From the oak to the spot where our horses were tethered was close upon fifty paces, and never, I think, was ground covered at a speedier rate by men running for their lives. I was bursting with anger, and know not what restrained me from pistolling Nicholas, so furious was I at the blind folly of the man. As we reached the horses, we could hear the dogs splashing through the spill-water at the edge of the lake, and someone fired a third shot at us from horseback—a shot in the dark which whistled through the branches overhead.
'Quick! quick, monsieur! 'gasped Nicholas, and with a turn of his hand he freed Couronne, and sprang to her back—the great mare standing steady as a rock.
'Quick!' he called out again more loudly, and I made a vain effort to loosen my beast, which, startled by the shots, the baying of the dogs, and our haste and hurry, plunged and kicked as though it were demented.
'Damn you!' I hissed, half at the horse, half at the crop-eared idiot who had caused this disaster, and, managing somehow to scramble to the saddle, cut the halter with a draw of my dagger. At this moment the dogs reached us; a dark object sprang up from the ground, and, fastening on the jaws of my horse, brought him to his knees, whilst the other beast flew at my companion. Nicholas' pistol rang out to no purpose, the report was echoed by a chorus of shouts from the troopers following us, and Couronne, swinging round, lashed out with her heels at the hound that was baying her. Leaning forward with one arm half round the neck of my snorting horse, I thrust twice at the hound hanging to him, the first time sliding off his metal collar, but at the second blow my blade slipped to the hilt into something soft, it seemed of its own accord, and as the dead dog fell suddenly back, bearing my poniard with it, my freed horse rose to its feet, and mad with pain dashed forwards into the teeth of our pursuers. I let him go—one might as well have tried to stop the rush of a mad bull. By a miracle I escaped being torn off by the overhanging branches, and as we raced into the open, Nicholas at my heels shouting 'To the north! to the north!' we were not twenty paces away from the troopers. My frantic horse went straight at them, and, driving my spurs home, I made him leap at the foremost horseman. His animal swerved off—a piece of good luck for both of us. Then my pistol missed fire, and I was in the midst of them. The quarters were so close, and the confusion so great, that at first only those on the outside could use their weapons, and in their hurry to do so some of these perhaps struck at each other. One man, however, shortened his sword, and would have run me through had I not luckily seen the flash of the blade and given him the heavy iron-bound butt of my pistol on the forehead. He was probably much hurt, but although he lurched backwards senseless, so close was the press that he was held in his saddle. The butt of the pistol was broken off by the blow, and for the moment I was disarmed. I dared not call out to Nicholas for fear of being recognised; but at this juncture horse and man on my right seemed to be dashed to earth, and Nicholas was at my elbow, striking right and left with the heavy hilt of his sword. Profiting by the relief, I drew out my second pistol and shot the man before me. Pressing against his mount with my brave little nag, who was now in hand again, I got clear, and, with a shout to Nicholas to follow, dashed off towards the north. It was at this moment that three other riders galloped up, and I heard de Gomeron call out, 'Sangdieu!They are off. After them, dogs,' and clapping spurs to his beast he rode after us. We had, however, gained a full twenty yards' start, which was more than trebled by the few seconds' delay before the troopers could recover themselves and follow. My horse was going at racing pace; but Couronne kept by his side with a long and effortless stride. De Gomeron was at our heels, and with a sudden rush ranged alongside of Nicholas. The sergeant possibly did not recognise his assailant, and managed somehow to parry the cut aimed at him, and the next moment de Gomeron's horse stumbled and went down; but the man himself, who was a rare horseman, fell on his feet like a cat. It was, however, a moment more of respite, and Nicholas, with a wild cheer, dashed into the forest, riding recklessly through the trees. We both leaned forward to the necks of our horses, and as far as I was concerned I made no attempt to guide my beast, but let him follow Couronne, who, surefooted as a stag, turned and twisted amongst the trees with almost human forethought. The single hound that was left strained bravely behind us; but, mindful probably of the fate that had overtaken his brother, made no direct attack. As we dashed into the wood the troopers attempted to follow; but it was with a relaxed speed, and every moment we were distancing them, and their cries, shouts, and curses became fainter and more faint. I began to think if we could but be rid of the sleuthhound, we would get off with whole skins. The beast was, however, not to be shaken off, and, avoiding the heels of the horses, came with alop,lop, through the leaves alongside my nag, just out of reach of the point of my sword, which I had managed to draw. As he snapped and growled, my horse, already once wounded, and still smarting with pain, shied off from him, bruising my leg against a tree trunk, in the bark of which my spur remained, and all but unseating me. Another shy amongst the trees would have finished my business, for the pain of the bruise at the moment was exquisite; but, leaping a fallen log, Nicholas burst through a juniper bush, and my horse following him, we came on to an open stretch which sloped down to the river.
'Ouf!Out of it at last!' I gasped out to Nicholas.
'It's a mile yet to the river, monsieur,' he answered, slackening pace slightly to allow me to get alongside of him.
The dog, however, was not yet shaken off, and kept steadily beside my horse. In the bright moon I could see him running freely and easily; and, much as I cursed his presence there, I could not help but admire the gallant beast. He seemed to know perfectly the danger that lay in the long shining sword, that thrust out at him like a snake's tongue whenever he came too near.
I, however, owed him one for the bruise, and it was not a time to waste in admiring things. So I called to Nicholas.
'Slacken pace a little more. I want to be rid of the dog.'
'We can kill him in the river,' answered the sergeant.
'Better stop him here,' and Nicholas obeyed.
Seeing us slacken, the hound tried to head the horses. This was exactly what I wanted; and shortening the reins, I pulled round my nag suddenly, right upon the dog, and, stooping low, gave him a couple of inches in the quarters as he attempted to double. It was not a wound that would kill. I had no intention, unless forced to, of doing that; but it had the desired effect, and he fled back howling with pain.
'Adieu, monsieur!' I cried out after him with a laugh, and joining the sergeant we cantered on through the clearing towards the river.
The ill-will I felt towards Nicholas had gone by this time. He had borne himself like a brave man, as he was; and, after all, if I had been in his position I would perhaps have done the same, and let drive at de Gomeron at sight. My little nag, however, at this time began to show signs of distress, and I turned my attention from the sergeant to husbanding the poor beast's strength—patting him on his foam-covered neck to encourage him, and speaking to him in the manner that horses love.Pardieu!If men only knew it, there are moments when a touch of the hand and a kind word are better than four-inch spurs.
