"Mademoiselle, I have long looked in dreamland for the lady who would be chosen above all others as Abbess of Thelema—and now, behold! you have come!" Plucking a rose as he spoke he bowed with old-world grace, and held it out with a shaking hand to Diane, who took it with a flush on her face, and thanks on her lips, but a puzzled look in her eyes.
"I see, Monsieur le Curé," I said, "you are an admirer of DoctorRabelais."
"He is the most intimate friend I have, and, as you are doubtless aware, the Doctor is a townsman of Chinon."
"That, perhaps, is his book you are reading?"
"Alas, no! 'tis merely a Hebrew lexicon I was studying to decide a dispute I have with my friend Doctor Johannes Caballus of the University of Orange; but—you are learned in Hebrew, monsieur?"
"I cannot say I am," I laughed, "though we meet on common ground in admiration of Rabelais."
"In that case, monsieur, you and mademoiselle must be my guests at dinner. It is almost the hour, and we will dine here." And without waiting for a reply he seized a small handbell that lay beside him and rang it. In a little the host appeared, and the curé turned to him:
"Is dinner, as I ordered it, ready?"
"Monsieur!"
"Then serve it here, and set the table for four. Mayhap the Doctor Johannes Caballus may join us. Let me see what there is for dinner. Ah! three sucking-pigs, and a fourth to follow in quince sauce, six capons, twelve pigeons, twelve quails, four legs of muttonen brune paté, twelve sweetbreads, four tongues, four veal——"
But the landlord had fled, and Diane was staring with wide-open eyes, whilst I confess I thought that we had a harmless lunatic before us.
"Perhaps, monsieur, we have Gargantua dining with us?"
"That would be but a flea-bite to him. But there is the Doctor Caballus." And pushing aside the roses he pointed before him; all we could see was a sleek mule sunning itself in a patch of green.
"There is only a mule there," said Diane.
"True; but he is a Doctor of Laws of the University of Orange. I must tell you that the estimable beast is the property of Doctor Rabelais, who permits me to use him, being, as I said, a friend of friends to me. It so happened that the University of Orange conferred degrees on payment of fees without seeing or testing the candidate. My friend Rabelais, who loves a merry jest, sent them the money for a Doctor's degree for one Johannes Caballus, the same being his mule. And in due course the parchment came; and so our friend there is as much a Doctor of Laws as my lords the Bishops of Seez or Montpelier. But here comes our dinner."
I need not say that the dinner was not the feast for giants that was ordered; but, though it was plentiful, all that our old friend could eat was a little dish of peas fried in fat, which he washed down with thin wine and water. He kept all the talk to himself, delighting us with a thousand merry quibbles and jests, until, finally, he called for his mule, saying that he must depart.
"Mademoiselle," he said as he wished us farewell, "you are going on a long journey, and I on a much longer, but I know that wherever you are there will be the house of Thelema." And as I helped him to pull his domino over his shoulders he whispered in my ear: "Beati qui in domino moriuntur."
Then, slowly and painfully mounting his mule, and chuckling at his grim jest, he ambled away, the landlord bowing respectfully to him as he passed.
"Who is he?" asked Diane.
"That, mademoiselle," said our host, "is the Doctor Rabelais, whose name is honoured as that of the King here. He has a small estate called La Devinière hard by, and comes here at times for his health. He returns to Paris to-morrow; but he will never come back—that I know." And he shook his head sorrowfully.
* * * * * *
We never met again, for Rabelais died a month later; but in my library at Orrain, which now contains close upon a hundred volumes, I have a copy of his works bound in red velvet, and clasped with silver. Nor ever do I touch it without thinking of that rose-clad summer-house in the old garden in Touraine.
A few days later we saw the cliffs of Chateaudon, from whose heights the stronghold of Dunois looks down upon the town crouching beneath. On arrival we found a lodging in the little square below the castle, and here I thought it necessary to call a halt for a couple of days. Thus far our journey to Paris had been free from serious misadventure; but I was full of fears, for I knew not what folly De Ganache might commit in his madness, and the evil phantom of Simon was ever grinning over my shoulder. I, therefore, judged it prudent to write to Le Brusquet, begging him to inform the Queen how far I had come; and, as difficulties might arise in regard to my entry into Paris, I suggested that mademoiselle should be met by an escort either at Etampes or Montlhéry; and, commending myself to his friendship, begged the favour of his losing no time in aiding me in this matter. This letter I entrusted to Capus, bidding him meet me with the answer at Etampes, where he would find me at the Toison d'Or.
As soon as mademoiselle, chiefly upon whose account I had halted, was sufficiently rested to continue the journey we started once more, and quitting the vine country entered the smiling Beauce. It was towards the end of June, and our way led through the granary of France, with its long green reaches of meadow and rich cornland. Here, under the clear blue of the sky, and in an air like crystal, stretched endless fields of corn, swaying gently in the gentle breeze, and chequered with vivid patches of blue cornflower and red poppy. After the seared plains of Poitou the freshness, the peace, and the plenty around us struck us in convincing contrast, nor could I help thinking what a little it would take to make the sad Poitevin plain smile like this.
We travelled by easy stages, reaching Etampes about the sixth day, and here, on arrival at the Toison d'Or, I was disappointed to get no news of Capus. There was nothing for it but to wait, and a few days passed pleasantly enough in the curious old town. One incident that occurred is, perhaps, worthy of notice. Almost opposite our inn was a forbidding-looking house, without arms or escutcheon of any kind upon the gate. To all appearance it was uninhabited, but from the balcony of the inn mademoiselle and I observed a lady dressed in black who daily paced for an hour or so on the terrace overlooking the garden of the house. We could not distinguish her features, for she was ever closely veiled, but her attitude and mien marked the deepest dejection. To the idle all things are of interest, and our curiosity was excited; so on one occasion, as the lady paced mournfully on the terrace, mademoiselle asked the landlord who she was.
"That, mademoiselle, is the Duchess herself."
"The Duchess!"
"Yes, mademoiselle; the Duchess d'Etampes. She has lived here in the strictest seclusion ever since the late King's death. She receives no one, and yet for miles around she is blessed for her charity. 'Tis said, however," and he dropped his voice, "that she is a Christaudin; but of this I know nothing."
And so this sad, dark-robed spectre was the once brilliant and beautiful De Helly! I went back in my mind to the gay days when she reigned as queen. It was not so long ago, and I could recall all that throng of syrens. There was Canaples, star of the morning; the lovely St. Pol, star of the evening; Rieux, Tallard, Lestrange; but one only of that galaxy was left, the loveliest and the worst—Diane, whom men called the crescent moon. For her I wondered what fate was in store.
