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Orrain: A Romance

by S. Levett Yeats · English · Gutenberg #20192 · 506,680 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Orrain: A Romance

Author: S. Levett Yeats


        
Release date: December 26, 2006 [eBook #20192]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20192

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ORRAIN: A ROMANCE ***


E-text prepared by Al Haines



ORRAIN

A Romance

by

S. LEVETT-YEATS

Author of
"The Lord Protector," "The Chevalier d'Auriac," etc.







Longmans, Green, and Co.
91 and 93 Fifth Avenue, New York
London and Bombay
1904

Copyright, 1904, by
S. Levett-Yeats
All Rights Reserved






CONTENTS


CHAPTER

      I  THE CRY IN THE RUE DES LAVANDIERES
     II  I BECOME THE OWNER OF A RING
    III  MY PYRAMID OF CARDS COMES DOWN
     IV  THE QUEEN'S MIRACLE
      V  THE PORTE ST. MICHEL
     VI  SIMON AND I MEET AGAIN
    VII  DIANE
   VIII  THE ACTS OF PIERREBON
     IX  THE WHITE MASK
      X  THE BITER BITTEN
     XI  THE ROAD TO POITIERS
    XII  A WRITER OF COMMENTARIES
   XIII  THE TOUR DE L'OISEAU
    XIV  MADEMOISELLE DE PARADIS
     XV  MY PRISONER
    XVI  THE TWELVE ROSE PETALS
   XVII  MADEMOISELLE DECIDES
  XVIII  DR. JOHANNES CABALLUS
    XIX  THE WOMAN IN BLACK AND WHITE
     XX  THE CROWN JEWELS
    XXI  THE HOUSE IN THE PASSAGE OF PITY
   XXII  THE TABLETS OF DOM ANTOINE DE MOUCHY
  XXIII  THE MASQUERADE
   XXIV  THE KING AND THE FAVOURITE
    XXV  THE PACKET OF LETTERS
   XXVI  THE CHURCH UNDER THE GROUND
  XXVII  THE RING
 XXVIII  THE ARM OF GOD
   XXIX  LA VALENTINOIS AND I
    XXX  FONTAINEBLEAU
   XXXI  THE PEARS OF ORRAIN




ORRAIN


CHAPTER I

THE CRY IN THE RUE DES LAVANDIERES

My father, René, Vidame d'Orrain, was twice married.  By his first wife
he had one son, Simon, who subsequently succeeded to his title and
estates, and was through his life my bitter enemy.  By his second wife,
whom he married somewhat late in life, he had two sons--the elder,
Anne, known as the Chevalier de St. Martin from his mother's lands,
which he inherited; and the younger, Bertrand--myself.

Simon betook himself early to the Court, and we heard but little of
him, and that not to his credit; St. Martin went to Italy under the
banner of Brissac; and as for me, my parents yielding to the persuasion
of my mother's uncle, the Bishop of Seez, decided that I should become
a Churchman, and I was forthwith packed off to Paris, and entered at
the College of Cambrai, being then about seventeen years of age.  Being
remarkably tall and strongly built, with a natural taste for all manly
exercises, it might have been expected that my books saw little of me;
but, on the contrary, I found in them a pleasure and a companionship
that has lasted through my life.  Thus it happened that I made
considerable progress.  So much so that the good Bishop, my
great-uncle, often flattered me with the ambitious hopes of some day
filling his Episcopal chair--a hope that, I need not say, was never
realised.

About this time, I being nineteen years of age, things happened that
entirely altered my life.  My mother sickened and died.  Shortly after
news came of the death of my brother St. Martin, who was killed in an
affair of honour at Milan.  The Vidame, my father, then in his
eighty-first year, and much enfeebled by old wounds, especially one he
had received at Fornovo, felt that his last hours were come, and
summoned my brother Simon and myself home to receive his last blessing
before he died.

I hurried back as fast as possible, but when I reached Orrain I found
to my astonishment the gates of the Chateau closed against me, and
Simon, leaning over the battlements, bade me begone.

Overcome with this reception, I was for a space struck speechless; but
at length finding voice I begged, even with tears, to be allowed to see
my father.  But Simon sneered back:

"You will have to take a long journey, then; either below or above--I
know not which," he mocked.  "Your father is dead.  He has left you his
curse, and the lands of St. Martin are yours.  I am master here at
last, thank God!  And I tell you to be off!  Take that pink and white
face of yours back to your College of Cambrai!"

He lied, for, as I afterwards heard, my father was not dead then, but
lay dying in his chamber, to which no one but Simon had access, and
over which he had placed a guard of his men-at-arms, a cut-throat set
of Italians whom he ever had with him.

Simon's cruel words stung me to the quick.  My blood flamed with rage,
and I dared him to come forth and meet me as a man; but he only laughed
all the more, and, pointing to the tree of justice outside the gate,
asked how I would like to swing from one of its branches.  He added
that, as I was his step-brother, he would give me a high one, if I
chose.

I can almost see him now as I write this, with his cruel hatchet face
snarling over the parapet, his red hair, his tall, thin figure and bent
back--if the truth were known, Simon's affairs of gallantry must have
been few.

In brief, despite all my efforts, I was unable to see my father, who
died that night asking for me.

In the hamlet of Orrain itself I could find no shelter, although the
villagers knew and loved me, and this was from fear of the new Vidame.
I, however, found a temporary retreat in the forest, living there like
a wild beast for four days, waiting with a burning heart for a chance
of meeting Simon, but he never came forth.

On the fourth day my father was buried at dead of night in the Chapel
of St. Hugo of Orrain, where every Vidame of Orrain, save one, lies.

Pierrebon, now my steward, and at that time my servant, and the only
companion I had with me, brought me news from the village that this was
to be, and I determined to be there at all hazard.  This resolution I
carried out, and Simon and I met beside our father's grave.  The time
and the occasion sealed my lips and stayed my hand.  Even Simon spake
never a word, but, when it was all over, rode off sullenly through the
night back to the Chateau, his cursed Italians around him, and with the
dawn started off for Paris.

This I did too.  There was nothing else to be done, and I returned to
my College.

I was, however, no longer in the position of a poor cadet, without
means or resource.  My mother's lands of St. Martin had come to me on
Anne's death.  Even my great-uncle the good Bishop agreed with me, with
many sighs, that the profession of arms was more suited to my present
position than the Church, but advised me to stay for a year more in
College, and fortify my mind by taking the course of Philosophy.

I very willingly assented to this; but the wealthy Chevalier d'Orrain
as I was called--I did not take the name of St. Martin--was a vastly
different person from the poor cadet of the past year.  I found myself
courted and sought after.  I began to find pleasures in life unknown to
me before, and in the young man of fashion, who entered the world a
year later it was hardly possible to recognise the once quiet and
studious Bertrand d'Orrain.

I plunged into the dissipations of the capital.  At the Court I found a
patron in Monseigneur the Duc d'Enghien.  My extravagance and my
follies brought me many reproofs from the Bishop of Seez, but the good
man's warnings were in vain, and might have been shouted to the stars.
They were certainly at times loud enough to be heard there.

I often met Simon, now Vidame d'Orrain.  He was high in favour with the
Dauphin, who succeeded to the throne as Henri II., and his mistress,
Diane de Poitiers, whom he made Duchess of Valentinois.  By tacit
consent there was an armed peace between us, though I well knew he
would take any chance that might arise to my injury.  As it was, we
met, and passed each other without greeting, and in silence, ever with
black looks, and hands on the hilts of our swords.

My acres began to diminish and the woods of St. Martin to go down.
Things, in fact, were going from bad to worse, when war with the
Emperor broke out afresh, and I was amongst the first of those who
volunteered under Enghien for the Italian campaign.  There I did my
part, and shared in the day of Cerisolles as a captain in the Light
Horse of Monsieur de Randan.  Then, on the peace, back to Paris once
more and the old life; with this difference, that now there was no
restraining hand over me, for my great-uncle was dead.  He left me his
blessing, his copy of "Plutarch's Lives," and thirty crowns of the
sun--all his fortune--for, though Bishop of Seez, he was a true
shepherd of God, and laid up for himself all his treasures on high.

It was impossible that things could go on much longer without disaster,
and the death--murder, rather--of that gallant prince the Duc d'Enghien
deprived me of a protector upon whom I could always rely.  This,
followed by an unfortunate duel, the circumstances of which will be
detailed later, precipitated matters.  The Edict of Fontainebleau
served as a weapon to my enemies, and it was put in force with the
utmost rigour against me.  My principal accuser was my unnatural
step-brother the Vidame d'Orrain.  He went so far as to charge me with
aiding and harbouring the members of the New Heresy, and the discovery
of a small leaflet printed at Geneva amongst my books was held to be
sufficient proof against me.  The affair of the duel I might have lived
through, but this meant death.  I took refuge in flight; it was the
only course.  I was condemned in my absence by the Chambre Ardente to
the extreme penalty, and what remained of my property was given to
Simon, who shared it with Diane, the mistress of the King.

Thus at five and twenty I found myself an exile, and penniless.  One
friend alone remained to me, and this was a young man of Orrain called
Pierrebon, whom I have mentioned before.  Through good and ill he
adhered to me with ancient fidelity, and he lives still, honoured and
trusted by all who know him.

Together we sought a refuge in the Low Countries, and there I learned
the first great lesson of my life, and that was to live by honest work.
For five years I labored, until I had amassed sufficient to give me a
small estate of about fifty écus.

During those five years so many things had happened--I myself was so
changed--that I began to think that I and my affairs had been consigned
to oblivion, and that I might safely return to France.  One day I was
seized with an uncontrollable desire to see my native land once again.
I determined to do so then and there, and a fortnight later,
accompanied by Pierrebon, I was in Paris.

I had every reason to confirm the opinion I had formed, that I and my
doings had been forgotten.  In the humble class to which I now belonged
no one had ever heard of the Chevalier d'Orrain.  Here in Paris I felt
I was safe, and I consequently determined to fix my abode in the great
city.  I hired an apartment in the Rue des Lavandières, and established
myself there, giving out that I was a fencing-master.  No pupils came;
but at any rate there was peace and contentment.  I formed no
acquaintances except one, a certain Camus, a glove-maker, who had an
apartment above mine.  For some reason or other this man forced himself
upon me, and though at first I repulsed his attentions he would not be
denied, and I grew to tolerate him.  He was possessed of extraordinary
learning, and, under the guise of his ostensible calling, plied another
terrible trade--those who know the story of Jeanne of Navarre will know
what I mean.

This I was unaware of at the time; but, despite myself, the man's
conversation interested me, so that I occasionally yielded to his
importunities, and visited him for an hour or so after supper, when we
passed the time in discussion.

In this manner close upon six years elapsed, until I myself had almost
forgotten in the Bourgeois Broussel--the name I assumed--the once
brilliant Chevalier d'Orrain.  Pierrebon alone knew my secret, and he
was as silent as the grave.  At times the honest fellow would speak
hopefully of a good day to come; but I poured cold water on that, and,
pointing to my lute and my copy of "Plutarch's Lives," was wont to say
that there was enough happiness there for my life without seeking to
reopen the past or delve into the future.

One night--I remember it well; it was the night of Pentecost, in the
year 1555--I went up, at Camus' request, to his apartment.  I had not
seen the old man for some time, and our talk was longer than usual.  By
some chance we began to discuss poisons, and Camus opened the stores of
his curious knowledge.  He had studied, he said, with a strange smile,
the works of the Rabbi Moses bin Maimon, and was possessed of antidotes
for each of the sixteen poisons; but there was one venom, outside the
sixteen, the composition of which he knew, but to which there was no
antidote.  On my inquiry he stated that this was the poison used by the
Borgia, and it was prepared as follows:

A bear having been caught, it was made to swallow a draught of _Acqua
di Borgia_.  On this beginning to take effect the bear was suspended
head downwards.  Whilst the animal was in convulsions there poured from
his mouth a foamy stream.  This, collected in a silver vessel and
securely bottled, was the Borgia venom, and to this there was no
antidote.

I made some remark of horror, and he laughed a dry, crackling laugh,
and rose from his seat.

"I will show you," he said, and was moving towards a press when we were
startled by a cry from the street--a cry for help:

"_A moi_!  _A moi_!"




CHAPTER II

I BECOME THE OWNER OF A RING

I started from my seat, and Camus, with a turn and a step, reached the
window, where, resting his hands on the mullions, he leaned far out.  I
was on his heels; but the window was narrow, a mere slit, and so I
could see nothing below.  Late as it was the cry had, however, reached
other ears than ours as well.  Here and there a dim light glowed for an
instant or so in an overhanging window.  Here and there a shadowy
figure appeared at a balcony, only to vanish like a ghost after peering
for a moment in the direction of the sound.  This was all the interest,
all the attention it excited, and this spoke for the times.

"What is it?  Can you see anything?" I asked, craning over Camus'
shoulder; and, as if in answer to my question, the cry rang out again,
just below the window:

"_A moi_!  _Au secours_!"  Then came an oath, and the rasp of steel.

"They are killing someone there," said Camus; "killing with clumsy
steel.  Well! 'tis an affair for the watch."  And with a shrug of his
lean shoulders he turned back.  But I waited to hear no more.  Drawing
my sword I made all haste down the stairway and into the street, and
there before me, where the moonlight glistened on the mud and on the
green and slimy cobble stones of the Rue des Lavandières, two men,
their backs to the wall, fought for their lives against four, whilst a
fifth, who seemed to direct them, stood a little apart.

The odds were heavy against the two.  All the heavier because one,
dressed in the bizarre attire of jester, had no sword but only a dagger
for defence.  Nevertheless, with his short cloak wrapped over his left
arm, and the dagger in his right hand, he held his own with skill and
courage.

The attack, however, was chiefly directed upon his companion, a
fair-haired man, with a short moustache and beard.  He had lost his
hat.  There was a red line of blood on his face from a wound in the
forehead, and a twitching smile on his lips; but he fought silent as a
wolf.

A thrust that would have found his heart was parried, but not by him.
Quick as thought, the swordless man by his side hit up the bravo's
rapier with his left arm, and the blade, stabbing the air, struck and
bent against the stones of the wall just over shoulder-height.

"_Sus_! _sus_!" cried the leader of the night-hawks; and he ran forward.

Clearly it was time that help came.  So I passed my sword through one
of the bravos, and as the others, surprised and disconcerted, gave way
a little, I ranged myself beside the two.

"Courage!" I said, "affairs are more equal now."

Cursing and growling, spitting like so many cats, the villains came on
with a rush, their leader first.  A long arm and a long sword are,
however, great advantages in affairs of this kind, and I took him on
the riposte.  A cry and a gasp, a sword clattered on to the pavement,
and the stricken man spun round and, holding his hand to his side,
tried to stagger off, but after stumbling a few steps he fell in a heap
in the shadow.

This settled the matter.  The others, seeing their leader hit, waited
for no more, but fled.  There was no pursuit.  For a few brief seconds
we heard the patter of running feet, and then all was still.

We stood, all three staring at each other, and then the fair-haired man
held out his hand, saying simply: "I thank you, monsieur!"

I met his grasp, expressing at the same time my concern for his wound.

"It is not much, I think--all due to a weak parry on my part."  And he
strove with a gold-laced handkerchief to staunch the blood that was
flowing somewhat freely.  I was about to offer what help I could when
the jester cut in.

"Faith of a fool!" he said, sheathing his dagger, "my gossip here is
apt to make light of these scratches; but I would give my cap and bells
now for a little salve."

"If you will come into my house, messieurs--'tis but a step--we will
see to the hurt."

I almost repented of my offer the moment after I made it, for I caught
the jester plucking at my friend's sleeve in warning; but the other
laughed, and, addressing me in a high and gracious way, said:

"Monsieur, once more thanks!  I accept your offer.  Of a truth!" and he
ruefully looked at his handkerchief, "this is a trifle too much cupping
for me."

I bowed, and led the way across the road; but the jester stayed us,
calling out in his high-pitched tones:

"Just a look at this carrion!  One may as well see upon whom our friend
here has put his mark."  So saying he stooped and turned over the man,
the first of the two who had fallen.  He lay half in a stagnant pool of
water, and was quite dead, as we could see, for the moon fell clearly
on his evil and distorted face and horny, film-covered eyes.

"As dead as imperial Caesar," said the jester; "nor can I say who or
what he was.  St. Siege!  Stay--see this!"  And throwing back the man's
cloak, which half covered his breast, he pointed with his fingers at a
crest embroidered on the doublet.  It was a crescent in silver, with a
scroll beneath it, and as we all stooped down to see, the jester's keen
eyes met those of his companion.

"The scroll explains all," he said, as if in reference to the attack
upon them: "it is _totum donec impleat orbem_."

"Diane?"

"Yes; Diane de Poitiers--Diane, Duchess of Valentinois--Diane, the
curse of France!  But I should play the Caliph Aaron no more, and keep
home of nights; better still, take horse with the dawn for Navarre!"

There was a strange earnestness in the speaker's voice.  There he was,
one knee to ground, a finger resting on the ill-omened crest of the
mistress of the King, the moon shining on his rich dress of black and
gold, on the sharp, weasel-like face, and keen eyes that looked up at
his friend.

"There is more in this than I thought at first," I said to myself, and
scanned the features of the dead man more closely.  He looked like a
foreigner, and, saying that I was going to see after the other, I
turned away, but with my ears skinned, as I began to dislike the affair
exceedingly.

As I suspected, the jester began to warn his friend once more.

"Monseigneur, there has been enough folly for tonight, and your wound
is but slight.  Go not into the house!  Let us thank him--reward him if
you will--but let us be off!"

"Hush, Le Brusquet!" said the other in the same low tone.  "There is no
fear, and if there is danger I turn not from it."

I had heard enough, and seen enough too.  The other man had got off
somehow.  He had fallen, it is true, but recovered himself sufficiently
to make away.  One can never be sure of the riposte in an uncertain
light, and uncertain moonlight is worst of all.

"He has got off," I said as I returned; "and 'twere well to have your
wound looked after, if you mean to have it done."

With this I led the way to the door of my house, and opening it bade
them enter.  The fair-haired man passed in at once, but I caught a
gleam in Le Brusquet's hand as he followed.  He had drawn his dagger
once more.

My first thought had been, much as I disliked him, to ask Camus to help
me in dressing the wound; but upon consideration, and chiefly, after I
had heard Le Brusquet address his friend as "Monseigneur," I deemed it
preferable that I should see to it myself.  I had some experience in
these things.  A soldier should know how to stop as well as to let
blood; and by way of precaution I always keep a little store of
remedies at hand, for one never knows when they may be needed, as they
were then.  With this in my mind I led the way up into my apartment.
Here, I may mention, I had established myself modestly but comfortably.
It is true that the walls were bare, except for a demi-suit of mail, a
couple of swords, and a banner I had taken at Cerisolles; but for the
rest, what with my books--I had five in all--and my lute, I flattered
myself that I had all that a man needed.

Pierrebon was asleep on a settle, and I had to call twice ere I could
wake him, for he slept like the dead.  But he rose quickly enough, and
lit the candles.  Then, bidding him fetch me materials for dressing a
cut, I begged my guests to be seated.  It was the first chance we had
of really seeing each other.  The jester Le Brusquet I did not
recognize at all, though I noticed the royal cipher on his pourpoint.
As for the other, there is only one house in France that bears such
features, and the greatest of them all is now King, and owes his being
to the man who stood before me.

As the lights fell on us I noticed a quick glance pass between the two,
and Le Brusquet's hand moved beneath his cloak.  It was as if suspicion
were gone and he had resheathed his poniard.  I smiled to myself; but
Pierrebon now entered with a ewer and the things I required.  He placed
these on the table, and at a look from me, which he understood,
vanished again.

I set myself at once to dress the wound, which was, after all, but a
slight affair, though it had bled freely.  I said so as I finished,
adding that if it had been a trifle deeper the business would have been
serious; but, as it was, a couple of days would mend matters entirely,
except for a patch.

"Not Frenel himself could have tended me better," said the wounded man.
"Monsieur, I am deeply obliged to you."

And Pierrebon entering at this time with some wine I begged them to do
me the honour to drink a cup.

This they willingly assented to, and filling three cups from the flagon
I raised mine on high.

"Messieurs, a toast for all good Christians!  Down with the crescent!"

They understood and drank--Le Brusquet with a searching look in his
eyes and a smile on his lips, and his companion with a reckless laugh.

And now they rose.  "Monsieur," said the wounded man, "will you add to
your kindness by telling us to whom we are indebted?  You are a
soldier--I can see that--and I can keep that sword of yours from
rusting if you will."

So he had not recognised me!  Well, ten years make a difference!  And
yet, if once, he had seen me a hundred times in the days when his
valiant brother Enghien lived.  I began to feel sure that if he did not
know me I was safe indeed; but I had no mind to change my present peace
for any other life, and so made answer:

"Monseigneur, it were idle for me to say that I do not know you.  Rest
assured that were I so minded I could follow no braver or more generous
prince than Antony of Vendôme, but my sword is hung to the wall.  My
name is Broussel.  I am bourgeois, as you see, and having a small
estate of fifty écus have all that suffices for the simple needs of a
citizen such as I.  Monseigneur, the little service I rendered is
small; let it be forgotten.  Nevertheless, I thank you for the kind
offer you have made."

I delivered this speech with a respectful air, but yet in a tone that
carried the conviction that my resolve was unchangeable.

"As you will," said the Duke, with some coldness of manner.  "A Bourbon
does not offer twice.  And so, farewell!  I fear 'tis a long road and
an ugly road we have yet to travel, thanks to my folly--eh, Le
Brusquet?"