We came to a narrow patch now, and rode down this, the river being in sight, winding like a silver ribbon thrown carelessly down. On the opposite bank it was overhung with willows, whose drooping boughs swung low to the very surface of the water. Here and there the stump of a felled tree stood up like a sentinel. In the distance, behind us, we could hear one or two of the troopers, who had by this time managed to get through the wood, yelling and shouting as they urged their horses towards the river. Doubtless more would soon follow, and I cursed them loudly and heartily. Nicholas looked back.
'But fifteen yards of a swim, monsieur, and we are safe.'
'Not exactly. See there?'
The sergeant followed my outstretched blade, and swore too. Right before us two men galloped out of a strip of coppice that stretched to the water's edge and cut us off from the stream.
'Sacrebleu!How did they know that cut? Have at them, monsieur.'
And we did.
It had to be a matter of moments only. The troopers behind were coming on, and, if once they reached us, we could not well hope to escape again; the odds were too many. I did not, therefore, waste time, but went straight for my man, and, to do him justice, he seemed nothing loath to meet me. He cut over the shoulder, and, receiving this on my forte, I gave him the point in the centre of his breastplate, making it ring like a bell. Only a Milanese corselet could have saved him as it did. My nag went on, but turned on its haunches to the reins, and before he could well recover himself I was at him again, and discovered that he wore a demi-mask on his face.
'Monsieur, shall I prick your mask off before killing you?' I mocked, suiting the words to a thrust that all but effected the object, and ripped him on the cheek.
He was a good swordsman, but this made him beside himself with passion, and this frantic state, and the sound of his voice as he kept cursing me, told me that my opponent was none other than Biron himself. Now came a serious difficulty, which I had to consider like lightning. Did I kill him, and he was an infant in my hands, there could be no hope for me—he was too great—too highly placed for me to have any chance if I compassed his death. Therefore, as I pressed him, I called out loud enough for him to hear, 'Marshal, you are mad—go back—you are known to me.'
He thrust at me for answer; but I could stand no more nonsense, and, getting within his guard, struck him off his horse with a blow from the hilt of my sword, and, wasting not a second more on him, turned to the assistance of Nicholas.
It was much needed, for the sergeant's opponent was none other than de Gomeron himself, who had remounted after his fall, and, by cutting off a corner, intercepted us, almost with complete success. How Nicholas held his own against this finished swordsman for even so long a period as a half-minute I am unable to say. It was doubtless due to the strength of his bitter hatred, and his fury for revenge. Even as it was, I was too late. As I dashed towards him, Nicholas fairly screamed out:
'Leave him to me—he is—a—ah!'
He never finished, for de Gomeron saw his chance and passed his sword through the sergeant's throat, and he fell limply from Couronne a dead man.
Before, however, the free-lance could recover himself I was on him, and, standing in my stirrups, cut at him with the full swing of my sword. He parried like lightning, but the force of the blow beat down his guard, and although my blade fell flat upon his steel cap, he went down like an ox.
Poor Nicholas was gone! I knew that thrust, and once received there was nothing for it but masses for the soul. A half-dozen troopers were not two hundred yards away, and life lay on the other side of the Eure. I went straight on, and jumped my horse into the stream. It was running high and deep, and as I fell into the water with a splash and hiss of white foam around me, I heard another heavy plunge close to my shoulder, and, in the glance I cast towards the sound, saw that it was the now riderless Couronne, who had followed her companion of the night. To ease the horse, I slipped from the saddle, and, hanging on to the pommel, was towed along by him as the good beast breasted the stream bravely.Pardieu!How the yellow water grumbled and foamed and bubbled around us. The current set towards the opposite bank, and the force of it carried us down, it seemed in a moment, fully fifty yards from the spot where we had plunged in, to within a few feet of the opposite shore. Here, however, the river ran strong and swiftly, the bank was high, and the horses could make no headway, but kept drifting down. By this time the troopers had reached the scene of the fight, and I could hear them howling with anger as they gathered around their fallen leaders, and, without a head to guide them, hesitated what to do, each moment of delay giving me precious time, and bringing me closer to a shelving bank a few yards to the left. Not one of the troopers dared the stream, and they had apparently emptied their arquebuses after us in pursuit, for none fired, although they called to each other, 'Shoot him down—shoot him down!'
A couple of men galloped down stream a little below me, and, dismounting, began to load hurriedly, it being evidently their intention to pick me off as I drifted past. For the moment I gave myself up for lost; but, determining to make a last effort to save myself, made a snatch at the willows that overhung the bank and brushed us with their wet and dripping leaves as we struggled underneath. As I did this, I loosed my hold of the saddle, and the horses slid past me, and I was dragged by the current right into the bank. The willows were tough, and I held on to them like a leech, and the troopers, who had seen what I was about, began to laugh at me, and adjure me to hold on tight as they would be ready to shoot in a moment. The fools! They gave me the moment's time I wanted, and, digging my boot into the soft bank, I laid hold of the stem of a willow and with an effort reached the shore. I rolled over at full length, and then lay flat on my face, whilst the troopers with many curses ran forward a few feet and let off their arquebuses, on the off chance of bringing me down. They aimed truly enough, and had I not lain to earth as I did, I should infallibly have been killed, for the bullets whizzed past, it seemed, but a few inches above me. I let out a yell as if I was mortally hurt, and then rising, ran down stream behind the willows as fast as my bruised leg would allow me, to see if I could not get back one or both the horses. My stratagem had the desired effect, for on my cry of 'I am dead—I am dead,' two others of the men who had run up let off their pieces where I was supposed to be, and they all shouted, 'We have him; he is down.'
'Morbleu!Not yet,' I could hardly refrain from chuckling to myself, as I hobbled along the bank, and to my joy saw them in a little bay, about a hundred paces from me, moving slowly in the shallow water. One behind the other, towards the land. A spur had been thrown out here, evidently with the object of protecting the bank, and it had cast the main stream on the opposite shore, and given the beasts a chance of landing.
