CHAPTER XXITHE SHAME OF VIBRAC
Evenas the words fell from my lips, their other meaning flashed upon me in vivid, insistent light, and the mockery I flung at the poor fool, there battering at the door with frantic hands, rebounded upon me with double force. It was I—I, whose steps could not be retraced. It was I, who was held prisoner in shades to which the darkness of that dungeon was sunlight.
And with this thought came the first sharp sting of remorse. But I had burned my ships. I could do nothing. Whether I stood fast to my evil compact with Achon or held back, the result would be the same. Those whom, in my madness, I had betrayed were compassed on all sides. For them there was no escape. And there was none for me. My path was before me; onward, where my revenge held out a Tantalus’ cup, whose sweetness would never touch my lips. I put aside the thoughts that came crowding upon me in that stifling air, and, seizing the lantern, went back alone, whence we had come, two together. As I shut the first door I stopped to listen if any sound could be heard from the dungeon, but all was silent. Slowly I went upward,closing the doors after me, and at last reached the landing. Fortunately there was no one there. I replaced the lantern in its niche, locked the door carefully, and, slipping the key in my pocket, made my way back to the Prince’s apartments.
De Bresy was disposed of for a time. Luck and his own folly had favored me in that, but there still remained Comminges to be dealt with.
I walked along the corridor, whistling the “Rappel d’Aunis,” and found the lieutenant on his eternal guard. The man never seemed to eat or sleep. He looked at me from under his bushy eyebrows as I came up, and asked, in his gruff brusque way:
“Where is Monsieur de Bresy?”
“He is busily engaged at present.”
“Engaged! Monsieur has done his rounds.”
“Probably he has business in connection with the letter you gave him, monsieur.” And then, to avoid further inquiry, I began questioning him myself.
“Can you tell me if the Prince is stirring?”
He glanced toward the door, which was closed on account of the chillness of the day, and shrugged his shoulders; but I went on, as if time was no object to me.
“Marcilly has not gone, has he? He said he might have to go early.”
“Oh! He is here still.”
“You are sure?”
“As I am here. There is only one way out—throughthis door—and I have been here since you came.”
“You have long hours.”
“There is an old proverb, monsieur, ‘Fast bind, safe find,’” and he again shot a keen glance at me.
Clearly it seemed that Comminges was on the alert. But too much caution often overreaches itself, and I took heart from the thought, as I rubbed my hands together, saying, with a little shiver:
“Ugh! It’s cold here; and the fire in the room, there, is crackling cheerily.”
Comminges said nothing, but as I slipped into the room he followed me; not so fast, however, but that I was able to exchange a nod with Vaux, who had to turn aside to hide the blaze of eager curiosity in his eyes.
From within the inner room there came a low murmur of voices.
“So he is awake,” I said, and Vaux answered:
“Yes. He has been awake for the last quarter of an hour.”
“Then I shall go in,” and I tapped at the door. A weak voice replied, “Enter!” and as I made a movement forward I saw Comminges at my heels.
“Monsieur,” I said, “this is His Highness’ bed-chamber.”
“I am aware of that,” he answered grimly; “I desire to inquire after his health.”
The suspicious ring in his voice was not to be mistaken, and it was absolutely necessary for me to have a few minutes alone with the Prince and Marcilly. Knowing the class from which Comminges sprang, I at once chose my line of action.
“Monsieur de Comminges,” I said kindly, “it is a Prince of the blood who lies there, prisoner though he be. Even Monsieur de Bresy does not visit him without notice, and I am sure that least of all would you, a gentleman and a soldier, intrude upon him. Perhaps I had better announce you. It will not delay you above a minute or so.” I looked at him steadily as I spoke, and the very gentleness of my tones made the reproof harder. He flushed under his tanned skin, and drew back a little. It was enough; and, without waiting for his answer, I stepped in, closing the door upon Comminges.
The room was in semi-gloom; the curtains of the bed were drawn, and within it lay a figure covered to the ears with rugs. Another figure sat by the edge of the bed, and the fitful flames of the fire burned redly through the uncertain light, half day and half night. As I entered the watcher by the bed rose to his feet, and I whispered quickly, “De Bresy is safe, Marcilly,” and then Condé, for it was he, began to chuckle, and I saw my mistake. “Your pardon, Monseigneur—the light deceived me.”
From within the bed came a hacking cough.
“The poor Prince has a bad cough,” said Condé, as he shook again with silent merriment; but I stopped him—there was no time to lose—and whispered quickly what we know, merely stating facts and going into no details.
