In the morning there were none of the other peasants about, although Andrew could see them plainly enough as they lolled in front of their houses, or brushed the dust and rubbish from their doors into the road, where it would lie until the next rain swept it into the common sewer; or drove a grunting pig in front of them. And, as he looked at them through the window, while he ate the rude meal his host was able to set before him, he knew very well that the moment they suspected he had gone upstairs with Muhlenbein to begin trafficking for any of the "relics," they would flock in to take part in the bargain. For the "Goldener Hirsch" was, he had learnt overnight, the repository of their joint property, as being the place, or mart, where the "merchants" could most easily see all that was for disposal.
"Well!" He said to Muhlenbein after he had finished his breakfast, while, prior to beginning it, he had been round to see to his horse, "well, my host of the Golden Hart, if we are to have any dealings with the choice curiosities above now is the time. I must away ere long, and--and," this was an afterthought, which he considered would make him look still more like a merchant--"there is Entzheim, you know. Perhaps they have something there to sell, too."
"Nothing, nothing!" exclaimed Muhlenbein hastily. "Nothing. Unless the Herr wants to buy a wounded horse or two and some gun carriages and powder--tumbrils left behind by the Austrians--that's all they have got. The Herr doesn't want those."
"No," replied Andrew, "the Herr does not. Still, he must visit Entzheim. But now for the merchandise. Up, my man, up, and let us see what I can have for a few pieces of silver."
Up the ladder they went, therefore, as they had gone overnight, Muhlenbein muttering, however, that it was not "a few pieces of silver," but many pieces of gold which would be required to purchase anything worth having from his choice museum of relics; and, as Andrew had suspected, hardly were they in the room above, ere the men who had been with them on the evening before were there again.
"Fore gad!" he said to himself, "they are as keen as hawks. Their eyes must be able to see through the walls to know that I am a-marketing." And undoubtedly, whether they had seen through the walls, or the open door, or the two-foot-square window, there they were.
Disguising his desire to inspect the medallion which he believed to have hung round De Bois-Vallée's neck on the night when his sword had passed within four inches of it, disguising also his wish to observe if one of the rapiers in the bundle was likely to prove that which he suspected it to be, Andrew turned his attention to the wigs. Yet he had no intention of becoming a purchaser of any of these melancholy relics, nor of wearing the hair that had been on the head of any recently dead man. And, in spite of the recommendations of their present possessors--one of whom tried several on to give Andrew an idea of their suitability!--and of their chatterings and mutterings, he soon announced that he would have nothing to do with any of them.
"Nor of the clothes either!" exclaimed he. "What! wear them with this and this upon them," and he pointed with his finger to the dark stains, and--in some places--to the clean cuts through them from front to back, where sword or lance had passed. "Heavens! they would think I had murdered the previous wearer or stripped some gallows tree."
"But the lace,gnädiger Herr, the lace," whispered one, "the gold galloon. Look to it. See this"; and he held up a gorgeously-faced coat that when new must have cost many score of crowns.
"Nay, I will not have it either. 'Tis tarnished, spoilt--with rain and powder. No lace for me! Now, let us see for the weapons"; and he directed his eyes towards the bundle of swords.
"Ah! the weapons," said Muhlenbein, "the weapons. They are indeed worthy of so great a merchant as, without doubt, the Herr is. Now that one," speaking of a sword which Andrew was examining carefully, "is a noble tool, of splendid steel, a----"
"Tush," said Andrew. "Be silent, man. Did I not tell you last night I know a good sword. Your recommendations are useless."
However, even as he looked at the weapon in his hand he knew that there was no trace of De Bois-Vallée here. This sword had never been his, although it bore a strange resemblance to the one he had used against himself in their encounter; it being the exact length the Vicomte had selected, and with its hilt and handle almost a facsimile of the other. But it had fallen from some Austrian's hand he saw in a moment, and not from the Frenchman's; the knot showed that, while the maker's name stamped into it of "Kraft, Nürnberg," added confirmation.
Still, it was so good a weapon that he was loth not to buy it and strap it up with other things he carried--only it was sheathless; so from this he passed on also--appeasing the men, however, who were now getting very discontented, by purchasing a pair of handsome pistols, after much chaffering.
Then he approached the medallions, while, as he did so, he thought, "If this, which I expect, fails too, I am no nearer than before."
Yet, when he held the trinket in his hand and gazed at it under the light thrown by the window of the loft, he felt sure it was the one on which he had looked as he opened the wounded man's shirt to give him air. The painted face that stared at him from the miniature, set in rose diamonds, was the one he had seen on the man's breast that night--the face of a handsome woman of some forty-five or fifty years of age, a woman with blue eyes and auburn hair, flecked with red.
"Doubtless his mother," Andrew thought. And, recognizing the similarity of the traits of the woman of the medallion and the man he sought, he knew that this was the ornament he had previously seen. Even the links of the gold chain attached to it seemed familiar.
