CHAPTER XIXTHE PRIORY OF THE JACOBINS
Itwas true then, and my worst suspicions were confirmed. Out of Marie’s own lips was she convicted twice over, and had I been struck across the face with her riding-whip, the sting, the smart, would have been nothing to the intolerable pain her words inflicted upon me. I lost all power of reason. All power of thought left me. For a space my mind seemed numbed and paralyzed. I looked dully around on the purple haze, and the still, silent trees, listening, I know not why, to the beat of her horse’s hoofs, as the sound grew fainter and more faint, until at last it died away in the distance. I might have stood there for a half-hour, with a mind in which all things were blurred and dark, save for that one thought of revenge, burning like an evil star through the chaos of gloom in my soul. At last, with a bitter oath, I remounted and rode back to Orleans, giving my horse his head and the spur, seeking in his speed some relief for the torment in my mind; essaying, in short, to perform the impossible, and to flee from myself.
To this day I have no recollection of how I passed the city gates, of when and where my horseslackened pace, and I only realized that I had come back when the beast stopped of his own accord under the snarling lions over Cipierre’s gates.
When I entered the hall I found the Vicomte there, pacing backward and forward with a disturbed and anxious air. He almost started as he saw me, and asked in a breath:
“Has anything happened? You are as white as a ghost—where is Jean?”
In my heart I cursed my tell-tale face, but answered calmly enough:
“Nothing has happened. Marcilly is with our man, as far as I know.”
“And you did not stay?”
“I had other work. I escorted Madame de Marcilly to St. Loup. She is now with the Princess.”
“Oh! They have made a mess of things,” he burst out. “I am certain that Catherine knows where the Princess is, and at the first check will hand her over to the Philistines.”
“But there has been no hitch up to now?”
“Mordieu!Do you know that this morning we were within an ace of losing our heads?”
“Indeed! What happened?”
“There was a council this morning, a hurried, sudden council, to consider the Constable’s move. The Guise was not there. He refrained from coming; but that Red Phalaris, the Cardinal, urged the hastening of his bloody design.”
“The execution of Condé?”
“Yes. He and his creatures wanted it done atonce. Sancerre and myself protested. He then threatened us with a like fate. There was a stormy scene; but the Chancellor stood firm. My God! He is the one honest man in France! A Prince of the blood was not to be dragged to death like a common malefactor, he said, in flatly refusing to affix the great seal to the decree. Then the Cardinal played another card. The safety of the kingdom was above the law—that was the point he pressed, and I believe he would have won, but for the sudden news that the King had been taken with a seizure, and commanded the instant presence of Catherine and the Chancellor.”
“A move of the Medicis to delay things.”
“Perhaps so, perhaps not; but it has given us breathing space. The Council is adjourned until to-morrow afternoon. As he left Charles of Lorraine turned to Sancerre and myself, saying that to-morrow he would produce such evidence that, seal or no seal, the Prince would die,” and he added, with his sinister smile, “in company too.”
I thought of my compact with Achon, but merely said:
“So they want another Amboise.”
“But we will balk them yet, I hope. I have sent a trusty messenger to the Constable urging him on no account to delay, and Sancerre has fled.”
“Sancerre gone!”
“Yes; an old fox knows how to guard his brush, and we both had warning enough.”
“But you, monsieur,” I asked, “do you stay or go?”
He looked up at me, for all the world like an old boar at bay, and laughed harshly.
“I—go! No! If it comes to the worst I have sixty tried men at my back. This house is strong and amply provisioned, and if I have to die, it shall be sword in hand on my own hearth.”
As he finished the bell in the courtyard clanged out the hour. It was already seven. Cipierre spoke again at the last stroke.
“I am going my rounds. Will you come with me?”
I, however, excused myself, and waited until I heard him ride out with his guards. Then summoning Badehorn, I gave him a short note to Marcilly, informing him briefly that his wife had reached St. Loup.
“Give this to Monsieur le Comte yourself, and say that I will be late to-night. And, Badehorn, when you have done this, ride straight to the Château de St. Loup and await me there.”
“Monsieur!” and I was once more alone. I had still a little time on my hands before the hour of my tryst with Richelieu fell due. I went to my room, changed my attire, and then made a pass or two at the grotesque head of a griffin in the corner of the mantel-piece of my chamber.
