minutes in the inn. She said that +Bénoît was at the château, now; they were saddling the horses,--oh, +for an hour, for an hour yet to win her lover’s liberty! + +Villefort ceased to laugh and went to the window. + +“Saint John!” said he, “if the Count of Brives rides towards the inn, +I will even go a little way to meet him,” and then he bawled to his +troops: “ho, there, you sots!--do you hear me calling?” + +The dwarf leaped from the table and put his grinning head beside that +of the captain. + +“Ho, there, you sots,” he repeated; “another bottle apiece to the +health of the Chevalier Guibert!” + +The troopers, who had come out into the moonlight, went, shouting, +back to the kitchen of the inn-- + +“Ho, there, another bottle apiece to the health of the Chevalier +Guibert!” + +Yerut pulled Monsieur de Villefort from the window and shut it. +Corinne’s heart seemed to stand still. + +“Upon my word, Monsieur de Villefort,” said the dwarf, “you are a very +foolish man. Would you tell all Ussy that you lie here this night? For +Heaven’s sake, hold your tongue, or if you cannot do that, bury it in +this flagon.” + +He pushed a flagon of wine toward the Captain of the Guard. Villefort +did not notice the curious taste of the liquor; but when he had drunk, +his head swam and the candles danced before his eyes. + +“I shall go to Ussy,” he cried doggedly. “It is a plot to detain me +here.” + +The dwarf took a pack of cards from his pocket and began to cut it. +Corinne looked at the clock. Would the great hand never reach the +hour? It seemed so to her. + +“Go or stay,” cried Yerut, with indifference, “it is the same to me +and to my master; and I will tell you this, captain, that if we did +not wish to see the Count of Brives very much we would not rest +another hour with so impertinent a fellow.” + +Villefort, who was dizzy with the drugged wine + + [Illustration: Brought it with a Crash upon the Head of Henri de + Villefort.] + +and enraged beyond endurance, drew his sword and confronted the dwarf. + +“Dog!” he roared, “I will teach you manners. That is the tenth time +you have insulted me this night.” + +“The eleventh, monsieur,” said Yerut, who still squatted upon the +table. “The eleventh, as I live; and you do well to count, for I am +going to make it twelve.” + +Leaping up with a cat-like agility, the dwarf seized a flagon of wine +and brought it with a crash upon the head of Henri de Villefort. So +terrible was the blow, that the Captain of the Guard reeled back to +the wall; and, while the liquor still poured down his gaudy vest and +dripped from his lank hair, the drug they had given him did its work, +and he fell senseless upon the sanded floor. + +Two minutes later the Chevalier Guibert and Yerut the singer rode from +the courtyard of the inn. To the troopers, gathered round them +inquiringly, they said,-- + +“Another flask to the health of the Captain of the Guard!” + +And so, throwing crowns upon the flags, they galloped from Ussy, and +soon were lost to view in the labyrinth of the forest. + + * * * * * * * + +Dawn, grey-garbed and melancholy, was hovering above the valley of the +Seine when the Count of Brives and Bénoît, who rode with him, drew +rein at the parting of the ways beyond Essonne. A mist of morning lay +upon the awakening pastures; the rushes bent to the flood of the +swirling waters; night answered reluctantly to the heralds of the +lagging sun. Dew lay thick upon the brown-burnt grasses; the air was +chill and searching as a breath of winter. + +“They do not come,” said Bénoît, whose horse, like that of the +other, was white with foam. “God grant that Yerut has not failed us.” + +“I think of mademoiselle,” said the count, impatiently. “What is it to +me that I am upon the road to Versailles if misfortune has overtaken +her at Ussy?” + +“_Ma foi_, you complain too soon, count. Hark to that music; it is the +ring of hoofs behind us!” + +They listened a little while, and then were sure. The sounds magnified +and became clearer; care passed from the boyish face of Eugène +Sabatier. + +“It is Corinne,” he cried joyfully. “Oh, God be thanked!” + +Two figures loomed up from the mists; two horses were reined back upon +their haunches. + +“Eugène, is it thou?” + +“Corinne, beloved!” + +But Yerut the dwarf was looking at the river, and Bénoît, the +kinsman of mademoiselle, became so blind of a sudden that he could +scarce see the mane of his horse. + + +Henri de Villefort entered the gardens of Versailles at three o’clock +of the afternoon. He still wore a coat upon which purple patches spoke +of the inn at Ussy. His high boots were brown with the dust; his head +was bandaged and his walk uncertain. Side by side with him walked +Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze. + +“You have failed, monsieur,” exclaimed Chamillart, with assumed +astonishment, “yet the Count of Brives was at his château last +night.” + +Villefort ground his teeth. + +“His friends surprised me,” he stammered; “I crossed swords with one +of them, and was wounded. There is fresh blood upon my coat now, and +it was fifteen hours ago--” + +He was about to continue his apologies when from a tree upon his right +hand there came that haunting demoniacal cry he had heard in the +forest of Fontainebleau when Yerut the singer had confronted him. It +rose and fell like the wailing of the wind; it froze the words upon +the lips of Henri de Villefort. + +“Thousand devils!” he yelled, “it is the man monkey again--” + +“At your service, Monsieur de Villefort--you seek the Count of Brives; +he is yonder with the king, who has just given him a command.” + +The dwarf was perched upon the branch of the tree. His lap was full of +sweetmeats; he grinned like a cat, but fell presently to laughing +incontrollably, as he had laughed in the forest. + +“Ho, ho, ho, ho!--you crossed swords with one of the count’s friends, +Monsieur de Villefort! Body of Paul, it was with the wine bottle that +you fought--” + +“You lie,” retorted Villefort; “I fought with the Chevalier Guibert--” + +“Who is yonder with the count?--but he wears a petticoat this morning, +my captain. What a thing to tell in the palace that Henri de Villefort +was worsted by a woman!” + +“Dog!” roared Villefort, “it is to you that I owe this, to you and +your lies--you who were to bury the master of Ussy--” + +“_Tais-toi, tais-toi_,” answered the dwarf, “look at yon pair, and +tell me if my mistress is not also master of Ussy, _cher_ Monsieur de +Villefort. But the Chevalier Guibert we buried last night. A truth, a +truth! And now they laugh at you, captain. The king laughs. The queen +laughs. I, Yerut, laugh.” + +Villefort could stand it no more. He strode away with the dwarf’s +horrid laughter still ringing in his ears; but old Chamillart, who +watched Corinne and the count pacing the distant avenue by the side of +Louis the Well-beloved, chuckled horribly. + +“I said she would fool him,” he muttered; “I said that she would save +her lover--Saint John, if she would but look into my eyes like that!” + +“Ho, ho!” said the dwarf in the tree, “she can look into the eyes of a +wolf every day.” + +And then he fell to singing:-- + + + “A quel diable ce drôle allait-il à l’école?” + + +Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze, shook his cane at the imp, and turned +sadly from the garden. + + THE END + + + + + ENDNOTE + +[1] Author’s Note.--The Bombec Tower, it may be well to point out, +was that tower of the Conciergerie prison in Paris in which torture +was generally inflicted. I have added nothing in this story to +historical descriptions of the cells in this horrible place. It was +not until the end of the last century that these sunless dungeons were +altered radically. At that time, the swords in the walls, and the +loathsome creatures which the Seine washed into the cells, were still +the talk of the curious. + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + +H. Piffard provided the illustrations. + +Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. riding-habit/riding habit, wax +lights/wax-lights, etc.) have been preserved. + +Alterations to the text: + +Convert the footnote to an endnote. + +Fix a few quotation mark pairings. + +Change three instances of _Eugene_ to _Eugène_. + +[II] + +Change (“I tell you that five of _Sartine’s_ men are there”) to +_Sartines’_. + +“had supped well, as he always did at the Hôtel _Beutreillis_” to +_Beautreillis_. + +“_Bénôit_, who was said to be the finest swordsman in Paris” to +_Bénoît_. + +“It was nearly five _o’cloek_ in the evening when he set out” to +_o’clock_. + +[III] + +“What has my daughter to do with the _Conceirgerie_” to _Conciergerie_. + +[IV] + +(image caption) “If yon Rogues are not _Foopads_, put me in the +Pillory” to _Footpads_. + +“Even the learned were gross in _superstitution_ in the middle” to +_superstition_. + +[VII] + +“driven through the gateway of the Hôtel _Beautreilles_” to +_Beautreillis_. + +[VIII] + +“seized a flagon of wine and brought it crash upon the head of” add +_with a_ after _it_. + + [End of text] + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78828 *** diff --git a/78828-h/78828-h.htm b/78828-h/78828-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d2a6e66 --- /dev/null +++ b/78828-h/78828-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9478 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Queen of the jesters | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +/* Headers and Divisions */ + h1, h2, h3, h4 {margin:4em 0em 1em 0em; page-break-before:always; text-align:center;} + +/* General */ + + body {margin:0% 5% 0% 5%;} + + .nobreak {margin:2em auto 1em auto; page-break-before:avoid;} + + p {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:justify; text-indent:1em;} + .center {margin:0em 0em 0em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + .noindent {text-indent:0em;} + .spacer {margin:0.5em 0em 0.5em 0em; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + + .toc_l {font-variant:small-caps; margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + + .chap_sub {font-size:80%;} + .font80 {font-size:80%;} + .sc {font-variant:small-caps;} + +/* special formatting */ + + .stanza {margin:1em 0em 0em 0em; text-indent:0em;} + .i0 {display:inline-block; margin:0em 0em 0em 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + + blockquote {margin:1em 2em 1em 2em;} + + .mt1 {margin-top:1em;} + .mt4 {margin-top:4em;} + + figure {margin:auto; padding:1em 1em 1em 1em; text-align:center;} + figcaption {font-size:80%; padding:0 2em 0 2em; text-align:center;} + +</style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78828 ***</div> + + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_fp.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_fp_th.jpg" alt="Frontispiece"> + </a> + <figcaption> + With a Low Warning Roar the Beast sprang. + </figcaption> +</figure> + + +<h1> +Queen of the Jesters +</h1> + +<p class="center"> +<i>And Her Strange Adventures<br> +in Old Paris</i> +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +<span class="font80">By</span><br> +Max Pemberton<br> +<span class="font80">Author of “Christine of the Hills”<br> +“A Puritan’s Wife,” etc.</span> +</p> + +<p class="center mt4"> +New York<br> +Dodd, Mead and Company<br> +<span class="font80">1897</span> +</p> + + +<h2> +[COPYRIGHT] +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Copyright, 1897,</i><br> +<span class="sc">By Max Pemberton</span> +</p> + + +<h2> +AUTHOR’S NOTE +</h2> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> adventures set out in these pages are taken from certain +episodes in the life of Corinne de Montesson, who was long a famous +figure in the Paris of Louis XV. Disdaining alike the salons of the +great, where her wit would have given her a distinguished place, and +the galleries of Versailles, where her indisputable beauty would have +commanded a royal welcome, Mademoiselle de Montesson established +herself in an old house in Rue St. Paul, and there, surrounded by a +little band of wits, scientists, and adventurers, she made it her +ambition to become acquainted with the dens of the city. To which end, +she practised a generous charity, and rescued more than one notorious +rogue from the gibbet. While the lower classes looked upon her now as +a worker of miracles, now as a witch, the Court was greedy to hear of +those exploits by which her name has come down to us. She had the +privilege of entertaining the King on more than one occasion, and +enjoyed to the end his support against the Lieutenant of Police, who +bewailed her authority over the vagabonds of the city; and against her +guardian, the Abbé Morellet, who demanded that she should be sent to +a convent of Benedictine nuns. Sufficient to record that her influence +was a continuing power in Paris until the year 1779, and that she died +at the age of sixty-four years in her château at Fontainebleau. +</p> + + +<h2> +CONTENTS +</h2> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch01">I. The Hunger of Ferdinand Dauberval</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch02">II. The Liberty of the Little Red Man</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch03">III. A Prison of Swords</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch04">IV. At the House of the Scarlet Witch</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch05">V. The Purple Glass</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch06">VI. The Kingdom of Bourgorieau</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch07">VII. The Devil’s Bowl and the Strange Affair at Fontenay</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#ch08">VIII. Yerut the Dwarf</a> +</p> + +<p class="toc_l"> +<a href="#endnote">Endnote</a> +</p> + + +<h2> +Queen of the Jesters +</h2> + +<h3 class="nobreak" id="ch01"> +I.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE HUNGER OF FERDINAND<br> +DAUBERVAL</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">It</span> wanted about an hour to sunset when Ferdinand Dauberval, sick +with hunger and fatigue, passed through the Porte St. Denis and asked +of the guard there the way to the Rue St. Paul. +</p> + +<p> +“I am from Avranches, monsieur,” said he, “and though you may not +think it from my appearance, this is the first time that I have set +eyes upon the city of Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +The guard thus addressed was a tall, good-humoured fellow, mounted +upon a great black horse. He looked down, half in pity, half in +amusement, at the dust-begrimed young man, who now clung to his +stirrup-leather, if possible to rest his weary legs for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Sang bleu!</i>” said the guard. “If I took note of your appearance, my +friend, I should think a good many things. You are from Avranches, you +say? Then what have you to do in the Rue St. Paul?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is my business,” replied Dauberval, sulkily; but correcting +himself in a moment, he added, “though I don’t know why I should not +tell you. I seek Mademoiselle de Montesson at the Hôtel Beautreillis. +You know her house?” +</p> + +<p> +The guard answered with a merry sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” cried he, “I should know that house pretty well—all the beggars +in Paris go there. Follow the first blind man from the Quinze-Vingts +Infirmary and he will lead you to the door like a dog at the end of a +string.” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval, weak as he was, flushed with anger at the insult. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that I ask alms?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure of it,” answered the guard, smiling maliciously; “<i>Dame!</i> +you look as though you had not seen a crown for a twelvemonth. I +should advise you to make haste. They close the gate at curfew, and +then there is no more bread nor hot bean soup. You would not like to +hear that, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval swore a big oath. +</p> + +<p> +“If I had you upon the stones,” he snarled, “I would knock some sense +into your silly head. Do you not see to whom you are talking? Oh, this +Paris is a pretty place for a gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +He could have cried with his vexation, for pride, and pride alone, had +brought him to the capital. It was true that his boots were in holes, +while his clothes were so covered with the dust that their quality was +not to be discerned; but still he plumed himself that his bearing and +his manner of speaking were such as became the son of the advocate of +Avranches, and it was galling to the point of madness that the first +Parisian he met should talk to him as one would talk to a leper upon +the steps of a parish church. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” cried he, shaking his fist at the little group of idlers +who had gathered about the horseman,—“to-morrow, I will return with +my friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hark to that,” roared a bellman, who was one of the first to come up, +“the dusty gentleman has friends. He will return with them to-morrow. +Let the Grand Chamberlain be informed, and the pages provided. Where +is his excellency’s horse?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do we know to whom we are talking?” chimed in a merry cooper, who +stood with his hoops flung over his shoulder,—“well, it’s my belief +that we talk to our Lord the Pope—” +</p> + +<p> +“Or to the Captain of the Gate,” suggested a laughing hussy. +</p> + +<p> +“Or to both,” said a rat-catcher. +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval answered them with a word hissed out between his teeth. If +he had not been so weak from hunger and fatigue, he would have run +away from them, but as it was, he only walked on down the Rue St. +Denis, cursing the day which had carried him to Paris; and that other +day when he staked his last crown on a throw of the dice at +Couches—and had lost it. Never had he thought that he, whose younger +brother was high in the service of the Grand Equerry, would come to +look with hungry eyes upon the bread which the very beggars ate,—much +less that he himself would be mistaken for a beggar. +</p> + +<p> +“Pah!” he muttered, while he fought the phantoms of hunger who seemed +to dance up from the dirty gutters bearing loaves of sweet white bread +in their hands, “why should I despair? The Rue St. Paul cannot be far +from here, and Mademoiselle Corinne will know how to cure my troubles. +Did she not find a place for Armand, my brother—and what a place! It +is true that he has told her lies about me—but I shall answer them. +And she will believe me. A pretty woman always believes a man when he +is young and—” +</p> + +<p> +He added in his heart “good-looking;” although it did occur to him +that he would need a great deal of brushing and mending before he +could appear without shame in Mademoiselle Corinne’s presence. He +consoled himself, however, with the thought that her lacqueys would do +this for him while their mistress was causing a good hot dinner to be +prepared; and so keen was his imagination that the warmth of the food +he awaited seemed already to fill his body with a delicious glow of +heat. He began, in his fancy, to smell the pungent odour of spices; he +said that he would arrive in the Rue St. Paul about the hour of +supper, and that a fat capon might possibly be set before him. The +horrible overpowering nausea, which was the result of his hunger, +almost left him in the presence of these suggestions. He moved his +mouth with the action of a man eating heartily, and a momentary return +of his bodily strength enabled him to run straight on until he came +out upon the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, and beheld the spires of Notre +Dame stand up before him. +</p> + +<p> +Paris was beginning to wake to the pleasures of her night then; and +although it was early in the month of April in the year 1760, many +people were abroad in the streets, sitting before the doors of their +houses, or returning from their walk upon the ramparts. The great +river itself was alive with boats; some filled by noisy students who +played upon horns and drums; others with more orderly citizens bound +for the wine-gardens and taverns of Passy. Dauberval stood a minute +upon the quay to let the cool breeze play upon his burning face, and +to watch the many strange figures and the many strange sights about +him. He saw that he had never thought Paris could be so big. What a +maze of threatening, cramped, yet picturesque houses was that upon the +great island before him! How the cathedral dominated it all. Were +there ever such fine fellows as these bucks and gallants on their way +to dance with the butter-girls at the Quai de Gesvreo! Did any one +ever hear such gibberish as these German mountebanks were talking! How +the professional psalm-singers drawled! And there was a puppet-show +too; and an acrobat from Italy, and a peoples’ letter-writer, and a +hundred others; all merry, and busy, and withal good-humoured, because +the day was done with and the lights had begun to twinkle in the city. +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval would have been content at any other time to have spent a +day upon this busy quay, but the hunger tearing at his vitals quickly +made him remember his errand. He asked of a petty wench who was +selling cocoa—“two goes for a liard”—the way to the Rue St. Paul, +and she answered him with a saucy laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ventrebleu!</i>” she cried, “that you should be so blind—yonder it +stands as close to your feet as a fool’s cap to his head. Oh, all the +world can see where you come from.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the Hôtel Beautreillis?” asked Dauberval, too weak to argue with +her. +</p> + +<p> +“At the corner past the Rue Charlemagne. Stop under the great bronze +lamp and tell the concierge that you are a simple young man from the +country. He will give you five sous to buy your supper with, and I +will give you a drink of cocoa for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +She held out her can to him, and he took a little sup of the cocoa; +but so great was his impatience to get to Mademoiselle Corinne’s house +that he would not wait for the boiling stuff to cool, but ran on when +he had gulped down a few drops of it. A minute later, he found himself +under the shadow of the great walls of the Hôtel Beautreillis; and he +saw the bronze lamp which the hussy had named. But it was unlighted, +and the forbidding iron-sheathed door in the quaint Norman tower at +the corner of the street offered to him a heart-breaking welcome. How, +he asked, if the pretty philanthropist whom he had walked all the way +from Avranches to see, were at her country house near Gros Bois? His +brain went whirling round at the thought! He prayed to God—and it was +many a year since a prayer had come to his lips—that his burden of +suffering might not have this new evil added to it. +</p> + +<p> +The Rue St. Paul was almost deserted at that hour. Long black shadows +were stealing over the muddy flags of the wretched street. A few +flickering lanterns cast a dull gleam of yellow light upon the dirty +water of the open gutter. In the great house itself a dreadful silence +reigned. Not a lamp shone in any of the narrow windows; not a footfall +was to be heard in any of the courts. Dauberval beat with his fists +upon the heavy oaken door, but he might as well have struck at the +wall of the Bastille. No one answered to his puny knocking. He picked +up a flag from the gutter and hurled it at the iron armour of the +gate, but got for his pains only the weird echoes which went booming +from cloister to cloister, and from tower to tower. And his hunger was +now irresistible, horrible. His whole body seemed to be wasting away +as he stood. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>mon Dieu!</i>” he wailed, wringing his hands, and sobbing for very +weakness, “have pity, have pity—one little drink of milk, oh, for +Christ’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +He thought surely that he was dying; and it was cruel, he said, that +he must perish of hunger at the very gate of his fortunes. The +possibility that pretty Mademoiselle Corinne, who had done so much for +his younger brother, Armand, might be at her château near Gros Bois, +had not come into his reckoning until that moment. Never before in all +his life had he known the meaning of hunger. He sat upon the stone +steps before the unyielding door, and it seemed to him that a hundred +demons were dancing round him, each bearing a tempting dish or a +goblet of rich red wine. He beat them off with his fists, and others +arose to caress him with visions of splendid feasts and tables +groaning. His greedy eyes searched the gutters in the vain hope that +an untrodden crust might lie there. He dipped his hands in the water +of a shining puddle and bathed his burning forehead; but it only +burned the more. He muttered a new prayer; and it was this—that his +death might come quickly, and that he might suffer such agony no +longer. And this was a prayer to which an answer was vouchsafed—but +not such an answer as he had looked for. +</p> + +<p> +Truth to tell, it all came upon him very suddenly. He had sunk down +upon the step then, and his cheek was resting upon a slab of marble. +Pain had begun to give way to unconsciousness; the turbid dreams to +utter darkness of the mind. But from such a state of trance he awoke +presently to find that the rays of a lantern were flashing in his +eyes, and that a man dressed from head to foot in black had gripped +him firmly by the arm. He had heard strange tales of the footpads of +Paris; and his yawning imagination convinced him, for an awakening +idea, that one such rogue sought to rob him. At any other time he +would have laughed loudly at the notion; but now he was too weak to +laugh—too weak almost to stand. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Pardieu!</i>” he snarled, “what the devil do you want with me? Can’t +you see—?” +</p> + +<p> +The man answered him with a word spoken to another at his elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“Aubin,” said he, “take the right arm of Monsieur Dauberval, and let +Joseph bring another lantern.” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval started up when he heard his name. The dazzling rays no +longer blinded his eyes. He saw that the stranger’s black vest was +richly embroidered with silver, and that diamonds sparkled upon the +hilt of his sword. Beyond this, the great door of the Hôtel +Beautreillis was now wide open, and servants were busy in its +courtyard. Dauberval, who had been ready to declare that the +apparition was a new cheat of his fancy, doubted no longer. +Mademoiselle Corinne was in Paris. What was more, she knew that he was +hungering at her gates. Never did a man’s fortune seem to be made so +readily. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he to the unknown, as they passed the lodge of the +concierge, and so entered the vast central courtyard, “you have my +name!” +</p> + +<p> +“Assuredly,” said the other. “Your name is Ferdinand Dauberval, and +you are the son of the advocate of Avranches. Five days ago, you left +your home to walk to this house—having first robbed your father of a +hundred crowns, the last of which you lost over the dice at Couches +two days ago. I speak rightly, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval stood still with his astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” he cried, “you insult me, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, not at all,” replied the unknown. “You put a question to me, and +I answer it. Is that an insult?” +</p> + +<p> +“You say that I robbed?—” expostulated Dauberval. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come,” said the other, a little severely. “I really cannot +argue with you, Monsieur Dauberval. While we wait in this draughty +courtyard, your supper is getting cold. Remember how hungry you are.” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval, trembling with excitement, permitted himself to be led +across the court and so to the smaller pavilion upon the left-hand +side of it. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall make up some tale,” he thought, “and she will believe me. +Meanwhile, there will be food to eat and wine to drink. <i>Dieu</i>, how I +could drink a cup of Burgundy! It will be time after that to remember +my misfortunes.” +</p> + +<p> +Like all rogues, he was easily elated. And the things which he saw +about him were of a quality to satisfy any man. No sooner had he +entered the pavilion than lacqueys came unbidden to brush his clothes +and to bring a golden basin for his hands. While one fellow begged him +to be seated and to remove his dirty shoes, another offered him a coat +of velvet heavily laced with silver braid. Everything that greed of +show and of wealth could prompt him to wish for was now thrust upon +him unasked. Silk stockings took the place of his dusty woollen ones; +the perfume of attar of roses exuded from the cooling water in which +he washed the dust from his face; the lacqueys waited upon him with a +homage which might have served a king. And this was the mystery of it +all—that they did these things for one whom their mistress knew to be +a thief. +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval was too hungry at the first to debate upon such a nice +problem. He did observe that the unknown man in black watched him with +a curious smile—the smile of one who enjoyed some secret, but did not +wish to share it. Yet this, he said, was the man’s satisfaction at his +new appearance. Indeed, the stranger told him so presently, when he +rose to conduct him to his supper. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ma foi</i>, Monsieur Dauberval,” said he, “you will break some hearts +in Paris. I never saw a coat sit so well upon a man. And you know how +to carry it, too. Saint Denis, we must find you a sword presently, +when the perruquier has done with you. You can use a sword, I will +wager?” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval, who was the greatest coward in Normandy, drew himself up +and bowed at the compliment. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said he, “if I were not so hungry—” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly, my friend. And since you are very hungry—come, supper is +prepared for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He opened a door in the ante-chamber to which they had first come, and +motioned the other to go forward. Dauberval could scarce suppress a +cry of delight when he saw that a table was spread in an exquisitely +furnished cabinet; and that other lacqueys waited to serve him with +all those good things of which he had lately dreamed. Nay, he was not +sure that he did not dream still, for this room, he said, must surely +be one in which kings supped. Such divinely wrought candelabra, such a +painted ceiling, such a profusion of wax tapers, so soft a carpet, +were not to be looked for except at the palace of the Tuilleries or at +Versailles. Dauberval declared that the owner of it all must be rich +beyond any woman in Paris. “And,” he said, “she means well to me or I +should not be here.” +</p> + +<p> +This self-assurance brought him to the table in wondrous good spirits. +Although he had suffered much from his hunger, he was not so far gone +that eating would be a danger to him; and when a lacquey put a little +bowl of soup before him, he drank it down in great gulps. The warmth +of it seemed to fill his body to the very toes. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “how good it is—how good! Surely it is well to have +suffered, monsieur, if one may—” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment he turned round to find himself alone with the lacquey +in the cabinet. The unknown had left him at the door; and Dauberval +really was not sorry to be quit of his company. +</p> + +<p> +“One can do nothing with a man,” he thought; “and he is gone to tell +pretty Mademoiselle Corinne that I am here. She will come to see me +presently, and I shall persuade her that I am a very honest fellow. +After that, she will find me some place in Paris, and I shall have +lacqueys of my own, and wine like this Burgundy. Saint John, how it +warms my heart! And I have yet the half of a bottle to drink! Oh, it +was a great day that took me from Avranches to my fortune at the +Hôtel Beautreillis!” +</p> + +<p> +Hopes like these, with a hundred others, filled his brain, while he +helped himself to a dish of artichokes fried in marmalade, and +afterwards to the breast of a well-boiled capon. He was careful to eat +sparingly of the food, remembering how long he had fasted; but of the +wine he drank abundantly. Nor did the lacqueys once speak to him while +he ate. They might have been machines answering to some invisible +wires. Dauberval, warmed with the Burgundy, began to assume lofty and +patronising airs. He even attempted to enter into conversation with +one of those who waited upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“My good fellow,” said he, “is your mistress in Paris?” +</p> + +<p> +The man bowed, but that was all his answer. Dauberval, more than ever +anxious to play the part of the fine gentleman, pushed his chair away +from the table and leant back in it posingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Have the goodness,” he cried, “to inform Mademoiselle de Montesson +that I crave a word with her so soon as it may please her to give me +audience.” +</p> + +<p> +The lacquey bowed again, and left the room with his fellows. He was +careful not to laugh until he had shut the door upon his mistress’s +guest; but then he laughed very heartily. Dauberval, meanwhile, was +leaning back in his chair, and telling himself that this for a surety +was the day of his life. +</p> + +<p> +“She cannot mean to punish me for borrowing two hundred crowns of my +father,” he said to himself, “or she would not have treated me like +this. No doubt she has heard some slander; but I shall correct all +that. And then she will give me a place. Possibly it will be with the +Grand Equerry, where my brother is; or should there be no vacancy +there, I would even submit to serve for a while as page to his +highness the Duke of Nevers. In any case she will make my fortunes. +Who knows, she might even think me handsome, as the girls of Avranches +did. And then—<i>pardieu!</i>—and then—” +</p> + +<p> +To his utter confusion, a voice of singular sweetness answered his +question, which he had intended for no other ears than his own. +</p> + +<p> +“And then, Monsieur Dauberval?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Diable!</i>” cried the man, as he sprang up from his chair and turned +round to face the intruder. But the other words he would have spoken +died away upon his lips; for there, standing behind him, with the +merriest laugh possible upon her pretty face, was Mademoiselle +Corinne. And so great was the shame of the fellow because his silly +talk was overheard that he would have thanked God if the earth had +opened and swallowed him up. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he stammered, and he was sure that he had never seen a +more exquisite vision than this of the owner of all these +riches,—“mademoiselle, I do not—indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, laughing more than ever at his confusion, “but you +did. And let me tell you, monsieur, that I think the girls of +Avranches showed exceedingly good taste.” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval, like most rogues, could bear himself well in ordinary +circumstances before a woman. He had looked to find a grand dame, +haughty, imperious, exacting; but now that Mademoiselle Corinne really +stood before him, and he saw that she was an exceedingly beautiful +girl, whose face wore the kindliest smile he had ever beheld, he took +new courage and began to look up. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “you overheard me just now saying some +very foolish things. I thought that I was alone or I should not have +uttered them. I beg you to forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, monsieur,” she answered, still smiling, “I shall do nothing +of the sort. You have yet to answer my question. Here am I agreeing +with the young ladies you speak of, and dying to know what next—yet +you tell me nothing. For shame, monsieur, to leave a lady ailing with +her curiosity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Misfortune overtake me if I do any such thing,” cried Dauberval, +bowing gallantly, “yet, for the life of me, mademoiselle, I cannot +remember what I was saying.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but I remember it perfectly, Monsieur Dauberval,” she answered; +“you were saying ‘and then—’ I want to know what comes after ‘and +then’—” +</p> + +<p> +A quick thought passed like an inspiration through the man’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he cried, “you insist?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will tell you in a word. I was saying to myself as you came in +that if I should be happy enough to merit your favor, you would find +me some place in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood watching her keenly to see how his boldness would be repaid; +but her immediate answer was only a command. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit, <i>mon ami</i>,” she said, “and then we will talk of things.” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval took a chair and drew it near to the little couch upon which +she was resting. He was so close to her now that he could count the +diamonds which made a rope about her lovely neck. He said that he had +never seen such surpassing loveliness of skin or face; never a woman +worthy to sit at the feet of Corinne de Montesson. The very air about +her was laden with the breath of roses. Her girlish face was like the +face of one of the Madonnas which the great masters had painted. Her +voice was like the note of a silver bell. +</p> + +<p> +“You wish me to find you a place in Paris, Monsieur Dauberval,” she +said, when they were seated. “Well, that is already done—” +</p> + +<p> +“What,” cried Dauberval, forgetting himself in his surprise,—at the +same time he said to himself, “My fortune is made.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she continued, “after making all inquiries about you, I am +willing to take you into my service.” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval’s expectation became tremendous. “She knows nothing,” he +thought. +</p> + +<p> +“You will consent, I am sure, monsieur,” Corinne went on, “to do as my +other servants have done, and to attain promotion by your diligence +and fidelity. Yet I do not forget that you were educated by the curé +of Avranches, and are a man of some learning. On that account, I have +determined to overlook all that I might remember about you, and to +make you an usher of the table.” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval listened no more, but sprang from his chair. He was white +with passion when he answered her. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dieu!</i> mademoiselle,” he cried, “would you make a lacquey of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” she replied, without so much as noticing his temper; “an +usher of my table to begin with, and after that clerk to my household, +if your service in the first employment warrants it. It is even +possible, should you seek by the future to blot out the sins of your +past, that I may remember you as the brother of Armand Dauberval—whom +you drove from his home after accusing him falsely of a robbery.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie!” stammered Dauberval, hoarse with his anger. “I am the +victim of—” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne de Montesson rose from her seat, and touched a gong at her +side. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said very quietly, “to-night you remain here as my +guest. If you are willing to accept the post which I offer you, hold +yourself ready to begin your work at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. +But I warn you that should you speak to me again as you spoke just +now, my servants shall flog you at the tail of a cart. You understand +me?” +</p> + +<p> +There was laughter in her eyes no longer, and her cheek was warmed +with a red flush. Dauberval realised for the first time what a great +gulf lay between them. His hopes had gone tumbling down already +pell-mell, like stones into a pit. He was cowed, and he trembled with +rage and disappointment. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” said he, wringing his hands, “that you should wish to make a +lacquey of me! Oh, mademoiselle, have pity—you know what I have +suffered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say rather, that I remember what your brother suffered at your +hands,” she replied. “Indeed, Monsieur Dauberval, you reap that which +you have sown. Have a care, then, to treasure in the future the seeds +of honesty and of love. I wish you good-night, monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +She retired with a gentle grace, a lacquey holding the door as she +passed to her own apartments. Dauberval followed her with eyes in +which the tears of shame and cowardice welled up plenteously. Her +words had stung him like a whip; yet, he said, he could have forgotten +them quickly enough had she not sought to put this insult upon him. +But to make a lacquey of him! Better by far to have remained in +Avranches, he thought, and to have extorted money from his father. +There, at any rate, people did not forget that he was born a +gentleman. But here, in this unpitying Paris—to make a menial of him, +he who had dreamed that he was soon to have lacqueys of his own! Oh, +it was not to be tolerated! +</p> + +<p> +He had been pacing the room for some little time, gathering the +threads of his anger, when the servant returned to tell him that his +bed-chamber was prepared. He followed the fellow sullenly, determined +already in his own heart that he would never submit to the proposed +degradation. After all, he could still return to his home and say, +“Father, I have sinned.” It would be a terrible humiliation; but he +preferred the thought of facing it to that of remaining in the Hôtel +Beautreillis. As for his brother Armand—it would be no use to beg of +him. Dauberval knew well enough that he had driven his brother from +their home, caring nothing if he lived or died. How then should that +brother pity him? +</p> + +<p> +The lacquey, meanwhile, had conducted him down a long stone corridor; +thence across a little garden, and through a second passage, which +terminated in a small circular hall off which five doors opened. +Dauberval scarce took notice of anything that he passed; but when the +lacquey opened the third of the five doors and informed him that here +was his bed-chamber, a new interest occupied him. None of Mademoiselle +Corinne’s reproaches seemed to fit in with the elegance of the room to +which he had been conducted. It was a room for the king, he said for +the second time, while the man lighted the candles in the gilt sconces +and set a cup of wine upon the table. The great bed with the canopy of +gold above it; the superb tapestries hung upon the wall; the many +candelabra of solid silver; the luxurious carpet beneath his +feet,—all these things should have been at Versailles, he thought, +and not at the Hôtel Beautreillis. And it was maddening to him to +remember that he was to enjoy such splendours for one night, and only +for one night. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” he snarled, for the servant had left him +then,—“to-morrow they will make a lacquey of me! Oh, that shall never +be! I swear it on the cross. She shall listen to me in the morning—I +will go on my knees to her—I will humble myself—she will surely +relent then. She must relent.” +</p> + +<p> +He repeated these words again and again, and they were still upon his +lips when he climbed into the high bed and stretched himself +luxuriously upon the downy cushions. The candle was out now, and the +moon’s beams flooded the room picturesquely, seeming to magnify its +size and beauty. Indeed, the very splendours of the apartment awed the +man. He lay for a long while unable to sleep, or to do anything but +contemplate the things he would plan and say when morning came. When +he had settled those to his satisfaction, and sleep still refused her +friendship, he began to follow the path of the pale yellow rays and to +observe the beauty of the things they touched with their caressing +light. He remarked then for the first time a little picture of a +Madonna hung near the wall by his bed; and when he had looked at this +for some moments, he saw that it was the central piece of a shrine +upon which there was a cross with a great diamond blazing in the +centre of it. So beautiful were the lights which the jewel scattered, +so large was it, that Dauberval asked himself why he had not seen it +before. Then he sat up in bed the better to observe it, but lay down +again quickly lest the thought which came to him so powerfully should +remain and prevail. +</p> + +<p> +“She must be very rich,” he said, as he drew the clothes over his head +and fought anew for sleep. “That diamond alone would keep a man in +food and wine for life. She has many more like it, I am sure, and +would never miss it. If a rogue were sleeping here, he would put that +cross in his pocket and she would never know its loss. Besides, she is +going to make a lacquey of me. Saint John—I could be even with her if +I had the mind to!” +</p> + +<p> +He lay for some moments trembling with the excitement of the thought. +He knew that such a diamond as the one which lay within reach of his +hand would enrich him for life. He had but to slip the cross into his +pocket and to climb the wall of the garden through which he had passed +to his room, and he need think of being a lacquey no more. What a +revenge that would be, he said. And why did he owe her any mercy? She +had shown him none. Nay, she had threatened to have him beaten at a +cart’s tail. “We shall see about that,” he muttered—and then he sat +up in bed again. The diamond shone now with a finer, richer lustre. +All the loveliest hues seemed to be commingled, and to be poured out +together from its sparkling wells of light. Dauberval had not dreamed +that there was such a jewel in all the world. The sight of it was to +him like a cup of wine to a drunkard. “Heaven!” he muttered, “it is a +prince’s ransom—and I am alone.” +</p> + +<p> +He was out of bed now, and his teeth were chattering with dread of his +determination. While he said all the time that he was not going to +steal the diamond, he knew perfectly well that he had made up his mind +to do so. Quickly and with trembling hand he drew on his boots and his +fine new coat. He opened his bedroom door, and found to his +satisfaction that the little hall outside was in darkness and as +silent as the grave. Everything drove him on to the crime which he +declared that he would never commit, but which he was even then +committing. Twice he touched the diamond, and drew back his hand as +though it had been burned by fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Coward,” he cried, “coward, coward—to turn your back on a fortune +which lies there before your eyes. Ten steps and you are in the +garden; you leave Paris at dawn and set out for England—a little +hiding by the way, perhaps, a little privation—and then, and then—!” +</p> + +<p> +Visions of luxury, of ease, even of vice, passed before his burning +eyes. A new hunger, the hunger of wealth, was upon him now. The +agonies of the temptation were like the agonies of a burning fever. He +stood rocking on his heels before the shrine, saying, “I will not, I +will not.” He covered his face with his hands, yet the lights from the +sparkling jewel seemed to flash into his very brain. When at last he +grasped the stone with trembling fingers, and thrust it deep down into +his bosom, phantoms of the night gathered about him in his fancy and +cried, “We see, we see.” +</p> + +<p> +With possession, the fever abated a little. He was in a cold sweat +now; but his ideas were less confusing. When he opened his bedroom +door to pass into the circular hall, he knew well enough what plan to +follow. The garden, he was sure, lay not more than twenty yards from +him. He had seen, while they had conducted him to his room, great +trees growing against the walls of it, and he determined to climb this +wall by their help and so to gain the street. +</p> + +<p> +He opened his door, and stood for a moment to listen if there were any +sound about the house. A little whisper of the wind sighing in the +dome of the hall was the only answer to his silent question. +Encouraged by the stillness, he stepped from his chamber and began to +creep towards that door of the five through which he believed that he +had passed to his bedroom. And here a difficulty which he had not +foreseen suddenly presented itself and demanded consideration. The +five doors in the hall were as alike as five drops of water. How if he +opened the wrong one, and found himself, not in the garden, but in the +bed-chamber of some lacquey or page? That, he declared, would mean the +galleys at the least. And he blamed himself now that he had not tried +the doors before leaving his bedroom. To be taken with the jewel in +his possession were a folly indeed. +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval was a cunning rogue at all times; but he did not know what +forces of cunning and trickery were being pitted against him as he +stood debating the puzzle of the doors. At the very moment when he +thought he was alone, six pairs of eyes were watching him with +interest and not a little amusement. True, there was a moment when he +had an instinctive warning of peril hovering about him, and that was +the moment when the door of the bedroom he had just quitted shut +suddenly and the key grated ominously in the lock. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mort Christ!</i>” he muttered, “my door has locked itself—I heard the +key turn—what a thing to happen!” +</p> + +<p> +There was no doubt about it at all. The door had shut and the key had +turned. Dauberval stood like one petrified, pressing the jewel to his +breast with both his hands, and telling himself that the wind had done +the work. So unnerved was he that he did not lift a foot until minutes +had passed and no other sound had come to break the whispers of the +night. The vision of the galleys and the whip was ever before his +eyes. When at length he moved again, it was this vision which gave him +strength. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he said, “am I a woman to start at the fall of a pebble? If I +stand here much longer I shall go to sleep, and a lacquey will find me +at daybreak. Courage, then—a little courage and all is well.” +</p> + +<p> +The idea put new life into him. He tried the first of the doors, but +it was locked; and the second, in like manner, refused to yield to his +hand. Only when he came to the fourth door did he take heart and say +that success was near to him. For that door opened readily at his +touch; and when he had hesitated a moment lest it should lead him to a +room and not to a passage, he pushed it back inch by inch that the +little light in the hall might break the darkness which now blinded +him. He would have given half he possessed to hold a lantern for a +minute then, so dark was the place in which he found himself; but he +knew that he could not work miracles, and so he nerved himself for a +last effort and boldly passed the door. In the same instant, the place +was flooded by a soft yellow light, and Mademoiselle Corinne stood +face to face with him. +</p> + +<p> +She was dressed in a loose gown of muslin, spotlessly white and +unornamented, and she held a golden candlestick high above her head +that the light might fall upon the face of the man. Dauberval, +staggering with terror, observed that a small diamond cross glittered +upon her white neck, and that a great Russian hound crouched by her +side and pressed his nose into her hand. She had entered the little +cabinet through a panel opening in the wall at a spot exactly opposite +to the door which led the rogue to this trap; but she appeared to be +quite alone, and to know the purpose of her coming. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Monsieur Dauberval,” she cried, and there was merriment in her +voice,—“well, Monsieur Dauberval, are you not pleased to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +Deceived by her manner, the robber looked up. “She is alone,” he +thought, “and she is a woman.” But he made no attempt to answer her, +seeking rather to escape from the room into the hall behind him. And +at this she laughed aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“For a truth, you are a bold fellow,” she continued, as the man backed +towards the door, “and I am very glad that you did not die at my gate +to-night. Have a care to your steps, I beg of you, Monsieur Dauberval, +or you will be of little service to the galleys. Shall I summon a +lacquey to carry your plunder? How unfortunate that you should awake +me at the very moment you were robbing my house!” +</p> + +<p> +Something in the tone of her voice, a note of scorn mingling with the +chord of her laughter, compelled the man to stand. It occurred to him +that he must deal with her before he left the room, or assuredly she +would awake the house, and he would be taken in the gardens of it. He +determined to play first upon her pity. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, coming a little nearer to her, and +speaking with an effort, “you are very cruel to me—I could not +sleep—I wished to walk a little way in your gardens—do you think +that I am a robber? God forbid—I swear it on the cross.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the cross which you carry at your breast, Monsieur Dauberval?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” he gasped, drawing back again, “you know about that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You hear that I do; and since I know about it my servants are now +going to carry you to the Palais de Justice, where you will have +leisure to regret that you did not become a lacquey.” +</p> + +<p> +She said this, and with the words she took up a padded stick and +raised it as though to beat upon the gong by which she stood. For a +moment, however, she held her hand; and forgetting that she had +laughed, she went on to remind the man of that which he had lost. +</p> + +<p> +“When you came to my house to-night,” she said, “I was content to +forget the life you have lived and the crimes you have committed. For +your brother’s sake, I thought to give you one more opportunity of +becoming that which you will never be—an honest man. To-morrow, had +you submitted for a day to the test which I chose for you, I would +have remembered again that you were the son of the advocate of +Avranches. You will not ask me to do that now, Monsieur Dauberval?” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval listened to her with burning ears. He watched the upraised +stick as he would have watched a tiger about to leap upon him. He knew +that if the gong were struck, his hope of life would die away with the +echoes of the note. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he wailed, “for God’s sake spare me—you will never +regret it—I swear it on my knees—hear me—you will not summon your +servants?” +</p> + +<p> +He fell upon his knees before her and raised his hands in cowardly +entreaty. But her answer was unpitying. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” she said, “I am about to summon my servants now.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dieu!</i> mademoiselle,” muttered the man, springing to his feet, “you +shall do nothing of the sort.” But to himself he said again—“She is a +woman, and she is alone.” +</p> + +<p> +All the devils of evil were spurring him on now. He knew that it was +his life or hers—the life of a helpless girl or of a man with one +foot already upon the scaffold. And he was going to plead with her no +more. When he rose from the floor, he told himself that he would kill +her. The madness of his mood magnified and became uncontrollable. He +raised his hand to strike her down, shutting his eyes that he might +not see the exquisite beauty of her face. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall not do it,” he cried savagely. “By Heaven, I will prevent +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” she cried, stepping back quickly, “it is already done;” and +even as she spoke the blows fell,—that of the man in the air, that of +the woman upon the silver gong. +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval had struck wildly; but he struck no second blow. He had said +“She is alone;” but never was she less alone. The great dog at her +side, who had curled himself up to sleep while his mistress had no +need of him, awoke at the booming of the gong, and was at the throat +of the man, even while he reeled back for a new attack. With a low +warning roar, the beast sprang at the robber, and felled him as an ox +is felled by a butcher’s axe. Over and over upon the wooden floor the +two rolled; the dog growling ferociously, the man imploring, +screaming, fighting. Death seemed to breathe into his very face now. +He had his arm across his throat, and the hound’s fangs touched the +bone of it. He struck the brute again and again with his clenched +fist; and for every blow his whole body was shaken until his teeth +gnashed like the teeth of a madman. +</p> + +<p> +“Kill me, kill me,” he screamed, “for God’s sake!—oh, he is tearing +me limb for limb! Heaven!—what suffering!” +</p> + +<p> +He had rolled now almost to the door of the room, and there the hound +drew back for a moment, hearing his mistress’s voice. Dauberval, mad +with fear and pain, scrambled to his feet and staggered out into the +hall of the unyielding doors. A light was there now; and one of the +five doors stood wide open before him; but he had no thought of asking +how or for what reason. Dread of the dog drove him onward recklessly. +“Anything, anything but that,” he cried; and reeling, staggering, +sobbing, he passed through the door and down the long passage to which +it gave access. Whither he was going or to what end, he knew not nor +cared to think. One idea dominated him to the exclusion of all +others—it was the idea of flight—flight to any refuge, even the +refuge of the scaffold. +</p> + +<p> +There was very little light in the corridor where he now found +himself, and when he had run perhaps twenty yards he turned a sharp +corner and was then in utter darkness. So black was it that he could +not see the ground at his feet. He guided himself only by touching the +wall with his fingers. It was a smooth wall, a panelled one, he saw at +first; and though he knew that he might go tumbling headlong down a +staircase, or crashing against a door at any step, so great was his +terror that he ran heedlessly, believing ever to hear the patter of +the hound’s paws upon the ground behind him, even to feel his wet and +frothing lips against his hand. And he was becoming exhausted now. +Often he reeled against the wall and thought that he was fainting. +Would he never come into the garden, he asked? He had been running for +long minutes now, and still the dreadful wall guided him onward, +onward. Once he paused, panting for his breath, but his ear told him +plainly that the hound had followed him. There was no mistaking that +haunting “pat, pat, pat,” behind him. “God have mercy—he will tear me +limb from limb,” he cried, and so wailing he began to run again. +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval was a man who had known few hardships in life; but just as +the past two days had taught him what it is to hunger, so did this +night of agony teach him the meaning both of fear and fatigue. He had +not dreamed that a man could conceive so great a horror and loathing +as this horror and loathing of the hound which now possessed him. As +to his fatigue, there were no words to tell of that. His life seemed +to exude from his body drop by drop. Every step was a torture to him. +The tears ran down his face like rain; a spasm gripped his heart and +seemed to hold it still; his legs were so weary that he could scarce +lift them from the ground. And to his terror of the seen, the terror +of the unseen was now added. He had run for the third part of an hour +by this time; and still the terrible wall led him on. He began to say +that fiends were cheating him—for how could the Hôtel Beautreillis +possess a corridor down which a man might run for twenty minutes? That +would carry him half across Paris. Under any other circumstances he +would have tried to reason with the situation, but the ominous patter +of the hound banished reason from his head. More than this, he heard +the soft tread of other hounds now before him, now behind him. He +shrieked aloud with his fear, and fled again like a madman. +</p> + +<p> +There is an end to the endurance of terror and of the false strength +which it inspires. Dauberval kept his legs to the ultimate moment, for +he told himself that if he fell, the hounds would tear him as they +would tear a deer. But at last pitying nature came to his aid. He +remembered only that he stretched out his hands before him, staggering +blindly into the darkness. Then, with a terrible cry, for he heard the +dogs at his very feet, he fell senseless to the floor and lay like a +dead man. +</p> + +<p> +When he opened his eyes, hours had passed. The ghostly dawn light +streaming through a lantern tower above him told him that day had +broken; but he lay motionless for long minutes, unable to remember how +he had come into the place where now he was, or why he slept upon a +wooden floor. He was still very weak, and his limbs were cold and +stiff and painful; his brain burnt, and would shape no story for him. +When at last he began to remember the events of the dreadful night, he +thought first of the diamond, and pressed his hands to his breast +instinctively; but the jewel was gone; nor could he recollect how he +had lost it. By and by he recalled the moment when he had left his +bed-chamber; and that other moment when pretty Mademoiselle Corinne +stood before him and he had struck her, and from that thought he +passed to memory of the hound. So potent was this in terror, that it +compelled him to stagger to his feet. Half awake as he was, the whole +dread of the night came rushing back to him. He could hear the hound +still—that he would swear; and even when he stood up and asked +himself, “Where am I?” the haunting “pit, pat” still sang in his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>mon Dieu!</i>” he wailed, “have I lost my reason? Where am I? What +do I hear? Oh, pity me, pity me!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked all about him and could make nothing of his environment. He +was in a great building, certainly,—a building which looked like a +riding-school, and was in the shape of an oval. He observed clearly +that a high wall ran round this building, and that he had been lying +upon a wooden corridor which made a little platform beneath the wall. +Dense as he was, it began to dawn upon him that he had been running +round and round this corridor; and at this thought he trembled with +passion. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven!” he cried, “that I should have run round and round like a +horse which amuses the people—oh, what cruelty to play me such a +trick—what cruelty—” +</p> + +<p> +His distress was so great that he began to wring his hands and to pace +the corridor distractedly. And he had been engaged in this employment +for the space of a minute, when the second of his delusions was taken +from him. For, suddenly, he came upon a little fountain built into the +wall of the riding-school; and as he stood a minute to bathe his hands +and forehead at it, it occurred to him that the music of it was +familiar; and that its “drip, drip, drip” was just like the pat of a +dog’s paw upon the ground. “Holy Saints!” he cried with a sob, “that I +should have run away from a basin of water. There is the patter of my +hound. Oh, God! what a night of agony!” +</p> + +<p> +A mocking laugh was the answer to his word of ultimate distress. He +turned round to find himself in the presence of the man in black, who +had met him at the gate yesterday; and he saw that a lacquey awaited +the orders of the unknown. +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +At sunset that evening, Ferdinand Dauberval passed through the Porte +St. Denis on his way to his father at Avranches. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa,” cries the bellman, “here is the dusty gentleman who has +friends. <i>Bon soir</i>, monsieur—was the king well when your excellency +dined with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my belief that we talk to our Lord the Pope,” exclaimed the +cooper. +</p> + +<p> +“Or to the Captain of the Gate,” said the saucy wench. +</p> + +<p> +“Or to both,” shouted the rat-catcher. +</p> + +<p> +But the mounted guard laughed heartily, and cried:— +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day, little fire-eater! Did they give you alms at the Hôtel +Beautreillis. Saint John, what an honest face you have! Oh, it is +plain that you are a loss to Paris!” +</p> + +<p> +Dauberval stood for a moment to shake his fist at them. Then he passed +the gate, and Paris knew him no more. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch02"> +II.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE LIBERTY OF THE LITTLE<br> +RED MAN</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Coq le Roi</span>, the highwayman, started up in his bed when the great +bell of Notre Dame struck midnight. Silently, and with a waking man’s +curiosity, he counted the strokes, nodding his head at each one, and +thinking to himself that it would be five or six of the morning, and +time for him to be about. But when the clock went on to tell the hour +of twelve, an exclamation burst from his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mort Christ!</i>” said he to himself, “I have not slept an hour. I +might know that by the music below. Saint Paul! what throats they +have!” +</p> + +<p> +No man cares to be deceived with the tricks of sleep; nor was Coq le +Roi,—otherwise the Little Red Man, otherwise Jacques Cabot, the +notorious scourge of the highways about Paris, and one of the most +successful robbers that ever set spurs to a horse,—an exception to +the rule. He concluded that he had a personal grievance against the +night for thus cheating him. He began to tell himself that he was +thirsty, and would do well to draw on his boots and venture out to a +cabaret for a cup of wine. Then he remembered that he was not in the +habit of losing his sleep because a few cutthroats bawled beneath the +window of his garret. Some strange sound, some unusual omen of the +night, must have troubled his ears while he slept, he said. And for +the first time for many a day he began to remember that the guards of +the new Lieutenant of Police were then hunting for him out in the +woods beyond Fontenay. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Sang bleu!</i>” he cried, springing suddenly from his bed, and going to +the window of his garret that he might look down thence to the narrow +street below, “am I a woman that I should start at shadows on the +wall? What a thing to tell—at the house of the Red Cock too!” +</p> + +<p> +He put his head out of the window, and the moving panorama of the slum +below reassured him. There, in the heart of the thieves’ quarter of +the Paris of 1761, he might well think himself safe even from the +early energies of Monsieur de Sartines who had just come to be +Lieutenant of Police. Though the day had begun with driving sleet and +bitter wind, few of the beggars in that Rue St. Sauveur thought of +sleep, or indeed of anything but their pleasures. Regularly, when +night fell, these rogues whom Coq le Roi now looked down upon with +satisfaction, hastened to quit the church doors and the gates of the +hôtels, and hurried to the labyrinth of filthy lanes and tottering +houses which had marked their kingdom behind Rue Mauconseil almost +since Paris had risen about the islands of the marshes. A motley group +they were; blind men counting their sous; lepers washing off their +sham sores; lame men carrying their crutches; orphans cursing their +fathers and mothers, who cursed them back again; venders of oranges +with their cry, “Portugal, Portugal;” rogues whom the gibbet long had +claimed in vain. Weary with the labours of the unbefriending day, +eager for the shelter of the cabaret, ripe for quarrel, or drink, or +play, they now rioted in the security of the alleys behind the +markets, and so hid from the night of the greater Paris, the cankering +sore, which was her reproach by day. +</p> + +<p> +Coq le Roi permitted the bitter wind to blow upon his face for some +minutes, then he drew back his head, for he remembered his intention +to drink a cup of wine at the nearest cabaret, and he found the idea a +very good one. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” said he to himself, as he tugged at his long boots and looked +to his pistols, which lay, ready for priming, upon the table by his +ragged bed, “what have I to do with woman’s tattle here? Guards in the +Rue St. Sauveur! what a day that would be! I should like to see it.” +</p> + +<p> +The notion amused him, and he chuckled to himself pleasantly; but of a +sudden the laugh died down upon his lips, and he sat upon the bed like +one petrified. He had become aware, in that instant, of the presence +of another in the room,—a gaunt figure dressed from head to foot in +black, and masked so closely that even his eyes were not visible. +Noiselessly, with no drawing of bolt or creak of foot, the apparition +had come to his bedside. The robber feared nothing human—but now he +trembled so that the whole bed shook, and the sweat fell in icy cold +drops from his brow down upon his naked chest. +</p> + +<p> +“God have pity, who are you?” he asked, not daring so much as to raise +his hand to the pistol beside him. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger laughed merrily, and crossing before the robber, he sat +himself down upon a rough oak bench which was the only seat, other +than the bed, in the miserable attic. Coq le Roi could see by the +little light which fell through the lattice that the visitor wore very +good clothes, and that the hilt of his sword was a-glitter with +diamonds. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Bon soir</i>, Monsieur Jacques Cabot,” said the man, leaning back +against the wall, and crossing his legs for comfort,—“<i>Bon soir</i>; or +perhaps I should say rightly, <i>Bon jour</i>. The clock has just gone +twelve, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +Coq laughed nervously. He was ashamed now that he should have so +carried himself. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were the devil,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +The man neglected to see that he was unanswered. +</p> + +<p> +“You are an early riser, Monsieur Cabot,” he continued playfully, “to +be out of your bed at midnight. What a monk you would make!” +</p> + +<p> +The robber shrugged his shoulders, and since he feared his visitor no +longer, he stretched out a hand and took up one of his pistols. In the +same moment the man in the mask gave a sharp lunge with his foot, and +so cleverly was it done that the pistol went flying up to the roof and +there exploded with a crash like that of cannon. +</p> + +<p> +“Imbecile,” said he, “would you fire upon one who comes to save your +neck?” +</p> + +<p> +Coq le Roi sank back upon the bed with a sigh. After all, he said to +himself, there was something uncanny about the coming of this mask. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he asked doggedly, “and what next?” +</p> + +<p> +The man rose and opened the window. +</p> + +<p> +“This is no time for words,” said he; “let your ears tell you the +tale.” +</p> + +<p> +He held up his hand warningly, bidding the other to listen; and while +the two stood there at the little casement a strange sound arose above +the hum of the city life. It was a sound neither of beggars brawling +nor of rogues at their play. When it had continued a little while, +there was added to it the loud rattle of musketry, the clash of +swords, and the tramp of many feet; while clear above all, and +resounding like the note of a trumpet, was the cry, “The guards, the +guards!” +</p> + +<p> +“You hear,” exclaimed the unknown, drawing back from the window, “our +friends, the cutthroats, are welcoming the guards of the new +Lieutenant of Police. Shall I tell you, Monsieur Cabot, how many years +it is since a dragoon dared to pass the Virgin’s statue? You have no +love for history, you say. Saint Denis, I do not wonder at it, since +it is for you that Monsieur de Sartines has brought about this pretty +play and come into this den of beasts.” +</p> + +<p> +Coq le Roi, quickened by the danger, began to prime his second pistol. +His natural courage had returned to him now. Little man that he was, +little and with a face like a young girl’s, he had made danger so good +a bedfellow that surprise was rather pleasant than alarming to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” cried he, “that Sartines should be such a fool as to look for +me at the house of the Red Cock. Oh, we shall have a merry night, +comrade—yet who you are and why you are here, the devil take me if I +can say.” +</p> + +<p> +He buttoned his cloak around his shoulders with itching fingers, +convinced, though he did not say so, that this man who had come to him +so mysteriously had come as a friend. Meanwhile, the whole quarter +without was thundering with the clamour of the mob—hell itself seemed +to have been loosed in that labyrinth of crime and squalor. +</p> + +<p> +Coq le Roi was sure that his liberty was a matter of moments. +</p> + +<p> +“Look you, my friend,” he continued to the unknown, who had watched +him with some amusement and perhaps a little malice, “I am now going +upstairs to get some fresh air upon the roof. But I shall not forget +that you, whoever you may be, warned me of to-night’s affair. I wish +you good-night, monsieur. When we meet again it may be your turn to +thank me and to tell me how you got into this house. I hope it will be +so.” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger laughed aloud, insolently indifferent to the haste of the +other. +</p> + +<p> +“You are going on the roof, Monsieur Cabot?” he exclaimed mockingly; +“surely that is very thoughtless of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall be the judge of that when I tell you that five of Sartines’ +men are there before you.” +</p> + +<p> +Coq le Roi swore a full-mouthed oath. He even thought for a moment +that this man had betrayed him; but he was too wise to act upon his +suspicions. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall see for myself,” said he, and with that he quitted the room, +only to return a moment later with a face white with fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, trying to force a jest, “you reckon well. There +are exactly five of Sartines’ men above us. How many there may be in +the street below, I will not venture to hazard. Nor will I dispute +with you any longer. If you come here to aid me, this is the time to +do your work; but if you are upon any other errand—then God help you, +for I will certainly blow out your brains.” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not keep my brains in the ceiling of your garret,” said he. +“Upon my word you are a very impertinent fellow, Monsieur Cabot. I am +half of the mind to leave you to Sartines, who has sworn to dig up the +stones of Paris rather than lose the pleasure of your company.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has sworn that?” muttered Coq le Roi, beginning to tremble again. +</p> + +<p> +“As I say. Did you not stop the coach of Madame Geoffrin but a week +ago and wound two of her lacqueys? Very well, Madame Geoffrin +complained to the king and the king to Monsieur de Sartines. And now, +you see, the dragoons are coming to beat in the door of your house. +Oh, the lieutenant knows well that he could only take you with +dragoons. What a man he is—to trap you here like a bear in a cage! +For you are trapped, Monsieur Cabot. Yon street is as full of police +as an orange of pips. And hark, there are the troopers themselves.” +</p> + +<p> +The clamour without, a clamour in which were commingled the hoarse +cries of men, the shrieks of women, the ringing of hoofs upon the +flags, the clash of steel, the loud note of command now rose up from +the street below them. Coq le Roi listened to the hubbub and his knees +quaked under him; but the unknown, who had timed his play to the +ultimate moment, seemed at last to turn from his humour and to take +pity on the trembling robber. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said he, “follow me and ask nothing. You have a lantern +there—bring it.” +</p> + +<p> +The hunted man was now as clay in the hands of this maker of +mysteries. He lighted his lantern mechanically; mechanically he +followed the stranger down the dark and narrow stairs of the house of +the Red Cock. He could hear those without beating already upon his +door; but he trembled no longer. The man who went before him seemed to +fill him with a new courage, as a measure is filled with wine. He did +not ask, “Whence does he come, whither does he go?” He said only, “He +will save me.” And when at length he found himself out in the narrow, +high-walled courtyard which was called by courtesy his garden, he was +like a child obeying a father, and trusting him unquestioningly. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” he exclaimed with humble civility, “there is no door to +the street here.” +</p> + +<p> +“You lie,” said the stranger, curtly; “give me your lantern.” +</p> + +<p> +Coq le Roi watched him with amazement now. When he had taken the +lantern in his hand, he walked straight to the mouth of the old well, +which was the one conspicuous thing in that filthy and deserted court. +Then he unwound a long coil of thin rope, and attaching the lantern to +this, he lowered it into the orifice. Coq le Roi, looking over his +shoulder timidly, watched him as one watches a conjuror at his tricks. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” cried he, “you cannot hide me in the well.” +</p> + +<p> +The unknown laughed scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“St. Denis,” exclaimed he, “that a man should live five years in a +house and yet know nothing of its resources! Do you follow the path of +that light, my friend? Well, tell me what you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“The light shows me walls green with slime and fungus,” said the +robber. “I see great gaps where bricks have been; there are lizards of +strange shapes, and rats feeding—and now I see the water. Holy +Virgin!—you would not send me down there, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Look again,” cried the other, unmoved at the plea, “upon the +right-hand side of the well at a little distance above the water’s +edge,—what see you now?” +</p> + +<p> +Coq le Roi stretched out his neck and searched the fœtid depths with +eager eyes. The twinkle of the light below was like a star seen +through a black tube. The rats fled at its light; stones fell with +resounding splashes while they ran; cold air oozed up and seemed to +freeze the robber’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mon Dieu!</i>” said he, “you have discovered something, monsieur; there +is a little tunnel running into the well, and the water does not cover +its mouth.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have said well,” answered the unknown; “through that tunnel we +shall pass to our friends. After you, Monsieur Cabot. The rope which +holds the bucket will bear the weight of three men. Trust your life to +it rather than to your friends without. I wait for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Coq le Roi shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Virgin!” said he, “I dare not go down there.” +</p> + +<p> +“You dare not—do you hear those blows? They are from the sabres of +the guards who beat in your door. Shall I leave you to receive your +guests? I give you one minute.” +</p> + +<p> +He folded his arms and waited. Coq le Roi, now wringing his hands, or +running to and fro in his distress, or peering with a horrid fear into +the well below, was like a woman distracted. +</p> + +<p> +“God have pity,” cried he; “I cannot—I cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +“The half of a minute is gone,” answered the unknown in a voice hard +as iron. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish to kill me, Monsieur?” moaned the robber. +</p> + +<p> +“You have ten seconds yet,” cried the unknown. +</p> + +<p> +“You torture me,” wailed the robber. +</p> + +<p> +“The guards are just beating in your door,” replied the unknown. +</p> + +<p> +It was as he said. The great iron-bound gate was giving way to the +crashing blows which fell upon it. Coq le Roi listened for one long +instant—and then, reeling, staggering toward the well, he clutched +the rope and began to descend. +</p> + +<p> +“When you come to the tunnel, kick against the wall, and that will +swing you in,” cried the masked man, bending over to watch him; “leave +the lantern until I follow.” +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_054.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_054_th.jpg" alt="img_054.jpg"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “You will find my Body,” howled the Robber. + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p> +“You will find my body,” howled the robber from the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Lowering himself hand under hand, Coq le Roi descended to the well. +The unknown waited until he had reached the light, and had entered the +dark hole above the water. Then he, too, clutched the rope—but he +could not keep back the laugh from his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ventrebleu!</i> Sartines,” said he to himself, “a merry night to you, +and a merrier day to-morrow. To be fooled by a woman at your time of +life! Oh, you amuse us finely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you coming, monsieur,” roared Coq le Roi below, “Oh, for pity’s +sake, be quick!” +</p> + +<p> +The unknown hesitated no longer, but swung himself cleverly upon the +rope and so disappeared into the darkness of the well. +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes later a terrible cry, like a cry of victory, arose +suddenly from the ranks of the sweltering mob gathered in the narrow +alley before the house of the Red Cock. From lane to lane, and street +to street, it spread until it was echoed in long-drawn hooting even +across the frilling waters of the Seine. +</p> + +<p> +“Coq le Roi has escaped! <i>Holà! Holà! Holà!</i> Coq le Roi is free. +Long life to the little red man. <i>Viva!</i> Down with the guard. <i>À +bas</i>, Sartines! <i>Holà! Holà!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Loud, terrible, long sustained was the cry. Exhilarated at these +unexpected tidings, spurred to new courage by the joyous news, the mob +fell upon the sulking troopers with any weapon that came to its hand; +and in the stifling courts and alleys there was soon to be heard the +shrieks of dying men, the booming of muskets, the shriller wailing of +the women. Yet it was not until dawn broke that the beggars began to +number their dead, and to forget that Coq le Roi was free. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur de Sartines had supped well, as he always did at the Hôtel +Beautreillis. Though he declared that the gloomy old house in the Rue +St. Paul was more forbidding than the Bastille where its exterior was +concerned, there was no one readier to admit that Mademoiselle Corinne +de Montesson, its mistress, was the cleverest woman in Paris and the +most fascinating. Besides, was she not the particular patron of all +the rogues and vagabonds in the thieves’ quarter, and could she not, +if she would, be of more service to the court in general and to +himself, Monsieur de Sartines in particular, than a squadron of +dragoons? It was a big “if,” since mademoiselle’s charity and +large-heartedness were traditions in the city; but the lieutenant +still hoped—and supped. +</p> + +<p> +On this particular evening, the excellent man had much need of +consolation, and of the rich red wine which added the lustre of the +ruby to the sparkling Venetian glass in which Corinne’s guests were +always served. For it was the evening of the day when Coq le Roi had +slipped through his fingers in so miraculous a manner; and in escaping +had set the whole city laughing at her Lieutenant of Police. Nor had +the good Sartines secured at that time the reputation which in after +years brought him fame beyond the fame of any who had occupied the +office which he glorified. He had yet to prove himself; and in proving +himself he had begun with this disastrous and long-remembered fiasco. +</p> + +<p> +Depressed by the reflection, gloomy, and not a little irritable, he +had gone to Mademoiselle de Montesson’s house, scarce daring to hope +that she would aid him; convinced, none the less, that she would amuse +him. He had found her, to his satisfaction, alone save for the +presence of her wonder-loving old physician, Antonio, and of her young +kinsman, Bénoît, who was said to be the finest swordsman in Paris. +The supper had been unsurpassable, as it was always at the Hôtel +Beautreillis; and when it was done, mademoiselle carried her guest to +the great music-room, and there caused her servants to bring the +delicious coffee of the East. And this being served, Hátrin, her +harpist, began to touch the strings of his instrument caressingly; +while mademoiselle herself, sharing a rest-giving lounge with the +gloomy lieutenant, endeavoured to play wittily upon his melancholy. +</p> + +<p> +“I read your thoughts, my dear friend,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“They would make a dull book, mademoiselle,” replied the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, not at all; such a book has yet to be finished. Gloom is the +seasoning which gives joy its savour, Monsieur de Sartines—just as +failure is the salt which provokes the appetite for success.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what are you thinking, my dear lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—of what should I think but the happiness of my friends? And you +are not happy, monsieur. Indeed, you are the picture of misery.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are of merriment, mademoiselle—and of beauty.” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant bowed pompously when he uttered the compliment. +Mademoiselle herself laughed a rippling girlish laugh—she had lived +but twenty-three years, and the fountain of her youth still played +abundantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho,” she cried, “a compliment from Monsieur de Sartines. I shall +look for the question next. You will spare me the torture of the boot, +monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would have to be a very pretty boot, dear lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Another compliment. Oh, surely, Monsieur de Sartines is about to put +the question.” +</p> + +<p> +“How! You think that I have something to ask—of you?” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not? There would be stranger questions.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must prove that before I admit it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, I will prove it in a word. You came here to-night to speak +about Coq le Roi.” +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur de Sartines, when he heard this, sat straight up like a man +who has been hit in the back with the flat of a sword. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Pardieu!</i>” cried he, “what do you know about Coq le Roi?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed at him girlishly and very sweetly. +</p> + +<p> +“I know much more than the Lieutenant of Police,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You are pleased to jest, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—to jest—what an accusation!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then convince me that you do not.” +</p> + +<p> +“With the greatest pleasure possible—for instance, you would like to +learn—” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant laughed savagely. +</p> + +<p> +“I would like to learn where the man is at this moment,” exclaimed he. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all—surely, nothing could be more simple. I will summon +Antonio.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it is Antonio who is the friend of assassins, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, he is a brother to them all. Does that shock you, dear +Monsieur de Sartines? If so, we will not trouble him.” +</p> + +<p> +“By no means,” cried the lieutenant, who was boiling over with +curiosity; “at least he will amuse me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I promise that,” replied Corinne. +</p> + +<p> +Sartines had expected that she would rise from her seat to summon the +physician as she had promised; but she did not so much as move a +finger; and when some minutes had passed the lieutenant became +impatient. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “are you not going to exhibit this godfather of +assassins?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, since he is here now.” +</p> + +<p> +It was as she said. The old doctor, Antonio, had entered the room +during their talk; and the lieutenant felt a cold chill run down his +spine, when suddenly he became aware that a strange figure stood at +his side. Whence the apparition had come; from the shelter of what +trap, or panel, or hiding-place, Sartines could not tell. He knew only +that the old man was before him, clad in his Geneva gown, wearing a +full-bottomed wig, the curls of which almost touched his elbows. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” cried he, “you have a light foot, doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio bowed with the grace of a prince-bishop. +</p> + +<p> +“At your service, lieutenant,” said he. “If all report be true, you +will need many light feet for your work in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +Sartines bit his lip. The physician’s words seemed a reflection upon +his mishap with Coq le Roi. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said he, “let us talk of other things. Mademoiselle has +promised that you will amuse me—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here to obey my mistress,” said the old man, “—what is your +pleasure, lieutenant?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my pleasure is not in question, but mademoiselle has said—” +</p> + +<p> +“I have said that you will tell him what the highwayman named Coq le +Roi, is doing to-night,” cried Corinne, interrupting suddenly; “there +is nothing more simple than that, eh, Antonio?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a child’s task, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +Sartines, who had begun by treating the whole thing as an elaborate +jest, listened to this talk incredulously. While he told himself that +Antonio’s claim was absurd, preposterous, ridiculous, nevertheless the +idea that he should put the physician to the trial was strong and +fascinating. He felt like one in the presence of a conjuror. He would +watch the trick closely—perhaps learn something from it. Besides, if +he should get any information about Coq le Roi—but that, he said, was +impossible. +</p> + +<p> +Antonio, meanwhile, had crossed the great room and had seated himself +before a little table upon which was an astrolabe in brass, a lamp +with a green shade, and a large sheet of drawing-paper, all scrawled +over with hieroglyphics and strange lettering like the lettering of an +Eastern manuscript. When he had turned back the long sleeves of his +gown, and had taken a pair of compasses in his hand, the doctor bade +the others come near. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he to Sartines, “you desire to know in what +occupation the man Jacques Cabot, sometimes called Coq le Roi, has +been employed during the last twelve hours. If you will be good enough +to sit by my side, and to say nothing until the clock shall strike +again, I will tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant, assuring himself that he was a fool to take part in +such mummery, sat as the physician directed. Corinne took her stand +beside him; Antonio, resting his head upon his hands, cried suddenly +for less light; and at the words, lacqueys entered the room +noiselessly and extinguished the candles. Only the shaded green lamp +remained; and from its aureole of light the figure of the old doctor +stood out—motionless, stern—the figure of some weird magician risen +up from the ages of the past. +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes passed, and nothing was to be heard in the great room but +the ticking of the clock. Sartines found himself spellbound; Corinne +herself stood like a statue, scarce seeming to breathe. When, at last, +Antonio broke the spell, he did so by beginning to speak in a low +voice, accompanying the words with the tracing of strange lines upon +the paper before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, addressing Sartines, but keeping his eyes upon +the paper, “at twelve o’clock to-day Coq le Roi was at Soisy robbing +the coach of his lordship, the Duke of Sabran.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dieu!</i>” cried Sartines, rising from his chair, “you say—” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio, without so much as turning his head, continued to draw upon +the paper. Corinne touched the lieutenant gently upon the arm, and +made a sign to him that he should say nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“At three o’clock,” continued the physician, whose voice was now +strong and clear as the note of a bell, “I find that Coq le Roi was at +Gros Bois after stopping the coach of the Grand Master of Artillery, +the Comte d’Eu, and robbing him of three hundred louis d’or.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ventre bleu!</i>” cried Sartines, while he threw himself back in his +chair and laughed heartily, “what a play! Oh, you amuse me very well, +my dear doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio ignored the interruption. His head was now so near to the +paper that his eyes almost touched it. His voice was the voice of a +man who speaks his thoughts aloud, unconscious that any listen. +</p> + +<p> +“It is six o’clock,” he said, after a long pause, “and the rain falls +heavily upon the road to Fontenay. I see a great hill, and at its foot +the woods stretch out to meet the waters. One horseman keeps watch in +the dark place of the valley. He is waiting for the coming of his +highness, the Duke de Nevers—” +</p> + +<p> +“Thousand devils,” cried Sartines, unable to control himself, “you +lie, monsieur—” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio turned his head swiftly; Corinne pressed the lieutenant’s arm +warningly. +</p> + +<p> +“Your pardon,” cried Sartines, nettled at his outburst, and now pale +with excitement, “but has not this jest gone far enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is as monsieur pleases,” cried the old physician, pushing his +paper away from him; “he has asked me what the highwayman known as Coq +le Roi has done to-day and I have told him, reading from the signs +which have been given to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” replied the lieutenant, “you have amused me very well; +but is it not possible, monsieur, that you have not read your signs +aright?