CHAPTER XXA QUOTATION FROM VIRGIL
Ihurriedon, utterly careless whither my footsteps led. Richelieu’s speech burned within me, and my very soul shrivelled under the fierce light he had poured upon it. I saw myself in all my infamy. I cursed, again and again, the coward heart that had not nerved my hand to strike him dead, as he flung at me those bitter words of insult and scorn. But a guilty conscience makes a craven soul, and the lesson was brought home to me, as with blanched lips and trembling limbs I went on, keeping in the shadow, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Now and again I met a few passers-by, but, night-hawks or honest men, they left me the road, until at last I would have been glad if one of them had even drawn upon me.
Finally I reached the Martroi and gained my chamber in Cipierre’s house. Alone there I tore the letters and the glove into shreds, and cast the fragments into the fire; then I flung the sword that had served me so ill to a corner of the room, venting upon the senseless steel some of the fury in my heart, and, undressing, lay down to sleep.But no rest came to my hot eyes, and I spent the weary hours counting the diamonds on the lattice window, watching the moonlight fade into darkness, and listening to the sighing of the wind, which rose with the setting of the moon and gave promise of a day as gray as sorrow.
I did not rise till about the dinner hour, eleven o’clock, and when I descended, I found the Vicomte and Jean awaiting me. I was surprised at my own self-control. During the hours of the night, my heart had, as it were, steeled itself within its guilt. All sensations of regret or remorse were numbed and paralyzed. I thought them dead. All that lived within me was a burning hate against those whom in my madness I accused of bringing me to the pass to which I had sunk, and so I gave my traitor hand to both Cipierre and Marcilly, and sat down to eat with them, cordial and even gay. I had some right to be gay. In a few hours my revenge would be complete.
At last the moment came for us to start upon our perilous enterprise, and we stood at the door ready to mount, a couple of Swiss with us. There was no “good-by” said. To all intents we might have been making our daily visit to the Prince; but Cipierre’s hand lingered in that of his nephew, and when he took mine in his clasp, he gripped me like a vise in his excitement.
“Once free, you will ride hard, de Vibrac,” he whispered.
“Trust me for that, monsieur!” and, springing into the saddle, I followed Marcilly into the street.
The promise of the dawn had been fulfilled, and there was a dense fog in the air, blurring the outlines of the houses, and making the figures of the passers-by loom like indistinct shadows. In truth, it was difficult to see two yards ahead, and Marcilly, as he held his hand out before him, said:
“If it keeps like this, and we bring off the stroke, you will get out of Orleans without a question being asked.”
“De Bresy sticks in my mind,” I answered. “He never leaves us. I begin to fear he more than suspects.”
“We have provided for that in part. While you were away we arranged that the Prince should pretend to be suffering from a chill, and keep his bed.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I will go in and see him, and as I take the Prince’s place you and Vaux must settle with de Bresy. Vaux knows his part, and you must not fail.”
“A man will not cry out if a dagger at his throat commands silence,” I answered; “he will be killed at the first sound he utters.”
“Not that if you can help it, Vibrac.”
“That is de Bresy’s affair,” I replied, and with these words we came to the gate of the house in the Rue Parisis.
The same formalities in regard to our entrance were observed as before, and leaving the horses outside with the Swiss, we walked into the courtyard, where de Bresy met us.
“That was an unlucky match at tennis,” he said, as he greeted us; “the Prince has taken a chill and keeps his bed.”
Our faces showed nothing but the utmost concern.
“He is not bad, I trust?” asked Marcilly, adding, “have you seen him?”
“Oh, yes! ’Tis but a chill that will pass off in a few days, unless——” and he hesitated.
“Let us not speak of it, de Bresy; we know what you mean,” and the archer swore under his breath, muttering something as we entered the corridor, followed even here by the fog, which filled the galleries and rooms of the prison with its blue, semi-opaque vapor.
“I never remember such a fog in Orleans,” said Marcilly, and almost at the same time I spoke myself:
“How went the match, de Bresy? You remember our wager?”