I was curious to see if I still remembered Touchet’s favorite thrust, and I found I had not forgotten the master’s teaching. The movement came as cleanly, as easily as in the days when I was wont to practise it for hours together before a mirror, until even I myself could not see the swift turn of my wrist or the point of my blade; and I laughed a little in my heart as I thought of this, and of yet another advantage that I had—I was a left-handed man.
Then, taking my hat and cloak, I went out on foot to find the sign of the Red Rabbit. I inquired, of course, for the Jacobin priory, for twenty would know that for one who might even be aware of the existence of the tavern. I found my information readily enough, and a little past eight was before the priory, which rose into the clear night grim and dark behind its high, spiked boundary walls. Except where one faint ray of light glimmered through a narrow window, making a pale green streak on the screen of ivy around it, the façade was in total darkness; but I could see little from where I stood, except the upper portion of the building, which was set far back in what appeared to be a large garden—the surrounding wall shutting out all further view. I remained for a moment looking at the vast irregular outline of the priory, here white in the flood of the moonlight, there in deep, almost solid, shadow, and, but for that faint light playing upon the ivy, one might have thoughtthat the black-robed brethren had fled, leaving their home to the bat, the owl, and the spectral things of the night.
The road in which I stood was long and narrow. On one side, almost for its whole length, extended the gray line of the priory wall. On the other hand, a jagged row of irregularly built houses crowded one above the other, their gables sharper, their pentice roofs sloping more steeply than ever in the weird moonlight. Not a soul was to be seen, and the sound of my own footfalls came to me with sullen echoes, as, loosening my sword in its sheath, I proceeded in search of the inn, looking well to the right and left, for if ever a place had “cut-throat” written large over it, this was the spot. At last I saw a lamp burning before me, and coming up to it, became aware that I had reached my destination, for beneath the light swung a white sign-board, with a red rabbit painted thereon. The road, too, came to a dead end here, and before me rose the crenellated city walls, cutting off all further progress; while beyond, no doubt, was the river. I crossed over to the other side and found the little door Richelieu had described, almost where the priory wall joined on to the ramparts of Orleans. Then, having some time to wait ere it struck nine, and as it was useless hanging about the deserted street like a prowling cat, I entered the inn.
The room was comfortable enough; a cheerful fire was burning. There were tables, benches, andchairs, and a couple of lanterns gave sufficient light; but there was not a soul within.
“Strange!” I thought to myself. “Is the place plague-smitten?” Then I called out, and from behind a buffet, where he had been sleeping, a man rose, and said civilly enough:
“Good evening, monsieur! I did not expect you so soon.”
“Diable!You know me!”
The host, for it was he, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “It is simple; Monsieur de Richelieu said that a friend of his would be here to-night, and I made a guess.”
“A shrewd one, too.” I wondered to myself what Richelieu meant, and if I was the person expected. Then looking around me, I remarked: “Your house does not hum with business, my friend.”
“It hums enough for me. Messieurs of the Carabiniers reserve it entirely for themselves and their friends.”
“What! And you refuse all others?”
“Oh, no, monsieur! But it is bad for the others when messieurs are here.”
“I see. Are none of your friends here to-night?”
“Oh! They will come later, about ten o’clock or so.”
“Tiens!They are late birds,” and, wishing to end the conversation, I ordered some food and a bottle of Vouvray; then, taking my place near the fire, I sat down to my supper. Mine hosttried once or twice to draw me into further talk; but finding his efforts useless, left me to my own devices, and returned to his slumbers.
I ate but little, but sipped my wine and began to brood once more over my wrongs, and the sullen anger within me again blazed up fiercely. I thought of Marie, but it was no longer with love. For her sake I had cast aside all that a man holds dear. She had made me dance like a marionette for her amusement, and then—dismissed me with a few cutting words, careless whether she killed my soul or not. Such a thing was a monster, unfit to live, a scourge that it would be righteous to destroy; and—God forgive me! I had sunk so low then that I was prepared to go any lengths to satisfy the unholy craving for revenge for which I thirsted.
