"Have a care that you mistake not friends for traitors and traitors for friends," said the dwarf. "They have a habit of looking and speaking much alike." And, doubling his legs under him, Jean sank into a sitting posture by the Count's chair.
With chains upon his wrists, Gaspard Lemasle was marched into the room. He glanced at the dwarf, who did not meet his look, and then he fixed his eyes upon Felix.
"We looked upon you as an honest man, Lemasle," said Felix.
"Duke Robert ever found me so," was the answer.
"He is dead," said Felix, "and his son, who should have been Duke, was placed in your keeping. Where is he?"
"I do not know."
"He, too, is dead," said Felix. "His mangled corpse has been found in the forest yonder. How dare you come to Vayenne, Duke Maurice being dead?"
Lemasle was silent. He had no intention of being tricked into answering questions which might give the Count information.
"I will tell you," said Felix slowly. "You deserted him in his hour of need, not from actual cowardice it may be, that I will not accuse you of, but because you trusted in another man, and devoted yourself to Mademoiselle de Liancourt."
"I acted for the best," said Lemasle. "Should I have been welcome in Vayenne if Mademoiselle's body had been found mangled in the forest?"
"A loyal soldier obeys orders," the Count answered. "Your orders were to bring my cousin safe to Vayenne. There are plots in the city. I suggest that you never meant the young Duke to enter the city alive."
"You suggest—you——"
The dwarf raised his eyes for a moment, and Lemasle stopped.
"Well?" said Felix. "Have you an answer?"
"I was privy to no such plot."
"This priest in whom you trusted, where is he?" Felix asked sharply.
"I do not know, Count."
"Who was he?"
"An honest man, for he fought side by side with me," Lemasle answered. "I do him this justice, for the troopers can bear me witness that I complained loudly that he was of our company."
"You mean that his being there was Mademoiselle de Liancourt's wish?" said Felix. "Where is Mademoiselle?"
"She did not return with me to Vayenne," Lemasle said.
"Yet you know where she is?"
"I have said, sir, that we parted before I returned to the city."
"Answer me," said Felix, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table beside him.
Lemasle remained silent.
"You will not speak? Then I will see to it that you cannot. We have spies and traitors enough in Vayenne. They shall have warning of the fate in store for them. You shall hang at noon."
The Count, the prisoner, and the soldiers suddenly started, for at that instant the dwarf broke out into a howl of laughter, rocking himself from side to side until it seemed as though he must lose his balance and roll over.
"Peace! fool, peace!" Felix said angrily.
Jean only laughed the more.
"Did I not tell you that traitors and friends were often alike?" he cried. "When you hang that man as a traitor, hang me too, for company."
"It were easily done," said Felix.
"Easy enough," laughed the dwarf, "so there be wood sufficient for gallows, and hemp enough to break our necks. I warrant there's no lack of either in the castle. But two dangling in mid air is a poor sight; threewould cover the great gate far better, and there's another may well hang with us—the jailer who let the spy escape the other night."
"That is a good thought," said Felix.
"And noon's an excellent time," said Jean, laughing still. "Send out and let the city know of the show. It would be a pity if none should see your warning."
"Never fear, they shall see it."
"And then hide yourself, Count—mark how I call you Count—hide yourself in the darkest hole you can find in the castle, and even then I warrant they'll find you out, and perhaps——" And then again Jean howled with laughter.
Felix sprang to his feet.
"Take this miserable fool out and whip him. Let strong arms get well tired before they cease and let him go."
Two soldiers hoisted the dwarf to his feet.
"Of your mercy, one word," he said, becoming suddenly serious.
"Speak."
"Was there not a Count once who dangled over the gate? I have heard it was so in Duke Conrad's time," said the dwarf.
"Take him away," Felix thundered.
"A moment," said Jean, exerting his full strength and throwing off the hands which held him. "A warning, Count. Mark the word: the people love not the breaking of laws, and it is unlawful that any man should hang over the castle gate but by order of the Duke of Montvilliers. To-day there is no Duke, only Count Felix."
The Count's teeth savagely bit into his under-lip. Jean was right, and Felix had no wish to incense the people.
"Be wise, wait," said Jean. "This man may be a traitor, but he can wait a day or two. He may confess if you give him time, and let him know that he may perhaps win life by confession. He had accomplices without doubt; he may name them if he has a little time for thought. In a few days when you are Duke, you may hang a whole company of soldiers, if you will, and if I help to choose them, may lose nothing by the sport."