Yet, still, he knew that there was no clue here; there were a score or more of such things lying on the table that had been taken from the necks of their dead owners, or picked up on the battlefield.
"A pretty toy," he said aloud, "the face of a beautiful woman. Nay!" holding up his hand at the exclamations of admiration which the man who owned this particular treasure instantly began to utter, while at the same time he loudly called attention to the splendid, the magnificent, the superb jewels with which it was surrounded. "Nay, friend, their value is known to me as well as the worth of the weapons. Yet I will buy it of you at a reasonable rate--though, since the battlefield has yielded you so many other treasures of a like kind----"
"But," burst in the present owner, "that is no battlefield spoil; 'tis better, much better--oh! far better--than any of the others. No simple officer dropped that, I will be sworn, but some great general in the retreat. Doubtless his wife, now, or----"
"No battlefield spoil! In the retreat!" Andrew repeated. "Fellow, what do you mean?"
But as he asked the question he knew there was a slight eagerness in his tone, though it was not apparent to their dull senses; senses blunted, too, by their desire to make a swift and profitable bargain. Also he felt a tremor at his heart! Not picked up on the battlefield! "Where then? Where?" he mused.
"Some half league from here--though now I think upon it, 'twas not the road along which either army retreated. But the track that leads to----"
"To!" exclaimed Andrew in his impatience.
"To St. Dié. The track known to many--across the mountains to Remiremont."
To Remiremont!
Andrew's pulse beat faster, almost his head swam, as he heard those last words. To Remiremont! Yet he had to pause to collect himself, to ask when and where and how, in connection with his enemy, he had heard that place mentioned? To pause while, all the time, his would-be vendor was dinning in his ears the value of the medallion portrait, especially the value of its setting, for which he would not take less than seventy écus. "From anyone else," he added, "though from the gracious Herr, because he was first come, he would take fifty."
Mechanically, scarce knowing why he should possess himself of the miniature, yet feeling he must stop the boor's clamour somehow and get time to think; reflecting also that to keep up his appearance of a "merchant," he must buy more than the pair of pistols, he again had recourse to the leathern purse and told out ten gold pieces of five crowns into the owner's dirty palm, while as he did so the word "Remiremont," "Remiremont," was beating at his brain.
"Where, where," he murmured to himself, "is the connection between that place and De Bois-Vallée? Where?"
In a moment it had come to him!
"'He is of thepays; of Lorraine, near the Vosges, of the seigneurie of Remiremont. He will be doubly useful to Turenne in the Palatinate.'"
That was it; those almost the words! Uttered by the Court spy as he drank with Andrew at the inn in Paris! Of the seigneurie of Remiremont!
The bargaining came to an end as the clue rose to his mind; pushing the peasants aside, Andrew swiftly went down the ladder, his scabbard clanking on each rung, and the boors following--offering their wares at half, at a quarter, what they had previously demanded, now that they saw that there was no more huckstering to be done. Also, because their eyes had glinted into the leather purse and had seen many other gold pieces therein!
"Nay No more," he said; "I have done. Your treasures are too tempting. You will beggar me if I stay here. Now," laughing and pushing back with his masterful hands the men who flocked round him, begging all the time that he should miss no chance, and, therefore, offer his own price, "now, a bottle of the best, my golden hart, to drink to our next meeting, and then away. And the reckoning, too, Muhlenbein, the reckoning--though that should count as nothing with so good a customer as I!" and he laughed merrily, making even the peasants laugh too, his gaiety being infectious.
He had a little more to say, or ask, however, and it necessitated the drinking of a second bottle whereby to provide the time for obtaining the information he desired. Still, he did obtain it.
"This track," he said, "across the mountains of which you speak; to where does it lead? And Remiremont, what kind of place is that? And what leads from there?"
The second question none of them could properly answer, though one, who seemed to know more than the others, said there was a great nunnery at Remiremont itself, he thought. But as to where the road from it led, all knew. South to the old Burgundian city--the boors around him called it the "great" Burgundian city of Dijon; west, to far-off Paris, where the French King was who sent out his accursed armies; north to Flanders, where he might have heard other fightings were going on. While their town--for so they called it--of Holtzheim was to the east, but with the mountains between.
"So!" exclaimed Andrew, and now the third bottle was broached--which, after all, was not much amongst six of them! "So I, who must myself go that way--Dijon, you say, is great and prosperous?--or anyone who wished to go that way from here, would do well to proceed by this track? Better than the high roads, which are doubtless roundabout and lengthy."
"Better far," replied Muhlenbein, "since thereby you save half the distance. Yet, have a care if you adventure by it. In the mountains there are no inns--none such as this;mein Gott, no!--no refuge nor shelter. Nothing but the great trees, and, in a storm, the riven branches on your head."