The next day, towards sunset, mademoiselle and I were once again upon the balcony of the inn, when I saw a horseman trotting past the parvis of St. Martin. I was sure it was Capus, and my doubts were soon at rest, for as he rounded the corner and came up the Rue St. Jacques I saw it was he, and signalled to him. He lifted his arm in the air in answer to my signal, and spurring his beast drew up a minute or so after at the door of the inn.
"What news, Capus?" I called out; and he waved a letter that he held in his hand. Making an excuse to mademoiselle I ran down to meet him, and soon had Le Brusquet's letter in my hands. He had done as I asked, and we were to be met at Longpont, near Montlhéry; and in a postscript he added that Olden Hoorn had sent him the two hundred crowns I had asked for from Poitiers—a piece of news not without interest to me. When I had finished Capus said:
"I came with the escort, monsieur, as far as Montlhéry. It is commanded by the Sieur de Lorgnac. There are ten lances and two court ladies and a dozen or so of sumpter horses—a brave show. They all lie at the priory at Longpont."
"Thanks, Capus. Go now and rest." And as the man went I stood for a little looking after him, and then went back to the balcony, the letter in my hand. As I came up mademoiselle called out to me:
"See!" she cried, "there is the new moon; turn over the money in your pocket, and wish."
I laughed. "There is little enough to turn, mademoiselle; but for my wish—it is all good fortune and happiness to you."
"Now you will bring me ill-luck for having spoken your wish aloud. Oh, monsieur!"
"Heaven forbid! But have you wished, may I ask?" She turned away with a little sigh, and looked out into the violet evening, where the slender sickle of the moon shone silver bright. Down below the twilight darkled in the streets. Figures moved like shadows, and now and again a light flashed out. Tall and slight, she stood out against the darkening sky, her face half averted from me, and I knew not what it was, but an almost irresistible impulse came on me to put my fortune to the touch. But I thought of De Ganache. She was his promised wife. I thought of what I had to offer, and this and that gave me strength, and so I held back.
"Mademoiselle," I said with an effort, "this is our last evening, and my wardship ends to-morrow."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes; the Queen has sent an escort to meet you at Longpont."
"She is most kind!"
"And as I may not have the chance of speaking to you alone again——"
"Why that?" she interrupted quickly. "You will be in Paris. You will be at the Court. I counted upon having at least one friend there."
"You will have more than one friend there, mademoiselle, and more than one enemy, I fear; but I was about to say that I leave Paris the day after I reach there for Italy."
"For Italy?"
"Yes; I follow M. de Montluc there. You see, old as I am, I have to begin life over again, and there is many a fair fortune yet waiting to be sliced out of the Romagna."
She said never a word, and I continued: "It will be long ere I see France again—perhaps never; and so, mademoiselle, I once more wish you all that is good, and I offer my congratulations—I have not ventured to do so before."
She spoke now. "Monsieur, I thank you! I will not pretend not to understand your last words; but there are some good wishes that may mean misfortune, and it grows late. Good-night!"
She slid by me, and was gone almost before I realised it.
It was just past the dawn the next morning when we left Etampes. There were but five leagues or so to cover ere we reached Montlhéry, and for almost the whole way we could see before us the castle that crowned the hill. At the ford of the Orge we saw a small group of horsemen, their arms shining in the sunlight.
"'Tis the escort," said Capus, and quickening our pace we were soon with them, and I handed over my charge to De Lorgnac.
There were with him two of the Queen's ladies—Madame de Montal, and the bright-eyed Cypriote, Mademoiselle Davila, she who had escaped from the sack of Cyprus—and these two immediately appropriated mademoiselle, asking ten questions in a breath, never waiting for answer, and detailing the hardships of their own journey of four leagues or so from Paris. I had no chance of another word with her, and rode morosely by Lorgnac's side.
That night we lay at the priory of Longpont; but I saw nothing of mademoiselle, for the ladies both dined and supped by themselves, leaving De Lorgnac and myself to our own devices. After supper, as we paced the garden together, De Lorgnac gave me the news of the day, mentioning, amongst other things, that Vendôme had returned to the Court once more, and that all differences between him and the Duchess de Valentinois appeared to have been buried. I glanced at the signet that I wore on my finger, Vendôme's gift to me, saying:
"That is, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened for me; butI little dreamed that Vendôme would ever have joined hands with Diane."
"As to that," he said, "I have long ceased to be surprised at anything. Poor Le Brusquet was in disgrace for a whole day for suggesting a new device for the Duke—a weathercock on a steeple." And he laughed as he added: "The Duke came back almost a week ago, with five hundred gentlemen in his train—amongst others the late rebel De Ganache, for whom he has obtained a pardon."
"De Ganache!"
"Yes; there has been a turn of the wheel, and for the moment the newreligion is in favour. What it means I know not; but as for DeGanache, the Court gossips are already linking his name with Diane's.'Tis certain he is ever at her heels."
"The weathercock would suit him as well as Vendôme," I said a little bitterly; "but it is good news that even for the moment the new faith is in favour. It removes one danger, and the other is——"
"Back in Paris," interrupted De Lorgnac.
"You mean my brother?"
"Yes; the Vidame came back a trifle over a fortnight ago with an arm very much hurt and one-third of his usual following of cut-throats."
"He will not have much trouble in filling his vacancies; but is he much hurt?" And I smiled grimly to myself.
"Oh! he was badly pinked; but his arm is out of its sling now. There is some devil's broth preparing, and he and Diane are the cooks. Le Brusquet, however, has sworn to put his ladle into it, and so we shall see things ere long."
"Not I," I laughed. "I shall be in Italy with Montluc."
"You may not," was the dry answer. "Recollect that the Queen has the first claim on you, and the war between her and Diane will soon be open war. Up to now it has been a kiss and a stab, but soon it will be all stab."
And so we talked until a late hour, and little did I think, as I retired to sleep, that Lorgnac's doubt about my Italian journey would come to be true.
It was well on towards the afternoon that we reached the Porte St. Michel, for we had started late, and Madame de Montal would on no account be parted from the sumpter horses, whose rate of progress was necessarily slow. M. Agrippa de Pavanes was at the gate, and as we filed in, I last of all, he looked hard at me; but I had other business on hand, and could not at the moment spare time to devote to this gentleman. It was clear, however, that he owed me a grudge over the affair of the King's letter. As it happened, we never met again; and Pavanes, if he still lives, must look upon his account with me as one of his unsettled scores.
A few yards from the gate the road narrowed, and at the corner where the little Rue Poirée strikes off between two rows of tumble-down houses to join the Rue St. Jacques there was somewhat of a block. I had fallen back behind the sumpter horses, and halted for a moment, when I felt a hand rest lightly on my stirrup. I looked down, and, as I live, it was La Marmotte.
"You!" I exclaimed. "In Paris!"
"Monsieur," she said hurriedly, her face pale and haggard, "this meeting is not chance. Ask for me tomorrow at vespers at the shop of Barou the armourer in the Rue Tire Boudin. If you do not do this you will never cease to regret it. Fail not!" And she made as if to draw away.