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed, if you think that,” cried Corinne, interrupting quickly, +“why not ask Coq le Roi himself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask Coq le Roi?” +</p> + +<p> +“As I say. Had you allowed Antonio to finish his work, he would have +told you that, after stopping the coach of his highness, the Duke de +Nevers, Coq le Roi turned his horse towards Paris; and that, even +while we were speaking of him, he entered this house, and is now my +guest in the Tower of St. Paul—which, I need not tell you, +lieutenant, is still part of the Hôtel Beautreillis.” +</p> + +<p> +Sartines heard her out, and when she had finished, his face was almost +as green as the shade of the physician’s lamp. The sweat poured from +his brow like rain; he gnashed his teeth; he laughed with the +hysterical laugh of a woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I a child, mademoiselle,” he blurted out at last, “that you should +tell me such tales?” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne, holding herself with great dignity, struck a gong at her +side; this was her answer to him. +</p> + +<p> +A lacquey answered the summons while the note was still reverberating +in the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“Edouard,” she said to the servant, “Monsieur Jacques Cabot, is he in +his apartment?” +</p> + +<p> +“He arrived an hour ago, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is sleeping, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne clapped her pretty hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Could anything be better?” she said. “We will have a peep at him and +apologise afterwards. Come, Monsieur de Sartines, you shall doubt no +more.” +</p> + +<p> +She led the way from the room while the lieutenant was still gaping +with his astonishment, and he, not knowing whether he stood upon his +head or his heels, followed her into the courtyard of the old house, +and thence across a pretty garden, darkened by great chestnut-trees +and a labyrinth of bushes. The Hôtel Beautreillis, as Corinne’s home +was called, formed a part of the once royal palace of St. Paul; and +many strange old towers and turrets and pavilions then stood in its +beautiful gardens. It was to one of these pavilions that the girl now +conducted Sartines; and the excellent lieutenant was not a little +surprised to find two sturdy Swiss guards standing sentry at its +iron-bound door. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Parbleu!</i>” cried he, “you watch your guests well, my dear lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” she said, “it is the king’s wish.” +</p> + +<p> +“How? The king knows that the man is here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly—or rather, he knows that I await him.” +</p> + +<p> +Sartines asked himself for the fifth time what wine he had drunk and +from what malady he suffered. Then he stumbled up the narrow stairs; +and, while Corinne held aloft the lantern which a servant had given to +her, he entered a small and exquisitely furnished room—and there he +saw Coq le Roi. +</p> + +<p> +The highwayman was no typical robber. Short to the point of absurdity, +with hair as red as the sands of the sea, and clothes which spoke of +long hours in the saddle, you might have taken him for a hunchback of +Notre Dame or a tailor of the Rue St. Severin. All the city called him +the “Little Red Man,” and the title fitted him like a glove. When +Sartines then saw him he was sleeping, still dressed, upon a couch; +and the light from Mademoiselle’s lantern, playing upon his strange +little face, lit up features which might have been those of a girl. +Beyond this, the man was splashed to his shoulders with mud; and two +great pistols he always carried were displayed threateningly upon the +table beside the relics of the admirable supper he had just partaken +of. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dame!</i>” cried Sartines, feasting his eyes upon the motionless figure +of the robber, “that is Coq le Roi right enough. I could pick him from +a hundred.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly you could,” whispered Corinne, drawing back from the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” cried the lieutenant, “I am content to ask no questions, +mademoiselle, but in ten minutes my officers will call for their +prisoner.” +</p> + +<p> +“One moment, lieutenant. Be pleased first to read the king’s +pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +At this word she held her lantern quite close to the lieutenant’s +eyes, and showed him a little sheet of parchment which she had brought +with her from the music-room. At the foot of this there was the royal +seal and the signature of King Louis. Sartines took the document with +trembling hands and read these words:— +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques Cabot, sometimes called Coq le Roi, is to be the prisoner of +Mademoiselle de Montesson until he shall steal the diamond ring from +the finger of Monsieur de Sartines.” +</p> + +<p> +A smile, a terrible smile, played in the eyes of the now thoroughly +enraged lieutenant. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said he, bowing low, “I congratulate you upon the +farce you are playing; at the same time his majesty’s wish is a +command to me. I shall make it my business to see him to-morrow and to +alter this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, my dear Monsieur Sartines—but remember, it is half past +ten o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Half past ten o’clock—why should I remember that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will learn presently.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned upon his heel with another stately bow, and the voices of +the lacqueys were heard immediately crying for his coach. Two minutes +later his horses were galloping furiously toward the Hôtel de Ville; +but Corinne de Montesson was still laughing in her garden. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “if only he will go to the king!” +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur de Sartines did not go to the king—that night at any rate. +His first act was to call the Captain of the Guard, and to give him +precise instructions for the good of Coq le Roi. +</p> + +<p> +“Take a file of men,” said he to the captain, “and surround the +pavilion of St. Paul in the garden of the Hôtel Beautreillis. Coq le +Roi, the highwayman, is there. Shoot him if he attempts to leave the +place. Otherwise, keep the guard posted until you hear from me.” +</p> + +<p> +The captain saluted and withdrew. When he had gone, Sartines called +for a cup of white wine and drank it at a draught. Then he took snuff +in huge quantities, seeking vainly to compose his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dame!</i>” said he to himself, “what a tale to tell! That she should be +the friend of assassins—And the king supports her. Either I am mad or +I have dreamed the things of this night. Jacques Cabot her guest! Holy +Virgin—she will burn the Bastille next!” +</p> + +<p> +Long he paced his apartment, his brain burning with his changing +thoughts. Twelve o’clock rang out from Notre Dame, one o’clock was +told by all the churches of Paris, and still his coach waited to carry +him to his own house in the Faubourg St. Germain. At a quarter past +one, when sleep had begun to battle with his perplexity, a new clatter +of hoofs disturbed the silent courts of the Hôtel de Ville, and awoke +him from his stupor. He had scarce started up from his chair to learn +the moment of the interruption when a horseman, dripping wet and +splashed from head to foot with mud, burst into his room and stood at +the salute before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” cried Sartines. +</p> + +<p> +“I have the honour to inform your excellency,” cried the man, “that +Monsieur l’Abbé Lamotte was stopped upon the road to Choisy at half +past ten to-night and robbed of a hundred crowns by the man called Coq +le Roi.” +</p> + +<p> +“What,” roared Sartines, “at half past ten! You lie, rogue—I was with +Coq le Roi myself at that hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is as I say, sir—I was one of the company, and I could pick the +man from a thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +“God deliver me from all devils!” ejaculated the lieutenant; “it was +the hour she told me to remember.” +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur de Sartines was, perhaps, as little in love with hag’s tales +and superstitions as any man in Paris; but the events of that night, +the strange mysteries of it, the surprises he had known, confused his +brain and distracted him until he had no longer command of his reason. +While the messenger was speaking to him, he found himself looking +instinctively for the diamond ring upon the third finger of his left +hand. It still glistened there, and he chuckled grimly when he saw it. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” said he, “it is the king’s jest. He has posted his own guards +in the Rue St. Paul, and to-morrow he will deliver up Cabot to my +charge. His words prove that. ‘Until he shall steal the diamond ring +from the finger of Monsieur de Sartines.’ <i>Dame!</i> if the liberty of +Coq le Roi depends upon that, he will remain a prisoner until the day +of judgment. Steal my ring—Holy Virgin, I would like to see the man +who could do it!” +</p> + +<p> +The thought somewhat comforted him. He determined to go to his own +house and to get what sleep he could before dawn broke. He said that +this report of a new outrage must be untrue, since Coq le Roi was +watched by his own guards in the Rue St. Paul. He remembered that the +king was still at Versailles, and that if luck were willing, he would +be able to find his Majesty there in the early hours of daylight. As +for the stupendous mystery now hovering about the Hôtel Beautreillis +and Corinne de Montesson, his tired brain could not grapple with that. +He swore when he thought of it. He recalled the days when the people +had declared the girl to be a witch. He fell to sleep in his own bed +at last only to dream that Coq le Roi had stolen his ring and that the +king himself was wearing it. +</p> + +<p> +The sun had been up an hour, when the lieutenant awoke from his +troubled sleep. He found his valet standing at his bedside, profuse in +apology for the intrusion. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to disturb your excellency,” he said, “but there is a +mounted messenger below who has news which will not wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“Send him up,” cried the lieutenant, springing from his bed, and +beginning to dress hurriedly. “Does he come from the provost?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing,” said the man, “save that he craves audience.” +</p> + +<p> +A moment later, the messenger, one of the new guard, was saluting his +chief. +</p> + +<p> +“I am to tell you, sir,” said he, “that Coq le Roi, the highwayman, +was seen this morning in the woods beyond Yères.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” cried the lieutenant, bristling with anger, “you come to tell me +that—then tell it to the devil.” +</p> + +<p> +The man crossed himself devoutly. +</p> + +<p> +“God save us all!” said he; “here is your excellency’s own guard in +the Rue St. Paul declaring that the fellow has slept all night and has +never so much as turned in his sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant waited to hear no more. Refusing even the coffee which +his servants offered to him, he called for his coach and set out at a +gallop for Versailles. No fool under any circumstances, this mystery +seemed to be making a fool of him. He told himself while he drove that +all Paris would be laughing at him before night fell. He could have +wagered his life that he had seen Coq le Roi fast asleep in the +turreted pavilion of Corinne’s house. He declared either that he had +dreamed the thing, or that these new stories were false. The king had +made the robber a prisoner in this way for some secret purpose. That +purpose he must find out. Perhaps, after all, it was only his +Majesty’s love for a pair of pretty blue eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He arrived at Versailles at eight o’clock, but learnt to his chagrin +that the king had set out to the hunt, and was not to return to the +palace until the afternoon. This was an irritating foil to his plans; +but he spent the day in seeking audiences of his friends, and +endeavouring vainly to glean some hints from which he could forge a +key to his perplexity. Disappointed in this, he conceived the notion +of walking a little way into the park; and so of catching his Majesty +before he was surrounded by the host of idlers and pleasure-seekers +who lay waiting to whisper a word into the royal ear. +</p> + +<p> +It was nearly five o’clock in the evening when he set out on this +quest; and an unusual stillness reigned in the magnificent gardens of +the château. Here and there, daintily coloured lanterns gave dancing +light beneath the trees; a few richly dressed fops were making love to +pretty women; but the great world of pleasure was resting until the +zenith of the night should awake it to new occupations. Sartines, +indeed, found himself almost alone, when absorbed in his unending +speculations he crossed the gardens where the fountains foamed redly +in the glowing rays of the setting sun, and passed down the Avenue de +Trianon into the groves of the more open park. This was quite deserted +at such an hour. Valets, stablemen, gardeners—all were taking what +rest they could, knowing well that the night would have need of them. +The silence and the twilight suited the lieutenant’s mood well. He +began to pace a deserted avenue of yew elms with the slow steps of a +man bearing a burden of worry and of doubt. He looked often across the +park for the advance guards of the royal party. He believed himself to +be alone, and even spoke his thoughts aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” said he, remembering still the letter which Corinne had read to +him, “when any highwayman shall steal my ring, then will I hang myself +from the king’s bed-post. What an idea to suggest! It really amuses +me—it really—ha, ha!—” +</p> + +<p> +To his surprise, a mocking laugh answered his spoken thoughts. He +turned round swiftly, abashed at his words, to find that the intruder +was no other than an exceedingly pretty girl, apparently not yet +twenty years of age, who was then sitting upon a mouldy stone bench +under the shadow of the elms. She was dressed in an exquisite riding +habit of green velvet, and the merriment of her laugh, together with +the brightness of her eyes and the exceeding suppleness of her figure, +completed a picture which arrested even the wandering attention of the +Lieutenant of Police. +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” cried he, bowing very low, “have I +the honour—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said the young girl, laughing again, “the honour is mine, +monsieur—to be forgotten by the chief of his Majesty’s police.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see so many faces,” pleaded Sartines, gallantly, “but that I should +forget your face, mademoiselle—oh, that were impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not, monsieur—since you do not remember that you met me at +the château of the Comte d’Eu.” +</p> + +<p> +The name of the Comte d’Eu sent a shiver down the lieutenant’s back. +It recalled the old physician and his mystic prophecies. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Pardieu!</i>” cried he, “I remember, of course. You are a kinswoman of +the count’s, I doubt not—and that being so, you know something of the +misfortune which overtook him yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I do,” said the girl, “since I was with him in his coach when +he was stopped by the highwayman they call Coq le Roi.” +</p> + +<p> +Sartines gasped. Such a striking confirmation of the old physician’s +words he had never looked to hear. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” cried he, very anxiously, “will you permit me to sit a +moment while you tell me more of this affair?” +</p> + +<p> +She made way for him readily upon the bench. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “I will tell you anything you please—and I know a +good deal more about Coq le Roi than you do, Monsieur de Sartines.” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant looked at the girlish figure beside him and laughed a +little contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“You must convince me of that,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I will—though I ought not to do so. It is dangerous to +play with other people’s secrets, Monsieur de Sartines.” +</p> + +<p> +“Secrets,” exclaimed the lieutenant, “why—what secrets can there be +in a case like this?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I were sure we were alone, I might be tempted to tell you. But +look how dark it grows. Upon my word I must not stay any longer, +monsieur—another time you shall learn all.” +</p> + +<p> +Sartines’ eagerness was now beyond control. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said he, “I beg you will do me the favour to remain, if it +is only for ten minutes. Are you not safe with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be—but you know it is lonely here—and hush, is there not +some one coming?” +</p> + +<p> +They both listened a moment, but the murmur of the fountains and the +echo of distant music were the only sounds in the darkness of the +grove. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” resumed Sartines, “you see that we are alone—and now, I beg +of you—” +</p> + +<p> +The girl sighed—a sigh of regret and hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very wrong of me,” she said, “and Corinne will never forgive +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Corinne!” ejaculated the lieutenant, “do you refer to Mademoiselle de +Montesson?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what of her?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl appeared to hesitate, and it was only after a long pause that +she said: “Oh, she has been very unkind to you. She made a wager with +the king that she would find an actress from the Opéra Comique and +pass her off on you as Coq le Roi himself. And she has won, you know!” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” roared Sartines. +</p> + +<p> +“It is as I say. The man you thought you saw in her house last night +was not a man at all. It was Mademoiselle Guérin, from the Opéra +Comique.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thousand devils,” exclaimed the lieutenant, rising from his seat, “I +never thought of that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you did not. You forgot that your robber has the face of a +young girl. Corinne, you know, remembered that, and so she tricked +you. She has always been the friend of Coq le Roi. She warned him two +days ago that spies were in the Rue St. Sauveur, and lent him the +disguise in which he escaped. He told her himself what coaches he was +going to rob and where. Her old physician helped her with his nonsense +and his gown. And now she has set all Paris laughing at you.” +</p> + +<p> +Sartines groaned like a wounded man. +</p> + +<p> +“What, then, in heaven’s name means this farce about stealing my +ring?” he cried, more to himself than to the pretty creature at his +side. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Monsieur de Sartines, where are your wits?” said the girl. +“Don’t you see that she wishes to get the king’s pardon for her +friend? And the king makes this ridiculous condition, meaning that the +man shall not be pardoned. Oh, it is all as plain as the Trianon +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course it is, of course it is,” snarled the lieutenant, whose +hands were trembling with rage and shame. +</p> + +<p> +“I could tell you many more things, monsieur,” continued the girl, “if +the sun were not in such a hurry to set—but see how dark it grows. +Meanwhile, here is a letter which you may keep and read when you +return to Paris to-night—it will tell you much.” +</p> + +<p> +She took a letter from the breast of her habit and pressed it into the +hand of the lieutenant, allowing her fingers to rest for some moments +in his. Sartines, tormented by a thousand reproaches, did not even +notice the pressure. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know,” he asked abstractedly, “in what disguise Coq le Roi +left the Rue St. Sauveur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I do, monsieur; it was in the disguise of a woman of +fashion,—in fact, he wore a green velvet riding-habit which Corinne +gave to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“A green velvet riding-habit,” repeated Sartines, thinking of anything +but the green velvet habit at his side. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing else,—a green velvet riding-habit and a little +three-cornered hat. Oh, they cheated you well—but read that letter, +and it will save you being fooled a third time.” +</p> + +<p> +“A third time!” exclaimed the lieutenant, looking round quickly, while +the clasp of the girl’s pretty fingers was strong upon his left hand, +into which she was forcing the letter. +</p> + +<p> +“As I say—a third time,” she explained boisterously. “Corinne has +cheated you once in making you believe that a woman is a man; I have +cheated you a second time in making you believe that a man is a +woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Her words came in a torrent; and even while they were upon her lips, +she raised the gloved hand which was free, leaving the other hand +still in that of the man; and very dexterously and suddenly she cast +the contents of a tiny bottle she had concealed in her palm into the +eyes of Monsieur de Sartines. At the same moment she grasped his +fingers with a strange twist, and so sprang to her feet. But the +lieutenant, whose eyes seemed on fire and who believed himself to be +blind, roared like a stricken bull. +</p> + +<p> +“Who, in heaven’s name, are you?” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Jacques Cabot, otherwise Coq le Roi, otherwise the Little Red +Man—very much at your service. <i>Bon soir</i>, Monsieur de Sartines. You +will see very well in ten minutes. I have your diamond ring upon my +left hand.” +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant uttered a terrible cry and staggered across the path, +in a vain endeavour to grapple with the robber. But when the guard at +last answered his cries he was quite alone, and the silence of the +night reigned in the grove. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch03"> +III.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">A PRISON OF SWORDS</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Jacques de Serrefort</span> was sleeping when the jailor opened the door of +his cell; but he awoke while the keys still rattled in the lock, and +sat up in his bed half blinded by the sunlight which streamed through +the high window of his prison. It was a morning of early June, fresh +with sweet breezes of the summer and the odour of roses in the air; +but the captive, who had lived a day of the long ago in his dreams, +regarded neither the hour nor the freshness of it. Every morning for +fifteen years had he arisen from such dreams of the old time to forget +them quickly in the terrible realities of his doom. The gentle smile +upon his face, born of the visions of the night, passed at once in the +first moments of the day. Sleep had carried him to the fair fields of +Brittany, to the pastures of his homestead, to the ingle wherein his +wife, and the daughter he had loved more than life, had been wont to +greet him when the day’s work was done. But the dawn destroyed +illusions so welcome. He became the slave again. Nothing to him that +it was the height of summer, when all Paris was alive with merry music +and feasting and the notes of bells calling lovers to the altars. Day +or night, the fall of the leaf or the flowering of the blossom—the +hour was long since passed when he remembered these. No more did he +rave against the destiny which had made him a perpetual prisoner in +the Conciergerie. His mind was rusted from long disuse; he talked and +acted like a little child; tears refused him their consoling +friendship. He prayed that the end might be soon; he sorrowed only +because death was not given to him. +</p> + +<p> +The jailor entered the cell as he had entered it every morning during +those terrible years. He and Serrefort had grown old together; old in +association, almost in captivity. True, Baptiste, as they called the +fellow, had a little house out in the cathedral close yonder, and went +there at odd hours to gossip with his neighbours; but nine-tenths of +his years were spent in the Conciergerie, and he knew every stone in +it, nay, almost every crack in its tremendous walls. In his way, he +had been a good friend to Jacques de Serrefort—a friend in the little +things of kindness whose worth to a prisoner is inestimable. Every +morning, as soon as the bells of Notre Dame struck six o’clock, he +would enter the wretched man’s cell to cry: “Courage, comrade; here is +the day. Who knows what it will bring?” Jacques would declare +sometimes that he had said the same thing every day for fifteen years. +But it came out of the goodness of his heart, and was not to be +resented. Indeed, the prisoner welcomed the sound of the homely voice; +and when on this particular morning of June, in the year 1761, the +customary greeting was not given, Serrefort turned quickly to his +jailor with a question upon his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“How now, Baptiste,” cried he, “you are silent this morning!” +</p> + +<p> +Baptiste shook his head, and went toward the window that Serrefort +might not see his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Courage, comrade,” said he; “it will not be for long—your daughter +will return to Paris presently, and then all will be well.” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort, who had begun to dress, sat down upon his bed again. He +divined that some great misfortune was about to overtake him, though +of its nature he could foresee nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Baptiste,” said he, “you speak in riddles. What has my daughter +to do with the Conciergerie—have I not enough to bear that you should +talk of her?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dame!</i>” replied the old jailor, “I must speak of her since she alone +has kept you from the Bombec Tower<sup><a href="#en1b" id="en1a">[1]</a></sup> these two years and more. Think +you, comrade, that the bailiff gives windows and red wine to all who +ask them? Saint Denis, you have the best quarters in the prison, and +the best food. And why?—why, because your daughter has paid for such +things. You don’t know that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear to heaven that I know nothing,” exclaimed Serrefort. “You say +that I have these things through my daughter, and that she pays for +them?” +</p> + +<p> +“How else should you have them? <i>Sapristi!</i> a child would not be so +simple. She has paid for them since your old protector, the Sieur +Buchot, died. And she will pay for them again—when she comes back to +Paris. Oh, be sure of it. She is a good child, and rare is the week +when she does not tell me what she means to do for you. Do not lose +heart, old friend. Who knows?—she may be ill or gone away upon an +affair of importance. If the bailiff were reasonable, he would think +of these things. But he will not hear me, and the order now is that I +am to carry you to the Bombec Tower this morning, and to show you no +more favours until you can pay for them again.” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort shuddered. He had not lived in the great prison for fifteen +years without hearing many a grim story of the terrible <i>oubliettes</i> +below the level of the river Seine, wherein, shut out from God’s day +and surrounded by horrors unnameable, the more wretched and poorer +victims of the bailiff Hubert’s greed went all too slowly to their +doom. Captivity is apt to obliterate from a man’s heart those finer +affections which are fed upon freedom. Serrefort was tempted for a +moment to bitter thoughts of the daughter who had left him to a fate +so horrible. But anon he remembered Baptiste’s words, that she must be +ill or away upon an affair of importance. And then he complained no +more, but fell to wondering what her life had been since he had left +her, a child of fifteen, in the old home in Brittany. He could not +forget altogether that he owed this enduring punishment to her, and +her alone. The hardness born of prison life closed about his heart +when he told himself that if he had not struck the man who had been +the shadow upon her life, he would not now be a prisoner in the +Conciergerie. Such thoughts, however, passed upon the instant, and his +great love of her came flowing into his heart like a freshet, and he +longed, with the accumulated longing of years, to take her to his +heart again. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, let me see her once more,” he prayed, and so praying he dressed +himself and told Baptiste that he was ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Old friend,” said he, “I have been blind indeed, to take these gifts +from the hand of one whose own need must be so great. Think you that I +would have permitted Irène to work for me at a time when she has +neither friends nor helpers in all the city? Heaven forbid that I +should have so little love for her. Oh, I am ready to follow you, +Baptiste. I care not where you carry me if only you bring me news that +she is well. Have I aught else in the world to remember but my little +Irène? God shield her always in the shadow of His love.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood up dressed now, and the sunlight fell, bright and golden, +upon his clear features and snow-white hair. He had been one of +Condé’s legion in the old time; a type of fine manhood and dashing +courage. They said that there was no finer swordsman in the regiment; +no better horseman. Nor had fifteen years of captivity robbed him +altogether of that magnificent figure and soldierly carriage which had +been the envy of his comrades in the long ago, when Brittany was the +fairest country in the world to him, and the face of his young wife +the sweetest face in all France. He stood up now, the sun showing the +pallor of his face and the deep black lines beneath his eyes; but his +body was erect, his shoulders square, his step firm. And so, like a +soldier upon parade, he quitted the cell which had harboured him so +long, and followed Baptiste to the corridor without. +</p> + +<p> +There was a file of men in the passage armed with harberds and +spontoons; a little army to guard a prisoner, who had never in his +wildest moments dreamed of escape from a citadel so formidable as the +Conciergerie. Serrefort exchanged no greeting with them; but he +surveyed them with some scorn when they closed about him and began to +march down the corridor, and so to the head of a flight of steps which +appeared to lead into the very bowels of the earth. For one short +instant a window showed him the city, and beyond that the river, +bright with lapping green waves and busy boats, and the houses all +huddled together in the sunlight, and the streets full of hurrying +throngs, glad because the new day had come. He said that the world lay +there,—the world where men hoped and loved and worked; the world he +would never know again. And then the window was passed, and he found +himself descending the winding stairs of the great Bombec Tower, which +seemed to rise up from the very river itself. Though his guards held +torches high above their heads, the place was so dark that even the +garish yellow light could not penetrate the terrible blackness. +Serrefort feared almost to set foot upon the ground, lest he should +tumble into some horrid pit or go headlong into the waters of the +Seine. So heavy and damp was the air that his lungs seemed to be +filled with noxious vapours at every breath. Even the floor of the +staircase was covered with wet and slime, while water dripped from the +walls in a ceaseless “pat-pat-pat,” which spoke eloquently of the +surpassing misery of those who must live in depths so terrible. +Serrefort had heard often of the Bombec Tower. He remembered that when +as a little child his father had brought him to Paris, they had shown +him this great stone bastille, one of the towers of the Conciergerie +springing up from the very river’s bed, and they had spoken in hushed +voices of the suffering of those doomed to such a prison. And now he +must learn of these things for himself. Indeed, the lesson had begun +already when the sunshine was left far above him; and an intolerable +longing for air and light forced him to say that he must lose his +reason if they did not carry him up again to the day he had left. And +so he came to the foot of the staircase, and his guards having gone +some little way down a narrow and sinuous passage, one of them held a +torch aloft, while old Baptiste unlocked the door of a cell and bade +the prisoner enter. +</p> + +<p> +“Courage,” said he, “for the love of Heaven. It is only for a little +while, and your daughter will be back again. You will find a seat +there—do not quit it until I come to you. It is the prison of swords +you enter, God help you.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a quaver in the old man’s voice when he spoke; but Serrefort +did not hear. His eyes were staring horribly into the hole which +henceforth must be his home. Bright as the flare of the torch was, its +light could penetrate but a little way into that den wherein the sun’s +rays had not entered for centuries, nor any sound been heard but the +groans and sobs of the wretched victims of the dungeon. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” cried Serrefort, pitifully drawing back, “if I might die! I +cannot enter—I cannot—” +</p> + +<p> +But old Baptiste cried again,— +</p> + +<p> +“Courage, my son, courage; she will come back—I shall see her +to-day—oh, she has not forgotten you, be sure of it.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke as a father might have spoken to a son; and pushing the +trembling prisoner gently forward, he closed the door upon him and +hurried back to the light and the life above. Penalty enough that he +should spend moments in an abode of such horrors. Serrefort, on the +other hand, took two steps forward and then sank down upon the mouldy +straw with which the floor of his new prison was covered. There was no +braver man in Paris, none with a stouter heart nor more noble courage; +but the Bombec Tower was quick to conquer him. Fear now dominated his +mind, until his whole body trembled, and his very heart seemed to +stand still. The darkness weighed upon him like a crushing burden. The +foul cell appeared to be full of the shapes of those who had gone +before him to this agony. His lungs were scorched by the stifling air; +the dreadful silence, he said, was the silence of the tomb. Every +moment he waited to feel the touch of some creeping thing upon his +face; he crouched like a driven animal, putting out his hand to find +the walls with his fingers. But his hand was cut by the blade of a +knife protruding from the stone work, and as he drew it back bleeding, +he remembered what Baptiste had said, that he was then in the prison +of swords. Full well he knew what the words meant. Many a time had he +heard of this infamous cell wherein the walls bristled with knives, +and the floor of which, as tradition told, was covered with creeping +things, and even with loathsome reptiles. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God,” he prayed again, “have pity upon me, have pity upon +me—I cannot suffer it—I cannot!” +</p> + +<p> +Maddened, as many prisoners before him, he hurled himself ferociously +upon the floor and writhed there with burning brain, and hands and +arms cut by the sharp blades which protruded from the walls. When the +fever passed, and he lay weak and motionless upon the straw, he began +to ask himself by what right the bailiff inflicted these wrongs upon +him. Years had gone by since he had sinned in striking the Comte de +Châteauneuf, the lord of his province, who had robbed him of a fame +which was more precious to him than wealth, and had sought to injure +the one being for whom he would have given his life willingly. Had +they such memories that they remembered the crime still? He could not +believe it; but as misery grew upon him, there came back, strong and +clear and life-giving, his hate of the man who had doomed him to such +agonies. Often in his prison above had he prayed that the day might be +his when he would meet the Comte de Châteauneuf face to face and +reckon with him for these years. His brightest dreams were those +wherein he fancied that his enemy lay dead at his feet, and that he, +Jacques de Serrefort, had the dripping sword of victory in his hand. +But these dreams were sent for his punishment, since how could he, a +helpless prisoner, revenge himself upon a man who commanded in Paris +an influence no less powerful than in Brittany. He knew that it could +not be; yet hoped the more, and in his hope found the will to live. +</p> + +<p> +It had been very early in the morning when they carried him to the +Bombec Tower and old Baptiste had brought a manchet of bread and a +flask of wine to the dungeon, so that Serrefort could not hope to see +his jailor again before night fell. For the matter of that, he had +nothing to tell him the hour; and he lay, it seemed for days, quite +still in his cell, while the rats ran over his arms, and ever and anon +some living thing would touch his face and fill him with loathing +inexpressible. The patter of these animals was for a long time the +only sign of life down there below the river’s flood; but anon he +heard a gentle lapping of water, and knew that the tide was rising. It +was good at the first to think of Mother Seine, which ran without like +some friend of the world he had forgotten, and he took pleasure in +calling to mind its aspect when last he had seen it. That was when +they carried him over the Pont Neuf to prison. The river had been +alive with boats then; with boats and barges, and gallant going down +to Passy, and merry jesters making merry music, and all the life and +brightness of the great city. To-day, he said grimly, all that world +passed within a stone’s throw of him; yet his eyes were blinded to the +sights; his ears deaf to the music; he would never see that river +again; the world would pass for ever by and no cry of his go out, no +hand of pity be offered to him. And while this thought was in his +mind, the lap of the waves grew stronger; the sound of water began to +fill the whole cell. He realised quite suddenly, yet with a new, an +immeasurable dread, that the river would rise above the level of his +cell. When at last a cold stream of water touched his feet, he cried +out anew, thinking that they meant to drown him and had brought him to +the Bombec Tower with that intent. +</p> + +<p> +The water rose slowly, lapping about the feet and knees and hands of +the prisoner. But he had imagined a fate which was not in the minds of +those who had sent him to the dungeon. Twice every day the Seine +washed the floor of this cell, bringing up great rats in its flood and +leaving the oozing slime and filth of its waters upon the straw which +made the prisoner’s bed. Just when Jacques de Serrefort was telling +himself that the water would cover his mouth presently, its flow +ceased, and taught him the devilish malignity of his captors. Wet and +cold and shivering, the wretched man stood for long hours while the +stream ebbed. Then he sank again upon his reeking bed to ask how he +should support another day of torture so revolting and cruel. He could +not forget that there had been prisoners who had spent long years in +this very cell, who had become raving madmen and yet had lived on; +sport for their jailors, but not food for death. Serrefort swore that +no such fate should be his; he would find another way; he would cast +himself upon the mercy of heaven and end the terror before reason +robbed him of the power. +</p> + +<p> +Until this time, and he judged that it must now be night, no sign had +been given that those above remembered his existence. Though he +listened long and called out with all his strength, he heard no +answering voice, no tread in the passage without. The massive walls +shut down his cries and entombed them. A fearful roof of earth seemed +to weigh upon his prison and heat it with hot and choking air. +Serrefort declared that he realised for the first time what anguish +must be the lot of those who wake in a tomb. He would have welcomed +death as a gift of mercy; but for the time being he had neither the +strength nor the will to compel death. Rather he turned to think of +old Baptiste’s promise that he would come again; of his assurance that +his daughter Irène would return to Paris to bring him the comforts of +the cells above. But the hours wore on and no one came, and hope +ebbed, and the fever of the cell racked his bones. He had been known +ever as one who had a clear mind, quick, active, far-seeing; but the +darkness of the dungeon in the Bombec already warred upon his brain. A +drowsiness crept upon him, nature’s medicine against his terror; he +could not sleep, yet became almost insensible to the horrors of the +cell; he forgot where he was; visions of his home and wife came back +to him, so that when his cell door was opened presently and the flare +of a torch lit up its inmost recesses, those who visited him found +tears running down his cheeks and a word of love upon his lips. +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort had thought when he heard the key grate in the lock that it +was old Baptiste come back as he had promised; but as soon as his eyes +were awake to the light, he looked up to see the bailiff Hubert, the +governor of the prison, and with him a tall grey-haired man, whose +fine dress and white ruffles were strange things to find in the +Conciergerie. The same soldiers who had conducted the prisoner to the +cell in the morning now accompanied the governor and ranged themselves +on either side of the prisoner, bidding him rise and salute the +bailiff. Serrefort did so mechanically, shutting his eyes that he +might not behold the dreadful sights which the torches disclosed. All +his old spirit was broken now; he held his head erect no more—one day +in the Bombec had made him an old man. +</p> + +<p> +“Sirs,” said he, with a sob in his voice, “I beg of your pity carry me +from this place—you see how I suffer—oh, God knows what my +sufferings have been.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood before them sobbing like a child, fearful that they would +leave him to the silence of the pit again, to the flowing waters and +the maddening darkness. At any other time, his distress would have +been a fine subject for merriment to the bailiff Hubert; but the man +was dumb in the presence of a stranger, who did not conceal his +sympathy nor hesitate to utter it. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said this stranger, presently, “you are Jacques de +Serrefort, I believe, sent to this place now fifteen years ago for +threatening to kill Monsieur le Comte de Châteauneuf—is that so?” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort raised his head quickly at the mention of his crime. His +shoulders were squared again; he stood before them erect and fearless, +as he had stood before his officers in the old days. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” he said, “it is quite true that I am the Jacques de +Serrefort you name. Yet whether it were a crime or no which sent me to +this place I leave my God to judge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impudent fellow,” cried the bailiff, “I will have you branded upon +the face with an iron.” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger, who did not appear to love the bailiff, hushed him with +a gesture of his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Please to hold your tongue, monsieur,” cried he, with the air of one +accustomed to command; “I am here to interrogate the prisoner, not to +listen to your angers.” +</p> + +<p> +The bailiff bit his lip and scowled at Serrefort. It was with +difficulty that he turned a smiling face to the stranger at last, and +said as pleasantly as possible:— +</p> + +<p> +“Your pardon, Monsieur le Comte. Yet have a care, I beg of you, how +you deal with this fellow, for he is very dangerous.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will be the judge of that myself,” said the man addressed as count; +and then turning to Serrefort, he continued:— +</p> + +<p> +“Hark you, my friend, you are not to deceive yourself with any hope +that I am come here to serve you. If I carry you away from the +Conciergerie to-night, it will be that I may send you back when a few +hours are passed to do as the bailiff shall bid you. But first you +must give me your word as a man of honour—for such I know you to be, +monsieur—that you will obey me faithfully and return here when +midnight is struck. Are we agreed upon that, Monsieur de Serrefort?” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort rubbed his eyes; the men, the light, the voices were unreal +to him. He heard the injunction and yet could not gather the words +together. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” cried he at last, “if you should take me out of this +place, be it only for an hour, I will thank you from my heart. You +know not what a place it is—oh, there is no crime which merits such a +punishment as this, monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +The count surveyed him with pity in his glance. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Monsieur de Serrefort,” cried he, after a moment; “we are +agreed upon the bargain then. You are to have your liberty until +twelve o’clock in return for some information you shall give me +presently. But it is understood that you return here at midnight, and +that you will not seek to escape those who accompany you. I have your +word, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“A hundred times,” replied Serrefort, to whom the thought of an hour’s +liberty was dear beyond price. +</p> + +<p> +The count turned swiftly to the bailiff Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“Let your prisoner be taken to my carriage at once,” said he; “what +else is to be done you have learnt already. Is it not so?” +</p> + +<p> +The bailiff stammered an answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur le Comte,” exclaimed he, “this is a serious matter—I have +no authority from the king—and—as monsieur knows—” +</p> + +<p> +“Silence!” cried the count. “Should any ask you upon what authority, +answer them upon the authority of the Count de Saint Florentin and of +this ring.” +</p> + +<p> +He held up a gold signet ring—the ring of Louis, the well-beloved +king of France. That was a talisman powerful even to conquer the +bailiff, who drew back with a little cry when the count spoke, and now +made haste to offer his apologies. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” cried he, “had I known that you came upon the king’s business, +it would have been different. Hold me not to blame in that I remember +my duty and the security of those intrusted—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur,” said the count, whose impatience now amounted almost +to anger, “if you would remember that I wait, I would even forget all +your stupidities. Lead the way, sir, and let us hear less of your +pestilent tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +The bailiff, astounded at the rebuke and snarling with temper, +commanded the guards to lead out the prisoner. Serrefort, who said +still that this must be a vision of his sleep, followed the soldiers +with trembling steps. Never in all his life had he known so sweet a +moment as that which carried him from the foul depths of the Bombec +Tower to the world above and the gentle breezes of the night. Had it +not been ever in his mind that he must return to that abode of +suffering when a few hours had passed, he would have said that heaven +had been too good to him and that he was not worthy of such happiness. +But the shadow of the dungeon lay upon him like the shadow of the +living death. He thought still to hear the dreadful lapping of the +water; still to feel the touch of the creeping things; still to be +entombed in the very bowels of the earth, with all the weight of that +mighty stone crushing him down. Nothing could free him from the +loathing and the fear. He saw all things about him, the figures of the +men, the torches and lanterns of the guards, the open square before +the Halls of Justice, of which his prison was a part, and he said that +they were phantoms of his burning brain. Nor was it different when the +Count of Saint Florentin bade him enter a coach drawn up at the gates, +and they drove him quickly across the Pont Neuf and to the heart of +the city which he had not seen for fifteen long years. He was like a +man walking in his sleep. The hum of Paris, awake to the pleasures of +the night, the merry cries from the boatmen upon the river, the crowds +in the streets, the flickering lamps, the great buildings—here was +the world for which he had longed; but it meant nothing to him. “At +midnight,” he said always,—“at midnight they will carry me to the +Bombec again—oh, God have mercy upon me!” +</p> + +<p> +The Count of Saint Florentin, meanwhile, sat back in his carriage and +surveyed the prisoner with curious eyes. He was asking himself a +remarkable question, and was busy in speculation as to the answer. And +his question was this—would Jacques de Serrefort return to his cell a +miserable or a contented man? “The king,” said he to himself, “has +wagered pretty Corinne de Montesson a thousand gold pieces and the +man’s liberty that she will not send him back to the Conciergerie +willingly. She is to have him in her house until the clock strikes +twelve. If then he confesses himself content to go back to his cell, +Corinne wins the wager. Oh, it is a pretty question—yet, I make sure, +she has lost it already. For who ever saw a fellow so gloomy? Saint +Denis, the man is at death’s door now.” +</p> + +<p> +The count, who was then one of the most powerful men in Paris, did not +usually concern himself much about the sufferings of rogues in the +Conciergerie; but something in the face of Jacques de Serrefort +appealed to his pity; and beyond that, he was, like all the world, in +love with Corinne de Montesson, who owned the great Hôtel +Beautreillis. He began to hope that she would win her wager; though, +for the life of him, he had no idea as to the way she would set about +it. He, at any rate, had performed his part faithfully; and when, +anon, the coach drew up before the gates of Corinne’s house, he had +become as much interested in the strange experiment as though his own +money had been ventured upon it. +</p> + +<p> +The gates of the Hôtel Beautreillis were open when the coach rolled +up. Many lights shone from the windows of the great house, and it was +plain that Serrefort had been expected. No sooner did the coachman +rein in the horses than lacqueys came running from the house to greet +the count and to help the prisoner. Serrefort, accustomed to the gloom +and silence of the prison, was half blinded by the brilliancy of all +he saw; deafened by the clamour and the cries of the many servants. +Indeed, he stood for a spell gazing about him wildly, pitifully; and +would have remained so had it not been for a lacquey who touched him +upon the arm and bade him follow. And so he passed the open courtyard +to a pavilion of the house just as a clock in one of the turrets +chimed the hour of nine. The bell reminded him that he had three hours +of liberty before him; three hours when he might live in the world and +hear men’s voices and forget the cell—if that were possible. But the +promise only added to his gloom. “They torture me with a little +liberty,” he said, “to make my punishment more cruel.” Nor could he +imagine what strange mystery had brought him to the house. All the +events of that wonderful night had put a spell upon his mind. He was +like a child, obeying his master in awe and wonder. +</p> + +<p> +But they had conducted him to a room in the house by this time; a +cabinet with painted frieze and thick carpets, and gilded chairs and +many tapers shedding a soft light. He opened his eyes when he saw the +richness of the apartment, and was the more surprised when two or +three servants came up and began to busy themselves with his ragged +clothes. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said one of the fellows, bowing with great deference, +“will you be pleased to dress now? Mademoiselle waits and will sup +directly.” +</p> + +<p> +“To dress?” cried Serrefort, wonderingly. “Where am I, then, and whose +house is this that I should be carried here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir,” said the man, surprised that such a question should be put, +“you are in the house of Mademoiselle Corinne de Montesson, and be +sure that she wishes well to you. Indeed, you are lucky to have found +such a friend, monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +“A friend to me,” gasped Serrefort; “how then is that—you jest, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The lacquey did not heed the question. Rather, he made haste to take +Serrefort’s coat from him and to bring him water for his hands. When +this was done, he spread out a uniform upon the couch and invited his +mistress’s guest to put it on. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, “my mistress thinks that you would wish to appear +here to-night in the uniform of your old regiment. It is all laid out +there, and I beg you to hasten, for they will sup before the clock +strikes.” +</p> + +<p> +He indicated the articles one by one as he spoke, the coat of bright +blue with the gold facings, the brass helmet, the high boots, the +cunningly wrought sword. Serrefort gave a little cry of delight and +hesitated no longer. His weary brain, thinking ever of the Bombec, +forgot its task for a moment, and carried him back swiftly to the +years when there had been no finer horseman, no more dashing trooper +in all France, than Jacques de Serrefort. They said afterwards that +his hands trembled, that there were tears in his eyes when he stood +before the long glass and buckled the sword to his belt. It was +pitiful to see his snowy white hair straggling beneath the rim of the +great brass helmet, to watch the effort it cost him to square his +shoulders and walk as he had walked in the years long ago. But courage +came with the memories, and erect, proud, almost defiant, he turned to +those who served him and declared that he was ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell your mistress,” said he, “that Jacques de Serrefort awaits her +commands.” +</p> + +<p> +The lacquey bowed and bade him, for the second time, to follow. Had it +been any other who had thrown off the veteran to ape the young man, +the fellow would have laughed aloud; but there was a light in +Serrefort’s eyes, a boldness in his carriage, before which many a man +would have quailed. The lacquey said to himself that here was a true +soldier, and there was a certain pride in his voice when he threw open +the doors of a vast salon and announced— +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Jacques de Serrefort.” +</p> + +<p> +The great room was magnificently lighted, hundreds of tapers burning +brightly in chandeliers and candelabra of Venetian work. Though the +floor of it was of wood, none the less were the boards polished and +waxed until they shone like glass; while the walls were hid by +paintings of colossal size and all the ceiling was a blaze of mosaic. +So vast was the place that Serrefort remained at the door silent in +awe and wonder; but when he had stood an instant he heard a sweet +young voice greeting him, and looking up, he beheld Mademoiselle +Corinne herself. She was standing by a great armchair, set up like a +throne at the other end of the chamber, a pretty figure superbly +dressed, and surrounded by fifteen men and women, whose fine clothes +and graceful manners were in keeping with the magnificence of the +apartment. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said, holding out both hands, “I welcome you with all +my heart to this house. These are my friends,—the Duc de Richelieu, +the Duc de Cosse-Brissac, the Comte de Vaudreuil, the Duchesse de +Lauzan, the Comtesse d’Egmont—oh, make haste to know them all, for +they will be your friends presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort was stupefied. He stood motionless, staring at the gorgeous +dresses, the gold, the silver, the diamonds, of the company. Though +his liberty had been offered him for a word of thanks, he could not +have uttered it. Minutes, indeed, passed before emotion conquered him, +and he turned away with a sob in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” cried he, “it is a dream—a dream! I shall awake presently to +the darkness and the silence—God help me.” +</p> + +<p> +That was a cry wrought of long years of misery, and it stilled the +company to a hush of deep sympathy. As for the mistress of the house, +there were tears in her eyes when she advanced swiftly to the old +soldier’s side and took his hand in hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said in a low voice, “have courage, I beg of you. I am +your friend; you will trust me. Were you not one of Condé’s legion? +Remember that and forget all else.” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her pretty blue eyes to his in encouragement, and spoke so +tenderly that a memory of his daughter’s voice came back to him. But +chiefly he thought of this—that he had been one of Condé’s legion, +and that he wore the beloved uniform again now at the eventide of his +life. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said he, proudly, “I will remember naught but your +kindness—do with me what you will.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice was strong now, and he faced the company unflinchingly. +They, in turn, anxious only that he should forget, began to speak of +trivial things; and one of them—a fine fellow who was addressed as +Bénoît—came to Serrefort’s side and talked to him of the old days +in Germany, of the wars which had been his glory, and the triumphs he +had won. And so well did the young man contrive things that when +supper was ready and the company passed into a neighbouring cabinet, a +pretty little room fit for the king, the prisoner had forgotten the +Bombec, even the Conciergerie, and all that he had suffered there. +</p> + +<p> +There were sixteen guests at the table, Serrefort being placed at the +right hand of the hostess, while the old Duc de Richelieu sat opposite +to him, and Bénoît upon his left hand. It was a long meal +exquisitely served, and offering those rare and dainty dishes in which +the cooks of the eighteenth century excelled. Two soups, a bisque of +pigeon and cock’s combs, a side soup of hashed capon, a quarter of +veal, a partridge pie, a grilled turkey, salads, creams, rissoles +beignets—the dishes were multiplied in an abundancy which was to be +found nowhere at that time but in the houses of the French nobles. +Serrefort discovered first that he had little relish for the +delicacies; his palate had been hardened for years of coarse food and +sour wine; but when he had drunk some champagne from a foaming goblet +and had tasted a dish of capon, his old love for good things came back +to him, and he set to work to sup as heartily as the others. As for +his pretty hostess, she babbled away incessantly, telling him all the +news of Paris; all the jests, the humours, the intrigues, just as +though he were a freeman like the rest of them, and not a prisoner +enjoying a terrible furlough. For the matter of that, he began himself +to forget his condition; he ceased to ask after a while, “Why am I +brought here?” He said that some trick of sleep cheated him—but the +sleep was very sweet, and he would enjoy it. Nor would he let himself +willingly remember that when twelve o’clock struck he must set off to +his prison again. The oasis in his life was too dear; heaven had taken +pity upon him, he thought, and here was the answer to his prayer. +</p> + +<p> +In this spirit, he began to talk presently, adding to the anecdotes +and the jests. He spoke of his old deeds with the army; of the duels +he had fought and the intrigues he had known. When at last supper was +done, and the guests went out to enjoy the night air in the beautiful +gardens, he accompanied young Bénoît readily, and found himself +almost in a merry mood. For the garden was fresh and sweet at that +hour; it was good to tread the soft grass; to walk upon the white +moonlit paths; to smell the strong odours of the plants. No memory of +a prison came to mar that hour. He was old Jacques de Serrefort again, +the pride of his regiment. +</p> + +<p> +This forgetfulness endured, it might have been, for the half of an +hour. Young Bénoît had brought him by this time to a little grove +where an arbour stood, and old trees rich in leaf; a flowery dell hid +away from the world like a pool in a forest. Here they walked awhile, +earnest in merry talk; but of a sudden Serrefort stood quite still, +his face paled, his hand trembled. A clock in a church near by was +striking the hour. The wretched man counted the bells as one doomed to +death may count them upon the morning of his execution. +</p> + +<p> +“Eleven o’clock,” he exclaimed at last in a hoarse voice; “you heard +it strike, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” answered the young man; “it is eleven o’clock, as you +say, Monsieur de Serrefort. An hour yet to midnight—when we lose you, +I fear. I am sure that you will remember us all the same—as we shall +remember you in our affection.” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort did not hear him. His face was set, his shoulders stooped +again. “<i>Mon Dieu!</i>” he cried, “I cannot go back—I cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +Bénoît, whose heart was cut by his piteous cry, pretended not to +hear it; but turning quickly to the old soldier he said:— +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, when our friend, the Comte de Saint Florentin, brought you +here to-night, he told you that my mistress counted upon you for +certain information. I am sure you will serve her so far as may be +possible. As the time presses, let us talk of it without delay.” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort answered with an inclination of the head. His thoughts were +set upon the dungeon below the river. The garden, the house, the fine +people—he had forgotten them all again in his overwhelming dread of +the cell. Bénoît observed his abstraction, but continued +nevertheless:— +</p> + +<p> +“Since you are willing, Monsieur de Serrefort, will you permit me to +present to you one whose acquaintance you made in Brittany many years +ago, a man who desires exceedingly to speak with you, and who is +coming here to-night for that purpose?” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort bowed again. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said he, “your mistress’s wish is my wish. I knew many in the +old days at Brittany, many whom I would well speak of, though, heaven +knows, I shall never see them again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand that, Monsieur de Serrefort,” cried Bénoît, “but the +man in whom we are interested should even now be in this garden. I +will go and seek him if you are content to rest here awhile.” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort assented indifferently. He heard the other’s words with +difficulty; followed his argument at a hazard; had no mind to reason +the proposition. The cool night air, the gentle rustling trees, the +seclusion of the garden, brought back to his memory the years when he +had known the peace of a haven like this in his own fair home at +Brittany. He remembered that the sin of one man had driven him forth +from that home to endure the living death of the prison. Never had his +hate of the Comte de Châteauneuf, the man who had sent him to the +Conciergerie, waxed so strong as it did in that instant. There was a +fever in his blood at the thought of the name. “<i>Ciel!</i>” he murmured, +“if I might meet him face to face before I die.” +</p> + +<p> +It was an angry exclamation; his hand was hot upon the hilt of his +sword, while the impulse of vengeance maddened him. He uttered the +name of Monsieur de Châteauneuf again and again, as he paced the path +with unresting steps. When he stopped at last, a great cry frothed +upon his lips, the strength of ten men filled his veins; he knew that +his prayer had been answered. For Monsieur de Châteauneuf stood +before him in the grove—and the two were face to face at the hour of +reckoning. +</p> + +<p> +The count stood before him,—a man in the prime of life, dressed as +the fashion of the hour dictated, in a suit of violet silk slashed +with gold, and embroidered with precious stones. A sword whose hilt +sparkled with diamonds hung at his side; there were diamond buckles +upon his shoes; diamond pins glittering in his snow-white ruffles. But +the easy placid smile which usually characterised his handsome face +lighted it no longer. He stood before Serrefort with terror shining in +his eyes, with quaking knees and beating heart. Ten minutes before +that supreme moment, he had entered the Hôtel Beautreillis, thinking +that little Corinne had some favour to grant him. They had conducted +him to the garden upon that excuse, and young Bénoît had met him and +brought him to the grove. But Bénoît was at his side no longer. +Mysteriously, silently, he and the other guests had withdrawn from the +garden. The two men, he who had sinned and he who had suffered, stood +face to face in the deserted glade, and both of them knew that this +was an hour momentous beyond any they had lived. +</p> + +<p> +The count was the first to speak. He had suppressed a cry at the +moment when first his eyes encountered those of his victim; but now, +after it was plain to him that Serrefort was mad and exultant at the +meeting, he turned round, thinking his guide was still at his heels. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, what liberty is this?” +</p> + +<p> +But no one answered him. Bénoît had vanished. It seemed to the count +that the silence of death was in the place. He had the impulse to flee +the garden; a stupefying fear paralysed his limbs, choked his voice; +the sweat of death seemed already to gather upon his forehead. Since +the day when a word of his had sent Jacques de Serrefort to the +Conciergerie he had forgotten the very fact that his victim lived. +Now, however, it were as though a dead man had come out of his grave +to demand reckoning. As for Serrefort, the ferocity of a wild beast +was upon him. Anger, joy, lust for vengeance, gave incoherency to his +words. The sword with which Corinne de Montesson had armed him flashed +already at the count’s throat. Age, debility, long years of suffering, +were powerless to mar that strength of hate and of victory. Never, in +his day of youth and skill, did the trooper of Condé’s legion stand +up with such confidence. The ring of triumph was already in his voice; +his hand was the hand of a man who knows no mercy. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur le Comte de Châteauneuf,” he cried, with terrible +deliberation, “God surely has sent you here that I may kill you. Draw, +monsieur, for your hour has come.” +</p> + +<p> +The count reeled back, crying with all his voice for help. The cry +moved his antagonist to a peal of mocking laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha,” cried he, “you would run like a lacquey, Monsieur le Comte; you +who have boasted of your skill in every salon of Paris—shame on you! +Must I call for a whip to beat you like a dog?—draw, I beg of you, +for my patience is worn. Oh, monsieur, I have waited fifteen long +years for this hour. I swear that all Paris shall not save you now.” +</p> + +<p> +He pressed upon the doomed man with a new ferocity, adding light blows +of his sword to the stinging taunts of invitation. Châteauneuf, who +saw that he had fallen into a trap, hesitated no longer, but drew his +sword and sprang to the engagement. And at this, Serrefort cried out +again, and then, clenching his teeth, began to fight with the cunning +and the resolution of a <i>maître d’armes</i>. The night, the garden, the +mystery, the prison—all were gone from his thoughts. He saw but one +object, the pale face of the man who had sent him fifteen years ago +from the happiness of his home to the grave of the Conciergerie. Hate +gave him a skill which had never been his, even in the best hour of +the old time. And to the strength of hate was added the terror and the +confusion and the conscience of Monsieur de Châteauneuf. The count, +indeed, had death at his heart from the first. He fought with +trembling hand, with quaking limbs. There was ever dinning in his ears +the cry—“This is the justice of God.” He knew that he was to die, +there in the silence of the garden; knew that the sun would never +shine for him again. +</p> + +<p> +Twice round the grove the men fought, Serrefort playing with the other +like a beast with its prey. Though the ring of swords made strange +music of the night, though the sharp cries and the fierce stamping of +the two were to be heard even in the street without, the men remained +alone. No witness of the deed was to be found in all the great house; +the silence of desolation was upon it; little Corinne and her guests +had vanished in the darkness. When, at last, the count raised his +voice again to call out that he was the victim of an assassin, +Serrefort answered with a yell of derision. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “ask help of heaven and not of men, for +that shall be your last cry. Ha, you have a cunning hand, monsieur, +but it cannot stand the burden of your sin. Shall I tell them that I +fought with a lacquey? Never let it be said.” +</p> + +<p> +Goaded to madness at the taunt, the Count of Châteauneuf permitted +his anger to master him. He disengaged with the skill and quickness of +an old swordsman, and made to lunge in <i>quarte</i>; but his foot failed +him in the heat of the feint, and before he could regain his position +the sword of Serrefort was running through his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Assassin!” he gasped; but the word was choked upon his lips. For an +instant, he stood quite still, with the sword cutting his flesh; then, +turning sharply upon his heel, he fell headlong, and lay face +downwards upon the grass. +</p> + +<p> +But Serrefort, withdrawing his sword and running wildly into the +lighter place of the garden, stood with the moonlight falling upon his +face and tears glistening in his eyes. It seemed to him that some +mighty miracle was wrought in that hour, for of a sudden men and +women, and lacqueys with lanterns, came running out of the house, and +that which had been a scene of desolation was now a glittering picture +of life. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, had he no care for a pageant so +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_118.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_118_th.jpg" alt="img_118.jpg"> + </a> + <figcaption> + The Sword of Serrefort was running through his Heart. + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +strange, but standing like one in a trance, he raised his eyes to +heaven and exclaimed,— +</p> + +<p> +“My God, I thank Thee for this night, for surely my prison shall be a +prison to me no more. Nay, Lord, I go gladly, since Thou hast given me +his life.” +</p> + +<p> +And so saying, he fell in a swoon, and they carried him into the +house. +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +When Jacques de Serrefort came to his senses again, he was lying upon +a couch in a little pavilion of the Hôtel Beautreillis, and his +daughter, Irène, had her arms about him. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear father,” she said, “turn not away from me. It is your daughter +Irène who speaks,—she whom you loved in the long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +Serrefort looked at her with a loving regard. Then taking her hand as +he used to do in the old days in Brittany, he exclaimed:— +</p> + +<p> +“Little one, you will never leave me more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, never,” she exclaimed, covering his hands and face with kisses. +“Dear father, the king, who learnt all to-night, has pardoned you. It +is Mademoiselle Corinne’s work—she who owns this house and has taken +pity upon us. We are to go to Brittany to-morrow, for she has the +king’s promise. I will never leave you more, beloved father.” +</p> + +<p> +But Serrefort closed his eyes again. The great clock of Notre Dame was +striking twelve, and all the phantoms of the Bombec came winging into +the room to torture him with a memory of that which might have been. +When the hour was struck, he raised himself upon his couch and kissed +his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Little one,” said he, “our God is good—let us go and thank your +mistress.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch04"> +IV.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">AT THE HOUSE OF THE SCARLET<br> +WITCH</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> Abbé Morellet heard the ring of hoofs upon the dusty road +behind him and instantly stopped his long-suffering white pony. He was +a man of alarms, was this good abbé; and his two servants, being +dutiful servants, were for the occasion men of alarms also. All three +had heard strange stories of the perils of those travellers rash +enough to venture after sunset upon the great Western highway to +Paris; all three had begun to regret the necessity which had carried +them from the peaceful presbytery near Rambouillet to the woods upon +the outskirts of the great city. Yet here they were at eight o’clock +of a summer’s evening in the year 1762 still three leagues from Paris, +with dark already threatening them, and all the tales of bogies and of +robbers ringing in their ears like a passing bell in the ears of men +about to be hanged. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my opinion,” said the abbé, addressing François, his +valet,—“it is my opinion that we are followed by the three young men +who delayed us at the Maison Rouge. I can see a cloud of dust upon the +horizon and I count three horses.” +</p> + +<p> +François, the valet, and Jean, the groom, hastened in their turn to +check the asses which they rode and to inspect the winding highway +which they had traversed with so many misgivings. Being ready men, +their tongues presently wagged together, and they declared themselves +willing to submit to untold tortures if they also did not see a cloud +of dust upon the horizon and count three horses. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Sapristi!</i>” cried François, the valet, “I suspected those fellows +from the beginning. What says the proverb, my master?—he who makes +friends in an inn has the devil for his comrade. Body of Saint John, I +was for going on as your reverence is well aware.” +</p> + +<p> +Jean, the groom, who watched the approaching horsemen with fearful +eyes, yet was unwilling to betray himself, remembered now that he had +been for going on too. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” cried he, “if yon rogues are not footpads I never saw one. Did +you mark how they kept their faces masked even when they sat at meat? +Put me in the pillory if ever I heard of an honest man who was afraid +to show his nose to his neighbour. We shall all be dead men presently, +rely upon it.” +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_124.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_124_th.jpg" alt="img_124.jpg"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “If yon Rogues are not Footpads, put me in the Pillory.” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p> +The abbé, who nursed a secret suspicion that the groom spoke the +truth, told him nevertheless to hold his tongue. He consoled himself +with the thought that his personal property was not worth a louis to +any rogue; he knew that he had but ten crowns in his pouch; and those +he would surrender readily. Indeed, he began to frame a little speech +in which he determined both to rebuke the robbers and to conciliate +them. And this was still troubling his mind when the three men rode up +at a gallop, and began to parley with him. They were a strange +trio—all dressed elegantly, all mounted upon horses which might well +have come from the king’s stable. The abbé, stealing glances at them +when he lifted his eyes a moment from his breviary, did not fail to +observe the shining embroidery upon their vests nor the rich ruffles +falling delicately upon their wrists, nor the diamonds glistening upon +their fingers. These things had been hidden from him in the dark room +of the tavern at Sèvres, where the merry fellows had kept him +dallying long over a bowl of claret. Now he saw plainly that his +pursuers were men of quality, and that two of them were singularly +finely built, while the third possessed a figure so slim and +delicately proportioned that it might well have been the figure of a +young girl. But all three were masked as they had been at the +tavern—and this fact alone kept the abbé’s suspicions alive. +</p> + +<p> +“Sirs,” said he, closing his breviary with a sudden snap, “I observe +that you wish to speak with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, the Bishop of Blois,” began the tallest of the men, while he +doffed his plumed hat with a gesture of profound respect, “it is +evident that you are a stranger upon the road to Paris—” +</p> + +<p> +The abbé interrupted him with a momentary display of irritation. +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” said he, “I pray you address me by my own name and not by +that to which I have no title. It is true that the Bishop of Blois is +unhappily dead, but under no circumstances is it possible that so +unworthy a successor should be found for the See as the humble priest +who has lately enjoyed your hospitality. I, gentlemen, am the Abbé +Morellet, curé of the village of Yvette, a man with whom the princes +of the Church may well concern themselves but little. I go to Paris +now to carry my ward Corinne—you may know her as Mademoiselle de +Montesson, gentlemen—to a convent of Benedictine nuns at Charenton. +And Heaven forbid that I should aspire to such a distinction as you +have named.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke with great dignity, being a man accustomed to command in his +own little world. His manner was that of one who has made an end of +the argument; but the three horsemen, who maintained a fine gravity of +demeanour during the parley, would not be put off by it; and they now +held their horses at the walk while the leader answered the obstinate +abbé. +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord Bishop,” said he, “I fear that you jest with us. We know you +well, and we are concerned to find you abroad here at such an hour. +The Church has too few faithful servants that one of the stoutest of +her champions should make himself a mark for footpads. Do you forget +that you are about to enter the woods of St. Cloud—and that it is +sunset?” +</p> + +<p> +The abbé looked surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Sirs,” said he, “I have never ridden to Paris but once before in all +my life, and whether this be St. Cloud or another place, I am, indeed, +unable to tell you. Yet for any warning or direction you may be +pleased to give me, you will find a grateful listener. I am but a +simple priest, gentlemen, and I cannot think that any robber would +stoop to find a victim so unprofitable. Heaven be my witness that I +have an unpleasant duty to perform in the city yonder. Authority, +sirs, is a physic which the surgeon may hesitate to employ, until both +persuasion and counsel have been administered. Too long have I been +patient—the day for that has passed. Even though the king himself +were to intercede, my purpose should be delayed no more. To-morrow, +gentlemen, all Paris shall hear that the Hôtel Beautreillis is +closed, and that its mistress, my ward, is safe within the convent +walls at Charenton.” +</p> + +<p> +The abbé was emphatic. He brought this pompous speech to a fitting +close with a good thwack of the cudgel nicely laid upon the pony’s +quarters. His two servants, always imitative, laid two sticks smartly +upon the backs of their asses, and all began to ride at a good trot +towards the park of St. Cloud. As for the three horsemen, they seemed +to enjoy the abbé’s company immensely; and they kept close at his +side, while merry glances passed between them, and the youngest of the +three—who had the figure of a girl—bent low, the better to escape +observation. Thus they came altogether to the summit of the hill +wherefrom they could see the thick woods about the château of St. +Cloud with the river Seine flowing like a river of blood in the +valley, and Paris herself away in the distance, the sunlight making +red blotches of her domes and towers, and shining with a deep crimson +from a thousand west-turned windows. Here, the three strangers drew +rein, and one of them, who had not spoken before, addressed the abbé +in a parting word. +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord Bishop,” said he, regardless of the abbé’s protests, “you go +on a bold task. There have been many before this who have sought to +stand between Corinne de Montesson and her pleasures. Do you seek for +them, you will find them in all the prisons of Paris—or gone to the +wars for shame of their defeat. Beware how you act, then, and think +yourself a lucky man if you ride into Paris at all. Nay, I will wager +you a thousand crowns that this time to-morrow night you shall be very +glad to see us and to get back to Yvette with what speed you may. Yon +wood is full of strange sights and sounds, monsieur—many a man who +has entered it at sundown has been known no more when dawn has come. +Look to your steps, I beseech you; and Heaven grant that the witches +of St. Cloud may respect the path of the Lord Bishop of Blois.” +</p> + +<p> +He doffed his cap as the other had done, and all three bowing with +ready grace, presently they set spurs to their horses and disappeared +at a gallop into the heart of the wood. The good abbé, who had been +content at first to think that some mistake had led them to give him +so distinguished a title, now became very angry, and not a little +alarmed. +</p> + +<p> +“A plague on them and their Bishop of Blois as well!” cried +he,—“three tipsy gallants, I will wager, ridden out of the palace to +point the finger at me. I should not be surprised to hear that Corinne +had sent them. It is well known that she is a friend to footpads. +Possibly she has saved them from the gallows. But she shall gain +nothing by this. Though she fall on her knees before me, I will carry +her to the convent. The day for mercy has passed.” +</p> + +<p> +The reflection pleased the abbé. He had been made guardian of pretty +Corinne de Montesson, who, as all the world knew, was mistress of the +great Hôtel Beautreillis in Paris, upon the death of her father, the +count. For his part, he would have sent her to a convent at once, +there to complete her education, which, he thought, had been sadly +neglected. But the king had put in a word; and so Corinne was left in +her great house to be the friend of all the ne’er-do-weels in the city +and to disgrace, as the good abbé said, the proud position to which +she had been called. Had she done anything for him personally, his +anger possibly would have been more moderate. But, notwithstanding her +professions of love, he remained the simple curé of Yvette—and there +he had fretted two years over his misfortunes. Then came the tidings +that Corinne had helped the notorious Coq le Roi, the highwayman, to +escape from Sartines, the new lieutenant of police. The news awoke the +abbé to his old resolutions. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go to Paris,” said he, “and place her with the good nuns of +Charenton. She is like a little wild animal; her claws must be cut. I +have been merciful too long.” +</p> + +<p> +This seemed a very simple resolution in theory; but when the abbé +entered the dark woods of St. Cloud after his conversation with the +three jesters in the masks, the practice of it began to be difficult. +He remembered that the last time he had been to Paris they had led him +such a life in the great house that he had been truly thankful to get +back to his little hamlet and to his own poor people. He had just a +lurking suspicion that his authority might be laughed at again. +Besides, he was not in Paris yet, and there before him lay the dark +woods against which the three strangers had warned him. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” said he, as he quitted the high-road and plunged into the +darkness of the silent thicket, “strange sights and sounds, indeed. Am +I a child, to be frightened by old women’s tales? Never let it be +said. Thank God, there is a ducking-stool still for witches; and I +shall know where to complain if I am molested. We must be in Paris +before midnight—that is certain.” +</p> + +<p> +The reflection comforted him. It was very dark in the woods, and so +silent that the sound of distant church bells or the barking of dogs +sounded like voices from a far-off world. The sun had sunk below the +rim of the western hills now, and only a deep blue-grey light, blended +with pink at the peaks of the clouds, marked the lingering day. In the +thickets themselves the mystery and spell of the night were already +omnipotent. The abbé could not put off a certain dread and +foreboding. His two servants did not attempt any such task. They told +each other, consolingly, that they would be dead men before morning; +and so they rode hand in hand, each devoutly hoping that the other +would be the victim of the night, and that the abbé, their master, +would precede them to the grave. No superstition was too gross for +them to believe. They swallowed every goblin and witch and demon dwarf +that tradition had named for a hundred years or more. There was not a +ghost in all France that they would not have staked their lives upon. +And here at St. Cloud—where every village lad could tell you of the +scarlet witch who rode upon the wings of the wind when the sun had set +and the elves were abroad in the forest—what miracle, they asked, +could save them from the perils of an encounter with her? +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard it said,” muttered François to Jean as they drove their +stubborn asses still deeper into the woods,—“I have heard it said +that you have but to look upon the woman to be for ever blind.” +</p> + +<p> +Jean groaned. +</p> + +<p> +“God grant that our master sees her first,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“And worse than that,” said the valet, “if you are young and +good-looking, she will kiss you upon the forehead, and then you are +branded like one who has been sent to the galleys.” +</p> + +<p> +Jean signed. +</p> + +<p> +“Saint Denis!” said he, “I knew how it would be. We shall die here, +comrade—and for what? Because we follow our master. Is that our duty? +I tell you he is no longer himself. Did you hear how yon fellows +called him? Be sure of it—they have bewitched him already. I am ready +to die for the abbé of Yvette; but a plague upon me if I ride another +league for the Lord Bishop of Blois.” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped his ass with the word, and François the valet made haste +to imitate him. They were at this moment in a glade so deeply bordered +by chestnut-trees that you could scarce see a patch of the grey sky +above. The moss beneath their feet was soft and yielding, and the +asses’ feet sunk in it almost to the hocks. The figure of the abbé +was scarce to be discerned, although he rode but twenty paces before +them. It was a gloomy spot, dark, threatening, lonely. A stag, which +leaped up at their coming, set the hearts of the cowardly pair beating +like pumps. And just at the supreme moment of their alarm what should +they see in the hollow but a great flash of crimson light, which lit +up the brake about them until every twig seemed to have been dipped in +blood, every tree trunk to be a scarlet phantom conjured up by the +ghostly flames! Twice the light flashed, lurid, smoking, +terrible—then darkness fell; and from the wood there came a scream of +many voices raised in an awful wail, like the wail of departed spirits +or of men in their agony. +</p> + +<p> +At the first flashing of the fire, the abbé’s pony stood quite still, +shivering with fear. Nor was his master in any better plight. +</p> + +<p> +“François,” roared the abbé, “Jean! do you not hear me? God help us +all—what a thing to see!” +</p> + +<p> +But François and Jean heard nothing. They were even then on their way +back to Yvette, at all the speed of which asses are capable. Long the +abbé called them in language which the Church might not have +approved, but which the occasion and the abbé’s fear demanded. When +he found at last that he was alone, beads of perspiration stood upon +his forehead, and it seemed that a hundred spirits were mocking him in +the wood. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” groaned he, “what do I see—where am I—who is it that follows +me? That I should have left my home to come to such a place! Heaven +help me or I am surely lost.” +</p> + +<p> +He beat his pony the more in his fear, and driving the unwilling beast +through the thicket only by a generous application of his cudgel, he +came at last out upon a sward upon which great trees cast shadows of +fantastic shape. The spot was desolate enough for anything; but it was +lighter than the copse he had just quitted; and the stars shining +brightly in the grey heaven above seemed to cast down a message of +courage. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said the abbé to himself as he wiped the perspiration from +his forehead and began to take heart a little, “why do I fear when I +have but ten crowns in my pocket? Who would harm the curé of +Yvette?—not the footpads of St. Cloud, I am sure. And I do not +believe in spirits—certainly they are for hags’ tales. What I saw was +the fire of some charcoal-burner. No doubt that was it. My men will +come up presently, and we will all go on together. I could laugh to +remember what a figure I cut.” +</p> + +<p> +He did laugh at the remembrance, but it was a poor attempt—hollow and +mocking, like the thought which bred it. And he began now to be very +anxious for the company of his servants, bidding them come forth from +the thicket where he believed them still to lie. +</p> + +<p> +“François, Jean!” he bawled, “it is I, your master, who calls you. +What do you fear, knaves? Am I not here to protect you? Oh, surely I +will lay my cudgel upon your backs to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +To his amazement, neither Jean nor François answered his appeal; but +in the wood behind him there arose again the eerie wail, and now it +was long sustained and piercing, like the wail of witches upon the +wing. +</p> + +<p> +“Hail to the Lord Bishop of Blois,” was the cry, “hail, hail! Whither +he goes, there go we—lolalla—lolalla—lolalla!” +</p> + +<p> +The echo fled from wood to wood and grove to grove, until it died away +in moaning sighs, afar, at the heart of the forest. When the last note +was stilled, the abbé heard a voice, sweet and fresh and young, +crying,— +</p> + +<p> +“What shall be done to the Lord Bishop of Blois?” +</p> + +<p> +And from the woods the answer came,— +</p> + +<p> +“He must suffer, he must suffer—lolalla—lolalla—lolalla!” +</p> + +<p> +A loud peal of laughter followed the words, and while the laughter +rang, the thicket was lit again with the flaming scarlet light. The +abbé’s heart threatened to stand still when he saw, grouped there +upon the green, the strangest company he had ever beheld in all his +life. Dressed in scarlet, some like devils, some like dwarfs, some +like hideous creatures with horns protruding from their brows, the +throng appeared to be led by a woman whose sugar-loaf cap and sweeping +crimson skirts answered in all things to the popular pictures of a +witch. When the abbé beheld her she rode upon a great black horse, +but those around her were mounted upon white ponies; and the whole +company galloping out of the wood, presently they surrounded the +trembling ecclesiastic and roared until the very woods rang as with +demon voices,— +</p> + +<p> +“Long live the Lord Bishop of Blois—lolalla—lolalla!” +</p> + +<p> +It was a strange scene; the torches, which many of the masqueraders +had now lighted, casting a lurid glow upon the scarlet dresses and +masks and whitened faces of the dwarfs and demons—horrid monsters, +who now flocked about the amazed curé of Yvette. He, on his part, +knew not whether the whole were a hideous dream, or the perpetration +of some masquerade of which he was to be the victim. Possibly deep +down in his mind there was born the question—are these human things +or spiritual? Even the learned were gross in superstition in the +middle of the eighteenth century; and the excellent abbé was no wiser +than other men—perhaps even a little more prone to believe in omens +and the unseen than the common citizen. No wonder if the terror of the +wood and the dark of the night and the horrid yells of the horned and +hoofed company which now swarmed about him contributed to his +bewilderment. A hundred possibilities occurred to him while the cries +were still ringing in his ears. He had heard of the terrible jests +which courtly masqueraders had perpetrated on those who were obnoxious +to them. Could he have given offence in high places—or was it true, +after all, that the woods of St. Cloud were peopled by spirits and +elves and witches, and that he had fallen into their power? He said he +would believe no such tale. Rather would he take courage; and if this +were a jest of Corinne’s, then should two years instead of one be her +portion in the convent. +</p> + +<p> +With this resolution to nerve him, he turned of a sudden upon the +horde who pressed about him and began to argue with them. +</p> + +<p> +“Sirs,” said he, “I have heard much talk of the Lord Bishop of Blois, +and I see plainly that you mistake me for him. Know then that I am but +a simple priest, the curé of Yvette, sirs, and that I ride to Paris +upon an affair of very great importance.