Out of the tail of my eye I had been watching Le Brusquet.  All this
time he had been engaged in examining the silver cup from which he had
drunk his wine--a relic of my past splendour.  He toyed with it this
way and that, looking at the arms engraved thereon, and comparing them
with those on the flagon.  Then his little eyes stole a swift,
searching glance at me, and a smile--just the shadow of a
smile--flickered over his lips.  He had not, however, lost a word of
what was passing between Vendôme and myself, and on the Duke addressing
him he put down the cup he held in his hand, saying quietly: "If
Monsieur Broussel will add to his kindness by lending me a sword it
may, perhaps, be better for us, and I promise faithfully to return it."

Without a word I took a sword from the wall and handed it to Le
Brusquet, who received it with a bow, and then, turning to the Duke, I
offered to accompany them to the end of the street, which was an evil
place even by day.  I added that a little beyond the end of the street
was the Gloriette, where the guards of Monsieur the Lieutenant of the
Châtelet were to be found, and that thence their way would be safe.

The Duke pulled a long face, apparently at the thought of having to
disclose his identity to the guards of the Châtelet, but Le Brusquet
cut in with a "Let it be so, Monseigneur.  Three are better than two,
except in love-making."

At this the Duke laughed, and agreed, and we all three went out into
the street, which twisted and wound its crooked way towards the river
face between two rows of overhanging houses, that seemed as if they
were ever threatening to fall over and bury it in their ruins.

For a little we walked without a word; for Antony of Vendôme--fickle
and vain, at once the hope and despair of his time--felt himself hurt
and aggrieved by the refusal of his offer, and for a space preserved a
sulky silence.  Ere we had gone a quarter mile, however, his
temper--variable as the wind--began to change and his kindly nature to
reassert itself.  We were passing the house of the Duplessis Richelieu
when he spoke.

"_Eh bien_, Monsieur Broussel, change your mind and think better of my
offer.  What with one thing and another there is steel in the air at
present, and a stout heart and a good sword such as you are may make an
estate of fifty écus five hundred or more.  Come, think of it!"

I felt my blood warm within me in spite of my fancied devotion to my
contented life; but I thought of that affair of the duel, of the
judgment of the Chambre Ardente, and above all, of Simon and the cards
he held against me.  Besides, I knew Vendôme, and so I refused once
more.

"Well, well," he said, "as you will; but never say Antony of Vendôme
was ungrateful."

We had by this time reached the point where the road opened out upon
the river face, and halted together in the moonlight.

A little distance from us lay the Seine, shining in scales of hammered
brass.  The convicts were still on the Gloriette.  Poor wretches!  They
slaved there day and night, and lights were moving to and fro amongst
them as the guards watched them at their toil.  They were singing a
weird refrain--a chorus--ever and again interrupted by yells and curses
as the lash of the task-master fell on some victim of his hatred or
sluggard at work.

"Here we part, Monseigneur!" I said.  "The lieutenant of the Châtelet
will give you guards to escort you farther."

I bowed to both, and would have gone--for I thought it well not to be
mixed up further in this matter--but the Duke stayed me.  He had taken
off his glove, and was fumbling with a ring on his finger.  This he
drew off and thrust into my hand.

"Keep this, monsieur.  Remember, if ever you want a friend you have but
to send it to me.  Farewell!"

"_Au revoir_!" cried Le Brusquet, who had up to now preserved silence.
"Remember, Le Brusquet is also your debtor doubly--once for a life and
once for a sword--and forget not my address is the sign of the
Crescent."

With this mocking allusion to the Louvre and to Diane de Poitiers'
influence there, he followed on the heels of Vendôme, leaving me with
the ring in my hand.

I watched them until they were lost in the shivering haze.  They never
sought the Gloriette, but kept on the right, making directly for the
Louvre.

Then I looked at the ring.  It was light enough for me to see that it
was a plain gold signet in the shape of a shield, with the arms of
Béarn--two cows on a field _Or_--cut thereon.

"Perhaps," I said to myself, "I shall need it some day."  With this I
slipped it on my finger, and went back.




CHAPTER III

MY PYRAMID OF CARDS COMES DOWN

I may say at once that in this chronicle it often befalls that I have
to describe the actions and deal with the motives of others.  In doing
this I have given no rein to idle fancy, but have strictly followed
what those who played a part in my life have told me.

To show that my authorities in this respect are beyond reproach I have
but to mention the names of my friends--Blaise Ste. Marie de Lorgnac,
now, as all know, the Maréchal Duc de Lorgnac; and Nicholas d'Ayen,
Sieur de Besme, of the Quercy, who acted so strange a part in his day
under the name of Le Brusquet.  Each of these is prepared on his faith,
as knight and gentleman, to support my words, either on foot or on
horseback, with sword or with lance, and in this respect I too am ready
to cross a blade, or run a course; and so, God defend the Truth!

If further proof is needed I beg leave to refer to the confession of
the Italian, Torquato Trotto, made at his expiation, which gives many
and curious details, especially of what happened in Le Jaquemart, and
which is registered in the archives of the Parliament of Paris, where
all who list may see it.  There is yet one other whom I could name, one
who is ever at my side, and who for good or for ill has taken me as
part of her life; but for the present the names I have cited are
sufficient, and I shall say no more on the subject.

On returning to my apartment after leaving Vendôme and Le Brusquet I
found old Camus at the door awaiting me.  He entered with me, saying:

"I watched it all from the window.  Hey! but it was well done!"

I pretended to take no notice of this remark, and pressed some
refreshment upon him; but the old rascal refused, and sat with his knee
between his hands, rocking himself backwards and forwards.  He went on
to make some roundabout inquiries as to who the persons were to whose
assistance I had gone, but I told him plainly that I did not desire to
discuss the subject.

Becoming nettled at this, he said: "Ho! ho! and so you do not trust me,
Monsieur Broussel!  Well, I tell you I know at any rate who it is that
lies dead out there, for I have been to see, and it will not take long
for me to find out the rest."

"Go and find out, then!" I said somewhat roughly, being annoyed in my
turn.

At which he rose in a white heat.  "That I will," he said; "and you
will find that the hand of Madame Diane, soft as it is, can grip
hard--hard, mind you, Monsieur Broussel!"

With this he flung out; and so we, who but an hour or two ago were in
friendly converse, parted in anger, and with stormy words.

In a manner I was not sorry for this, for in my heart I always felt a
warning against him, and there was something so ominous, so evil, in
his face as he left that I felt assured he would strike a felon blow at
the first opportunity.

The more I reflected on what had happened, and on Camus' threat in
connection with Diane de Poitiers, the more I began to see a crop of
dangers ahead of me.  I began to think it well to retire to some other
city.  In this I was influenced by the fact that, if there were trouble
about the dead man and I were involved in it, as after Camus' words I
felt I should certainly be, it was hardly possible that I could escape
being recognised.

The sentence against me, cruel and unjust as it was, stood still, and,
once I was discovered, it would be put into force for certain.

Like a prudent general, I felt I must beat a retreat.  The bulk of my
money was in trustworthy hands in Antwerp, but in my oak chest were a
hundred gold crowns of the sun--a great stand-by and help in the hour
of trouble.

There was nothing for it but to go, and, summoning Pierrebon, I told
him of my intention.  We set to work to pack a valise at once.  This
being done, we waited for the small hours.

It was about four in the morning that I decided to move, and taking a
last look at the place where I had lived so long in peace I went out
into the street, followed by Pierrebon bearing the valise.  I had to
leave everything behind except the barest necessities and my money, and
to trust the well-being of my goods to Fortune.  The jade was unkind
enough to forget me in this matter, which put me to heavy loss.

It was, of course, impossible to leave Paris at this hour, as the gates
would be shut; but behind the Abbey of St. Germain de Pres was a little
hostel called the Chapeau Rouge, where I knew I could find shelter
until I could procure a couple of horses and be off.

At four in the morning night-hawks are abed, and even the convicts had
ceased working on the Gloriette.  The moon had gone, and it was dark
now--the darkness that precedes the dawn.

We met not a soul as we stumbled along, and coming out at length to the
Vallée de Misère we passed the Gloriette, and kept to our right along
the river face, until almost opposite the Church of St. Germain
l'Auxerrois.  Here moored to the bank were a number of boats, the
boatmen sleeping within them.  Groping about in the darkness--such
noises as we made being fortunately drowned by the continual lap, lap
of the water against the sides of the boat, and their creaking and
groaning as they rubbed against each other--we at length found a small
empty boat tied to a large one.  Favoured by darkness, we loosened the
knot, and, taking to the oars, crossed the river without being
perceived by a soul.

Once on the opposite bank we made the boat fast to some piles of wood
near the water's edge, and leaving a piece of silver for the boatman,
which I trust he found, we took the road to the Abbey of St. Germain.
Near here we found a retreat in the scaffolding of a house that was
being repaired.  There we stayed until it was light, and about six in
the morning arrived at the inn, as though we were early travellers who
had entered Paris on the opening of the Porte St. Germain.  In this
manner, favoured by luck, and by the exercise of caution, I bade
farewell to the Rue de Lavandières, and gave Camus the slip, without
leaving any trace behind me.

The Chapeau Rouge was an inn mostly frequented by students, and in my
younger days I knew it well, though, to be sure, more than a dozen
years had passed since I last entered it.  It was surrounded by a large
garden, enclosed by a high wall, and I could have chosen no better
place for my purpose, which was to lie close during the day, and, as
soon as horses were procured, to depart at dusk, about the hour of the
shutting of the gates.

As it happened, on this day there was scarce a soul at the inn, all the
usual customers having been drawn away to witness the execution of a
Portuguese named Gomez, who had been found guilty of sorcery,
witchcraft, and other crimes, and was to suffer in expiation on the
Place Maubert.

This ill wind, however, blew fair for me, as it left me undisturbed;
and sending Pierrebon to purchase or hire horses I awaited his return.

It was well on in the afternoon, and the sun being hot I was resting in
the shade of the garden wall, when from within a summer-house all
covered with roses, that stood near to me, I heard a lute string
touched by a master-hand, and a man's voice, full and clear, began to
sing "The Three Cavaliers." With a rush a hundred recollections of the
past came back to me, and I felt myself once more a heedless boy,
sitting on that very same seat where the singer was now, and singing
the same song.  I rose and went forward, and to my surprise saw it was
Le Brusquet, lute in hand, and by his side there sat a small brown ape,
a collar of gold round his neck.

I listened till the last of the song, and was about to turn away; but,
the ape running out of the summer-house at the time, the jester put his
head through the entrance, with a "Back!  Pompon! back!" and caught
sight of me.

In a moment he was by my side, and, willy-nilly, forced me into the
summer-house.

"The very man I wanted," he said.  "I came here to think of you.  I
always come here when in doubt or trouble--and here you are--dropped
from the clouds."  He poured out some wine for me, and when we had
drank a health together he asked me:

"_Eh bien_, monsieur, tell me how you came here; tell me all, for I am
a friend."

It was impossible not to see this, and in a few words I told him.  He
listened gravely the while, stroking his ape's head.

When I had done he spoke.  "I too have something to tell you.  There is
an outcry about Madame Diane's Italian--the first time an outcry has
been made about any such scum.  This morning there was a scene at the
_petit couvert_.  I was there.  The short of it is that the King, my
gossip, sided with his mistress as against Vendôme.  Words ran so high
that the Duke was ordered to leave Paris, which he did at once."

I looked at the ring on my finger, and Le Brusquet saw the look.

"I fear," he said, "that little talisman has lost its power for the
present; but, to go on, I had other business in the morning which I
could not avoid.  Towards eleven o'clock I hastened to the Rue des
Lavandières to return your sword and to warn you.  To my relief you
were not there.  Your hermit's paradise is gone, and an angel, in the
form of one of M. Morin's guards, is at the door.  Instead of a flaming
sword he carries an arquebus----"

"It is quick work," I cut in; "and they have seized everything, I
suppose?"

"Yes; everything.  And your ostensible accuser and witness against you
is one Camus, a glove-maker.  He laid an information against you at
sunrise.  He was with Valentinois an hour later.  Diane rises with the
dawn, you know; and he is her glove-maker."

"So he has struck hard, and struck quickly."

"Yes; there is very little glove about his action.  And more, Diane
seems bent upon avenging the death of her Italian.  But, monsieur, what
is your next move?"

I explained my intention, and how I proposed to quit Paris; whereat he
shook his head.

"It will not do," he said; "the gates are watched.  So far you have
beaten them, but there you will fail, and here detection is certain."

"I must risk something."

"As little as possible."  And after a pause: "What do you say to the
Louvre?"

"The Louvre!--the lion's den!"

"The safest place on earth.  See here, Monsieur Broussel.  I owe you my
life; give me a chance to make some return.  Can you trust me enough to
put yourself in my hands?  I will not fail you.  It is not Le Brusquet
the King's jester, but Nicholas d'Ayen, Sieur de Besme, of the Quercy,
who pledges his word."

We stared each other in the face, and my good genius came to my elbow.

"Yes," I said.

In short, it was arranged that I should meet him towards sunset at the
entrance to the tennis court, east of the Louvre.  There was some
difficulty about Pierrebon and the horses; but in this Le Brusquet
again came to my aid, and it was settled that Pierrebon should find
shelter in a house in the Rue Tire Boudin, which belonged to Monsieur
Blaise de Lorgnac, Seigneur of Malezieux, and lieutenant of the Queen's
guard, the same being a tried and true friend of my new-found
benefactor.

Pierrebon at this moment returning, I hailed him.  He had been
unsuccessful in his attempt to obtain horses such as we needed, but
hoped to do so the next day; and shortly after Le Brusquet departed,
taking Pierrebon with him, and my valise.

"Fast bind, safe find," he said as he pointed at Pierrebon; and then,
calling to his ape, went off.

Towards the appointed time I found myself close to the parvis of St.
Germain l'Auxerrois.  For some reason or other there was a greater
crowd than usual, and I was compelled to halt for a moment.  Just at
this moment a body of eight or ten horsemen came trotting rapidly
towards the Châtelet.  Their leader all but rode over a child, and
would certainly have done so had I not made a long arm and pushed it
aside.  There was no doubt of it, the leading horseman was my brother
Simon, the Vidame d'Orrain, and I thanked my good star that, owing to
the dusk, the bustle, and the pace he was going at, he did not
recognise me.  Something, however, struck him, for twice he turned back
to look.  I did not wait for a third glance, and, mixing with the
crowd, was lost to view.

At the gate of the tennis court I met Le Brusquet, and, passing through
a wicket, we entered the precincts of the Louvre.




CHAPTER IV

THE QUEEN'S MIRACLE

Where the eastern wing of the Louvre rose high above the Rue St. Thomas
lay the apartments of Le Brusquet, at the end of a labyrinth of
passages and galleries.  Having brought me here my friend left me, with
a warning not to stir forth until his return--a piece of advice I was
quite prepared to follow.  Once alone I stepped out into a small,
overhanging balcony, that clung like a beehive to the leprous grey of
the wall, and, sitting well under cover of the battlements, looked
around.  Far below me was a walled courtyard, in which an archer of M.
de Lorges' guard paced steadily backwards and forwards.  Beyond this
lay the narrow Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, its many-storeyed houses
crowding one above the other, as if struggling for light and air.  Here
were the spires of St. Thomas du Louvre, the church raised to the
martyr of Canterbury, and St. Nicaise.  There lay the Quinze Vingts.
To the right stood the Campanile of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, all
empurpled in the afterglow of the sunset.  Still farther, where the
mouth of the street opened out, was a glimpse of the Seine; and with a
turn of my head I could see, huge and vast, the enormous keep of the
Louvre, built by Philip Augustus, and evilly known as the Philippine.
But although my eyes, straining through the twilight, rested on these
and more, my thoughts were far away.  At a puff my pyramid of cards,
the little life I had built up for myself, had come down, and all my
labour and toil were in vain.

I am not of those who give way to despair; but the blue devils attack
the best hearted at times, and for once I felt the hopelessness of my
position, and began to think it useless to struggle further.  Perhaps,
after all, it would be better to accept defeat and surrender myself.
Better that than being hunted like a hare, as I was.  And then my
thoughts were cut short.  Something soft and furry sprang into my lap.
It was Pompon, Le Brusquet's ape, and he looked into my face with soft,
melancholy eyes.

"Poor little beast!"--and I stroked him.  "You at least build no
pyramids of cards."

"_Tudieu_!" said a voice, "that is true, but for pulling them down he
has no equal."  And Le Brusquet appeared at the window, which opened
out upon the balcony.

I rose and came in.  Le Brusquet stepped back and seated himself on a
table, and then for the first time I noticed a third person in the
room--a tall, soldierly man, with the collar of The Order at his neck.
With a wave of his hand Le Brusquet presented me to the stranger, whom
I found was M. de Lorgnac, the lieutenant of the Queen's guard--he in
whose house Pierrebon had obtained shelter.

I thanked him for the kindness he had shown in this, to one so utterly
unknown as I was to him; but he stayed me with a smile, saying that in
this or any other matter I could command him, as the friend of Le
Brusquet, and went on to pay me a handsome compliment in regard to the
affair of the previous night.

"An affair that is like to place me on the road to Montfauçon," I said
a little bitterly.

"On the contrary," replied De Lorgnac, "rather, perhaps, on the road to
better things."

"Hearken not unto him!" said Le Brusquet; "he is for ever looking out
for recruits for his guard.  Blaise de Lorgnac is as insatiable a
stirrer of the porridge of the times as I; only I use a longer ladle,
as beseems a person of my wisdom.  As for you, _mon ami_ Blaise,--you
throw your lures in vain!  Know you that Monsieur Broussel is a
philosopher, who has found contentment in--fifty écus a year, did you
not say, monsieur?"  And, reaching for his lute, he ran his fingers
over the strings and began to sing:

  "Mes amis, la terre est à moi.
        J'ai de quoi
        Vivre en roi
  Si l'éclat me tente.
  Les honneurs me sont devolus
      J'ai cinquante écus,
      J'ai cinquante écus,
  J'ai cinquante écus de."


"_Mille tonnerres_!  Stop!  Do you want to bring half the Louvre here
to listen?"  And De Lorgnac placed his hand over the singer's mouth,
and took the lute from him.

"Enough!" said Le Brusquet; "you have banished the inspiration.  I sing
no more.  And as for you, Monsieur Blaise, take yourself off with that
long sword of yours.  It frightens the ape, and I have that to say
which is for M. Broussel's ear alone."

"_Au revoir_!" said Lorgnac, but as he reached the door he turned to me.

"Your Pierrebon is safe and sound in the Rue Tire Boudin.  He has
received orders not to stir forth.  In the matter of the horses--you
must let that be my care."  And without waiting for reply he went away.

"I know not how to thank M. de Lorgnac or you----" I began, but Le
Brusquet cut in:

"As yet the thanks are due from me, and Lorgnac is helping me to pay my
debts.  And now listen, _mon ami_.  One half the world consists of
fools who give advice, and the other half of idiots who refuse to
benefit by it; let me for once see an exception to the rule."

"I hardly follow you."

"I will explain.  Between us there is this difference.  In the search
for happiness that every man makes I remained in the world, and you
left it and turned philosopher.  The result is that I am fairly
satisfied with life, whereas you are sick of it in your heart.  Yet,
until this disaster came to you, you tried to play the happy man with
your lute, your 'Plutarch's Lives,' and your hermit's cell of a house.
Is it not so?"

I made no answer, and he continued:

"Last night, for some reason of your own--perhaps because you still
clung to your belief in your own way of life--you refused a chance;
that chance has gone; but another is left, and it remains for you to
take it or not."

"What is left?"

"What is left is this.  Last night you refused the sauce of a prince of
the blood; to-day will you refuse the soup of a Queen?"

"Of a Queen!"

"Yes; of the Queen of France.  In brief, the Queen wants a reliable
person to do something for her.  It must be someone unknown to the
Court.  Will you undertake the business or not?  It will, at any rate,
enable you to leave Paris in safety, in broad day if you will, though
out of Paris you may have to look to your skin."

Like an old war-horse I scented the battle, and my blood flamed through
me.  Le Brusquet was right.  With cunning knowledge he had pulled at my
heart-strings, and laid bare my secret to myself.  Win or lose, I now
knew that I had to come back to the world; and it should be now.  I
rose to my feet.

"I accept," I said, "whatever is offered me."

"I thought you would," he answered; "and I may tell you that De Lorgnac
knows of this.  At first it was he who was to have undertaken the
affair; but he is too well known, and the Queen would have none of him.
He it was who suggested your name to me; and," he went on, with a
smile, "it was all prearranged that he should leave us together, so
that I might open the matter to you."

"But the Queen!  Perhaps----"

"There is no perhaps about it.  The Queen asked De Lorgnac to find her
an agent, and he has named you."

"I was going to say that if the Queen finds I am bourgeois----"

"We can leave the matter of a coat-of-arms to the Queen."  And he
laughed as he continued: "Perhaps that may come to the plain Monsieur
Broussel--and--it has just gone compline, and we, or rather you, must
see the Queen."

"I am ready," I said.

"Then let us be away!  Everything has gone well.  The King has left for
Fontainebleau to hunt the boar.  He started this afternoon; Madame
Diane is with him.  The royal children are at St. Germain-en-Laye, and
but for its guards the Louvre is deserted; there is no one here but the
Queen.  Come, then!"

With a whistle to the ape, which hopped along in front of us, he opened
the door and passed out, I following on his heels.  Outside, we found
ourselves in a maze of twisting passages, along which my guide went
with quick, light steps.  Finally, we turned into an arched doorway,
and, ascending a stair, stood on the roof of one of the galleries
connecting the wings of the Louvre with the great keep.