"Ja, Ja," said another, the man who had sold Andrew the medallion, "and sometimes worse than that, worse than shattered branches to burst in the head. Worse! outlaws and outcasts, men driven from France and from this land, too, to whom the Vosges alone offer retreat. Travellers have entered those mountains on one side before now, and have never come forth on the other yet.Gott in Himmel!Their heads were not broken in by fallen branches. Not by fallen branches!"
"Ha!" said Andrew. "Well! here is one traveller who must pass that way. And we will see for the breaking of heads. We will see. While, for shelter, I have a cloak. 'Tis not," forgetting for the moment that he was a "merchant" and not a soldier, "'tis not the first time it has been my only roof. Friends, adieu!"
"The Herr will go," said Muhlenbein. "Soh! Well! he is big and strong. Has been a soldier, perhaps?"
"Ay, has been a soldier," and as he spoke he made his way to where his horse was. Yet, ere he mounted it he paused and said, while the rustics lolling at the inn door cast admiring glances over both man and steed:
"Where begins this ascent to the mountains? Tell me; or, rather, if anyone will earn a crown, let him conduct me to it."
In an instant all had proffered their services, and each man sprang forth as quickly as his great wooden shoes would let him, whereon Andrew, selecting one, set out upon his journey.
His journey! To end how, he knew not, and cared less, so long as it brought him to Remiremont. To Remiremont where he believed he would stand face to face with De Bois-Vallée once more, would find Marion Wyatt. The woman who, Debrasques had testified, was innocent, yet against whom all circumstances pointed as being guilty.
The road the peasant led him passed across the plains lying between Holtzheim and Entzheim, across the fields on which he had fought some few weeks ago, but which were now deserted except that there were other peasants from each of those villages still hunting and scraping for further pickings. For, to them, anything was precious, would fetch money some day if not now, would help to mend their broken and burst walls or buy fresh seed for their devastated fields.
Of the dead he saw but little, and what little he did see was enough even for him--a soldier. For if--half uncovered by the earth that had been lightly thrown over it, and, later on, washed away again by the drenching rains which had continued for days after the fight was over--any body met his eye, he saw that it was stripped naked by those who had come across it. Neither on man nor fallen beast was there left so much as, in the case of the former, a rag, or, in that of the latter, a bridle rein or smallest piece of leather; nay, in the case of the latter their manes and tails were gone--they were useful for something! Yet, still, amongst the heaps and mounds, where the bodies of all lay covered, so that pestilence might not be bred in the villages, there moved the human ghouls who sought for a broken piece of chain, a ring, or coin, anything that would remunerate them for their losses, even though in their search that pestilence should seize on them.
Beyond the Little Wood, now tranquil enough except for the cries to one another of the searchers in it, and showing no other signs of what had happened there but those furnished by trees shattered with cannonballs, by broken gun carriages and fallen cannon not yet removed--the road turned to the right; half a mile further the opening to the track was reached which led across the mountains to Lorraine.
"God speed," the peasant said, as he pouched the crown tossed him by Andrew, "God speed. Beware of the storm; beware the marauders of the woods. Have your sword easy in its scabbard, your holster-flap open. Farewell."
"Adieu," Andrew replied. "I will beware."
And, slackening his horse's rein as the ascent began, he took the first steps that led towards the seigneurie of Remiremont. While, as he did so, he whispered to himself:
"This time. This time."
"'Tis better, perhaps," thought Andrew, as, walking now by the side of his beast to ease it, he gazed down from the elevation he had reached to the plain lying below, "better that I did not slay him on that night, or leave him there to die. For then I should have accomplished only the task I was pledged to; might never have discovered that, besides revenging Philip, there was the woman to save if may be." And still pondering on all this, he continued:
"Debrasques might have been actually slain instead of condemned to this living death--as well be dead, poor boy, as he now is!--and then I should have known nothing; my search would have been ended with his cousin's death. Nothing. Nothing. And all my life I should have been coupling the name of Marion Wyatt with that of a treacherous, false wanton, as doubtless her father does if still alive. As Philip did unto the last, though sometimes he doubted. Well! his doubts had reason, it should seem!"
But now he almost laughed aloud as a new thought, or memory, rose to his mind. The memory of what description of revenge he had meditated on the woman when he supposed her to be as equally guilty as the man. A determination to carry her off from him as that man had carried her off from Philip, or to find her and, in some way, steal her love from De Bois-Vallée; to pretend love for her until her own was won--then to break her heart and fling her away. All this he had thought of doing, or of attempting to do, and had pondered on how it should be done, and now--now--instead--he was seeking her so that he might save her. He had reason to laugh at the change that had come into his heart.
The October night was setting in and the evening vapours arising amongst the great beech and fir trees on the mountain slopes, as Andrew reached the top of the pass and stood upon the level of the summit; seeing as he did so--through the rime and dank mist made by the dripping trees--that the track ran flat for some distance now. Whereon he set to work to calculate if it were possible for him to descend into the plains of Lorraine that night--to reflect also if it would be best to do so.