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke the words very slowly, but to his astonishment no one gave +any answer. All together, witches, dwarfs, and demons, they began to +repeat his explanation in a sort of monotone, the key of which changed +note by note until it rose to a discordant, unearthly shriek. +</p> + +<p> +“Sirs,” cried they, “we have heard much talk of the Lord Bishop of +Blois, and we see plainly that you mistake us for him. Know then that +we are but simple priests, the curés of Yvette, and that we ride to +Paris upon an affair of very great importance.” +</p> + +<p> +The abbé, deafened by the clamour, put his fingers into his ears and +began to shiver with fear. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” he murmured, “you are all mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” repeated the scarlet company, “we are all mad.” +</p> + +<p> +The sally was roared rather than intoned; and at the end of it, the +whole company bent low in their saddles, the men doffing their hats to +the terrified abbé, the women blowing kisses to him. +</p> + +<p> +Then the scarlet woman who appeared to be the mistress of the throng, +raised her fresh young voice and asked again,— +</p> + +<p> +“What must be done to the Lord Bishop of Blois?” +</p> + +<p> +And for the second time the answer came,— +</p> + +<p> +“He must suffer—he must suffer—lolalla—lolalla—lolalla!” +</p> + +<p> +The abbé was really frightened now. The wailing melancholy of the +chaunt, the hideous shapes of the men who rode at his side, the +strange, distorted whitened faces, seemed to him to resemble nothing +human, nothing known. Minute by minute the conviction crept upon him +that here was the scarlet witch of whom the common people spoke in +their folk-tales. The more he said to himself “It is a jest,” the +farther was his mind from accepting that assurance. He shuddered when +he remembered that he was alone with jesters so terrible. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he moaned at last, “what do you want with me, what would you do +with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” echoed the crowd with stentorian voice, “what do you want with +us, what would you do with us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sirs,” wailed the abbé, “for pity’s sake have done with it and take +me where you will. I have but ten crowns upon me, and those you shall +find in my pouch. Get them, I pray you, and permit me to go in peace.” +</p> + +<p> +A mocking peal of laughter attended this simple confession. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall be done with the ten crowns of the Lord Bishop of Blois?” +asked a great horned goblin who rode upon the smallest of the small +white ponies. +</p> + +<p> +The girl with the crimson hat answered,— +</p> + +<p> +“He shall buy a supper at the house of the scarlet witch.” +</p> + +<p> +The command moved the company to frenzies of turbulent delight. Before +the bewildered abbé could protest or answer, strong hands had clapped +a bandage to his eyes, and knotted it so tightly behind his ears that +the whole of the strange vision of grotesque and grinning figures was +shut instantly from his view. He knew only that his pony was carrying +him rapidly through the forest, that the air became fresher as he +mounted to the higher places of the park, that he was led it might +have been for the space of ten minutes before his beast was stopped +and he was lifted gently to the ground. Never once, however, while the +procession moved, did the throng cease their unearthly monotone. The +chaunt rose ever like a voice of the night, the wail of spirits +wandering, or of phantoms at their pleasures. When it stopped at last +with a sudden crash, the abbé’s pony stopped too. A strong arm +encircled his waist; he was lifted from the saddle and bidden to +walk,—he knew that he was entering some room in a house,—a gentle +hand forced him into a seat, it removed his bandage; the abbé could +see again. +</p> + +<p> +By this time the unhappy man was incapable of surprise. The scene in +the wood had robbed him of all power of reason. When they stripped him +of his bandage, and he was able to look about him, he neither spoke +nor wondered. Yet the spectacle was strange enough to have amazed a +bolder man. For the abbé sat at that moment in a room draped in +scarlet; and more than that, he sat in a high chair before a long +table lit pleasingly by the soft light of many wax candles, and so +weighed down with plate and exquisite cut glass that the scarlet +drapery below was hardly to be seen. As for the company, that also was +a scarlet company,—devils, demons, witches; their whitened faces now +hidden by crimson masks, their very hair appearing to be of the +brightest red. Even the walls were draped in the same glaring colours; +while the attendants, some in hideous masks, some garbed like scarlet +elves, capped the scheme fittingly. Yet this was the curious thing—no +word was spoken, no greeting given. The company sat like mutes. The +abbé shuddered again, for he could not altogether suppress the +thought that he might be supping with the risen dead. +</p> + +<p> +Such a haunting suggestion was quick to pass. Though a grim foreboding +pursued him while he asked himself, “Where will it end, what did they +mean when they called me the Lord Bishop of Blois and said that I must +suffer?”—the abbé, good man that he was,—and there was none better +in France,—was like other men in possessing a healthy appetite. The +groaning table put some heart into him. “I have ridden far, and a well +boiled capon with a cup of Burgundy will not come amiss to me,” he +thought. And so, for the first time since he had entered the terrible +wood, he permitted himself to hope. “They will let me ride on when +supper is done,” he assured himself, “and I shall be in Paris, after +all, by the last day of the month. It would never do to be delayed +over to-morrow, for the king returns to Paris then, and Corinne will +see him and cheat me once more. Certainly, I must be in Paris +to-morrow. Meanwhile, I will see what sort of a supper it is, for I am +very hungry.” +</p> + +<p> +One of the servants had set a plate before him now,—a plate upon +which was a little silver dish exquisitely garnished and served. So +tempting did the morsel look that the good abbé hastened to plunge +his fork into it—but at the first mouthful he made an ugly grimace +and was unable to withhold an exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“How now!” cried he, “that is nothing but bread-crumbs!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked round the table appealingly, but no one in the masked +company vouchsafed to him an answer. All were busy upon similar +dishes, of which they appeared to partake with exceeding relish. +Indeed, they had finished their portions before the abbé had +recovered from his astonishment; and while he was still looking at +them, a lacquey, dressed in crimson, carried in a dish upon which was +a smoking fish of great size, and began to serve slices of it—to the +abbé first, and afterwards to the other suppers. At the same moment, +another attendant filled the abbé’s glass—a magnificent glass of the +rarest Venetian work—with wine from a crystal goblet, and then did a +similar service for the rest of the company. The action reassured the +hungry curé. For the second time he plunged a ready fork into the +dish before him. “Fish is fish,” he said to himself, while he smacked +his lips in famished anticipation. The assurance scarce had comforted +him when he broke out with a word which was neither ecclesiastical nor +abbatorial. +</p> + +<p> +“Name of the devil!” he exclaimed, “but this is bread too.” +</p> + +<p> +How it came to be, in what manner the cheat had been contrived, the +abbé knew no more than the dead. Yet there was the fish right enough, +and a second mouthful convinced him that it was made of nothing but +bread. +</p> + +<p> +“Saint John,” cried he, sitting back in his chair, “who ever heard of +that—a fish made of bread-crumbs—and every one eating of it as +though it were a mullet from the king’s table! Body of Saint +Paul!—they are all mad.” +</p> + +<p> +Mad or sane, the scarlet company appeared to enjoy the fish very much. +Their heads bent over their plates, the suppers varied their +occupation of eating only by the equally pleasant one of taking long +draughts from the crystal goblets before them. They did not appear so +much as to notice that the abbé was appealing to them. His words, his +exclamations, his questions fell alike upon deaf ears. Not a man +listened to him, not a woman raised her eyes to watch him. Nor did his +anger, which succeeded presently to his hunger, help him at all. That, +too, was absolutely unobserved. Had he roared like a bull, the masked +company would have remained oblivious of his presence. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho!” said he at last, while he leant back in his chair and raised +the goblet in his hand, “a plague upon the table which sets +bread-crumbs before a hungry man!” +</p> + +<p> +He put the goblet to his lips and took a long draught from it. The +wine, he had said, would at any rate wash the tasteless bread from his +mouth—and so he held the cup long. When at length he put it down, +there was upon his face the most unclerical grimace that had ever sat +there. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Maledetto!</i>” cried he, “but that is water.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke loudly; nor did he look for an answer, being quite assured by +this time that he was dreaming, or if he were not, then that he had +become the victim of the strangest jest yet played in France. And he +was very much surprised when a voice behind him greeted him with the +first word he had heard since he entered the room. For the matter of +that, the voice was hardly raised before all the suppers leaped to +their feet and stood in an attitude of respectful attention. +</p> + +<p> +“And what is the trouble of the Lord Bishop of Blois?” asked the +speaker, as he advanced to the abbé’s chair. +</p> + +<p> +He was a man slightly above the medium height, and he wore a dress of +white velvet, upon which a lace-work of the whitest diamonds +glittered. The abbé observed that he was somewhat advanced in years, +and that his features were clear-cut and singularly handsome. He was +attended now by two pages, who wore trunk-hose of purple and purple +cloaks above them; while an officer in the blue uniform of the +Corsican legion stood at his heels as though expecting some command. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho,” thought the abbé, as he watched the stranger, “here then is +the rogue who has played this jest upon me. I will find a word for him +at any rate.” And so he spoke aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said he, “who you may be I do not wish to know; but if this be +your house, permit me to tell you that I have been the victim of a +great liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger feigned astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“What,” cried he, “have you not supped well, ’seigneur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” answered the abbé, “I beseech you that you will not call me +‘ ’seigneur,’ for to such a title I have no claim. As for your +supper—I would not offer it to a dog.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely,” cried the other, feigning great astonishment, “that is +turbot which you eat, my friend—and do you not hold a cup of the wine +of Burgundy in your hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said the abbé, with hungry dignity, “whoever has told you +that has lied. There is nothing but water here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed,” cried the new-comer; “pray permit me to put it to my +lips, ’seigneur. You say that is water?—Saint Louis, I would like to +have a cellar full of such water as that!” +</p> + +<p> +He tasted the draught as he spoke, and smacked his lips over it as +though it had been a delicious nectar. The abbé, staggered at the +action, was silent for some moments; but after a pause he took the cup +up in his hands, and did that which was a rare thing for him to do—he +lost his temper. +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” he asked, “you declare that to be the wine of Burgundy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most certainly,” replied the stranger; “most admirable wine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I pray you drink it,” exclaimed the abbé—and at the invitation +he threw the contents of his goblet into the new-comer’s face. +</p> + +<p> +It was a deserved retort, perhaps, but the miserable curé, had he +foreseen that which was to follow, would have cut off his right hand +before he allowed his temper to carry him so far. Scarce was the thing +done when a cry of horror burst from the company about the table. +Fifty hands were raised as if to strike the cowering priest. Threats, +execrations, remonstrances were hurled at him until his head buzzed +with the clamour. The stranger alone appeared to be unmoved. He wiped +his face with a handkerchief of lace, and then turned to the Corsican +at his elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” said he, “but I must ask you to arrest monsieur, the +Bishop of Blois. You will take him to his room and keep him there +until my pleasure is known.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your majesty is obeyed,” was the answer. +</p> + +<p> +There was a great silence in the place now; and it lasted while the +Corsican stepped forward and bade the quaking priest follow him. As +for the abbé, he was like one petrified. +</p> + +<p> +“Great Heaven!” he moaned, when they led him from the room, “it is the +king who speaks. And I have thrown my wine in his face. God help me, +for my day has surely come.” +</p> + +<p> +All else was forgotten in this; the visions of the night, his purpose +in riding to Paris, even the offences of little Corinne, gave place to +the tremendous fear which his folly had brought upon him. He saw it +all now—mystery no longer perplexed him. The masquerade in the woods, +the horrible apparition, the flashing of the crimson fire—what was it +all but the work of the jesters at the palace of St. Cloud! They had +gone out to seek whom they could devour, and they had lighted upon the +curé of Yvette, he said. Then the king—he had heard, of course, of +their pastime, and had come to witness its consummation. And thus had +the abbé been led to the perpetration of a crime so terrible. +Nothing, not even religion, was held as sacred, in that year 1759, as +the body of the king. The abbé knew full well that unless mercy were +shown to him, he might spend the remaining years of his life in the +prison of Fort-l’Évêque or even in the Bastille. Men had come to +such a punishment for mere words—but to throw a goblet of wine in his +majesty’s face! The very memory of his offending compelled him to +shudder like one who was already doomed. +</p> + +<p> +But the Corsican officer had led him to a bedroom now; a pretty room +lighted by many wax candles, and furnished with all the taste +characterising a period so tasteful. It was a large apartment, with a +cabinet giving off it—and the abbé observed in this smaller chamber +a supper-table decked prettily with lighted candles and flowers. For +this, however, he had no appreciating eyes. He felt at the moment as +though he could never eat again. Foreboding, real and stern, had set +his nerves itching. He began to question his conductor, hoping for +some little word of comfort. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” he said with pitiable anxiety, “I beg you tell me—whose +house is this and where does it lie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Readily,” answered the young officer. “This is the pavilion of Madame +Doublet de Persau. The villagers call it the House of the Scarlet +Witch. I regret, monseigneur, that your first acquaintance of it +should be made so unpropitiously. Saint Denis! who would have thought +that his majesty was unknown to you!” +</p> + +<p> +“God help me,” answered the abbé, “I never saw him but once, +monsieur, and then it was from a bench in the Place Louis Quinze. Oh, +surely he will remember that!” +</p> + +<p> +The Corsican shook his head, implying that he doubted. +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord Bishop,” said he, “I am but a very humble servant of his +majesty, and Heaven forbid that I should anticipate his decision. If +you have friends, however, let me beg of you to write to them. It is +possible, should their influence be not delayed, that you may yet +atone for this offence with a year in the Bastille.” +</p> + +<p> +“A year in the Bastille,” murmured the abbé, “a year—the Saints help +me—a year for a moment’s loss of temper! Oh, <i>mon Dieu</i>, will you not +plead for me, monsieur? I am no Lord Bishop, but only a poor curé, +who is friendless and helpless as you see, my son. I conjure you, of +your charity be a friend to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How!” cried the soldier, with a wondrous assumption of surprise, “you +tell me, my lord, that you are not the Bishop of Blois! Oh, surely, +this night’s work has robbed you of your memory. Think a little and +you will recall the circumstances. Here to-day you were riding to +Paris upon the business of your diocese when you fall into the hands +of Madame Doublet de Persau’s merry fellows, who bring you to this +house to supper. The king, learning of the jest, is driven over from +the palace to enjoy it, when you, losing your temper, throw a goblet +of wine in his majesty’s face, and so become my prisoner until your +sentence is delivered. I exhort you, my lord, hide none of these +things from yourself, but send at once to your friends and conjure +them to intercede for you.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a wondrous air of honesty about the Corsican’s tale; and +although the abbé was more perplexed than ever when the soldier had +done, he determined to trust him, and to make a last effort to help +himself. Indeed, a sudden inspiration seized upon him, and when he +spoke his words came quickly and his white cheeks flushed scarlet. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” he said, “I see it all plainly; they have mistaken me for +the Lord Bishop of Blois, and so this misfortune has fallen upon me. I +have but one friend in Paris, if, indeed, she be in Paris now. I speak +of my ward, Corinne de Montesson, who is to be found at the Hôtel +Beautreillis in the Rue St. Paul. Could you but convey a word to her +of my necessity, I know that it would not be unavailing. Indeed, she +is very gentle and loving to all, and never fails to help those who +are in adversity. Send to her, I beg of you, and tell her to come to +St. Cloud at once. Say that the Abbé Morellet implores her +assistance—” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” cried the Corsican, “I will tell her no such tale—for why +should she come to the help of the Abbé Morellet when it is +Monseigneur the Bishop of Blois whom she is to assist?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said the abbé, with humble entreaty, “if you tell her that, I +am surely lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Courage,” said the Corsican, “you forget, monseigneur. In a little +time your memory will come back to you. I shall send to Paris at once. +Meanwhile you will pardon me if I must hold you under lock and key. +You heard the king’s command, my lord?” +</p> + +<p> +“God help me,” cried the abbé, “I heard it too well.” +</p> + +<p> +At this the Corsican withdrew and went downstairs to the supper-table. +The scarlet masks of the company were all laid aside now, and the +suppers no longer ate fish made of bread-crumbs. On the contrary, they +were very merry over flagons of rare red wine and goblets of +champagne, and trout from the Lake of Geneva, and dishes of carp’s +tongues and sturgeon and mullet, and legs of venison, and fat capons. +When they saw the officer, they cried out joyfully, and hastened to +ask how the abbé did. +</p> + +<p> +“Grimod, Grimod, what does he say, what does he do—oh, tell us +quickly—we die with impatience—you have news, Grimod?” +</p> + +<p> +The Corsican held up his hand for quiet. Then, addressing the scarlet +witch,—whose fresh and piquant face belied her rôle now that the +mask was laid aside,—he said,— +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ma foi!</i> Mademoiselle Corinne, the abbé asks for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“For me?” said the girl; “then you have told him, Grimod?” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word, mademoiselle, I have told him nothing. He thinks you +are at the Hôtel Beautreillis, and he begs me to send a messenger +there.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne clapped her pretty hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “how I love him! But he will not send me to a convent +after all.” +</p> + +<p> +The idea that Corinne de Montesson would ever succumb to such a fate +seemed to amuse the masqueraders very much. They greeted her words +with extravagant enthusiasm. One love-sick swain—whose devil’s head +was set mockingly upon a plate before him—turned toward her, eyes +full of sheepish affection, and exclaimed,— +</p> + +<p> +“Saint John, Corinne, if you go to the nuns at Charenton, you will +take half Paris with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall have to build a city there,” cried another. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a place of worship will never have been seen,” said a third. +</p> + +<p> +“I go as maid-in-waiting,” lisped a pretty boy, who was busy with a +dish of venison. +</p> + +<p> +“And the king, what does he go as?” asked a demon, whose head was +tucked away under his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” cried Corinne, joyfully, “the king, where is he? Come forth, +sir, and let us see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Sacrebleu!</i>” answered a voice from the further end of the table, +“the king is very well, thank you, mademoiselle—but he will be the +better when he has eaten this pasty.” +</p> + +<p> +Could the abbé have seen the king at that moment his fears would have +vanished like the wind. Truth to tell, his majesty looked exceedingly +unkingly, seated as he was astride a small chair and holding a very +large pasty between his knees. But the wretched priest in the bedroom +above knew of none of these things. While the masqueraders below were +at the zenith of their merriment, the miserable abbé was pacing his +elegant prison; and every turn he took brought a fresh exclamation to +his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he would moan, “a year in the Bastille at the least—that I +should have left my home for this! A year in the Bastille, where they +put you in cages so that your bones are bent; or in ditches, where the +floors are deep in slime! Heaven be merciful to me—I have thrown wine +in the king’s face! Fool that I was!—his dress should have taught me +better manners. And now they will punish me—oh, miserable day, +unhappy hour—what would I not give to be in my bed at Yvette again!” +</p> + +<p> +He, good man, had lived so noble a life that fear had not in all his +years been an enemy to him. But now he feared exceedingly,—feared so +that for a long while he started at every whisper of the wind or creak +of board; feared until he forgot that he was hungry and had not +supped. By and by, however, one of his restless pacings carried him +into the cabinet which opened off the bed-chamber; and then he beheld +the little table with the flowers and the wax-lights and the flagon of +red wine and the well-dressed capon. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he exclaimed angrily, “the wine is but coloured water, the +capon is made of bread—they shall not befool me a second time.” +</p> + +<p> +He thought it a cruel jest, and vowed he would not be the victim of +it; and so he began to pace the room again; but his steps carried him, +despite his resolution, straight into the cabinet again; and at the +third time of his coming, hunger and thirst so far prevailed that he +poured a little of the wine from the flagon and ventured to taste it. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” cried he, filling a goblet to the brim, “can it be true?—upon +my word, this is very like the wine of Burgundy—Saint John! I have +never tasted a better imitation.” +</p> + +<p> +There was almost a smile upon the abbé’s face now, and he began with +eager hands to help himself to the capon. A moment later he had seated +himself at the little table and was busy with a groaning plate. Only +when the meal was done did a haunting memory of his night’s work come +back to him—and at that, the wine was soured and the bread turned +bitter. He looked at the great carved bed, and told himself that sleep +was not for such as him. He heard a bell without strike the hour of +midnight, and the new-come day seemed to be the herald of his +misfortunes. Once or twice he went to the door of his prison-chamber +and listened, but could distinguish no sound, neither of voices nor of +steps. +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Saints!” cried he, beginning to pace his room again, “if I could +only lie this night in my bed at Yvette!” +</p> + +<p> +He sighed at the hopelessness of the desire; but, to his intense +amazement, his sigh was echoed from the opposite side of the room. And +he was very surprised when, upon turning round, he beheld, standing +there by a picture let into the panel of the wainscoting, two of the +masked men who had met him on the road earlier in the evening. Indeed, +the abbé rubbed his eyes to make sure that he did not dream; and it +was not until the tallest of the two spoke that he believed altogether +in the reality of that which he saw. +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord Bishop,” said the stranger, “we have kept our promise, and +you see us again. Is it gladly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” cried the abbé, “gladly indeed—oh, Heaven knows! You +have heard of my misfortune?” +</p> + +<p> +The masked man raised his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said he; “a word may cost you your life. We know all, and have +come to save you. Follow me, ’seigneur, and say nothing, whatever you +may see or hear.” +</p> + +<p> +With this, he laid his hand upon a button in the picture, and the +panel slid back noiselessly, showing a narrow aperture through which +the three men passed—and then, the dazed abbé! The aperture thus +disclosed gave access to a narrow flight of stairs, at the foot of +which was a little door opening at the back of the pavilion directly +upon the park of St. Cloud. Before the abbé had realised anything of +that which was being done, he found himself out upon the soft grass +with the bridle rein of a horse in his left hand and a groom at his +right hand waiting to assist him to mount. The two men in their turn +went to horses waiting for them, and all leaping into the saddles, the +leader said presently,— +</p> + +<p> +“ ’Seigneur, mount, I beg of you. We ride to Blois for your life.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Blois?” gasped the abbé. +</p> + +<p> +But the groom had helped him into the saddle now, and the man having +sent the horse off to join the others with a lusty smack upon the +quarters, the abbé found himself, for good or ill, galloping wildly +through the park towards the road for Sèvres. So absorbed was he in +doubt and wonder that he failed to observe that a young girl now rode +with his guides—though she was masked as the others were. Indeed, +those with him never drew rein nor spoke a single word until dawn +broke in the sky and St. Cloud and its woods lay far behind them. Then +for the first time they permitted their foaming beasts to go at the +walk and the fresh wind of the morning to breathe upon their heated +faces. +</p> + +<p> +The place was the summit of a hill some five miles from the town of +Rambouillet. Below them a valley stretched pleasantly, and in the far +distance the spire of the church at Yvette stood up like a needle +against the cloudless sky. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said the leader of the strangers as he halted suddenly at +the spot, “yonder is your home. As for us, our work is done. We have +but to give you this paper and to bid you make your way to Blois with +all speed. I doubt not that you will obey faithfully the king’s wish +that you shall not leave your new diocese for the space of one year.” +</p> + +<p> +“My diocese—the king’s wish!” exclaimed the abbé, whose face was +bathed with perspiration and whose limbs were so sore that he could +scarce sit upon his horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” answered the masked man, pressing the paper into the +priest’s hands; “read that and all will be known to you.” +</p> + +<p> +The abbé read the paper; then he raised his hands in an attitude of +humble thankfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“Merciful Heaven be praised,” cried he, “they have made me Bishop of +Blois, me—the unworthy—the simple priest—the humble curé of +Yvette! Surely the king has forgiven me then. Gentlemen, I thank you +from my heart for this night’s work. Never shall your services be +forgotten. Tell me your names, I beg of you, that I may remember them +in my prayers.” +</p> + +<p> +The first of the men removed his mask. +</p> + +<p> +“ ’Seigneur,” said he, “they call me Bénoît, the swordsman.” +</p> + +<p> +“ ’Seigneur,” cried the second, unmasking in his turn, “I am the Comte +de Guibert—the oldest friend of your ward, Mademoiselle Corinne de +Montesson.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the moment for the young girl now. Swiftly unmasking and +turning her pretty face upon the astonished abbé, she said,— +</p> + +<p> +“And I, ’seigneur, am Corinne herself.” +</p> + +<p> +The abbé sat as one dumfounded. Tears welled up in his eyes. +Gratitude choked his words. +</p> + +<p> +“Corinne,” he said, “oh, it is to you that I owe my pardon and my +fortune then! God bless you a thousand times.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not at Charenton,” cried Corinne, merrily. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven forbid,” cried the abbé. “Return to your home and carry an +old man’s blessing with you.” +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +The Bishop of Blois was wont to tell, even in his old age, how that at +St. Cloud he had once thrown a glass of wine in the king’s face. But +the knowing ones shook their heads. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” said they among themselves, “it was one of pretty Corinne’s +jests. The only king our good bishop ever met was Lekain, the actor +from the king’s theatre.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch05"> +V.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE PURPLE GLASS</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> Chevalier Eugène Sabatier was accounted one of the handsomest +rogues in all Paris; but he looked neither handsome nor roguish when +he stood in the music-room of the Hôtel Beautreillis on the third day +of May in the year 1763, and reflected earnestly upon the strange tale +which Antonio, the physician, had just told him. +</p> + +<p> +The glorious afternoon was coming to a close then, and the old gardens +in the Rue St. Paul began to be filled with the first sweetness of the +night. Trees laden with blossoms, bushes with roses, rustled gently as +the warm south wind breathed upon them; lengthening shadows upon the +grass waged war with the delaying patches of sunlight and drove them +inch by inch from the garden. The spires and turrets of the great +house shone radiant a little while with fiery beams which struck upon +their windows and copper domes and made them like burning beacons +above the surrounding streets. In the music-room itself, a soft +twilight prevailed; and this was in keeping with the gloom which had +come upon those in the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +There were three persons in the great room at that hour; but the young +chevalier was the most prominent figure, standing as he did where the +deep red light of the setting sun could strike upon the gold and blue +of his dragoon’s uniform, and even send fire flashing from the heavy +brass helmet he held in his hand. As for Mademoiselle Corinne, the +mistress of the Hôtel Beautreillis, she sat in a low chair drawn so +far behind the curtain of the window that her pretty face was all in a +shadow; nor could you distinguish the colour of her robe nor the tint +of the lace which hid her exquisitely white neck. But it was plain +that she was very serious; and the same might have been said of her +old physician Antonio, who sat at a great writing table in the centre +of the apartment, and dipped his long quill pen into the ink-horn +before him with irritating regularity. Never once did he look at the +young officer, nor seem to remember the astonishment which a word of +his had just created. And this was the more surprising since that word +had told of the officer’s death. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” he had said, “if you go to the Château Saint Mandé +to-night, you go to the house of a man who is waiting to kill you.” +</p> + +<p> +The chevalier sprang from his chair, and standing a moment with the +crimson light flashing upon his young face, he appeared like one about +to resent a savage insult. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dieu!</i>” cried he, “do you forget that I am going to the house of my +brother?” +</p> + +<p> +“I forget nothing,” answered the old man, without looking up from his +paper. “Should you doubt my words, monsieur, it is easy to prove them +by continuing your journey immediately to the château. But the proof +will be with us—for your body will lie in the Marne before midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +The prophecy was that of one who weighed his words well; but so +terrible was it to hear, that long minutes passed and no voice broke +the silence in the music-room. As for Eugène Sabatier, he might have +been stricken dumb. Doubt, dread, anger, fear—each of these played +upon his boyish face in their turn. Saying to himself at one moment +that the story was a hideous calumny, in the next he remembered the +untold wrongs he had suffered at his brother’s hand, and a voice +whispered in his ear, “The physician is right.” Corinne, meanwhile, +watched her guest with sad eyes and a troubled mind. There was +something beyond mere friendship in a glance like that. Had her +thoughts been uttered aloud, she would have said, “I love him.” +Happily for her, the curtain hid her face, and the pretty flush which +added ornament to it. When she spoke, there was scarce a ring of +tenderness in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Eugène,” she said, for they had been children together, and no +formalities stood between them,—“Eugène, do not think that Antonio +would jest with you at such a moment. This is no new thing to him. He +has known your brother, the Count of Brives, for twenty years. I sent +for you to-night to save your life—repay me by forgetting everything +but the fortune and the future which to-night may bring you.” +</p> + +<p> +The young soldier, distracted by a hundred thoughts, turned upon her a +glance full of affection yet hardly followed her words. +</p> + +<p> +“Corinne,” cried he, “I know that my brother hates me—yet, that he +would kill me—<i>mon Dieu</i>, I cannot believe that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless,” chimed in the old physician, “he killed your brother +Gilbert.” +</p> + +<p> +An exclamation almost of resentment broke from Sabatier. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” he gasped, “you say—?” +</p> + +<p> +“That your brother Gilbert was poisoned by the Count of Brives in the +Château Saint Mandé two years ago to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” exclaimed Sabatier, sinking into a seat and burying his face in +his hands, “God grant that you are wrong!” +</p> + +<p> +“Antonio is never wrong,” said Corinne, sadly. “If you ask him, he +will tell you that your brother was poisoned three weeks after he +became marshal of the palace—an appointment the Count of Brives had +applied for but had failed to obtain.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the same way that you, monsieur,” added Antonio, “having been +ordered to Westphalia to supplant the count in a command there, will +be poisoned by him on the eve of your departure.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man spoke with such deliberate emphasis and conviction, his +story was so plausible, that Sabatier could suffer it no longer. +</p> + +<p> +“Corinne,” cried he, rising from his seat and suppressing the many +emotions which rushed upon his brain, “it is all like a terrible dream +to me. I must go home to reason with it. And if it be as you say, then +I thank God that my brother is saved from this new crime.” +</p> + +<p> +He held out his hand to her; but she did not take it. +</p> + +<p> +“Eugène,” she exclaimed, “before you go home to-night you have work +to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which is, Corinne?” +</p> + +<p> +“To avenge your brother Gilbert and to become the Count of Brives.” +</p> + +<p> +Perplexed as he was, Sabatier smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said he, “now you speak to me in riddles. What miracle shall +make me Count of Brives to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Supper at the Château Saint Mandé is the only miracle necessary, +Eugène.” +</p> + +<p> +The young man drew back with an impatient gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“Corinne,” he cried, “is it an hour for jests?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not jest with you, Eugène,” she answered very tenderly. “Did +not I tell you that fortune and a future awaited you to-night? It is +for you to say whether you will take the gift or refuse it.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke very simply, though deep feeling gave a quaver to her voice. +As for Sabatier, he began to tell himself that he had lost his wits; +and he walked up and down the room like a man distracted. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” cried he, stopping suddenly at last; “what mystery is this? +You say that my brother will poison me, yet you tell me to sup with +him. I beseech you be plain with me—oh, do I not suffer enough that +you should add to my burden?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned from one to the other appealingly, his distress being so +great that tears stood in his eyes, and his voice was husky and +broken. But it was the old physician who answered him. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, laying down his pen for the first time, “you +beseech me to be plain with you, and I will hasten to obey your wish. +Mademoiselle tells you truly that fortune and a future await you at +the Château Saint Mandé to-night; but if they are to be won, they +will be won by your own courage. The Count of Brives asks you to his +home that he may kill you as he killed your brother Gilbert. If you +turn back now, thinking to spare him the crime, you will dishonour +your father’s memory and add new shame to a house which knew shame for +the first time when your eldest brother was born to it. Let me conjure +you, then, to do no such thing, but to ride hence at once for the +Château—” +</p> + +<p> +“Where they will poison me?” interrupted Sabatier, a little angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” continued Antonio, “where they will poison you. But you, if +you are careful to do exactly as I bid you, you will awake presently +from the death you shall seem to die, and being awakened, will find +yourself in twenty hours Count of Brives and master of his fortune.” +</p> + +<p> +Sabatier stood wonder-struck. The old man, excited now by the story he +was telling, raised his hand as in warning, and continued rapidly,— +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, there is no other in the world who is called, as you are +now called, to be God’s messenger in this work of vengeance and of +right. Go, then, before the clock strikes again, to Saint Mandé; and +say to yourself as you enter, ‘I am come to avenge my brother +Gilbert.’ Whatever you see there, whatever may happen to you—fear +nothing. The eyes of those that send you to this work will watch you +even as you sit. I say no more—the minutes pass swiftly; and what +further counsel I can give is written here upon this parchment. Let me +exhort you to read every letter of that injunction—not once, but +twelve times, as you ride toward the château. For that writing is +life or death—as you remember or forget it.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a great stillness in the room when the old man ceased to +speak. Sabatier, scarce knowing whether the words were real or the +echo of a dream, took with trembling hands the paper which the +physician thrust upon him. Then he turned questioningly to Corinne; +but she had now risen from her seat, and coming forward she laid her +pretty fingers caressingly upon his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Eugène,” she asked earnestly, “you will avenge your brother?” +</p> + +<p> +“As God is my witness,” he answered, “I will know the truth this +night.” +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +The woods of Vincennes were very dark when Eugène Sabatier passed +through them on his way to his brother’s house. But his head was too +full of terrible thoughts to permit him to notice the state of the +night or even the dangers of the road. For the matter of that he had +ridden at a hand-gallop from Mademoiselle Corinne’s courtyard; and +skirting the right bank of the Seine, he drew rein but twice before +the grim and forbidding home of the Count of Brives stood up in the +valley before him. Then, indeed, with a little shiver of fear he +permitted his horse to walk, while he took off his heavy brass helmet +and wiped the sweat from his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” he said to himself, “what an errand to go upon! That my +brother should be a poisoner. Bah, I will not believe it! Corinne has +been too clever for once. That old fool of a physician has deceived +her with his nonsense. As well might I expect to be Pope as to step +into Charles’s shoes and become Count of Brives to-morrow. Yet I +cannot forget that poor Gilbert’s body was found in the river the +morning after he supped at Saint Mandé. God help me—what am I to +think?” +</p> + +<p> +He was riding at that moment through a wood of shivering aspens; and +what with the strange, haunting music of their leaves, and the +darkness of the thicket, and the weird light playing upon the river, +whose course he could mark, like a great silver vein of the valley, he +began to be more fearful than ever he had been in all his life. And +this was surprising, since there was no braver man in Condé’s legion +than Eugène Sabatier; none readier with the rapier, or more skilled +in all those arts which are a soldier’s boast. It was the hidden +danger—the death in the cup—that now made his heart beat so loudly. +He could not hide it from himself that this old man, who had warned +him, might be a fool and a boaster. How, he asked himself, if the +scheme should fail and his own body be found to-morrow in the Marne? +He had little to hope for in life, for he was a penniless soldier, who +must make his own future; but so long as he could treasure up in his +heart love for little Corinne, he was content to live, and to dream of +a day when there should be no gulf of wealth and station between them. +That day would come quickly enough if his brother, the Count of +Brives, were to die, since the count had neither wife nor child; and +title and lands would then descend to him. He remembered that Corinne +had promised that all this should happen twenty hours after he had sat +down to supper at the château; and he laughed again at the absurdity +of her promise. Only when he remembered poor Gilbert did his own +courage come back to him; and riding quickly out of the wood he swore +that the truth should be hidden no longer. +</p> + +<p> +He was not more than a hundred yards from the gloomy house now; and he +could hear the voices of boatmen rising up from the river’s bank. +Behind him lay Paris, her lights beginning to shine brightly as in joy +of the newly come night; before him the road sloped gently toward the +Seine, meeting it at last at a point where the Marne flows into the +greater stream. He could see his brother’s château, which had the +shape of an old-time fortress, standing up black and threatening +almost at the water’s edge. In the distance it appeared to be the +stronghold of the hamlet which lay in its shadow; a hamlet of tumbling +cottages, with an old Norman church, red-roofed, squat, yet withal +picturesque. But when you rode into the one street of this village, +you observed that a meadow lay between the great house and its humbler +children; and that the former was girded about with a wood of poplars. +Indeed, it was a very lonely house, and all the villagers shunned it, +as they shunned its melancholy, silent, solitude-loving master, the +Count Charles of Brives. +</p> + +<p> +These villagers were all going to their beds when the young captain of +Condé’s legion rode at a canter through their hamlet. He, on his +part, took little notice of them or of their dwellings, so entirely +did apprehension of the peril to come play upon his mind. Twice +already had he perused the slip of parchment which old Antonio +intrusted to him with so solemn a warning; but now, at the mouth of +the village, he drew rein for the third time, and holding the paper so +that the light from the lantern of the inn fell upon it, he read every +word of it again and again; and having read it, he repeated it twenty +times aloud, to be sure that his memory had it. There were but three +lines of writing in all—done clearly, in great bold characters; and +Eugène soon knew them so well that he could say them backwards or +forwards as he pleased:— +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="center"> +BEWARE OF THE PURPLE GLASS<br> +THE HALF OF THAT WITHIN IT IS LIFE<br> +THE WHOLE IS DEATH. +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +“Bah!” said he, tearing the paper into shreds and letting the night +wind scatter it, “they tell a tale to frighten children—not men. What +an injustice to believe this of my brother until I have something +beyond an old man’s cackle to go upon. How should he know of a purple +glass, and how can there be both life and death within it? I will +listen to no such slander, but sup with the count as brother should.” +</p> + +<p> +This was all very well in promise, but the performance was a different +matter. Though Sabatier kept telling himself that he had nothing to +fear, his heart beat wildly when ultimately he stood at the gate of +the château and heard the great bell booming in the tower above him. +What, he asked, if that gate, which now shut behind him with such an +ominous clang, should never open to his knock again! How if the morn +should find his body lapped upon by the waters yonder, sedge grass +hiding his face, and the reeds trying vainly to clothe him with +warmth! He could not suppress a shudder when a voice whispered in his +ear—“All this is possible.” Nor did the croaking welcome of the +evil-eyed, stooping, lank old servant, Armand, reassure him. +</p> + +<p> +“The count, my master, awaits you in the salon, monsieur,” said he. “I +pray you be careful of the steps—they are, like all else here, a +little grown in age. Shall Germain bed your horse, or do you ride away +to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, surely, Armand; I leave Paris to-morrow, and must be in my own +bed before midnight is struck,” answered Eugène, merrily—though his +heart sank lower and lower at the gloomy aspect of all he saw about +him. “Let the horse have a mouthful of sweet hay and a loosened +girth,” he added presently; “who knows that my hand will be steady +enough to saddle him when I have done supping with the count!” +</p> + +<p> +The old servant, who had thrown the reins to the lad Germain, looked +up quickly at this remark, his toothless mouth opening in a horrid +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Who knows, monsieur?” he said; “there was never one of your race that +refused a flask of Armagnac yet. And there is none better in France +than the wine in my master’s cellars. I pray you follow me lest the +supper be already cold.” +</p> + +<p> +With this, he took up his lantern and mounted a steep, tortuous narrow +staircase, above which the great black walls of the château loomed +forbiddingly. There was a wicket in an old iron-sheathed door at the +stair’s head, and when they had passed through it, they stood in a +vast hall, the walls of which were covered with rusting armour. But +the place was forsaken and unlighted, save for the poor rays which +fell from the candle in the lantern; and, indeed, the whole house was +full of a silence as of the silence of death. It was a tremendous +relief to Eugène when at last he entered the great salon and beheld +his brother standing near the door to receive him. Every suspicion, +every doubt, all the horrid stories he had heard at the Hôtel +Beautreillis, were forgotten in a moment. Kinship, even affection, +succeeded to them during the instant of warm welcome. +</p> + +<p> +“Brother,” he said, coming forward with a light step, and stooping to +kiss the count upon the cheeks,—“brother, it is good to see you +again.” +</p> + +<p> +Count Charles suffered rather than returned the greeting. He was a man +perhaps of forty years of age: his face pitted with the small-pox; his +nose squat and up-turned; his beard short and stubby; his eyes very +bright and very small. He wore a suit of black velvet with ruffles of +white lace; but his vest was embroidered with silver, and the buttons +of it were picked out with diamonds. +</p> + +<p> +“My brother,” said he, his restless eyes blinking the while, “I heard +that you were named for a command in Westphalia. It was natural that I +should wish to see you before you go.” +</p> + +<p> +It sounded almost like an apology; but Eugène, refusing to notice the +hesitation and halting manner, became frankness itself. +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” he answered, “that I have a command, Charles—though +there is little hope left to us of the war. I am sure you wish me +God-speed, for I am to have your old company in Condé’s legion.” +</p> + +<p> +The count shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Pah!” said he, curtly, “if you can make those rats fight, you are a +clever man. They ran at Minden like deer from the dogs. Let us sit to +supper and forget them.” +</p> + +<p> +He led the way to an adjoining dining-room, even a larger chamber than +the one they quitted; and they sat together at the end of a long +table, feebly lit by eight wax lights. The toothless old man, Armand, +waited upon them, like a ghostly image from the gloom in which the +greater part of the room was plunged. For a while, neither of the +brothers spoke a word, eating silently and scarce looking at one +another. The supper itself was of the plainest—a capon, a dish of +spinach, some tender slices of venison—and for drink, champagne in +long goblets of sparkling cut glass. Eugène said to himself for the +second time when he lifted such a goblet and drank deeply of the +foaming draught, that old Antonio, the physician to Mademoiselle +Corinne, was a fool. There was no such thing as a purple glass upon +the table. How, then, could he avoid that within it? They had told him +a hag’s tale. Surely it was one of pretty Corinne’s jests. For a +truth, he was half of a mind to hint to his brother the cruel slander +put abroad about him; but restraining himself, he began to talk of the +Hôtel Beautreillis and of its fascinating mistress. +</p> + +<p> +“You have seen Corinne lately?” he asked indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +The count looked up quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“You speak of Mademoiselle de Montesson?