The twilight was dead, but the moon was rising in a clear, cloudless
sky.  By her light we walked along the lonely battlements until we
reached a flight of steps, upon which the shadow of the Philippine fell
darkly.  Arrived at the head of the steps we gained an embattled
balcony, giving access, by means of a lancet arch, into the keep.
Through this we passed, and entered a long, low corridor.  So low,
indeed, that by raising the baton he carried in his hand Le Brusquet,
though not a tall man, could easily reach the joints of the groined
roof.  Here we stood for a space, where a banner of moonlight lay on
the floor--the ape a dark spot in its whiteness.  All was silent as the
grave.  Once there was a startling rush of wings as a homing-pigeon
flew past the open arch and hissed off into the night.  All was in
semi-gloom, except where the moon lit the floor at our feet, and where,
at intervals, a dim yellow halo marked the spot where a feeble lamp was
burning in a niche set far back in the huge walls.

"And this leads to the Queen's apartment," whispered Le Brusquet, with
a shrug of his shoulders, as he led the way along the gallery, which
curved with the shape of the keep.  On rounding the curve it came to an
abrupt ending.  Here a lamp swung by a chain from the roof, and by its
light we dimly saw before us a large door, firmly closed, and seeming
to bar all further progress.  Near the door a man was seated in an
alcove in the wall, his knees almost up to his chin, his drawn sword in
his hand.  He swung round on to his feet as we came up.  It was De
Lorgnac.

"The Queen awaits you," he said, without further greeting, and tapped
twice at the door.  It was opened at once, and both Le Brusquet and
myself were about to step in when De Lorgnac laid his hand on the
former's arm.

"M. Broussel alone," he said, drawing Le Brusquet back, and I passed
through the door.

I found myself in a small ante-chamber; but there was not a soul
within.  I stood for a moment irresolute, when the door behind me
opened once again, and I heard De Lorgnac's voice.

"Onwards!  Through the curtains ahead of you."

This I did, and entered a large room, richly furnished.  The light,
bright though soft, of the tall candles burning in grotesque holders
fell on the curtains of violet velvet, starred with the golden lilies
of France, on the rare tapestry, that covered the walls, on embroidered
cushions and quaint carvings.  There were flowers in abundance
everywhere; but their scent was killed by something that burned in a
cup held by a little bronze Ganymede, the odour of which filled the
room with a sweet but heavy scent.  This room, like the other, was
likewise empty, and after glancing round twice to make sure, I took my
stand near a table, upon which there were some writing materials and a
pair of richly embroidered gloves.  The sight of the gloves brought old
Camus back to my mind, and I was about to take one up, to look at the
workmanship, when I heard a footfall; the curtains were set aside, and
a woman stood before me.

It was Catherine de Medicis herself.  It was years since I had seen
her, then a young girl; but now, though still young, she was in the
bloom of ripened womanhood.  People said that, with all her
accomplishments, she lacked courage, and was dull and stupid.  As my
glance rested on the pale features, on the somewhat sullen mouth, and
on the dark, expressionless eyes before me, I began to think they were
right.  To-day, however, I was also to begin learning a new lesson.
Others have since learned it too, and paid for the learning as lessons
have never been paid for before or after.  She let fall the curtain she
held as I sank on one knee before her and extended me a shapely hand.
As I touched it with my lips she said in her deep-toned voice:

"M. Broussel, arise!"

I did so, and, moving towards the chair near the table, she sat down,
and began toying with one of the gloves, her eyes not meeting my look,
but surveying me with a swift sidelong glance.

"_Eh bien_!" she said, "you are that M. Broussel who came so
opportunely to the rescue of my cousin of Vendôme."

I bowed, and with another of her swift glances she asked:

"And you are to be trusted?"

"Your Majesty," I said, "I have but my word to offer for this--I have
none who will add his pledge to mine."

"No one?  Are you sure?"

"Your Majesty, it is as I have said."

A faint smile parted her lips, and she looked up at me suddenly and
quickly, her eyes as alive with intelligence as they had appeared dull
and lifeless before.

"Well, monsieur, before I trust you," and she struck the glove she held
in her hand on the table, "it is necessary for me to tell you
something.  Listen.  Many years ago--I was new to France then--a young
gentleman of the best blood of Burgundy came to Paris, and entered at
the College of Cambrai.  Well, he did what none other of his time did,
nor has any of his order done the like since.  He took the three
courses--took them brilliantly.  You follow me?"

"I am all attention, madame."  My voice was as cold and measured as
hers, but in my heart I began to wonder if I would leave the room for a
journey to Montfauçon, with a halt by the way at the Châtelet.

"But," she continued, "this man was not a mere bookworm nor a pedant,
though Le Brun, whose voice was the voice of the Sorbonne then,
prophesied a red hat for him.  The red hat never came, nor did a
marshal's baton, though Bevilacqua himself foretold the latter one day,
as he brushed away a chalk mark just over the heart, where this young
man's foil had touched him.  Bevilacqua, mind you--the best sword in
Europe!"

I made as if about to speak.  I was about to ask her bluntly what was
to be the end of this, but with a wave of her hand she stayed me.

"Permit me to continue, monsieur!  This man, or boy as he was then, was
true metal all through, but he was cursed with an open heart and
wealth.  Let us say that the course of Philosophy unsettled his mind,
that the two campaigns in Italy brought but withered laurels.  Let it
be what you will, but back he came to Paris; and because his blood was
warm, his spirits high, and his heart full of vanity and vain
imaginings, the red wine was poured forth, the dice rattled, fair women
smiled, and the gold crowns went.  It was the old, old story; but the
pity of it, monsieur, was that it was such pure good steel that was
fretting thus to rust!  Was it not?"

She stopped, and looked at me again with her wonderful, searching eyes,
and I braced myself, as one who was about to receive a death-blow.

"At last the end came.  This brave, gallant--fool--yes, that is the
word--quarrelled with his best friend over a lady of the Marais--of the
Marais, mind you!  This friend wanted to save him from himself.  The
result was that those two, who had been like brothers, met each other
sword in hand under the lee of the Louvre, and one--it was not the
fool--fell."

The words seemed to thunder in my ears.  By some effort, I knew not
how, I managed to restrain myself, and her cold, passionless voice went
on:

"After that came ruin--ruin utter and hopeless.  And he who might have
been anything died like a dog of the streets."

Something like a gasp of relief broke from me; but the Medicis had not
done yet.  She rose swiftly, and for one brief second let her white
hand, glittering with rings, rest on my shoulder.  It was for a moment
only, and then she let fall her hand, with a smile on her face.

"They say, monsieur, that the age of miracles is past.  Caraffa the
Legate smiles if you mention them.  But I--I believe, for I know.  The
dead have come back before.  Why not again, Bertrand d'Orrain?  Would
you live again, and pledge your faith for that of the Bourgeois
Broussel?"




CHAPTER V

THE PORTE ST. MICHEL

Half-an-hour later, when I quitted the presence of the Queen, it was as
one to whom the world was opening afresh, and in that brief interval I
had felt and begun to understand the subtle intellect of Catherine, of
the existence of which few as yet were aware.

In regard to the mission with which I was entrusted I am pledged to
preserve silence.  The people concerned in it are dead, and when I
follow them the secret will go with me.  Let it suffice for me to say
that my task was such that a man of honour could accept, and that if I
failed the preservation of my skin was my own affair, for help I would
get from none.  Hidden in the inner pocket of my vest was a dispatch to
Montluc, the King's lieutenant in the South.  In my hand I openly bore
a letter, sealed with the _palle_ of the Medici, and addressed in the
Queen's own writing to the King.  It was to be the means of my freeing
the gates of Paris if difficulty arose, and how it did so I shall
presently show.

I found my friends awaiting me, and Le Brusquet asked:

"Well, have you come forth a made man?"

"Monsieur, I will answer you that," I said with assumed gravity, "if
you will tell me who betrayed me to the Queen."

I looked from one to the other, and they both laughed.

"Behold the traitor, then!"  And Le Brusquet pointed with his finger at
me.

"I?"

"Yes, you!--as if you had called it from the housetops.  _Mon ami_, did
ever hear of a bourgeois handling sword as you, or bearing arms _un coq
d'or griffe de sable, en champ d'azur_?  Those arms are on your
wine-cups--if they exist still--they are on the hilt of the sword you
lent me."

"_Morbleu_!"

"But that is not all.  In the gay, red days, when Lorgnac here and I
had all the world before us, we were of the College of Cambrai.  It is
true we entered as you left; but we knew you, and when all Paris was
full of your name Lorgnac and I, and others whom you knew not, aped the
fall of your cloak, the droop of your plume, the tilt of your sword.
Those days are gone, and until last night you, I thought, were gone
with them."

"Monsieur!"

"Listen!  There is more yet.  I but told the Queen of the arms you
bore.  She recognised them at once."

"That is not strange; the Vidame d'Orrain is in Paris!"

"True!  But she remembered your history--every detail of it.  It was
long ago, and many things have happened, and the Seine there has rolled
much water under its bridges since then, but she had forgotten nothing.
My friend, they who say the Medicis ever forgets are fools--blind in
their folly.  And so, for the sake of last night, and a little for the
days that have gone, we will see pretty things yet, God willing!  Eh,
De Lorgnac?"

"I for one look forward to the day when a brave man will come to his
own," replied the other, and their kindness touched me to the quick.

I am not one gifted with the power of speech--indeed, I hold that the
greater the tongue the smaller the heart--but I found words to thank
these gallant gentlemen, and De Lorgnac said:

"Monsieur, it is enough thanks to hold us in your esteem, and we will
say no more about it.  I have, however, some information that may be
useful.  Your brother the Vidame left Paris this evening for the South,
it is said.  Thus one danger is at any rate removed from your path."

It was something to know that Simon was gone.  I thanked De Lorgnac,
and added:

"Now, messieurs, for my news.  I know not if I have come forth from
that chamber"--and I pointed behind me--"a made man or not.  This much
I know, I am the bearer of a letter, the delivery of which must not be
delayed, and I must leave Paris with the dawn, or before--horse or no
horse."

"The horses I said were my care," De Lorgnac said.  And then turning to
Le Brusquet: "Await me on the steps that lead to the eastern gallery; I
am relieved in less than an hour.  We will then take monsieur here to
my house, where there are two horses in the stables at his disposal,
and the rest concerns himself."

Le Brusquet and I went back as we came, his constant companion, the
ape, with us.  Passing through the open arch I have already mentioned
we halted on the steps that lead from the balcony to the eastern wing,
and here we awaited De Lorgnac.

For a little there was a silence.  Perhaps we were both impressed by
the scene.  In front lay the river, a band of silver, with here and
there the twinkling, swaying lights of a crossing boat upon it.  All
around was the great city, and from the distance there came a murmuring
hum of voices, like waves lapping upon a far-off shore.  Around us,
towering above and ringing us in with its immense strength, rose the
Louvre, its vast outlines looking, if possible, larger and more
gigantic in the enchanted light.

After a space Le Brusquet began to speak of the Vidame, my brother, and
so we passed the time in converse until De Lorgnac came.  He bade us
haste if we wished to quit the Louvre ere the pontlevis were raised,
and hurrying after him we made our way to the southern gate, the only
one open.  As we went onwards the desolation that marked the entrance
to the Queen's apartments was no longer visible.  Ever and again we
were stopped and challenged by sentries.

"_Hein_!" exclaimed Le Brusquet, "the Scots archers keep good ward."

"Quick!  Hurry!" was De Lorgnac's answer.  "There goes the first signal
for closing the gates!"

And as he spoke a clarion rang out shrilly.  We had reached the outer
court by this, and were hurrying for the bridge that led to the
pontlevis when we saw a tall man, his cuirass glittering like silver in
the moonlight, step out of the shadow and signal to a trumpeter, who
stood at his side.

"A moment, De Lorges.  Stay!"  And Lorgnac ran up to him.  "Faith! but
your time is punctual."

Montgomery de Lorges laughed as he laid a restraining hand on his
trumpeter.  "I have more than half a mind to give the signal," he said.
"There is a rare flagon of Arbois in my apartment, and you would have
been forced to share it.  Come, change your mind and stay."

"Thanks; but I cannot.  We are bound to my house, where you are very
welcome if you care to come."

"And leave my post?  No, no!"

"Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir."

And we passed over the bridge.  Almost had we freed it when the trumpet
sounded again, and with a rattling of chains the huge pontlevis rose.

"Faith! 'twas a narrow thing.  Had we been but a minute later the Scot
would have barred all egress."  And Le Brusquet looked back at the gate
through which we had passed.  It lay on the other side of the
pontlevis--the fosse between us--and was of angular shape, surmounted
by a statue of Charles V. of France, and, as De Lorgnac said, was
already doomed to destruction to make way for the improvements
contemplated by the King.

It was midnight now, and the streets were almost deserted, though here
and there were groups of people collected together for mutual
protection.  As time was short we decided to take the Rue St. Thomas du
Louvre despite its ill-paved and noisome condition.  Passing the
fountain near the Marché des Innocents we turned up by the St. Eustache
into the Tiquetonne, and thence Rue Tire Boudin was but a short step.
I need not say with what joy the good Pierrebon received me, and after
a light supper--in which, I fear, I did but scant justice to De
Lorgnac's Joué--I determined to snatch an hour or so of rest before
starting.  Before doing so, however, Lorgnac took me to see the horses.
They looked what he said they were--good, stout roadsters.  I asked him
his price, but, as I expected from one of his generous nature, he
offered them to me as a gift.  This I was determined not to accept, and
finally, after much persuasion, he took forty crowns of the sun for the
two.  This was barely their worth, but nothing would induce him to
accept a denier more.

The valise I had packed contained the requisites for a journey, and
having changed my attire I decided to take such rest as I could get in
a chair until it was time to start.  I seemed to have barely closed my
eyes when I was awakened again by the touch of a hand on my shoulder.
It was Le Brusquet.

"_Eh bien_," he said, "but you sleep like an honest man!  It has gone
three.  The horses are ready, and De Lorgnac and Pierrebon await you
below.  Come!"

So saying he led the way down.  We had to go to the stables, and in the
yard were the two horses ready saddled.  Lorgnac was also there, and to
my surprise I saw that he too was mounted.

"I will see you to the gates," he explained as he caressed his horse, a
magnificent grey charger.

"And as for me," said Le Brusquet, "I will wish you good fortune here,
and a safe return, and the sword you lent me is in secure keeping."

And so we rode out in the grey darkness of the morning through the
solitary streets, where there was never a sign of life except an
occasional dog, which--homeless and friendless--stared wistfully after
us as we went past.  I had decided to leave Paris by the Porte St.
Michel, and this all the more as the captain of the gate--the Vicomte
de Créquy--was a near relative of De Lorgnac, and the passage through
might, perhaps, be made easier on this score.  It was still dark as we
trotted down the Rue de la Harpe under the shadow of the Sorbonne,
having passed the Pont au Change and the Pont St. Michel without
difficulty, although we expected some check there.

On our coming up to the Porte St. Michel the guard challenged us,
threatening to fire with his arquebus if we did not halt.  This we were
compelled to do, and a parley ensued.  The result was that the
under-officer of the guard came forth, with two or three of his men,
and allowed us to approach.

On our coming up, and on my explaining that I desired to have the gates
opened, he swore as he surveyed us with the aid of a lantern that he
swung in our faces.

"_Mordieu_!" he said, with a rough southern accent--and a grim old
soldier he was--"are you madmen, or have you dropped from the clouds,
not to know that the gates are shut and will not be opened till
sunrise?"

"That may be, monsieur," I replied; "but I have a letter to the
King--to the King, mind you--which he must get ere he starts for the
hunt."

"_He_!" he said doubtfully.  "A letter to the King!  You will have to
take it on wings, then.  But from whom is this letter?" he added
suspiciously.

"That, monsieur, does not concern you.  The fact remains that I have
this letter, and it is you who will have to answer for its late
delivery, not I."

"Then let me see it."

I pulled out the letter and showed it to him, without, however, letting
it pass from my hands.  He cast the light of the lantern on it, and
looked this way and that at the seals and at the address, muttering to
himself the while.

"Devil take me!  But I never could read.  Here!  Can any one of you
read this?"  And he turned to his men, but they one and all shook their
heads.

"I will read it for you if you like," said De Lorgnac as he pushed his
horse forwards.

"You!"

"Yes.  I am Monsieur de Lorgnac, the lieutenant of the Queen's guard."

The old soldier made a mock bow.  "And I," he said, "am Agrippa
Pavanes, without a _De_, lieutenant of the Gate of St. Michel; and your
friend there is, I suppose, Monsieur _de_ Croquemort, lieutenant of
Trouands.  And, as we all know each other now, I tell you plainly you
must hold patience by the tail as best you may until the gates are
opened.  Letter or no letter, I will not let you through."

And so saying he would have turned away, but Lorgnac said quietly:

"You will be good enough, monsieur, to inform Monsieur de Créquy that I
am here and desire to see him at once."

Agrippa Pavanes swung round and faced us, his hand on his sword-hilt.

"I am in charge of this gate at present, and I will act as I think
best.  I may not be able to read or write, but if you do not be off I
will make a full stop on you with the point of my sword," he snarled.

Affairs were getting serious.  Nor do I know what might have happened,
but at this juncture a head appeared at a window in one of the flanking
towers of the gate, and an angry and a sleepy voice asked what was the
matter below.

"It is I, Créquy," began De Lorgnac, and the other exclaimed:

"You!  What in the--saints' name--brings you here, De Lorgnac, at this
hour of the night, or rather morning?  Is it not enough that I am
banished here to keep watch over this infernal gate?  And now you----"

"Come, Créquy; this is a matter of urgency.  There is a letter here
from the Queen which must reach the King before the _petit couvert_,
and your lieutenant will not let the messenger pass through the gates."

"He is quite right!  But a letter from the Queen, did you say?"

"Yes; and to the King in person.  Come down, and see for yourself."

"Not I; I am in my shirt, and my health is delicate.  Send up the
letter.  Pavanes, do me the favour to bring it up."

I handed the letter to Agrippa, who took it up, with very much the
surly air of a dog walking away with a bone.  A moment after he too
appeared at the window with his light, and Créquy examined the letter
and the seals.

"'Tis right, Pavanes," we heard him say; "'tis the Queen's own hand and
seal.  Let the messenger through."  And leaning out of the window he
repeated the same to us.

De Lorgnac thanked him, regretting, at the same time, the necessity he
had of arousing him; and Créquy swore back, in mock tones of injury,
that he would have a special cell built for disturbers of his rest,
and, wishing us the day, retired abruptly.

Agrippa carried out his orders with an ill grace, and made no answer to
my thanks; so, bidding farewell to De Lorgnac, I put spurs to my horse,
and, followed by Pierrebon, rode out of Paris.




CHAPTER VI

SIMON AND I MEET AGAIN

The stars were yet shining as we skirted the heights of Charenton, but
it was day when we saw Villaneuve St. Georges on its wooded hill.
Here, where the Yères wound between banks covered with willows and
poplars, I first drew rein, and taking the King's letter from my pocket
tore it into a hundred fragments.  Some I let drift down the stream,
and the remainder I scattered to the winds.  I may say at once that
this was in accordance with the Queen's instructions.  The letter was
merely intended to enable me to free the gates, and after that it was
to be destroyed.  It had served its purpose, and now went its way.
Needless to add, I had no intention to touch at Fontainebleau or
disturb the _petit couvert_ of the King.  At Melun, therefore, where
horse and man were refreshed, I crossed the bridge, and took the road
to Etampes.  Half way, where the little town of Alais lies on the
Essonne, I turned due south, and entered the Orleannois by Malesherbes.

There was many a league yet between me and Montluc, and though I had to
ride hard I had yet to husband the horses, lest they should break down,
or in case of emergency.

By avoiding the main roads and large towns and keeping to by-paths I
lessened the chance of danger as much as possible.  At Candes, which
lies at the junction of the Loire and the Vienne, I heard that the
Guidon of Montpensier was hard at hand, and, knowing well the
reputation of this person, I bade Pierrebon saddle up, and we started
without a meal, though we had ridden far and fast.  In a short time we
entered the forest of Fontevrault, and my spirits rose high at the
thought that in a brief space I would be in Poitiers, where Montluc
lay, and my mission accomplished.

So far so good; but towards midday I began to feel the need of rest,
and splashing across a ford of the Negron I called a halt on the
opposite bank and looked around me; whilst Pierrebon, who was a little
stiff, jumped from his hackney, and began to mop his brow and stretch
his legs.

We were in the heart of the forest, and to the north, south, east, and
west of us there was nothing but trees and dense underwood, with here
and there a long, shimmering glade or an open space, through which a
small streamlet hummed, its banks gay with flowers.

But I confess that at the moment I had no eyes for the scene--for the
yellow mary-buds, the blue of the wild hyacinth, or the white stars of
the wind-flowers; for leaf and shade, and all the enchantment of the
woodland.  In brief, I was famished, and would have given a gold Henri
to have seen a signboard swinging in the air.  And, besides, it was
dawning upon me that somehow we had missed the track.

"Pierrebon," I said, "do you know how far it is to Marçay?"

Pierrebon shook his head dolefully, saying as he did so that he did not
even know where we were.

"Then, my friend, we are lost in Fontevrault Forest."

Pierrebon made no answer to this, but mounted his hackney.  And,
touching my nag with the spur, we cantered along a lean glade, trusting
that the track which ran along it would hap to be the right one.  Now
and again as we sped onwards a startled deer would break cover and rush
through brake and bramble, and once an evil-tempered old boar, feeding
under an older oak, glared savagely at us as we passed, grinding his
tusks in senseless rage till the foam flecked his brindled sides.

We were in the deeps of the forest now, and, high noon as it was, it
was grey as twilight.  Here, as we eased up for a moment, a dog-wolf
crossed our path, and with snarling lip and shining fangs slunk into
the thorn.  Oh, for a leash of hounds now!  But on we went, catching a
glimpse of a grim head peering after us through the thorn--a head with
blazing, angry eyes, that almost seemed to speak.  It was lucky it was
not winter-tide, or that gentleman there would not be alone, but, with
a hundred or so of his fellows, would have made rare sport with us,
according to his lights.