"I know naught of Remiremont," he reflected, "nor whether 'tis large or small--a place where a stranger may shelter himself without attracting attention, or be the object of all eyes by appearing there. I would I did so know, could see the place ere arriving at it."
Also, he reflected, he had to find out where this man for whom he sought dwelt. It might be, he knew, that he would have some great mansion in the town itself, or, which would be far better, that he lived in some outlying manor or grange.
"For then," he thought, "I could better find an entrance to it, bring myself face to face with him. Could summon him to come forth and meet me, or, stealing in, confront him. Yet, whichever it be, I will find him. Even though he is surrounded by servitors I will get at him, have him point to point at last."
And as he said these words he determined to push on along the track once more, in the hope that, at least, the descent might soon begin.
He found, however, that he could of necessity go but little further that night. From the herbage at his feet there was rising now so strong and penetrating a mist that, already, it was difficult for him to follow the track; soon that mist would be a mountain fog enveloping everything and preventing further progress, and he recognized the unpleasantness of the situation. He was on the top of the mountains without so much as a cave to shelter him or his horse, and there he would doubtless have to stay until daylight--unless the fog which was thickening every moment should clear suddenly away, and the moon, which he remembered rose late, come forth. Stay there while both he and his beast would become chilled to the bone, so that in the morning they must be stiff with cold and cramp.
"A cheering prospect, truly," he thought, while as he did so he took from his valise his flask and some bread, and, having drunk a little spirit, moistened a portion of the bread with it and gave it to the horse, "a cheering prospect! Fore gad! I begin to think I am no wary campaigner after all, to be thus caught without a retreat. Yet that vagabond, my host of the Golden Hart, said the passage of the mountains might be made ere nightfall. It seems he was a liar, or I have come too slow."
Now, in truth, Muhlenbein had in this case told him no lie, since the passage of the Vosges from some parts of Alsace to the other side of the mountains was possible in a day--though not such short days as those of October; moreover, Andrew had set out late, it being ten in the morning ere he had left the Goldener Hirsch. But, if the man had not deceived Andrew in this manner he had in another, since, for his own selfish ends and to keep him longer at the inn, whereby he might be induced to make further purchases and to part with some more of his gold pieces, he had grievously lied when he said there was no accommodation to be found on the road. For--unless his memory was exceedingly treacherous!--he should have remembered that there were shepherds' and goatherds' huts at frequent intervals on the summit of the mountains, while but a little divergence from that summit and an earlier descent would have brought the traveller to St. Dié or Epinal. But doubtless his greed prompted his forgetfulness, or, to do him justice, he may have thought Andrew would not care to branch off to either of those places.
Therefore the latter soon found that, for certain, Muhlenbein was wrong when he said there was no shelter but that of the mountain pines to be found on the road, since now, as he led his horse along the level flat, and felt with his feet at every step to make sure that he kept the hard and beaten track, he distinctly heard voices ahead of him--voices that, from the dull and muffled manner in which they reached his ears, came undoubtedly from within some walls. Then, still feeling his way carefully over the soft and soddenchaume, on which both his and the horse's feet trod noiselessly, and directing their footsteps off the path towards the spot whence the sound of the voices came, he found himself outside a long low hut, as he concluded it to be--a hut from which a murky gleam of light was visible in the fog, proceeding evidently from some opening that served as a window.
"I tell you," a voice, harsh and rough, was saying, "the war is over! Otherwise how would he be here? I tell you I have seen him. And we know, we old and tried soldiers, that none leave the ranks till peace is signed." After which the speaker emitted a laugh as raucous as, and fitting mate to, his speech.
"Ha!" said another, "that is all very well for such poor devils as we are, 'when peace is signed.' But with him, now, of the noblesse--and of Turenne's staff, they say--'tis different. They leave the army when it goes into winter quarters; he would do so. Curse him! He needs come here to harry us about."
"Ay, but we will harry him, too, in God's good time. Some day he shall come back from other wars and find he has no home to enter. We will light the mountain tops with the flames of his old house in spite of his being Vicomte and----"
Unfortunately, at this moment, Andrew--who, at the words "of Turenne's staff" first, and of "Vicomte" next, had pricked up his ears wondering on what he had lighted on now, and what revelations he was about to hear--was prevented from listening to any more of their talk. His horse, chilled and cold, shook itself violently, rattling as it did so its bridle and chain and stirrups, so that none within could fail to hear the noise it made.
In an instant there was silence in the hut; a moment later a door was flung open and the shadow of a man, blurred and indistinct in the foul air that was lit up by the surly light cast out, was visible through the fog.
"Who's there?" came in an instant a different voice which Andrew had not previously heard, and, as he advanced to where the figure of the man was, he answered: "A traveller seeking shelter for the night for himself and animal; shelter at least till it is clearer, and he can pursue his way."
