Chicot knew he was safe in the city of Etampes, where he was under the protection of magistrates who would have arrested the officer immediately on his complaint. It was the knowledge of this which had induced the officer to stop his men from firing, and to abstain from pursuit. Therefore he retired with his soldiers, leaving the two dead men on the ground after laying their swords by them, that it might seem as though they had killed each other.
Chicot vainly searched for his former companions, and then determined to stay for a time in the city; and even, after watching the officer and his men leave the town, had the audacity to return to the inn. There he found the host, who had not recovered from his terror, and who watched him saddling his horse as though he had been a phantom, and never even asked him for his money.
Then he went and finished his night in the public room at another inn, among all the drinkers, who were far from thinking that this tall unknown, who looked so smiling and gracious, had just killed two men.
At break of day he started again, but a prey to anxiety, for although two attempts had failed, the third might be successful. He determined when he reached Orleans to send to the king to ask for an escort.
But as the road to Orleans was passed without accident, Chicot began to think again that it was needless, and that the king would lose his good opinion of him, and also that an escort would be a great trouble. He went on, therefore, but his fears began to return as evening advanced. All at once he heard behind him the galloping of horses, and turning round he counted seven cavaliers, of whom four had muskets on their shoulders. They gained rapidly on Chicot, who, seeing flight was hopeless, contented himself with making his horse move in zig-zags, so as to escape the balls which he expected every moment. He was right, for when they came about fifty feet from him, they fired, but thanks to his maneuver, all the balls missed him. He immediately abandoned the reins and let himself slip to the ground, taking the precaution to have his sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.
He came to the ground in such a position that his head was protected by the breast of his horse.
A cry of joy came from the troop, who, seeing him fall, believed him dead.
"I told you so," said a man, riding up, with a mask on his face; "you failed because you did not follow my orders. This time, here he is; search him, and if he moves, finish him."
Chicot was not a pious man, but at such a moment he remembered his God and murmured a fervent prayer.
Two men approached him sword in hand, and as he did not stir, came fearlessly forward; but instantly Chicot's dagger was in the throat of one, and his sword half buried in the side of the other.
"Ah! treason!" cried the chief, "he is not dead; charge your muskets."
"No, I am not dead," cried Chicot, attacking the speaker.
But two soldiers came to the rescue; Chicot turned and wounded one in the thigh.
"The muskets!" cried the chief.
"Before they are ready, you will be pierced through the heart," cried Chicot.
"Be firm, and I will aid you," cried a voice, which seemed to Chicot to come from heaven.
It was that of a fine young man, on a black horse. He had a pistol in each hand, and cried again to Chicot, "Stoop! morbleu, stoop!"
Chicot obeyed.
One pistol was fired, and a man rolled at Chicot's feet; then the second, and another man fell.
"Now we are two to two," cried Chicot; "generous young man, you take one, here is mine," and he rushed on the masked man, who defended himself as if used to arms.
The young man seized his opponent by the body, threw him down, and bound him with his belt. Chicot soon wounded his adversary, who was very corpulent, between the ribs; he fell, and Chicot, putting his foot on his sword to prevent him from using it, cut the strings of his mask.
"M. de Mayenne! ventre de biche, I thought so," said he.
The duke did not reply; he had fainted from the loss of blood and the weight of his fall. Chicot drew his dagger, and was about coolly to cut off his head, when his arm was seized by a grasp of iron, and a voice said:
"Stay! monsieur; one does not kill a fallen enemy."
"Young man," replied Chicot, "you have saved my life, and I thank you with all my heart; but accept a little lesson very useful in the time of moral degradation in which we live. When a man has been attacked three times in three days—when he has been each time in danger of death—when his enemies have, without provocation, fired four musket balls at him from behind—as they might have done to a mad dog—then, young man, he may do what I am about to do." And Chicot returned to his work.
But the young man stopped him again.
"You shall not do it, while I am here. You shall not shed more of that blood which is now issuing from the wound you hare already inflicted."
"Bah! do you know this wretch?"
"That wretch is M. le Duc de Mayenne, a prince equal in rank to many kings."
"All the more reason. And who are you?"
"He who has saved your life, monsieur."
"And who, if I do not deceive myself, brought me a letter from the king three days ago."
"Precisely."
"Then you are in the king's service?"
"I have that honor."
"And yet you save M. de Mayenne? Permit me to tell you, monsieur, that that is not being a good servant."
"I think differently."
"Well, perhaps you are right. What is your name?"
"Ernanton de Carmainges."
"Well, M. Ernanton, what are we to do with this great carcase?"
"I will watch over M. de Mayenne, monsieur."
"And his follower, who is listening there?"
"The poor devil hears nothing; I have bound him too tightly, and he has fainted."
"M. de Carmainges, you have saved my life to-day, but you endanger it furiously for the future."
"I do my duty to-day; God will provide for the future."