I felt my leg at each step I took; but went on at a round pace somehow, and came up to Couronne just as she was stepping out of the water. Catching her by the bridle, I mounted, although with some difficulty, and slipping my hands through the reins of my own nag, trotted off under cover of the trees, leaving M. de Gomeron, who had doubtless recovered by this time, and his men to make a target of the darkness. I had come through somehow, but I was sick and sore at heart, as I urged Couronne from a trot to a gallop, when I thought of poor Nicholas lying dead by the banks of the Eure.
I kept off the road as far as possible to avoid being tracked. Even if no further attempt to follow me was made to-night, which was uncertain, as de Gomeron was not the man to let the barest chance slip through his fingers, yet there was no doubt as to what would happen on the morrow. I congratulated myself on having crippled the last of the sleuthhounds, as my gentlemen would be placed thereby in a difficulty in regard to my route, and if they scoured the country in twos and threes, I felt confident of being able, with Jacques' aid, to give a good account of myself did we meet, despite my bruised leg, which reminded me of itself unpleasantly.
As I patted Couronne's neck I thought of Nicholas, and with the memory of him the face of Marie came up. I felt myself in a measure responsible for his death, and was resolved to weigh out in full to Marie the payment I had promised them both. It was a debt I would discharge to the end of the measure.
A sense of relief came to my mind with this resolve, and, as Rouvres could not be far distant, I slackened pace to let the horses breathe a trifle, and began to hastily plan my future course of action on reaching Paris. I had not only discovered what was evidently a deep and widely-spread plot, but had also stumbled on the dreadful secret of the death of the woman who was to be Queen of France in name, as she was in reality. It was certain that she had been foully murdered. It was certain that the King's most trusted captain and many of his greatest nobles were hilt-deep in treachery—so much I knew. I had seen with mine own eyes, and heard with mine own ears, but beyond this I had no proofs—and what would my word weigh against theirs! Besides this there was my own trouble. D'Ayen's mocking warning was explicit enough when read with Palin's confidence, and any doubt I may have had on that point was almost set at rest by what I had overheard. In short, I was the rival of the King, and felt my head very loose upon my neck.
What was I to do? It was no easy matter to decide; but I came to the conclusion that my best course was to seek out the all-powerful Sully, tell him what I knew, and beg the help of that great man. I did not know him, except by repute; but my case was strong and my cause good. I would delay not a moment about this on reaching Paris; but it was Rouvres I had to come to first, and many a league lay for reflection between me and the Louvre.
So I jogged on, not quite certain of my way, and every now and again making a cast to find the road, for by riding parallel with it I knew I must reach my destination. Once, however, I lost myself for about an hour, and, on finding the road again, resolved to keep to it for the remainder of my journey, as the moon was rapidly waning, and that darkness which touches the edge of the morning was at hand.
At last I heard the Lauds chime solemnly out into the night, and in a few minutes pulled up the weary beasts before the gates of Rouvres. Here I found a difficulty I might have anticipated. The gates were shut, and the unpleasant prospect of a dreary wait of some hours lay before me. This was not to be borne, and I raised a clamour that might have awakened the dead. It had the desired effect of rousing the watch at the gate; a wicket was opened, the light of a lanthorn flashed through, and a gruff voice bade me begone.
'Open,' I roared, 'open in the King's name.'
'Pardieu!Monsieur, the gates are kept shut in the King's name, and his Majesty does not like his subjects' rest being disturbed,' answered another voice, and from its tone and inflection I guessed it was that of an officer.
'In that case, monsieur,' I said, 'let me in so that we may both go to our beds, and a thousand apologies for disturbing you. My servant is already at theGrand Cerf, and one man cannot take Rouvres.'
'Then you are that M. de Preaulx of the Anjoumois, whose lackey Jacques Bisson arrived last night—for it is morning now?'
'You keep good watch, monsieur—who else should I be?' I said, with an inward 'thank heaven' at the accident that had discovered to me my new name.
There was no reply for a moment, though I heard some one laughing, and the rays of the light were cast to the right and to the left of me to see that I was really alone. Finally orders were given for my admission. The gates went open with a creaking, and I was within Rouvres.
As I rode in I stopped to thank the officer for his courtesy, and the light being very clear, he observed my condition, and exclaimed, 'Diable!But you have ridden far, monsieur, and with a led horse too!'
'I ride in the King's name, monsieur,' I replied a little coldly, and, thanking him once more, was seized with an inspiration, and begged the favour of his company at dinner at theGrand Cerf.
'With pleasure, monsieur. Permit me to introduce myself. I am the Chevalier d'Aubusson, lieutenant of M. de Sancy's company of ordonnance.'
I raised my hat in response; 'His Majesty has no braver word than M. de Sancy. At twelve then, monsieur, I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again; good night, or rather good morning!'
'Adieu!' he answered, 'I will be punctual. TheGrand Cerfis but a couple of hundred toises to your right.'
As I rode up the narrow and ill-paved street I heard d'Aubusson whistling a catch as he turned into the guard-room, and congratulated myself on my stratagem and the luck that had befriended it. I knew enough of court intrigue to be aware that de Sancy and the Marshal were at each other's throats, and that I could therefore always get protection here by declaring myself against Biron. Then came a short turn to the right, and Monsieur de Preaulx of the Anjoumois was at the door of theGrand Cerf. It opened to my knock, and Jacques, faithful knave, was in waiting. After this there followed the usual little delay and bustle consequent on a new arrival.
As I dismounted Jacques whispered in my ear, 'You are M. de Preaulx of Saumur in the Anjoumois, monsieur.'
'So M. d'Aubusson tells me,' I replied in the same tone, and then louder, 'but you might have made a mess of it, Jacques—however, you meant well, and I owe you five crowns for your good intentions. Now call mine host, and tell him to show me to my rooms whilst you see to the horses.'
Mine host was already there, in slippered feet, with a long candle in one hand and a cup of warmed Romanée in the other. He led the way with many bows, and I limped after him to a room which was large and comfortable enough.
'Here is some mulled Romanée for monsieur le baron,' he said, as he handed me the goblet; 'his lordship the count will observe that the best room has been kept for him, and later on I will have the pleasure of setting the finest dinner in France before the most noble marquis; good night, monseigneur, good night and good dreams,' and he tottered off, leaving me to drink the mulled wine, which was superb, and to sleep the sleep of the utterly weary.