“Let Comminges enter,” said Condé, when I had ended, adding: “He would be flattered if allowed to watch by His Highness.”
I nodded and moved toward the door; but the Prince stayed me.
“A moment!” he said, and stooping over the bedside, he whispered something in Marcilly’s ear, pressing his hand in good-by. Then he rose and turned to me.
“I will admit Comminges. Stay here and keep him engaged until I slip out.”
With these words he moved forward toward the door, leaving me by Marcilly, the friend whom I had betrayed to his death. I stood there, shame and remorse in my heart, and tongue-tied with my own infamy. I dared not address a word to him, but kept my face averted. I heard the door open softly, and Comminges step into the darkened room. The Prince moved backward into the shadow of the door, as if to let him pass, making a little motion with his hand toward the bed. As the heavy footfall of the lieutenant fell on the floor, and his huge spurs jangled, Marcilly broke out again into his cough, and, turning uneasily on one side, closed his eyes, as if in sleep.
“He is bad,” I whispered to Comminges as hecame up to the bed; “much worse than I thought.”
The lieutenant looked at me and then at the figure before him as I continued in the same low tone:
“Monseigneur is touched by your kindness in coming. The cough has exhausted him, but as soon as he recovers he will speak to you.”
“I had better have René sent for,” he began.
“You would be wise, but there is no immediate hurry, and the Prince wishes to thank you in person for coming. He will recover himself in a moment.”
He was about to say something, but I saw that Condé had got out of the room, and, staying Comminges with a gesture of my hand, I pointed to the still figure on the bed.
“He sleeps, I think. Sit here beside him, monsieur,” and I indicated a large easy-chair by the bed. “The slumber is fitful, and he will awake in five minutes.”
Comminges hesitated for a moment, and then accepted my invitation. We waited in silence for a little, listening to the heavy breathing of the sick man. Finally I spoke again in low, subdued tones.
“Marcilly and I are going now. May we send René in to you?”
“It will save time,” he answered, and bending over the sleeping figure, I cast a look at Jean.Then I gave Comminges my hand in adieu, and, putting my finger to my lips to enjoin silence, stepped out on tiptoe from the room. As the door closed behind me I saw Condé and Vaux together, and the latter’s face was all smiles. I took the key of thecachotfrom my pocket and handed it to the page.
“You can give this to Comminges in an hour’s time, with the compliments of Monseigneur,” I said, “and you might add that Monsieur de Bresy is, perhaps, in need of some fresh air.”
“How on earth did you get him there?” began the Prince; but I interrupted him.
“I will tell you, your Highness, as we ride—let us not delay now.”
Vaux would have dropped on his knee to say farewell, but Condé restrained him, taking his hand in a warm clasp.
“Au revoir!” he said, stepping toward the door, and as I followed him I called out somewhat loudly, “Make our compliments to the Prince, Vaux, when he awakens.”
The next moment we were in the corridor, and, walking together arm in arm, discussing the Prince’s illness, we passed slowly out, receiving the salutes of the sentinels. In the misty courtyard we ran no risk of discovery, but at the gate itself there was some slight danger. The sergeant of the guard was there, so we called him up to us, and I placed a brace of gold crowns in his hand.
“From Monseigneur the Prince,” I said, “for you and the guard to drink the King’s health.”
“And the Prince’s, too,” was the answer, whereat we laughed, and, wishing him good luck, passed him. He had seen Marcilly and myself on our entrance. Our going out was in the natural course of things, and the fog and the chink of gold disarmed suspicion.
Outside we found the horses, and, mounting them, rode slowly off, followed by the Swiss.
As we entered the square of Ste. Croix I reined in, and, calling the Swiss up to me, said to them:
“Go, and await us at the palace gates. If we are not there in an hour, you may return home and tell the Vicomte.”
They were men to whom orders were orders, not things to be questioned. They simply saluted and rode on, gray shadows in the mist; and then I said to the Prince:
“Now, Monseigneur!”
He was leaning back in his saddle, straining his eyes through the yellow fog back upon the Rue Parisis.
“If they touch a hair of their heads,” he muttered, “they will never forget the vengeance of Bourbon,” and he turned to me as I pressed him again with another reminder.
“Come, de Vibrac! You are right. Let us hasten.”
We put our horses to the trot, slipping through the dim day like ghosts, down the long streetswhere the houses loomed on each hand like phantom buildings, through the straggling Portereau, and at last, freeing the gates, gained the open country.