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I do; but I thought you were such good friends.” +</p> + +<p> +Count Charles shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I know her a little,” said he, with assumed nonchalance, “and you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said Eugène, with whole-hearted energy, “I know her very well +indeed, brother.” +</p> + +<p> +The count put out his glass that Armand might fill it with champagne. +The action helped him to conceal from Eugène the deep flush upon his +face, and the angry brightness of his eyes. But he said no word to +betray himself, and began cleverly to talk of other subjects with a +loquacity quite foreign to him. As for the younger man, though he was +quite content now to believe that Corinne had told him a silly story, +none the less did the influence of his surroundings weigh heavily upon +him. His heart was dark as the great room in which he sat; and just as +in that chamber eight candles cast an aureole of light at its centre, +so in his own heart was there a glow of light when he remembered his +love for pretty Corinne. “Shall I ever see her again?” he asked. A +relentless foreboding warned him that he might not. Danger seemed all +about him. He knew that his brother hated him—hated him because his +mother had loved him; hated him for his looks, his friends, his +successes. But he knew then that he hated him most of all because of +the word which he had spoken about little Corinne. +</p> + +<p> +Supper was done now; and the count, pushing back his chair from the +table, seemed to be in a more generous mood. +</p> + +<p> +“Armand,” he cried to the toothless old serving man, “bring a flask of +Armagnac and set glasses. You can go to the lodge then.” +</p> + +<p> +Eugène was surprised at the request. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you live here alone, brother?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” replied the count; “am I not a soldier who has been alone +all my life?” +</p> + +<p> +It was a bitter question, and Eugène shuddered—he knew not why. Far +from fearing his brother now, he pitied him, and would have been very +glad to say so; but just when the word was upon his lips, Armand +returned with the flask of the wine of Armagnac and two long glasses, +which he wiped and set carefully upon the table. Eugène observed +their colour immediately. They were of a deep purple tint. “<i>Ciel!</i>” +he murmured to himself, while his heart beat fast and the blood rushed +to his brain, “<i>the purple glass</i>.” In the same instant, Armand left +the room; and a little while after a gate in the courtyard was shut +with a loud clang. The brothers were alone in the house of gloom. +</p> + +<p> +The count was the first to speak. He had the flask of wine in his +hand; and Eugène, who watched him like one fascinated, observed that +his arm trembled when he raised it. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said he, in a thick, unnatural voice, “there is no finer +Armagnac in Paris than this. Let me give you some.” +</p> + +<p> +Eugène bowed his head. His face was almost livid now. For that which +he must suffer, he cared nothing. He would sooner have died there and +then than make sure of so horrible a truth. “My brother a poisoner,” +he said to himself a a hundred times, “oh, what shame, what +dishonour!” +</p> + +<p> +The count filled his glass and pushed it over to him. Eugène was +surprised to see that his brother helped himself also to the wine, +drinking the half of a glass at a draught. The action reassured him. +“They have told me a lie,” he said to himself for the twentieth +time—and with this upon his lips and the warning of old Antonio +ringing in his ears like a knell, he lifted the purple glass and drank +from it. “The half is life,” said the voice. Eugène drank exactly one +half and put the glass upon the table. The count did not appear to +notice the action. +</p> + +<p> +“So you leave Paris to-morrow?” said he, pleasantly. +</p> + +<p> +The dragoon answered incoherently. A strange joy began to quicken the +blood in his veins. He had looked to fall senseless after drinking the +wine, but to his amazement nothing happened. Rather he felt elated, +eager to talk nonsense, light-headed as a child. “Pish,” said he to +himself, “what a calumny to spread!” The reaction was terrible, +overwhelming. He had the desire to rise and embrace his brother. He +spoke of little Corinne freely—even of his love for her. The count +replied in monosyllables. He, too, was watching, but the light of long +years of hate was in his eyes. The moment of his vengeance had come, +he said. +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes had passed now since Eugène drank the wine; five minutes +which he declared were the happiest in his life. But, of a sudden, his +joy was turned to great fear; his words were broken on his lips; cold +sweat started to his forehead; his heart quickened with a pulse of +weakness. In that instant he knew that the old physician had not +cheated him. Death himself seemed to have touched him upon the +forehead. A dreamy, irresistible sleep stole upon him, surely. +Everything in the room was still clear to his eyes; but the power of +action and of speech was becoming less every moment. He felt that he +was sinking down into unconsciousness. “Oh,” he moaned, “I shall never +see little Corinne again.” All his love for her was magnified a +thousand times at the thought. He clenched his hands and swore that he +would not die. With a last effort, and a last loud cry, he raised +himself from his chair—only to fall headlong at his brother’s feet; +and to lie there, seeing all, hearing all, but unable to move a limb +or utter a word. +</p> + +<p> +The Count of Brives, who had waited for the moment, rose for the first +time since his brother had drunk the wine. Eugène, lying there in the +trance which the poison put upon him, could observe all the other’s +actions—and he watched him as a prisoner may watch a captor from whom +he has no hope of mercy. Deliberately and with all the nerve of a man +grown callous to crime, the count began to finish his work. He put out +the lights upon the table one by one, until a single candle alone +lighted the vast chamber. Then, taking this candle in his hand, he +bent over the body before him and looked at it with a malignity woeful +to see. +</p> + +<p> +“Pah!” he said, placing the light upon the table again, “Condé’s +legion will want a captain to-morrow, and Corinne a lover. He brought +it upon himself—why should I pity him?” +</p> + +<p> +The dragoon heard the words very plainly, and the hate in them added +to that which he suffered. It was true, then, as Antonio had told him, +that his brother meant to kill him when he asked him to the Château +Saint Mandé. He recollected at the same time that the old man had +prophesied things which he did not understand at the moment of their +utterance. “You will awake presently from the death you shall seem to +die, and being awakened, will find yourself in twenty hours Count of +Brives and master of his fortunes.” Or again: “The eyes of those that +send you to this work will watch you even as you lie.” Would he, +indeed, he asked himself, wake again from this paralysis which had +fallen upon heart and tongue and limb? Did some friendly eyes indeed +watch him as he lay there in all the agony of a trance? He could not +answer; could do nothing but think of little Corinne and pray that he +might see her once again. +</p> + +<p> +The Count of Brives had opened the window of the salon now, and the +cool air of the May night flooded the chamber refreshingly. Eugène +heard his brother pass out into the garden beyond, and when he +returned to the table he had a lantern in his hand. Nerved by all the +resolution of daring and cruelty, he was quick to act, that his crime +might be hidden from men and from his own eyes. Ever and anon Eugène +could observe his pale face as he moved swiftly about the room, or +listened with strained ear to catch any sound in the house. But the +silence of ultimate night reigned in the château. No human thing +moved there. Not a clock ticked, not a door creaked. The wind moaned +its song of solitude in the poplars of the garden—but the count was +alone with his victim. +</p> + +<p> +Twice he walked up to the body of the man he believed to be dead; +twice he drew back with a tremor of nerve and a gesture of repugnance. +When at last his iron will conquered, he stooped quickly, and bringing +all his great strength to the work, he began to drag the body toward +the window. It was a horrid effort even for him; and he had but begun +it when a loud sound, like the sound of a door shutting in a chamber +above, caused him to spring up with a great cry, and to stagger from +the room as though unnumbered phantoms had come about him to proclaim +the deed. Eugène heard the sound well enough, and began to hope for +the second time. “They watch me, they watch me!” he cried,—“oh, how I +need my courage!—if they should be too late!” The thought was +unbearable, almost maddening; the agony of the bondage of helplessness +greater than any man could conceive. He prayed for unconsciousness, +even for death—but these were denied to him. The drug had quickened +his life—and yet had robbed him of all that which life is. +</p> + +<p> +In this the mood of fear unspeakable, he lay and listened while his +brother passed quickly from room to room, opening and shutting the +doors loudly, and often crying “Who goes there?” as though he was sure +that some one else had entered the château. Nor was the count content +until he had searched even the garrets, and had told himself a hundred +times that the wind cheated him in his alarm. When at last he returned +to the dining-room, his step was stronger and his will more sure. He +picked up the body now as though it had been a common burden, and +staggering from step to step down the stairs upon which the window +opened, he dragged it into the garden, and so out into the moonlight, +which fell plenteously upon the damp grass. There for a moment he +stood panting for his breath and shading his eyes, that he might see +more clearly into the garden. As for Eugène, he had felt the strength +of the arms which clasped him so surely; and now when he lay stiff and +voiceless upon the grass, he said that death had become his neighbour. +“He means to throw my body in the Seine,” he thought; “they will come +too late—they have left me to die—what cruelty!—what a night of +suffering!” Had a voice then been given to him, he would have screamed +in his terror. But the drug had tied his tongue; the trance held him +too surely—he was dead, yet suffered as the living rarely have +suffered. +</p> + +<p> +Once more the count stooped to his dreadful work. The spot whereon he +stood was scarce a hundred yards from the black waters of the Seine. +There was to be no delay this time. Turning his +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_188.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_188_th.jpg" alt="img_188.jpg"> + </a> + <figcaption> + He picked up the Body and staggered down. + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +eyes away that he might not look upon his brother’s face again, he +gripped him by the left arm and began to drag him toward the river. +Two paces he took; his foot was raised for a third—when the second +omen of the night sent him staggering back from his burden like one +stricken with a mortal sickness. The omen was nothing less than the +sound of his name uttered from a window high up in the looming wall of +the château. Clear above the river’s moaning and the song of the +poplars, the call came:— +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur le Comte, where is your brother Eugène?” +</p> + +<p> +The count turned round on his heel—a cry frothed upon his lips—he +reeled backward, backward, saying that the judgment of God was upon +him. The château, which had been dark when he left it five minutes +before, was now blazing with light. Every room on the upper story shed +bright golden rays from its windows. Seen in the strong moonlight, the +great house had become like a palace of the fairies. The panes of +glass were so many stars shining in a setting of black stone; the very +attics were beacons to guide those far away in the valley. More than +all, a man clothed from head to foot in black stood plain to be seen +at a casement above the salon; and he it was who called to Count +Charles,— +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur le Comte, where is your brother Eugène?” +</p> + +<p> +The count heard the call, and for a moment terror convulsed him. But +fury was quick to prevail above fear; and with a great oath upon his +lips, he drew a dagger and ran back to the château. In the same +instant, the man in black disappeared from the window; and Eugène, +watching it all with a hope not to be described, observed that the +bushes near to him on the lawn opened suddenly, and that men came out +of them. The face of the first of these new-comers was hidden by a +mask; but when the man stooped presently to pour the contents of a +phial upon the dragoon’s lips, the mask slipped and Eugène knew that +old Antonio was at his side. +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” said the old man, watching the red drops fall upon the +feverish lips, “awake—and sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i> is it thou, Antonio?” murmured Eugène, knowing that the +trance had passed from him the moment the drops fell, “Oh, blessed be +God—I live—I live!” +</p> + +<p> +That minute was the most exquisite of his life; but scarce had he +realised the meaning of it when a sweet unconsciousness stole upon +him, and he slept. And so sleeping, the men raised him in their arms +and carried him quickly out of the garden. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon of the following day was drawing to its close when +Eugène Sabatier awoke from his deep sleep. A ray of burning sunlight +striking down through the open window of his room in the Rue Charles +V., fell at length upon his eyes, and caused him to turn uneasily upon +his bed. A moment later, he sat upright and began to stare about him +with the air of one who is not quite sure either of the hour or of his +environment. In which operation, he encountered the gaze of his +servant Barnardin, who stood at the bed’s head as though he had long +been awaiting the moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said the valet, advancing with his master’s clothes, “it is +five o’clock, and you know that we leave Paris at eight. Will you be +pleased to rise?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Diavolo!</i>” cried Eugène, springing from the bed with a light +step—and he was very much surprised to find how strong he was—“have +I slept long, Barnardin?” +</p> + +<p> +Barnardin shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“You were away from home when I left here at ten o’clock last night, +my master,” said he; “but when I brought your coffee at eight o’clock +this morning you slept so soundly that I could not wake you.” +</p> + +<p> +The dragoon began to dress himself quickly, remembering only that he +had orders to leave Paris at eight o’clock that night. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Sang-bleu!</i>” muttered he to himself, “I must have supped in some +cabaret—and drunk too much Armagnac. What a thing to dream—that my +brother poisoned me! Pah! it was a fool’s sleep, and I am paid for my +folly. And yet I could swear that I talked with Corinne at her house +yesterday, and that she promised to make me Count of Brives in twenty +hours. <i>Dame!</i> I am like to wait long for that!” +</p> + +<p> +The reflection made him a little gloomy, reminding him as it did how +small had been fortune’s gifts to him, and how childish was his hope +that he might ever speak to Corinne of his love for her. Were he Count +of Brives, then would it be a very different thing; for he could hurry +back from the war and make haste to deal with those estates which +Count Charles treated so ill. But he told himself again and again that +all his visions of the night had been phantoms of sleep come to +torment him with illusions and vain words. He was still Eugène, the +dragoon—with scarce ten gold pieces in his pocket and no prospect for +the future save that which the war offered to him. Little Corinne +remained the mistress of the Hôtel Beautreillis and of the great +station which her possessions gave to her. What folly to dream that he +might ever tell her that he loved her! +</p> + +<p> +Saying this to himself, he made a hurried meal; and all being ready, +set out for the Barrière du Trône when the clocks of Paris were +striking half-past six. His baggage had gone already in the waggons of +the regiment, which he was to join at Chalons; and he rode now +accompanied only by his servant Barnardin, who led his second charger. +Many turned in the streets to look at the handsome dragoon in the +sky-blue uniform; many muttered, “There goes that rogue Sabatier to +the wars;” but Eugène noticed none of them. A deep depression weighed +him down; his accustomed gaiety and readiness of speech had forsaken +him; he struck again into the heart of the woods of Vincennes, and the +silence of the thickets was like balm to his weary mind. He was +absolutely convinced that the events of the dreadful night were the +events of a dream. He remembered that he must pass his brother’s +château on his way to Chalons. “I will call and ask a God-speed of +him,” said he to himself; “I owe him that for allowing myself ever to +repeat so cruel a calumny.” +</p> + +<p> +He had come by this time to that little place upon the hill whence he +could look down to the Seine, and observe the gloomy towers of his +brother’s house. Here, despite his resolution, a shudder of fear +trembled upon all his limbs. Strange as he thought it, the dream +seemed more real with every mile he rode. He could have sworn that he +stood last night upon that very spot; he remembered the blood-red +light upon the river; the shiver of the aspens; the foreboding which +possessed him. Angry with himself that these thoughts prevailed, he +set spurs to his horse, and rode at a gallop toward the village. +</p> + +<p> +“A plague upon it,” said he, “it was a dream, a silly dream. I did not +sup with my brother, and never shall I be Count of Brives—fool that I +am to think of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said a voice at his side, “permit me to tell you that you +are mistaken.” +</p> + +<p> +Eugène checked his horse and looked round quickly. He saw to his +astonishment that a man who wore a rich dress of black cloth, and a +black plumed hat, rode at his side upon a magnificent beast who kept +pace with the other as easily as though he had been walking for the +show of it in the Place Louis Quinze. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said the dragoon, civilly, “you said—?” +</p> + +<p> +“That you are very much mistaken, sir,—you did sup with your brother +last night, and you will be Count of Brives before the clock strikes +again.” +</p> + +<p> +The words were spoken with such a fine air that Sabatier began to ask +himself if this were some new apparition come to cheat him as the +others had done. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” cried he, impatiently, “what mystery is all this! Am I in my +senses, or do I still sleep?” +</p> + +<p> +He reined in his horse, and the stranger came close up to his side. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, “you neither sleep nor dream. Ask yourself no +such silly question. It is quite true that your brother attempted to +poison you last night with a flask of Armagnac in which, as the +physician Antonio would tell you, there were four grains of one of the +most deadly drugs known to the East. You, however, remembering the +warning, drank but a half of the glass set before you—and so you +become Count of Brives.” +</p> + +<p> +“I?” cried Eugène, impatiently, “I become Count of Brives?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” said the other; “you have only to ride to yonder château +to make it your own.” +</p> + +<p> +The dragoon laughed scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Pah!” said he, “how could the wine have been poisoned when my brother +drank of it; and how could your physician know what the flask +contained?” +</p> + +<p> +The man in the plumed hat betrayed no sign of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, slowly, “you ask me two questions, and I will +answer them. We knew what the wine contained because Armand, your +brother’s servant, has long been good enough to sell us for money an +account of your brother’s life. Three weeks ago the Count of Brives +was offered by an agent of my mistress, Mademoiselle Corinne, a +preparation of the poppy leaf brought from Yezd. So fatal is this to +those whose bodies are not fortified against it by the continued and +gradual habit of eating the drug, that two-thirds of a grain will kill +the strongest man. You, however, drinking but a half of that which was +offered to you, suffered but a passing loss of your senses. It is +obvious to you that the count, having been long in the East and +accustomed to the use of opium, could drink that which would mean the +death of another not so prepared. The draught last night steeled his +will to the dreadful crime he sought to commit. You, however, +succumbed to it; and never, I swear, did the living wear the cloak of +the dead as you wore it in the Château Saint Mandé.” +</p> + +<p> +Sabatier groaned at the remembrance. It seemed to him that he began to +suffer the terror of the garden for the second time. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” cried he, “it is all a miracle—I cannot believe it—I +cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no miracle,” said the stranger, solemnly; “it is the hand of +Almighty God avenging your brother who was slain. Go then to the +château—but go alone, that the eyes of no other may witness the deed +which must be. I wait here until yonder church bell shall tell me that +you are Count of Brives.” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed with outstretched arm to the gate of the darkening house +upon whose blackened walls the last crimson rays of the setting sun +were dying down quickly. As Eugène rode away, he remembered that he +had seen the stranger before, and he said—it was he who called from +the window last night—“Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur le Comte, where is +your brother Eugène?” Drawn on at the recollection as by a fatality, +eager to prove, to make sure, now buoyed up with hope, now trembling +with excitement, he galloped through the street of the village, and +never drew rein until his hand was upon the bell at the outer gate of +the château and the birds were winging upward at his clamorous peal. +As it had been last night—that night of nights—so was it to-day. The +toothless old Armand gave him welcome; the lad Germain held his horse. +Nothing seemed altered in the great house; nothing of its silence nor +of its mystery. But Sabatier’s heart beat until his whole body shook +with the pulsations; and so great was his dread that he could scarce +frame the question— +</p> + +<p> +“Where is my brother, the count?” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said the old man, with a horrible leer, “your brother +awaits you in the garden.” +</p> + +<p> +Bidding him stay where he was, Sabatier ascended the rotting staircase +and passed rapidly through the hall. “I will know the truth, I will +learn all,” he said to himself—determined now that the mystery should +blind him no more. Many as were his sensations while he strode across +the great dining-room to the garden beyond, he quitted them all in the +greater doubt—“Can this thing have been?” And doubting of it to the +last, he opened the window and so beheld his brother. +</p> + +<p> +The count was dressed as he had been on the previous evening; but his +eyes were now bloodshot and inflamed; his step halting and restless; +his hair dishevelled. When Sabatier saw him thus, he was walking, with +bent head, to and fro upon the grass plot by the bushes; but his +glance was ever upon the ground, and he muttered unceasingly, “Where +is my brother Eugène?” This haunting cry had been upon his lips +through every hour of that dreadful night. He had never left the scene +of his crime—had touched no food, had spoken no word. From the moment +when he discovered that some unseen eye watched him in his horrid +task—the Count of Brives lost his reason. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God!” cried Eugène, aloud, moved to exceeding pity by a sight +so woeful, “my brother is mad.” +</p> + +<p> +The count heard the cry and looked up. For one long-drawn instant he +stood quite still; then, with a moan upon his lips, he began to walk +backwards down the garden. But at the third step, he fell heavily upon +the grass. +</p> + +<p> +“Brother,” said Eugène, running to his side,—“brother, I forgive.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a word of surpassing love—but the heart of the Count of Brives +had ceased to beat when it was spoken. +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +When Eugène Sabatier rode from the Château Saint Mandé that night +to join the army at Chalons, the villagers cried after him,— +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Bon soir</i>, Monsieur le Comte.” +</p> + +<p> +And the bells of the little church soon told all Paris that Charles, +Count of Brives, was no more. +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch06"> +VI.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE KINGDOM OF BOURGORIEAU</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">The</span> Feast of the Precious Blood, on the fourth day of July, in the +year 1763, sent many of Old Paris to the gardens of the <i>Courtille des +Porcherons</i>, famous at that time for the great sign-board upon which +Master Ramponeau, the host of the <i>guinguette</i>, was depicted, sitting +astride a hogshead, and therefrom beckoning all the city to taste of +his unsurpassable wines. Other <i>courtilles</i>, it is true, waged a good +fight against the booths and bazaars of the <i>Tambour Royal</i>, as old +Ramponeau’s house was called; but the fame of his tavern was built +upon the rock of a royal patronage, and rare was the day when some +masquerader from the palace did not drive to that place of arbours and +of shade in quest of adventure which should oil his tongue at Trianon. +Thither, too, went the butter girls from the Quai de Gesvres, ready +with their pretty patois to answer the dragoons of the guard—thither, +as rumour said, Madame herself had gone under the escort of the Duc de +Richelieu. Bourgeois or aristocrat, priest or clerk, student or +philosopher, trooper or captain,—it mattered not in the gardens of +Ramponeau. He had the same welcome for all—the same witty greeting, +the same civility. And he knew more of the secrets of Paris than the +Canons of Notre Dame themselves. “Oh, ce bon Ramponeau, comme il est +drôle,” said the women. The men spoke of his wines. There were no +better in Paris. To drink them you could suffer even the music of +Ramponeau’s fiddler and the dust of the drive to the Porcherons. +</p> + +<p> +The Feast of the Precious Blood was a day of sun and heat; but a cool +breeze came up with the evening, and many masqueraders gathered at the +hour of eight o’clock in the shady avenues of the <i>Tambour Royal</i>. +Ramponeau, whose long neck twisted unrestingly in his greetings to +this great man or to that, was hoarse with proclaiming the merits of +his wine of Burgundy and of his Armagnac. The weary fiddler in the +great tent beat his instrument savagely, as though angry with it and +the world which compelled him. The jaded dancers had abandoned the +more stately steps of the Basque for the fever of the Poitou jig. +Everywhere in the cool of the gardens the lovers walked—here a wit of +Trianon impatient at the slow understanding of a Corydon; there a +dragoon, who told himself that the masked unknown who clung timorously +to his arm must certainly be a duchess. Uniforms, gorgeous in gold and +lace, were to be observed through a tracery of boughs and leaves still +green—the scarlet of the gendarmerie, the blue of the Corsican +legion, the towering brass helmets of Condé’s men. Even cassocked +priests took pleasure with circumspection, and drank the wines of +Italy served from dainty flasks. So great was the press of aristocrat +and of citizen that a table apart was a possession of great price. One +man alone in all the throng commanded such a privilege and was not +denied. He was Bourgorieau, the king’s swordsman. +</p> + +<p> +A man of small stature, slightly pock-marked yet pleasant of +countenance, with a beard trimmed in the Spanish fashion, and a suit +of violet cloth to cover a frame of iron,—such was Bourgorieau, the +swordsman. Many turned to look at him when they passed, but none so +long as to draw upon himself the gaze of one who was the master even +of the masters of his art. At any other time, perhaps, in the garden +of the Tuileries or the theatre of the palace, it had been possible to +exchange a greeting with this man of Nantes, whose sword had cut for +him such a broad road to fame. But at the <i>Tambour Royal</i>, such a +thing was not to be thought of. Even Ramponeau would cease to twist +his long neck, and to speak of Armagnac when he approached the arbour +of wild roses before the doors of which the <i>maître d’armes</i> sat. +Swaggering troopers ceased to swagger when they beheld the pock-marked +face and the suit of violet. Even a dancing girl had not the temerity +to thrust out her tambourine for the sous of Bourgorieau. He sat +alone, silent, asking friendship of none nor seeking it. +</p> + +<p> +It was seven o’clock when Bourgorieau entered the tavern of old +Ramponeau; it was half past eight before he remembered that Javotte, +his daughter, would be waiting for him in the little house upon the +island of St. Louis. She would have supper prepared against his +coming. He was not one who cared very much for the hospitality of +taverns; nor would he have gone to the <i>Tambour Royal</i> at all had not +the vanity of his art compelled him. While men said that he was a +sullen rogue who sat apart because of the grim shadows upon his life, +he, in turn, was telling himself that it was good to observe the fear +of his fellows and to assert, wherever it might be, that title of +mastership which his sword had won for him so readily in Paris. For +the poltroons who passed swiftly by his table he felt nothing but +contempt; but the contempt was a thought of gain; and he reminded +himself often that it would be a bad day for him when men ceased to +remark his coming or to give him the chief seats in the <i>guinguette</i>. +For the rest, the tipsy masquerader, the hollow wit, the glitter of +colour and the music of fiddlers, he cared not at all. His life lay in +his house, in the love of child and home. His arm had quivered many a +time when he stood to the encounter and told himself that he might +never see Javotte again. Yet the world said he did not know fear. He +laughed at the world and kept his secret. +</p> + +<p> +The tavern clock chimed the hour; the throng was increasing in the +grove when the king’s swordsman drained his glass of Chianti and began +to feel in his pocket for a crown wherewith to pay the score of old +Ramponeau. He was upon the point of rising from the table when an +exclamation uttered by one who passed by caused him to look up quickly +and to discover that he was no longer alone in the arbour. A young +man, shabbily dressed in a suit of brown cloth and carrying a +traveller’s bundle upon his shoulder, had left the ranks of the +masqueraders to trespass upon that forbidden ground which all Paris +had conceded to the Kingdom of Bourgorieau. So quick had the action +been, so little expected, that none put out a hand to touch the youth +upon the shoulder or to tell him whither he went. Seeming to know +nothing of the place or the people, the stranger advanced boldly to +the sacred table, upon which he cast his bundle with the air of one +very much fatigued. Then he fell rather than sat in the chair which +awaited any person fortunate enough to enjoy the hospitality of the +<i>maître d’armes</i>. The half-suppressed exclamation of anger which the +swordsman uttered was lost upon him. He saw nothing of the gaping +amazement of those who stood in the shadow of the trees; he did not +hear the words of sympathy and surprise which the women uttered. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Oh, c’est ben</i>,” he exclaimed, as he sat, and his idiom was that of +Eastern France. “I have walked far, monsieur, and there is dust upon +the road to Strasbourg. You will let me sit a little while at your +table and drink a cup of wine with you?” +</p> + +<p> +Bourgorieau looked upon the lad as upon some curiosity fallen from the +heavens at his feet. His first thought had been to call for a cudgel +and to thrash the impertinent fellow soundly; but the music of the +young man’s voice, his soft, pleasing, almost girlish face, his +tremendous ignorance, stayed the other’s hand. He glanced quickly to +that place between the trees where the carousal was at its height, and +saw that many waited for him to act. How if he did not humour them? he +asked himself. It was a pleasing whim, this idea of suffering the +stranger at his table. And if any came to question him he would know +how to answer. +</p> + +<p> +“So you are from Strasbourg, <i>mon vieux</i>,” he said, surprised not a +little at the sound of his own voice, “and yet you come in by the +Porte St. Denis?” +</p> + +<p> +“I live by the lodge of Neuilly,” answered the youth, simply; +“to-morrow, if all goes well, I shall see my home again—but first I +have my work to do in Paris, and it is for that I am come to this +tavern. Oh, surely, sir, these are very great people, and I shall hear +from them of him whom I seek. Is not this the house of Maître +Ramponeau, whom even the queen has honoured? They said so out yonder. +‘You will find him,’ they said, and I know they speak well. To-morrow +I shall go on again—the work will be done, it must be done, for God +has willed it.” +</p> + +<p> +He laid his head upon his arms wearily, as though all the light and +music of the house could not keep sleep from his eyes. Bourgorieau +knew not what chord of sympathy was struck at the note of the young +man’s voice, but somehow he began to think of Javotte waiting for him +at home. He said that they would make a pretty pair—this curly headed +lad of Strasbourg who talked so blithely of having work to do and the +little maid of his own house who alone in all Paris could find love +for him. He was half a mind to bid the stranger follow him to the +island of St. Louis and there to share his supper; but first he asked +a question, and the answer to it was a word to set him laughing as he +had not laughed since he left the <i>salle d’armes</i> of old Andrea at +Nantes. +</p> + +<p> +“You say, lad, that you are looking for some one in Paris? Who is he +that his business should bring him to this tavern?” +</p> + +<p> +“I seek Bourgorieau, he whom they call the king’s swordsman. You know +him, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +Bourgorieau leaned back in his chair and stared, open-mouthed, at the +speaker. +</p> + +<p> +“If I know him—what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Be so good as to tell me where I may find the man who murdered my +father.” +</p> + +<p> +Bourgorieau laughed so loudly that many came out of the grove to +listen. “It is his son who has returned,” said some; others, that he +had drunk overmuch Burgundy. But the stranger neither laughed with the +<i>maître d’armes</i> nor observed those who watched him so curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Lucien,” he continued, “the son of Georges Duroc, who was killed +in this tavern eight years ago, monsieur. I was a boy then, but to-day +I am a man. I come to Paris to do the work appointed to me. Laugh as +you please, I know well that God sends me here, and that my journey +will not be in vain. To-morrow Bourgorieau will be dead and I shall be +in my mother’s house again.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke neither loudly nor with a boaster’s voice. In his eyes there +was a light as of a spiritual force working in his mind and creating +visions for him. Bourgorieau laughed no longer. The frail and prettily +rounded arms, the white skin, the gentle face of the youth were +forgotten by him. He recalled, rather, the day when he had killed +Georges Duroc in that very garden. Some trivial excuse of insult had +served for the deed of that night. And this was the man’s son—sent, +as he said, by God to demand a reckoning. Bourgorieau tried to laugh +scornfully at all superstitions. He told himself that he could fight +this lad of Strasbourg with a bandage over his eyes. But his mouth was +parched when he sought to answer the youth; and he called to one near +him to send another flask of Chianti. +</p> + +<p> +“So you are Lucien Duroc,” he said, when he had drunk a deep draught, +“and you come here to settle with old Bourgorieau? <i>Ma foi!</i> you have +a fine conceit, my friend.” +</p> + +<p> +Lucien sipped at the wine offered to him and began to bind his bundle +more securely. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” he replied very earnestly, “you do not understand me; I do +not know if I understand these things myself, for they are God’s +mysteries. It is true, as you say, that Maître Bourgorieau is the +first blade in Paris; we have heard even in Strasbourg of the things +he has done and the favour he has won. For myself, I have not held a +sword in my hand but two or three times in all my life. How then, you +ask, shall I bring such a one to his account? Sir, I know not what +answer I can make if it be not to tell you of all the things I have +heard and seen in the long nights of this last year at Strasbourg. Oh, +monsieur, the gate of heaven has been opened for me, and I have heard +the Divine voice commanding me that I should arise and go to Paris and +do this thing. Often in my dreams have I heard the voices bidding me +to leave the city and to delay no longer. ‘Seek and you shall find, +and the angels shall keep watch over you,’ they said always. Sir, +should I fear any man because I have listened to the message and have +come here as I am commanded? Am I not right to say that to-morrow the +justice of Heaven will fall upon him who killed my father, and that I +shall go back to my mother’s house and tell her to mourn no more for +him whom we loved, but to be glad because justice has been done? I am +young, and I know that my life is before me. I have seen gardens of +flowers in my sleep, and have walked there with those who will be with +me to my life’s end. I have stood upon the banks of a great river, and +the sweet breezes have blown upon my face, and I have heard the +message that I shall follow the river to the new country of my dreams. +Life is sweet to me, for I am young; but I shall not lose my life +because God sends me to Paris; there is none that can harm me while I +go to my duty and defend my father’s honour. Think not, monsieur, that +I boast when I say that to-morrow Bourgorieau will be dead. The king +himself could not save him now; it is written in the book of fate, and +no human hand shall blot that writing out.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose from the table at the words and took up his bundle as though +the rest were in itself the enemy of his mission. Bourgorieau, who had +sat white and silent while he spoke, now awoke as from a spell and +touched the speaker upon the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit,” he said in a low voice,—“sit and tell me more of these dreams +of yours, my friend. Who knows that this meeting is not written also +in the book you name!” +</p> + +<p> +Lucien rested his bundle upon the table. Bourgorieau saw that his +hands trembled; there was in his eyes the light of the mystic +awakened, of the dreamer made strong by the fevers of dreams. +</p> + +<p> +“What will it serve me to tell you if you cannot bring me face to face +with the man I seek?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Has he no love of life too?” asked Bourgorieau, upon whose forehead +heavy drops of sweat were starting. “Has he no home to which he would +return; is there none there to welcome his coming or to mourn if he +should not go back? Would you make me the servant of his murderer, +Monsieur Lucien? Nay, how shall I answer to his child—how shall I +tell her—?” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall say that you are the servant of a servant of God, monsieur. +Yet do not think that I compel you if your will is not in this matter. +The same hand which beckoned me from Strasbourg will point the way +still. I seek the aid of none—the friendship of none. I need no +courage nor skill. To-morrow my work will be done, for the voices have +promised so—to-morrow Paris will know of it. And the world will be a +better world for the death of this man, monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed with the grace of one born to high place, and before the +other could arrest him, disappeared in the grove. For many minutes +after he had gone, Bourgorieau sat staring at the masqueraders as +though some after-thought would send the youth back to him and permit +that opportunity of defence and argument of which surprise had robbed +him. But the throng passed on, the music of the fiddlers waxed more +discordant, the laughter was shriller and more brutal; and still the +old swordsman sat alone. There were moments, in truth, when he +believed that he had dreamed of the youth’s coming and of the words he +remembered so distinctly. But this did not help him to shake off the +strange foreboding which now began to possess him. It seemed to him +that some miracle must have sent the lad to the gardens of the +<i>Tambour Royal</i>. He recalled the boyish face, the dreamy eyes, the +spiritual enthusiasm of Lucien’s quest. He remembered his confession, +that he knew nothing of the sword, and fell to uttering the names of +those great fencers who had fallen in a brawl with the untutored or +the unskilled. Minute by minute his fear magnified. How if this were, +indeed, the justice of God come to overtake him, he asked himself. +None had dared to tell him hitherto that Paris would be a better city +for his death. The words which Lucien had uttered so solemnly echoed +in his ears—“it is written in the book.” All the superstitions of the +superstitious West crowded upon his mind. He laughed aloud to think of +them, yet racked his brain the more for any omen of the past which +would explain away the mystery of the night. When he left the garden +at last, he staggered through the press blindly, caring nothing for +the muttered curses which followed him. At the gate of the tavern he +told himself that he was already a rich man, and had promised himself +some day a home in Nantes among his own people and the children of his +boyhood. +</p> + +<p> +The great clock of Notre Dame was striking eleven when Bourgorieau +crossed the moonlit Pont Mairie and beheld again the lamp set in the +latticed window of his house upon the island. Crooked and gabled and +lofty, the neighbour of the little church of Saint Louis of the Isle, +leaning against other houses which had looked down upon the Paris of +the dark ages, the tumbling building, nevertheless, was to him a +palace of palaces. Here he could forget the intrigue of court and +camp; the slights of those before whom he must cringe; the slanders of +his unnumbered enemies. Here all pomp and ceremony were forgotten; +here, it was not his to serve nor to remember the darker side of +service. At this hour of night, the city around him was hushed in the +silence of sleep. So clear was the sky that the stars seemed to have +come down very near to the earth, and to hang like golden lamps in the +grey vault of the night. The swirling river lapped rhythmically upon +the piles of the old bridge. By here and there, a belated citizen +clattered across the flags and went tipsily to his home. The guard +paced his beat with measured and echoing steps. +</p> + +<p> +Bourgorieau stood for a long while watching the light in his house. He +could see Javotte as +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_216.