"Le Dédaigneux!" Humphrey said to himself. "Le Dédaigneux. Some man, some great one masquerading under a sobriquet, anom de guerre!Who can it be but one! Who but the one whose proud family motto almost speaks of their disdain for even kings; whose own life bespeaks his scorn for all who are not of his blood; who looks down on other men as other men look down on the insects crawling in their path! Who can it be but he? Yet--does he lead these conspirators or is he led by them? Is he their chief or cat's-paw? I must know that."
"Listen," he heard Van den Enden saying now. "Briefly, all that is devised is as follows."
"Those men, that money, and the Dutch Fleet are in our hands, at our service," Van den Enden continued next; "the moment that your Normandy is prepared to rise against this tyrant whose tyranny is greater than was the tyranny of Richelieu, of Mazarin, or of both combined. If your chiefs, your great noblesse, your merchants of Rouen, Havre and other cities--all groaning under this tyrant's unjust taxation of them, specially for his wars; all hating his wantons, his mad extravagance and love of splendour--are ready to rise and form themselves into a Republic which shall at last be a Republic formed of the whole of France, then the Spaniards and Hollanders are ready to play their part."
"Republics have heads, dictators, rulers, as well as monarchies. Men who are yet monarchs though without crowns, or thrones, or rights hereditary. Whom does Spain produce?" La Truaumont asked.
"De Montérey at first stipulated for the head of the house of--Le Dédaigneux. The Duke----"
"Ah!" whispered Humphrey to himself.
"But finding that this might not be, that the Duke refuses since he would have to throw too heavy a stake to win even so great a prize as this, they will accept him."
"They must," the listener heard the woman say. "He must be head or nothing."
"They have agreed," Van den Enden continued. "They desire Quillebeuf, De Montérey avers, more than all the places of which Le Roi Soleil has despoiled them. They wish to form a Republic rivalling that of Venice, one that, in being with them, shall crush all who are against them."
"And Louis! The King. What of him?"
"Listen. His guards have been dispatched to join the army.Le Dédaigneuxas their colonel has taken care of that."
"My God!" Humphrey whispered to himself. "He is in it. The chief conspirator and no tool!"
"The King will," Van den Enden went on, "be either at St. Germain or Fontainebleau for the next few weeks or months. And then--then----"
"Then?" said La Truaumont.
"Then five hundred Norman gentlemen will subdue the courtiers and seize on him. We shall have him. Hold him."
"Go on!" La Truaumont muttered, his voice husky and deep. "What next? What will you do with him?"
"He will sign a renunciation of his throne or----"
"Or?"
"He will go to the Bastille, or Pignerol--Pignerol is safer; it is afar off, out of, lost to, the world. He will experience that which he has caused countless others to experience. And, later, he will--die."
"Die! How?"
"As others have died," the Jew hissed. "As all die who suffer under his tyranny. By his own hands, or--will--appear--to have done so."
"My horse is in its stall," Humphrey thought to himself now; "my rapier to my hand. It is time, and full time, too, for me to be on my way. On my way to France--thank heaven the frontier is so near at hand! To Paris, to the King. There is no time to lose. The King to be seized and, later, the country invaded; the fortresses taken! And I know all the scheme. All, as well as the names of all concerned."
"Yet," he went on, "I must contain myself longer. To leave this room now, however softly; to attempt to unbar the door of this closed house, if it is yet shut; to saddle 'Soupir' and ride off now is to tell those wretches in there that they are blown upon. I must wait--wait till full night has come, till midnight at earliest, or even until later and, then, off and away. Away through the mountains, over the plains--on--on--till I stand face to face with the King and tell him all. Heaven above be praised, he knows me and my name: he has befriended me and been good to my mother. It will not be hard to do. Oh! that I could creep out now, at once, so as to waste no precious moment."
For an instant, as thus he communed with himself, there had come to him a thought that he would endeavour to communicate with the Duchess by tapping gently on the door that was between their rooms; by attracting the attention of her or Jacquette, both of whom were probably at supper now in their salon; and by stealing away in that manner. But no sooner had this idea come to him than it was discarded. The tapping, or scratching, he must make to call their attention to him would equally summon the attention of those in that other room, and might, indeed, reach their ears sooner than it would reach the ears of the others whose notice he desired to attract. No! he must stay quiet until, at least, those in the next room had separated, which, judging by the words he had heard the once unknown voice utter to the effect that La Truaumont and his party should be abed before ten--would undoubtedly not be long now.