It was late when I awoke and found Jacques in my room, attending to my things. The rest had done my leg good, although it was still stiff, and the wearing of a long boot painful. As I finished my toilet I asked my man,
'Horses ready?'
'They will be by the time Monsieur has dined. I shall put the valises on the nag we got at Evreux for you.'
'Right.Morbleu!I hear M. d'Aubusson below. It is very late.'
'It has just gone the dinner hour.'
I hurried downstairs, leaving Jacques to pack, and was only just in time to receive my guest.
'A hundred pardons, monsieur; but I overslept myself.'
''Tis a sleepy place,' he answered, 'there is nothing to do but to sleep.'
'Surely there is something to love.'
'Not a decent ankle under a petticoat.'
'At any rate we can eat. Come, sit you down. My ride has made me hungry as a wolf, and I have far to go.'
The dinner was excellent, the Armagnac of the finest vintage, and d'Aubusson to all appearances a gay frank-hearted fellow, and we became very friendly as the wine cup passed.
'Tell me what induced M. de Sancy to quarter his company here?' I asked towards the close of the meal, as the lieutenant was cursing his luck at being stationed at Rouvres.
He burst out laughing; 'Oh! M. de Sancy has a government and five thousand livres a year to maintain his company, and being a pious soul has enlisted all the saints, and keeps them as far as possible from the temptations of Paris.'
'Enlisted the saints!'
'Yes—this Armagnac is excellent—yes, the saints. Our gentlemen are all from heaven—there is St. Andre, St. Vincent, St. Martin, St. Blaise, St. Loy, St. Pol, and half the calendar besides!'
'Ha! ha! the heavenly host.'
'Oh! I am proud, I assure you. I command the company from Paradise.'
'Or the gendarmes of the Kyrielle.'
'Noel!Noel!' he called out gaily, and as he did so we heard a clatter of hoofs in the courtyard, and a few moments afterwards the landlord ushered in two gentlemen. It took me but a glance to recognise in one the Italian Zamet, and in the other the Chevalier Lafin. It cost me an effort to compose myself, so much was I startled; but I comforted myself with the assurance that I was unknown to them, and that an arrest would be no easy matter with Sancy's company at hand. Beyond bowing to us, however, as they passed, they took no further notice of me for the present, and contented themselves with ordering some wine, and conversing in low tones at the table at which they sat.
Nevertheless, it was a piece of ill luck. These men were evidently back on their way to Paris, and by coming through Rouvres had stumbled upon me in such a manner as to hold me at serious disadvantage. My one consolation was that Zamet did not look like a fighting man, and as for the other, there was an equal chance for each of us; but I had no idea what their force might be outside. It turned out that it was very small, and it was owing to this that the incident I am about to describe ended so peacefully. A look or two in our direction appeared to indicate that the new arrivals were discussing us, and my doubts were soon set at rest by a lackey entering and holding a brief whispered talk with Zamet. He dismissed the man quietly, and then bending forward said something to Lafin, and both, rising, approached us.
'Monsieur will pardon me,' said Zamet, addressing me with his lisping Italian accent, 'but I understand that you entered Rouvres late last night.'
'Yes,' I answered, whilst d'Aubusson raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair, twirling his moustache.
'Then would you be so kind as to inform me, if you came by the road from Anet, whether you met a wounded horseman riding this way?'
'Before I answer any questions, will you be good enough to tell me who you are, gentlemen?'
'I am Zamet, Comptroller of the King's household,' replied the Italian.
'And I the Chevalier de Lafin, nephew and heir to the Vidame de Chartres.'
'I see no reason to reply to your question, messieurs, even if you are the persons you name.'
Zamet smiled slightly, with a meaning look towards Lafin, who burst out:
'Have a care, monsieur, remember I follow the Marshal duc de Biron.'
'Of Burgundy and La Bresse,' I added with a sneer, rising from my seat, my hand on my sword hilt.
'It is he,' exclaimed the Italian, and Lafin, who saw my movement, stepped back half a pace, not from fear, but to gain room to draw his weapon.
'My dear lieutenant,' and I turned to d'Aubusson, 'you complain that this is a dull place. We shall now have some relaxation. These gentlemen want a question answered, and I say certainly—I suggest the garden as a suitable place for our conference. Will you do me the favour to look on?'
'That will be slower than ever for me. If you will allow me to join you?'
'Delighted. You are my guest, and it will make us exactly two to two. Now, gentlemen,' I will answer your question on the lawn.' Whilst we were speaking, some hurried words passed between Lafin and Zamet, and as I turned to them with my invitation the Italian answered:
'There was no offence meant, monsieur. We had business with the man from Anet,' he looked hard at me as he spoke, 'and at present we have not leisure to attend to you. We will, therefore, not intrude on you further. We but stay for a glass of wine, and then press onwards.'
'Hum!' exclaimed d'Aubusson, surveying him from head to bootheel, and then turning an equally contemptuous look at Lafin, 'you are very disobliging gentlemen.'
'This is not to be borne,' burst out Lafin. 'Come, sir——'
But Zamet again interposed.
'Diavolo!Chevalier, your courage is known. We will settle with these gentlemen another day—you forget. Will you risk all now? 'His companion put back his half-drawn sword with a curse and a snap, and, turning on his heel, went to the other end of the room, followed by Zamet. There they drank their wine and departed, and an hour later I also started. D'Aubusson insisted on accompanying me part of the way with a couple of his saints, and, as we approached the Paris gate, we observed a man riding slowly, a little ahead of us. 'I recognise the grey,' said Jacques, coming to my side. 'Monsieur, that is one of the three servants the two gentlemen who have gone before had with them.'
This small force accounted, as I have said, for the moderation Zamet had shown; but it flashed upon me that the lackey had been left behind for no other purpose than that of observing our route. Even if I was wrong in this surmise it was well to be prudent, and turning to d'Aubusson I said:
'Monsieur, I wish to be frank with you. It is true that I am bearing news to Paris which will be of the greatest service to the King; but my name is not de Preaulx.'
'I know that,' he said quietly, 'I am of the Anjoumois, and there is no such name there.'
'And you did not arrest me?'