Condé rode a little in front of me, his hat pulled over his brows, the collar of his coat well turned up, and his head held down. We went on in silence, for it was not a time for talk.
When we passed the city gates, a little breeze sprang up, lifting the mist, and blowing it along in billows that chased each other like the breakers on a sea-bound coast. The sun, which had hitherto burned dully through the fog, a great orange globe of fire, now began to cast its clear light upon the landscape. As the cheery beams fell upon us, Condé awoke from his torpor of thought and slackened the steady canter at which he was going to a walk.
“Come!” he said, “we are not two monks of La Trappe. Tell me, Vibrac, how you disposed of de Bresy? how you put him in a cage? Oh! they will laugh! They will make verses about him!” he went on, breaking into laughter himself.
But I was in no mood for mirth or talk. I wanted to get the business over, and I said gravely:
“Monseigneur! It is a long story, and the Constable is far. I pray you, let us hasten on! No one knows what danger may lie within these woods.” And I looked to the right and to the left of me, where the sunlight cast its swords offlame into the shivering, uneasy mist; down the long glades which the bright rays carpeted with gold, and behind the tall and tangled brushwood that hid the winter-stricken tree-trunks. I almost hoped to catch somewhere the gleam of a breastplate or the flash of a sword. The sooner things were over the better. But no! For all I could see, we might as well have been on some desert island in mid-ocean, as on that desolate and unending forest way.
Condé had followed my glance and noticed the grave tone of my voice.
“Pardieu!” he said, “but you are a dull dog!” And then, in his quick, impulsive way, he stretched out his hand. “I did not mean to offend you. Ah! monsieur! Believe me! I thank God that He has given Louis of Bourbon such friends as you.”
I could not touch his hand. I was not so base as that; and I felt my face burn as I saluted him, saying with a voice that shook despite my efforts:
“Monseigneur! Let us hasten. Every moment is full of peril.”
He did not understand my confusion; but he waved an airy farewell toward Orleans.
“Free! Free!” he exclaimed. “Thank God and my good friends! Come, Vibrac!” And we galloped on again, black care on my shoulders; but he, he the betrayed, was happy as a lark in spring, and as we rode through the brighteningday, he broke into song, his voice, mellow and rich, echoing through the ringing woods.
Each joyous note stabbed me like a knife, as I thought how soon that song would be changed to a wail of lamentation. In the crowd of thoughts that surged upon me, my confused brain fluttered hither and thither, like a netted bird seeking chance for escape. It came upon me to warn the Prince while there was yet time, to stop him, tell him what I was, and bid him ride to the Constable’s camp for dear life. But that would not save the others! Alas! the pitfalls were too surely dug! And then the shame of it choked me. I could not. I dared not; and so I let the precious moments pass.
And now a momentary strength came, and I nerved myself with a mighty effort. It should be done, come what may! With a gasp I called out:
“Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”
He turned and reined up, following my example, looking at me with curious eyes as we halted, facing each other. But somehow I could not speak. I made an effort, hesitated, and stopped, looking helplessly about me.
“What is it, de Vibrac?”
“I thought some one was lurking here,” I said desperately, to gain time as I peered into the woods.
Condé bent forward and took a pistol from his holster.
“Perhaps I was foolish to sing,” he said, and began to look too.
But there was nothing, and as I gazed I became aware that we were on the spot where I had parted from Marie. I could almost see her before me, her eyes flashing, the jewelled whip swinging to and fro in her hand, and her lips curled in scorn as she flung her taunts at me. Once more her words rang in my ears, and rang with them the death-knell of my resolve. Loyalty, honor, an unsullied name—all these I had sold to my evil desires, and should I not be paid? No! I would not go back. I would have the price of my soul. I would have my revenge, betide what may! I made a movement as if to go on, saying:
“There is nothing. I was mistaken.”
“I think not, Vibrac. Hark!” And as Condé spoke, from within the dark woods a horse neighed shrilly. I felt on the instant what that meant, and answered hurriedly:
“’Tis from St. Loup. See, monseigneur!” And pointing before us, a little to our left, I showed him the face of the château with its two pepper-box towers rising above the trees.
“To think I should not have noticed it!” he exclaimed. “Why, we are almost there!”
“We will be there in ten minutes.” I answered, as we trotted forward, my eyes here, there, and everywhere, seeking for those who were to take part in the final scene that would give me my desire.
But there was nothing; not a leaf stirred, not a branch crackled, though I knew they were around us, and I rode on, cursing the delay, for as the moment approached I was worked up to a fever heat.