Meanwhile, as these reflections passed through his mind his ears were still on the alert; even as he thought, so he could listen, too, and not only hear but grasp what was the subject of conversation between the conspirators in that room.
From the absolute conspiracy itself the talk had now wandered to other matters, and at this moment Humphrey heard La Truaumont say:--
"I ride with this heroine of romance--thisfollewho is covered with jewels but,sangdieu!will not have more than a change of linen with her--as far as Martigny. There I shall be taken with sudden illness, the vapours, the falling sickness--the megrims--one will do as well as t'other, and so I shall be left behind. And then, when they are gone, hey! for France, for Normandy."
A moment later, the opening and shutting gently of the door was heard by Humphrey; a stealthy though heavy tread in the corridor was also apparent to the young man's ears: he knew, he felt sure he knew, that the man had left the room. The plot was laid bare by Van den Enden, the meeting over.
The other two in that room continued, however, to remain in it, and more than once Humphrey heard the rasping tones of the voice which he felt sure belonged to the old man who had descended from the French coach, and the softer, sweeter ones of the woman who inhabited those apartments and, as far as he knew, never stirred out of them. But, though he heard the tones, the words that were uttered were now unintelligible, and it flashed instantly into Humphrey's mind that the pair were whispering to each other.
"Whispering," he said to himself. "Whispering! Yet why now, when the worst is told and has been told openly and, beyond uncertainty, without fear of that worst being overheard? Why have the two to speak in whispers now since, when they were three, they said nothing that--as they thought--needed suppression?"
He heard, however, something further. He heard shuffling feet which, Humphrey did not doubt, were the feet of the old man moving about the room; a piece of furniture--a chair as it seemed to him--moved from one part of the apartment to another; a smooth, rubbing sound on the other side of the wainscot against which he leant with his head beneath the folds of the frouzy, dusty tapestry, and once--or twice--a word or the fragments of a question.
"Are you sure? Certain? It is death if so," the rasping, or feeble, voice asked, not in one sentence but in three exclamations, while the clearer, more fresh voice replied, also interjectedly. "Service, I tell you. Safe. Covered. Impossible."
To what these words might refer Humphrey could not conceive, no more than he could conceive to what those various movements in the room applied. Neither could he form any opinion as to the meaning of what he next heard clearly and distinctly, since, forgetting himself for the moment, the man said:--
"No chance if that is done. The swiftest portion of the Rhine is quickly reached by that brawling, rushing river outside. I know, I have been a refugee in this city ere now--and then, once there, the secret is hidden for ever. The swirl at that spot is worse than the grave, since the latter can be made to give up its dead or what is left of them, butitnever."
Of this speech Humphrey could understand nothing; it conveyed naught to his mind. Or, if it did convey anything, only the thought that some proof of their secret, something which he could not guess at or surmise, was to be consigned to an eternal and unyielding oblivion.
It seemed as if, now, those two were about to separate for the night. In still broken, still interjected sentences and scraps of sentences and stray words, Humphrey could understand that they were telling each other their future plans. He gathered that the woman had promised to set out the next day in her coach for Paris, that she would wait at Mülhausen till the French coach from Basle arrived when she would take her confederate into her own carriage and convey him with her. He also found out for certainty what the old man's name was.
"I will not have you masquerading as my father," he heard the woman whisper. "You need be no longer the Seigneur de Châteaugrand. Your own name of Van den Enden will do very well, since nothing connects you with us or Normandy."
"It will do very well for me, too," Humphrey said to himself, "since I know both of them now. And yours also, my lady, thanks to your chattering maid and your travelling necessaries."
A moment later he once more heard the door opened and shut, gently as ever, and knew that the woman was left alone. Still another moment, and he heard her cross the floor of her salon and knew by the sound of a closing door--the different sound made by a different door--that she had entered another room, the one in which she doubtless slept.
It was now ten o'clock, as Humphrey heard plainly from all the various clocks in the city, and he knew that he must, as yet, have no thought of setting out for France. By the absence of all movement whatever in the Duchess's room to the right he recognised that she had not yet sought her bed; he heard, too, all the sounds rising up the stairs from the ground portion of the inn which told him that there was as yet no likelihood of the place being closed for the night. There were, he knew well, no other travellers, or at least none of importance, staying in the house, yet--even in this rigid and now harsh and severe Protestant city that, nearly a hundred years after Calvin's death, had not yet shaken off the gloomy asceticism with which he had dyed and imbued it, as well as Geneva and others--there were wassailers and carousers who came here to drink nightly. He had seen them and heard them, too, the evening before, as, also, he had seen Fleur de Mai and Boisfleury drinking with them. He knew, also, that until midnight, or at least as long as the landlord would allow them to remain, which was so long as they would drink and sup, the house would not be closed and these topers sent forth.