'Why the devil should I? The land is at peace, and I have been Monsieur "I-Don't-Know-What" before now myself. Besides, you were in my hands at theGrand Cerf. You are in my hands now. But I wanted to know more, and when I saw that you were an object of M. Zamet's attentions I knew you were on our side.'
'Exactly so, and I owe you much for this. There is another favour I would ask.'
'And it is?'
'That you stop the man riding ahead of us until this evening.'
'As it will annoy Zamet, I shall do so with pleasure. I had half a mind to stop the shoemaker himself.'
With this allusion to Zamet's ignoble origin he turned and gave a short order to his men. As we came up to the gate the man before us slackened pace so as to let us pass, with the obvious intention, so I thought, of following me at his convenience. He had hardly pulled rein when the two saints closed in, one on each side of him, and in a trice he was in their hands. He protested violently, as might have been expected, but in vain, and we waited until he was well out of sight on his way to the guard-room.
At the gate we asked which way Zamet and his party had gone.
'By Tacoignieres, messieurs,' answered the sentinel.
'Then my way is by Septeuil,' I said. 'I owe you a long debt, M. d'Aubusson, and will repay. We shall meet again.'
'Pardieu!I hope so—and you dine with me at More's.'
'Or where you will—adieu.'
'A good journey.'
And with a parting wave of my hand I turned Couronne's head, and galloped off, followed by Jacques.
In the labyrinth of narrow streets, crooked roads, and blind alleys behind the Palais de Justice, where the houses are so crowded, that they seem to climb one over the other in their efforts to reach higher and higher in their search for air, is a small street called the Rue des Deux Mondes. It had this advantage—that it was wider than most of the other roads in that part of Paris, and opened out abruptly on to the river face, very nearly opposite the upper portion of the Pont Neuf, then under course of construction but not to be finished for some years later. At the corner of the street and overlooking the river, the Pont Neuf, the Passeur aux Vaches, with a glimpse of the Quai Malaquais and the mansions of the Faubourg St. Germain, was a house of moderate size kept and owned by a Maître Pantin, who was engaged nominally, in some legal business in the courts of the city. I say nominally, because he was in reality an agent of the Huguenot party, who, having contributed so largely to help the King to his own, were in reward restricted from the public exercise of their religion to a radius of thirty miles beyond Paris. This restriction did not, however, apply to Madame Catherine, the King's sister, now the Duchess de Bar, and a few of the great nobles such as Bouillon, de Guiche, de Pangeas, and one or two others, who had declined to follow the King's example and see the error of their religious ways, and who when in the capital were allowed to attend the princess' dailyprêchein the Louvre, a thing which exasperated all Paris, and induced Monseigneur the Archbishop de Gondy to make public protest to the King, and to come back very downcast with a carrot for his cabbage.
It was this house of Maître Pantin, it will be remembered, that had been recommended to me as a lodging by Palin, who told me of the owner's occupation, and when I demurred on account of my religious convictions, the Huguenot pointed out that I had to do things in Paris which required a safe retreat, and that he could vouch for the honesty and discretion of Pantin. I admitted that his arguments were reasonable, and resolved to take advantage of his recommendation.
We rode into Paris by the St. Germain's gate, and I was immediately struck by the aspect of gloom that the city wore. Most of the shops were indeed open, but there appeared to be no business doing, and instead of men hurrying backwards and forwards, the streets were filled with groups of people evidently engaged in discussing some affair of the utmost moment. Every third or fourth man wore a black scarf over his right arm, and the bells of the churches were tolling dismally for the dead. From St. Germain des Pres, from St. Severin, from the airy spire of Ste. Chapelle, they called out mournfully, and above them all, drowning the distant voices of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, St. Jacques de la Boucherie, St. Antoine, and others less known to fame, pealed out the solemn notes of the Bourdon of Nôtre Dame.
Near the Pré-aux-clercs, hundreds of long-robed students were assembled, and the windows of many of the great houses, including the Logis de Nevers, were hung with black. It was strange to see Paris, always so bright and gay, with this solemn air upon it. No notice was taken of us as we rode on, the knots of people merely moving aside to let us pass, and answering Jacques' cheerful 'good-day 'with a silent inclination of the head or a chill indifference.
'Pardieu, monsieur,' exclaimed Jacques, as we turned up the Rue de la Harpe, hard by the Hôtel de Cluny, 'one would think the King himself were dead, these gentry pull such long faces.' My servant's chance observation sent a sudden shock through me. What if Henry was dead! What if I had got only one thread of the plot that was weaving at Anet? I did not answer Jacques; but observing a Capuchin priest advancing in my direction, I reined in Couronne, and giving him the day, asked what it was that had befallen the city. He looked up at me in a slight surprise, and then, observing my travel-stained appearance, replied:
'I see you are a stranger, sir; but have you not heard the news—it should have gone far by this?'
'I have not, as you see—but what is it? Surely the King is not dead?'
'God forbid,' he answered, 'no, not the King; but she who in a few weeks would have been Queen of France.'
'The Duchesse de Beaufort?'
'Exactly.'
'I knew that; but you don't mean to say that the city is in mourning for the mistress of the King?'
He looked at me straight in the face, and stroked his white beard thoughtfully. He was a tall, a very tall, thin man, and his eyes, of the clearest blue, seemed to lighten with a strange light.
'No, my son, not for the mistress of the King, as you call her, but for the open hand and the generous heart, for the kindly soul that never turned from suffering or from sorrow, for Magdalen bountiful, and, let us hope, Magdalen repentant.'
'But——'
'Adieu, my son—think of what I have said. Is your own heart so pure that you can afford to cast a stone at the dead?' And without waiting for a further answer he went onwards. I turned and watched the tall, slim figure as it moved through the crowd, the people making way for him on every side as if he were a prince of the church.
But though he was slowly passing out of sight, he had left words behind him that were at their work. This was the woman whom I had openly-reviled as fallen and beyond the pale—had I any right to cast stones? For a moment I was lost in myself, when Jacques' voice cut into my thoughts.
'That must have been a cardinal at least, monsieur, though he does not look like the Cardinal du Perron, whom we heard preach at Rheims—I will ask,' and he inquired who the Capuchin was, of a man who had just come up.
'That is thepèreAnge, monsieur,' was the answer, and the man went on, leaving Jacques' thanks in the air.