"As you please, then, and I confess I dislike killing a defenseless man. Adieu, monsieur. But first, I will choose one of these horses."
"Take mine; I know what it can do."
"Oh! that is too generous."
"I have not so much need as you have to go quickly."
Chicot made no more compliments, but got on Ernanton's horse and disappeared.
Ernanton remained on the field of battle, much embarrassed what to do with the two men, who would shortly open their eyes. As he deliberated, he saw a wagon coming along, drawn by two oxen, and driven by a peasant. Ernanton went to the man and told him that a combat had taken place between the Huguenots and Catholics, that four had been killed, but that two were still living. The peasant, although desperately frightened, aided Ernanton to place first M. de Mayenne and then the soldier in the wagon. The four bodies remained.
"Monsieur," said the peasant, "were they Catholics or Huguenots?"
"Huguenots," said Ernanton, who had seen the peasant cross himself in his first terror.
"In that case there will be no harm in my searching them, will there?"
"None," replied Ernanton, who thought it as well that the peasant should do it, as the first passer-by. The man did not wait to be told twice, but turned out their pockets. It seemed that he was far from disappointed, for his face looked smiling when he had finished the operation, and he drove on his oxen at their quickest pace, in order to reach his home with his treasure.
It was in the stable of this excellent Catholic, on a bed of straw, that M. de Mayenne recovered his consciousness. He opened his eyes, and looked at the men and the things surrounding him with a surprise easy to imagine. Ernanton immediately dismissed the peasant.
"Who are you, monsieur?" asked Mayenne.
Ernanton smiled.
"Do you not recognize me?" said he.
"Yes, I do now; you are he who came to the assistance of my enemy."
"Yes, but I am he who prevented your enemy from killing you."
"That must be true, since I live; unless, indeed, he thought me dead."
"He went away knowing you to be alive."
"Then he thought my wound mortal."
"I do not know; but had I not opposed him, he would have given you one which certainly would have been so."
"But then, monsieur, why did you aid him in killing my men?"
"Nothing more simple, monsieur; and I am astonished that a gentleman, as you seem to be, does not understand my conduct. Chance brought me on your road, and I saw several men attacking one; I defended the one, but when this brave man—for whoever he may be, he is brave—when he remained alone with you, and would have decided the victory by your death, then I interfered to save you."
"You know me, then?" said Mayenne, with a scrutinizing glance.
"I had no need to know you, monsieur; you were a wounded man, that was enough."
"Be frank; you knew me?"
"It is strange, monsieur, that you will not understand me. It seems to me that it is equally ignoble to kill a defenseless man, as six men to attack one."
"There may be reasons for all things."
Ernanton bowed, but did not reply.
"Did you not see," continued Mayenne, "that I fought sword to sword with that man?"
"It is true."
"Besides, he is my most mortal enemy."
"I believe it, for he said the same thing of you."
"Do you think me dangerously wounded?"
"I have examined your wound, monsieur, and I think that, although it is serious, you are in no danger of death. I believe the sword slipped along the ribs, and did not penetrate the breast. Breathe, and I think you will find no pain in the lungs."
"It is true; but my men?"
"Are dead, all but one."
"Are they left on the road?"
"Yes."
"Have they been searched?"
"The peasant whom you must have seen on opening your eyes, and who is your host, searched them."
"What did he find?"
"Some money."
"Any papers?"
"I think not."
"Ah!" said Mayenne, with evident satisfaction. "But the living man; where is he?"
"In the barn, close by."
"Bring him to me, monsieur; and if you are a man of honor, promise me to ask him no questions."
"I am not curious, monsieur; and I wish to know no more of this affair than I know already."
The duke looked at him uneasily.
"Monsieur," said Ernanton, "will you charge some one else with the commission you have just given me?"
"I was wrong, monsieur, I acknowledge it; have the kindness to render me the service I ask of you."
Five minutes after, the soldier entered the stable. He uttered a cry on seeing the duke; but he put his finger on his lip, and the man was silent.
"Monsieur," said Mayenne to Ernanton, "my gratitude to you will be eternal; and, doubtless, some day we shall meet under more favorable circumstances. May I ask to whom I have the honor of speaking?"
"I am the Vicomte Ernanton de Carmainges, monsieur."
"You were going to Beaugency?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then I have delayed you, and you cannot go on to-night."
"On the contrary, monsieur, I am about to start at once."—"For Beaugency?"
"No, for Paris," said Ernanton; "somewhat unwillingly."
The duke appeared astonished.
"Pardon," said he; "but it is strange that going to Beaugency, and being stopped by an unforeseen circumstance, you should return without fulfilling the end of your journey."
"Nothing is more simple, monsieur; I was going to a rendezvous for a particular time, which I have lost by coming here with you; therefore I return."
"Oh! monsieur, will you not stay here with me for two or three days? I will send this soldier to Paris for a surgeon, and I cannot remain here alone with these peasants, who are strangers to me."