"Therefore," thought Humphrey, "I must possess my soul in patience. There is naught else for it." Though, even as he so thought, there came another reflection to his mind.
"Foregad!" he said to himself, "if I stay in here until the house is closed, I am as like not to be unable to leave it. Therefore let me consider what is best. Either to quit the house before it is shut up for the night, to get to the stables and remain in them till all is quiet and then steal away on 'Soupir'--she is fleet of foot and, once off, none will catch us!--or wait here till all are gone to their beds and take my chance of finding an exit? Which shall I do?"
Suddenly, however, he made his final decision. To stay here and risk being unable to obtain that exit was folly. Better walk about the streets for hours and then return and make his way to the stables and obtain his horse--if the stables were not themselves made fast for the night--than stay here to be shut in till the morning. Consequently, he decided he would go in an hour's time if not sooner. And, also, it might be best that then, if he could get into the stables, he should saddle "Soupir," at once, lead her out gently, and, mounting her without delay, ride forth out of the town. That he would have to pass the gate he knew, but, with the passport he carried in his pocket signed by D'Argenson for the King--the King whom, if possible, he went forth to warn and save--this would be easy.
So that he should make no noise which might inform the woman he was there, if at any minute she should return to the room next to him, he took off his long boots and walked softly about seeking the few necessaries which he must take with him: to wit, his rapier, his pistols and cloak and hat. The other things he had with him, which were contained in the little valise for strapping in front of the saddle, he would leave behind. Jacquette, he knew, would understand in the morning, when he was found to be missing, that he had purposely left them and would see that they were placed in safe custody, while, even if she did not do so, their loss would be no serious thing.
Humphrey went to the door now, turning the key back as softly as might be so as to make no noise, and, next, took it from the inside and inserted it in the lock on the outside and pushed the door-to without shutting it, after which he drew his boots on once more and crept softly out. Then he locked the door and, dropping the key into his pocket, descended the stairs.
He met no one on them and, so far as he knew, no one saw him. The landlord was not in his room, as he could see through the glass window giving on to the passage: the door of the great general room was shut, though from it there issued a hum of voices, above all of which he could distinguish the loud boasting tones of Fleur de Mai as, doubtless, he indulged in some of his usual rhodomontades. Likewise, and he thanked heaven for it, the street door still stood wide open as though inviting custom. To add to his satisfaction the oil-lamp in the passage was extinct, it having probably been blown out by the warm southerly breeze that had arisen with the coming of the night.
"All is very well," Humphrey said to himself. "Yet a few moments more and 'Soupir' and I shall be on our road for Paris. Then, catch who can."
And he stepped out on to theplacebetween the inn and the river.
To reach the stables which were at the back of the Krone without passing through the kitchen (and it would have been madness for Humphrey to attempt to do so unnoticed, since the scullions and cook-maids were, he imagined, finishing their tasks for the night, while the drawers and servers were idling about and, probably, in some cases, emptying down their throats the heel-taps of various flasks and bottles), it was necessary to proceed to the end of the street, some houses off. Then, a turn to the left had to be made beneath the ramparts between the river and the city proper, and, next, still another to the left to bring Humphrey to the rear of the inn and the stables themselves.
This he knew well enough, as, in the morning, he had visited those stables to see the soldiers of the Duc de Lorraine who had escorted the Duchess from Nancy set out upon their journey back. And, good cavalier as he was, he had more than once in the past twenty-four hours gone to them to see that all was well with "Soupir" and that she was properly fed and groomed and attended to.
He strolled on, therefore, in an easy manner towards where the mare was, assuming the air of one who, after his supper, might be sauntering about by the side of the river ere seeking his bed, while inhaling the soft, warm southern breeze of the night. To appear well in keeping with such a person--one who might be a traveller taking his ease, or one on the road to or from France or, across the river, to the German States--he also went on to the bridge and gazed idly into the turbulent waters rushing beneath, and so walked across to Klein Basel, all with the desire to kill time.
"For," said Humphrey to himself, "I must be neither too soon nor too late. If I go in too early I may come against La Truaumont or his myrmidons seeking to know if all is well with the animals, which I desire not to do. While, if I tarry too long I may find the door fast for the night, whereby 'Soupir' and I cannot come at each other."
Consequently, he made no movement for still some little time, nor until all the clocks were once more competing hotly with each other as to which should be the first or the last to strike the hour. And the hour which they were striking was eleven.