Still we went on through the endless woods, which closed in deeper and
deeper around us, until at last the track died utterly away in the
tanglewood, and the horses began to give sign that they were beaten.

I saw that it was necessary to rest the beasts, and as I came to this
conclusion we came upon a little natural clearing, where, around a
clump of enormous elms, the turf was green as emerald and spangled with
a hundred flowers.  Immediately behind the trees the ground rose,
forming a low hill covered with wild juniper and white thorn, and a
little stream bustled by it, whilst from the leafy shades above the
voices of many birds warbled sweet and low.

There was no need to tighten rein.  The horses seemed to know of their
own accord that they were to stop, and five minutes later they were
cropping the rich forage; whilst I, stretched on the turf, my back
against a tree, was resting with a sense of repose that would have been
delicious except for the pangs of hunger gnawing at me in a manner that
would take no denial.

"_Hein_," I grumbled to myself, "nothing to eat but grass!  If I were
the good King Nebuchadnezzar, now, I might do very well; but as it
is----"  And then I heard a chuckle, and saw Pierrebon fumbling with
the valise.  He cast a sly look at me, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Monsieur is hungry?"

"Famished."

"And thirsty?"

"Well, I have drank a little"--and I glanced at the streamlet--"but a
cup of d'Arbois now, or even some white Rochecorbon, would be nectar.
Confound my stupidity at losing the way!  We should have been at Marçay
hours ago; but--what the devil----"

In effect I might well have exclaimed, for Pierrebon had opened the
valise and taken therefrom a bulging wallet; and as I watched him with
astonished eyes he rapidly unpacked it, pulling forth a cold chicken,
some Mayence ham, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine, which last he
put down with a little flourish, saying as he did so: "'Tis red Joué,
monsieur.  Not so good as d'Arbois, nor so bad as Rochecorbon."

But I had already attacked the fowl, and answered, with my mouth full:

"Pierrebon, this is the best service you have ever rendered.  Open the
wine, and sit down and eat.  _Corbleu_! but I will dub you knight, and
you shall bear arms for this--a trussed capon on a field vert."

And then there was a silence, for, with the feast before us, time spent
in talking was time wasted.  Finally, the capon disappeared, the last
slice of ham was divided with the edge of my dagger, the last drop
drained from the bottle, and restful and contented we lay back in the
shade; and Pierrebon slept, whilst I slipped into a waking dream.  How
long this lasted I know not; but I came to myself with a start, and
looked around me.

The shadow had shifted, leaving Pierrebon asleep in the sunshine, his
red face looking straight up at the blue sky.  The horses too were
asleep in the purple loosestrife, and there was an intense peace over
all things.  There as I lay, listening to the splashing of the water
and the song of the birds, a line of deer came out to drink, and,
catching sight of us, stopped and gazed, until a sudden panic took a
little speckled fawn, and it dashed away madly through the thicket,
followed by its mother and a cluster of startled doe, the stag going
last at a slow trot.

I rose to my feet and saw how long the shadows were.  In truth, it was
time to be up and moving.  So, arousing Pierrebon, we were soon mounted
and jogging through the woods, with our backs to the west.  We made
good way now, for the nags were refreshed; yet we knew not where the
night would bring us, for we were wholly lost.

Farther and farther we rode into the woods, holding desperately on to a
faint track that wound and twisted through the endless aisles of the
forest.  As the hour grew later the sky overhead changed from blue to
crimson and gold, and the sunset, stabbing through the lace-work of
branches overhead, cast ruddy lights on the trees, deepening the
shadows, and giving a ghostly distance to objects around, so that we
seemed in a fairy realm of enchantment.

As the sunset began to fade, and the red and gold overhead changed
softly to purple and grey, over which the silver light of the moon
would soon be cast, we decreased our speed, and now, riding side by
side, peered anxiously into the wood for some sign of a human
habitation; but there was none to be seen.

We rode in silence, for Pierrebon, to say truth, was uneasy at the
uncanny stillness, and that awe with which Nature in her lonely
grandeur inspires the dullest of mortals had begun to fill us.  And so
no word was spoken.

In and out the track wound, until at last it brought us to the very
heart of the forest, where the shadows lay black and deep.  Around us
on every side the huge and aged trees, stretching in long lines of
receding obscurity, stood like a phantom army of giants guarding some
dreadful secret of the past.  Twisted, distorted, and bent, with hairy,
moss-grown trunks from which the decaying bark peeled like the
mouldering cement on some old and forgotten ruin, the kings of the
forest stood silent and grim, their branches stretched out in grisly
menace--giant arms that threatened death to all who approached.

Deeper and yet more deep we rode into the gloom, though the sunset yet
clung in a girdle of fire round the horizon, casting red blades of
light between the tree trunks; and Pierrebon's cheek grew pale, for
goblin and gnome and fay lived to him, and even I, who did not believe,
felt if my sword played freely in my sheath.  And then I tried to sing.

But so dismal were the echoes, so lowering the aspect of the mighty
trees, that seemed, in the quaking shadows, to be instinct with life
and motion, that "The Three Cavaliers" died away at the first verse;
and then, from the woods in front of us, rang out a scream for help, so
shrill and sharp in its agony that it froze the blood in our veins.

"'Tis a spirit!" gasped Pierrebon, with pale lips, and half pulled his
horse round; but even as he did so the shriek rang out again--a woman's
voice--and high and shrill in its octave of suffering.  It was enough
for me, and, sword in hand, I galloped for the sound.

A few strides of the good beast, a leap over a fallen tree trunk, and
in a wide clearing I saw before me a deed of shame.

There was a man lying dead on the ground.  There was a white-robed
woman, screaming and struggling as two men tried to force her on to a
horse; whilst another man, mounted on a white horse, with a white mask
on his face, was urging them on to their work, and a long sword
glittered in his hand.

I stayed not for a second, but, galloping straight on, made so sudden
an assault that one of the knaves was down and twisting on the grass
like a snake with a broken back, and the other had fled with a howl
into the forest almost before my coming was realised.

But as the horse carried me on I felt a felon blow graze my cap, and I
had but time to half turn and parry another when I found myself face to
face with the masked man.

Even as the sparks flew from our swords, and I felt that I had met a
master of fence, I knew it was Simon despite his mask.  There lived not
a man like him.  Tall and thin, with long, bird-like limbs and a
stooping back, with the features concealed by the white mask all but
the eyes, which glittered like those of an angry asp, he seemed more
spirit than man; and I felt as if I were crossing blade with some
uncanny phantom of the woods rather than a thing of flesh and blood, as
after a fierce bout we circled round, watching each other warily.

"So, brother, we meet at last," I said.  But he made no answer, though
his eyes flashed evilly as he came on again with a swift, lightning
attack that chance alone enabled me to avoid.  And then my life was on
my wrist and eye; but I kept it, and began to slowly force him back.

God forgive me! he was my brother; but he would have slain me there
like a mad dog--and life is dear.  He never said a word until he was
being driven back, and then an oath broke from him.

'Tis an ill thing to swear with a sword in one's hand.  That oath gave
me strength and cooled me to ice.

"Come!" I said, "you would not slay your heir; or are you going to make
room for me, Simon?"  And my sword point ripped his doublet.

The answer was a thrust that ripped my coat in turn, and then followed
the rasp of our blades.  It was almost dark above us now, but a lance
height from the ground the horizon was still flaming red.  We could
barely see each other's blades, but guided ourselves by the little
circles of light the sword points made as they flashed hither and
thither, seeking for an opening, to slip forward like a snake's tongue.

Twice had I been touched.  The first time it was a parry _en prime_
that saved me; the second time Simon had hit me on my bridle arm.  It
was only a touch; but I felt the warm blood on my sleeve, and Simon
laughed like a devil.

But he mistook his man.  Collecting all my strength I made so furious
an attack that I slowly drove him against the belting of trees, and
then there was a lightning thrust in tierce, a quick parry, and a
return over Simon's heart, but the point of my blade glanced from a
steel vest he wore.  In glancing, however, it slipped upwards, and
catching the mask almost rent it from my brother's face, leaving it
half hanging, and almost blinding him.

In my fury I followed up the thrust with another, but with the skill
that was his alone he partly parried it, though my blade found his
sword arm, just above the elbow joint; but as Simon's now useless hand
fell to his side he saw his defeat, and, with matchless presence of
mind, drove his spurs into his horse, and dashing off at full speed was
lost to view in a moment.

It was useless to follow, though I rode a few yards after him, and
then, restraining myself, I pulled round and came back.  Then I heard a
voice thank me, and Pierrebon appeared at my horse's head, as though he
had dropped from the clouds, and as I dismounted he burst forth: "Now,
praise to St. Hugo of Orrain!  We have defeated the bandits."




CHAPTER VII

DIANE

Man of the world and of many experiences as I was; old courtier, who
had seen the fairest of my land in the galleries of the Tournelles, or
the salons of the Louvre, I confess that I had never seen so graceful a
figure, or heard so sweet a voice as that which thanked me now.  As for
her, when I stepped up, my sword still in my hand, some thought that
she had only escaped the beak of the vulture to feel the talons of the
hawk made her shrink back into silence.

I felt this, and, bowing, said gravely: "There is no danger now,
mademoiselle.  I doubt if our friends will return; but I fear it is far
to any refuge to-night."

My words had effect.  She was brave enough, and she answered:

"We are not far from the Mable, monsieur!"

"From the Mable!  Then Marçay is behind?"

"About six miles."

"Ah!  I thought we had overridden ourselves.  And Richelieu is at hand?"

"'Tis but a bare league."

"Then in two hours at most we will be there.  You will, of course, ride
my horse, and Pierrebon and I will share the other."

"Thank you!" she said simply.  And then with an effort, as she pointed
before her: "Monsieur, there is a man lying there who gave up his life
for me.  I cannot leave him thus."

And Pierrebon answered: "There are two, lady.  I have covered them with
their cloaks, for they are both dead."

"A moment," I said, and I too went and looked at the twain.

There was no mistake.  For these two the trees and the sky, the good
and the bad of the world had ceased to be; and as I pulled their cloaks
over their faces I muttered to myself, with a remembrance of the course
of "The Philosophy":

"_Maximum vitae bonum mors_."

Then I came back to the lady's side.  "Mademoiselle, for these two
lying there, the honest man and the knave, what can be done at present
has been done.  Come, I pray you!  It grows late."

"Oh, but I cannot!"  And she too went forward to where the long dark
things lay stretched out on the sward, and shrinking, she looked, and
then on a sudden she sank on her knees, and prayed, and because,
whatever had happened, I had never lost my faith in God, without whom
we are nothing, I knelt too, and Pierrebon with me, and in our own way
we each sought comfort.  After a while mademoiselle rose again, and
with a voice half choked with tears, said:

"Monsieur, I am ready."

We placed her on my brown horse, which Pierrebon led, I riding his, and
so we took our way in silence--a silence now and again broken by a sob
from the girl.  I said nothing, deeming it wiser to let her be with her
thoughts; but as we came to the skirts of the wood I spoke:

"Mademoiselle, I promise you that I will see to the Christian burial of
your friend."

And then she wept unrestrainedly.  To tell the truth, I knew not what
to do, and Pierrebon kept his head well to the front, looking neither
to the right nor to the left.  In sheer desperation I asked her not to
weep, whereat she wept the more; and then I touched her shoulder with
my hand, as one would caress a child; but she shook me off, turning a
face that seemed scared with terror to me, and I could only stammer out
an apology, and remain silent.  At last the violence of her grief
abated, and I ventured to ask who the dead man was.

"He," she answered sadly, "was a trusted servant, and he was taking me
home.  His name was Olivet."

"Will not mademoiselle do me the honour to give me her name as well?  I
am called Bertrand Broussel."

She looked up as I spoke, and a nervous laugh escaped her.

"I am glad I know your name, monsieur; it is one I shall always think
upon with gratitude.  As for me, I--I am called Diane.  I am the niece
of Cujus the furrier, a citizen of Tours, who is as a father to me.  I
was going to rejoin him from Saumur when all this happened."

"Have you any friends near, where I can leave you?"

"Oh yes!  Near Richelieu I have friends; and, once in the house of the
Bailiff of Muisson, I would be safe."

"I will see you there, with your permission."

"Thank you!  And I want to tell you how this happened.  I was going
back home from Saumur, under the charge of Olivet, and we halted at
Marçay to rest.  About a half-hour after leaving Marçay we were set
upon and taken prisoners by the men from whom you have saved me.

"Where they were taking us I cannot tell.  As evening came I heard your
voice singing, and, screaming for help, I slipped from my saddle, with
the intention of running towards you.  Olivet made a brave effort to
help me--but----"  And it was only with an effort that she prevented
another breakdown.

"Have you any idea who these men are?"

She remained silent, as if collecting her thoughts.  And I went on:

"I ask because I recognised one--the leader."

"Ah, monsieur, I feared to mention his name.  He is a great noble, and
he--he--but I cannot tell you."  And she stopped, with a little shiver.

"You need not, madame.  He is Simon, Vidame d'Orrain."

"Yes," she said, and our talk stopped.  My cheeks were burning at the
thought of Simon's deed of shame, and I put this down to the long score
I had against him.  And so on we rode, until we passed the skirts of
the forest, though still keeping to its edge, and came to a stretch of
moorland, beyond which was a series of small hills.  We could now hear
water running like a mill-race, and from the hills there glinted the
lights of a large village.

"That is Richelieu, monsieur," exclaimed mademoiselle, "and the water
that we hear is the Mable."

"See there, monsieur!" Pierrebon suddenly cut in, as he arrested
mademoiselle's horse, and pointed to his right, where on the edge of
the forest we saw lights at the windows of a low-lying, irregular
building half concealed amidst trees.  "See there!" continued
Pierrebon; "that is a house where at least we shall be able to sup and
get a guide."

"A guide," I exclaimed, "with Richelieu before us!"

"Listen to the Mable," urged Pierrebon; "is there a bridge?  If not we
must ford it; and they say the river is deep and dangerous; but perhaps
mademoiselle knows the ford?"

"Indeed I do not."

Considering all things, I came to the conclusion that Pierrebon was
right, and that it would be wiser to seek the house.  As we approached
it, mademoiselle said:

"It may be the hunting-lodge of Le Jaquemart, belonging to the Sieur de
Richelieu."

"Well, we will know soon," I said, and urged Pierrebon to quicken his
pace.  There was but a bare quarter mile of moorland, covered with
yellow broom and purple thistle, to be passed, and then we came up to
the house.  As we did so we perceived that it was surrounded by a high
stone wall, and mademoiselle exclaimed positively:

"It is Le Jaquemart; but it is strange it is occupied, for the Sieur de
Richelieu is in Italy."

"_Bien_," I thought to myself, "the furrier's niece knows all about the
Sieurs de Richelieu!"  And then aloud: "Perhaps he has returned with
Montluc, mademoiselle; or it may be that friends of his hunt the
forest."

"M. de Parthenay is near Loudon."

I made no answer, for at this moment we reined up before the gate, and
glanced at the massive, studded portal, and the old wall, with its soft
crowning of ivy on the top, and grey-green, moss-covered sides, where
the yellow wall-pepper and white serpyllum pushed between the crevices
of the stonework.  And as we looked we heard from within a peal of loud
laughter, a woman's voice mingling with the deeper tones of that of a
man.  As the laughter ceased Pierrebon exclaimed:

"They are gay within, monsieur!"  And then, on a sign from me, he
knocked long and loudly.

"Enough, enough!  You would waken the dead."

"One more, monsieur!"  And Pierrebon, who already smelt his supper,
brought the brass lion's head of the knocker with such force against
the studded door that it might have been heard a quarter mile away.

From within came a shrill whistle, and a voice called out, with a
foreign accent: "The gate, Piero!  Who is it?  Someone knocks."

"And will knock again soon if you do not make haste," grumbled
Pierrebon; whilst I pricked up my ears, and glanced at mademoiselle,
and saw her drooping in her saddle.  Now we heard a heavy, lurching
step on the other side of the gate, a sliding panel covering a Judas
Hole was drawn back, a man's face appeared dimly, and a voice asked in
halting French:

"Who are you?  What do you want?"

"Supper and a guide," began Pierrebon; but dismounting I put him aside,
and said:

"We are three travellers, one of whom is a lady.  We have lost our way,
and seek but a guide to the ford."

As I spoke the man on the other side of the gate raised a dark lantern
he had hitherto held low in his hand, and flashed it through the
opening, whilst he peered at us.

"Only three?" he asked.

"And one a lady," I answered; whilst Pierrebon let his tongue wag: "Oh,
the mole!  To want a lantern in this moonlight!"  And following his
words came the voice from the house, asking again in Italian:

"What is the matter, Piero?"

To which Piero answered: "I come, signor," and with a brief "Wait!" to
us, swung round on his heel and went back, Pierrebon, as he looked at
the retreating figure through the grille, saying, "By St. Hugo!
monsieur, we might be a party of the Guidon's Free Riders, or Captain
Loup and his gang!"  But, paying no heed to his words, I turned to
mademoiselle.

"I like not this place.  We had better take our chance of finding the
ford.  Come!"

At this Pierrebon, with the freedom of an old servant, began to
protest, and mademoiselle aided him.

"Oh, monsieur, could we not rest here for a little?"

"We may rest here for ever if we do," I said a little sharply.  "Come!"

My words had, perhaps, too much of command in their tone, for she
answered back coldly: "I intend to rest here, monsieur; you may go on
if you like."

At this I said nothing more, and let her have her way, but gave
Pierrebon a warning grip of the arm to be careful.  Pierrebon nodded in
comprehension.  He was no fool, though many thought him so, and though
if his betters drew steel he as a rule let matters lie with them, yet
he could be dangerous--a thing which people found out sometimes when it
was a trifle late.

We had to wait a space, then we heard the woman's voice laughing once
more within.  Something in its hard, clear tones jarred upon me, and I
glanced at mademoiselle, but she kept her face aside.  But now we heard
returning footsteps, the grating of a bolt drawn back, the turning of a
key, and then the gate opened; whilst Piero, a huge figure, stood
before us, swinging his lantern, and beside him another man, armed with
an arquebus, the fuse burning like a glow-worm.

"Enter," said Piero; "the signor will receive you."

"_Facilis est descensus Averni_," I murmured to myself, and led the
way, and the gate was shut behind us.  Before us lay a short drive
bordered with tall poplars, and on either hand a tangle of a garden
that had run to a wilderness.  As we rode up a woman's figure appeared
at an open window, but stepped back at once, and I asked Piero, in his
own Italian:

"Has Monsieur de Richelieu returned?"

The giant answered gruffly: "I know not, signor.  He who is within is
the Captain Torquato Trotto."

"Torquato Trotto!  I know not the name."

And Piero made no answer, for we had now come to the door of the house.
Here I helped mademoiselle to alight, whilst Pierrebon took charge of
the horses, and mademoiselle and I entered the house.  At the same time
a man came running down the stairs to meet us.  As his eyes fell on us
a slight exclamation of surprise broke from him; but he checked it on
the instant, and advanced, saying in French:

"You are very welcome, madame and monsieur, I do assure you--very
welcome."

And he bowed before us, courteously enough; but I caught the veiled
mockery in his voice, and as I took the speaker in I thought he was
bravo to his finger-tips.

"Monsieur," I said, "I thank you.  We but crave permission to rest a
while, and seek a guide to the ford of the Mable, for we have to be at
Richelieu to-night."

"We will do what we can for you, monsieur.  Be pleased to ascend.  I
will be with you in a moment.  I have but a word to say to my man here.
Excuse me!"




CHAPTER VIII

THE ACTS OF PIERREBON

Leaving us to find our way upstairs Torquato Trotto went out into the
porch where Piero the giant stood, cast a glance at the retreating
figure of Pierrebon, who was leading the horses away, looked over his
shoulder like a cat, and, gripping Piero by the arm, shook with
laughter.

"_Maledetto_!" exclaimed Piero, who was of an evil temper, as he freed
himself from Trotto's clutches, and looked at the swaying figure before
him.  "Loose hold, signor!  Have you been bitten by a tarantula?"

"Oh!  I could sing, I could shout, I could dance.  Man! that is the
very girl we want; and Monsieur the Vidame, who lies within, twisting
in his chair, will pay a thousand fat, gold Henris for her when he
knows.  Ho! it will be rare news for him!"

"Are you sure?"

"As I live.  Did I not watch her for a whole week at Saumur?  'Tis well
we have not Aramon and the rest with us.  The fewer there are the
larger the shares.  Can Malsain deal with the lackey?"

Piero grinned for reply.

"Well! let him be his care, and you had better stay at hand here.  Give
me the key of the gate, and, remember, a hundred crowns apiece to you
and Malsain for this.  And now for a word in the Vidame's ear."

With this he turned back into the house, leaving Piero looking after
him.

"A hun--dred crowns apiece!  _Diavolo_!  Captain Torquato!  If I knew
the money was here I would make the whole thousand mine; and then--hey
for Rome again!  But a hundred crowns are a hundred crowns, and fill a
purse rarely.  Well, I go to warn Malsain!"

And the giant went slowly off, regretting in his heart what might have
been.

In the meantime we found ourselves on a landing before an open door,
disclosing a room brightly lit.  There was a glimpse too of a table
laid for supper, and near the table stood a tall woman, with black hair
that hung to her waist, with bare rounded arms and painted cheeks, and
a face that was beautiful still, though she had come to be what she was.

She was holding a cup of red wine in her hand, but stopped in the act
of lifting it to her lips as she caught sight of us, and setting down
the wine untasted advanced, saying:

"Enter, I pray you.  La Marmotte bids you welcome."