"A word," I said. "Trotto—does he live?"
"Oh! he lives. Thanks, monsieur, a thousand thanks!"
I had placed a piece of money in her hand, to take off any suspicion, and, rising to her part, she seized it, calling down blessings on me, and stepped back into the crowd.
Our party had gone a little ahead, and I did not overtake them until almost opposite the Cordeliers, where I joined De Lorgnac.
"That was a strange-looking beggar," he remarked.
"She was no beggar, De Lorgnac; but of her I will tell you when you, LeBrusquet, and I are once more together."
"I shall try to wait until then; it will be in less than an hour."
We then joined the ladies, and rode by them, all outwardly in high spirits. As we rode past the tennis courts the sumpter horses were diverted to enter the Louvre by the gate near the riding-school, but we ourselves rode directly towards the main entrance. On arrival there we noticed a large crowd of sightseers at the gates, and our further progress was stopped by a carriage, surrounded by a troop of the King's guards, that came slowly out of the gate. In the carriage sat, or rather reclined, a woman robed in black and white—a woman with sullen, dark eyes and a face lovely in its pride. It was the crescent moon—Diane herself. The carriage came out slowly, as I have said, the horses walking, and from where I rode beside mademoiselle I saw her clearly. She was toying with a little dog she held under her arm and talking to a young man who sat facing her—a man whose face burned like fire, and the laugh on whose lips died away when he saw us—for it was De Ganache. The Duchess followed his glance, and turned in our direction. As her fathomless eyes fell on mademoiselle her lips parted in a smile.
"St. Siege! it must be your little heiress. Come, tell me, DeGanache—is it not so?"
Her voice, clear as a bell, came to us distinctly. The veiled scorn and mockery in her glance was not to be mistaken, and then the horses were whipped up, and she was gone. It was all over in a moment; but I saw the riding-whip in mademoiselle's hand trembling, and she kept her face from me, looking straight between her horse's ears.
"Do you know who that was?" I asked in a low voice; but she made no answer, and I went on:
"Remember the prophecy you told me of, and—be on your guard against the woman in black and white. That was Diane of Valentinois."
An hour later I sat with Lorgnac and Le Brusquet in a little room in the former's house in the Rue Tire Boudin. At the Louvre I had discovered that there was no chance of my being able to see the Queen until after the supper hour; and so I accepted the hospitality De Lorgnac offered me, and was back again in the very house in which I had spent my last night in Paris.
A few minutes after our arrival Le Brusquet ambled up on a Spanish mule, and soon we three were deep in discussing what had happened since the day I rode out of the Porte St. Michel. I had perforce to relate my own adventures, and when I described my meeting with La Marmotte and her strange request De Lorgnac rose from his seat, and approaching the window, said:
"You can see Maître Barou's store from here. It abuts on my stables, and you will not have far to go to keep your appointment."
"If I do keep it; but at present I have no such intention."
"You must keep it." It was Le Brusquet's incisive voice that cut in.
"Why? There is no reason why we should ever meet again."
"There is every reason—that is, if you take sufficient interest in the future of Mademoiselle de Paradis."
De Lorgnac came back to his seat. I looked inquiry, and Le Brusquet continued:
"A few things have been happening lately that make me think there is a porridge on the boil that would be the better for our help in the stirring. There have been little whispers afloat that Diane is meditating a greatcoup. Certain it is, that she and that upright judge Dom Antony de Mouchy have been much together of late. Certain it is that this coquetting with the new faith means more than Christian toleration; and, putting this and that together, I have got a clue. You do not know Carloix, do you?"
"No."
"Well, Maître Vincent Carloix was my sister's husband whilst she lived. He is also my very good friend, and, besides that, secretary to that most noble lord François de Scépeaux, Marshal de Vieilleville. Carloix is a discreet man; but I gathered enough from him to guess that it would be safer for a Christaudin to be a prisoner with a Barbary corsair than be in Paris now, despite all the hobnobbing that goes on between the Court and Vendôme and the Admiral."
"But," said De Lorgnac, "how does all this concern Mademoiselle deParadis? Even if it did she is the Queen's ward."
"Anne d'Audeberte was a maid-of-honour, and you both know what happened to her. My dear De Lorgnac, our friend here has told us enough for us to know that mademoiselle is a heretic to her pretty fingertips. This is bad—for her. Recollect that the Vidame d'Orrain is Diane's right-hand man; and we may be certain that his attempt on Mademoiselle de Paradis was made with the full knowledge of the Duchess. Recollect, again, that this woman La Marmotte is the wife or mistress—I care not which—of Orrain's own man——"
"And as the Chevalier here ran him through the ribs he may not unnaturally desire to repay the account," put in De Lorgnac.
"It is not that," I said; "she warned me of danger in Le Jaquemart."
"Precisely. It is of that I was thinking," said Le Brusquet. "No, Chevalier—for to us you are the Chevalier d'Orrain and not Bertrand Broussel—no, La Marmotte means you no harm, and I would stake a thousand pistoles against an obolus that you will hear something of interest concerning mademoiselle. She is not going to warn you about yourself, I fancy," and he laughed; "she knows that the Chevalier d'Orrain can look to his skin."
"But what can be the cause of Diane de Poitiers' enmity of mademoiselle?" I asked. "So far as I know, they have only but once seen each other, and that but three hours ago."
"The greatest of all causes, monsieur—money. Diane loves gold as a swallow loves a fly. When a woman is avaricious she will let nothing stand between her and her desire. Again, it is no disrespect to the Vidame, your noble brother, to say he would sell his soul for a hundred crowns, and Dom Antony de Mouchy is worse than either he or Diane. Why, man, they have shared between them the wretched estate of a journeyman tailor! The property of a street-hawker, burnt in the Place Maubert, was granted to them, and they took it."
"It is almost incredible!" I exclaimed.
"But it is true," said De Lorgnac.
"It appears to me," I said, "that my departure for Italy will be a little delayed."
"If you were as superstitious as I am," and Le Brusquet smiled as he spoke, "you would say that departure is a dream of the past."
"Why?"
"Eh bien, a month ago, you left Paris from this very house never to return, and here you are back again! It is my belief that your fate is against your leaving Paris, and your game will have to be played here. That slice of the Romagna you intended for your own helping will go to fill another's plate."
I laughed, and De Lorgnac rose. "There is Quinte with Cartouche at the door," he said, "and I must be off. Be at the door of the Queen's apartments a little before compline, and so,au revoir!"
"We have almost an hour and a half still," said Le Brusquet, "and if it were not safer for you to be indoors as much as possible I would suggest spending a half-hour at the Bourgogne."
"I think it would be better to stay here; but tell me, do you know anything definite about this design of the Duchess?"