"You are indeed a fool," said Felix, hiding his anger under a boisterous laugh, as men driven to bay often will.
"With wisdom enough to save you from folly," whispered the dwarf as he shuffled to the Count's chair and sat on the floor again.
"The fool has saved you, Lemasle," said Felix. "You hear what he says? I may be lenient if you decide to speak openly."
"I thank the fool," Lemasle answered.
"Keep him close," said the Count as the captain was taken from the room.
Jean turned slowly toward Felix when the door had closed.
"You will never mount the throne if you make such mistakes," he said. "To have me whipped was nothing; but to hang a man!"
"Be your own judge: do you deserve such punishment?"
"Yes; surely. Be as honest, Count, do you?"
"You are good for sad hours," laughed Felix. "You shall have a dress, Jean, a dress of bright colors, and a toy of bells in your hand to jingle. You shall gossip with me as you will, speak to me as no other shall dare to do though he boast the greatest name in Montvilliers. You shall come to honor, Jean."
"You do not answer my question," said the dwarf solemnly.
"Why should I be whipped?" said Felix.
"Because there was never man born yet that didn't deserve it. Have I your leave to go?"
"For a while, yes; but you shall come to honor, Jean. There shall be honor in the title of 'The Duke's Fool.'" And Felix struck a gong which stood on the table. "Jean has my leave to go anywhere in the castle," he said to the soldier who entered. "See that this is known—anywhere, at any time, and may come to me without hindrance when he chooses. But he may not leave the castle on any pretext whatever. See that a lodging is found for him."
Jean rose to his feet, and bowed low.
"Some men never reach their ambition," he said, "but I soar far above it. Have the colored tunic and the bell toy made. My highest hope was to wander at will in God's house of St. Etienne, but behold I live to be the fool of a Duke!"
And that night, when the castle slept, Jean had to leave it by the way he had taken Roger Herrick.
THE COUNT LOSES HIS SWORD
At dawn Jean was in the castle again, but Herrick and Christine had heard what had happened to Lemasle. To Lemasle's cell the dwarf also gained admittance, for the Count's orders had been peremptory. Jean had a part to play, and he meant to make the most of it.
"The making or marring of you is in my hands," he boasted in the guard-rooms, "so if you're wise you'll make much of me. The Count and I are brother gossips, and when I get my robes of office, you'll hardly tell one from the other."
So Herrick was able to send his message to Lemasle, and the plot against the Count ripened to its gathering.
Two days later the castle was full of guests and their suites, come to the burial of the Duke, which was to take place on the morrow. There were signs of mourning in the streets through which the cortége would pass, and the great Church of St. Etienne was draped in black. In a few hours men would be busy packing away these death trappings and making ready festive trophies to grace the coronation; such is the kaleidoscope of existence.
The morning broke, heavy and cloudy, and rain fell at intervals. There were those who spoke of the dead man as the great Duke, and these saw a fitness in the sombre day on which he should pass for the last time through the streets of Vayenne.
Jean, by permission, had left the castle to-day, andstood near the great west doors of St. Etienne. Above him tolled the great bell, rung only when a duke came to his last resting-place; and across its solemn sounding the joyous music of the carillon burst out at frequent intervals. The cadences seemed to fall from high heaven, the dwarf thought, as though there were joy there, no matter how great a sorrow there might be upon the earth. Dim lights gleamed in the great nave, low music tumbled from the misty darkness, sad music, yet ever and anon a wave of harmony that had triumph in it, a sudden certainty that to life was the victory though for a while the pageantry of death was supreme.
Into the church came all who were great and powerful in Montvilliers, men whose fathers had fought side by side with other dukes, men whose names and honors had been handed down through the centuries. Among them came the de Bornais, his suite halting on one side of the great doors. Jean's sharp eyes scanned each man that stood there, resting at last upon one whom he watched until the end.
Presently came the cortége—nay, two—drawn by horses in waving plumes and black trappings. Only yesterday was it known throughout Vayenne that the marred body of the young Duke had been found in the forest and brought to the city by Captain Barbier. One great funeral for father and son—the solemnity of the occasion appealed to the people. A silence was in the streets and tears on some faces. To-day the Duke is dead—and buried; to-morrow, "Long live the Duke." Before nightfall there was laughter in the castle halls and corridors. Men must eat and drink though dukes die, and women's eyes will sparkle even though tears were in them a little while since.