"I thank you, madame," I replied bowing, with many misgivings in my
heart, and inwardly cursing the folly that had made me yield and enter
this house.  But who is there who does not make mistakes?--and I for
one have never set claim to be infallible.  I was wrong, and I admit
it--that is enough.

And so we went in, and for the first time there was light enough to see
mademoiselle's face, and as I looked there came to me a sting of regret
for the days that would never return.  It was as if some devil had
flashed before me a mirror in which the past was reflected; and,
believe me, when one has lived and regretted it is not necessary to be
in love for such a lightning flash of bitter memory to come to a man
when he sees beside him the purity of innocence.

And so it was too with La Marmotte, who had turned to us with a light
laugh, and lighter words to her lips; but laugh and words died away as
she met the girl's look, and--I could read her like an open
page--awakened memory took the woman back to the time when she herself
was as the girl before her.  And so, because there were yet undefiled
wells of good in her soul, there came upon her an unwonted timidity,
and it was with a respectful hesitation that she pressed upon us seats
and refreshment.  But even as she did so her eyes met mine with a
half-imploring, half-defiant glance.  She felt that I knew, though I
thanked her for her courtesy as if she were a princess of the land.

Mademoiselle sank weariedly into a chair; whilst La Marmotte, with all
the silent notes in her heart touched in some undefinable way, hovered
over her, fearing to approach her, and yet feeling as if she must.

For me, I remained standing, softly rubbing my wounded arm, over which
I had drawn my cloak, and looking around me here, there, and
everywhere, for I knew we were in a trap, and trapped by my own folly.
As I looked I saw something white showing beneath the cushions of a
settle, and taking the cup of wine that La Marmotte handed to me I
moved thereto, and, sitting down, looked more closely.  It was a white
mask.  Softly drawing it forth, and, unobserved, slipping it into the
pocket of my cloak, I saw in doing so that it was stained with fresh
blood, and then I knew we were in the house of death.

At this moment Torquato Trotto appeared at the door with suave
apologies, and stepping forward, rubbing his hands together, he said:
"I regret to have appeared so discourteous; I trust that monsieur and
madame will remain here for to-night."

"I am afraid, Signer Torquato Trotto, that is impossible."

"_Per Bacco_!  You know me!" exclaimed the Italian in slight surprise.

"The name of Torquato Trotto is known in France," I said, and the brow
of the man darkened.

"Perhaps I too can return the compliment, monsieur.  You are----"

"Bertrand Broussel, bourgeois, of the Rue des Lavandières, Paris," I
interrupted, and I caught a strange expression of disappointment in
mademoiselle's eyes.  "Hum!" I thought, "does the furrier's niece take
me for a prince of the blood in disguise?"

La Marmotte, however, cut in at this juncture, for she saw the storm in
the air, and I again said that we would go on at once, if Messire
Trotto would of his kindness provide us with a guide; if not, we would
go without one.

And Trotto answered blandly:

"Impossible!  My lieutenant is away with my men, and I have no one here
who knows the way.  I am totally ignorant myself, or I would willingly
help you.  Besides, to go now would be madness.  The road is infested
by robbers--faith of a gentleman!"

"That is indeed true!  I have just escaped them--thanks to the bravery
of this gentleman here," exclaimed mademoiselle.

"Madame, you are lucky to have escaped; but you must tell us of your
adventures as we sup," and he moved towards the table.

In the meantime Pierrebon, looking well to the right and left, led the
horses towards the stables.  Every shadow in the winding walk, every
recess in the over-grown privet, hid a secret enemy to him.  He avoided
passing near the ruined summer-house for fear of the ambush that might
be within, and then, finding the hedges close in upon the road, boldly
took his beasts along the neglected parterres until at last he reached
the stables.  Here, near the open door he saw Malsain, tall and thin,
but muscular and strong as whipcord, sitting down by the light of a
guttering candle to a meagre repast of bread and cheese, washed down
with water--for Malsain never touched wine.

"An evil-looking man," Pierrebon thought, as he glanced at Malsain
sitting on a stool; and evil-looking indeed he was, with his hawk's
face, thin cruel slit of a mouth, and one wicked eye that glowed with
the same sombre fire as the fuse of his arquebus, which leaned against
the wall behind him.  And then from the man himself Pierrebon glanced
at the hermit's fare before him.  "St. Siege!" he groaned, "bread and
cheese and cold water--with a dagger-thrust to follow for digestion,
perhaps."

But now Malsain heard him, his hand went out silently to the arquebus,
and he turned a yellow, threatening face towards the visitor.

"Hola!" exclaimed Pierrebon.  "It is I.  I have brought monsieur's
horses for a feed and a rest."

"Ho! it is you."  And Malsain, putting down his arquebus, returned to
his cheese again as he added: "There are two stalls vacant there, and
you will find oats in that barrel."  He had not, of course, it will be
understood, received Trotto's message as yet.

Pierrebon entered without further ceremony.  There were already three
horses in the stables; but, as Malsain had said, there were still two
stalls vacant, and here he put the nags.  Whilst attending to them,
however, he kept glancing uneasily at the supper before Malsain, which
was diminishing at a frightful rate, for the thin man ate like a
cormorant.  At last, unable to endure this more, he stopped rubbing
down the brown hackney, and, stepping up to the table, took a seat on a
stool opposite Malsain.  Then, drawing his dagger, he helped himself
without further ceremony to some cheese and bread, and glanced somewhat
ruefully into the jug of water.

"_Diable_!" grumbled Malsain, "you are eating my supper."

"Well," and Pierrebon looked at him, "am I not your guest, as my master
is your master's?"

Malsain said nothing, but scowled across the table at Pierrebon; and
the latter, who was as alert as a weasel when it came to the push, went
on: "But, _compère_, they feed you thinly here--and no wine!"

"I eat to my taste, and drink to my taste," growled Malsain; but
Pierrebon, not heeding his ill temper, continued:

"Now, with my master there is always a bottle of Rochecorbon, and a cut
from a pasty, not to mention a crown-piece here and a crown-piece
there; and I wager that in the house yonder there is something more
than acid cheese and dry bread for hunger, or spring water for thirst."

"Be silent, fool!  Take what you can get, or leave it," said Malsain
sullenly, his hand slipping down to his side; but Pierrebon laughed
cheerily as he cut another slice of cheese, his two blue Burgundian
eyes steadily fixed on Malsain's sallow face, and as they looked at
each other there came a heavy footfall outside, and Piero called out in
his deep voice:

"Malsain!  Here!  A word with you!"

Malsain rose slowly, and went outside, and Pierrebon, following him
with his glance, saw Piero's huge figure in the moonlight, and a chill
came upon him.

"By St. Hugo! 'tis the ogre himself!  And they consult together!" he
murmured, wishing himself a hundred miles away, and he watched the
twain moving off into the shadow, straining his ears to catch a word if
possible, but at first he could hear nothing.  Thus a minute or so
passed, whilst the evil pair outside stood in the shadow of a copper
beech whispering together.  If Pierrebon could but hear a word to guide
him!  He dared not attempt to approach them, but was forced to stay
where he was.  At last he caught something.  Malsain laughed out like a
hyena: "I would slit their throats for fifty, and throw the Vidame into
that----"  But Piero roughly bade him lower his voice, and the
whispering continued.

Pierrebon heard no more.  That there was danger in the air he knew.  He
had not forgotten my warning pressure on his arm as we entered the
gates of Le Jaquemart, and now his worst fears were confirmed.  For a
moment his heart sank, but for a moment only, for as he looked around
him his eyes fell on the arquebus, where it leaned against the wall.
The fuse was still alight.  There was no time to hesitate.  Malsain was
already returning; and if it were to be war Pierrebon thought he might
as well begin, and strike the first blow.  Quick as thought he arose,
and taking up the arquebus moved off near the horses, and he was
blowing on the match to hearten the fire when Malsain stepped in.

"Blood of a Jew!  what are you doing with the arquebus, fool?  Put it
down this instant, or I slit your throat."  And Malsain, his poniard in
his hand, stood near the table, glaring savagely at Pierrebon.

"Pardon!" said Pierrebon.  "I was but looking at it.  'Tis a noble
weapon.  And one well suited to a soldier's hand."

"It could kill too, I wager," said Pierrebon, laughing, as he raised
the weapon, and pointed it at Malsain, who went back the step he had
taken, saying, with an oath,

"It is loaded, fool!  Put it down at once."

"_Hein_! it is loaded.  It would kill, then, if I fired--eh?"  And
then, with a sudden change of voice and manner: "Ah, bandit! move a
step, utter the slightest cry, and you are a dead man!  Throw down your
poniard!"

Malsain looked at the barrel of the arquebus.  It was steady as a rock,
and behind the little black muzzle the match burned bravely; whilst
behind the match was a red face with two blue eyes that looked as if
they meant what their owner said.  Malsain let his dagger drop with a
clash.

Pierrebon then advanced a couple of paces nearer, still holding the
arquebus at Malsain's breast.

"Now, my friend!  Take that bridle from the peg at your hand and fasten
your ankles together.  What!--you hesitate?"

Malsain hissed something between his teeth, and snatched the bridle
from the peg.

"Go on!  A running knot--lap it well round, and finish off!  There!
That is right!  You are no novice, I see, _mon vieux_!"

Malsain made no answer, but stood bolt upright before Pierrebon, his
face grey, his one eye bloodshot, his lips livid.  It is true that he
had tied himself as loosely as possible, but still he was terribly
crippled; and from his soul he regretted that he had not made a rush at
Pierrebon, and chanced his fortune; but now this was hopeless.

Worse, however, was to come, and it came at once.

"Now," said Pierrebon, "fasten your wrist to your ankle--your left
wrist."

"It is impossible," said Malsain thickly.

"Then I shall blow your brains out when I have counted three.  One!"

Malsain looked about him with his red eye, and shuffled uneasily.

"Two!"

Malsain swore again, a nameless oath.

"Th----"

Malsain stooped down with the rapidity of lightning, and began fumbling
with the yard or so of trailing rein.

He tried to deceive Pierrebon; but the candle gave enough light to see,
and Pierrebon was sharp.  There was no help for it, and at last it was
done, badly done, but enough to utterly cripple Malsain.  The final
order now came:

"Now lie down on your face."

This was difficult; but there are circumstances under which men do all
but impossible things, and Malsain performed the feat.

After this the worthy Pierrebon took a more active part in the binding
of Malsain.  Still holding the arquebus in one hand he unhitched
another bridle from its peg.  Then, placing the arquebus at _his_ feet,
he drew his dagger and approached Malsain, upon whom he sat, and with a
gentle prick or so reminded him it was unsafe to struggle or cry.  He
fastened up his free arm, and finished off the work in an artistic
manner.  When it was over Malsain was like a trussed fowl.  Pierrebon
stepped back, and surveyed his work with the satisfaction of one who
knows that he has done well.

"Ah, I had forgotten!" he exclaimed.  Then he pulled from his pocket a
'kerchief.  A touch at Malsain's throat with his poniard was hint
enough.  Malsain opened his mouth, and the handkerchief, rolled into a
ball, was thrust inside.

Pierrebon fumbled once more in his pocket, and produced some stout
twine.  He gave a little grunt of satisfaction as he lashed it around
Malsain's jaws, and felt at last that victory was his.

"It is complete--eh, _mon vieux_?"

And so saying he dragged Malsain with no tender hand across the
pavement of the stable.  There was a black, vicious-looking cob in one
of the stalls.  Pierrebon flung his victim on the straw near the beast.
"I should lie still," he said in warning; "the horse might kick."

Then he saddled up again, calmly selecting a third horse from the
stable, from a stall where he saw some ladies' saddlery.

"This will do for mademoiselle," he muttered as he glanced around him
with satisfaction; "all is ready here.  And now for the ogre."  Taking
up the arquebus he looked at the priming, and made his way cautiously
to the house.




CHAPTER IX

THE WHITE MASK

It is necessary to hark back a little now to the moment when Torquato
Trotto, having given his instructions to Piero, went into the house.
The stairway was empty, for both I and my charge were with La Marmotte,
and the Italian ran upstairs with a footfall as light as that of a cat.
On reaching the landing he stopped for a second, glanced around him,
with the same feline caution that marked all his movements, and then,
creeping forward on tiptoe, went along a corridor leading to a wing of
the house.

At the extreme end of this gallery was a door, at which Trotto knocked
softly.  From within a strident voice said: "Come in!"  Then followed
an exclamation of pain, and a free oath.

Trotto smiled, shrugged his shoulders, as only an Italian can, pushed
open the door, and entered the chamber.  The spear-shaped flames of two
tall candles but half lit the room, making a circle of wavering light.
Beyond all was in uncertain gloom, through which one could dimly see
the old tapestry and massive furniture of bygone years.

Where the light was brightest was an easy-chair, and there sat Simon of
Orrain, with his bandaged right arm resting on a cushion, placed on a
low table drawn close to him.  As Trotto entered he looked up with a
snarl.

"What is it?  Did I not say I was to be left alone?  Curse this arm!"

"Ah, excellency," and Trotto glanced at the throbbing arm, "you should
have waited for Aramon's return, or taken us with you."  But Simon
broke in: "I tell you, Trotto, the plan was perfect, and if it had not
been for the accident of that villain's coming our bird would have been
here by this.  Even when he came, if La Crotte had but stood his
ground--but there!  Give me some of that wine.  My blood is red hot,
and my throat on fire with the pain of this wound!"

Torquato Trotto filled a cup from a flagon that lay on the table near
the Vidame.  Simon took it from him with his left hand, drained it, and
flung it from him, so that it struck the wainscoting of the wall, and
fell with a crash on the floor.

"La Crotte shall hang for this," he went on savagely.  "The cur! the
coward!"

"You will make your wound worse, excellency.  Be calm!  There is time
for things to mend."

"Time!  When the whole affair has been bungled--and by you."

"By me, excellency?"

"Yes; if you had given me Piero and Malsain instead of those
serving-wenches Billot and La Crotte."

Torquato lifted a deprecating hand.  "They did well before, excellency;
and Billot could not have done better, for he is dead, you say.  And as
for La Crotte----"

"He shall hang--hang to the first tree."

"As your excellency pleases.  He has, however, to be caught first.  But
in the meantime I have intruded on you because I think we can yet save
the game."

"Ugh!"

"Your excellency, I have a plan; and I think we win the odd trick."

"Well, what is your brilliant idea?"

Trotto coughed.  "But the risk, excellency, is greatly increased now
that this man is mixed up in the affair."

Simon straightened himself in his chair and looked at the captain.

"I suppose you want more money.  Well, what is your plan?"

"With your excellency's permission I will keep that to myself, for a
plan is a plan when one head holds it.  But if I were to place your
prize in your hands by tomorrow morning?"

"Impossible!"

"But I say it is possible."

"Then five hundred crowns the day you reach Paris."

Trotto shook his head.  "It could be done for a thousand,
excellency--for certain."

Simon's eyes seemed to sink back deeper into their hollow sockets, and
his face became paler, if possible.

"A thousand devils!  Impossible!  It's a fortune!"

"Your excellency is playing for a fortune; and this time we win--faith
of a gentleman!  Make it a thousand crowns, and your bonny bird is
yours with the dawn, and I will myself perform the wedding ceremony if
you like."

"You?"

"Yes, excellency," and Trotto put his hand to the crown of his head.
"My hair has grown, but, you will remember, I am none the less a priest
for all that."

There was another silence.  Simon knitted his brow, as if in thought.
Then he cursed again at his wounded arm, and spoke:

"It is an exorbitant sum; but I agree on one condition."

"And that is?"

"If you fail you get nothing; you have sucked enough from me already."

"As your excellency pleases."  And then, bending for an instant over
the wounded arm: "He must have been a rare swordsman to have beaten
you."

Simon writhed in his chair.  "Beaten me!  I had the dog at my mercy,
but was not quick enough in the last parry."

"Ah, excellency, 'tis always that little delay that causes accidents
like this."  And Trotto made a gesture towards the wounded arm; but
Simon snarled at him:

"Don't touch it, fool!  Ugh! how it stings!  There is one consolation,
however--that he must be squirming himself with pain now."

"Eh!  Then you touched him?"

"Twice, Trotto, twice!"

"Ah! that accounts for his wearing his cloak so tightly over his left
shoulder."

Simon started: "Wearing his cloak so tightly!  Have you seen him?"

Torquato nodded, and the Vidame went on impatiently: "Are you dreaming,
or am I?  You have not been out of the house."

"But, excellency, benighted travellers might seek the house for rest
and a guide to the ford of the Mable."  At these words a red flush came
over Simon's face, and he half rose from his chair.

"Here, here!" he exclaimed, his voice almost cracking with
excitement--"here!--in Le Jaquemart!  My sword, Trotto--quick!"  And he
shivered with pain as he attempted to stand; but Torquato made him sit
back, and when he had succeeded told him what is already known.

"And so," he concluded, "Malsain has by this time disposed of the
lackey, and La Marmotte is keeping the other birds amused until my
return.  When it is all settled," and Trotto laughed, "your excellency
may make ready for the wedding, and La Marmotte will make a rare
bridesmaid."  With these words he bowed, and went to the door, but
stopped at Simon's voice.

"Trotto!"

"Excellency!"

"Be sure, and fail not!"

"With a wounded man?  Be happy, excellency!  'Twill be all over by
midnight.  I will have it done before Aramon returns, to save sharing
the crowns.  Good-night."

"Trotto!"

The captain put his head back through the door, and Simon said:

"Call me when 'tis over.  I would see the carrion ere we put it away."

Trotto nodded, and closing the door left Simon of Orrain, full of
stinging pains in his body and burning evil thoughts in his soul, and
returning to us led the way to the supper-table.  There, whilst we sat,
mademoiselle told them of her peril, and how she was rescued, and as
she concluded Trotto set down the cup of wine he was tasting, and
turning to me, said:

"I congratulate you, monsieur.  I trust, however, that your wounds do
not hurt you?"

"Wounds!" exclaimed mademoiselle.  "You are hurt, and you have said
never a word!  Why did you not tell me?  You must have them seen to at
once."  And she rose from her seat.  La Marmotte following her example,
and Trotto added his voice to hers, and was thanked with a look.

"It is nothing.  There is some mistake.  I have but a scratch that will
keep till the morning."

"But I insist," said mademoiselle.  And Trotto put in with his soft
voice: "Mademoiselle, I am something of a leech, and will see to
monsieur's hurt at once."  And then with a look at La Marmotte:
"Perhaps mademoiselle would like to repose until my men return.  I
expect them every moment, and we could then arrange for your safe
passage."

And just at this moment, through the open window that looked out upon
the balcony, there came a scrambling noise, and the ivy outside shook
and rustled, as though a heavy body were forcing its way through it.
Trotto gave a quick glance over his shoulder, stepped out of the
window, on to the balcony, and looked around him, whilst I took the
opportunity to urge on mademoiselle to go and rest.  I did so with the
object of having Trotto alone for a little with me, and to test the
situation.  As I spoke La Marmotte looked at me with warning in her
eyes, and her lips, which had paled under their paint, moved as if she
were about to form some words, but could not speak.  Ere matters could
proceed further, however, Trotto came in, with a laugh.  "There is
nothing there," he said.  "It must have been a cat; the wild cats here
grow to enormous size."  And then taking up a candlestick he continued:
"I will myself see mademoiselle to her apartment."  But La Marmotte
spoke now.

"Mademoiselle comes to my room.  There is none other ready."

The captain bowed and smiled.  "I will light you there then," he said,
and led the way to the door.  As they went out La Marmotte, who was
last, dropped her handkerchief, and stooping to recover it made a
warning gesture to me; but I stared vacantly to my front.

As soon, however, as the door closed behind them, and I heard their
footsteps along the gallery, I pulled out the white mask, and lifting
the cover of a dish placed the mask within the dish and put back the
cover.  Then drawing my sword I laid it between my knees, and, resuming
my seat, poured out some wine, and awaited Messire Torquato Trotto's
return.  It was a fortunate thing that the wild cats of Fontevrault
were so large and heavy; and it was equally fortunate that Messire
Trotto, ex-priest, and now bandit or freelance, was aware of the fact,
else, perhaps, he might have examined the ledge that projected below
the parapet, and seen there an animal which, though large and heavy,
was of a different kind to the grey, striped prowlers of the forest.
He would, in fact, have seen Pierrebon, who after vainly trying to get
at Piero unobserved had determined to warn me, and succeeded with much
difficulty in making his way thus far.

Through the screen of the ivy Pierrebon watched us in the room, and
when I was alone he was about to step in at once, when he saw my
actions, and guessed that I too was on the alert.

"Good!" he thought, "he knows too.  I had better wait here till I am
wanted.  Ah! that is just the place!"  Rising slowly, he climbed over
the parapet, and, with his arquebus ready, leaned up against the wall,
so that by moving his head slightly forward he could see into the room.

The night was warm and clear.  A light breeze stirred the ivy, and
shook the leaves of the old lime, by whose aid Pierrebon had made his
ascent.  Within I sat at the table, my cloak unclasped, now sipping my
wine, now gently touching with my finger the dark patch on my sleeve
near my shoulder.  Without, Pierrebon stood on guard in the black
shadow.  Down below, Piero began to sing, as only men of his country
can, and the deep bass voice, with all its liquid Italian words, pealed
melodiously into the night.

I listened, murmuring to myself: "Strange!  Here is one who can sing of
his Alban hills and his Margarita one moment and cut a throat the next.
But here they come!"

For Trotto's voice had stopped the singer, and then I heard them coming
upstairs.  The heavy step of Piero halted, however, in the passage, and
Trotto entered alone, rubbing his hands together as usual, his white
teeth shining between their setting of red lip and short black
moustache and beard.  Of a truth Messire Torquato was a handsome man if
an evil one.  He came in with a set smile on his face.  "The ladies are
safely at rest, and----"

"And we can while away the time with this wine, some more supper, and a
little talk."