"Almost I might venture," Humphrey said to himself now. "The band of which it is supposed I shall form one," and he smiled at his thoughts, "sets out early to-morrow for Geneva and Martigny. La Truaumont will have given his commands by now since he sees to all. Fleur de Mai and Boisfleury are deep in their cups or gone by this time to their beds. The rest, the horsekeepers, the stablemen, do not count at all. I stand as high with the Duchess as does the captain; I may do what I please." Upon which he rose from his seat on a bench across the river and made his way back and towards where his mare was.
Returning to the bottom of that old street which leads down to the Rhine from the city above, it seemed to Humphrey that he heard, either ahead of, or behind, him, the ring of spurs upon the stones as well as the tramp of heavily booted feet: and he heard, or thought he heard, the well-known click-clack of the point of a rapier sheath against those stones.
"Humph!" he said to himself. "One of the watch perhaps, or some traveller."
He, however, thought little more of this beyond observing that the sound of those heavy boots and spurs, and that tap of a rapier, were becoming fainter, when, suddenly, upon his ears there fell the words: "Excellency, I will tell him. Be sure of me, Prince."
"The voice of Fleur de Mai!" Humphrey exclaimed. "And 'Excellency!' 'Prince!' Foregad! whom should he know here--or anywhere for the matter of that!--to whom such terms apply? And in this Republic where there are no Excellencies or Princes."
As he so thought, though heedlessly enough, since to him who, both in London and Paris, had mixed always with the highest and noblest, such things counted for little, it seemed that either those footsteps were returning towards where he was now, or else that they were the footsteps of some man similarly attired and accoutred who had passed the other.
"Perhaps," he mused, "Fleur de Mai is coming this way after greeting his acquaintance the 'Prince'. It may be so. And to-morrow the vagabond will boast of his friend, his close and intimate friend the Prince of this or that, whose acquaintance he has, in truth, only made to-night in some other hostelry than ours."
Suddenly, however, as thus he laughed at the bravo's probable braggadocio, the fellow himself loomed up large before him.
"'Tis Fleur de Mai, as I thought!" he exclaimed aloud. "I knew there was but one such rich and unctuous voice in all the wide world." After which he laughed, while adding, "And the friend of Princes."
"'Tis very true," the other answered. "Ay, the friend of many princes. Yet 'twould be best for you, my cock o' the walk, if you too were thinking of the princes whom you know. Here is De Beaurepaire come post-haste to Basle."
"De Beaurepaire here!" Humphrey exclaimed.
"Ay, and seeking for you everywhere. In my lady's chamber, beating on your door and cursing you loudly for being a seek-your-bed; makingpoursuivantsof us to ferret you out, while you,cadédis!are strolling about the streets making odes to the moon, I do suppose, or dreaming of the fair Jacquette."
"Silence, brigand."
"Silence is best. You will hear enough when De Beaurepaire lets loose his tongue on you."
"Bah! I am not his servant nor in his pay as you are. I ride as his friend and help, not as his varlet. Yet, since he is here, I would see him. There is no man in all the world on whom I would more willingly set eyes" ("for his own good," Humphrey added to himself). Then he said aloud, "Now tell me where he is. Lead me to him."
"'Tis that which I am here to do," Fleur de Mai said, "though, in doing it, I bid you observe I obey him, not you. Come, therefore."
"Where is he, I say?" Humphrey exclaimed again, stamping his foot.
"At the stables, looking to his horse, as a good soldier should.Ciel!did you not hear him bid me find you?"
"I heard you say 'I will tell him,' meaning me I suppose. Well! let us away to the stables, they are close at hand."
"Come then, my pretty page," grunted Fleur de Mai contemptuously, and venting the spite which, from the first, he had conceived against the good-looking young man who was always so handsomely dressed and made so much of by the Duchess, as well as always a guest at her table while he and Boisfleury were relegated to the common living rooms at whatever hostelry the band put up.
Following after the fellow, Humphrey drew near the stables while puzzling his head as to what could have brought De Beaurepaire to Basle since he knew that, holding the offices he did, the Prince had no right whatever to be out of France.
"Has the plot failed already," Humphrey wondered as he went; "is it blown upon and has De Beaurepaire put himself outside France for safety? Or has he been unable to stay longer away from his fair friend, the Marquise? If 'tis the first, he may now ride on with the Duchess to the Milanese territory: if the second he has fair surroundings for his amorous dalliance. While as for me--well!--in either case I am free of my hurried ride to Paris. If the bubble has burst the King knows as much of it as I: if love has drawn De Beaurepaire hither, the two principals of that plot, she and he, can work no harm at present. I shall have time before me to meditate on what I must do."