Now holding my glass to the light, watching the beads chase each other in the wine, then sipping the Vouvray slowly, I went over my plan. Yes, it was complete in every detail, and I gloated over the joy that was to come to me when I repaid my debt. As for Richelieu, he was but an interlude—I hardly gave him a thought. I was sick and sore at heart when he crossed me, and had flown at him like a mad dog. If he won, well, there was an end of things. If I won, I was no better pleased than before, and yet so great was my inward torment that I almost caught myself wishing that Richelieu’s blade would find my heart.
At last! After an interminable wait, in which the minutes lagged like hours, I heard the compline, and, awakening the host, paid him his score.
“Monsieur does not wait, then, for the Captain?” he said, as he pocketed the coin I gave him.
“No; but perhaps I may return. Good-night.”
“Good-night, monsieur.”
It was clear that I had been mistaken for some one else, and then I remembered that Richelieu had mentioned that he had another appointment. The matter, however, concerned me not, so I banished it from my mind, and, coming out of the inn, I found myself in a few paces at the little door Richelieu had described. I looked for a knocker. There was none, so, drawing my sword, I tapped three times lightly with the steel hilt. A moment after it opened softly, and a tall figure stood before me. It was Richelieu.
“You are punctual, monsieur,” he said, coldly polite, as he stepped back to let me enter, and carefully closed the door behind me.
I found myself in a garden within a garden. In front of me rose the dead back wall of the priory chapel, with its one pointed window in darkness. On my right was the moss and lichen-covered rampart. On my left, shutting us out from the main garden, was a wall, thick with ivy that glistened in the moonlight. We were, in short, in a little square, admirably suited for the purpose to which we were about to put it. The foothold was sure, the moon perfect, and in thatwhite band of light between the two walls there were no cross-shadows to spoil a thrust or balk a parry. As I looked around me the key turned softly, and Richelieu, removing his hat and cloak, placed them under the lee of the wall. I followed his example, and then, with God’s moon looking down upon us, we stood before each other, death in our hearts. I was facing the chapel wall, my back to the door by which I had entered, and as Richelieu took his place opposite to me I was about to call out “on guard” and commence the assault out of hand, when he spoke:
“My sword is, I think, longer than yours, monsieur. I have another here of the same length as mine. Would you care to use it?”
It was unlooked-for civility, but my heart was hardened against the man, against all men, and, false myself, I was only too ready to believe all others as I was. That other sword might be but a yard or so of soft iron that would buckle in my hand, and I answered with a sneer:
“I will make up for the shortness of my blade by the length of my arm. I trust my own steel only.”
“On guard!” was the sharp answer, and the two blades came together with a little crash. In the moonlight, bright and clear as day, I caught a strange smile on Richelieu’s face as he saw me use the left hand for my sword. He, of course, remised at once, trying to pink me in tierce, and the sparks flew as I parried and returned high up at his throat, but my thrust wasmet by a master, and then he laughed, as he sprang back a yard, and in an instant had changed his sword hand, and I, too, was face to face with a left-handed man. I saw at once the disadvantage at which I was placed, and grew hot with anger as Richelieu mocked me.
“I also can use the left hand, monsieur, but it brings the heart too near the point,” and he ripped me just over the heart at the last words. I do not know why, but I felt that he had spared me, and, sick with anger and shame, flew at him like a tiger-cat, putting forth all my cunning of fence, and he began to give slowly to the assault, but always with that strange, half-mocking smile on his face. He was giving ground, nevertheless, and I worked him in a half-circle from his original position, pressing him closer and closer each moment, fiercely, but warily withal, and at last the chance came. His blade seemed to yield to mine. It was now or never. I made the feint in tierce. He took the bait, and then, with all my strength, I gave him Touchet’s great thrust—and the next moment was disarmed.
Ay! At that instant I thought I had reached his heart, his blade had twisted round mine like a snake, and with a turn of his arm, from the elbow to the wrist, he dragged the sword from my fingers, with such force and strength that it struck with a little clang against the rampart wall, and then, rebounding, fell white and glistening in the moonlight at our feet.
We faced each other for a moment, and then he dropped his arm, and the hot shame surged to my forehead.
“End it,” I said thickly, but he laughed.