ThepèreAnge. The name brought back a host of recollections to me as I shook up Couronne's reins and headed her towards the Pont St. Michel. I saw myself a boy again in the suite of Joyeuse, and remembered with what awe I used to gaze on the brilliant de Bouchage, his brother, who was a frequent visitor at Orleans. His splendid attire, his courtly air, the great deeds he had done were in all men's mouths. We youngsters, who saw him at a respectful distance, aped the cut of his cloak, the tilt of his sword, the cock of his plumed hat. If we only knew how he made love, we would have tried to do so in like manner; but for this each one of us had to find out a way of his own.
All at once it was rumoured that the chevalier had vanished, disappeared mysteriously, and that every trace of him was lost. There were men who whispered of the Chatelet, or, worse still, the Bastille; others who said the Seine was very deep near the mills by the Pont aux Meunniers; others who put together the sudden retreat from the court of the brilliant but infamous Madame de Sauves, the Rose of Guise, with the disappearance of de Bouchage, and shook their heads and winked knowingly. They were all wrong. Gradually the truth came out, and it became known that the polished courtier, the great soldier, and the splendid cavalier had thrown away the world as one would fling aside an old cloak, and buried himself in a cloister.
It was a ten days' wonder; then other things happened, and perhaps not one in ten thousand remembered, in the saintlypèreAnge, the once fiery prince of the house of Joyeuse.
I have mentioned this because of his reproof to me. Day by day my education was progressing, and I began to recognise that my virtue was pitiless, that I was too ready to judge harshly of others.PèreAnge's reproof was a lesson I meant to profit by; and now—to the abode of Maître Pantin.
Palin's directions were clear, and after crossing the Pont St. Michel, a wooden bridge, we kept to the south of Ste. Chapelle, and then, after many a twist and turn, found ourselves in the Rue des Deux Mondes, before the doors of Pantin's house.
The master himself answered my knock and stood in the doorway, a small, wizened figure, looking at us cautiously from grey eyes, shadowed by bushy white brows.
'Good-day, monsieur—what is it I can do for you?'
'You are Maître Pantin?'
'At your service.'
'And I am the Chevalier d'Auriac. I have come to Paris from Bidache on business, and need a lodging. Maître Palin has recommended me to you.'
'Enough, monsieur le chevalier. My friend Palin's name is sufficient, and I have need of clients, for the house is empty. If Monsieur's servant will lead the horses through that lane there, he will find an entrance to the stables—and will Monsieur step in and take a seat while I summon my wife—Annette! Annette!'
I limped in and sat down, escorted by expressions of compassion from Pantin, who mingled these with shouts for Annette. In a little time Madame Pantin appeared, and never have I seen so great a resemblance between husband and wife as between these two. There was the same small, shrivelled figure, the same clear-cut features, the same white eyebrows standing prominently out over the same grey eyes—their height, walk, and tone of voice even, was almost the same. Madame, however, had an eye to business, which her husband, although I understood him to be a notary, had not discovered to me, and whilst he went off to see, as he said, to the arrangements for the horses, Madame Annette struck a bargain with me for my lodging, which I closed with at once, as I was in sufficient funds to be a little extravagant. This matter being arranged by my instant agreement to her terms, she showed me to my rooms, which were on the second floor, and commanded a good view of the river face; and, pocketing a week's rental in advance, the old lady retired, after recommending me to an ordinary where the food was excellent and the Frontignac old.
I spent the remainder of the day doing nothing, going forth but to sup quietly at the Two Ecus, which I found fully upheld the good name Madame Pantin had given it, and returning early to my rooms.
Sitting in an easy chair at a window overlooking the Seine, I lost myself for a while in a dreamland of reverie. Let it be remembered that I was a man of action, who had been awakened by the love he bore for a woman to a sense of his own unfitness, and it will be realised how difficult it was for me to look into myself. I tried to tick off my failings in my mind, and found they were hydra-headed. There were some that I alone could not combat, and I hated myself for my want of moral strength. I had groped towards religion for aid, to the faith of my fathers; but there were doctrines and canons there that I could not reconcile with my inward conscience. I could not believe all I was asked to take on trust, and I felt I was insensibly turning towards the simpler faith of the Huguenot. But here, again, I was in troublous waters. I had got over the sinful pride that prevented me from approaching my God in humbleness, but I found that prayer, though it gave momentary relief, did not give permanent strength to resist, and a sort of spiritual despair fell upon me. Along with this was an unalterable longing to be near the woman I loved, to feel her presence about me, to know that she loved me as I loved her, and, in short, I would rather go ten times up to a battery of guns than feel over again the desolation and agony of spirit that was on me then. So I spent an hour or so in a state of hopeless mental confusion, and at last I cut it short by pulling myself up abruptly. Win or lose, I would follow the dictates of my conscience. If I could, I would win the woman I loved, and with God's help and her aid lead such a life as would bring us both to Him when we died. It was a quick, unspoken prayer that went up from me, and it brought back in a moment its comfort.
Jacques' coming into the room at this juncture was a relief. He lit the tall candles that stood in the grotesque bronze holders that projected from the wall, and then, drawing the curtains, inquired if I needed his services further that night.
'I don't think so, Jacques—but stay!'
'Monsieur.'
'How do we stand?'
'Oh, well enough, monsieur. Better really than for a long time. We have three horses and their equipment—although one of Monsieur's pistols is broken—and a full hundred and fifty crowns.'
'A perfect fortune—are you sure of the crowns?'
'As I am of being here, monsieur.'
'Well, then, there is something I want you to do, and attend with both ears.'
'Monsieur.'
'I want you to take the two horses we got at Evreux and fifty crowns, and go back to Ezy. Keep ten crowns for yourself and give forty to the smith and his daughter, and take them with you to Auriac. The forester's lodge is vacant—let them live there, or, if they like, there is room enough in the château. I will give you a letter to Bozon. He wants help, and these people will be of service to him. After you have done this, sell one of the horses—you may keep the proceeds, and come back to me. If I am not here you will get certain news of me, and can easily find me out—you follow?'
'Exactly.'
'Then when will you be prepared to start?'
'As soon as Monsieur le Chevalier is suited with another man as faithful as I.'
'Eh!'