"But your wounds, monsieur!  They must be attended to.  I have told
Piero to bring up some salve and bandages."

"Bah!" I laughed, "let them keep.  My wound, not wounds, is but a
scratch, and hurts far less than the one that lost you that
forefinger."  And I pointed to his left hand, which wanted a forefinger.

The captain's eyes flashed, and he dropped his hand to his side, though
he said, calmly enough:

"I got that at Volterra.  I was there with the Caraffa."

"And I with Enghien.  You see, we were comrades-in-arms without knowing
it.  'Tis a pity we never met.  We must fight our battles over again.
Come, let us drink to the old days!"

"With all my heart," was the reply.  "A moment; and I will tell Piero
to wait."  And he stepped to the door.

"Tell him to go to the devil," I said, and Trotto laughed, and after a
word or so exchanged with Piero he closed the door and came back to his
seat.  "I have sent Piero off," he said, and pouring out a bumper for
each of us he raised his cup, saying: "Pledge me this toast, monsieur.
Long life to the bride and bridegroom!"

"Long life to the happy pair!"  I clinked my cup with his, and drank,
my mind working like a clock to find out what was meant, my eyes never
moving from Trotto's face.

"Now," I said, "it is my turn.  The wine, messire captain.  And here is
my toast: Confusion to the enemies of Bertrand Broussel!"

There was, perhaps, some want of heartiness in the captain's voice as
he echoed the words but none in his manner of drinking, though he too
began to look, as if seeking for a hidden meaning in my words, and his
hand left his cup and dropped quietly to his side; but still I kept my
eyes on his, as I said:

"That wine of yours is a rare cordial, captain; it makes me ravenous.
Do you remember how we starved before Volterra?"  And I filled my cup
again.

"Yes--well."

"We were not birds of paradise exactly, and yet we had to live on air
sometimes--and a thin enough diet it was.  You will never guess what I
had for supper once--try!"

"I am bad at guessing, monsieur."

"A mask."

"A mask!"

"Yes.  It was not bad with a little olive oil and vinegar; but the very
thought makes me hungry.  What have you in that dish beside you?"

"Something better than a crape mask, I assure you."  And Trotto put
aside the cover, only to let it fall with a little crash as he stared
at the white thing, and glanced up to meet my eyes, and hear my gibe.

"A little surprise I prepared for you--a delicate attention."

Trotto knew he was discovered.  He began to breathe quickly, and his
hand once more went down.

"Divide it, captain," I mocked; "there is just enough for two--ah!"
And I caught his wrist as he made a sudden stab at me, and pulled him
half over the table, springing backwards to my feet as I did so.  In
his confusion he pushed the table over, and fell sideways on the floor,
dragging with him the tablecloth and the supper.

He was at my mercy.  It needed but a thrust, and his life was ended;
but I gave him his chance.

"Get up, and take your sword!"

Trotto rose, his face white, his lips bleeding, and snatching his sword
from its sheath thrust at me, with a strange smile on his face.  He had
lied when he said Piero was gone.  All unknown to me Piero had
remained, and opening the door stood at my back, his knife in his hand.
I saw not the death behind me, and stiff as I was from my wound my
attention was fully taken up by Trotto, who was no mean artist, and
fought like a cat at bay.  But Pierrebon saw, and raised his arquebus.
The bravo behind me was about to strike, when there was a flash, a loud
report, and he rolled over a huge, limp, and lifeless mass.  At the
shot Trotto had sprung back with a gasp to the corner of the room, and
crouched there like a rat, staring through the smoke at us, for
Pierrebon had run to my side.

"Keep the door, Pierrebon," I said, and I stepped forward; but the
Italian was done.

"I yield," he said; "I have lost."  And he lowered his sword; but
between us there could be no parley.

"Put up your sword--put it up, or I run you through as you are!"

And because there was no help for it, save to fight, Trotto did so, but
his hand shook, and his courage was gone.  He made a little show of
resistance; but it was nothing, and at the third or fourth pass he
thrust too high.  He was late in the recovery, and I ran him through
the side.

"Jesus!" he screamed, "I am dead!"

Then he fell forward on his face, his fingers working convulsively.

"He is dead too!" said Pierrebon as he stooped over the body.

"Not yet," I said, and then for the first time I saw the huge figure of
Piero lying stark, the knife still in his clutch, and I saw too what I
owed Pierrebon, and wrung the honest fellow's hand.

"Come!" I said.  "Now for mademoiselle, and we shall be off.  There are
others who will attend to these."

"A moment, monsieur!  The arquebus is not loaded, and this, perhaps,
will be more useful."  So saying Pierrebon stooped and picked up
Trotto's sword.  As he did so he noticed the keys at the Italian's
girdle.

"And this too," he added, as with a touch of the sharp sword he cut the
light leather strap, and taking the keys followed me out into the
gallery.




CHAPTER X

THE BITER BITTEN

When Torquato Trotto lifted the candle to guide mademoiselle and La
Marmotte from the supper-room he was confident in the success of his
plan, and already heard the jingle of Simon's crown-pieces in his ears.
Perhaps it was the certainty that the birds were caged that made him a
trifle careless, and so there was something in his air and in the
glance he cast back upon his companions, whilst leading them through
the gallery, that filled mademoiselle with a sudden fear, and, but for
her pride, she would have run back to my side.  So she nerved herself,
and went on to La Marmotte's room, though it was with a quaking heart.
At the door Torquato stopped, expressed a civil hope that mademoiselle
would be comfortable, and, bowing politely to her as she passed in,
handed the candle to La Marmotte, and was about to return when he felt
his arm seized.  It was La Marmotte, and she looked into his face with
eager, searching eyes as she asked: "What does this mean?--more
treachery?"

There was a bitter note in her voice, and the Italian looked at her
steadily.  "She grows old," his thoughts ran on, "old, and exacting; I
must end this."  Then, because there was other business on hand, he
restrained himself, and answered calmly:

"I mean no harm to her, I assure you."

With this he tried to disengage himself; but La Marmotte was not
satisfied.  She felt he was lying.  Then, too, all the vague feelings
of the past that had somehow been aroused in her that night were awake
and groping in her poor heart, and, perhaps, with these emotions there
was jealousy--who knows?

Time had been in the gay days in Paris when La Marmotte could have
counted her lovers by the score.  At last fate had thrown her across
the path of the Italian, and she, although knowing him evil, loved him
none the less, and followed his uncertain fortune like a faithful dog;
but years were going, and beauty was fading, and her heart was fearful
lest she should be cast adrift.

"Trotto," she said, and her voice was husky, "I--I do not like this.
Let them go."

Torquato Trotto cursed under his breath; but time was short, and he
could not afford to waste it.  He bent down and kissed the woman's hand.

"_Carissima_! have no fear.  And now let me go and see to our guest's
wounds."  With this he freed himself, and went back.

La Marmotte stood for a pace watching the dim figure as it slipped
through the gloom of the corridor, the candle in her hand casting its
light on her red lips, her white neck and arms, and on the silken black
hair that hung to her waist.  Then with a half-stifled sigh she
followed mademoiselle, and stepped into the room.  It was empty.  La
Marmotte's heart almost stood still, and the candlestick she held all
but fell from her trembling hand, as the poor wretch thought of the
wrath that would overtake her if her charge escaped.  But it was
impossible!  It could not be!  And La Marmotte made another step
forward, and as she looked she saw a white-robed figure kneeling at a
_prie-dieu_, half concealed by the valence of the bed.

"It is her," murmured La Marmotte with a sudden relief; and then she
almost spoke the words aloud, "she prays."  And after a moment of
hesitation, she crept up softly, step by step, and stood behind
mademoiselle, a tumult of strange thoughts in her soul.  La Marmotte
quivered from head to foot.  Near her was a small table.  With a
shaking hand she placed the light thereon, and made yet another step
forward.

Prayer!  Years had passed since she had prayed.  It was years since she
had learned to laugh at the soul's communion with its God; to laugh,
and yet to know, in her heart of hearts, that she lied to herself.
After all, life had gone gaily with her.  She was as a sleep-walker in
some garden of dreamland until this girl had come, and with her coming
startled her into wakefulness.  And, standing there, La Marmotte was
for the moment innocent and pure in heart.  "I will pray too," she
thought.  What she was going to say, what she was going to ask from her
Creator, never struck her.  All that she felt in her impulsive and
emotional heart was an overpowering desire to pray.  She half sank on
her knees, and then sprang up, flushed and trembling, for at the moment
mademoiselle arose, and, turning, saw her.

"Mademoiselle was praying?" stammered the woman.

"Yes, madame.  I was thanking God for our escape, and for the friends
He has given us here."

La Marmotte thought of Simon lurking in his chamber.  She thought of
Torquato Trotto, and she shivered at the thought.  Mademoiselle came up
to her, and placing a hand on her shoulder, said: "I will never forget
the kindness I have had here."

It was too much for La Marmotte.  She shrank from the gentle touch.

"Don't," she said; "I am not worthy."

But mademoiselle simply leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and the
caress broke the woman down.

Falling on her knees she sobbed out: "Forgive! forgive!  Mademoiselle,
there is danger here!  They are going to kill here!  Go back to
monsieur, and leave this place whilst there is time.  Better trust to
the mercy of the forest wolves than the mercy of Le Jaquemart."

"Is this true?"

"True as I kneel before you."  And, springing to her feet, La Marmotte
went on: "But there is no time to waste; come--come at once.  A--h!"
For the loud report of the arquebus, and Pierrebon's angry shout, rang
out; then followed the rasping of swords, and the two stood speechless,
staring at each other.

But mademoiselle was brave, and she came to herself.

"Oh! they are killing him."  And she flew to the door, but La Marmotte
clung to her.  "Not that way!  There is dreadful work there!
Here!--come here with me!"

So saying she strove to drag mademoiselle back; but the latter, with a
strength surprising in one so slight, freed herself, and slipping past
La Marmotte made for the corridor.  Down this she ran, almost brushing
against a figure crouching behind the arras--a figure skulking there
like the evil thing it was.  It was Simon, who had heard the shot too,
and overcome by his fierce impatience had come forth from his chamber,
poniard in hand.  As the girl passed he made a half movement towards
her, like the spider about to pounce upon his prey.  But La Marmotte
was following, and he drew back, and watched the two figures speeding
down the gallery, and then they halted suddenly, for the clashing
ceased, and there was the thud of a heavy body falling.  Through the
partly-open door of the supper-room a banner of light fell crosswise on
the corridor, throwing into relief the figures of the two women
standing side by side with blanched faces, and for the moment there was
an awful stillness.

"Well thrust, Trotto!" shouted Simon from his lurking-place, too sure
of the issue, and then he started back with a sickening chill.

He had heard my voice as I stepped out and called to mademoiselle.  And
she, who was but an arm's length away, sprang forward.

"Here! here!  Oh! what has happened?"

"It has happened that we have come into the house of murder," I
replied; and then, my eyes falling on La Marmotte, I said, as I pointed
to the room within: "He needs all your care; go to him."

La Marmotte shrank back at my look and tone, and then cried out: "I am
innocent--I swear it."

"Go to him!" I said; and turning to mademoiselle: "Come! we have not a
moment to lose."

And so we went out, leaving La Marmotte staring after us, for she made
no movement.  And, standing there, a cold hand grasped her wrist, and a
voice hissed in her ear:

"Fool! there is a dagger at your girdle.  Could you not have driven it
through his heart?"

But La Marmotte only looked at the Vidame foolishly, and from the far
distance there came through the night the sound of a horn.

"It is Aramon returning," exclaimed Simon; "we have them yet."  And
leaving La Marmotte where she stood he followed on our footsteps, his
dagger in his unwounded hand.

On he went, with uncertain, wavering footsteps, and fury in his heart.
He meant to kill if he could.  It was in Simon's mind to make a sudden,
desperate attack.  An unexpected stroke from his poniard might free him
from me, and his prize might yet be his.  As for the varlet--Simon gave
Pierrebon not a thought.  But as he went on his wounded arm began to
sting and bleed afresh.  A faintness came upon him, and, overcome by
the pain and loss of blood, he sank down all dizzy behind the high
privet, a cold sweat on his forehead.  In impotent fury he struck his
dagger to the hilt in the soft turf at his side, and, still holding the
haft, leaned forward and peered through the hedge.  Then as he crouched
he heard quick voices, and then three mounted figures rode across the
parterres to the gate.  Again the sound of the horn rang out, and Simon
heard Pierrebon's voice.

"The other wasps come back, monsieur!  Hasten!  Let us be off!"

"But not before I have struck a blow," answered Simon, as, heartened by
the sound of the horn, he gathered himself together and made for the
gate, only to see us pass through it ere he had gone ten paces.

He reached the gate somehow, and stared into the night.  We were gone.
We had turned to the right in the direction of the river, and were
already hidden from view by the woods.

Twice Simon heard the beat of hoofs as the horses dashed over the hard
ground, and after that all was still.

"If Aramon would but come!" he groaned; and then, through the moonlit
haze on the left, where the moorland stretched long and brown, came the
sound of hoarse voices, and a loud laugh, and upon this a line of about
half-a-dozen horsemen appeared riding slowly towards the house.

"Aramon!  Aramon!  Here!  To me!"

At his call they put spurs to their beasts, and were soon beside
him--an evil-looking set of knaves, mounted on horses foam-flecked and
weary with hard going.  Simon gave them no time for speech, but shouted:

"After them!  After them!  Else they escape!"

"After whom, monseigneur?" asked he who appeared to be their leader as
he went on: "We have chased the air all day; are we to ride after
phantoms by night?"

"Fool!  It is Mademoiselle de Paradis and her lover.  He has wounded
me, and killed Trotto and Piero and Malsain, and escaped with her ten
minutes ago.  They cannot have gone far, and the river must stop them.
After them!"  And, panting with excitement, he ceased.

From the height of his saddle Aramon looked down on Simon, and whistled
low to himself.

"So monseigneur is wounded, which is bad for you, monseigneur; and
Piero is dead, which is good; and Malsain is dead, which is bad, for he
was my own man; and the captain Trotto is dead, which is good
again--for me, monseigneur."

"Fool!  Will you waste time?  Every moment is precious."

"Softly, monseigneur!  There is plenty of time for me.  Trotto is dead,
you say, and I sit here in my saddle captain of the wolves of
Fontevrault; and," he continued with a chuckle, "with a new king comes
a new policy, as you are aware, monseigneur."

"What do you mean?" asked Simon, with an uneasy note in his voice.

"I mean, monseigneur, that of late you have not played fair with us.  I
mean that a sword that can slay as the one you describe is not one to
be meddled with by weary men; and I mean that I, Aramon, being captain
of these brave fellows now, intend to be my own captain for the future.
Is it not so, my wolves?"

There were gruff murmurs of assent, and Simon drew back a space.  It
was not, however, from fear--Simon of Orrain never suffered from the
poltroon fever; he but drew back to strike hard, and to sell his life
dearly.  They ringed him in--his own men who had turned against
him--and he stood with his back to the gate.  He did not flinch, and
meant to fight, hopeless as it was, for all around him were white,
shining swords, that needed but a word from Aramon to be red with his
blood.  But the new captain did not want this.

"Bah!" he said, "throw down your dagger, monseigneur.  We want not your
life.  For the present you will be the guest of Aramon--that is, until
you have paid me, and these gentlemen here, two thousand gold
Henris--fat gold Henris--for all our trouble.  Come!--throw down the
dagger!  Put a good face on it!"




CHAPTER XI

THE ROAD TO POITIERS

We reined up on the edge of a shelving bank, and the Mable swirled
before us.  Beyond the alders on the opposite shore, but about a mile
higher upstream, lay Richelieu.  Late though it was there were many
lights still burning, and now and then a fitful flare, that made the
houses stand out redly for a moment, led me to think that the place was
occupied by troops or marauders; and if so, the result would in either
case be the same for the town, or for ourselves if we ventured thither.
It must be remembered that the King's Writ was waste-paper here.  All
that was ill was loose in the land, and though Montpensier from the
north and Montluc from the south struck with heavy hands, the
Christaudins--or Huguenots, as they called them--held all the country
from the chalks of Châtellerault to Saumur, and from Fontenaye to
Thouars and La Mothe St. Héraye.

Craning forward from the saddle I looked in the direction of the town,
muttering to myself: "It may be out of the frying-pan into the fire."
And as I did so mademoiselle exclaimed:

"Monsieur, why do we stay?  That is Richelieu; and they follow us.
Cross, cross!"

I made no answer; but Pierrebon dismounted, and placed his ear to the
ground.

"No one follows," he said after a little, rising to his feet; "they
have had enough, these accursed bandits."  And with this he mounted
once more.

"But why stay?  See! there is the house of the Bailiff of Muisson--that
tall one where the lights are burning at the windows."

"The Bailiff keeps late hours, mademoiselle."  And even as I spoke a
bright flame suddenly flashed out, a ruddy light lit the walls, and the
distant shouting of many voices came to our ears.

"See!" I went on, "they are cooking a late supper with the doors.  They
will make breakfast with the rafters."

"What is happening?  Oh! what an awful night this is!"

"What is happening, mademoiselle, I cannot tell; but it seems we have
only escaped a great danger to meet with another.  Richelieu is full of
armed men.  Who they are we do not know.  At any rate, for your sake if
for nothing else, we will risk no more.  We will cross, and make for
Razines.  There we will wait for daylight.  Come!"

Leaning forward I took her horse by the bridle and we entered the
stream.

"Courage!" said Pierrebon, who rode at her right; "courage,
mademoiselle!  It is not deep."

And she laughed, for she was not afraid, though the water bubbled and
hissed around us, and once or twice the horses staggered and swayed, as
though they would have fallen.  Finally we made the passage, and
reached the opposite shore.  Once there I led them at a trot along the
white, dusty track.  We were in the angle formed by the Mable and the
Veude, and here, where Poitou slopes towards the sea, the country still
retains, with a roughness like unto that of Auvergne, all the freshness
of La Marche.  Far south was a dreary plain, but around us the land
billowed into low hillocks, that stood over long stretches of stunted
forest.

We rode in silence, except when now and again I spoke a word of warning
in regard to the state of the road, or to regulate the pace.  I began
to wonder how long mademoiselle would hold out; and my doubts were soon
set at rest.  It was whilst crossing the almost dry bed of one of the
small streams, spreading like veins over the country, that she suddenly
reined up.

"I cannot go farther," she said faintly; and calling a halt I looked
around me.  A little distance from the track, which wound before us
amongst the glistening stones, lay a dark grove of trees.  I pointed at
them.

"We will rest there, mademoiselle.  'Tis barely fifty paces; bear up
till then!"  And dismounting I walked by the side of her horse.

Short as the distance was I was in doubt if she would hold out, and as
I glanced at her I saw even by the moonlight how white and drawn was
her face, and then she began to sway in her seat.  Calling to Pierrebon
to take the reins of her horse I tried to hold her in the saddle, but,
feeling her slipping, I put my unhurt arm around her and lifted her to
the ground.  For a little space she stood as one dazed, leaning against
me with closed eyes, and then with an effort recovered herself and drew
back.

"I am able to walk, monsieur--I--how far is it?"

"Only a step now."  And, still supporting her, I led her onward until
we reached the trees.

"We are here, mademoiselle."  And taking her into the shade of a huge
walnut-tree I flung my cloak on the grass, and made her sit thereon,
whilst we hedged her around with saddlery.  It was done as quickly as
we could, and the tired girl leaned back against the saddles utterly
wearied and exhausted.  I stood watching her for a little, and then
with a whispered word to Pierrebon about the horses stepped aside.  I
could do no more; but my heart was heavy within me, for I feared the
result of exposure for her.

A few yards off a withered tree stood apart, an outcast from its
fellows.  The thought struck me as I went up to it, and tapped the
decayed trunk with my fingers: "You and I, my friend--we have seen our
past, and are out of the pale now."  With this I sat down on one of the
huge roots, that coiled like monstrous serpents at my feet, and leaning
my head against the tree prepared to wait for the dawn.

My arm, where Simon's sword had touched me, now began to remind me that
it needed attention.  A low whistle brought Pierrebon to my side, and
the injury was looked to by such light as the moon gave.  Fortunately
it was but a slight flesh wound, and an improvised bandage soon gave
relief.  So, resting it in a sling out of my scarf, I leaned back once
more, and bade Pierrebon go and sleep.

For an hour or more I sat thus, watching and thinking.  At last, rising
slowly, I cautiously stepped up to mademoiselle and looked.  She was
asleep; but so still did she lie, so pale and white did she look, that
I thought for a terrible moment that she was dead, and bent over her,
placing my hand close to her lips to feel if she breathed.  She moved
uneasily as I did so, and I came back to my tree and to my thoughts.
Finally, as the moon was sinking, I too slept, and as I slept I
dreamed.  I saw myself once more riding towards Orrain, and not alone,
for mademoiselle was by my side.  As we rode out of the pine-woods the
Chateau stood before us.  There was the square keep, with its
pepper-box towers, and bartizans overhanging the moat.  There were the
grey ramparts tapestried in ivy, and the terraced gardens, where the
peacocks sunned themselves.  All around us were happy faces, and joyous
voices welcoming us home--the home to which I had so long been dead;
and it was mine now, and more besides--and then--I awoke with a start
and looked around me.  It was all so real.