"No. All that I know is that there is something afoot. Vieilleville was approached; but, to his honour, refused to have anything to do with it. I know, however, no details."
"Then all we can do at present is to wait and watch."
He nodded, and poured himself out some wine. Leaving him to sip hisJoué I retired to change my dress, and shortly after we rode out to theLouvre. On arrival there we proceeded at once to Le Brusquet'sapartments, where he received a joyous welcome from his ape.
"Here," he said, as he put the little beast down and took a sword from the wall, "here is the sword you lent me that night. You see it is clean and sharp as ever."
"Let it remain, then, in your hands, monsieur, as a trifling remembrance of Bertrand d'Orrain."
"I thank you! I shall guard it as it should be guarded.Corbleu! but it was a narrow affair that night; but for you Vendôme might be wearing wings now, and the house of Bêsme extinct as the Sphinga."
"It was a lucky chance. I suppose that old fox Camus still has his lair in the same place? I wonder what made him turn against me as he did——"
"Oh, Camus is like a dog that loves biting, a dog that would bite his own master in default of anyone else. Yes; he is there still. As for his turning on you, that is part of his duty; he has been for years a paid servant of Diane."
"How long is this woman to last?"
"As long as her roses. But they say those are fadeless; and SaintGelais has had to leave the Court in fear of his life for swearing thatshe keeps them ever fresh by daily bathing her face in sow's milk."And he laughed as he added: "But come, now, it is time to be moving."
We were soon in the long gallery leading to the Queen's apartments; but, instead of the darkness and gloom that pervaded it on the occasion of my last visit, all was in light. Cressets burned everywhere, and at every few yards stood a flambeau-bearer, his torch alight. The vaulted roof above us was dim with the smoke that rose from the torches, and there was everywhere the subdued murmur of voices, as people passed and repassed, or stood in small knots conversing. So great was the change that I could not avoid noticing it; and Le Brusquet explained that it was always so when any of the royal children, who lived at St. Germain-en-Laye, visited the Queen. He had just said this when we rounded the abrupt curve the gallery made, and came face to face with two men walking arm-in-arm in the direction opposite to that we were taking. They were Simon and De Ganache, and recognition was mutual and instant. Monsieur de Ganache saw the surprised look on my face, which he no doubt read, as I glanced from him to my brother; and lifting his hat in a half-defiant, half-shamefaced manner, would have passed on, but Simon held him by the arm, and planting himself right in our path said, with an insolent stare:
"This gentleman must have mistaken the Louvre for the Gloriette."
Le Brusquet plucked my sleeve in warning; but I was cool enough, and had no intention of again laying myself open to the law. I gave Simon stare for stare. "Yes; it is I," I answered coldly; and then, turning to De Ganache: "Monsieur, it was from the Vidame d'Orrain that I had the good fortune to rescue Mademoiselle de Paradis. I thought you knew of this. If not, you know now with whom your arm is linked."
"By God!" Simon burst out, "if I did not remember where I was——"
"Tush!" I broke in, "there are a hundred other places where we can settle our differences. I have no time to be brawling here."
With this I pushed past, and left them looking at each other as, followed by Le Brusquet, I gained the door to the Queen's apartment. As we came up De Lorgnac himself appeared, and passed us into the anteroom. I well remembered that cheerless tomb through which I had passed a month ago; but now it was all glittering bright. The door of the Queen's cabinet was closed; but to the right folding doors—that I had not observed before—were open, giving a glimpse, through the half-drawn curtains, of a crowded salon beyond. In the ante-room itself there were about a dozen or so of ladies-in-waiting and pages, all talking and laughing; and as we followed De Lorgnac I felt a light touch at my elbow, and turning met a merry face that smiled up at me. It was little Mademoiselle Davila, the same who with Madame de Montal had met us at Longpont.
"Eh bien! So you have come, monsieur. I can tell you that you have been expected. Oh! we have heard about you at last—heard twice over—and we are all thinking of playing truant and running away to the forest of Vincennes or Monceaux. That last is better, for it is nearer Paris——" But here her breathless chatter was cut short by a "Hush!" from the salon, and then we heard the strings of a harp being touched.
"'TisbelleMarie, the little Queen of Scotland!" And moving forward a couple of steps we were able to see into the next room. I looked round in vain for mademoiselle, and then my glance was arrested by a tall, fair-haired girl who was before a harp; and even I, who should have had no eyes but for one face, stood as if spellbound. As her fingers ran over the harp strings a low, wailing melody filled the room, and then with a voice of strange sweetness she sang a sad little song—a bergerelle of my own country. Harp and voice together died away in inexpressible sorrow at the last words, and a strange stillness filled the room, but was broken at last by a half-suppressed sob. Then in a moment all was changed. There came a bright little flourish, and she sang, joyous and blithe as a lark:
"Si le roi m'avait honnéParis sa grand'ville,Et qu'il m'eut fallu quitterL'Amour de m'amie;J'aurais dit au Roi HenriReprenez votre Paris,J'aime mieux m'amieO gai!J'aime mieux m'amieO gai!"
"O gai!" burst the chorus, almost unconsciously, from those around her, and with a flush on her face and a smile on her lips Mary of Scotland moved from the harp, and was immediately lost to view in the circle of those who crowded around her. I looked for my companions. Mademoiselle Davila had found a lanky page to flirt with; Le Brusquet seemed to have vanished; but De Lorgnac was at hand.
"Come now!" he said, and I followed him across the crowded room to where the Queen sat, amidst a group of her ladies, with the Dauphin—a small, ill-formed boy of thirteen or fourteen—at her knees. She received me graciously; and on my delivering my packet she broke the seals, glanced at the contents with apparent carelessness, and then handed it—all open as it was—to a lady who stood behind her.
"La Beauce, put this on my table." And then turning to me, said, with a laugh:
"Your ears should be tingling, monsieur, for the last hour or so there has been nothing but you talked of by my maids-of-honour. It seems that the cock of Orrain has not forgotten the use of his spurs."
My tongue had long since forgotten such courtier tricks as it had learned. In truth, it was never good at these; and whilst I was casting about for something to say, and wishing myself well away from the ring of faces that circled me in, a gay, laughing voice broke in:
"But where is the heroine, madame? Where is Diane of the Forest? She should thank her preserver before your Majesty." And Mary of Scotland, heedless and blithe of heart, made me a mock little courtesy as she moved to the Queen's side.
"Here she is," cried twenty voices; "she has been hiding here." And, before I knew how it was, I found myself face to face with mademoiselle.
"Thank him! thank him!" the reckless voices around us began to shout; and, as I stood fumbling about, mademoiselle, with a face like fire, made me a stiff bow, and was about to step back, when our chief tormentor called out:
"Oh, how poor a thanksgiving! Surely this is a fit case for a Court of Love!—how and in what way a fair lady should greet her knight after a parlous quest?"