"Then let the soldier remain with you, and I will send you a doctor."
"Do you know the name of my enemy?"
"No, monsieur."
"What! you saved his life, and he did not tell you his name?"
"I did not ask him."
"You did not ask him?"
"I have saved your life also, monsieur; have I asked you your name? But, in exchange, you both know mine."
"I see, monsieur, there is nothing to be learned from you; you are as discreet as brave."
"I observe that you say that in a reproachful manner; but, on the contrary, you ought to be reassured, for a man who is discreet with one person will be so with another."
"You are right! your hand, M. de Carmainges."
Ernanton did quietly as he was asked.
"You have blamed my conduct, monsieur," said Mayenne; "but I cannot justify myself without revealing important secrets."
"You defend yourself, monsieur, when I do not accuse."
"Well! I will only say that I am a gentleman of good rank, and able to be of use to you."
"Say no more, monsieur; thanks to the master whom I serve, I have no need of assistance from any one."
"Your master, who is he?"
"I have asked no questions, monsieur."
"It is true."
"Besides, your wound begins to inflame; I advise you to talk less."
"You are right; but I want my surgeon."
"I am returning to Paris, as I told you: give me his address."
"M. de Carmainges, give me your word of honor that if I intrust you with a letter it shall be given to the person to whom it is addressed."
"I give it, monsieur."
"I believe you; I am sure I may trust you. I must tell you a part of my secret. I belong to the guards of Madame de Montpensier."
"Oh! I did not know she had guards."
"In these troublous times, monsieur, every one guards himself as well as he can, and the house of Guise being a princely one—"
"I asked for no explanation, monsieur."
"Well, I had a mission to Amboise; when on the road I saw my enemy; you know the rest."—"Yes."
"Stopped by this wound, I must report to the duchesse the reason of my delay."
"Well?"
"Will you therefore put into her own hands the letter I am about to write?"
"I will seek for ink and paper."
"It is needless, my soldier will get my tablets."
He instructed the soldier to take them from his pocket, opened them by a spring, wrote some lines in pencil, and shut them again. It was impossible for any one who did not know the secret to open them without breaking them.
"Monsieur," said Ernanton, "in three days these tablets shall be delivered."
"Into her own hands?"
"Yes, monsieur."
The duke, exhausted by talking, and by the effort of writing the letter, sank back on his straw.
"Monsieur," said the soldier, in a tone little in harmony with his dress, "you bound me very tight, it is true, but I shall regard my chains as bonds of friendship, and will prove it to you some day."
And he held out a hand whose whiteness Ernanton had already remarked.
"So be it," said he, smiling; "it seems I have gained two friends."
"Do not despise them; one has never too many."
"That is true," said Ernanton; and he left them.
Ernanton arrived at Paris on the third day. At three in the afternoon he entered the Louvre, among his comrades. The Gascons called out in surprise at seeing him, and M. de Loignac looked gloomy, and signed to him to enter a little room, where he always gave his private audiences.
"This is nice behavior, monsieur," said he; "five days and nights absent; and you whom I thought so well of."
"Monsieur, I did what I was told to do."
"What were you told to do?"
"To follow M. de Mayenne, and I have followed him."
"For five days and nights?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then he has left Paris?"
"He left that same evening, and that seemed to me suspicious."
"You are right, monsieur, go on."
Ernanton related clearly and energetically all that had taken place. When Ernanton mentioned the letter:
"You have it, monsieur?" asked De Loignac.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Diable! that deserves attention; come with me, I beg of you."
Ernanton followed De Loignac to the courtyard of the Louvre. All was preparing for the king's going out, and M. d'Epernon was seeing two new horses tried, which had been sent from England, as a present from Elizabeth to Henri, and which were that day to be harnessed to the king's carriage for the first time.
De Loignac approached D'Epernon.
"Great news, M. le Duc," said he.
"What is it?" said D'Epernon, drawing to one side.
"M. de Carmainges has seen M. de Mayenne lying wounded in a village beyond Orleans."
"Wounded!"
"Yes, and more, he has written a letter to Madame de Montpensier, which M. de Carmainges has in his pocket."
"Oh! oh! send M. de Carmainges to me."
"Here he is," said De Loignac, signing to Ernanton to advance.
"Well, monsieur, it seems you have a letter from M. de Mayenne."
"Yes, monsieur."
"Addressed to Madame de Montpensier?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Give it to me," and the duke extended his hand.
"Pardon, monsieur, but did you ask me for the duke's letter?"
"Certainly."
"You do not know that this letter was confided to me."
"What matters that?"
"It matters much, monsieur; I passed my word to the duke to give it to Madame la Duchesse herself."
"Do you belong to the king, or M. de Mayenne?"
"To the king."
"Well! the king wishes to see the letter."
"Monsieur, you are not the king."
"I think you forget to whom you speak, M. de Carmainges."
"I remember perfectly, monsieur, and that is why I refuse."