By now, he and Fleur de Mai were outside the stables, one half of the doors of which stood ajar, while, through the opening thus made, there streamed out the glimmer of a lantern. When, however, Humphrey had followed the other in--and when "Soupir," who was in her stall at the top, turned round and whinnied as she heard her master's voice exclaim, "Where is the Prince? I see no one"--he noticed, by hearing the latch fall even as he spoke, that the door had closed--by itself as it seemed--behind him. Turning round instantly at this, he saw that a man enveloped in a long cloak had shut it.
"Who are you?" he exclaimed, addressing this man whose back was towards him, and whose face was, consequently, invisible, "and why do you close the door thus?"
"I am the Captain la Truaumont," the man said now, wheeling round and facing Humphrey, "and I have to speak with you."
"Where is De Beaurepaire? He is not here!" while Humphrey, suspecting some trick, took a step backwards as he spoke, and, dropping his left hand on his rapier hilt, loosened it in its sheath.
"Where he should be, I suppose, in Paris attending to his present duties. Later, as you know, he will have others to attend to. Meanwhile, loosen not your weapon. It will not save you here. I know a trick or two more of fence than you."
"It would seem you know many tricks, Captain La Truaumont. In spite, however, of your ordinance touching my weapon, I will make bold to draw it," and, in a moment, Humphrey's right hand had whipped the rapier from its sheath.
"So will I mine," he heard Fleur de Mai say.
"And I mine," exclaimed another voice which Humphrey recognised as that of Boisfleury.
"You see," said La Truaumont, "you are caught. Your English blade will stand you in little stead against three stout French ones. Though I account mine of so little need that, as yet, it is not drawn."
"Later," said Humphrey who, while he recognised that he was tricked and caught in aguet-apensfrom which there seemed little likelihood of escape, felt no tremor of fear: "Later, we will see for that. Meanwhile, ere we commence our play, explain to me what is the meaning of this--lie--that has been told me."
"The meaning is," said La Truaumont, "that you were locked in your room for some hours while I and two friends were in the salon of Madame La Marquise de Villiers-Bordéville. Owing to a grating between the two rooms, which her respected father discovered later, you were undoubtedly enabled to overhear all, or the greater part, of what took place in that salon. Do you deny or acknowledge this?"
"I deny and acknowledge nothing. What you imagine is of no import to me. No more than how you have become possessed of this knowledge through Madame's 'respected father,' or he, himself, of it."
"Yet you shall learn. The waiting-maid of Madame la Marquise, whom you bribed with a gold louis and fair words and sweet looks to give you information of her mistress, was over-bribed with five times the sum by me--who saw you engaged in talk with her--to give us information of you."
"Which, being gained, did not prevent you from speaking out your plot to one another. Bah! tell a better tale or none at all."
"Softly,beau garçon. The maid was bribed to watch and see that you entered not into your room, it being thought you were still with your pretty Jacquette, or her mistress, or outside the house. Later, when you crept forth from your room, after locking it behind you, I comprehended that you had been in it all the time and that, also, you had doubtless heard all, the maid telling me you had not entered it since she took up her watch. Now, youhaveheard all, you hold us in your hand, our lives are at your mercy, unless----"
"Unless what!" speaking contemptuously.
"Unless we take yours."
"Take it then!" though, as Humphrey spoke, he turned his body a little so that, now, neither Fleur de Mai nor Boisfleury were any longer at his back but, instead, in a line with La Truaumont. Consequently, he had them all before him while the outer wall of the stable served as a base.
"You mean----"
"I mean, if you can."
"Sangdieu!" La Truaumont said, "though you are such a pretty youth you are also a bold one. It must be your mother's French blood makes you so! Yet, listen, Humphrey. We have all been comrades. Also remember, you are no triedferrailleur. Fleur de Mai knows more of fence than you, and I than both."
"I will make proof of that ere many moments are past."
"Tush! be not a fool. A word can save you, one easy to speak since 'tis so small. You are of gentle birth in each land from which you draw your being; give me your word,foi de gentilhomme, that no breath of this ever passes your lips to any mortal soul; say 'Yes' to my proposal, and we clasp hands here and crack another bottle, as comrades should do, ere we sleep to-night."
"There is," said Humphrey quietly, and quietly contemptuous too, "another word as small as 'Yes' in your tongue. Smaller too, in mine. As easy, or easier therefore, to say."