"Madame"—and Mary of Scotland knelt before the Queen—"you will hold aCourt now, will you not?"
"O gai!O gai!" And there was a chorus of laughter and cheers.
Where all this foolery might have ended Heaven knows. The Queen herself seemed to be enjoying it, and was about to make some reply to Mary, when there was a bustle at the door, and an usher called out:
"The King! His Majesty the King!"
Holding the Dauphin by the hand the Queen rose and advanced to meet the King, who entered, followed by half a dozen of his gentlemen. Henri was tall, strongly built, and carried himself royally; but there was a strange mixture of courage and weakness in his countenance. He was brave—no man could be found to deny that; but there was never a sparkle of intelligence in his dull eyes, though at times they shone with cunning, and his mouth was weak and sensual. That night he had supped in the apartments of Diane de Poitiers, and had evidently primed himself for this visit to the Queen, for his face was flushed and his voice thick.
"Your Majesty is unexpected, but all the more welcome for that," said the Queen as Henri touched her fingers with his lips. The King made some answer I did not hear, and led the Queen to a seat; then, patting the Dauphin's head much in the manner of one patting a spaniel's back, he looked around.
"Birge!" he said. "You are gay here. It was dull this evening at supper; she had the megrims."
A slight flush came into Catherine de Medicis' cheeks at this mention of the mistress, and her voice trembled a little.
"I trust madame will soon be better; but you, sire, will always find us gay here."
"It seems so. What was the particular jest? It might bring a smile toDiane's face when I tell her of it."
I moved back, so that I did not hear the Queen's answer, but Henri laughed loudly.
"A Court of Love!Bigre! 'Tis a new idea, and a good one. But where is our little ward? Present her."
Mademoiselle had to come forward, and when she had kissed hands theKing said:
"I hear sad tales of you, mademoiselle; but there, never mind! You must not, however, break all our hearts. Faith!" and his feeble intellect wandered off to the one subject it could think of, "we will have a tourney in a fortnight, and the defenders shall wear your colours."
Mademoiselle blushed red, and began to stammer out something, whilst a few looks were exchanged between the courtiers that made my blood run hot. The Queen, however, interposed, and suddenly called for me.
"Monsieur d'Orrain!"
I stepped up, catching the look of astonishment in mademoiselle's eyes as she heard the name by which I was addressed.
"Permit me, your Majesty, to present to you the Chevalier d'Orrain. It is he who arranged the small matter you entrusted me with, and has, besides, shown himself a valiant gentleman. With your Majesty's permission I propose appointing him to my guards; M. de Lorgnac has a vacancy."
There was a little murmur, and as I knelt, the King extended his hand to me carelessly. As I rose to my feet, and was about to withdraw, he said, with a sudden recollection:
"Monsieur d'Orrain—the brother of the Vidame?"
I bowed, and Henri turned to the Queen, his face assuming a severe expression; but Catherine de Medicis anticipated his speech.
"It is so small a favour that I thought your Majesty would have no objection in view of M. d'Orrain's services. I do not, however, press it."
Henri hummed and hawed, and a curious, cunning expression came into his eyes.
"Bigre! It seems to me I have to grant favours from the moment I rise to the moment I lie down to sleep. But to tell the truth, madame, it was I who came here to ask a favour from you." And then he stopped, and his face flushed darker than ever as he went on, with a short laugh: "Come! let it be a bargain! If I grant you your request will you grant me mine?"
"Assuredly, sire!—even if you did not grant me mine."
"Oh! we will make it a bargain. Well, then, let it be as you wish with monsieur there." And turning to me: "And harkee, Chevalier! Keep your sword in your scabbard, and put your Geneva books in the fire, now that you have a new start."
"I thank you, sire!" said the Queen. "And your command——?"
She stopped, awaiting the King's answer; but Henri hesitated, and at last, bending forward, whispered a few words in the Queen's ear. The effect was instant. She became white and red in turns, and began to nervously clasp and unclasp her hands.
"Come!" said the King, with an affectation of gaiety; "it was a bargain, madame."
There was a pause, and then, with a voice as hard as steel, Catherine de Medicis said to her favourite maid-of-honour:
"Mademoiselle La Beauce—my jewel-casket—quick, please."
La Beauce bowed, and slipped away, and we all looked on in wonder at the strange scene. Presently she returned with a small but heavy casket in her hands. Catherine opened it with a key she detached from a chain she wore at her neck, and as the lid fell back the glittering splendour of the Crown diamonds of France was disclosed to view.
"They have been worn by a line of queens, sire," said Catherine as she placed the box in Henri's hands; "they ought well to become Madame Diane de Poitiers, and cure her megrims."
With this she made a profound bow, and withdrew. When she had gone there was an absolute silence; and then the King laughed, an uneasy, foolish laugh.
"And all this because I want to borrow a few stones for the masque!" he exclaimed as he thrust the box into the hands of one of his gentleman. "Take this, Carnavalet!" And swinging round on his heel he went as he had come, his suite clattering behind him.
As he went we heard through the open doors the cries of "Vive le Roi!" from those in the gallery outside, and then all was still once more.
The salon, but a short time before so bright and gay, emptied like magic. I stood where I was, leaning against a pillar, wondering at the scene through which I had passed, and hardly realising that I was alone. No, not alone, for mademoiselle stood before me, her hand outstretched.
"Oh, monsieur, this is a horrible place! Why did I ever come?"
I could say nothing, for she too had seen and heard all that had passed.
"But it is not this I came to talk about. I waited so as to be able to congratulate M. Bertrand Broussel, the worthy citizen of Paris." And she laughed as she added: "I was sure of it from the first; I knew it could never be."
"May I also say that I was sure that Cujus the furrier never had a niece?"
She made a little impatient gesture with her hand. "I do not believe you will ever forget that, monsieur."
"Never."
"And you are not leaving Paris, then?" she asked after a moment's pause.
"I cannot now," I answered.
"Then," she laughed, "the furrier's niece and Monsieur Broussel will meet again.Au revoir, Chevalier!"
And she was gone.
The next day, about the time appointed by La Marmotte, I presented myself at Maître Barou, the armourer's, store. There was no one there except the old proprietor himself, and it was hard to say if he were Jew or Gentile as he stood behind the counter in the midst of his wares. I had sufficient excuse for my visit, and that was to purchase a breastplate of the pattern worn by the Queen's guards, in which I had been formally enrolled early in the day.
"Bien!" he said when I inquired for one, "I have one that will fit you, I think. It was bespoke by M. de Montorgueil——"
"But, perhaps, monsieur may have a voice in the matter."
"Probably; but as monsieur has not paid for it, and is at present lodged in the Châtelet on account of his escapade with Mademoiselle d'Estanay, we may let that objection pass." And Maître Barou chuckled.
"In that case, let me see the corselet."
"Here it is, monsieur."