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_216_th.jpg" alt="img_216.jpg"> + </a> + <figcaption> + “It is thou, Dear Father.” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +she waited at the window; a childish figure, weary with the vigil. He +knew that the sound of his steps would animate that figure presently, +would bring laughter to the sleepy eyes. He pictured the moment when +he would hold her in his arms and read the joy of love written upon +her face; the face of the one being in Paris who was sad at his going; +who counted the hours that should bring him back again. And watching +her, he heard, as though a voice answered from the shadows, the words +of Lucien Duroc in the gardens of Ramponeau, “Arise and go.” Even as +the voices had spoken to the lad, so now they warned him. “To-morrow,” +he said, “it would be too late. Javotte would wait at the window as of +old time, but the vigil would be eternal. Never again would the joy of +her love shine in the eyes of the child; never again—” +</p> + +<p> +Bourgorieau hurried on. The guard standing in the shadow of the church +heard a child’s voice, sweet and melodious, above the murmur of the +river,— +</p> + +<p> +“It is thou, dear father; oh, how long I have watched for thee, how +long—” +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * * * +</p> + +<p> +At ten o’clock upon the following morning, a horseman rode at a gallop +into the great courtyard of Versailles. To the many who asked him what +news, he answered only, “He is gone; the wager is won.” But to the Duc +de Richelieu who waited for him in the gardens of Trianon he told a +better story. +</p> + +<p> +“All Paris talks of nothing else,” he said. “The king must hear of it +at once. Last night at the house of Ramponeau, Mademoiselle Corinne of +the Hôtel Beautreillis wagered that she would drive Bourgorieau, the +bully, from the city before twenty hours had passed. She dressed as a +lad of Strasbourg and prated of a divine mission. This morning, the +man set out for Nantes, taking his daughter with him. He will come +here no more, Monsieur le Duc—Saint John, that I should be the first +with such news—” +</p> + +<p> +The duke stopped in his walk and gazed open-mouthed at the messenger. +</p> + +<p> +“How—Bourgorieau is gone—you say he will not come back—” +</p> + +<p> +“I say well, or if he come it will be his last visit. Paris knows now +that he is a coward, and twenty blades will be ready for him. We live +in a day of miracles, and this is one of them. But I go to the king +lest others be before me. A thousand crowns—<i>ma foi</i>, she should have +won ten thousand!” +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * * * +</p> + +<p> +Bourgorieau heard of the jest in his home at Nantes. He answered those +who told him by showing them the house he had built and the garden he +had planted. They heard Javotte singing there, yet wondered at his +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“I care not,” he said, “for she who was sent came to me from God.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch07"> +VII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">THE DEVIL’S BOWL AND THE<br> +STRANGE AFFAIR AT<br> +FONTENAY</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Corinne de Montesson</span> leant back in her coach and sighed. Paris +seemed so far off; the woods of Fontenay were so dark and gloomy that +she began to think the sun would never shine for her again. +</p> + +<p> +“Antonio,” she said, speaking to the old physician who sat opposite to +her, and asking him a question which she had asked ten times since +they were driven through the deserted street of Noisy le +Grand—“Antonio, what time is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio, who was making what use he could of the passing daylight to +complete a calculation which engrossed him, put down his book and +began to observe the surrounding woods very closely. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said he presently, “it is the hour of sunset on the +third day of April in the year 1764.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne laughed when she heard this very precise statement, and +nestling her ruddy cheeks against the cushion of the coach, she fell +to watching Antonio, who dipped his pen regularly into an ink-horn +slung at his waist, and held his book close to the window that the +last rays of the sinking sun might fall upon it. When she had watched +him a little while, and, after that, had counted the trees which +flashed by as the coach rolled down the hill of Fontenay until she had +numbered three hundred, she spoke again,— +</p> + +<p> +“Antonio, you know where we are?” +</p> + +<p> +The old physician stopped in the middle of shaping an 8 and put his +head out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he said, “we are half of a league from the town of +Fontenay at the spot known as the Gorge of the Three Gibbets, +reminding us that very lately his Majesty has caused three rogues to +be hanged in this place.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Antonio,” she said, “what a guide you would make!” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio picked up his pen. +</p> + +<p> +“My child,” said he, “unless we observe the signposts as we go, life +is likely to show us a heavy road. For my part, I forget nothing when +I am assured that it is worth remembering.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would say that of Fontenay, Antonio?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, mademoiselle, I would say that of Fontenay. Strange +indeed, if I forgot the place where they robbed and killed my poor +friend the Count of Charny.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne shuddered. She remembered that dreadful story well. The +darkening woods around her, the silence of the gloomy plantations, the +phantom-like shape of tree and bush, compelled her to realise very +forcibly in what a dangerous place she was, and how pleased she would +be to see the lights of Paris again. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “you are a poor comforter, Antonio—to speak of that +affair now, when Bénoît remains at Gros Bois and we ride alone.” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio closed his book with a snap, for the light no longer permitted +him to read. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he said, “do you say that you ride alone when I am +with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, my dear Antonio; I said that <i>we</i> ride alone—and lack +any protector save the good will which some of these men bear to me. +What a poor thing is that to rely upon! I am sure that I was very +foolish to leave Bénoît behind. The sword is with thieves a better +weapon than a thief’s charity, <i>mon ami</i>. And was there ever such a +swordsman as Bénoît?” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“All that you claim for our kinsman, that I will admit,” said he; “yet +when you would praise the sword as a weapon, mademoiselle, then you +speak as one who knows nothing of the greater mysteries. I, who am a +child with the rapier in my hand, can become the equal of thousands of +armies when I turn to those allies which exist neither in matter nor +in the schools—but here, in thought, in conception, in, if you will, +my dreams. +</p> + +<p> +“To-night you ask for your kinsman and his strong arm, yet, believe +me, my daughter, should misfortune overtake us, I, who have no weapon +but my book, no ally but my visions, will prove the better friend. Not +that I anticipate any such necessity. Another hour will see us at the +barrier; we shall pass Fontenay itself before the clock strikes again. +Take courage, then, mademoiselle, and forget that the sun no longer +shines, and that night is in the woods.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne, who never ceased to enjoy the pompous self-assurance and the +egotistical pronouncements of old Antonio, laughed in her sleeve now, +and, having laughed, she buried her head in the cushions, and suffered +stoically the terrible lurchings and rollings of the rut-tossed coach. +After all, she said, her name was a great name amongst the robbers +about Paris, and he would be a daring fellow who would venture to stop +her carriage. She recalled again how she had won a pardon for the +notorious Coq le Roi, who had narrated the deed in a hundred taverns +since then, and had made of her, all unwillingly, a very <i>déesse</i> +among patrons. +</p> + +<p> +Should any one now attack her, she thought that it would be sufficient +if her lacqueys mentioned her name. Nor did she rely at all upon the +mysterious boasts and promises of the old physician, who had forgotten +them already, and slept soundly with his half-open book lying +neglected at his feet. +</p> + +<p> +The coach rolled on deeper and deeper into the hollow of the night. By +here and there the trees were so thick that the lantern which a +lacquey had kindled scarce saved them from the ditch. At other times +you could see a little way into the clearings of the thickets, or espy +dark and noxious pools suggesting solitude and terrible deeds and the +gloomy mystery of woodland life. +</p> + +<p> +Corinne needed all her courage to banish the thoughts suggested by the +scenes, but she had a mind powerful in obedience, and when her first +alarms had passed, she compelled herself to think of the gaiety and +life of Paris, and of all she would do during her long summer there. +Indeed, she had made some very pretty plans for herself, and was in +fancy dancing a minuet with the king, when a loud report of a musket, +followed by a great clamour of question and answer and the sudden +stopping of the coach, awoke her from her dream; and all her little +castles came tumbling on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Antonio, Antonio!” she cried, “do you not hear it?—they have stopped +the coach, Antonio—make haste to tell them who I am. Oh, if I had not +left Bénoît at Gros Bois!” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio, who woke with a start, stopped a moment to pick up his book; +then he put his head out of the window, but drew it back upon the +instant. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “there are three men, and they are tying your +lacqueys to the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne, ashamed of her first alarms, attempted to laugh, but the +laugh had a quaver of fear in it. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Antonio,” she exclaimed, “pray make haste to tell the +gentlemen whose coach it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio, thus commanded, put his head out of the window for the second +time, and began to address the robbers. +</p> + +<p> +“Sirs,” said he, “I beg a word with you. This is the coach of +Mademoiselle Corinne de Montesson, whose name, I make sure, is very +well known to you.” +</p> + +<p> +To the physician’s surprise the three men made him no answer at all, +but continued quietly to bind the hands of the lacqueys and then to +tie them to the nearest trees. When they had done their work, the +tallest of the three, who was dressed in black and silver and wore a +mask upon his face, came up to the door of the coach and opened it. At +the same time he doffed his cap and bowed with the dignity of a +courtier. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said he, addressing Corinne, “a thousand pardons for +the liberty we have taken. Be assured that I know your name well and +that it is held in great reverence here. But I have laid a wager of a +thousand crowns that you shall sup with me to-night at the house of +the Silver Birch, and that I shall kiss you on both cheeks afterwards. +Accord me, I beg of you, a favour so trifling, and earn the lasting +gratitude of Claude Brissac.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood up, a fine figure even in the sombre flare of the two torches +which his companions had kindled, and now held aloft that Corinne +might see to alight. Very bright eyes shone humorously beneath the +velvet mask; diamonds sparkled upon the ample ruffles of lace at his +wrist and throat. +</p> + +<p> +Corinne had heard his name often. It was that of one of the most +gallant and successful highwaymen upon the eastern roads to Paris. “La +Force” they called him, for his unquenchable energy and his unfailing +boldness. Corinne knew that such a man would allow nothing to turn him +from his purpose, and she trembled a little when she answered him. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said in her own pretty way, “I cannot think that you +would compel me against my will. I would eat of your supper very +gladly, did you choose other opportunity to invite me. But I must be +in Paris to-night, and I rely upon you to hasten my journey thither. +Indeed, I am sure that you will do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Saint Denis!” replied the man, “and gladly would I help you. Yet, +mademoiselle, if you will but reflect a little, you will see how +reasonable is my request. It must be plain to you, since your lacqueys +are now keeping company with yonder trees, while your coachman is +shedding tears in the ditch, that you cannot arrive in Paris before +dawn at any rate. What more pleasant occupation, then, than a little +supper—where, be assured, the homage due to so great a name shall be +fully paid. Let this old man hasten to get out of the coach, that I +may have the pleasure of feeling your pretty hand upon my arm.” +</p> + +<p> +He held his plumed hat still in his hand, and his manner was in all +things the manner of Trianon. Corinne did not fail to see that no +words of hers would turn him from his purpose; but old Antonio was by +no means so willing to surrender readily. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” cried he, “you are a very impertinent fellow; if you do not +have a care, all Paris will come presently to see you hang at your own +door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Saint John!” said the robber, grimly, “if that day come, old man, +surely I will ask for the halter which thou hast worn. Get down, lest +I hasten thy steps with my boot.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, turning to Corinne, he continued:— +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle, our supper is getting cold while we wait. Bid this old +man be silent, I implore you, lest injury befall him. You have heard +of me, I doubt not, and will know how little I am disposed to take +‘no’ for my answer when I have set my mind upon a ‘yes.’ ‘La Force,’ +they call me, mademoiselle, as I shall call you my friend presently.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed again, and seeing that Antonio still hesitated, he put his +hand roughly upon the physician’s collar and dragged him from the +coach. Corinne, on her part, convinced that further resistance was +useless, stepped lightly from the carriage and took the robber’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said, “I am trusting to you as to one of my own +kinsmen. But I warn you that you will find me a dangerous guest.” +</p> + +<p> +The robber laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “my own daughter shall not win greater +respect. You have but to command and I obey.” +</p> + +<p> +“In that case,” said she, “I beg you permit my lacqueys to accompany +me, and to bring the coach to your house, so that when we have supped +I can continue my journey.” +</p> + +<p> +He answered her very gallantly,— +</p> + +<p> +“Your lacqueys are even now following us—and look, your coachman is +again upon his box. If they no longer carry pistols, mademoiselle, it +is that they may not shoot themselves. Take my word for it, they will +never shoot any one else.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed gaily, and gave the pretty white arm which rested upon his +own the suspicion of a squeeze. Had Corinne been certain that the +adventure would have begun and ended with the supper at the house of +the Silver Birch, her alarm would have been less. As it was, she had a +great dread of her company and of the very dark wood which the +highwayman now entered. +</p> + +<p> +As for old Antonio, he stumbled along behind her, muttering to himself +like a man demented. But he still carried his book, his pen, and his +ink-horn; and now and then, had there been light whereby to observe +it, a meaning smile might have been seen playing upon his usually +placid face. The lacqueys, on the other hand, were in the last stages +of fear; and while the coachman cried out that his coach would surely +be found in the ditch, the others behind clung to their straps +desperately and rolled against each other as men drunk with wine. It +was five minutes before this strange cavalcade reached the house of +the Silver Birch. +</p> + +<p> +The robber’s house lay snug in the thicket as a nest in the hedge. +Save for a small clearing near the door, where a stagnant pool gleamed +as with the face of a blackened mirror, the copse put walls of bramble +and of bracken about the simple chalet, and so sheltered it that only +the eyes of a woodlander might detect a habitation in the vicinity. +</p> + +<p> +Nor did there seem to be any one to guard a retreat so remarkable. Not +a light shone from the windows when the guests arrived; not a dog +barked or a sound made itself heard. Corinne, who was shivering with +the rasping air of the night and the noxious and humid miasma of the +swamp, began at last to be seriously alarmed. Her coach, perforce, had +been left in the more open glade a hundred yards from the robber’s +home. +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” was accompanied now by one only of the torch-bearers. He +had left the other heavily armed to watch the terrified lacqueys. Old +Antonio in his turn had become green with anger and cold and +impatience. He mumbled no longer, even to himself. The highwayman +alone remained self-possessed and talkative; indeed, he assumed a more +plausible politeness with every step he took. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he said, producing a great key from his pocket, and +bidding his fellow hold the flambeau nearer to the door, “why do you +tremble? Am I not here to protect you? In half an hour you shall have +eaten a good supper, and be on your way to Paris again. Judge me not +harshly since my honour is at stake.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne stamped her foot. +</p> + +<p> +“Your honour, monsieur!” she cried; “if that be at stake, then surely +the wager is trifling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Saint John! madame, it is no trifle, since my honour intrusts to me +so precious a charge.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke with exceeding deference, and stood bareheaded, despite the +raw cold of the night, while he threw open the door for her to enter, +and bade the torch-bearer hold up the light. None the less did Corinne +continue to tremble when she passed into the house and found herself +at once in the chief room of it. She asked only that the adventure +might draw quickly to its end, for she felt very helpless, and thought +how different it would have been had Bénoît accompanied her from +Gros Bois. As for her old physician, who had been so ready with his +boasts and his talk of mysteries, she could have laughed aloud at his +undisguised distress. The shadow of death seemed already upon him. He +started at every sound. +</p> + +<p> +The robber entered the house, and, quickly divesting himself of his +heavy cloak and his mask, he lighted candles in a heavy silver +candelabrum. Directly the pale yellow light flooded the room, Corinne +uttered a little word of surprise, for she had never thought that so +poor a house could afford such a feast to the eye as this room now +presented. Though the chalet itself was rough hewn of wood from the +surrounding thickets, its internal ornament was worthy of the Louvre. +Rare tapestries hid bare walls; dainty cabinets filled with fine +china, chairs and tables reflecting the delicate taste of the period, +a fine copy of the Apollo and Marsyas of Raphael, a genuine sketch by +Jean de Paris, another by Rigaud, added to the wealth of its +decoration. +</p> + +<p> +Corinne felt her feet sinking into soft white skins the moment she +passed the door of the house. A blazing fire of fagots spangled with +golden stars the polished wood of the ingle-nook. The table itself was +almost hidden by bouquets of spring flowers and early fruits. The +whole place was redolent with the air of dishes steaming, and of good +things made ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said “La Force,” when he had indicated the seat of honour, and +had placed Corinne therein, “you will forgive me that I have no +lacqueys as you have, mademoiselle. I am a lover of solitude, and my +secrets are not well worn in company. But you will find my supper none +the less excellent, believe me. As for our friend here, let there be +no hot blood between us. I have not forgotten the service he did to +Coq le Roi. Saint John! it is I who should fear with such a wizard for +my guest.” +</p> + +<p> +The bloodless eyes of the old physician twinkled when the compliment +was paid. He, for the first time, appeared to forget the pass to which +things had come, and to observe the supper now being served by the +comrade of their host. When at length he sat down, a smile of +satisfaction played upon his face, and he hastened to admit so much to +the robber. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, “it is to my mistress that your friend Coq le Roi +owes thanks. My own share in that business is not worthy of mention.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ciel!</i>” cried the robber, helping Corinne to a goblet of Chianti, +“you are modest, Monsieur le Médecin; did you not, as the story goes, +tell the lieutenant of police everything that Coq le Roi was about to +do during the next four-and-twenty hours? Holy Mother of God! I would +have given a hundred crowns had I been there to hear the jest.” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio looked up from his plate. +</p> + +<p> +“My friend,” said he, “it was a jest, I grant; yet had it been my +intention, I could have told the future of Coq le Roi not for one day, +but for a year.” +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” roared with laughter; the wine had warmed him, and his +wager was nearly won. +</p> + +<p> +“Name of the devil,” cried he, “you are a true magician, old man; have +a care lest you provoke me to ask a like experiment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” intervened Corinne, who had exchanged a quick glance with +the doctor, “you do Antonio an injustice. A very little provocation, +Monsieur Brissac, will induce him to grant your request. He has been +absorbed in some calculation ever since we left Gros Bois.” +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” drained a goblet to the dregs. +</p> + +<p> +“Saint Denis!” said he, “we will put him to the proof upon the spot. +Did not Coq le Roi tell me that he drew little lines upon a piece of +paper? Very well, then, your physician has paper, mademoiselle, and I +see an ink-horn at his waist. Let him tell me what I shall be doing +this time to-morrow night. If he can do that, I will conduct you to +your coach before the clock strikes again.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne looked at Antonio inquiringly, but the doctor shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” said he, “that I told Coq le Roi’s fate, and traced the +orbit of his day; but that, I would ask you to remember, was a jest. +To-night we leave the jester’s mask behind us, and neither pen nor +paper will serve our purpose. Command, I pray you, monsieur, that your +servant bring me yon silver bowl full to the brim with boiling water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pah!” exclaimed the robber, “you think that I am a child!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think nothing, monsieur. I wait to act. But if you do not choose—” +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” shrugged his shoulders; the wine had quickened his more +brutal instincts. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” replied he, “as for that—I choose; but I tell you plainly, <i>mon +ami</i>, if this be another of your jests, you shall drain the bowl to +the dregs.” +</p> + +<p> +Had the robber been sober enough to detect it, he would have observed +that old Antonio’s eyes were lighted for a moment by a look which +boded no good to him. But he was too busy with the flagons of wine, +and the excellent supper his fellow rogue had cooked, to observe it, +and the look passed upon the instant, to leave the physician unmoved +and apparently unconcerned. Even a close observer would not have +foretold anything of the comedy then about to be played in the house +of the Silver Birch. +</p> + +<p> +None the less, Corinne foretold it. A subtle instinct warned her from +the first that her old friend had not forgotten altogether his boasts +in the coach. She knew not what plan he had contrived, nor what weapon +he sought; but she began to take heart, hoping that she might, after +all, be revenged on this insolent fellow who had subjected her to such +an insult. In truth, her pride was sore hurt; and although she hid her +feelings very prettily, nevertheless she told herself that the +highwayman known as “La Force” should find her, as she had declared, a +dangerous guest. +</p> + +<p> +All this passed through her mind when the lesser rogue, who aped the +rôle of lacquey, brought the silver bowl from the kitchen, and the +steam from the boiling water began to moisten the air of the +supper-room. Antonio had now tucked up the sleeves of his heavy gown, +and was prepared, apparently, to fulfil his promise to the ultimate +letter. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Brissac, you have asked me to tell you upon what employment +you will be engaged at this hour to-morrow night. When the steam from +that bowl shall have cleared away, I will ask you to look at the +surface of the water, and to read your own fate therein.” +</p> + +<p> +The robber laughed scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“At your pleasure, friend,” said he, “though if you fail me, I warrant +you I will keep my word.” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio bowed, but said nothing. Corinne felt her heart beating +quickly, while the blood surged up into her head and made her dizzy. +She began to fear that Antonio was embarked upon some very dangerous +enterprise, in which failure might leave her alone with this ruffian +who had stopped her coach. She was tempted almost to beg her friend to +desist, but he refused steadfastly to exchange a glance with her, and +she, by a great effort of will, held her peace. +</p> + +<p> +A minute passed, perhaps, before the steam floated away from the +circle of the bowl. When it was quite clear Antonio rose from his +chair and began to peer into the water very diligently. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, with great dignity, “come near and tell me if the +water of life has any message for you.” +</p> + +<p> +The robber bent over the bowl, and examined its contents very +narrowly. “Bah!” he answered, “you mock me; there is nothing there.” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio looked again. +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” said he, speaking now with the air of a doctor, “fate is not +the child of man, that he shall say to her, do this, and she will do +it. Seek rather to approach these mysteries with awe, for they are +mysteries to which God alone holds the key. Let there be obedience in +your heart and humility in your mind, since the hour of your death is +about to be made known to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said he, “for the third time, I tell you, beware how you +jest with me.” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of his braggadocio, “La Force” trembled. His hand shook a +little when he bent over the table; the colour rushed from his face +and his lips were bloodless. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak not of jests, I say,” cried the old physician, +solemnly,—“speak not of jests, for the book of God is about to be +opened before your eyes. Nay, my son, let there be a prayer upon your +lips, and the fear of God in your mind. Behold, the picture shapes +itself.” +</p> + +<p> +Swiftly and deftly he took a phial from his pocket and cast the +contents upon the face of the water. The robber, wound up to a +surpassing dread and curiosity, bent over the bowl until his eyes +almost touched the water. At the same moment the white powder from the +phial began to mix with the liquid and to set up a great +effervescence, with a noxious odour which filled the whole room: a +seething vapour, which hurt the lungs of those who breathed it. “La +Force,” who all unwillingly inhaled the vapour as he bent over the +water, uttered a loud cry and made to draw back from the table; but +old Antonio had gripped him by the neck now, and was strong with the +strength of ten men. +</p> + +<p> +“Behold, my son, behold, and read the book of life,” he cried, with a +ferocity which was almost devilish, while he forced the robber’s head +down until his brow touched the silver rim. “Did I not tell you that +the hour of your death was written there?—look well then, for the +hour is come.” +</p> + +<p> +During a terrible instant, the struggle was a doubtful one. The bowl +rocked and spilt the water upon the table; glasses fell and were +crunched under the elbows of the men; the robber, about whose throat +the bony fingers of the physician were twined, fought like a wild +beast. For the first fumes of the drug had robbed him of breath, +almost of sense; his lungs were scorched as by burning needles; his +eyes were blinded and smarting; it seemed as though a hand of iron had +been put upon his heart to still it. +</p> + +<p> +Presently sense began to leave him; and after a moment of suffering, +when he thought that he was sinking down, down into a vast abyss of +darkness, the idea began to recur in his mind that he was lapping the +water of the bowl; and this quickened and quickened, as ideas will in +the brains of those who are on the point of losing sensibility, until +he sank as one dead upon the floor, and silence fell upon the room +again. +</p> + +<p> +Silence fell upon the room, but half of a minute was not marked on the +clock before it was broken. The robber’s comrade, awakened to +curiosity by the hush of voices, appeared suddenly at the door of the +supper-room, and stood half choked by the vapours. Corinne herself was +upon the point of fainting, when the old physician unbarred the +shutters of the little window, and let the night breeze come blowing +in like a gift of life. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said he, “stand here at the window, and your faintness +will pass; I am going to deal with this fellow as I have dealt with +his master.” +</p> + +<p> +The second of the robbers gave a great cry, for he saw the body of “La +Force” huddled upon the floor, and did not neglect to observe the +broken glasses and the disordered table. +</p> + +<p> +“Holy God!” exclaimed he, “ ‘La Force’ is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you say, my friend,” answered Antonio, “ ‘La Force’ is dead. Let me +conjure you to leave this house quickly, lest my art strike you as it +has struck him.” +</p> + +<p> +The man answered him by levelling a pistol at his head; but, when he +pulled the trigger, the powder did not even flash in the pan. +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” continued Antonio, “that pistol is my servant also. Begone, +then, lest you lie there with your master.” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed impatiently to the door, whereto the man slunk in awe, +muttering “ ‘La Force’ is dead.” They heard him a moment later +galloping wildly through the woods with the same cry upon his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” said Antonio, very quietly, “it is fortunate that I +took the opportunity to spill my wine upon the pan of yon fellow’s +pistol while we sat at supper, or assuredly he would have blown my +brains out. Now, if it be agreeable to you, we will bind up this rogue +in his own table-cloth and carry him to Paris with us as a souvenir of +this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Paris!” cried Corinne, in amazement, “and what shall we do with +him in Paris, my dear Antonio?” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall punish him for his audacity in stopping the coach of Corinne +de Montesson. Did I not tell you that my mysteries were more powerful +than the sword of your kinsman, Bénoît? Have patience a little while +and you shall doubt my word no more.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne could not repress a word of fear. +</p> + +<p> +“You carry your jest far—it seems to me that the man is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, there is very little the matter with him, mademoiselle—so +little that I fear to hear him tell us so if we delay. Run back to the +coach, then, and bid one of the men attend me. If the third knave +should desire to know what we have done to his master, ask him to come +to the house and I will show him.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer him, but, drawing her cloak about her, ran off +swiftly through the thicket. +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_244.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_244_th.jpg" alt="img_244.jpg"> + </a> + <figcaption> + The Man answered him by levelling a Pistol. + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p> +When the lacqueys and the third of the robbers arrived at the chalet +presently, they found “La Force” already bound hand and foot with the +white cloth from his own table. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, a physician alone could have told that he lived; and when the +remaining highwayman saw the body he reeled back as though a pistol +had been fired in his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Rascal!” cried Antonio, taking advantage of the situation to grip him +by the throat and to clap a pistol to his head—one of the pistols he +had snatched from the belt of “La Force”—“rascal! I have killed your +master as you see, and am taking his body back to Paris as a warning +to those who do not respect the name of my mistress. Choose, then, +whether you will throw down your arms and have your liberty, or be +taken to Paris to die upon the gibbet.” +</p> + +<p> +The man writhed and gasped under the powerful hand—but +impotently—for the lacqueys had taken heart now and had made haste to +seize him by the arms. When he spoke, it was to beseech the old +physician to give him his liberty. +</p> + +<p> +“By the God above me, we have trapped the devil this night!” said he; +“show me but the back of a horse and you shall see my face no more, +monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +Two minutes later, he also was galloping through the woods, crying +like one demented, “ ‘La Force’ is dead.” But the body of his master +lay secure upon the top of Corinne’s coach, where, rolling and jolting +like a log, it rested until the barrier was passed and the horses were +driven through the gateway of the Hôtel Beautreillis. Dark as the +night proved, many stopped in the narrow streets of the great city to +point the finger at a burden so curious; many cried, “They carry a +dead man,—what a thing to see!” But others only crossed themselves +and lifted their hats. “She jests with the dead,” they said, and +hurried on, afraid. +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +It was one o’clock in the morning when “La Force,” who had been +conscious of a restless and troubled sleep, and of strange happenings +in his dreams, wholly recovered his senses and sat up in the bed upon +which unknown hands had laid him. He thought at the instant of waking +that he had slept out in the woods by Gros Bois again; but when he +rubbed his eyes and looked well around him, some of the events of the +night began to shape themselves again in his brain, and to be acted +anew, until he remembered all things—even to the silver bowl and the +horrible draught of vapour he had drunk therefrom. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mort Dieu!</i>” said he, springing from his bed angrily, “it was the +devil’s bowl I drank from—a curse upon them! And now—and now—?” +</p> + +<p> +He began to examine the room with questioning eyes, but his curiosity +was soon satisfied. It was a small apartment with walls of stone, in +shape, a horseshoe; having for furniture a stool and a table, in +addition to the plain wooden bed whereupon he had slept. Its only +ornament was a crucifix hung high upon the crown of the apse. +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” saw that the door was sheathed with iron and monstrous +thick, like the door of a dungeon. A little window, heavily barred, +permitted him, when he stood upon the tips of his toes, to see the +world without. At the moment, however, such a privilege was worth +little, for the night was moonless, and his keen eyes could detect +nothing beyond a great black shape, which had no meaning to him. None +the less did he begin to be haunted by the thought that he was in a +prison; and when he had reflected a little while, he said it would be +the prison of the Conciergerie. +</p> + +<p> +This thought was slow to be accepted, slow to force itself upon his +mind. He found himself at first laughing at the idea as a folly; but +he could pause in his laughter to feel the damp sweat upon his brow +and to sink upon the bed shivering with fear. Well he knew that, if +his surmise were true, he might ask nothing more of life. They would +send him to the galleys—possibly to death. He remembered the dashing +life of the road, the women he had kissed, the gay company he had +enjoyed, the debauches which had been kept in the house of the Silver +Birch; and these pleasant memories helped him to stave off the +dreadful omens of the cell. “God!” he said, “it cannot be that I shall +never see the woods again!” +</p> + +<p> +It needed a great effort to banish a sense of peril such as this; but +he refused to hear the damning voices which haunted him; and anon, he +got into bed again and tried to sleep. He was very weak after the +trial of the night; and when he lay down and pulled the heavy covering +over his head to shut out the light of the lantern which illumined the +apartment, he found that he was hot as one in a fever, and that there +was a new pain in his lungs which forbade him to rest. +</p> + +<p> +Do what he would, recall as he might the most pleasant scenes of his +past, a phantom figure ever at his side seemed to whisper, “You are +come to the judgment.” For a while he battled bravely with the +spectre, but when a clock without struck two, he was able to endure +the vision no longer, and he sprang from his bed in an agony of fear +and of foreboding. +</p> + +<p> +“Jesus!” he said, “it is my dream; that which I see is a thing of +sleep. The sun will shine in my eyes presently, and I shall behold the +forest again. My horse will come to me, and we will—” +</p> + +<p> +A shadow falling across the floor cut short his pleasant promises. It +was a dreadful shadow, magnified by the lantern’s feeble light until +it represented nothing human, being a horrid shape, eyeless, with +masked face, and a head upon which a cap like a fool’s cap was placed. +“La Force” staggered against the bed when he beheld it, and covered +his eyes with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother of God!” he sobbed, “what do I see?” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” was the answer, in a low and gentle voice, “fear nothing +from me. I come to warn you.” +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” turned his head and looked. A figure dressed in the rough +black robe of a monk, but having the head and face covered with a +pointed black hood, like the hood of the Misereri in Rome, stood +motionless at his side. For a moment the highwayman succumbed to an +overwhelming panic. He shrieked aloud at the terrible aspect of the +phantom, believing that the devil stood with him in the cell. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he wailed, “tell me what this means.” +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” said the monk, “it means that you have stopped the coach of +Mademoiselle de Montesson; for which crime you now find yourself a +prisoner in her house, where—” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, as though he did not wish to finish the sentence; but the +robber, being assured now that the apparition was no ghostly one, +could not suppress his curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—yes,” he asked eagerly, “where—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where you are to die at dawn,” said the monk. +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” wiped the sweat from his brow and laughed like an +hysterical woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah,” he said, “she will not kill me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” said the monk, very earnestly, “she will think no more of +killing you than of crushing an insect in her path. Do you hear those +blows? They are the blows of the axes which hew a scaffold for you. If +you doubt me, look from yon window and you shall see—” +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” ran to the window, and standing upon the tips of his toes +looked into the court. Where darkness had prevailed ten minutes +before, light—the light of fifty torches—now mastered the night. The +highwayman saw that these torches were held by men gowned as his +mysterious visitor, all in deep black, with hoods covering their +faces, and holes for their eyes, which gave them an ogreish aspect +terrible to behold. +</p> + +<p> +But that which interested him more than all was the great structure +they were helping to build—a structure of wood heavily draped in +black. Very familiar to him was that warning shape—the great +cross-beam, the heavy side supports, the platform for the victim. He +could even see a coil of rope curled like a snake upon the black +carpet. +</p> + +<p> +“Jesus!” he said, dropping upon his feet again, “they build a +scaffold.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” said the monk, “and at dawn they will have finished their +work.” +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” felt his heart beating quickly, but he nerved himself to +look out of the window again. +</p> + +<p> +“Holy God, have pity upon me; I see a coffin!” he exclaimed, reeling +back from the casement and falling, terror-struck, upon the bed. “Oh, +monsieur, of your charity beseech a little mercy for me. I cannot +die—I have sin upon my soul.” +</p> + +<p> +The monk watched his agony unmoved. +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” said he, “of that which we sow assuredly we must reap. +Forget not that your harvest is death. At dawn you will garner the +fruit you have fostered so well. Remember that the sun will shine down +to-morrow, not upon your eyes glad to behold the day again, but upon +the earth which lies heavy upon a spiritless body. Think of that, and +be warned, for here mercy is unknown.” +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” answered him with a great oath and a threat, lifting his +clenched hand to strike the speaker; but the monk seized the upraised +arm by the wrist and threw the robber to the ground with such force +that he lay there many minutes stunned and bruised. When he looked up +again the monk had left the cell. +</p> + +<p> +He heard a clock strike three at this time; but the sound of hammering +still continued in the court without, and although he dared not to +look again, he made sure that the scaffold must be now near its +completion. +</p> + +<p> +Had it been given him to die upon the high-road in some affair where +swords clashed and pistols made merry music, he would have shown a +bold face enough; but to be killed like a rat in a trap, to swing like +a common thief, simply because he had compelled a woman to sup with +him against her will, was a punishment not to be borne. +</p> + +<p> +There were moments when he raved like a madman, beating with his fists +against the cold stone wall, or casting himself in rabid fits of fury +at the iron-sheathed door. At other moments he lay upon his bed in a +stupor, scarcely seeming to breathe, trying in his mind to imagine +that the end was passed, and that he lay in his coffin, still and +voiceless, beneath a heavy weight of earth. When at length a glimmer +of day struck the dark court without, and came with timid step even +into his cell, he had no longer the mind either to fear or hope. A +dull and merciful insensibility to thought prevailed. +</p> + +<p> +It was half-past five precisely when the door of his cell was opened, +and the monk, accompanied by three others similarly habited, +re-entered the prison and bade “La Force” arise. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said the monk, “the hour has come. Have courage, then, and +drink a cup of wine. Remember what a reputation you bear, and do not +let them speak of you as other than the brave man I know you to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” opened his eyes, for he was half asleep. +</p> + +<p> +“Christ!” said he, “I dreamed that I was in the woods again.” +</p> + +<p> +He was like a man walking in a sleep now; and he drank off the wine +they offered him, protesting that he was ready to die; but no sooner +were the words spoken, than he fell into an uncontrollable fit of +sobbing, and, throwing himself upon his knees, he craved mercy of +them. The four hooded men gave no sign that they heard him, but stood +like messengers of death, silent and unmoved. Nor did they speak when +they led him from the cell presently, and, coming out into the court, +he beheld a towering scaffold with a masked executioner upon the steps +of it, and other hooded men ready to assist in the last great act. +</p> + +<p> +“La Force” had never thought that death could wear a shape so awful. +The cold light of dawn, the silent, hooded figures, the gaunt black +scaffold, struck his heart with a deadly and overwhelming fear. He +gave one long-drawn cry of agony, and then fell fainting upon the +stone floor. +</p> + +<p> +But at the moment when he fell, a great shout of laughter went up in +the court, and one of the monks, pulling aside his hood, exclaimed: +“Haste to drive him to Gros Bois. The drug that was in the wine acts +for three hours. Let him be quite alone when he awakes.” +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +“La Force” awoke when the church bells in the village of Gros Bois +were proclaiming the Angelus. They had laid him in the heart of a +solitary thicket, wherefrom, through a bower of the trees, he could +espy a little pond shining like a silver mirror in the generous +sunshine. But he was very weak when the spell of the drug passed, and +he lay for long minutes content to feel the sweet morning air blowing +upon his face, and to gaze up at the cloudless heaven above him. +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Virgin,” he said, “can it be that I live—that I have dreamed +the things of the night! Is it I, ‘La Force,’ who speaks, or do I hear +voices in the grave? Oh, Heaven pity me, for I have suffered.” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly and with painful effort he dragged himself to the pond. A horse +whinnied in a neighbouring brake as he went, and he knew that it was +his own horse calling to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” he said, “how good it is to live—how good! Last night I died +ten deaths, but to-day—to-day—” +</p> + +<p> +He tried to collect his thoughts and to knit the story of this night +together, but confused images played with his brain, and he could +recall nothing. Once or twice the old fear came back to him. His heart +quickened when he remembered the masked men and the heavy blows of +those who had hewn out his scaffold. But this mood passed, and at +length he crawled to the pond and began to lap up the water. +</p> + +<p> +A tree shaded the place where he lay, and the water being clear and +without a ripple, he beheld his own image reflected in it; and at this +he started back from the bank, and his trembling hands clutched the +grass convulsively. +</p> + +<p> +“God!” he said, “she was right—she <i>is</i> a dangerous guest.” +</p> + + +<h3 id="ch08"> +VIII.<br> +<span class="chap_sub">YERUT THE DWARF</span> +</h3> + +<p class="noindent"> +<span class="sc">Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze</span>, entered the garden of the Hôtel +Beautreillis when the clocks of Paris were striking five. He was +dressed with scrupulous care, but the heavy coat of black satin with +the ample skirts, dictated by fashion in the year 1766—the heavy +coat, and the full wig which fell upon his stooping shoulders, were +allies of the summer heat. Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze, also Grand +Marshal of the palace, used his handkerchief very freely, and declared +that the weather was atrociously warm. And this was an observation not +to be contested. +</p> + +<p> +There was no one in the garden—an old garden umbrageously sweet and +alive with the vesper note of birds—when the lacquey led so +distinguished a visitor to a little bower of chestnut-trees, girt +about with roses in full bloom, and carpeted with ripe grass and the +petals of the flowers of yesterday. Here was a couch of ivory and +satin and a little table, upon which a golden flagon of wine was set, +and cups beside it, and fruit to cool the lips. Chamillart, Marquis de +la Suze, bade the lacquey tell his mistress that his business was +urgent. Then he filled a cup of wine and drank it at a draught. +Certainly, the day was atrociously hot. +</p> + +<p> +Had it been anywhere else than the Hôtel Beautreillis in the Rue St. +Paul, had the mistress of the house been any one but pretty Corinne, +with whom all Paris was properly in love, the Grand Marshal would have +swollen visibly before the eyes of that lacquey who had asked him to +cool his heels in a garden; but since it <i>was</i> the Hôtel +Beautreillis, and Corinne <i>was</i> unquestionably mistress of it, he +contented himself with a prodigious pinch of snuff and many impatient +shufflings of the feet, and an attempt to stoop and pick a trailing +rose; but there nature hindered him, for he was very stout,—without +doubt it was a hot day. +</p> + +<p> +Corinne de Montesson came tripping out of the house like a schoolgirl +from a convent. She was dressed in that costume known as the +<i>négligé apparent</i>—a girlish dress, suggesting shepherdesses and +Elysian fields, and masquerade at Trianon. A straw hat half concealed +the wealth of pretty silken hair which fell upon her shoulders, and +was rebelliously untrammelled about her little ears. Her arms and neck +were bare, and white as the marble of the fountains. She carried a +volume of Racine in her hand; a merry laugh rippled upon her lips. +</p> + +<p> +Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze, leaned heavily upon his gold-mounted +cane, and watched the pretty picture. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ventrebleu!</i>” he said to himself, “she cannot be twenty-five years +old—I do not believe it; she is eighteen, fifteen—she is an angel, +and I am going to make her cry.” +</p> + +<p> +It may have been that, among the other reflections of this wicked old +fop, there was one which told him how pleasant it would be to wipe +away the tears of Corinne de Montesson. But that he concealed when he +rose to salute her. Indeed, following the extravagant habit of the +times, he stood bowing for quite a long time; and while he did so, he +covered his heart with his three-cornered hat, as though in heart and +hat lay all the emotions which had prompted his visit. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Chère</i> Corinne, you have no pity, you make me wait,—me, +Chamillart—the minutes are hours—I grow old in this garden—” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed coquettishly, for the day was rare when Chamillart, +Marquis de la Suze, did not amuse her very much. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur, it is really too hot for compliments,” she said, +sinking into a low chair placed by the side of his couch. “Am I not +grateful to any one who comes to the Hôtel Beautreillis on such a +day? Let me give you some wine, and you shall repay me with all the +news.” +</p> + +<p> +The Grand Marshal put down his hat very carefully, and then took up +that position upon the sofa whence he could look with least effort +into the pretty eyes of his hostess. +</p> + +<p> +“The news!” he said, “oh, as for that, there is no news. Madame de +Bouffleurs is not in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is at Yères, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nowhere else. She left yesterday with two coaches, seven lacqueys, +and a letter full of scolding from her kinsman, the Bishop of Bruges. +She has gone to keep a retreat, and the Chevalier Leduc will follow +her to-morrow. But, of course, we do not know that he is going to +Yères.” +</p> + +<p> +The Grand Marshal chuckled horribly. Corinne was amused. +</p> + +<p> +“If Madame de Bouffleurs has gone to Yères,” she cried, “we shall +have a holiday indeed. It will be Lent again, my dear marquis. There +will be no scandals, and think of it, no unhappy lovers. How will +Paris live for a week when that wicked tongue is still?” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible, my child. As impossible as the happiness of Chamillart, +without the words of Corinne de Montesson.” +</p> + +<p> +“A compliment, a compliment! Is not that forbidden, Monsieur le +Marquis?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle, beauty is as far above the law as the stars above the +darkness.” +</p> + +<p> +He covered his heart with his hand again, and said to himself,— +</p> + +<p> +“It is a pity that she must cry presently.” +</p> + +<p> +But Corinne knew nothing of his thoughts. She was telling herself that +the visit of this doddering old man, whose gallant antics had amused +her so often, was a misfortune of an already troublesome day. How long +was he going to stop? Why was he at the Hôtel Beautreillis at all? +</p> + +<p> +“You come from the palace, monsieur?” she asked, when the Grand +Marshal had ceased for a moment to ogle her. +</p> + +<p> +“From the palace, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“And of whom were they talking?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of the Count of Brives, <i>chère</i> Corinne.” +</p> + +<p> +Corinne’s face flushed crimson. The Grand Marshal turned away his +head. +</p> + +<p> +“I would give half my riches if she would flush for me like that,” he +thought. +</p> + +<p> +“And what did they say of the Count of Brives?” asked Corinne, making +a violent effort to conceal her emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“They were very sorry for him, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry, monsieur, for Eugène—that is, for Monsieur le Comte?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, my child; but have you not heard the news?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you not tell me there was no news?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but how should I know that this would be news—to Corinne de +Montesson?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, for pity’s sake, tell me!” she exclaimed, rising and stamping +with a pretty gesture of impatience. “Tell me, Monsieur le Marquis, +what are they saying of Eugène Sabatier?” +</p> + +<p> +The Grand Marshal shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“She is going to cry,” he thought, “and I forgot to bring a second +lace handkerchief.” But Corinne persisted. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle,” he said at last, “I thought you would have known. +Madame has prevailed with the king, and the Count of Brives will be in +the Bastille to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +A cry escaped her lips; Corinne’s cheeks were rosy no more. She stood, +white as marble; a blow would not have hurt her more than the tidings +which the Grand Marshal carried. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it cannot be! it cannot be!” she cried. “Eugène—the +Bastille—oh, I will not believe it!—what crime has he +committed—whom has he wronged—is he not the king’s friend, +monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Without doubt, all that is true, my child; but there are other +friends, and they are more powerful. It has been the misfortune of +Monsieur le Comte to offend one of those friends. He who puts honesty +against a pretty face fights a losing battle, Corinne. When that +pretty face has for its neighbour the ear of a king, poor honesty is +already worsted. Your friend the count is young, or he would know that +the compliments we pay a woman are the apologies for the slander we +shall put about when that woman’s back is turned. He is also very +foolish to be so many months at the palace without finding a word of +flattery for its mistress.” +</p> + +<p> +He chuckled, for he was grown old in the practice of polished +mendacities. But Corinne was thinking—her quick brain was already at +work; one idea possessed her—she must save Eugène Sabatier. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” she cried with sudden impatience, “did the king wish this, +monsieur?” And then, without waiting for his answer,— +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I do not believe it; the king is his friend; if Eugène could +speak for himself, it would never be. They have told lies about him; +it is the work of Madame du Barry—she has hated him from the first; +it is her triumph, but it will not last—I shall prevent it, Monsieur +le Marquis, I, Corinne de Montesson—” +</p> + +<p> +Her face was crimson again, but it was with excitement. Old Chamillart +watched her with chuckling admiration. His little eyes danced; he +leered and ogled like some old man of the sea who found himself, +clothed in satin and jewels and fine lace, in some welcome garden of +delights. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ma foi</i>,” he cried enthusiastically, “who would not have such a +deliverer! Of course you will save him. It is for that I am come here. +You will begin work now—to-day, this instant.” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him with a new surprise, but began to listen intently. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark to this,” continued the Grand Marshal, with new gravity, “the +Count of Brives is now at his château by the Weeping Rock of Ussy. If +he could be warned to-day, to-night—if he could be warned by one who +would tell him to ride for his life to the palace and there to see the +king without a moment’s delay, the letter which Villefort, the Captain +of the Gendarmerie, now carries to Ussy, might yet be powerless to +harm him—” +</p> + +<p> +“They have sent Villefort, then!” exclaimed Corinne. +</p> + +<p> +“He left Paris at four o’clock; he carries the king’s warrant for the +arrest of Eugène Sabatier; he will arrive at Ussy at midnight. After +that hour, <i>chère</i> Corinne, no one in all France can save Monsieur le +Comte from the woman he has insulted, and whose hour of vengeance has +come. But you will act before then—you will be on the road before the +clock strikes again—you will find a plan. <i>Ma foi</i>, it will be a +strange day when Corinne de Montesson, the cleverest woman in Paris, +is outwitted by Villefort, the buffoon of the guard, the lumberer, the +ape! But she will not be outwitted; to-morrow I shall hear a good +story. It will be the story of the confusion of Captain Villefort—” +</p> + +<p> +But Corinne was listening to him no longer. The great silver gong at +her side already gave out its mellow note warningly; Bénoît, her +kinsman, the first swordsman in Paris, came hurrying to her side. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Yerut?” she asked, utterly unable to suppress her +excitement. “Send Yerut to me, and then let them bring horses. We ride +to Ussy before the sun sets.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo! bravo!” cried the Grand Marshal, as he rose to go. “It is my +own Corinne after all; to-morrow all Paris shall laugh at the Captain +of the Guard and his twenty men—” +</p> + +<p> +“You said twenty, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“No more, no less; twenty and one against the prettiest wits in Paris. +It is good to have the friendship of those pretty wits, <i>chère</i> +Corinne—but, blood of Paul, who comes here?” +</p> + +<p> +He started, clutching his cane convulsively, for there came of a +sudden to the bower a figure so strange that nothing like to it had +been seen by any one in Paris. It was the figure of Yerut, the dwarf. +Hideous, stunted, with hair shaggy as the fur of a bear, with hands +like claws, with deep-set shining eyes, agile and quick, ready to leap +or dance—Corinne de Montesson had no more faithful servant in all her +great house than Yerut. And now she knew that the life of her lover +depended upon the sagacity and the fidelity of this poor creature. +</p> + +<p> +“Yerut,” she said, “you know Villefort, the Captain of the Guard?” +</p> + +<p> +A grunt of assent seemed to come from the heart of the dwarf. +</p> + +<p> +“He has ridden from Paris to arrest the Count of Brives. He will pass +the Weeping Rock before midnight. You must overtake him at the Inn of +Ussy and detain him there until we come. Take the swiftest Arab we +have—you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +Yerut bowed low. He vanished from the garden like an arrow from a bow. +</p> + +<p> +“To horse! to horse!” cried Corinne, clapping her hands impatiently. +“There is not an instant to lose.” +</p> + +<p> +But old Chamillart hobbled away to his coach with a heavy heart. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have postponed the day of my birth for thirty years,” he +said to himself. “Certainly, she will never cry ‘to horse’ for me.” +</p> + +<p> +And that was another observation not to be contested. +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * * * +</p> + +<p> +The great clock in the tower of the monastery of Franchard struck +eleven when Villefort, the Captain of the King’s Guard, found himself +at the foot of the Roche qui Pleure. He could hear the strange note of +that watery bell, melodious as the sound of weird music, in the +silence of the vast forest of Fontainebleau. Winter or summer, drought +or flood, the great rock would shed its silver tear musically into the +pearly shell below it. Guides listened for the splash of the water, +and went on gladly because of it; peasants worshipped before the +heavenly well, and quenched their thirst at the pure fount of +miracles. But to Villefort it was no more than the signal that his +work was almost accomplished; that when another hour had passed he +would lay his hands upon the traitor, Eugène Sabatier. +</p> + +<p> +He rode slowly, his twenty men following with heavy eyes and hard +words for a task which brought them to the forest when they should +have been in their comfortable beds in Paris. The glory of the hour +was nothing to Henri de Villefort. The enchanting light which fell +upon the mighty thickets, the moonbeams playing upon the rippling +lake, the lengthening shadows, with all their suggestion of elves and +spirits, had no enchantment for him. For Henri de Villefort was +afraid—afraid of the dark places of the wood, afraid of the silence, +afraid of the hag’s tales which his men had not failed to recite to +him during their ride from the Barrière d’Enfer. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he had said, spurring his horse in anger. “Who would believe +such things, at this time of day? I shall follow the great road to +Ussy; there are twenty men with me. I care not a crown for all the +devils in the legends. Saint John be my witness, I fear no living +man.” +</p> + +<p> +The trooper addressed shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. +</p> + +<p> +“They do not live, captain,” he said gloomily. “They are the dead who +died a thousand years ago; they breathe upon you cold breath, and your +skin dries up with fever. You go mad and leave your bones for them to +lie upon. I heard it at Franchard when I was a singing boy there. God +bring us all back to Paris again, is my word.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort swore a big oath, and rode on in silence. He did not speak +again until the music of the Weeping Rock was a melodious echo, but +thereafter he began to learn that it was no great highway which led to +the Château of Ussy. Through dreadful copse and darkened brake, by +paths overhung with trailing creeper and thorny bramble, in the gloom +of mighty oaks and spreading chestnuts,—so must this hostile +pilgrimage be made. The glory of the moonbeams, sparkling upon the +dewy grass, did but light up weirdly the tangled heart of the deeper +forest. The fireflies glowing in the woods were for him the evil eyes +of the elves he could not see. The nightingale sang warningly. It was +as though unseen enemies peopled the groves about him. He thought +every minute to feel the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +And this was his state of mind when a dreadful cry, like the cry of a +soul in agony, came without warning out of the thicket upon his left +hand and seemed to freeze the very blood of the twenty-one who rode to +Ussy. +</p> + +<p> +“Saints and angels, hark to that!” cried Villefort, drawing rein with +trembling hands. +</p> + +<p> +Again the cry arose—again and again. The troopers sat still as +statues in the moonlight. Villefort could hear his heart beating; the +fiend himself, he thought, was at his elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“Pish!” he said presently, though the words seemed to choke him, “it +is a wolf at supper, and that is the cry of the dish. Are we all +women, to draw rein at shadows?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Monsieur de Villefort, not at all,” answered a voice from +the thicket whence the cry came; “I will stake my life that there is +not a woman among you, or if there be, why then she wears a better +face than the Captain of the King’s Guard.” +</p> + +<p> +A deep laugh, like the boom of a merry bell, followed the words. The +guards were still listening to it when, with a great snapping of twigs +and bursting of bramble, the speaker forced his horse from the covert +and confronted Monsieur de Villefort. +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Michael, defend us from all devils this night!” groaned +Villefort, while cold sweat stood upon his brow and his quaking hand +closed nervously about the butt of his pistol. +</p> + +<p> +Yerut, the dwarf, for it was he who had raised the cry and had +answered the Captain of the Guard, was clothed from head to foot in +scarlet. Great boots, which appeared to be almost as large as the +wearer, dangled from his saddle-flaps nearly to the ground. He wore a +three-cornered cap cocked on the side of his shaggy head, and rode an +Arab horse which still champed at his bit, though spurred from Paris +to the Weeping Rock. Never did a stranger apparition confront man. +</p> + +<p> +“Amen to your prayer, Monsieur de Villefort,” cried the dwarf, +gaily,—“amen and amen. The holy saints save us from all devils, and +give us the light of their lamps to follow the road to Ussy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You go to Ussy, monsieur?” asked Villefort, taking heart a little +when he saw the diamonds glistening upon the hilt of the stranger’s +sword. At the same time he said to himself, “Here is a brother of all +the fiends.” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf did not answer the question put so directly to him, but fell +instead into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The very woods rang +with his merriment; he reeled in his saddle until his forehead touched +the mane of his horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed, “how you amuse me, Monsieur de +Villefort!” +</p> + +<p> +“Amuse <i>you</i>,” exclaimed Villefort, losing his temper; “who the devil +are <i>you</i> that you should be amused?” +</p> + +<p> +“A cat may laugh at a king, monsieur, and I am the cat. Is it not good +to laugh? If it come to that, I have as good a reason to laugh as the +Captain of the King’s Guard to cry.” +</p> + +<p> +“As good a reason—?” gasped Villefort. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, since I go to Ussy to bury its master.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort reined in his horse with a gesture as much of surprise as of +will. +</p> + +<p> +“To bury its master, monsieur!” he stammered, “but he is not dead. How +can you bury a man who is not dead?” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf burst again into a merry fit of laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he roared, “what a dull fellow you are, Monsieur de +Villefort! It is lucky for you that we met this night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lucky?” exclaimed Villefort. +</p> + +<p> +“As I say, lucky. For what is luck but gain, monsieur, and what is +gain but happiness, and what is happiness but laughter, and what is +laughter but wine,—which, by my faith, carries us back <i>ex argumento</i> +to this, that wine is luck, and that Monsieur de Villefort of the +King’s Guard is a fool.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort spluttered with rage; the dwarf touched his Arab lightly +with his spurs, and began to hum the popular ballad,—<i>Voilà la +taverne à la mode</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Name of the devil!” said Villefort, when he had found his tongue, “I +have the mind to write my answer upon your back, <i>coquin</i>—” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf turned in his saddle, and showed a face so horrible that the +Captain of the Guard felt his blood run cold. It was like the face of +a Barbary ape. Villefort crossed himself instinctively; he prayed to +all the saints to bring him quickly out of the cursed wood. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” snarled the dwarf, chattering horribly, “he who writes +upon the back of Yerut the singer will read his own epitaph.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort shuddered; the twenty behind him rode with white faces and +prayers upon the bloodless lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Yerut the singer,” said the Captain of the Guard, in a very humble +voice; “you sing then, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Like Lucifer himself,” answered the dwarf; and then he fell into a +strange, weird chaunt in a voice so harsh and grating that the very +leaves of the thicket seemed to tremble— +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“De tous les corps de métiers,</span><br> +<span class="i0">Voilà ce fléau redoutable.”</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +“Sing!” he continued, breaking off suddenly; “have I not the charm of +Levasseur and the style of Legros? Do you not admit that, Monsieur de +Villefort?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly he is mad,” muttered Villefort, in a low voice, but not so +low that the dwarf did not hear him. +</p> + +<p> +“Mad,” he repeated, “ay, surely, as mad as Monsieur de Villefort, who +goes to Ussy and blows a horn to tell all that he is coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“A horn,—I blow no horn,” cried de Villefort. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us not chop words. And I will tell you this, monsieur, that if +you think to arrest the Count of Brives you are a fool for your +pains.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pah!” said Villefort, “I ride with one of his friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“With so good a friend that at dawn I shall sing a requiem for him.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort pricked up his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“How can that be?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ma foi</i>,” answered the dwarf, “it is no good asking you riddles, my +captain. A wench at a book would be quicker. Do you not see that if I +am to sing a requiem for the Count of Brives at dawn, some one must +kill him to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho!” cried Villefort, “it is a duel, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly, a duel.” +</p> + +<p> +“He goes out with you, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“With me?—pah, I do not kill men with swords.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort bit his lip. His head was clearer now, and fear of the +forest possessed him no longer. They had passed from the darkness of +the wood by this time, and the lights of an inn shone through the +vista of the trees. The Captain of the Guard was perplexed. He did not +know what to make of the dwarf or of his story. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said after a pause, “there will be no duel to-night; I +shall prevent it.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You!</i>” replied the dwarf, who did not attempt to conceal his +contempt. “<i>You</i> will prevent it, Monsieur de Villefort!” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly; I shall arrest the Count of Brives.” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf roared with laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed; “we will kiss the sun, we will walk with +the moon, we will put the stars in our pockets.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort ground his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“You think that I cannot arrest him?” he snarled. +</p> + +<p> +“Think? I think nothing, monsieur; it is for the count to say. Were +there no eyes in yon wood when we rode through? Were there none to +cry, ‘Here comes the fat Villefort to arrest our master’?—none to +gallop to Ussy and give news of you? Body of Paul! if you think that +you came unheralded to the château, you have not the wits of a German +mountebank.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort swore lustily. +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought of that,” said he. “You mean that he has been warned +of my coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“What else could I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I have ridden upon a fool’s errand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Could you ride upon any other, Monsieur de Villefort? I beg you, if +you can employ those great ears of yours, to listen to that music. It +is a horn winded in the park of the Château of Ussy. What think you +now of your journey?” +</p> + +<p> +The clarion note of a horn rang out musically in the stillness of the +night. It echoed from copse to copse, and thicket to thicket, as +though phantom horsemen hunted in the purlieus of the forest. +</p> + +<p> +“Thousands devils!” exclaimed Villefort, “I am too late.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no doubt of that, my dear captain. And being too late, you +will do well to draw rein awhile at yonder tavern, where I shall +introduce you presently to the Count of Brives himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Count of Brives is coming <i>here</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Unquestionably he is. He will come before the clock strikes again, to +fight my master, who stands before the door there. Meanwhile let me +present you to the Chevalier Guibert.” +</p> + +<p> +They rode up to the tavern door with a great clatter of spur and +caparison. Villefort, on his part, did not know whether he stood on +his head or his heels; he was saying to himself that the Count of +Brives had escaped him after all. While he did not believe the dwarf’s +story, and was still determined to search the château, he had the +wish, nevertheless, to hear what the stranger might say, and to delay +for that purpose while the host of the <i>auberge</i> could water the +horses of his men and bring cups of wine. The troopers, glad in their +turn to leave the darkness of the wood behind them, dismounted +joyously, and were soon swarming in the little courtyard, to the great +delight of the wenches of the inn, and the great confusion of its +master. +</p> + +<p> +There were two horsemen before the door of the <i>auberge</i>; one a big +fellow dressed in black velvet, the other possessing a figure so +fragile and so pretty, so slim and boyish, that passers-by might well +have called it the figure of a girl. A group of servants, heavily +armed and mounted on magnificent bay horses, stood apart, awaiting the +pleasures of the travellers, the younger of whom was dressed in a suit +of purple silk, and carried a sword in a scabbard frosted with +diamonds of exceeding brilliancy. It was to the latter that Yerut the +dwarf now presented Monsieur de Villefort. +</p> + +<p> +“My master, the Chevalier Guibert—the Chevalier Guibert, my servant,” +he said, with a gesture of self-importance not to be described. +</p> + +<p> +“Your servant!” roared Villefort. “Body of Paul, I have the mind to +write that upon your tongue!” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf grinned horribly. +</p> + +<p> +“You could not spell it, Monsieur de Villefort,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +Corinne, for she it was who wore the purple dress, silenced Yerut with +a look. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said very sweetly, “you must forgive one who, though +young in years, is old in liberties. That will be easier to do, since +I am able to be of some service to you to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be of service to me, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“As I say, to be of service to you. Have you not come to Ussy to +arrest Eugène Sabatier?” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort regarded the questioner closely. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that, monsieur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly, I know it; and since I alone can help you to succeed, +you may not think it a waste of time to drink a cup of wine with me.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort bowed stiffly, and entered the house with her. At the same +moment, the dwarf was deep in talk with Gaspard, the rider in black, +who had turned his horse towards the forest. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall keep him an hour, if that be possible,” said the dwarf. “The +men will be drunk before then. Let the count ride for his life to +Versailles; if time serve, he will find us at the cross-road beyond +Essonne.” +</p> + +<p> +“The devil dry their throats!” muttered Bénoît, giving rein to his +horse. “I count upon you, Yerut, in all things. Hold yon booty but an +hour, and no woman in France shall keep Eugène Sabatier from the +king.” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf stood to watch the darkness of the forest enshroud the +galloping figure. Then he returned to the inn and found that Villefort +and the Chevalier Guibert, his mistress, were already busy over a +flask of wine, set out in a little room upon the first floor. But +while the mock chevalier was comfortable in a low wooden chair, the +Captain of the Guard paced the room as one who delays but an instant, +and that unwillingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Chevalier,” he was saying, “it may be true that the Count of Brives +is warned of my coming; yet if that be so, what madness will carry him +to this inn when he should be upon the road to the frontier?” +</p> + +<p> +“The same madness which makes the lark sing at dawn and the sun set at +eve, monsieur,” chimed in the dwarf, who squatted upon the table and +raised a flagon merrily; “the madness of the cow for the moon; the +howl of the dog when the horn is winded—the folly of Monsieur de +Villefort who chases the stag—<i>ma foi</i>, the quest of a wench’s pretty +lips, and hey, for her eyes in the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort stopped in his walk. The flickering light of spluttering +candles fell upon his angry face weirdly. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven deliver me from this madman!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” said the dwarf, “it is the duty of fools to be sane. Would +you have me dull my wits until they were no brighter than those of +Henri de Villefort? And there you fall upon a plain tale, and shall +see how truly I am mad. For if Nature teaches the lark to call for his +mate, and sheds the dew upon the thirsty ground, shall she less +befriend the man who, learning that the wench is at the inn, has the +mind to sample the lips of yesterday! God’s truth, my captain, it is +writ as large as the nose on your ugly face.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort raised his fist as though to strike the dwarf, but Corinne +stood between them. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue, Yerut,” she said. “Indeed, monsieur, I know not how +to excuse him, unless it be that with it all he tells you the truth. +The Count of Brives would go a hundred miles to avoid this inn if he +knew that the Chevalier Guibert awaited him here; but he would ride a +hundred miles to reach it if one told him that Corinne de Montesson +was to make it a house of call.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort forgot his anger. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean to say that he will come here to-night to meet her?” +</p> + +<p> +“As he thinks, monsieur. My servant has even now ridden to the +château to tell him that you have turned back to Franchard, and that +Corinne de Montesson is here with news which will save his life.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort roared with laughter. The dwarf roared, too; so that the +very rafters rang with their shouts. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Henri de Villefort, “you tell him that his +mistress is here, and when he comes you will cut his throat. How you +love him, Chevalier!” +</p> + +<p> +“How I love him!” muttered Corinne; and she meant every word she said. +</p> + +<p> +“How he loves him!” roared the dwarf, choking with laughter and with +wine. +</p> + +<p> +But Corinne’s heart beat wildly. She was asking herself if the tale +had, indeed, borne such good fruit. She looked at the clock and saw +that they had been already twenty minutes in the inn. She said that +Bénoît was at the château, now; they were saddling the horses,—oh, +for an hour, for an hour yet to win her lover’s liberty! +</p> + +<p> +Villefort ceased to laugh and went to the window. +</p> + +<p> +“Saint John!” said he, “if the Count of Brives rides towards the inn, +I will even go a little way to meet him,” and then he bawled to his +troops: “ho, there, you sots!—do you hear me calling?” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf leaped from the table and put his grinning head beside that +of the captain. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, there, you sots,” he repeated; “another bottle apiece to the +health of the Chevalier Guibert!” +</p> + +<p> +The troopers, who had come out into the moonlight, went, shouting, +back to the kitchen of the inn— +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, there, another bottle apiece to the health of the Chevalier +Guibert!” +</p> + +<p> +Yerut pulled Monsieur de Villefort from the window and shut it. +Corinne’s heart seemed to stand still. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word, Monsieur de Villefort,” said the dwarf, “you are a very +foolish man. Would you tell all Ussy that you lie here this night? For +Heaven’s sake, hold your tongue, or if you cannot do that, bury it in +this flagon.” +</p> + +<p> +He pushed a flagon of wine toward the Captain of the Guard. Villefort +did not notice the curious taste of the liquor; but when he had drunk, +his head swam and the candles danced before his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go to Ussy,” he cried doggedly. “It is a plot to detain me +here.” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf took a pack of cards from his pocket and began to cut it. +Corinne looked at the clock. Would the great hand never reach the +hour? It seemed so to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Go or stay,” cried Yerut, with indifference, “it is the same to me +and to my master; and I will tell you this, captain, that if we did +not wish to see the Count of Brives very much we would not rest +another hour with so impertinent a fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort, who was dizzy with the drugged wine +</p> + +<figure> + <a href="images/img_284.jpg"> + <img src="images/img_284_th.jpg" alt="img_284.jpg"> + </a> + <figcaption> + Brought it with a Crash upon the Head of Henri de Villefort. + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="noindent"> +and enraged beyond endurance, drew his sword and confronted the dwarf. +</p> + +<p> +“Dog!” he roared, “I will teach you manners. That is the tenth time +you have insulted me this night.” +</p> + +<p> +“The eleventh, monsieur,” said Yerut, who still squatted upon the +table. “The eleventh, as I live; and you do well to count, for I am +going to make it twelve.” +</p> + +<p> +Leaping up with a cat-like agility, the dwarf seized a flagon of wine +and brought it with a crash upon the head of Henri de Villefort. So +terrible was the blow, that the Captain of the Guard reeled back to +the wall; and, while the liquor still poured down his gaudy vest and +dripped from his lank hair, the drug they had given him did its work, +and he fell senseless upon the sanded floor. +</p> + +<p> +Two minutes later the Chevalier Guibert and Yerut the singer rode from +the courtyard of the inn. To the troopers, gathered round them +inquiringly, they said,— +</p> + +<p> +“Another flask to the health of the Captain of the Guard!” +</p> + +<p> +And so, throwing crowns upon the flags, they galloped from Ussy, and +soon were lost to view in the labyrinth of the forest. +</p> + +<p class="spacer"> +* * * * * * * +</p> + +<p> +Dawn, grey-garbed and melancholy, was hovering above the valley of the +Seine when the Count of Brives and Bénoît, who rode with him, drew +rein at the parting of the ways beyond Essonne. A mist of morning lay +upon the awakening pastures; the rushes bent to the flood of the +swirling waters; night answered reluctantly to the heralds of the +lagging sun. Dew lay thick upon the brown-burnt grasses; the air was +chill and searching as a breath of winter. +</p> + +<p> +“They do not come,” said Bénoît, whose horse, like that of the +other, was white with foam. “God grant that Yerut has not failed us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think of mademoiselle,” said the count, impatiently. “What is it to +me that I am upon the road to Versailles if misfortune has overtaken +her at Ussy?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ma foi</i>, you complain too soon, count. Hark to that music; it is the +ring of hoofs behind us!” +</p> + +<p> +They listened a little while, and then were sure. The sounds magnified +and became clearer; care passed from the boyish face of Eugène +Sabatier. +</p> + +<p> +“It is Corinne,” he cried joyfully. “Oh, God be thanked!” +</p> + +<p> +Two figures loomed up from the mists; two horses were reined back upon +their haunches. +</p> + +<p> +“Eugène, is it thou?” +</p> + +<p> +“Corinne, beloved!” +</p> + +<p> +But Yerut the dwarf was looking at the river, and Bénoît, the +kinsman of mademoiselle, became so blind of a sudden that he could +scarce see the mane of his horse. +</p> + + +<p class="mt1"> +Henri de Villefort entered the gardens of Versailles at three o’clock +of the afternoon. He still wore a coat upon which purple patches spoke +of the inn at Ussy. His high boots were brown with the dust; his head +was bandaged and his walk uncertain. Side by side with him walked +Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze. +</p> + +<p> +“You have failed, monsieur,” exclaimed Chamillart, with assumed +astonishment, “yet the Count of Brives was at his château last +night.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort ground his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“His friends surprised me,” he stammered; “I crossed swords with one +of them, and was wounded. There is fresh blood upon my coat now, and +it was fifteen hours ago—” +</p> + +<p> +He was about to continue his apologies when from a tree upon his right +hand there came that haunting demoniacal cry he had heard in the +forest of Fontainebleau when Yerut the singer had confronted him. It +rose and fell like the wailing of the wind; it froze the words upon +the lips of Henri de Villefort. +</p> + +<p> +“Thousand devils!” he yelled, “it is the man monkey again—” +</p> + +<p> +“At your service, Monsieur de Villefort—you seek the Count of Brives; +he is yonder with the king, who has just given him a command.” +</p> + +<p> +The dwarf was perched upon the branch of the tree. His lap was full of +sweetmeats; he grinned like a cat, but fell presently to laughing +incontrollably, as he had laughed in the forest. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho, ho, ho!—you crossed swords with one of the count’s friends, +Monsieur de Villefort! Body of Paul, it was with the wine bottle that +you fought—” +</p> + +<p> +“You lie,” retorted Villefort; “I fought with the Chevalier Guibert—” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is yonder with the count?—but he wears a petticoat this morning, +my captain. What a thing to tell in the palace that Henri de Villefort +was worsted by a woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dog!” roared Villefort, “it is to you that I owe this, to you and +your lies—you who were to bury the master of Ussy—” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Tais-toi, tais-toi</i>,” answered the dwarf, “look at yon pair, and +tell me if my mistress is not also master of Ussy, <i>cher</i> Monsieur de +Villefort. But the Chevalier Guibert we buried last night. A truth, a +truth! And now they laugh at you, captain. The king laughs. The queen +laughs. I, Yerut, laugh.” +</p> + +<p> +Villefort could stand it no more. He strode away with the dwarf’s +horrid laughter still ringing in his ears; but old Chamillart, who +watched Corinne and the count pacing the distant avenue by the side of +Louis the Well-beloved, chuckled horribly. +</p> + +<p> +“I said she would fool him,” he muttered; “I said that she would save +her lover—Saint John, if she would but look into my eyes like that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, ho!” said the dwarf in the tree, “she can look into the eyes of a +wolf every day.” +</p> + +<p> +And then he fell to singing:— +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +<span class="i0">“A quel diable ce drôle allait-il à l’école?”</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Chamillart, Marquis de la Suze, shook his cane at the imp, and turned +sadly from the garden. +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +THE END +</p> + + +<h2 id="endnote"> +ENDNOTE +</h2> + +<p> +<sup><a href="#en1a" id="en1b">[1]</a></sup> <span class="sc">Author’s Note</span>.—The Bombec Tower, it may be well to point out, +was that tower of the Conciergerie prison in Paris in which torture +was generally inflicted. I have added nothing in this story to +historical descriptions of the cells in this horrible place. It was +not until the end of the last century that these sunless dungeons were +altered radically. At that time, the swords in the walls, and the +loathsome creatures which the Seine washed into the cells, were still +the talk of the curious. +</p> + + +<h2> +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES +</h2> + +<p> +H. Piffard provided the illustrations. +</p> + +<p> +Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. riding-habit/riding habit, wax +lights/wax-lights, etc.) have been preserved. +</p> + +<p class="noindent mt1"> +<b>Alterations to the text</b>: +</p> + +<p> +Convert the footnote to an endnote. +</p> + +<p> +Fix a few quotation mark pairings. +</p> + +<p> +Change three instances of <i>Eugene</i> to <i>Eugène</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[II] +</p> + +<p> +Change (“I tell you that five of <i>Sartine’s</i> men are there”) to +<i>Sartines’</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“had supped well, as he always did at the Hôtel <i>Beutreillis</i>” to +<i>Beautreillis</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Bénôit</i>, who was said to be the finest swordsman in Paris” to +<i>Bénoît</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“It was nearly five <i>o’cloek</i> in the evening when he set out” to +<i>o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[III] +</p> + +<p> +“What has my daughter to do with the <i>Conceirgerie</i>” to <i>Conciergerie</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[IV] +</p> + +<p> +(image caption) “If yon Rogues are not <i>Foopads</i>, put me in the +Pillory” to <i>Footpads</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Even the learned were gross in <i>superstitution</i> in the middle” to +<i>superstition</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[VII] +</p> + +<p> +“driven through the gateway of the Hôtel <i>Beautreilles</i>” to +<i>Beautreillis</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +[VIII] +</p> + +<p> +“seized a flagon of wine and brought it crash upon the head of” add +<i>with a</i> after <i>it</i>. +</p> + +<p class="center mt1"> +[End of text] +</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78828 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78828-h/images/cover.jpg b/78828-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b6a8f60 --- /dev/null +++ b/78828-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78828-h/images/img_054.jpg b/78828-h/images/img_054.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ee2f78d 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