In effect it was not quite ten minutes before we saw the mouldering walls of St. Loup. The gates lay open, and we galloped through them, and along the deserted ride, the reckless Condé giving forth a loud “Halloo!” to announce our coming. As he did so, something made me turn and glance back over my shoulder. Under the arch of the avenue I could still see the gate, and at its entrance stood a single horseman, gazing after us. But now the ride bent sharply to the right, and I lost him to view as we took the turn and followed the curve that swept in a half-circle to the doors of the château. But brief and momentary as my glance was, I had recognized the figure. There could be no mistake. It was Achon himself.
We drew rein at the entrance, and a man hurried up to hold our horses. It was Badehorn, and he bent forward and kissed the Prince’s hands ere he took the reins. And then I heard a glad cry, and Condé, springing from his horse, ran up the wide steps to meet a slight, gray-clad figure that fluttered toward him, with arms held out, and the love-light shining in her eyes.
“Safe! Safe! Oh! thank God!” Her arms were round his neck, as she hung over him with tender,wifely words of love—but I cannot write of this. I did not dare to look, but with head held down and shaking hands, fumbled nervously with the straps of my nag’s girths. Now, too, all those who were there gathered around, and it seemed as if the steps were full of figures. There was a murmur and buzz of welcoming voices, as some one—it was Coqueville—put an arm through mine with a warm pressure, leading me on until I found myself near the Princess. She took my hand, that lay as cold as ice in her own warm palms, and faltered:
“Oh, monsieur! God bless you!” With this all speech seemed to fail her, and she burst into an April shower of glad, happy tears.
But I shivered and shrank back from the words of praise, and the kindly faces that crowded round me, and then I felt a light touch on the sleeve of my coat, and a slender figure was before me, pinning with trembling fingers a bunch of winter violets to my coat. It was Yvonne de Mailly, and the girl’s face was flushed and her sweet eyes were wet with tears.
“Monsieur,” she said, “we women are proud of a brave man.” And then she stepped back amid the surrounding smiles, and I turned with a sob in my throat, for my eyes to fall on Marie, where she stood a little apart, gazing at me gravely, and as the sun lit the gold of her hair, and I caught the look on her face, my mind went back like a flash to the vision I had seen in Russywood, and I stood there tongue-tied and staring, as without a word she turned aside from me.
The tumult of feelings raging within me almost choked me. My mind travelled with lightning rapidity from remorse to a savage, relentless fury, from the deepest pity to a stony apathy. It came to me once, as we entered the house, to draw my dagger and plunge it into my own heart, and on the heels of the thought followed another. There was no one here who knew, and Achon and Richelieu would perhaps be silent. What mattered it to the priest how he gained his end as long as he did gain it? And as for Richelieu, bandit and ruffian though he was, he had shown me a stately courtesy when my life was in his hands, so I leaned upon the self-interest of the one and the chivalry of the other, and held myself in.
We had gained the hall by this. Twice had I felt, rather than heard, Coqueville speaking to me. At last he put a hand on my shoulder and shook me gently.
“Mon ami!” he said, “do you dream?”
“Ay!” I answered, my hand to my forehead. Then, with a sudden rush of feeling I could not control, “Coqueville!” I said, “take them away at once. Delay not here a moment. There is danger—danger, I say.”
My voice was harsh and high. The words arrested all, and the Princess began nervously:
“Yes. Let us go! We are quite ready.”
“And so are the horses in the inner court,madame,” said Coqueville; while Condé, reckless and gay, slipped his arm round his wife’s waist and kissed her. “Fear not,” he said; “Vibrac has sniffed danger the whole way. Not a soul suspects——”
And a single shot rang sharply through the air.
We started, even I, so suddenly, so crisply did the sound come to us through that winter day; and then another and another followed it, but from the other side of the house.
“What is it?” And Marie, who had flown to the window, turned with a white face to the Princess’ cry.
“We are betrayed! The place is full of men.”
Before she finished speaking we heard the galloping of horses—they seemed to come from all sides—then the brazen ring of a trumpet pealed harshly out, and there was a hoarse command:
“Guard all the doors! Let none pass!”
With a snarling oath, Coqueville sprang to the doorway, sword in hand, and I rushed after him. Condé would have followed us, but loving arms held him back, and with a strength that one could hardly believe she possessed the Princess almost dragged him toward an inner door.
“Here! here!” she gasped; “there is a way here—ah!” And she shrank back, for the door had opened upon her, and a man reeled in, mortally wounded. It was Badehorn.