I tried it on, and finding it would suit, and that the workmanship was of rare excellency, demanded the price.
Barou hummed as he tapped the shining steel with his finger and glanced at me from under his bushy brows.
"Monsieur must have but lately joined the guards?" he asked, ignoring my question.
"A matter of a few hours."
"Ah! I thought so. I know them all, monsieur. First there is MessireBlaise de Lorgnac, the lieutenant——"
"Maître Barou, it will take till to-morrow to go over the names. What is your price?"
"Ho! ho! messire, you grow impatient. 'Tis Aranguez plate this, as you may see—the best work of Spain, down to the buckles. Ho! ho! messire, only two good things ever came from Spain: one is good armour, and the other pretty women——"
"And I presume, Maître Barou, they are both expensive things; but the price of your corselet, for my time is short."
"Fifty pistoles, then."
"'Tis a long sum, and I am not sure of the proof."
Maître Barou looked at me reproachfully. Seizing a poniard he glanced at the blade for a moment, touched the point with the tip of his finger, and then raising the weapon brought it down with his full force on the corselet. The dagger glanced off from the mirror-like surface and buried itself deep in the hard wood of the counter.
"There, monsieur!" And Barou looked at me triumphantly. It was a shrewd enough test, and I closed the bargain, paying him his money then and there, and bidding him send the mail to De Lorgnac's house.
"And the name, monsieur?"
"The Chevalier d'Orrain."
As Barou was making an entry on a slate I heard a step behind me, and turning saw it was La Marmotte. She made no sign of recognition, however, but went straight up to Barou, to whom she handed a small package, giving him some instructions in a low tone. Taking the hint I gave a casual glance or so at the things around me, and then strolled out of the shop. I walked very slowly up the street in the direction opposite De Lorgnac's house, and I had scarce gone a hundred paces when La Marmotte caught me up, and asked me somewhat abruptly if I knew of a place called the Passage of Pity. I replied that I did, and she then told me to meet her there in an hour's time, and to be sure I was well armed. For answer I touched the hilt of my sword; and, with a nod to me, she crossed the street and disappeared up a narrow, winding alley. I kept on at the leisurely pace I was going at, wondering to myself if I were walking into a snare or not. But, although caution is a very good thing, still there are times when one should be prepared to take risks, and I held this was such an occasion. Having now reached the head of the Rue Tiquetonne I quickened my pace, and was soon in the Vallée de Misérè. I avoided the bridge, and, crossing the river by a ferry boat, was soon in the purlieus of the Sorbonne. Every inch of this locality was familiar to me, and at last I reached the cloisters of the Mathurins, a few yards from which lay the narrow by-street which the quaint wit of the Parisianbadaudhad christened the Passage of Pity. It was dark and short—so short, indeed, that an active boy, standing at one end of it, might easily have thrown a stone against the high wall of a house built athwart the other end of the road, apparently barring all progress beyond. This was not the case, however, for the narrow arch, that was to all appearance the entrance to the house, gave access to a small flight of steps, worn with age, that led towards a gallery opening upon the Rue de la Harpe.
In the wall towards the right of this arch, about a man's height from the ground, was a small niche containing a figure of the Virgin, and beneath was that which, perhaps, had given its name to the street, for someone had traced in shaky characters upon the wall the words: "Avez pitié!"
Beneath these words, written in blood long since browned with age, could still be seen the impress of a hand that had been red too, as if the unfortunate writer had supported himself thus whilst tracing his miserable words.
The steps leading to the gallery beyond the archway were known as "The Little Steps of Mercy," and to get at the entrance door of the house itself, which was in part built over the passage, it was necessary to go along the gallery, in the side of which it was placed, in an almost invisible gloom, that added not a little to the mystery surrounding the place. Another curious thing about this little by-street was that every house, and there were not many, appeared deserted. Hardly a soul ever passed by day along its dim length, which was always in shadow, except at high noon, when the sunlight forced its way in a line of white light along the forbidding passage. By night no one was ever seen, and, indeed, there were few who would have ventured along the Passage of Pity when the sun went down.
Here, then, I stood at the appointed time, staring at the surly row of houses on either side of me and at the dead wall in my face. Twice I paced up and down the length of the street; but there was no sign of La Marmotte. On the second occasion, however, as I came back, the door of the house on the right-hand side nearest the arch opened slightly, and I heard her voice.
"Enter, monsieur."
For one little moment I hesitated, and then boldly slipped in. As I did so the door was immediately shut, and I found myself in almost total darkness.
"A moment." Then I heard the striking of a tinderbox. There was a small, bright glow, then the flame of some burning paper, that threw out the figure of La Marmotte as she lit a candle, and holding it out motioned me up a rickety staircase that faced us.
I had drawn my poniard as I stepped in, so evil-looking was the place, and she caught the gleam of the steel.
"It is needless," she said coldly; "we are alone."
"Perhaps, madame," I replied, taking no notice of her remark, "you had better lead the way; the place is known to you."
She did as I desired, and we soon found ourselves in a small room, in which there was some broken-down furniture. There was one window, which was closed, and being made entirely of wood all light was shut out except that which the candle gave.
"A strange place," I said, looking around me.
"When one is as I am, monsieur," was the bitter answer, "one gets friends with strange places."
I looked at her more closely than I had done before. Even by the dim light I could see how pale and sunken were her cheeks, and her raven hair was streaked with grey. Her eyes had lost the brazen fire that had shone in them once. Wretched and miserable indeed she looked. But this was not the La Marmotte of the past but another woman.
She put the candle down and turned to me.
"Monsieur, I have asked you to come here because we can be alone here and uninterrupted, and that which I have to say to you concerns the life, perhaps, of Mademoiselle de Paradis. Monsieur, you may not believe me, but from that dreadful night at Le Jaquemart I have become a changed woman. I have learned, monsieur, how to pray, and, my God! the past—the past!" And she put her hands to her face and shuddered.
"Madame, there is always a future."
"But never for a woman! Oh, Monsieur d'Orrain—for I know your name now—you know this as well as I."
I made no answer. What could I say? And she went on:
"Listen! After that night I brought him—Trotto—back to Paris as soon as he was able to move. He was badly hurt, but not so badly as we thought; and he lives for revenge. Your brother the Vidame is in a house in the Rue des Lavandières, into which he has recently moved. There I brought Trotto. Here I found Malsain and some others; and, believing me to be what I was before, they spoke freely before me. For you, monsieur, I warn you to fear the bravo's knife; they will not face you openly."
"I will try and take care of myself. But what is it that concerns mademoiselle?"
"This much I know, monsieur: the Vidame wants her for himself, or rather her wealth. The plan he has conceived is as follows:—the edict against the heretics is to be revived suddenly, and mademoiselle is to be accused. And you know what this means, with Dom Antoine de Mouchy as judge."
"But how will this gain the Vidame his wish?"