"There is no shelter here, monsieur," the voice replied, and the expression "monsieur" told him he was dealing with Lorrainers now. "None."
"My friend, there must be. We are cold and perishing, and I see you have a fire within. Let me come in," and, suiting the action to the word, he pushed up against the man standing in the doorway, who fell back somewhat at the sight of the stalwart figure before him. Yet he was stalwart, too, or had been once when younger, though he was now old and presented to Andrew nothing but the wreck of a powerful man. Still, old as he was, he seemed inclined to resent the intrusion and appeared almost as though about to bar his entrance, when another voice from within exclaimed--
"Nay, Gaspard, if the traveller wants warmth and shelter let him come in. Poor as our auberge is, doubtless he will pay for his accommodation."
"Doubtless," replied Andrew, not stopping, however, his inward progress while he spoke, but advancing towards the fire where he warmed his hands and feet, glancing round all the time at the inhabitants of the hut and thinking them about as villainous a looking crew as he had ever set eyes on. Nevertheless, this did not deter him from the resolve he had taken of obtaining shelter here, if not food, nor prevent him from assuming the masterful manner which he saw at once was the only one likely to serve him now.
Also he wanted to know--and meant to know!--who was the "Vicomte," the member of the noblesse, and likewise of Turenne's staff, who was here and had been seen by one of the speakers. For, putting those remarks together and coupling them with the fact that Remiremont was not far from here, he thought it would be marvellously strange if he had not lighted on the clue to De Bois-Vallée's present whereabouts.
Assuming, therefore, this masterful manner, which he felt would serve him so well, he administered a kick to a log of wood that had fallen almost from the rude fire on to the earthen floor without, stretched his large body in front of the embers until the warmth was obscured from all the others, and, looking down at the two men by the side of the old one, said--
"Well, my good friends, you seem to have devilish little hospitality amongst you, since you wish to close the door to any wandering traveller across these cursed mountains. Hey! is it not so?"
"We keep no open house," the elder one said, looking sourly at him as he stood there, his sword by his side, his hat on his head, and with one hand twirling his moustache, "therefore one may close their door against whomsoever they please."
"May they! What! When over that door hangs a bush--foul as the night is I could see that, the feather in my hat had almost brushed it as I spake to you--testifying you have wine for those who can pay for it--and what traveller goes without money for his wants? Also, I observe you have accommodation for beasts as well--if I mistake not I see the hindquarters of a horse down there," and he pointed with his finger to the end of the long hut--where, behind a piece of horribly dirty canvas that hung from a rafter to the earthen floor, he saw a grey tail switching every now and then.
None of the three men sitting there and gazing up at this powerful-looking intruder answered a word; instead, all scowled at him, giving Andrew the idea--doubtless a true one--that they were meditating some sort of attack upon him. Maybe to pull him to earth; one to spring at his throat, another at his legs. It was likely enough to be so, he told himself! And at the thought his spirits rose and danced within him; it was the love of encountering such adventures as these that had sent him wandering about Europe and fighting in any campaign where his sword would be accepted, when, had he followed his dead mother's desire, he would have remained at home.
"For those who can pay for their accommodation, I say," he repeated, and with this love of excitement egging him forward, he decided on tantalizing the men. Whereon he thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out his leathern bag, and emptied some gold and silver coins into his other palm.
"Here," said he, pitching a silver dollar down on to the table, "find me some food and drink, and drink with me yourselves. Meanwhile, I will attend to my beast," and he strode out into the raw fog again, and a moment later led in the animal by the bridle, when, taking it up to the end of the hut, he tied it by the reins to a nail in the wall.
"Now, a bucketful of water," he exclaimed, "and a handful of oats, and we shall do very well." After which he glanced at the others to see what disposition there was amongst them to obey him.
The sight of the money--or, perhaps, 'twas rather the sight of the leathern purse--had, however, wonderfully sharpened their hospitality, whereon, muttering that "since monsieur appeared desirous of recompensing them for his intrusion they were willing to oblige him," the old man, still looking sour and grim, set about finding some refreshments. From a hole in the wall he produced a bottle of wine that, by its appearance, seemed to be old, if not strong; some cheese and rye bread was also forthcoming, but he said that, as regards meat, he had none whatever.
"We are poor, very poor," he explained, "simple charcoal burners and truffle-hunters--nothing else."
"Humph!" said Andrew, as he masticated the provender before him, though he did not sit down to the table until he had seen the horse also given water and a feed, "Nothing else, eh? Now I should have supposed you two worthy gentlemen," and he directed a glance at the others, whose mugs at the same time he filled to the brim, "would have been something more in my way. Soldiers, for instance. There is a good regiment raised hereabouts, the one of Epinal; I have seen it in the field. Commanded, when I knew it, by Maisonfleur. Yet thearrière-banhas been out a long while and you are here."
"The war is over," one of these answered, speaking now for the first time since Andrew had been making himself at home. "We know that."