"Fool! you mean----"
"I mean, 'No'. I mean that to-night I ride her," glancing towards Soupir, "across the frontier on my road to Paris, Fontainebleau or Versailles; wherever I may find Louis the King. I mean that every word I have overheard this night he shall hear from me a week hence or earlier. With, too, the names of those who have to-night complotted against his crown, his throne, his life--ah, brute! ruffian!" he broke off to exclaim as, at this moment, he saw Boisfleury creeping towards his mare; the sword the fellow held being shortened in his hand. "So, 'tis her you would first disable thereby to disable me." After which, and grasping his own weapon two feet below thepas-d'ânehe swung it round as he advanced towards the creeping, crouching vagabond and, striking him full on the temple with the hilt, felled him to the straw of the stable.
"Now," Humphrey said, with a look on his face which possibly none had ever seen there before; a look black as the night outside, savage as the face of an aroused tiger, and with all of the devil that was in him aflame. "Now, be quick with your dirty work. There are but two against one left, and that one draws his thews and sinews from English loins. Be quick or soon there will be but one; the fight will be man to man. As for you, bully, come on." While, as Humphrey spoke, he thrust with his rapier full at the breast of Fleur de Mai and, had the burly scoundrel not stepped aside swiftly as he parried the blade, would have run him through from breast to back.
A moment later all was silent in that stable except for the muttered ejaculations, mostly of surprised admiration, which he could not resist, from La Truaumont; the heavy breathing of Fleur de Mai as Humphrey pressed him hardly, and the adder-like hissing of the two men's rapiers as they entwined with one another in a struggleà outrance.
"Dieu des Dieux!" whispered La Truaumont between pale lips, "it must be done. It will fall to me to do it. Yet the pity of it! He is a young lion and brave as a lion, too; one who, if it is not for me, will have put thatluronout of the world for ever ere another moment is past. And I am a gentleman, yet must now stoop to be a murderer. I cannot. I cannot. I, Georges du Hamel, Sieur de la Truaumont! I, to become a murderer!"
In truth, the scene was a weird one on which the pale, trembling man gazed; that man who, in all his adventurous career, had never known what it was to tremble at the most terrible of impending catastrophes: that man who had looked on tremblings and qualms as fit only for women and puling children.
A weird scene, added to and made doubly so by the sickly rays emitted from the lantern behind whose dirty, horn encasement a guttering rush-light burned. Added to, also, in weirdness by the whimpering of the frightened animals who were startled by the clash of steel, and by the grunts of Fleur de Mai as he fought desperately while knowing, feeling sure, that his hour--his moment--was come, and by the occasional contemptuous ejaculations of Humphrey as he bade his opponent take courage since it was but the first bite of the blade which was agony, and to utter a prayer if he knew one.
By now Humphrey had driven the bully into a vacant stall and, having him there, had ceased to lunge at him, but, instead, with his blade crossed over the other's was slowly but surely beating down that other's weapon until the moment came when, swift as the lightning flash, he would run him through. And Fleur de Mai knew that this was so, that it would happen: there needed no jeers from his opponent to tell him what the bite of the steel would feel like. Yet, breathing heavily, his face, nay, his whole body, reeking with the sweat that burst from all his pores, he still endeavoured to save himself, to avert the moment of his doom. As that moment drew near, however, his heart failed him and he shrieked to La Truaumont for assistance, knowing full well that from Boisfleury there was none to be hoped, since he lay stunned outside the next stall and was himself in danger of his life each moment from the hoofs of the excited animal within it.
But from La Truaumont the assistance came not. Rough soldier as the man was, conspirator as he had become, part-assassin of the King as he had proposed and still proposed to be, he could not bring himself to steal up behind the man fighting so gallantly against the great bravo and run him through the back or maim him. He could not force himself to become a common murderer.
"Not yet," La Truaumont whispered to himself. "Not yet. If he kills Fleur de Mai, as he will, then I must engage him, though not until he has had breathing time. But not this way. And--my God!--we have been friends, comrades. Oh! that he had not learnt this secret."
Suddenly, however, he saw that the fight had taken a different turn.
Fleur de Mai, desperate, knowing himself lost, had resorted to one last trick: the last in truth that is left to the swordsman who knows his chance is gone. A trick that may succeed yet is doubly like to fail. One that may save an almost beaten man if it succeeds, but that, in failing, places him in no worse, no more perilous, position than he was before.
Therefore he tried it, doubting yet hoping.