"You refuse?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"M. de Carmainges, you forget your oath of fidelity."
"Monsieur, I have sworn fidelity only to one person, and that is the king; if he asks me for the letter, he must have it, but he is not here."
"M. de Carmainges," said the duke, growing very angry, "you are like the rest of the Gascons; blind in prosperity, your good fortune dazzles you, and the possession of a state secret is a weight too heavy for you to carry."
"The only thing I find heavy, monsieur, is the disgrace into which I seem likely to fall; not my fortune, which my refusal to obey you renders, I know, very precarious; but, no matter; I do what I ought to do, and no one, excepting the king, shall see this letter, but the person to whom it is addressed."
"De Loignac," cried D'Epernon, "place M. de Carmainges in arrest at once."
"It is certain that will prevent me from delivering the letter for a time, but once I come out—"
"If you never do come out?"
"I shall come out, monsieur; unless you have me assassinated. Yes, I shall come out, the walls are less strong than my will, and then—"
"Well?"
"I will speak to the king."
"To prison with him, and take away the letter," cried D'Epernon, beside himself with rage.
"No one shall touch it," cried Ernanton, starting back and drawing from his breast the tablet of M. de Mayenne, "for I will break it to pieces, since I can save it in no other way; M. de Mayenne will approve my conduct, and the king will pardon me."
The young man was about to execute his threat, when a touch arrested his arm. He turned and saw the king, who, coming down the staircase behind them, had heard the end of the discussion.
"What is the matter, gentlemen?" said he.
"Sire," cried D'Epernon, furiously, "this man, one of your Forty-five Guardsmen, of which he shall soon cease to form part, being sent by me to watch M. de Mayenne, in Paris, followed him to Orleans, and received from him a letter for Madame de Montpensier."
"You have received this letter?" asked the king of Ernanton.
"Yes, sire, but M. d'Epernon does not tell you under what circumstances."
"Well, where is this letter?"
"That is just the cause of the quarrel, sire. M. de Carmainges resolutely refuses to give it to me, and determines to carry it to its address."
Carmainges bent one knee before the king. "Sire," said he, "I am a poor gentleman, but a man of honor. I saved the life of your messenger, who was about to be assassinated by M. de Mayenne and six of his followers, for I arrived just in time to turn the fortune of the combat."
"And M. de Mayenne?"
"Was dangerously wounded."
"Well, after?"
"Your messenger, sire, who seemed to have a particular hatred of M. de Mayenne—"
The king smiled.
"Wished to kill his enemy; perhaps he had the right, but I thought that in my presence, whose sword belongs to your majesty, this vengeance became a political assassination, and—"
"Go on, monsieur."
"I saved the life of M. de Mayenne, as I had saved that of your messenger."
D'Epernon shrugged his shoulders with a scornful smile.
"Go on," said the king.
"M. de Mayenne, reduced to one companion, for the four others were killed, did not wish to separate from him, and, ignorant that I belonged to your majesty, confided to me a letter to his sister. I have this letter, sire, and here it is; I offer it to your majesty who has the right to dispose of it and of me. My honor is dear to me, sire, but I place it fearlessly in your hands."
Ernanton, so saying, held out the tablets to the king, who gently put them back.
"What did you say, D'Epernon?" said he; "M. de Carmainges is an honest man and a faithful servant?"
"What did I say, sire."
"Yes; I heard you pronounce the word 'prison.' Mordieu! on the contrary, when one meets a man like M. de Carmainges, it is reward we should speak of. A letter, duke, belongs only to the bearer and to the person to whom it is sent. You will deliver your letter, M. de Carmainges."
"But, sire," said D'Epernon, "think of what that letter may contain. Do not play at delicacy, when, perhaps, your majesty's life is concerned."
"You will deliver your letter, M. de Carmainges," said the king.
"Thanks, sire," said Carmainges, beginning to retire.
"Where do you take it?"
"To Madame la Duchesse de Montpensier, I believed I had had the honor of telling your majesty."
"I mean, to the Hotel Guise, St. Denis, or where?"
"I had no instructions on that subject, sire. I shall take the letter to the Hotel Guise, and there I shall learn where Madame de Montpensier is."
"And when you have found her?"
"I will deliver my letter."
"Just so. M. de Carmainges, have you promised anything else to M. de Mayenne than to deliver that letter to his sister?"
"No, sire."
"No secrecy as to the place where you find her?"—"No, sire."
"Then I will impose only one condition on you."
"I am your majesty's servant."
"Deliver your letter, and then come to me at Vincennes, where I shall be this evening."
"Yes, sire."
"And you will tell me where you found the duchesse?"
"I will, sire."
"I ask no other confidences; remember."
"Sire, I promise."
"What imprudence, sire!" cried D'Epernon.
"There are men you cannot understand, duke. This one is loyal to Mayenne, he will be loyal to me."
"Toward you, sire, I shall be more than loyal—I shall be devoted," cried Ernanton.