“We are lost! They are in the courtyard!”So saying, he slipped down limply, and in the hour of his death became a child again, and went back to his native tongue, groaning out some words, as he died, in his guttural German—God knows, they may have been prayers.
And while this happened in a hand-turn, there came an angry knocking at the door, and a loud voice called:
“Open! Open in the King’s name!”
The surprise was complete, and we were caged as securely as rats in a trap. Condé looked at the blanched faces of the women, then at us, and then glanced from the window, while the knocking grew angrier and the voice louder.
“Open in the King’s name!”
Then he bent down, gravely this time, and kissed his wife again, and as she sank weeping into his arms, he said calmly to us:
“Open!”
But Coqueville hesitated, and the Prince had to command him twice before he sullenly drew the bolts, and, opening the door, stepped back to my side; and in a moment there was the jingling of spurs, the clash of scabbards, and the room was thronged with armed men, at the head of whom stood Achon, and by his side was the tall figure of Richelieu.
Condé, his arm still round his wife’s waist, a little group of scared faces behind him, stood in the centre of the room, proud and dignified. I had moved back a pace from Coqueville, somewhatinto the shadow. Now that the blow had fallen, I was dazed, bewildered; my mind seemed a blank.
“Monseigneur!” and Achon made a slight gesture of his hand behind him, “you see, resistance is hopeless.”
“None has been made,” answered Condé dryly.
There was a little silence, and then Achon turned to Richelieu:
“Their swords, monsieur.”
Coqueville was the nearest. As Richelieu approached him, he said:
“Monsieur! Your sword, in the King’s name.”
“It came from a King, and it goes to a King, monsieur,” and Coqueville obeyed, handing his sword to Richelieu, who received it with a low bow. Then he glanced at me, a secret scorn in his look; but Achon’s voice cut in sharply:
“His, too, monsieur.”
Richelieu shrugged his shoulders, and called to a trooper.
“Truchepot—take monsieur’s sword—my hands are full.”
All eyes were upon me; the contempt in Richelieu’s voice was not to be mistaken. Achon looked on with a mocking smile on his lips.
“Monsieur!” I began; but Condé’s voice stayed me:
“Vibrac! Not a word, I command you—give up your sword.”
I let it fall with a clash on the floor, and asthe trooper stooped to recover it, acting on some secret signal two others ranged themselves on each side of me.
“Come, monsieur! Let this farce end. Where are you going to take us?”
It was Condé who spoke, and Achon answered him:
“Back to the Rue Parisis, Monseigneur—and if your Highness will give me your faith not to escape, I have no wish to deprive you of your sword.”
“I make no pledge—give no promise.”
“Your Highness must then be treated as the others. Richelieu, you will receive Monseigneur’s sword.”
Richelieu stepped forward, but Condé said coldly:
“You mistake, monsieur; a Prince cannot surrender his sword to an unfrocked friar, and”—he looked at Achon—“still less to a priest.”
Richelieu bit his lips with anger, but Achon smiled again, his cynical, mocking smile, and turned to me.
“Monsieur de Vibrac! There can be no higher honor than to receive the surrender of a Bourbon. I confer it upon you for your services—will you have the goodness to take His Highness’ sword? It will make us quits on the score of Ponthieu—and other things.”
The devilish malignity of the man stunned me. I could say nothing, but stood there like a stone.Every eye was fixed upon me; and then Achon continued, in his cold, measured voice:
“Monseigneur! You look as if you thought me mad. Let me tell you that I am only paying a traitor his account. Every detail of the plan for your escape was disclosed to us by your good friend there—ask him to deny it if he can.”
“It is impossible—it is an infamous lie!” exclaimed Condé, and there arose a buzz of astonishment and amaze. I stood transfixed, shaking in every limb, my coward heart almost dead within me.
“Look at him!” repeated Achon, and then a figure ran out from the group behind the Princess, and Yvonne de Mailly, her eyes blazing, her voice shrill, stood before me.
“Say it is a lie!” she said; “say it is a lie!”
There are things the mind feels, and knows to be true, instinctively. I lifted my head and looked into the girl’s hot eyes, and read there, in that moment, what, had I not been a blind fool, I might have known a year before. And she, she as she met my gaze, saw too, and it was something that paled her to the lips, something that made her cower and shrink back from me. Her woman’s heart had told her what I was, and with a smothered cry she threw her arms up, and burst into peal after peal of mirthless laughter.