“There is yet time for another bout.” He stooped and picked up my sword, saying as he held it out to me, “I will say that there are scarcely three men in France who could have met that thrust—take your sword, monsieur.”
Consider for a moment in what state I was. I was half mad with the tension of the past days. I had meant to kill this man when I came here; to kill him for a few trifling words; and in my heart I felt I was doing him honor to let him die by the sword of Vibrac. And what was the result? I found myself, for all my vaunted skill, a child in his hands; and he, the despised soldier of fortune, the man on whose fame there were a hundred blots, stood here giving me my life, and, what is more, giving me a lesson in perfect knighthood.
I could not speak. My hand closed like a vise on the hilt of the sword Richelieu held out to me; but the cold steel itself was warm to my icy clutch. I stood before him, a curse trembling upon my lips and a hundred evil passions hissing like snakes at my heart. Richelieu did not understand. He spurred me with a gibe.
“Come, monsieur! Or are we to have a new phrase instead of the Fever of St. Vallière?”
I was stung to the quick. “You shall die forthis,” I gasped, and he laughed once more as our blades crossed, and then—a dark shadow fell between us, and a stern voice cried:
“Hold! What fool’s work is this?”
We turned to the sound, and before us stood Achon, his face gleaming like ivory above his black robes; but it was not he who arrested our attention, whose look froze the words of defiance upon our lips. It was that other figure, a little behind the priest, taller by a head than any of us, with a purple scar on his cheek, and a sombre fury burning in the eyes, that held us spellbound with their power. His was the voice that had arrested us in our devil’s work. He it was upon whom we gazed. Ay! I have known brave men, men to whom death was nothing, men who played with life as a child with a ball, yet never one so hardy as to stand without flinching before The Guise in his wrath.
“The Guise!” stammered Richelieu; but I said nothing, looking at the sinister figures before me. And at Richelieu’s voice a grim smile passed over the duke’s face.
“Messieurs,” he said, “your memories are short. Have you already forgotten du Charry? Is an edict but a week old to be made waste-paper?”
We knew what he meant, and there rose before me a vision of poor du Charry, whom Guise had hanged at his own gate for the very offence of which we were guilty, and the prospect of a like shameful fate sent a shiver through me. I amcertain, too, that we had never escaped but for the dark schemes the duke was weaving in his brain. Du Charry was only an idle brawler. He killed his man, and his own gate-posts made his gallows; but we—we had our use at present, and that—it was nothing else, I am sure—saved us from the hangman. We made no answer to Guise; but Achon whispered low to him, and he spoke again.
“Put up your swords”; and, with a cynical frankness, “it is well for you I have need of you at present. Remember, however—I hold this against you.”
We did as we were bidden, Richelieu with a slight, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, and a look at me as if to say “another day,” and as my sword went home in its sheath, Achon turned to me.
“Monsieur,” he said, “you have found your way here more easily than I expected, and before your time. Perhaps, however, it would be as well to get to our business now.”
The hour for which I had waited had come at last. I had longed for this; thought over and planned out all I meant to say. It had become as familiar a thing to me as the sword by my side. And yet, so strange was my nature, as Achon spoke, as my revenge came within arm’s length of me, I lost all the thread of my scheme. I hesitated and faltered.
I can see it all now before me: the square ofdazzling moonlight, the gray walls of the Priory, with that one faint light burning in a distant wing. Achon was facing me, and his white face would have been like that of the dead, but for the starry eyes and red, cruel lips, on which there played the flicker of a smile. Richelieu stood glancing from one to another of us, swinging his plumed hat in his hand, and a little on one side towered the gigantic figure of Guise.
And now I spoke, fencing with the thing that was to be.
“I understand, monsieur, that the Chancellor and the Cardinal were to have been present.”
“Things have changed, Monsieur de Vibrac.” It was Guise who answered me, not Achon. “The Chancellor will not be here, and as for my brother of Lorraine—well, I stand in his place.”
I bowed. “And monsieur!” I looked at Richelieu.
“Remains,” said Guise briefly; “proceed.”
I knew I had that to tell which would give me the revenge for which I thirsted; but the words would not come. Something held me back, perhaps the last feeble effort of my good angel. It still fought within me, though the battle was lost; yet for a moment it seemed that it might prevail.