"To explain that, monsieur, is one of the reasons I have brought you here." And moving towards the window she opened it cautiously. As she did so there appeared, about three feet or more away, the grey and mottled surface of a blank wall.
"Look!" she said.
I looked out of the window. The walls of the two houses stood about three feet apart. Below me was a deep, narrow space, shut in on all sides except from the top. In the opposite wall was a window partly open, below which ran a narrow ledge. This window faced the one I was standing at, but was placed about a yard or so higher, so that anyone standing there could look into the room in which we were. All this I took in, and then turned to La Marmotte.
"Monsieur," she said, "that house is where Antoine de Mouchy lives, and where, within an hour's time, he is to meet the Vidame and some others to discuss their plan. If you would learn it you must learn it from there." And she pointed to the window above me.
I was about to speak, but she stopped me.
"Listen! I know that house from garret to cellar, for I lived there once. That window leads to an empty room. A door to the right leads into De Mouchy's study, which looks over the Rue de la Harpe, and standing at that door you can hear every word that passes within. Will you risk it?"
"The getting there is possible, but it is the retreat that I am doubtful of."
"I have provided for that." And opening a box that lay near her she pulled out a short coil of stout rope with an iron hook fixed at each end.
"Fasten one hook to the window there, and throw me the rope. I will fasten the other here, and you will have a passage back. I will wait here for you."
I glanced out of the window again. On the left was the Passage of Pity with its dreary, deserted houses, on the right, above me, was a glimpse of sky. Now and again we heard the cooing of pigeons and the flutter of their wings amongst the eaves, but except for this there was no sound, and we were perfectly unobserved.
Removing my boots and discarding my sword I climbed out of the window, resting my feet on the ledge beneath it. Cautiously rising to a standing position I found I could see clearly into the room opposite. It was unoccupied, but, so far from being empty, was filled with books and piles of documents. It looked, indeed, as if M. de Mouchy's study had overrun itself into this room. I had, however, made up my mind to take the risk of being present at this meeting whatever the cost might be, and so after another and careful look began the attempt. Between the opposite window and myself was a gap of a little over three feet, so that it was impossible to reach there. Thanks, however, to the forethought of La Marmotte I was enabled to overcome this difficulty, and after a couple of tries, during which the noise made was such as would have certainly aroused attention had anyone been at hand, I succeeded in fixing one of the iron hooks attached to the rope to the ledge of the window. Then, after a strain to test the rope, I let myself swing across the chasm, and found foothold on the opposite ledge. Once there matters were easy, and in a trice I had passed through the window.
A quick glance around showed me I was alone. Turning back to the window I swung the free end of the rope to La Marmotte. She caught it, drew it in, and closed the window over it as far as it would go. Through the slight opening I saw for an instant the glow of the candle. Then the rope tightened, and the light went out. I crept softly to a door on my right, and standing there listened intently. All was silence. I tried the door; it opened, and I saw before me De Mouchy's study. His table, littered with papers, was almost in the centre of the room. Near the window was a large carved chest. The walls were lined with books, and three or four bookcases, filled with dust-laden volumes, projected at right angles from them. In truth, it seemed as if Dom Antoine owned a library that might rival that of the Abbey of St. Victor.
I made up my mind to go a step farther than La Marmotte's suggestion, and as the chances of discovery were equal whether I remained in the outer room or here I decided to stay where I was. Between the wall and one of the projecting bookshelves there was space sufficient for a man to stand perfectly concealed, unless anyone chose to come round the bookcase. Here, then, I took up my position, trusting much to luck, as one has to do in a desperate enterprise, and relying on the chance that De Mouchy would never suspect that anyone would dare to act as I was doing in broad daylight, for it was not much beyond five o'clock in the afternoon.
I had not long to wait. Presently I heard a scratching at a door opposite to that by which I had entered the room. There was a murmured word or so, then the door opened, and Dom Antoine de Mouchy stepped in, bearing in his arms an immense black cat. Where the afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the carved chest he placed the beast, stroking its back once or twice, and then turned, and stood for a moment facing his table.
As he stood there, in the black robes and skull-cap of a doctor of the Sorbonne, I took careful stock of him, for it was he who, years past, had doomed me to a frightful death, and who had shared with Simon and Diane de Poitiers the remains of my property. He was past middle life, with a frame yet strong and vigorous. Cruelty and avarice had set their seals on his broad face. His cheek-bones were high as those of a Tartar, and the small and sunken eyes had a restless, savage look in them—the look of a tiger; and no tiger ever thirsted for blood more ferociously than Dom Antoine de Mouchy, Doctor of the Sorbonne, and President of the Chambre Ardente, thirsted for the blood of his fellow-creatures.
Twice he glanced around him, and then sitting at his table was soon busily employed in jotting down something on his tablets. After a while he stopped, and some thought moved him to silent laughter. Leaning back he let his glance travel round the room, and then arrested it once more on his tablets.
"Ha, ha!" he laughed out loudly this time, "this is a rare dish of fried fish! Prick up your ears, Titi!" And reaching out a long arm he stroked the fur of the huge cat that sat crouched on the coffer, an occasional shiver running through its body. It was old, very old, as I could see.
At De Mouchy's voice and the touch of his hand the creature rose slowly, turned upon Dom Antoine a pair of green eyes from which the sight had long since fled, and hissed like an angry snake. De Mouchy laughed again as he went on:
"You agree—eh? Well, listen to the names—Huguenots—Christaudins—Spawn of Geneva—whose bodies shall perish as their souls, and whose goods shall come to the righteous—that is, to me, Titi."
For a moment light seemed to come back to those sightless eyes, and with a purr, as if it understood, the great cat leaped lightly on to the table and sat before De Mouchy, whilst the latter put one finger on the tablets, and spoke again:
"Mon vieux! the poor fisherman has netted some fine gold-fish this time. No little sprats of tailors of the Rue St. Antoine or out-at-heel scholars—but fine, fat, golden carp. The pity of it, Titi, that the great ones of the land will take toll of this haul—tithe and fee; but there will be something left for you and for me—you understand?"
The cat snarled, as though it had followed every word, and De Mouchy went on, carrying out his terrible humour:
"Good! You cannot speak nor see but you can hear, and so listen! First—the Church first always, Titi—comes Odet de Coligny, Cardinal de Châtillon, Bishop of Beauvais—a traitor—a wolf who has stolen into the fold of Christ—with a hundred thousand livres a year of income!" He paused, and looked at the cat, with a snarl on his lips as evil as that on those of his familiar.
"Secondly, the High Nobility—Gaspard de Coligny, High Admiral ofFrance, the tallest poppy in the garden of heresy, Titi.
"Thirdly, the Law—in the person of Maître Anne du Bourg, an unjust judge; but you and I will change his judgment seat for a felon's dock, and give him a garment of red flames for his red robes of office."