"Now, D'Epernon, no more quarrels," said the king; "and you must at once pardon in this brave fellow what you looked upon as a want of loyalty, but which I regard as a proof of honesty."
"Sire," said Ernanton, "M. le Duc is too superior a man not to have discovered, through my disobedience (for which I confess my regret), my respect for him; only, before all things, I must do what I believe to be my duty."
"Parfandious!" said the duke, changing his expression like a mask, "this trial has done you honor, my dear Carmainges, and you are really a fine fellow—is he not, De Loignac? However, we gave him a good fright;" and the duke burst out laughing.
De Loignac did not answer; he could not lie like his illustrious chief.
"If it was a trial, so much the better," said the king, doubtfully; "but I counsel you not to try these experiments often; too many people would give way under them. Now, let us go, duke; you accompany me?"
"It was your majesty's order that I should ride by the door?"
"Yes; and who goes the other side?"
"A devoted servant of your majesty's, M. de St. Maline," said D'Epernon, glancing at Ernanton to see the effect of his words: but Ernanton remained unmoved.
The king, however, on seeing his horses, did not wish to be alone in the carriage, but desired D'Epernon to sit by him. De Loignac and St. Maline rode on each side, and an outrider in front. The king was, as usual, surrounded by dogs, and there was also a table in the carriage, covered with illuminated pictures, which the king cut out with wonderful skill, in spite of the movement of the carriage. He was just then occupied with the life of Magdalene, the sinner. The different pictures were labeled "Magdalene gives way to the sin of anger"—"Magdalene gives way to the sin of gluttony," and so on through the seven cardinal sins. The one that the king was occupied with, as they passed through the Porte St. Antoine, represented Magdalene giving way to anger.
The beautiful sinner, half-lying on cushions, and with no other covering than the magnificent hair with which she was afterward to wipe the feet of Jesus, was having a slave, who had broken a precious vase, thrown into a pond filled with lampreys, whose eager heads were protruding from the water: while on the other side, a woman, even less dressed than her mistress, as her hair was bound up, was being flogged, because she had, while dressing her mistress's head, pulled out some of those magnificent hairs, whose profusion might have rendered her more indulgent to such a fault. In the background were visible some dogs being whipped for having allowed beggars to pass quietly, and some cocks being murdered for having crowed too loudly in the morning.
On arriving at the Croix-Faubin, the king had finished this figure, and was passing to "Magdalene giving way to the sin of gluttony."
This represented a beautiful woman lying on one of those beds of purple and gold on which the ancients used to take their repasts; all that the Romans had most recherche in meat, in fish, and in fruit, dormice in honey, red mullets, lobsters from Stromboli, and pomegranates from Sicily, ornamented the table, while on the ground some dogs were disputing for a pheasant, while the air was full of birds, which had carried off from the table, figs, strawberries, and cherries. Magdalene held in her hand, filled with white liquor, one of those singularly-shaped glasses which Petronius has described in his feasts.
Fully occupied with this important work, the king merely raised his eyes as they passed by the convent of the Jacobins, from which vespers was sounding on every bell, and of which every window and door was closed.
But a hundred steps further on, an attentive observer would have seen him throw a more curious glance on a fine-looking house on his left, which, built in the midst of a charming garden, opened on the road. This house was called Bel-Esbat, and, unlike the convent, had every window open with the exception of one, before which hung a blind. As the king passed, this blind moved perceptibly; Henri smiled at D'Epernon, and then fell to work on another picture. This was the sin of luxury. The artist had represented this in such glowing colors, and had painted the sin with so much courage and minuteness, that we can only describe a small part of it, viz.:—that Magdalene's guardian angel was flying back to heaven affrighted, and hiding his face in his hands. All this occupied the king so much, that he never noticed an image of vanity who rode by his carriage. It was a pity; for St. Maline was very happy and proud on his horse, as he rode so near that he could hear the king say to his dog, "Gently, M. Love, you get in my way;" or to M. le Duc d'Epernon, "Duke, I believe these horses will break my neck." From time to time, however, St. Maline glanced at De Loignac, who was too much accustomed to these honors not to be indifferent to them; and he could not but feel the superiority of his calm and modest demeanor, and even would try to imitate, for a few minutes, until the thought would recur again, "I am seen and looked at, and people say, 'Who is that happy gentleman who accompanies the king?'" St. Maline's happiness seemed likely to last for a long time, for the horses, covered with harness heavy with gold and embroidery, and imprisoned in shafts like those of David's ark, did not advance rapidly. But as he was growing too proud, something peculiarly annoying to him came to temper it down; he heard the king pronounce the name of Ernanton, and not once, but two or three times. St. Maline strained his attention to hear more, but some noise or movement always prevented him. Either the king uttered some exclamation of regret at an unlucky cut of the scissors, or one of the dogs began to bark. So that between Paris and Vincennes, the name of Ernanton had been pronounced six times by the king, and four times by D'Epernon, without St. Maline's knowing the reason. He persuaded himself that the king was merely inquiring the cause of Ernanton's disappearance, and that D'Epernon was explaining it. At last they arrived at Vincennes, and as the king had still three sins to cut out, he went at once to his own room to finish them. It was a bitterly cold day, therefore St. Maline sat down in a chimney corner to warm himself, and was nearly falling asleep, when De Loignac put his hand on his shoulder.