“Monseigneur!” I said, “it was arranged that the Bishop of Arles was to make certain statements which I was to corroborate if I could—nothing more!” The words seemed to give me relief.I had spoken of this to Marcilly. There was no betrayal here.
“That is so,” said Achon, “and it is as well that Richelieu remains to bear witness to what passes, especially as your friend Ponthieu has escaped, and my fools bungled over the letter we wanted,” and then, without more ado, he detailed briefly what we know, confining himself exactly to the facts, but skilfully bringing them home against Condé. When he had done, Guise turned to me.
“You bear witness to this as correct?”
“Monseigneur.”
“You have heard this, Monsieur de Richelieu?”
“I have, your Highness.” Something in the Carabinier’s voice made me glance at him; but his face was like stone.
There was a little silence, and then the duke said:
“He is a lost man—nothing can save Condé now.”
And Achon laughed long and low to himself. What ran in his mind, what fancy moved him to a joy that chilled us, I know not; but the high chapel wall echoed back the mirthless chuckle, as though some fiend flitting above us shared in his secret thoughts, and rejoiced in his fearful gladness.
We looked at him in astonishment and amaze, but at last he put his thin hand to his breast as if to stay himself as he asked me:
“And have you nothing else to say, de Vibrac?”
“Is more wanted?” It was the Guise who spoke, with a touch of impatience.
“Ay! There is more, monseigneur,” and Achon again turned to me. “Do you remember, de Vibrac, that I told you before you had trouble there?” And his hand rested again over my heart as it had done for a moment at Larçon, and dropped on the instant as he continued: “Here is the clew that led me to read you. Here are the letters I promised you. Take them—but you have more to say, Vibrac. Am I not right?”
What hideous prescience possessed this man! My thoughts came thick and fast upon me, and, as I thought, his eyes seemed to read into my very brain. I tried to steady myself.
“You know I have more to say,” I said. “Are you a sorcerer?”
“No, monsieur; but a priest to whom secrets come. And they laugh, monsieur; they laugh at de Vibrac and the sport he has made for——” He stopped; but he had said enough. I would not have heard him if he had spoken more. The place, the hour, all before me was changed. I was once again listening to Marie’s mocking words; and all the horrors of the past were upon me. They laughed. Did they? I would turn their smiles to tears of blood; and then I spoke.
It was more than they expected to hear. My first words made even Guise start, and Achon’s lips, red as a wound, to pale to gray. But I wasgetting my revenge. I could not think of anything but that, and at last it was over, and I stood before them the basest of men.
Not a word did they say in interruption or comment; but when I had done they left me where I was, Richelieu still a pace or so from me, leaning on his sword and twisting his moustache with his hand. After a while—I know not how long it was, for my mind is almost a blank when I strive to recall those moments—they returned and said something to Richelieu, to which he answered simply with a bow.
Then they turned to me where I stood, a drumming in my ears, a dull, aching pain at my heart; and Achon’s voice came to me as from a far distance. He was speaking to Guise: “You see, monseigneur, that his attempt to join the Constable is open war, and will utterly damn him. Let him reach St. Loup, and we have the whole hive, queen bee and all.” Then he turned to me.
“Monsieur de Vibrac! You will not speak of this to a soul. Go on as before. Let none suspect you. Take the Prince to St. Loup to-morrow. We will bring him back, and then——” He began to laugh again; but Guise checked him.
“Let this end,” he said, and addressed me. “You have your instructions, monsieur, and the reward will come.” So saying, he took Achon by the arm, and they passed out through a door in the wall that separated us from the main garden.
I looked after them stupidly, my mind still dazed and blurred, and a shame to which all other shame was as nothing throbbing through me. I turned to Richelieu, I know not why, and he stepped back a pace, as he would have from some foul thing.
“Monsieur,” he said, “our other meeting cannot take place. Even you must know why. Monsieur! I have been in many lands, I have seen strange things, good things, and evil things; but—so help me God!—I have never yet seen a thing so evil as this—I have never yet seen man fall so low as you. The key is in the door, monsieur; and you will find the street dark enough, even to hide your shame.”
With this he left me, following the others, and I, the mean, the abject, staggered toward the door like a drunken man, and, like the evil thing I was, flitted through the night.