"Tush!" I exclaimed, "have I slipped back into the days of enchantment
and the fay Melusine?"  And rising I saw it was touching dawn, for the
east was red, and the morning star, Maguelonne--the shepherd's star, as
we call it in our hills--was burning bright.  Mademoiselle and
Pierrebon were still asleep, and it was too early yet to awaken them.
It would be time enough when the sun rose, and in the meanwhile I began
to reflect upon the best means of bestowing mademoiselle in safety.
Razines was so near to Richelieu that if the latter were occupied by
marauders they would hardly have left the little hamlet alone, unless,
indeed, they were Huguenots who were in Richelieu.  In which event
Razines, which was known to be touched with the new heresy, would
probably be unharmed.  This, however, did not make things any the
better for us.  I made up my mind that the best course would be to take
mademoiselle on with me to Poitiers, and there hand her over to some
responsible person until her friends could be told of her.  The very
thought of this, however, jarred on me somehow, and I caught myself
building castles in Spain again.  "Come," I said to myself, "at your
age, _mon ami_, you should know better than to go off dreaming at the
sight of a pretty face and the sound of a sweet voice."  And then I
laughed aloud at the thought that I knew but half her name--that at any
rate would be remedied soon.  So, rising, for it was time now, I softly
awoke Pierrebon and mademoiselle, and in a short while we were once
more on our way through the low hills that stretched through Lencloître.

It was necessary at all hazards that we should get some food, as well
for the horses as ourselves, and when we had gone a little way we saw
Razines lying to our left.  Here I halted, and, moving my party into
cover behind some trees, I explained the position, and begged
mademoiselle to remain with Pierrebon, whilst I went forward to the
village to see how matters stood, adding that, if I did not return
within a short time, her best course would be to go on to Poitiers with
Pierrebon, and place herself in a convent there until she could write
to her friends.

"Monsieur," she answered, her colour rising, "you have risked enough
for me already.  I will not permit you to do this.  If you go to
Razines I go too."

I was delighted with her courage; but though I pressed her hard to do
what I asked she was firm in her resolve.  In this matter, however, I
had no intention of yielding, and we might have been there half the day
had we not seen coming up the road a couple of villagers with some
cattle.

"We can at least inquire from them," I suggested, and she laughed.

"At the first sight of you, monsieur, they will be off.  Let me go!"
And suiting action to words she rode out towards the peasants.  There
was truth in her words, for as she rode out of the trees one of the
yokels fled at once, but the other, seeing it was a woman, held his
ground.  A moment after they were in converse, and I saw a broad grin
on the man's face.  Then mademoiselle beckoned to us, and we came
forth.  On our appearance the peasant seemed inclined to follow his
friend's example; but we somehow managed to reassure him, and gathered
that, except for a small party of harmless travellers who were at the
Green Man, Razines was empty.

"You are luckier than they are at Richelieu, my friend," I said.

"Then Richelieu is taken?"

"Apparently so."

"Hola! for Monsieur de Ganache!"  And he flung his cap in the air.
"Ha, monsieur, the Vicomte passed here but yesterday evening, with
sixty lances at his back, to hang the Guidon.  Has he done so?"

"I know not," I answered; and turning to mademoiselle, said: "We have
had a lucky escape."

"Indeed!  How, monsieur?"

"Because M. de Ganache is known to be one of the fiercest of the
Huguenot leaders, and spares nothing."

"We have to thank those who made him so, monsieur; and at any rate he
has spared Razines."

I looked at her in surprise.  Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were
hot, and I could scarce forbear a smile at the thought that it was a
little rebel I had in my charge, and turning the talk, said:

"We may go on to the Green Man in safety, I think."  And, bidding
Pierrebon give the yokel a coin, we pressed forwards.  It was not,
however, without another careful scrutiny that I led the way into the
village, where we were soon within the doors of the inn.  It was a poor
place, but host and hostess were kindly; and did the best they could.
In the public room was the party of travellers whom the peasant had
mentioned.  They consisted of a gentleman and his wife, whose dress and
air betokened them people of rank, whilst a little apart, at the lower
end of the room, were one or two others--their servants.  The glitter
of a sapphire ring on the stranger's hand attracted my attention, and
it was as if he noticed the casual glance I cast at it, for he turned
his hand so as to hide the ring.  This set me observing him more
narrowly, and though it was years since I had seen him I was certain it
was the Cardinal of Châtillon.  It was Odet de Coligny himself, not a
doubt of it, and the lady was the noble woman who had sacrificed so
much for his sake.  He had married her--prince of the Church though he
was--and had openly thrown in his lot with those of the New Faith.

They in their turn looked at us with interest as we entered, and on
seeing mademoiselle the lady looked as if she knew her, and seemed as
if she were about to speak, but Châtillon said something in a low voice
which restrained her.  On the other hand, mademoiselle seemed flurried,
and kept her face averted.  I could not but think they knew each other;
but it was no time to ask questions, so I said nothing, but quietly set
about arranging for our comforts.  Mademoiselle retired to her room at
once, the landlady fussing after her, and after having assisted
Pierrebon to see to the horses I myself went to rest.  I must have
slept for a good four hours, and on awakening found it was high noon.
Down I came, and entering the public room of the inn found it empty.  I
went on towards the stables, where Pierrebon was still asleep near the
horses.  There was no sign of mademoiselle, and thinking she was still
resting I let Pierrebon alone, and returning into the inn sat near a
window, awaiting my charge's appearance.  Had I been alone I would have
pressed on to Poitiers, and reached it by nightfall; but as it was it
would be better to wait till well on in the afternoon, when
mademoiselle, being refreshed, would no doubt be able to travel.  We
should halt at Miribeau for the night, and make Poitiers the next day.
So I let some time go past, and then, feeling dull, called to the host,
and invited him to share a bottle of wine with me.  He came, as it
seemed, somewhat unwillingly; but soon we were in talk, and, for
something to say, I inquired about the other travellers.  Here his
embarrassment increased, and he stammered out that they had gone on to
Richelieu about two hours ago; and then, as if taking a sudden
resolution, fumbled in his pocket, and drew forth a letter, which he
handed to me, saying: "For you, monsieur."

I tore open the cover, and read:


"MONSIEUR,--I owe you so much that I know not how to thank you or how
to explain my leaving you as I do now.  I feel sure you would like to
know that I am going of my own free will, and with friends.  Monsieur,
we will meet again I know, and then, perhaps, I shall be in a position
to show you that I can be grateful.              DIANE."


I read to the end without a word, and glanced at my host.  He saw and
understood the question in my eyes.

"Mademoiselle gave it to me with her own hands.  I--I could not prevent
her leaving," he added, with fear in his voice.  The poor wretch was
almost overcome with terror at the thought that I might turn against
him in my wrath.

"Thank you; that is enough."  And crushing the letter in my hand I rose
and walked out.  I was hurt and indignant, but after a little I cooled
down.  After all, her proper place was with her friends.  I had but
helped her on her way, and there was an end of it.  So I swallowed my
ill-humour as best I could, and, to his astonishment, making the
landlord of the inn a present of the horse we had taken at Le
Jaquemart, Pierrebon and I went on our way.




CHAPTER XII

A WRITER OF COMMENTARIES

I rode sullenly on, my eyes between my horse's ears.  Pierrebon, who
loved to wag his tongue, once or twice tried to open a talk, but
finding his efforts useless dropped away back.  It was not possible to
go fast, as the horses were worn, and had to be saved for the stretch
of nearly six leagues that lay between us and Poitiers, which, however,
I had made up my mind to reach ere the gates were closed for the night.
Despite all our care we were delayed by Pierrebon's nag casting a shoe,
and this meant a stop for nearly an hour at a small hamlet, the name of
which I forget.  At length matters were righted, and we continued our
journey.  The day was hot and overcast.  Towards sunset the clouds
increased, and ever and again the rumbling of thunder gave warning of
an approaching storm.  We were, however, near Poitiers by this, and
could see the spires of the churches and the black mass of the city.  I
drew rein for a moment to look, and almost felt as if my task were
done, when Pierrebon exclaimed:

"_Allons_, monsieur! it has come!"

And with a vengeance, too.  First a few warm drops, then a blaze of
lightning, a crash of thunder, and then rain in torrents.  It became
dark, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we could find our
way.  But at length we reached the Pont Joubert, and passing the Chapel
of the Holy Virgin, raised in memory of the miraculous preservation of
the city during the war of the hundred years, we entered Poitiers.  It
is true we had reached it, but it seemed as if our difficulties had
only begun.  What with the darkness and the wind blowing the rain
straight in our faces, so that we could barely see, it would have been
hard for us to have found our way anywhere, even if we knew the city,
but neither Pierrebon nor I had been in Poitiers before.  In the
basement of the guard-tower flanking the gate lights were burning, and
a group of soldiers were sitting at a table playing at dice, whilst a
few stray travellers were huddled together at the entrance, waiting,
perhaps, for the storm to pass, and continually peering out into the
darkness from their shelter, if such it could be called.  I made my way
there, and had to shout twice ere I was heard, so great was the noise
of the tempest.  Finally the ancient of the gate came up, and I asked
him for the nearest inn.  He answered, civilly enough:

"'Tis but a little way, monsieur.  Go straight down the Rue du Pigeon
Blanc, past Ste. Radegonde, and the Filles de Notre Dame, there in the
place St. Simplicien----"

"But I know nothing of Poitiers.  How am I to find my way?"

To this he shrugged his shoulders and laughed; but at this juncture a
boy stepped forth out of the group at the door and offered to guide us
to the inn.  This offer I accepted, and with a word of thanks to the
ancient we went on--the last thing we heard being hoarse orders shouted
out to close the gates.  Our way was lit by continuous flashes of
lightning, and by one of these, lasting longer than usual, I saw on a
hill which overlooked the Church of Ste. Radegonde, her right hand
outstretched as if invoking a blessing on the city, the colossal Virgin
of Poitiers all shining with light--light that seemed to flame back
from the statue against the storm.  So impressive was it that Pierrebon
crossed himself, and the boy sank on his knees in the water that hummed
along the street with an "Ave, ave!"

The sight was one I have never forgotten, and has often given me
subject for reflection, so that I am firmly convinced that even if a
God did not exist the imagination of man would conjure one up for his
worship.

It was lucky that we found a guide, for, short as the distance was, I
doubt if we would have found our way that night to the hostel of the
Elephant, for so the inn was called.  Once there I gave the boy a coin,
bidding him get something to eat, for he looked as though he needed it,
and told him to wait, as I would require him shortly.  I determined to
halt there until the storm had subsided a little, and inquired where
Montluc resided.  He had but lately come, I was informed, and was for
the present temporarily lodged in the priory of the Capuchins.  So,
taking the opportunity whilst I waited for the rain to diminish, I had
some refreshment, and attended to my arm, which was still painful.  I
then made arrangements with the landlord for another horse, as nothing
would have induced me to ride my own poor beast farther that night.
This being settled, I waited for half an hour or so, when the storm
somewhat abated, though the wind was still high, and there was a sharp
drizzle.  Then mounting the hired horse, and giving the boy a lantern I
had borrowed, I bade him guide me to the priory of the Capuchins.

On we went, the wind and rain in our faces.  By good luck the lantern
held out, though its light was not much better than that of a glowworm.
We picked our way through narrow streets swimming with water, past
gutters babbling like mountain streams, and made a snail's progress
through that infernal night.  Now and again a broad sheet of lightning
blazed athwart the darkness, showing the black and uneasy clouds
overhead, and giving a momentary glimpse of tall, ghostly towers, of
gabled roofs and pointed windows, and of houses that seemed to lean
forward and form arcades, below which the crooked, glistening streets
wound.  As we were passing a large church--I found out later that it
was St. Croix--the bells began to sound compline, and then from every
steeple and spire in the city the chime was echoed, and borne across
the night in strange sweetness by the storm.  My little guide made his
way bravely, and at length--it seemed an age--we reached the priory of
the Capuchins.  Lights were burning everywhere, and there was a huge
log fire spluttering at the gate, which was still open.  The arched
passage beyond the gate, which led to the forecourt, was full of men,
not hooded Capuchins, but men-at-arms, and it was easy to see that the
priory had been turned into a camp.  I explained that I bore despatches
from Paris for M. de Montluc, and the words acted like magic.  I was
told to leave my horse to the boy, and was led along the galleries that
bounded the cloisters of the forecourt.  They were full of men, but all
orderly and quiet, as may be imagined with Montluc at hand.  At length
we reached the hall, and there I was asked to wait until the General
was informed of my arrival.  All dripping and wet as I was, and
unheeding the glances cast at me by those who were there, I sat down on
a bench near the fireplace, in which, on account of the damp, a fire
had been lit, and glowered into the flames, the blue smoke rising in
little columns from my drenched clothes.  No one spoke to me, nor did I
address anyone, and I was struck by the extraordinary silence that was
preserved.  Men spoke in whispers, and even when a man-at-arms passed,
his step was as light as that of a monk.

"Monsieur," said a voice, "will you have the goodness to follow me?"

I looked up, and saw an officer wearing the red and white sash of
Randan's Light Horse, my old comrades, and the sight of the colours
after so many years affected me to such a degree that at first I was
unable to move, and the officer had to repeat his request.  Then I
arose, and followed him up what seemed an interminable stair.  At last
we halted before a door, and here to the knock we heard a sharp
"Enter."  Stepping in, I found myself before Montluc, and apologised
for appearing in the drenched condition I was in.  He took no notice of
me, however, but kept walking up and down the cabinet like a tiger.  He
was in demi-mail, the collar of the Order at his neck, and as he paced
the room with a halting step I observed with interest and respect the
great soldier who in forty years of glorious service had but twice seen
the Court.  His defence of Siena was still ringing through Europe; but
back upon that one saw the field of Pavia, the campaign in Naples, the
defence of Marseilles, the siege of Perpignan, and the glorious
campaign of Italy, which ended in the crown of Cerisolles, and where,
but for him, the day was lost.  I had served at Cerisolles myself; but
though I had seen Montluc I had never known him.  Years had, however,
seemed to make no impression upon him; and, tall and lean, with long
grey moustaches, and glittering, grey-green eyes, he looked like a
fierce and starving cat as he restlessly limped to and fro.

At last he suddenly stopped, and, resting a hand on the hip broken at
Chieri, asked me abruptly:

"I am told you have brought despatches from Paris?"

"Monsieur!"  And taking out the packet I had been entrusted with I
handed it to him.

He received it in silence, and sitting down at a table littered with
papers examined the seals.  Then drawing his poniard he was about to
cut open the packet when he arrested himself, saying:

"I see it is from the Queen."

"Monsieur, it was given to me by her Majesty herself, and when you have
read it I have a message for you."

"The Queen must trust you."

"She has in this case, monsieur."

He smiled grimly, and opened the packet.  As he read his face assumed
so malign and fierce an aspect that I had little difficulty in
persuading myself of the truth of the stories of savage cruelty that I
had heard of him.  When he had finished he set down the paper, and
asked calmly enough:

"Your message, monsieur?"

I told him, he taking it down word for word, and placing the paper
carefully in a drawer, out of which he drew a parchment roll.

"You see this, monsieur?  It is my patent as lieutenant of the South.
After nearly forty years of service it was given to me.  I have held it
a month--and now--it is waste-paper."  And with that he flung it into
the drawer, which he shut with a clash.

"They have need of me in Italy again, they say; and when I am gone,
mark my words, these psalm-singing Huguenots, these Chrysostoms, whom I
have made skip like the hills in their own hymn, will be in Poitiers in
a week."  And he laughed harshly as he went on: "They fear I shall turn
against them, and throw in my lot with these others--I--Blaise de
Montluc!  Tell them I am a soldier of my King, that I am but a poor
gentleman of the South, who when his time is done will hang up his
sword in his Chateau of Estillac, and die there, unless God answers his
prayer and lets him die on the field."

I saw before me the sudden breaking of great hopes, and, as I then
thought, the ruin of a great career, and stammered out: "Monsieur, you
will soon be back."

He smiled, and then, as if pushing all aside from his mind: "This will
at any rate make a chapter of my commentaries.  I am writing them in
the style of Caesar, whom I hope to surpass in this.  At present, I
have carried them as far as the sieges of Parma and La Mirandole by the
armies of the Holy Father and the Emperor."  With this he pointed at a
pile of manuscript that lay on the table, as he added, with true Gascon
conceit: "It is better that they who make history should write it
rather than leave it to some scoundrel clerk, as I hear Vieilleville is
doing."

He seemed to have forgotten his misfortune in the contemplation of his
writing, and on my applauding his sentiment, he, looking at my arm,
which was still in its sling, asked how I had hurt it.  I told him
briefly, and he listened in silence, until I gave him information of De
Ganache and the Huguenots at Richelieu.  Then he stopped me.

"Are you sure they were there last night?"

"Yes, and probably till late to-day."

"Then we will have most of them here as our guests, monsieur, in a
couple of days at the latest.  I want De Ganache badly, and would like
much to finish with him ere they finish with me."

I thought of Diane, and in my heart sent up a prayer that, on this
occasion at least, the Huguenots might escape Montluc's claws; and the
General went on:

"I see, monsieur, the Queen has recommended you as one to be trusted
entirely--and the Queen is not easily deceived.  You are, she says, a
citizen of Paris, and have borne arms--where?"

"In the Milanese, monsieur.  I was at Cerisolles with Monsieur
d'Enghien."

"Good!  And after that?"

"I did not serve, monsieur."

We looked hard at each other, and a dry but not unkindly smile sat on
his lips.

"Would you care to see Italy again?"

"If the Queen has no further need for me I am ready."

"We will leave it so, then.  In the meantime, you may, perhaps, have a
little commission to execute for me, or rather for the Queen.  That
will keep you employed until you finally decide.  It may need using
your sword.  Does your wound trouble you?"

"It will be healed in less than a week."

"Well, go now and rest.  You are being lodged here, of course?"

"I have secured a lodging at the Elephant, monsieur."

"Then to-morrow you must come here.  I will see to that, for I like to
lay hands on a man when I want him."  And with this he struck a gong,
and the officer who had brought me in appeared.

"Sarlaboux," said the General, "let Monsieur Broussel be conducted
safely to his inn, and see that no harm befalls him."

I was about to take my leave when Montluc stopped me.

"A word!--  That little story of yours in connection with your wound,
monsieur, has interested me.  I will give it a place in my
commentaries."  And he took up his pen as I retired, followed by
Sarlaboux.

I may add that, many years after, it was my good fortune to see a copy
of the old Marshal's commentaries, which had been made for his brother,
Monseigneur the Bishop of Valence.  By some strange chance, for he
rarely forgot anything, he had omitted my story, nor was there any
mention of the secret communication I made to him; and, perhaps, this
was due to design.  He was a great soldier and a great man, whose life
may be summed up in the motto of his house: _Deo duce, ferro comite_.




CHAPTER XIII

THE TOUR DE L'OISEAU

"Thirty-three Henris, of which two are bad, these I have set
aside--seven sols, and nine deniers, making in all thirty-one Henris,
seven sols, and nine coppers of good money--and this is all, monsieur."

It was touching the afternoon, and I was going over the present state
of my affairs with Pierrebon.  I looked at the small heaps of coin he
had sorted out carefully on the table before me, and then rising walked
to my window and gazed out.  The storm of last night had passed, and
Poitiers lay before me, all wet and glistening in warm sunlight.  I was
not, however, interested in the landscape but in the hard fact that
thirty-one Henris, in round figures, would not carry me far in what I
had before me.  After a minute or so I came back again, and looked at
the money and then at Pierrebon.  It was a hopeless sum.

"It is correct, monsieur," he said; "and, of course, we have the
horses."

"I know that; but what I am thinking of is that it is not enough.  In
short, I know not how long it will be before I can communicate with
Olden Hoorn at Antwerp; and more money is needed, for there is work
before us, Pierrebon."

The honest fellow's eyes lit.  "How many times have I not said the good
days would come back, monsieur?  All the years can never be famine
years, and we will have our hotel in the Rue de Bourgogne again, and
twenty gentlemen at our heels when we go to the Louvre; and if money is
needed now, monsieur, we have it."

"Where?  I do not see it."  And I laughed.

For answer Pierrebon unclasped his belt.  Then taking his poniard he
ripped up an inch or so of leather on the inner side and took therefrom
a piece of paper carefully folded.  This he handed to me, saying:

"Open it carefully, monsieur."

I did so, and found I had in my hand a diamond of some value.  I looked
at it in astonishment, and then at Pierrebon.  He read my glance, and
began hastily:

"Do not refuse, monsieur, for it came to me from you, as all that I
have has come.  When we left Antwerp I had a hundred and fifty livres,
amassed in your service.  Thirty I brought away in cash, and with a
hundred and twenty I purchased this stone from Olden Hoorn himself.  It
is worth a hundred, I dare say, and, as money is needed now, 'tis
better to use our own than to go a-borrowing."

It was impossible to refuse this faithful friend, and the diamond was
transferred to me.  I may mention that I had declined all offers of
money made to me by the Queen and Le Brusquet, for I had a mind to work
out my way without any such obligation.  It was, however, a different
matter with Pierrebon, and when the time came he lost nothing by his
fidelity.

Matters being so far arranged we left the Elephant and betook ourselves
to the priory of the Capuchins, as M. de Montluc wished.  On arrival
there I found that the General had set forth at dawn, with a hundred
lances and the Light Horse, and that two or three days might elapse ere
he returned.  He had, however, left particular instructions about me,
and I found myself comfortably enough lodged.  My first task was to
make arrangements for Masses for the soul of the dead Olivet, and for
the erection of a small cross to his memory in the Church of Ste.
Radegonde.  Thus having fulfilled my promise to mademoiselle I spent
the next day or so in resting my arm, which grew rapidly better, and in
replacing sundry articles of apparel both for Pierrebon and myself.
All this made so considerable a gulf in the thirty-one Henris that I
resolved to transmute the diamond into gold.