"You must work to-day," said he; "you shall sleep some other day; so get up, M. de St. Maline."
"I will not sleep for a fortnight, if necessary, monsieur."
"Oh! we shall not be so exacting as that."—"What must I do, monsieur?"
"Get on your horse and return to Paris."
"I am ready; my horse is standing saddled."
"Good; go then straight to the room of the Forty-five, and awaken every one; but excepting three, whom I will name to you, no one must know where he is going, nor what he is about to do."
"I will obey these instructions implicitly."
"Here then are some more; leave fourteen of these gentlemen at the Porte St. Antoine, fifteen others half way, and bring the rest here."
"Yes, monsieur; but at what hour must we leave Paris?"
"When night falls."
"On horseback or on foot?"
"On horseback."
"Armed?"
"Fully; with daggers, pistols, and swords."
"With armor?"
"Yes."
"What else?"
"Here are three letters; one for M. de Chalabre, one for M. de Biron, and one for yourself. M. de Chalabre will command the first party, M. de Biron the second, and yourself the third."
"Good, monsieur."
"These letters are only to be opened at six o'clock. M. de Chalabre will open his at the Porte St. Antoine, M. de Biron his at the Croix Faubin, and you yours on your return."
"Must we come quickly?"
"As quickly as possible, without creating suspicion. Let each troop come out of Paris by a different gate; M. de Chalabre by the Porte Bourdelle; M. de Biron by the Porte du Temple, and you through the Porte St. Antoine. All other instructions are in the letters. Go quickly from here to the Croix Faubin, but then slowly; you have still two hours before dark, which is more than necessary. Now do you well understand your orders?"
"Perfectly, monsieur."
"Fourteen in the first troop, fifteen in the second, and fifteen in the third; it is evident they do not count Ernanton, and that he no longer forms part of the Forty-five," said St. Maline to himself when De Loignac was gone.
He fulfilled all his directions punctually. When he arrived among the Forty-five, the greater number of them were already preparing for their supper. Thus the noble Lardille de Chavantrade had prepared a dish of mutton stewed with carrots and spices, after the method of Gascony, to which Militor had occasionally aided by trying the pieces of meat and vegetable with a fork.
Pertinax de Montcrabeau, and the singular servant who spoke to him so familiarly, were preparing supper for themselves and six companions, who had each contributed six sous toward it; each one, in fact, was disposing according to his fancy of the money of his majesty Henri III. One might judge of the character of each man by the aspect of his little lodging. Some loved flowers, and displayed on their window-sills some fading rose or geranium; others had, like the king, a taste for pictures; others had introduced a niece or housekeeper; and M. d'Epernon had told M. de Loignac privately to shut his eyes on these things. At eight o'clock in winter, and ten in summer, they went to bed; but always leaving fifteen on guard. As, however, it was but half-past five when St. Maline entered, he found every one about, and, as we said, gastronomically inclined. But with one word he put an end to all this: "To horse, gentlemen," said he; and leaving them without another word, went to explain his orders to MM. de Biron and Chalabre. Some, while buckling on their belts and grasping their cuirasses, ate great mouthfuls, washed down by a draught of wine; and others, whose supper was less advanced, armed themselves with resignation. They called over the names, and only forty-four, including St. Maline, answered.
"M. Ernanton de Carmainges is missing," said De Chalabre, whose turn it was to exercise these functions. A profound joy filled the heart of St. Maline, and a smile played on his lips, a rare thing with this somber and envious man.
The forty-four therefore set off on their different routes.
It is needless to say that Ernanton, whom St. Maline thought ruined, was, on the contrary, pursuing the course of his unexpected and ascending fortunes. He had, of course, gone first to the Hotel Guise. There, after having knocked at the great door and had it opened, he was only laughed at when he asked for an interview with the duchess. Then, as he insisted, they told him that he ought to know that her highness lived at Soissons and not at Paris. Ernanton was prepared for this reception, so it did not discourage him.
"I am grieved at her highness's absence," said he, "for I had a communication of great importance to deliver to her from the Duc de Mayenne."
"From the Duc de Mayenne! Who charged you to deliver it?"
"The duke himself."
"The duke! and where, pray? for he is not at Paris either!"
"I know that, as I met him on the road to Blois."
"On the road to Blois?" said the porter, a little more attentive.
"Yes, and he there charged me with a message for Madame de Montpensier."
"A message?"
"A letter."—"Where is it?"