Swiftly, with one last attempt--it was successful!--of escaping his enemy's blade, Fleur de Mai essayed the once well-knownbotte de lâche. He fell to the earth on his left hand, catching himself adroitly on that hand and, ere Humphrey could draw back his weapon to run him through and through, the other had thrust upwards at his conqueror's breast. He had thrust up with all his force and, even as he did so, knew that he had won. With a gasp the young man reeled backwards, staggered against the stable wall and, a moment later, fell to the floor insensible.
"So, so," muttered La Truaumont, "there was no need for me. I am quit of that." After which he stooped over Humphrey's now inert body, tore open his jacket at the breast and, thrusting his hand in over the heart, let it rest there a moment or so. "It beats still," he said. "It is not pierced. Yet, see," and he drew forth the hand and held it up before the other, who, by the miserable light of the horn lantern, saw that it gleamed crimson. "You have given him his death. There is a wound somewhere here big enough to let his life out, to set his soul free. What to do now?"
"Do now!" Fleur de Mai grunted, as he leant, blowing and puffing, against the side of the stall while supporting himself on the handle of his sword, from the point of which the red drops ran down and tinged the straw at his feet. "Do now! Why! Clear ourselves from this, my most noble captain who would not come to a comrade's help in a dire hour."
"I was not wanted. Two men were not needed to kill one. Your own skill has proved that"--"foul blow though it was," he added inwardly. Then he continued, "Best we desert thefolle furieuseat once and ride to Paris. De Beaurepaire will absolve us when he knows what we have done to save him, even though we break faith with her. Add to which, we are wanted there and in Normandy. She can do without us, or, at least, she must."
"No, not ride," Fleur de Mai said, while as he spoke he assumed a greater tone of equality with La Truaumont than he had done before, if not a tone of command. For he it was who had vanquished the man who would have undone them, and he was not disposed to regard the accomplishment lightly. "No riding on these horses," glancing his eyes down the line of stalls. "Yet, still, away. To make for, not ride to Paris."
"I understand you not."
"Listen. I will propound to you. Let heaven give you the brains to comprehend."
"Beware. No insolence. I bear a sword more cunning than his," looking down at Humphrey.
"Aficofor your sword! Again I say, listen. Let us back to the inn and be seen about it. Possibly 'tis not yet closed--you shall pay for a bottle. Then I will depart. Later you, too, can do so. On foot, together or alone, we can escape across the frontier; thus we are safe. In France none can touch us for what we have done amongst these Switzers, or, if they attempt it, let them beware. As for money, you have some I know full well. While he, too, perhaps, has some about him," touching Humphrey's body with the tip of his murderous sword as he spoke.
"What! You would rob your victim!"
"The spoils of war! Feel for his purse."
"Feel for it yourself. I need not money."
"I do." Whereon the ruffian calmly knelt down by Humphrey's side, ransacked his clothes and, at last, drew out a fairly well-filled purse which he clinked joyously in front of the lantern. "With this," he said, "we can--I mean, I can--buy me a horse across the frontier or get a seat in some coach, orpatacheor waggon for France. You need not money, you say. Therefore you, too, can do the same."
"Why not take our own horses?"
"Because thereby we tell the tale. This butterfly is found here dead; we are gone and our horses, too. What does that point to,hein?Whereas, there is mystery in it if we are also gone without our horses, and he, if dead here, and----"
The fellow paused, hearing a slight rustle in the straw and whispered, "Ha! he stirs. 'Tis best to finish the affair," and he lifted his sword.
"Nay, fool," said La Truaumont. "'Tis Boisfleury who moves. And--hark--he moans in his insensibility."
"Boisfleury! Boisfleury," the other repeated, musing. "Boisfleury. A crafty knave and violent. Listen again," he continued, whispering, "perhaps Boisfleury, too, will die. Then 'twill be thought they have killed each other--Boisfleury's blade is out; he would have maimed the mare. While," and now Fleur de Mai placed a brawny finger on La Truaumont's breast and peered into his eyes, "if he does not die, still," and he tapped the other with the finger, "he will be found here alive. He cannot stir yet. So, too, will that be found," pointing at the reddened straw. "So, too, that," pointing at the bruise on Boisfleury's temple. "You take me? The murder--will--be out. And Boisfleury will--pay--for it. They execute freely here, they say, for any little violence. He will not go scot free. But we shall. Come, man. Come. Away. A flask first and then off--off--to the frontier. And I have this," shaking the purse. "Pardie!the valet pays better thanmadame la patronne. Come."
* * * * *
The eternal clocks told the hours again and again; it was growing late--or early; outside in the street there was now no sound. Perhaps the watch slept, or, if it did not, at least it came not near that stable wherein two men lay. Or where, rather, one man lay against the wall and the other sat up outside a stall peering across the stones at him.