“You lost by a stroke; but we are to play another match; would you care to make it double or quits?”
“Take him, Gaspard,” laughed Marcilly; “double or quits on the next match we play. You will lose, de Bresy.”
“I take the wager,” I smiled, catching the hiddenmeaning in Jean’s words, and we found ourselves on the landing before the Prince’s apartments, the door of which was, however, closed. The subaltern officer was on guard there, and de Bresy addressed him.
“How is the Prince, Comminges?”
“Vaux tells me he sleeps, but that if these gentlemen came they were to be admitted, as the Prince desired to see them.”
“We can wait in quiet in the ante-room,” said Marcilly in a low voice, and then de Bresy led us in.
Vaux, the Prince’s page, was alone in the room, building a house of cards at the table. He looked up as we entered, put his finger to his lips, and whispered:
“He sleeps still.”
“Does any one watch by him?” asked Marcilly.
“No,” replied Vaux; “but shall I arouse Monseigneur? He desires much to speak with you.”
“Better that he slept. I shall, however, go in and sit by the bedside until he awakes. I will not disturb him in the least.” So saying, Marcilly gently pushed open the door leading into the bedroom and passed within.
Vaux, with a careless sweep of his hand, knocked down his house of cards, and as he gathered the pack together, looked at us, saying:
“Shall we take hands, messieurs, to while away the time?”
“With pleasure,” replied de Bresy, “but three isan unlucky number. Comminges shall make the fourth.”
He turned to the door as if to call out, and Vaux bit his lip with anger as he just flashed a glance at me. I was, however, in time.
“It is needless, de Bresy. I cannot touch a card to-day. I know not what it is, but I have no humor for it.”
“Oh, come! But a few rounds,” said de Bresy, as he turned to me, picked up some cards, and began shuffling them in his hand.
While he spoke Vaux had made a movement toward the window. He was behind de Bresy now, and his poniard gleamed in his hand. I held him with a look, and de Bresy went on, all unknowing of the danger behind him.
“’Tis a curious pack this, Vibrac. Do you see the illuminations on the backs of the cards?”
“Yes. I noticed them before. They are Viterbo cards, I think.”
Vaux had made a step nearer his man. His eyes were blazing. I could not have stayed him if I would; but at that moment there was a noise at the door, and the page had just time to turn to his window like a flash, when Comminges entered the room.
“Monsieur!” he said bluntly, addressing de Bresy, “here is a letter for you.”
“Thanks, Comminges,” and as de Bresy took the letter I glanced at the soldierly figure of the lieutenant. It was evident that he was one whohad risen from the ranks, and twenty years of war had left their scars on his rough features. There he stood, the type of the soldier who has become a machine, whose life is regulated by his orders, and as I took in the square jaw, the firm, resolute features, and keen, deep-set eyes, I thought to myself that it would be a far cry to the gates of the prison even if de Bresy were disposed of. And as my mind ran on thus, a low exclamation burst from de Bresy. He crumpled the paper in his hand, saying as he did so:
“There is no answer, Comminges.”
The subaltern bowed stiffly and withdrew.
“It is infamous,” said de Bresy as if to himself, and then he caught my eager look and Vaux’s glance—the page had turned from the window and approached us when Comminges spoke. His hand, however, no longer held a poniard.
“There is nothing new against the Prince?” I asked, and de Bresy laughed uneasily.
“Monsieur of Arles writes to me to prepare thecachotfor our prisoner to-night.”
“Thecachot!”
“Yes. ’Tis a dog’s business, and but that my honor is pledged, I would see it to the winds—a Prince of the blood in thecachot!”
A sudden thought struck me as he spoke. It was one of those inspirations that come in moments of suspense.
“But you surely have nocachotshere?”
“As good as in the Châtelet, monsieur.”
“I saw the Vidame there,” I said, “and know the Châtelet. I doubt if what you have here is anything like that.”
“Would you care to see for yourself? I have the key here,” and de Bresy pointed to his side, where at his belt a large key hung attached to a thick silver chain.