'Sangdieu!monsieur, I shall never forget whatpèreMichel and the old steward Bozon said when I came home last without you. I believe if I were to do so again the good cure would excommunicate me, and Maître Bozon would have me flung into the bay to follow. If I were to go back and leave you alone in Paris anything might happen. No! no! My fathers have served Auriac for two hundred years, and it shall never be said that Jacques Bisson left the last of the old race to die alone—never!'
'My friend, you are mad—who the devil talks of dying?'
'Monsieur, I am not such a fool as perhaps I look. Do I not understand that Monsieur has an affair in hand which has more to do with a rapier than a ribbon? If not, why the night ride, why the broken pistol, and the blood-stained saddle of Couronne? If Monsieur had come to Paris in the ordinary way, we would have been at court, fluttering it as gaily as the rest, and cocking our bonnets with the best of them—instead of hiding here like a fox in his lair.'
'You are complimentary; but it is to help me I want you to do this.'
'The best help Monsieur can have is a true sword at his elbow—Monsieur will excuse me, but I will not go,' and, angry as his tone was, there were tears in the honest fellow's eyes. Of course I could have dismissed the man; but I knew him too well not to know that nothing short of killing him would rid me of him. Again I was more than touched by his fidelity. Nevertheless, I was determined to carry out my project of making up to Marie in some way for the death of Nicholas, and resolved to temporise with Jacques. There was no one else to send, and it would have to be my stout-hearted knave; but the business was to get him to go.
'Very well, Jacques; but remember, if I get other temporary help that you approve of you will have to go.'
'In that case, monsieur, it is different.'
'Then it must be your business to see to this, and now good night.'
'Good night, monsieur,' and he took himself off.
I had made up my mind to lay my information before Sully. That he was in Paris I knew, having obtained the information from Pantin, and it was my intention to repair the next day to the Hôtel de Béthune, and tell the minister all. The night was one of those in which sleep would not come, not because the place was a strange one—I was too old a campaigner to lose rest because the same feather pillow was not under my head every night—but because my thoughts kept me awake. What these were I have already described, and they were in force sufficient to banish all sleep until the small hours were well on, and I at last dropped off, with the solemn notes of the Bourdon ringing in my ears.
It was about ten o'clock the next morning that I mounted Couronne, and, followed by Jacques, well armed, took my way towards the Hôtel de Béthune. We found the Barillierie thronged with people on their way to St. Denis to witness the burial of Madame de Beaufort, and the Pont au Change was so crowded that we had to wait there for a full half-hour. At last we got across the bridge, on which in their eagerness for gain the money-changers had fixed their stalls, and pushed and struggled and fought over their business on each side of the narrow track they left for the public. Finally, we passed the grey walls of the Grand Chatelet, and turning to our right, past St. Jacques, the Place de Gréve, and the Hôtel de Ville, got into the Rue St. Antoine by a side street that ran from St. Gervais to the Baudets. Here we found the main street almost deserted, all Paris having crowded to the funeral, and a quarter-mile or so brought us to the gates of the Hôtel de Béthune.
Sully had just received the Master-Generalship of the Ordnance, and at his door was a guard of the regiment of La Ferte. I knew the blue uniforms with the white sashes well, and they had fought like fiends at Fontaine Française and Ham. The officer on guard very civilly told me that the minister did not receive that day, but on my insisting and pointing out that my business was of the utmost importance, he gave way with a shrug of his shoulders. 'Go on, monsieur le chevalier, but I can tell you it is of no use; however, that is a business you must settle with Ivoy, the duke's secretary.'
I thanked him, and, dismounting and flinging the reins to Jacques, passed up the courtyard and up the stone steps to the entrance door. Here I was met by the same statement, that Sully was unable to receive to-day; but, on my insisting, the secretary Ivoy appeared and asked me my name and business.
'I have given my name twice already, monsieur,' I answered. 'I am the Chevalier d'Auriac, and as for my business it is of vital import, and is for Monseigneur's ear alone—you will, therefore, excuse me if I decline to mention it to you.'
Ivoy bowed. 'It will come to me in its own good time, monsieur. Will you be seated? I will deliver your message to the duke; but I am afraid it will be of little use.'
'I take the risk. Monsieur d'Ivoy.'
'But not the rating, chevalier,' and the secretary, with a half-smile on his face, went out and left me to myself. In a few minutes he returned.
'The duke will see you, monsieur—this way, please.'
'Pardieu!' I muttered to myself as I followed Ivoy, 'he keeps as much state as if he were the chancellor himself. However, I have a relish for Monseigneur's soup.'
Ivoy led the way up a winding staircase of oak, so old that it was black as ebony, and polished as glass. At the end of this was a landing, where a couple of lackeys were lounging on a bench before a closed door. They sprang up at our approach, and Ivoy tapped gently at the door.
'Come in,' was the answer, given in a cold voice, and the next moment we were in the room.
'Monsieur le Chevalier d'Auriac,' and Ivoy had presented me.
Sully inclined his head frigidly to my bow, and then motioned to Ivoy to retire. When we were alone, he turned to me with a brief 'Well?'
'I have information of the utmost importance which I wish to lay before you.'
'I hear that ten times a day from people. Will your story take long to tell?'
'That depends.'
'Then be seated for a moment, whilst I write a note.'
I took the chair he pointed out, and he began to write rapidly. Whilst he was doing this I had a glance round the room. It was evidently the duke's working cabinet, and it bore everywhere the marks of the prim exactness of its master's character. There was no litter of papers on the table. The huge piles of correspondence on it were arranged neatly, one file above the other. All the books in the long shelves that lined the walls were numbered, the curtains were drawn back at exact angles to the curtain poles, the chairs were set squarely, there was not a thing out of place, not a speck of dust, not a blot on the brown leather writing-pad, on the polished walnut of the table before which Sully sat. On the wall opposite to him was a portrait of Madame de Sully. It was the only ornament in the room. The portrait itself showed a sprightly-looking woman with a laughing eye, and she looked down on her lord and master from the painted canvas with a merry smile on her slightly parted lips. As for the man himself, he sat squarely at his desk, writing rapidly with an even motion of his pen. He was plainly but richly dressed, without arms of any kind. His collar was ruffed in the English fashion, but worn with a droop, over which his long beard, now streaked with grey, fell almost to the middle of his breast. He was bald, and on each side of his high, wrinkled forehead there was a thin wisp of hair, brushed neatly back. His clear eyes looked out coldly, but not unkindly, from under the dark, arched eyebrows, and his short moustaches were carefully trimmed and twisted into two points that stuck out one on each side of his long straight nose. The mouth itself was small, and the lips were drawn together tightly, not, it seemed, naturally, but by a constant habit that had become second nature. It was as if there were two spirits in this man. One a genial influence that was held in bonds by the other, a cold, calculating, intellectual essence. Such was Maximilian de Béthune, Marquis de Rosny and Duc de Sully. He was not yet nominally chief minister. But it was well known that he was in the King's inmost secrets, and that there was no man who held more real power in the State than the Master-General of the Ordnance. As I finished my survey of him, he finished his despatch, and after folding and addressing it he turned it upside down and said to me:
'Now for your important news, monsieur. It must be very important to have broughtyouhere.'