"How?" asked Andrew, looking at him with a swift glance over his glass. "How, friend, do you know that?"
"Have we not proof? Monsieur suggests he is a soldier. Yet he is here--as we are."
"A cunningriposte," said Andrew to himself, while he exclaimed aloud. "My friend, I do not count. I am an auxiliary, or what you choose to call me--volunteer, nay, mercenary, if you please--and can do as I desire, only if I do not fight I am not paid. But for you, you are Frenchmen, and the war is not over. Turenne will engage the Imperialists again, Condé is in full campaign. Fine fellows like you should be earning laurels--and louis d'ors."
"Peste!" exclaimed the one who had not hitherto spoken. "Louis d'ors! How many of them does monsieur think we get? And as for being here--well, why not? It is ourpays, and we are not the only ones out of the war. There are others of this neighbourhood back from it--as we know very well," and he gave a glance as he spoke at the two men.
"To wit--whom?" asked Andrew, knowing that now the conversation was approaching the point he desired. Knowing also that it behoved him to be very careful. If he was that, if he could but be a diplomatist for half an hour, he might learn much.
"Oh!avec ça!" the man said, "it would be useless to tell monsieur. He would not understand. But we know--we know,mes amis," addressing his friends, "N'est ce pas?"
"Perhaps," said Andrew, "I know, too. Know to whom you refer. Shall I say--for instance--a Vicomte. Mention another name? Humph! Also beginning with a V?"
All looked at him, the big old man over a pair of horn spectacles he had assumed, the others under their brows. Then the younger of the two remaining ones, a dark handsome man, though with a face spoilt by signs of debauchery and, perhaps, of rough living, said:
"Is monsieur a friend of his?"
"Scarcely that! Otherwise I might be riding on my way now, reckless of fog and reeking mist, reckless of missing my path and falling to the bottom of some abyss from one of your crags, to tell him he was in danger of his house being burned to the ground, of these mountain tops being lighted by the reflections of the flames from that burning house."
He had hit the mark when he mentioned the letter V as the first one of the name of the man they undoubtedly hated, knew it, saw it directly from their actions.
The man whose home was to be burned over his head, the man who they had said harried them, whom they had sworn that very evening to harry in God's good time, was, must be, De Bois-Vallée.
And Andrew laughed fiercely under his moustache as he thought to himself:
"Between us--with me first--he should not escape this time!"
Nevertheless he knew that it was necessary for him to be very careful.
For, to begin with, these men were doubtful allies--even if he wanted any such, which, after all, he was not sure about. Certainly he wanted none to help him slay De Bois-Vallée and thereby avenge Philip--but even as he so paused, endeavouring to think what was best to do, he observed the looks of consternation still on their faces at discovering he had overheard their remarks when outside. Yet, might not their assistance be of the greatest use to him in rescuing Marion Wyatt from evil at the Vicomte's hands? Might not they also be of the greatest service to him in helping to discover what evil it was that threatened the woman? Or, further and better, was it possible that they had some knowledge of what that evil was?
"Harm that may come to her through his fear of what I know, as he imagines; harm that may be averted perhaps by me if I can find her--or again find him?" he had asked Debrasques, he remembered; remembered also that from Debrasques' eyes had come the answer in the affirmative. And he had bidden Andrew go and avert the harm impending; now he was here, and it seemed that an opportunity had arisen which might assist him in thus averting it.
He must extract all that he could from these men; he must lose no chance. Indeed, his only regret was that his manner had not been more propitiatory from the outset, less rough with them, and he prayed that the big leather purse, and another which he had put carefully away, might be able to win their goodwill. If so they should have it all, even though he had to go without food until more money could be obtained from England.
They sprang up--or two of them did--as he uttered the words about the burning house and the flames whose reflection should be cast on the mountain tops, while the elder man cast an evil glance at him that would have augured badly for his safety in that lonely spot had he not been so big and strong. Then the first of these two men, whom he had heard called Jean, exclaimed, "You heard that--outside! And know that it was of him and of his house we spoke?"
"I know it now."
"And what will you do?" while as he spoke he bent forward with a sinister look on his face, and with his hand in his coarse brown blouse, "What will you do?"
"I will tell you," replied Andrew, "only, first, give me that," while as he answered he darted his own hand out like lightning, seized the fellow by the wrist, and drew his hand from out of his bosom. In it was a long knife.
"Let it fall to the floor," he said, compressing the man's wrist so that he winced, while Andrew turned as he did so and spoke to the other two (who had sprung up and were standing over him threateningly) in a marvellously quiet voice, yet one that had its effect.
"Make no interference," he said. "Be warned. Resume your seats or we shall all regret it. Do as I say," he continued, his voice sinking even lower as he fixed his eyes on them. "As I say. It will be best."