"Here," said Ernanton, striking his doublet.
"Will you let me see it?"
"Willingly." And Ernanton drew out the letter.
"What singular ink!" said the man.
"It is blood," said Ernanton, calmly.
The porter grew pale at these words, and at the idea that this blood belonged to M. de Mayenne. At this time, when there was great dearth of ink and abundance of blood spilled, it was not uncommon for lovers to write to their mistresses, or absent relations to their families, in this liquid.
"Monsieur," said the servant, "I do not know if you will find Madame de Montpensier in Paris or its environs; but go to a house in the Faubourg St. Antoine, called Bel-Esbat, which belongs to the duchesse; it is the first on the left hand going to Vincennes, after the convent of the Jacobins. You will be sure to find some one there in the service of the duchesse sufficiently in her confidence to be able to tell you where Madame la Duchesse is just now."
"Thank you," said Ernanton, who saw that the man either could or would say no more.
He found Bel-Esbat easily, and without more inquiries, rang, and the door opened.
"Enter," said a man, who then seemed to wait for some password, but as Ernanton did not give any, he asked him what he wanted.
"I wish to speak to Madame la Duchesse de Montpensier."
"And why do you come here for her?"
"Because the porter at the Hotel Guise sent me here."
"Madame la Duchesse is not here."
"That is unlucky, as it will prevent me from fulfilling the mission with which M. de Mayenne charged me."
"For Madame la Duchesse?"
"Yes."
"From M. le Duc de Mayenne?"
"Yes."
The valet reflected a moment. "Monsieur," said he, "I cannot answer; there is some one else whom I must consult. Please to wait."
"These people are well served," thought Ernanton. "Certainly, they must be dangerous people who think it necessary to hide themselves in this manner. One cannot enter a house of the Guises as you can the Louvre. I begin to think that it is not the true king of France whom I serve."
He looked round him; the courtyard was deserted, but all the doors of the stables were open, as if they expected some troop to enter and take up their quarters. He was interrupted by the return of the valet, followed by another.
"Leave me your horse, monsieur," said he, "and follow my comrade; you will find some one who can answer you much better than I can."
Ernanton followed the valet, and was shown into a little room, where a simply though elegantly dressed lady was seated at an embroidery frame.
"Here is the gentleman from M. de Mayenne, madame," said the servant.
She turned, and Ernanton uttered a cry of surprise.
"You, madame!" cried he, recognizing at once his page and the lady of the litter.
"You!" cried the lady in her turn, letting her work drop, and looking at Ernanton.
"Leave us," said she to the valet.
"You are of the household of Madame de Montpensier, madame?" said Ernanton.
"Yes; but you, monsieur, how do you bring here a message from the Duc de Mayenne?"
"Through unforeseen circumstances, which it would take too long to repeat," replied Ernanton, cautiously.
"Oh! you are discreet, monsieur," said the lady, smiling.
"Yes, madame, whenever it is right to be so."
"But I see no occasion for your discretion here; for, if you really bring a message from the person you say—Oh! do not look angry; if you really do, I say, it interests me sufficiently that, in remembrance of our acquaintance, short though it was, you should tell it to me."
The lady threw into these words all the caressing and seductive grace that a pretty woman can.
"Madame," replied Ernanton, "you cannot make me tell what I do not know."
"And still less what you will not tell."
"Madame, all my mission consists in delivering a letter to her highness."
"Well, then, give me the letter," said the lady, holding out her hand.
"Madame, I believed I had had the honor of telling you that this letter was addressed to the duchesse."
"But, as the duchesse is absent, and I represent her here, you may—"
"I cannot, madame."
"You distrust me, monsieur?"
"I ought to do so, madame; but," said the young man, with an expression there was no mistaking, "in spite of the mystery of your conduct, you have inspired me, I confess, with very different sentiments."
"Really," said the lady, coloring a little under Ernanton's ardent gaze.
Ernanton bowed.
"Take care, monsieur," said she, laughing, "you are making a declaration of love."
"Yes, madame; I do not know if I may ever see you again, and the opportunity is too precious for me to let it slip."
"Then, monsieur, I understand."
"That I love you, madame; that is easy to understand."
"No, but how you came here."
"Ah, pardon, madame, but now it is I who do not understand."
"I think that, wishing to see me again, you invented a pretext to get in."
"I, madame! you judge me ill. I was ignorant if I should ever see you again, and I hoped only from chance, which already had twice thrown me in your way; but invent a pretext I could never do. I am strange, perhaps; I do not think like all the world."
"Oh! you say you are in love, and you have scruples as to the manner of introducing yourself again to her you love. It is very fine, monsieur, but I partly guessed it."
"How, madame, if you please?"
"The other day you met me; I was in a litter, you recognized me, and you did not follow me."
"Madame, you are confessing you paid some attention to me."
"And why not? Surely the way in which we first met justified my putting my head out of my litter to look after you when you passed. But you galloped away, after uttering an 'Ah!' which made me tremble in my litter."