“Well,” I answered, “it will kill some of the time we have to spend here, waiting for the Prince to awaken. Will you come, too, Vaux?” And as I glanced at the page my eyes told him to say “No.” He was quick to grasp this; but he was also a good actor, and he hesitated a moment before replying.
“I think not, monsieur. I shall await your return here.”
We left him, card-building once more, and stepped out where, after a few words with Comminges, de Bresy led me through the corridor, and stopped before a small, iron-studded door. Beside it, in a niche, a lantern burned, and taking this in one hand my companion opened the door, and, as it swung back creaking, he pointed downward with his key, saying:
“Facilis descensus Averni.”
I laughed as I looked down the black passage, with its old and worn steps. I laughed because I thought it would be for me to finish the quotation; and then I followed de Bresy as he picked his way downward. Twice were we stopped by doors, each of which he opened with his masterkey, and each as it opened disclosed a stairway, darker, more hideous than the one before. And now we found ourselves in a small landing, facing yet another door.
“We have come,” said de Bresy, putting down his lantern as he used his key again. He had to push twice at the door, before it went back on its hinges with a sullen groan, and before us lay a dungeon which all but matched theChausse d’Hypocras, that fearful prison den of the Châtelet.
“Does that satisfy you?” asked de Bresy, as we gazed on the damp and dripping walls, where the drops of water oozing from their surface flashed like gems in the ruddy light of the lantern. Even against myself I shuddered.
“To put him here!” I muttered, and de Bresy, catching the words, spoke again.
“You will judge better if you step within. Except just outside this door not a voice could be heard, call it ever so loudly.”
I wanted a moment to think, and did as I was bidden. The next instant the door closed behind me with a crash, and I was in total darkness. Outside I heard de Bresy laughing, but it was as the laugh of a man coming from a far distance.
I staggered back blindly, and my groping hands felt the wet and slippery walls; and then on the instant the whole horror of the thing seized me. Tricked! Cozened! Trapped like a fox! With a curse I flung myself at the door and battered atit with both hands. I might as well have tried to tear down Notre Dame with my fingers. In those moments I lived years. I was bursting with shame and mortification. No long-eared ass could have walked into a pitfall more easily than I had done. And then I heard de Bresy’s voice again, and the door slowly swung back. As the light fell on me, he rocked in senseless, foolish laughter.
“Ye gods!” he almost screamed, “I did but try you, de Vibrac. You are as white as a sheet.”
I came out slowly and laughed myself—a harsh laugh that rang back from the vaulted roof.
“’Tis a sorry jest, monsieur, and one for which you must answer me.”
He simply bowed—my tone had sobered him—and turned toward the lantern. Ay! The fool had given me the key to my difficulty in his idle jest. Quick as thought I was on him, but he turned like a wildcat at me, and for a moment we grappled together. Backward and forward we swayed. I heard the key he held fall with a clash to the floor, and he caught at my wrist, for my hand was at his throat, and he tugged vainly to free himself.
He was sinewy as a leopard, but it would have been a strong man who could have stood against me then, and I held him like a vise. Even by the dim light of the lantern I could see his face grow livid, his lips blue, and his eyes almost start from their sockets. He struggled like a fish in a net, poor wretch! But at last his knees wentfrom under him. Slowly, slowly, he yielded, and I felt him limp as a sack in my arms. One effort, and I flung him from me through the open door of the dungeon, and heard him fall with a half-smothered cry. He lay there like a log, and, closing the door after him, I picked up the key and turned the lock.
Then I waited in the silence, slowly arranging my disordered dress. When I had finished, I lifted up the lantern, and as I did so heard a faint cry: “Open! Open, de Vibrac!”
There were a hundred agonies in the voice; but he had made me pass through them before. I laughed in my turn at de Bresy, as I repeated and finished his quotation:
“...Facilis descensus Averni:Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,Hic opus, hic labor est.”
“...Facilis descensus Averni:Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,Hic opus, hic labor est.”
“...Facilis descensus Averni:Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,Hic opus, hic labor est.”
“...Facilis descensus Averni:
Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,
Hic opus, hic labor est.”