Whether it was his height or his broad chest, or, perhaps, the sight of the huge hand that compressed Jean's wrist, which forced them to obey, cannot be said. Suffice it that, after a look of indecision on the part of the well-favoured, dissolute-looking man, and a scowl on the part of the old one, they did as he said. Each returned to the settle, or stool, he had occupied, though not without murmuring and muttering.
Another squeeze from Andrew finished also Jean's affair; the fingers unloosed the knife, which clattered down on to the earth, and, at the same time, his wrist was released, scored with a red mark as though an iron vice had been screwed on it.
"Enough," said Andrew; "now we shall be very good friends. Listen, therefore, to what I have to say. But, first, find another bottle of wine."
Obedient to his orders--although it might be but for a time and until they could concert some joint attack on him--another dusty, cobwebby bottle was produced from the hole in the wall, and, when the one glass from which Andrew drank and the mugs of the others had been filled, the former spoke again, though with his eyes on all their faces and on their hands, too, to see if they threatened harm.
"I will tell you," he said, "what I shall do. Yet, first, let there be no mistake. The man of whom you speak as having come across these mountains, the man whose home you purpose to burn to the ground, is the Vicomte De Bois-Vallée. Nay," seeing the look that came on their countenances, "deny it not! There is but one who has so come from Turenne's camp, but one who has fled from the army, deserted his post. The man I seek and follow."
"Fled! Deserted!" they repeated, while the old man muttered incoherently.
"Ay, fled, deserted. Shall I tell you why? If I do, you will perhaps acknowledge that, for the present, at least, you may leave his house in peace."
"Tell us," all said together.
"He has fled," continued Andrew, "because thereby he imagines he can evade me--me, who have sworn to slay him. And I am resolved to slay him. See, listen. I am an Englishman, well-to-do now, though not long ago I had nought but that which I could earn with this," and he let his left hand fall on his sword hilt. "Well-to-do, I tell you, might live at home in my own land, run no greater danger than a man encounters in his own fields and gardens. Yet I am here. To slay him."
"To slay him!" the dissolute, good-looking peasant repeated. "To slay him! Camille De Bois-Vallée! To slay him!"
"Ay! From England to Paris I came, from Paris to Turenne's army, from that army here. To-morrow to Remiremont, to-morrow night, as it shall fall out, or in a week, or month, or year, to return to England with my sword left sticking through him. Say, shall I do that first, ere you burn his house down?"
"What is your wrong?" asked Laurent, the good-looking man. "What?Pardie!a woman, I suppose."
"Ay, a woman. Yet from your words, your guess at that, it should seem I am not the only one. Has he wronged other men--through the women they love?"
"Yes," Laurent answered. "Yes. That way and others."
"That way and others. So, 'tis not I alone who seek to punish him. Yet from me the punishment shall come. And 'tis better so, is it not? If you, or others, destroy him, you are here to be punished in return, you are yourselves of thepays, as you tell me. But I--I am a stranger, and, that done which I must do, I shall be gone; none can harm me. Moreover, he will fall at my hands in honourable duello. I shall not spare him as I spared him before."
"What!" came from all their lips, while the old man thrust his horn spectacles up on his forehead, and leaned across the table to stare at him. "What you had him once, and you spared him?"
"Yes, to finish the work better next time. And it was not his murder I sought" Whereupon he rapidly told them of the fight in the glade behind the church, and of how the peasants would have slain De Bois-Vallée, had he not interfered for his protection.
"'Twas folly," Laurent said, "I would have left him there for them to do the work. Thereby, monsieur would have had his desire gratified at no cost to himself."
"Nay," replied Andrew, "'twas because I had not done the work that I saved him, as now I prevent you from wreaking your vengeance on him. 'Tis I who must do it. Also, there is something else to be done. Listen!"
And now, because he saw and knew that he could bind these men to him either through their hatred of his enemy or because of their cupidity--or through both combined--he told them that the woman who had been wronged by this man was, he believed, somewhere in his power, and that, before all--before his revenge, before theirs--she must be found and saved. "Could they," he asked, "help him to save her?"
"Where is she?" answered Laurent, who seemed to take the lead now amongst his companions. "Let us know that, and, since you desire it, we may be of service. Alas! that we could have saved other women!"
"That," replied Andrew, "is what I do not know. Is what, indeed, at present, I seek to learn. Further, I know not where his house is, nor how to find entrance. Though soon I shall."
Then, at once, spurred on as it seemed to Andrew by a desire for vengeance on the part of Laurent particularly, who, he could see, nourished a personal hatred against the man, and, on the part of the others, by a desire for gain, and by greed, they gave him some information which he did not doubt was true.
De Bois-Vallée, they told him, lived not in Remiremont itself, but, instead, some four or five miles this side of it, and at the foot of the very mountain which they were now on the summit of. It was a large property known as Bois-le-Vaux, they said, consisting of wood and forest with a mountain stream through it that afterwards joined the Meurthe, and, in the middle of this estate and backed up by the hills, was the house itself.