I consulted Sarlaboux, who, to his disgust, had been left behind in
Poitiers.  He looked at the diamond, and said he would buy it for a
hundred and twenty livres; but protested, with oaths, that he had but
ten crowns in the world, and would, therefore, not be able to pay me at
once.  This I could not agree to; and I was very nearly involved in a
quarrel, as he thought that a slight was being put upon his parole.
The affair, however, passed off.  Finally, I decided on the advice of a
new acquaintance of mine--a Capuchin named Grigolet--to seek the Jews'
quarter, where at any rate I would receive gold and not promises to
pay.  This Capuchin, who was a jovial soul, obligingly said he would
accompany me, as he himself had a little business there, in connection
with the conversion of a young Jewess, whose eyes, he said in
confidence, were brighter than any diamond.  I accepted the holy man's
aid, and we set forth, he showing me many places of interest on our way.

We left the priory by the western postern and went up the Rue des Trois
Piliers.  The three pillars, which give its name to the street, mark
the boundary between the jurisdiction of the Chapter of St. Hilaire and
the town of Poitiers.  They are set in the city wall, a few yards
apart, and the statue on the first pillar is that of the Emperor
Gallienus.  On reaching the head of the road we turned up a narrow
alley, and found ourselves in the vast enclosure of the old arena--far
larger than those of Nimes and Aries in that it was capable of seating
fifty thousand persons, and was served for entrance or exit by a
hundred and twenty-four vomitories.  Through this immense and deserted
ruin we passed, gaining the Rue d'Evreux by one of the entrances, in
the archway of which an inn was built.  Then, passing the Colleges of
Ste. Marthe and Puygarreau, we took the Rue du Chat Rouge, and finally
came before the ogive arch, which formed the entrance to the Rue de
Penthièvre, where the Jews were compelled to live and transact their
business.  A similar arch and gate shut in the other end of the street,
and guards were at each gate.  During the day these unfortunate people
were allowed to go into the city at their own risk; but by nightfall,
at the sound of the _couvre feu_, every one of them had to be within
his street, under heavy pains and penalties, which were rigorously
exacted.

On entering we found ourselves in a small and narrow street crowded
with people in yellow and grey gaberdines.  All around us were dark
faces, bright black eyes, and hooked noses.  Children swarmed, and lay
about in the filth and ordure of the pavement.  My companion drew forth
a small flagon of scent, with which he liberally besprinkled both
himself and me, and picking our way with care we found ourselves before
the shop of Nathan the Jew.  Here, whilst the Capuchin went farther on
to see his Jewess, I haggled with Nathan for an hour or more over the
price of the diamond, but could not persuade him to give more than
fifteen livres.  This was absurd, and I was about to turn away in
disgust when the Capuchin returned.  The bargaining was now taken up by
a master, and the short of it was that we made our way out of the Jews'
quarter with sixty-three livres in my purse.  Three of these I gave
Grigole for his good offices, and on approaching the Rue d'Evreux the
holy man disappeared into an auberge, doubtless with a view to meditate
on further arguments for the conversion of his Miriam, whilst I
returned alone to the priory.

I was now fairly well supplied with money, but took the opportunity to
write to my friend at Antwerp, bidding him send two hundred crowns of
the sun for me to the care of Le Brusquet.  This, with many misgivings,
I entrusted to the King's post.  It, however, arrived in safety, and I
got my money.

After supper that evening, as I was returning to my chamber, I heard a
commotion in the courtyard, and at first thought that Montluc had
returned.  On inquiry, however, I found that this was not so, but that
certain prisoners of importance had been brought to the priory.  I
could not find out who they were, nor, indeed, did I try much, but took
myself off.

So far things were going well with me, and I felt myself justified in
the hope that the famine years were coming to an end.  I saw the
sentence of the Chambre Ardente against me cancelled, and began to see
also fine castles in dreamland, and with all these I unconsciously
began to associate Diane.  I laughed at my folly, tried to set it
aside; but back came the thought to me, in such a manner that I felt
that every step I was about to take to win back my place was not for
myself but for her sake.  And the fear of his own unworthiness, which
comes to every man who truly loves, came upon me, and with it the ghost
of that duel of days long past.

There I had sinned, and sinned deeply, and it was poor consolation to
tell myself that the man does not live whose life could stand sunshine
on it.  For me it was enough to know that I had committed a grievous
wrong; it was for me to find out how to right it, or make
compensation--empty regrets were useless.

Of that affair it may be as well to speak freely here.  Amongst my
friends in the red days was one who was to me as David to Jonathan.
Godefrey de la Mothe was of an old family of the Tarantaise, and his
career at college had been of exceptional brilliancy.  Some years my
senior, he had at first acquired great influence over me, an influence
ever exercised for my good.  This lasted until my return from the
Italian campaign, when, seeing ruin staring me in the face, I had let
everything go, and sought to drown my sorrows in dissipation.  My
friend strove to stay me; but, driven to madness, I repulsed all his
kindness.  One day we met near the Louvre, in such a manner that there
was no avoiding him.  He began to expostulate with me on my latest
folly.  I answered back hotly, and at last there were high words
between us, and that was said by me for which there was but one remedy;
and he fell, as is known.  Since then I could only regret.  But now
there was punishment as well as regret.  With the memory of this could
I dare to think of Diane?  There was only one answer, and with that
answer I began to realise that what comes to all men had come to me,
and that I loved.  In his gibing way Le Brusquet had said that a man
feels conscious of love in the same manner as he feels a sudden chill.
The words came back to me, and I laughed sadly, for there was truth in
them.

I own that the blue-devils took me to such an extent that I had
thoughts of abandoning everything; but this soon passed, and I made up
my mind to right things as far as man could, and leave the issue in the
hands of God.  I had been paying for my sins for so many years that the
debt was almost quitted, and a stout heart would, perhaps, bring me to
shore.

Nevertheless, I passed a white night, and rising early in the morning
rode out of the city by the Porte de Rochereuil, returning about ten
o'clock.  On coming back I found that M. de Montluc had returned, and
had desired to see me at once.  I was about to dismount when Sarlaboux,
who had recovered his temper, which he lost over the affair of the
diamond, informed me that the General had gone on to the Tour de
l'Oiseau, and I had better follow him there if I thought the matter of
sufficient importance.  This I did, and as soon as ever Pierrebon, whom
I gave orders to accompany me, was ready we set forth, and Sarlaboux
came with us.  Whilst waiting for Pierrebon he told me that Montluc had
utterly broken the Huguenot leader De Ganache near Richelieu, and taken
him prisoner.

"Were any others taken?"

"Probably; and must be trying to hang as gracefully as walnuts now.
Ménorval tells me that the old fox of Châtillon got off, though with a
singed tail."

I began to breathe more freely.  If the Cardinal had escaped it was
more than probable that mademoiselle was safe; but I resolved to make
sure.

"There were no ladies taken, were there?"

Sarlaboux cocked his eye and looked at me.  "_Eh bien_!  My dear
monsieur, are you finding it dull here?  If so, I confess so do I.
This is a city of the saints.  Alas, no!  There were no ladies taken,
as far as I know; only De Ganache."

"Then it was he who arrived last night?"

"No; he was brought in by Montluc himself this morning, and it strikes
me that he will never see the sun set.  He has been taken to the Tour
de l'Oiseau where Montluc has just gone, and which we had better reach
as soon as possible if we wish to see things."

I had to be content with this, and Pierrebon being ready we started off
at a smart canter.  The news I had heard had set my heart going, and it
was in no enviable frame of mind that I drew up at the entrance to the
Tour de l'Oiseau.  The full strength of the Light Horse, their red and
white pennons fluttering in the air, were trooped around the tower, and
it was evident that something was about to happen, for the faces of all
were grave, and all eyes kept scanning the battlements.  Giving my
reins to Pierrebon I passed in with Sarlaboux, and running up the
stairs reached the top of the tower.  There we found Montluc standing,
with half a dozen or so of his officers around him, and before him a
young man, his head bare, and his hands bound behind him, stood facing
Montluc.  It was De Ganache.

We took our places silently in the group just as Montluc spoke, in a
harsh, stern voice:

"M. de Ganache, your crimes are heavy, and you are about to pay for
them.  I bear no malice against you.  I set aside my private wrongs,
the plunder of my Château of Estillac, the burning of my woods, and the
wanton destruction of my papers and manuscripts collected by me with
immense care."

De Ganache laughed mockingly, and the blue veins stood out on Montluc's
forehead.  If the issue had not been so terrible there was room, in
truth, for a smile, as he went on, with a gasp of rage:

"What I hold against you is that you have been taken armed--a rebel
against your King and your God.  I am going to make an example of you,
and shall deal out to you the same mercy you showed to Champagnac,
and----"

"Enough, monsieur!" said the prisoner; "let this talking end.  If I
have to die, let me die.  I do not want a priest.  I die in my faith,
which is not yours.  Let the matter end quickly, and be done with it."

A grim smile played on Montluc's lips as he leaned heavily on his sword.

"Well, be it so!  I will not keep you.  Supposing we say a leap."

"A leap?"

"Yes--from these battlements.  If not, you will hang."

"Hang!--I!"  And a flush came on the young noble's face.

"Precisely.  Champagnac was hanged, if you remember, and it is the fate
you reserved for me.  You, however, have a choice."

For a moment there was a silence, and Montluc made a sign to the guards
on either side of De Ganache to move away, and he was left free, except
that his hands were fastened.  With a half turn he looked over the
battlements and gazed down from their dizzy height, and as he appeared
at the embrasure there arose a hoarse cry from below.  He drew back,
and faced Montluc again.

"Is it to be like this?" he asked thickly, making a motion to indicate
his tied hands.

"Yes; you will fall easier."

At this brutal answer De Ganache looked hopelessly around, as if
imploring help.  His fortitude seemed to give way, and he began to
shiver in an uncontrollable manner.  I could endure it no longer, and
made a step forward; but, growling something that I did not catch,
Sarlaboux seized me by the arm and drew me back.  Just at this moment
Montluc laughed a bitter, stinging laugh; and the wretched prisoner,
swinging round, nerved himself to step again to the embrasure, and
stopped there tottering.  Again the shout rose from below, and Montluc
rasped out:

"Come, De Ganache, two looks are enough!"

"I'll give you three to do it in, Monsieur de Montluc," I burst forth,
and shaking Sarlaboux off stepped up to the General.

"You!" he snarled.

"Monsieur," I exclaimed, "this will cover you with shame!  This is the
act of a tiger, not a man.  Forbear!--for the sake of your own fame,
your own honour."

There was a low murmur behind me; even the stolid guards glanced at
each other; but Montluc, after one swift, angry look at me, kept his
head down, and made no answer, standing glowering at the hilt of his
sword as one who did not hear.

It was De Ganache, however, who spoke.  He had plucked up heart again
after his weakness.

"There is at least one gentleman here!  Let him alone, monsieur!  Plead
not!  After all, death is but death."  But I stayed him with uplifted
hand, and went on: "Monsieur de Montluc, you will ever regret this.
Will you soil your glory with this act of shame?"

Our eyes met, and the sombre fury in his look dropped before my gaze.
I saw my advantage, and approaching closer to him urged him again, and
to my joy he began to waver.  Suddenly he turned from me, and walking
to the battlements looked down himself, remaining there for a space
amidst an absolute silence, broken but once by the uneasy clink of a
spur.

So he stood, and we waited breathlessly, for all hung on a hair; and
then as suddenly he turned to us, his face looking older and more
wrinkled than ever.

"M. de Ganache," he said in a hard voice, "you are free.  Guards, loose
him!"

Without another word or look he stepped forward, and began to limp
slowly down the winding stair.




CHAPTER XIV

MADEMOISELLE DE PARADIS

As the guards cut the cords that bound De Ganache's arms those who were
on the tower crowded round to congratulate him; but he seemed dazed,
and unable to realise his fortune.  With an effort, however, he brought
himself together, and silently took my hand.  He could not speak, but I
understood; and now Sarlaboux urged an immediate move, saying that the
sooner De Ganache was away the better, as there was no knowing what
might happen next.  With this he led the way down, and we followed.

On coming forth from the tower we found that the troops were already
moving away, though many of the officers remained behind, and came up
to us, out of curiosity to learn what had happened.  At first we could
not see Montluc anywhere, but a voice called out: "There is the
General!"  And looking, we saw a lonely figure in the distance
galloping by the Marais de St. Hilaire.  Then he turned the angle of
the great priory.  There was a flash of his red plume, a glitter of
sunlight on his corselet, and he was gone.

"If you take my advice, monsieur," I said to De Ganache, "you will be
off at once.  Here is a horse--and there is the open gate."  And with
this I placed the reins of my nag, which Pierrebon had brought up, in
his hand.  The enthusiasm of the moment caught all.  Ménorval of the
Light Horse gave him a sword, someone else a hat, another a cloak.  The
colour came and went from De Ganache's sunburnt face as, stammering his
thanks, he mounted.  Then he put out his hand to me.  "Monsieur," he
said, "I can never forget; and De Ganache is ever your friend.  _Au
revoir_, gentlemen!"  So, giving the reins to the horse, he galloped
out of the gate, which was but a stonethrow distant.  As he crossed the
bridge he turned in the saddle and waved his hand in farewell, and then
we lost him in the hollow ground beyond.

Mounting Pierrebon's horse I joined the others, and we rode back to the
priory--Ménorval swearing that I must be a magician, as never before
had he known Montluc yield as he had done this morning.

As for me, though surprised at the result, my satisfaction was
increased by the thought that in aiding De Ganache I had helped one who
was a friend of mademoiselle.  It was not this that had prompted me to
intervene on his behalf.  Had it been anyone else I should have acted
as I had done.  De Ganache was not clean-handed.  He had shown little
mercy to those who fell into his hands, and when face to face with
death he had shown the white feather, though at the last he seemed to
recover himself.  Still, guilty though he may have been, his death
would have been a crime, and it was something to think I had stood
between Montluc and that terrible blood madness which at times
possessed him.

On arrival at the Capuchins my first thought was to see Montluc at
once, and although Sarlaboux and others tried to dissuade me I
persisted in my design, and found myself once more before the door of
his cabinet.  On my entering he received me coldly, and, without making
any reference to what had just happened, inquired my business as if he
had totally forgotten his summons to me.  I explained that I was there
in obedience to his request to see me, and after a moment of thought he
said:

"You recollect I told you I would probably entrust you with a
commission to the Queen?  Are you ready to undertake it?"

"Perfectly."

"You will have to go back to Paris; but that is your way.  When can you
start?"

It was not wise to think of a return to Paris; but I had gone too far
to shrink back now, and besides, I was beginning to believe again in my
star.  So I gulped down my fears, and put a bold front on the matter,
saying:

"As soon as I can get a horse, monsieur."

"Ho!"  And we looked at each other steadily.  A faint smile bent his
iron lips, and, muttering something in his beard, he took up a pen,
scratched a few lines, and handed me the paper.  I glanced at it, and
saw it was an order to give me any horse I liked from his stable.  I
began to thank him; but he stopped me, saying:

"Show the order to Sarlaboux; and if you take my advice you will choose
Lizette, the dun mare.  She will well replace the one you have--lost."

"I well know how to value such a gift, monsieur."

"Here there is a packet for the Queen; but this is not your task.  I am
going to entrust you with a prisoner, whom you will place in the
Queen's hands."

"Monsieur," I began; but he read my thoughts ere I had spoken them.

"Oh, it is no catch-poll's business; I have others to do that.  This
lady is only a nominal prisoner----"

"It's a woman, then?"  And my thoughts went back to mademoiselle.
Could Sarlaboux have been mistaken?

"Yes; and remember that her life depends upon her reaching the Queen,
though she does not believe it."

"May I ask this lady's name?"

"Mademoiselle de Paradis, the greatest heiress in Poitou, but a
Huguenot to her little finger-tips."

"In that case, monsieur, the Queen's mantle of protection is likely to
be a shroud."

"You do not understand," he snapped.  "Mademoiselle, or rather her
lands, have attracted the attention of Diane de Poitiers and her brood
of swallows.  The Queen would give her right hand to thwart the
mistress in this, and she, and only she, can save her.  Montpensier
will be here in a fortnight, and I shall be gone.  You know, I think,
what that means.  I give you my word of honour, monsieur, that this
lady's life is on a hair.  Why I should trouble about it I don't know;
but the Queen has commanded me in this, and Jean de Paradis, her
father, was my old friend, and for his sake I would save his child.
But you seem to be sniffing the air over this, M. Broussel----"

"I was, monsieur!  But now I accept the task."

"Very well.  You will arrange, then, to start at three.  I shall see
that mademoiselle is ready.  You will have four good swords with you;
and, remember, she is your prisoner, rescue or no rescue."

I bowed, and was turning to go, when he stopped me.

"A word more!  Trust not a soul, King's man or Huguenot--do not even
trust her.  It is said that she is the promised wife of De Ganache.  If
that story is true I promise you trouble, but you have yourself to
thank for it."  And he rose and accompanied me to his door.  It was the
only allusion he made to what had happened on the tower, and never
again did he refer to it.

I had more than guessed who my prisoner was, though, of course, I was
not sure, and the mention of De Ganache in connection with her had
struck me like a blow.  But it was hardly the time to think of matters
like this, and putting it aside with a firm hand I hurried to my
quarters, where to my annoyance I found the Capuchin Grigolet.  I
guessed his needs, and a brace of crowns to further the conversion of
the Jewess rid me of the rascal.  Then bidding Pierrebon be ready to
start in a couple of hours I went in search of Sarlaboux.

I found that worthy in the archway of the main gate playing at cards
with Ménorval.

"Ogier beats you."  And Ménorval put down the knave of spades.

"Out upon the knave!  Here is Pallas."  And Sarlaboux covered the knave
with the queen.

"And David, the king, takes the game," laughed Ménorval as he picked up
the stakes and began to shuffle once more.

With an apology for interrupting them I showed Sarlaboux my order,
whereupon, with many exclamations at my good luck, he led the way to
the stable, followed by Ménorval and myself.

"_Morbleu_!" grumbled Ménorval, "if this is the pay that royal
messengers get, away with my gilt spurs, and give me the wings of
Mercury to my heels."

And so, laughing, we reached the stables, where Sarlaboux bid me take
my choice, his face falling a little when he saw me halt before the dun
mare.  From her looks I saw she was likely to carry me well; and then,
there was Montluc's own recommendation.

"I will take Lizette," I said.

"Then you take the best horse in all Poitou."  And Ménorval then and
there offered me a hundred crowns for her, which, needless to say, I
refused.

At the appointed time, accompanied by Pierrebon, I rode into the
courtyard of the priory, and found there the men whom Montluc had
promised me.  They had with them a sumpter horse, whilst a third, which
was evidently intended for my prisoner, was held by a groom.  I had
some little time to wait, which I passed in no enviable frame of mind.
Dismounting, I looked carefully at the saddlery of my party, and then
paced up and down the flagged court in converse with Sarlaboux, who
must have found me somewhat dull, for he rallied me, offering, if I
liked not the task of taking a pretty woman all the way to Paris, to
take my place, as he had need of a wife and a dowry to rebuild his
house.  It was in the midst of one of his sallies that the door opened,
and Montluc appeared on the steps, and by his side--Diane.  There was
not a doubt of it; and for a moment I became hot and cold all over,
but, collecting myself, advanced to meet them.  As I came forward I saw
mademoiselle start slightly, make a half step towards me, and draw
back, and then Montluc said:

"This gentleman, mademoiselle, will be your escort to Paris."

I bowed, saying nothing, but she held out her hand.

"Monsieur, I had hoped you would have known me."

I confess I was tongue-tied, and could only mutter something, and
Montluc glanced from the one to the other of us.

"Then you are already acquainted?" he asked in surprise.

"Mademoiselle is the lady to whom, as I have mentioned to you,
monsieur, I was enabled to render a slight service----"

"That is what he calls saving my life, Monsieur de Montluc.  I have at
any rate to thank you for giving me a friend for my jailor.  There is
but one more kindness I ask of you----"

"And that is----?"

"Let this gentleman escort me to Châtellerault.  I do not want to go to
Paris."

Montluc held up his hand.  "That is the old cry, mademoiselle.  It is
impossible!  The Queen's orders are final."

"And you call yourself my dead father's friend?"

Montluc smiled grimly.  "I saved his life at Pavia.  That was
thirty-three years ago.  But that has nothing to do with the matter.
You cannot stay here.  You cannot stay at Châtellerault.  You must go
to Paris, and it is growing late."

She flushed all over, but again returned to her point.

"You have time after time told me I am not a prisoner.  Why, then----"

"Because Châtellerault no longer contains your friends, and Monsieur de
Randan now commands there."

She turned as white now as she had been red before, and a bitter pang
of jealousy went through me as I thought for whom all this feeling was;
but she brought herself together and faced Montluc.

"Very well, monsieur.  I understand your friendship and your kindness
now.  I tell you plainly that I will escape at the first opportunity.
I shall never reach Paris."

"That is M. Broussel's affair; and, mademoiselle, the marches are long
in Poitou."

She gave him no answer, but, as it were, resigning herself to the
present, went up to her horse, accepting only the assistance of the
groom to mount.

When all was ready Montluc called me aside, and we stood together for a
moment on the wide steps.

"_Mordieu_!" he muttered as he glanced at mademoiselle, "I do not envy
your task.  Upon my soul, I am glad that Jean de Paradis won her
mother's hand and not I!"  And then in an altered manner:

"I have your word to do all that man can for her safety?"

"I have said so, monsieur."

There was a little silence, and he stretched out a lean hand.

"Monsieur, forget not: there is room for you in Italy; it would gladden
me to see the golden cock of Orrain once more upon the field.  And now
go."




CHAPTER XV

MY PRISONER

We left Poitiers by the Porte de Rochereuil, as I had no mind to be
shut within the angle between the Clain and the Vienne, whence escape
would be a difficult matter if trouble arose.  Whilst crossing the
bridge my eyes fell on a rock on the opposite bank of the river which
commanded the faubourg, and even held in check the old fortress of Jean
de Berri, which guarded the junction of the Clain and Boivre on our
left.

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