'I do not understand?'
He looked at me, a keen inquiry in his glance. 'You do not understand?' he said.
'Indeed, no, monseigneur.'
'Hum! You are either deeper than I take you to be, or a born fool. Look, you, are you not Alban de Breuil, Sieur d'Auriac, who was lately in arms in the service of Spain against France as a rebel and a traitor?'
'I was on the side of the League.'
'Monsieur, the League died at Ivry——'
'But not for us.'
He made an impatient gesture. 'We won't discuss that. Are you not the man I refer to? Say yes or no.'
'I am d'Auriac—there is no other of my name—but no more a rebel or traitor than Messieurs de Guise, de Mayenne, and others. The King's Peace has pardoned us all. Why should I fear to come to you? I have come to do you a service, or rather the King a service.'
'Thank you. May I ask if you did not receive a warning at La Fère, and another at Bidache?'
'From M. d'Ayen—yes. Monseigneur, I refuse to believe what I heard.'
'And yet your name heads a list of half a dozen whom the King's Peace does not touch. One of my reasons for receiving you was to have you arrested.'
'It is a high honour, all this bother about a poor gentleman of Normandy, when Guise, de Mayenne, Epernon, and others keep their skins whole.'
'You have flown your hawk at too high a quarry, monsieur.'
'Then that painted ape, d'Ayen, told a true tale,' I burst out in uncontrollable anger. 'Monseigneur, do what you will to me. Remember that you help to the eternal dishonour of the King.'
The words hit him, and the blood flushed darkly under the pale olive of the man's cheek.
'Monsieur, you forget yourself.'
'It is not I, but you who do so—you who forget that your name is Béthune. Yes, touch that bell. I make no resistance. I presume it will be the Chatelet?'
His hand, half stretched towards the button of the call-bell before him, suddenly stayed itself.
'Were my temper as hasty as your tongue, monsieur, it would have been the Chatelet in half an hour.'
'Better that——' I began, but he interrupted me with a quick wave of his hand.
'Monsieur d'Auriac, a time will come when you will have reason to regret the words you have used towards me. I do not mean regret them in the place you have mentioned, but in your heart. In this business the honour of Béthune as well as the honour of the King is at stake. Do you think I am likely to throw my hazard like an infant?'
I was silent, but a dim ray of hope flickered up in my heart as I looked at the man before me, and felt, I know not why, in the glance of his eye, in the tone of the voice, in his very gestures, that here was one who had conquered himself, and who knew how to rule.
'Now, sir,' he went on, the animation in his tone dropping to a cold and frigid note, 'proceed with your tale.'
It was a thing easier ordered than done, but I managed it somehow, trying to be as brief as possible, without missing a point. Sully listened without a movement of his stern features, only his eyes seemed to harden like crystal as I spoke of Biron and Zamet. When I told what I heard of the death of Madame de Beaufort, he turned his head to the open window and kept it thus until I ended. When he looked back again at me, however, there was not a trace of emotion in his features, and his voice was as cold and measured as ever as he asked:
'And your reward for this news, chevalier?'
'Is not to be measured in pistoles, monseigneur.'
'I see; and is this all?'
His tone chilled me. 'It is all—no,' and with a sudden thought, 'give me twenty men, and in a week I put the traitors in your hands.'
He fairly laughed out. 'Corbœuf!Monsieur le chevalier, do you want to set France ablaze?'
'It seems, monseigneur, that the torch is held at Anet,' I answered a little sulkily.
'But not lighted yet; leave the dealing with that to me. And, monsieur, the King is at Fontainebleau, and for a month nothing can be done. And see here, monsieur, I can do nothing for you; you follow. At the end of a month go and see the King. Tell him your story, and, if he believes you, claim your reward. I will go so far as to promise that you will be received.'
All the little hope I had begun to gather fluttered away at these words like a scrap of paper cast in the wind. 'Monseigneur,' I said, and my voice sounded strangely even to my own ears, 'in a month it will be too late.'
'Leave that to me,' he answered. 'I have a reminder always before my eyes,' and he pointed through the open window in the direction of a house that towered above the others surrounding it.
'I do not follow,' I stammered.
'That is the Hôtel de Zamet,' he said grimly, and I thought I understood why he had turned to the window when I spoke of Madame de Beaufort's death.
I rose with a sigh I could barely repress: 'Then there is nothing for me to do but to wait?'
'You will not lose by doing so.'
'I thank you, monseigneur; but there is one little favour I ask.'
'And that is?'
'The King's Peace until I see the King.'
'You will be safer in the Chatelet, I assure you, but as you wish—stay, there is one thing. Not a word of your interview with me, even to the King.'
My hopes rose again. 'On my faith as a gentleman, I will not mention it.'
As I finished he struck his bell sharply twice, and Ivoy entered.
'Ivoy, do me the favour to conduct Monsieur d'Auriac to the gates yourself, and impress upon him the necessity of keeping to his lodging. The air of Paris out-of-doors is unhealthy at present. Good-day, monsieur.'
Ivoy bowed, with a slight upraising of his eyebrows, and we passed out. Going down the stairway, he said to me with a smile: 'I see you dine at home to-day, chevalier.'
'At the Two Ecus,' I answered, pretending not to understand his allusion, and he chuckled low to himself. At the gates I observed that the guards were doubled, and a whispered word passed between Ivoy and the officer in command. But of this also I took no notice, and, wishing them the day, rode back as I came.