The cat mewed as De Mouchy went on: "There are many more, my friend, and one in special, against whom we dare not move as yet, for he bears the lilies of France on his shield. But let us on to the sweets, for we have dined well, and need a toothsome morsel. If you could see,mon vieux, and had set eyes on her, I should have my doubts of you also, for she is as the fairy light that draws the unwary into the Pit of Death. Can you guess? No! Then I will tell you. What think you of the Demoiselle de Paradis? Yes! Hiss, hiss!Sus, sus! On to the heretics,mon brave!"
And as the cat rose on its tottering limbs, arched its back, and snarled, the man leaned back snarling also, for the blood madness was on him, and he was alone, and had let himself go utterly.
At this moment this strange scene was interrupted by a sharp, imperious knock at the door, and as De Mouchy, with a start, swung round his chair and rose to his feet the door was pushed open without further ceremony, and he saw before him the beautiful but pitiless face of Diane de Poitiers, and behind her stood Simon of Orrain.
As De Mouchy stepped forward to meet his visitors with a cringing air, the cat, less of a hypocrite than its master, retreated to the far end of the table, and began to hiss like a boiling kettle.
"I did not expect you yet, madame," began De Mouchy; but Diane dePoitiers broke in upon his speech:
"It does not matter; let us to business. But away with that hideous cat first!" And she pointed with her fan at Titi, who stood glaring at her with his sightless eyes.
"He is a good adviser, madame," grinned De Mouchy; but she stamped her foot.
"It looks like a devil. Away with it! else I shall ask Orrain to fling it through the window."
Simon smiled grimly, and stretched out a long, thin arm; but with a sullen look on his face De Mouchy lifted his pet in his arms, and, opening the door of the adjoining room, thrust it therein, shutting the door upon it. It was, indeed, a lucky change of plan I had made. Had I been behind that door discovery was certain.
The Duchess had seated herself in De Mouchy's chair, and coolly lifting up the tablets ran her eyes over them. Simon flung himself upon the coffer, his sword between his knees, and began gnawing at his long moustache, whilst De Mouchy stood between the two, his deep-set eyes shifting from one to the other.
Suddenly Diane's red lips curved into a smile.
"Eh bien, De Mouchy! But you are building fine castles in Spain here! See this, Orrain; he thinks to net Châtillon, the Admiral, and the First Prince of the Blood!" And she broke into merry laughter.
"And why not, madame?" scowled De Mouchy.
Diane de Poitiers checked her laugh. "For the simple reason that the house of Châtillon has become wise over D'Andelot's affair, and will not set foot in Paris. As for Vendôme, he must be dealt with differently." And her dark eyes flashed ominously.
"Put the tablets aside for the present," Simon cut in, "and let us not argue. We each form an angle of a triangle, and the triangle will be nothing at all if one of the angles is taken away. Let us discuss measures; we will take the names after. How did my proposal go at the council to-day?"
"Approved," said De Mouchy. "And the Chambre Ardente can act whenever the said court thinks fit."
"That is, when you, as president, think fit?"
"Precisely, Monsieur le Vidame."
"This, however, is not enough," Simon went on. "Another little suggestion of mine, the suspension of the edicts, made, possibly, by madame's merciful intercession with the King, has borne good fruit, and Paris is full of heretics. But I presume that it is neither their bodies nor their souls that we desire." And he looked at his two companions.
De Mouchy preserved a scowling silence, but with a flush on her face the Duchess said:
"I do not follow you, monsieur. We are good Christians, and we work for Holy Church."
Simon leaned back, his knee between his clasped hands, and laughed a bitter, mocking laugh.
"Eternal Blue! For Holy Church! Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! Madame, those sweet lips of yours drop pearls of wisdom." And he rocked to and fro.
Deeper grew the crimson on the Duchess' cheek, and she opened and shut her fan with an angry snap. She tried to say something; but her words died away in a stammer, and her eyes drooped before Simon's cold and mocking look.
"Come," said he, the master-vampire, "let us leave this talk of Holy Church for the salons and the council. We three know what we want, and to get it we need a grant from the King, giving in equal shares all the properties and goods of condemned heretics in Paris, which by law are escheat to the Crown, to madame here, the crescent moon of France; to you, most righteous judge; and to me, Simon, Vidame d'Orrain. This done, we can begin to play."
"Excellent!" And De Mouchy rubbed his hands together. "I will light a fire on every square and on the parvis of every church in Paris, and the smell of the burning will be as incense to the holy saints."
Diane, however, remained silent, her face still flushed, and a rebellious light in her sullen eyes, which refused to meet Simon's look; and after a moment he went on:
"To obtain this, madame, we look to you. After last night I feel sure his Majesty can refuse you nothing."
His words stung her into speech. "It is absurd," she burst out, "equal shares! Monsieur, am I to be sucked dry by your exactions? Never! If I get the grant it will be for myself, and you and De Mouchy will be paid as heretofore. So much and no more; and if you like it not there are others who will do my bidding." She rose from her seat in magnificent anger, an evil, beautiful thing, and De Mouchy shrank from her look. Not so Simon. With an angry growl he reached forward and caught her wrist.
"Have you forgotten what there is between us?" he asked. She made no answer, and strove to free herself silently; but Simon's grip was firm, and there was a terrible meaning in his glance as he forced her back into her seat. "Have you forgotten?" he asked again, "or shall I call it from the house-tops to remind you? Fool! Do you not know there are a hundred as fair as you ready to supplant you? One whisper of the past, one whisper of the present—ay, the present—I have but to breathe De Ganache's name."
"Enough!" she gasped, and Simon loosed his hold, and she sat for a moment, her face buried in her hands.
"Come, Diane," and Simon changed his tone, "you have too many enemies at your gate to quarrel with old friends. We need you and you need us."
She put her hands down, her face now as white as marble, all the cruel lines of her features accentuated, and her eyes were those of a cowed tigress. Never will I forget the scene. In this wicked woman's heart there was not a regret, not a thought of the innocent blood she was planning to shed. It was defeated avarice, pride wounded to the quick, that struggled in her look, and made her, all beautiful as she was, for the moment hideous.
"Get her some wine," said Simon shortly to De Mouchy—"and get it yourself."
De Mouchy rose and left the room, and the two were alone together.
"Listen, Diane!" said Simon. "You stand on the edge of a precipice. It is said that the King has spoken of nothing this morning but the beauty of Mademoiselle de Paradis."
She gasped; and he went on:
"I see you understand. Well, unless you agree to my terms mademoiselle is secure from harm; and I think you will find Anet a dull retreat."
There was a little snapping sound, and she had broken her fan, and flung it from her on to the table. At this moment De Mouchy returned, bringing with him some wine and glasses. One he filled and handed to Diane, who drank it without a word, and then sat staring in front of her.
"I think," said Simon, "that madame now agrees to our proposal. Is it not so?'