"I was forced to go away, madame."
"By your scruples?"
"No, madame, by my duty."
"Well!" said the lady, laughing, "I see that you are a reasonable, circumspect lover, who, above all things, fears to compromise himself."
"If you had inspired me with certain fears, there would be nothing astonishing in it. Is it customary that a woman should dress as a man, force the barriers, and come to see an unfortunate wretch drawn to pieces, using meanwhile all sorts of gesticulations perfectly incomprehensible?"
The lady grew rather pale, although she tried to smile.
Ernanton went on. "Is it natural also that this lady, after this strange announcement, fearful of being arrested, should fly as though she were a thief, although she is in the service of Madame de Montpensier, a powerful princess, although not much in favor at court?"
This time the lady smiled again, but ironically.
"You are not clear-sighted, monsieur, in spite of your pretension to be an observer: for, with a little sense, all that seems obscure to you would have been explained. Was it not very natural that Madame de Montpensier should be interested in the fate of M. de Salcede, in what he might be tempted to say, what true or false revelations he might utter to compromise the house of Lorraine? And if that was natural, monsieur, was it not also so, that this princess should send some one, some safe, intimate friend, to be present at the execution, and bring her all the details? Well, monsieur, this person was I. Now, do you think I could go in my woman's dress? Do you think I could remain indifferent to what was going on?"
"You are right, madame; and now I admire as much your logic and talent as I did before your beauty."
"Thank you, monsieur. And now that we know each other, and that everything is explained, give me the letter, since it does exist."
"Impossible, madame."
The unknown seemed trying not to grow angry. "Impossible?" repeated she.
"Yes, impossible; for I swore to M. de Mayenne to deliver it only to the duchesse herself."
"Say, rather," cried the lady, giving way to her irritation, "that you have no letter; that, in spite of your pretended scruples, it was a mere pretext for getting in here; that you wished to see me again, and that was all. Well, monsieur, you are satisfied; not only you have effected your entrance, but you have seen me, and have told me you adore me."
"In that, as in all the rest, I have told you truth, madame."
"Well, so be it, you adore me; you wished to see me, and you have seen me. I have procured you a pleasure in return for a service. We are quits. Adieu!"
"I will obey you, madame; since you send me away, I will go."
"Yes," cried she, now really angry, "but if you know me, I do not know you. You have too much advantage over me. Ah! you think you can enter, on some pretext, into the house of a princess, and go away and say, 'I succeeded in my perfidy.' Ah! monsieur, that is not the behavior of a gallant man."
"It seems to me, madame, that you are very hard on what would have been, after all, only a trick of love, if it had not been, as I have already told you, an affair of the greatest importance. I put aside all your injurious expressions, and I will forget all I might have said, affectionate or tender, since you are so badly disposed toward me. But I will not go out from here under the weight of your unworthy suspicions. I have a letter from the duke for Madame de Montpensier, and here it is; you can see the handwriting and the address."
Ernanton held out the letter to the lady, but without leaving go of it.
She cast her eyes on it, and cried, "His writing! Blood!"
Without replying, Ernanton put the letter back in his pocket, bowed low, and, very pale and bitterly hurt, turned to go. But she ran after him, and caught him by the skirt of his cloak.
"What is it, madame?" said he.
"For pity's sake, pardon me; has any accident happened to the duke?"
"You ask me to pardon you, only that you may read this letter, and I have already told you that no one shall read it but the duchesse."
"Ah! obstinate and stupid that you are," cried the duchess, with a fury mingled with majesty; "do you not recognize me?—or rather, could you not divine that I was the mistress?—and are these the eyes of a servant? I am the Duchesse de Montpensier; give me the letter."
"You are the duchesse!" cried Ernanton, starting back.
"Yes, I am. Give it to me; I want to know what has happened to my brother."
But instead of obeying, as the duchess expected, the young man, recovering from his first surprise, crossed his arms.
"How can I believe you, when you have already lied to me twice?"
The duchess's eyes shot forth fire at these words, but Ernanton stood firm.
"Ah! you doubt still—you want proofs!" cried she, tearing her lace ruffles with rage.
"Yes, madame."
She darted toward the bell, and rang it furiously; a valet appeared.
"What does madame want?" said he.
She stamped her foot with rage. "Mayneville!" cried she, "I want Mayneville. Is he not here?"
"Yes, madame."
"Let him come here."
The valet went, and, a minute after, Mayneville entered.
"Did you send for me, madame?" said he.
"Madame! And since when am I simply madame?" cried she angrily.
"Your highness!" said Mayneville, in surprise.
"Good!" said Ernanton, "I have now a gentleman before me, and if he has lied, I shall know what to do."
"You believe then, at last?" said the duchess.
"Yes, madame, I believe, and here is the letter;" and, bowing, the young man gave to Madame de Montpensier the letter so long disputed.