"Of what description?" asked Andrew.
"Oh! for that, old, very old. Dating back, some said, to the days of Le Duc Thierry," the old man, Gaspard, answered. "Built partly of stone, hewn out of these mountains, one should suppose; a house long and low, with, above the ground floor, much wood. Also outhouses and stables and a granary, all of wood. Therefore," he added, "it would burn well."
"But not yet," answered Andrew, "not yet. That is for after I am gone, by which time he will be dead. For which reason there may be no necessity to thus destroy it. Are there any as bad as he to come after, and have all who went before him been equally as bad?"
No, they answered, each telling the tale by little pieces; no, there were none to come after of whom they knew; he had neither brother nor sister, nor was he married.
"Wherefore," interjected Gaspard, who seemed the most anxious for the destruction by flames of the mansion of Bois-le-Vaux, "it may properly be burned down. All of this country hate it and him; after his death we desire no memorial of his race."
"And of those before him. Were they like him?" again asked Andrew.
"His mother was a saint on earth," the old man said; "I knew her. And his father was harmless. The old wolf-blood of his forerunners has come out in him."
"His mother!" exclaimed Andrew. "His mother!" and he clapped his hand to his pocket and drew out the medallion. "You knew her. Is this she?" and he showed them the portrait.
"Ay," exclaimed Gaspard, after he had brought the spectacles down from his forehead to their proper place again, "ay, 'tis. I knew her well. She was a saint--all loved her--'tis for the sake of her memory we have so long borne with the son."
"Enough," said Andrew. "I will return it to him."
"Wherefore?" asked Laurent, not understanding.
"As something which he dropped in fleeing from the army, from me. He can scarce refuse to take it, to come and take it from my hands; thus we shall be face to face again."
"And the woman?" one asked.
"Ah the woman. I had forgotten. No; first I must find out if she is here, below, in this gloomy mansion you speak of. Then--then--it will be time to decide what I must do. But it grows late; to-morrow I must see this house and reconnoitre. My friends, if you will be such, let us make terms. Will you place yourselves at my service?"
"As I told monsieur," said Gaspard, "we are very poor. We must live. And if monsieur desires vengeance on one whom we all hate we will serve him. Though I for one can do but little. I am old--yet I do not forget. Ah, Julie! Also he forced me from my cottage, raising the seigneurial rights month by month till I became an outcast, living here on no man's land."
"Curse him!" exclaimed Laurent. "All I desire is to see him dead. And as for payment--well, I have no money--I, too, am an outcast, he would send me to the galleys if he caught me. Curse him!" he cried again, "give me but the wherewithal to live, and I will help you. Either you or I shall slay him."
"He has wronged you deeply?" Andrew asked, noticing how the handsome features of this man were convulsed by his fury.
"Wronged me! Wronged me! My God! Listen. I married this man's daughter, Julie," and his hand shook as he beat it against Gaspard's shoulder, "and he took her from me, took her to that hell, Paris, and--and--left her to die there. Judge if he has wronged me."
"And you?" turning to the third, the man Jean. "Do you hate him, too?"
"I hate all aristocrats," he replied. "They grind us to the earth. And him I doubly hate. For--for--well, I have cause. Also," and he laughed now the harsh and reckless laugh which Andrew had heard as he approached the hut, "you saw how I loved him when, for fear that you might be here to help him, I drew that on you," and he pointed to the knife lying where it had fallen.
"'Tis well," said Andrew, "we understand one another. And, for earnest of my good faith, take this and do what you will with it"; whereon he drew forth once more the leathern bag and emptied its contents--a dozen good louis d'ors and as many écus and German dollars--on the table. As he did so he noticed to whom the spoils fell. Gaspard, with a greed often enough the accompaniment of old age, especially when that old age is surrounded by and steeped in poverty, thrust out his gnarled and knotty hands, endeavouring to cover all the pieces. Jean, with a laugh, clutched some ere the other could prevent him. Laurent alone was moderate. One gold coin rolled towards him, which he picked up and thrust under his blouse.
"'Twill suffice a long time for meat and drink," he said. "By the time 'tis spent--well!--what I desire more than money may be accomplished."
"You have left yourself without any," the old man said, turning to Andrew, almost with a look of shame on his withered face, yet still with his hands on all the coins that Jean had been unable to wrench from beneath them. "What will you do?"
"Nay! never fear. It is not my all. I have more--for myself and you. And, after that, can obtain still more. Serve me faithfully and you will find me a good paymaster."
Then, after they had vowed again and again that they would do so--Laurent alone wasting no words in protestation--Andrew remarked:
"He is mine. Must be mine now. Nothing can save him or prevent me bringing him to book. Even though we have to besiege him in his house! He is mine. And, even should he escape me for a time, he is a ruined man. To the army he can never return. His desertion prevents that. My friends," and he rose from his chair, "De Bois-Vallée will never harry you again. From this time forth we harry him."