"So," that second man said to himself, "'tis Boisfleury who will be found here with him, is it? 'The murder will out, and Boisfleury will pay for it.' Ha! Well, we will see for that."
He rose now from his sitting position, or, instead, he crept upon his hands and knees towards where Humphrey lay, while as he did so he muttered to himself. "No. No. No. The body will not be found. It may be that the murder will not out: that Boisfleury will not pay--for--it! But," and a hideous grin distorted his face which, added to the bruise on his temple, would have made him horrible to the eyes of any who should have beheld him, "others will--others shall.Bel homme," he muttered again, as now he touched Humphrey, "you will never reach Louis the King, but--another--may. And--and--peace to your manes!--what you would have told him shall be told by that other and well told, too. Nought shall be forgotten. Nought. Nought. Messire Fleur de Mai, M. le Capitaine de la Truaumont, Madame la Marquise--bah! Madamela coquine--de Villiers-Bordéville--Monsieur le Prince et Chevalier de Beaurepaire"--hissing out sardonically all these titles and appellations through his white lips as though it gratified him to repeat them to himself, "and you, Jew, call on your friend and master, the Devil, to help you when I tell my tale to the Splendid One."
And again he muttered, "The murder will out, and Boisfleury will pay for it," while, as he did so, he once more snarled like a hunted wolf.
"I cannot feel it beat," he said now, as he placed his hand beneath Humphrey's satin undervest, much as La Truaumont had done some hour or two before, "therefore he is dead. Still, the murder must not out. Boisfleury," he muttered again, as he harped on Fleur de Mai's words, "must not be made to pay for it. No. No. Instead, this murder must be hidden away from all men's knowledge. It must never be known. Never. It is well I was but stunned for a few moments after that blow; that I lay dark and snug and let them fight it through. Well, very well. Thus my skin is safe and the secret is mine."
He rose from the floor and left Humphrey's prostrate body now, and went to the stable door which the other two had closed behind them, and, opening it, peered out into the night. He saw then that all was still dark and black and silent; he also perceived that heavy rain was falling. There was no living thing about; not so much as a houseless dog shivering in any porch or stoop; neither was there any light in any window, nor any sound except the swish of the rain and the noisy swirl of the Rhine as, rushing by, it sped away upon its course towards and past France.
"The murder, for murder it was," he whispered to himself, "will never out. Never. Boisfleury has no reckoning to make, no scot to pay. But others have."
He went back now to where Humphrey lay, and, lifting him up, gradually got him hoisted on his shoulders, for, though neither big and burly as Fleur de Mai nor sinewy and bull-shaped as La Truaumont, he was wiry and strong. Then, going to the stable door again, he pushed it open with his foot, his hands being engaged in holding his burden on his back, and went out into the pitiless rain and so across theplaceto the high, built-up bank of the river.
"'Twill carry him on swiftly," he whispered to himself, "through ravines and past sunny meads until, at last, it throws him ashore leagues and leagues from here: 'tis better thus than lying in some town fosse or common graveyard.Allez, pauvre homme."
As he spoke he turned his back to the river, leaning downwards against the wooden rails erected to prevent the townspeople or children from falling into it, after which he let go of Humphrey's arms, which he had drawn over his shoulders, gave a strong, swift throw backwards of his body against the rails, and knew that his burden was gone. Gone with one heavy splash into the rushing, tumbling waters beneath; carried away as a cork thrown into those waters would itself have been carried away.
Nor, when he turned round swiftly an instant afterwards, was there any sign of Humphrey. He could not see a human mass rolling over and over in those turbulent, leaping waters, nor a white face gleaming from them, nor any glassy, lifeless eyes glaring up into the leaden skies above. The body was gone and had left no sign behind.
Boisfleury went back now to the stable, and, taking the lantern from the hook on which it hung, placed it on the floor and carefully picked up all the straw tinged or soaked with blood that he could find. Next, he picked up Humphrey's rapier--the cloak, he knew well enough, was on the victim's back excepting that part of it which he had wound tightly round his arm ere he attacked Fleur de Mai. Finally--after having carefully arranged some clean straw in the vacant stall with his hands--while all the time watched by the gleaming, startled eyes of the horses gazing at him over the divisions of the other stalls--he blew out the lamp and, shutting the door behind him, went over to the river again.
"There is no score to pay now," he murmured, as he flung the tinged straw and the rapier into the Rhine. "None, here, in Basle. None by Boisfleury. But elsewhere? And by others! Ah!"