Felix moved from group to group, solemn, yetsmooth-tongued. His ears were keen to catch whispers, his eyes quick to note each man's expression.
"Felix."
His name was whispered as he passed through the entrance of the great hall, and he turned quickly.
"Elisabeth."
"I must see you alone," she said. "I have that to tell you which you ought to hear without delay."
"Christine?" he asked.
Elisabeth nodded, and then as the Count turned and led her away, the dwarf came from a dark corner where he had stood watching the Countess.
"This means mischief," he said, and went quickly down the corridor.
Many had looked for Mademoiselle de Liancourt at the castle that night, and marvelled that she was not present. Felix recognized only too well that her absence was unfavorable to him, and, if necessary, would certainly have used force to bring her to the castle had he known where to find her.
But for the promise given to Herrick, it is doubtful whether Christine would have remained in her hiding-place to-day. Her uncle had been very good to her; had loved her, perhaps, more than he had loved any one else in the world; had listened to her pleading when none else dared approach him, and many a man had her to thank for saving him from the Duke's anger. Christine's heart was heavy because she could not pay her last respects to the dead, and there was rage, too, in her soul that Felix had dared to take some marred corpse and bury it in pomp and state, declaring it to be Maurice's body. She longed to rush out into the street and proclaim his treachery to every passer-by.
To-night Christine stood by the open window of herroom deep in thought, yet attentive to any sound in the garden below. Many things might have happened to-day, and Jean might bring her news at any moment. The tolling of the great bell at St. Etienne had ceased long ago, only the faint music of the carillon wove itself into her thoughts. She glanced back into the room where Lucille sat bending over a book. The girl had been with her ever since Countess Elisabeth had gone out. Christine had thought nothing of this fact at first, but when Lucille so persistently stayed with her, following her if she went from one room to another, she began to wonder if the girl were not carrying out some instructions she had received. Christine felt that there had not been a true ring about the Countess's welcome the other night, and since then there had been many signs of uncertainty and effort in her conversation and in her actions.
"Are not your eyes weary of reading, Lucille?" Christine asked suddenly.
"No," answered the girl, looking up; "but I would rather talk."
"Talk! Of what? Prisons and death?"
"Oh, but there are other things. Why should we talk of death or a prison?"
"Come here, Lucille." And Christine put her arm round her, and drew her to the window. "Isn't the city quiet to-night? It seems a sentient thing, awestruck and keeping silent because it knows that death is in it."
"I have known it as quiet other nights," the girl answered.
"What were your dreams then?"
"The Countess called them a silly girl's dreams, because I told her," said Lucille, a blush dyeing her fair face.
"Tell me. Perhaps I shall understand better."
"I wonder if you would! You know my little history—that I am the last of a family once rich and famous in Montvilliers. Long, long ago some ancestor of mine displeased some ancestor of yours, who was Duke then, and we lost honor and estates, and we have never risen again. Yet there has always been a legend that we should come to honor once more, and, strangely, that it should come through a woman. I am the only one left, so I dream."
"Of what?"
"Sometimes of a great deed that I shall do, and perhaps suffer for, but which shall make my name famous through all the world. And sometimes it is different."
"Well, Lucille?"
"Sometimes it is love," the girl whispered, "and I dream of a prince who shall come, who shall pass by all the rich and beautiful women, and kneel to me. So we may win back honor that way. Do you call them a silly girl's fancies?"
"No. Youth will dream of love, it cannot help it."
"Do you?" Lucille asked.
"That, I should confess to you, was not in the bargain," said Christine. "Some day perhaps I may help you to your ambition."
"Will you?" was the eager question.
"We will talk of it another time. To-night I can only think of death and a prison—death in the city, a prison in this house."
"This house a prison!" exclaimed the girl.
"I have a mind to go out for a little while."
"The garden is dark and wet. It has rained much to-day."
"The garden will not satisfy me—I mean in the streets. Yes, I think I will go."
"Oh, no, you must not," said Lucille.
"Why not?"
"The Countess said——"
"That I was not to be allowed to leave the house," Christine said. "Was that her command?"
"She meant for your own sake."
"Did she? Are you clever enough to read all that is in Countess Elisabeth's mind?"
"She has been very good to me," the girl answered. "I would not disobey her."
"I am not blaming you. You shall keep me prisoner. I will not go out to-night."
"Thank you; and you will——"
Lucille stopped. There was a knocking at the door, and a servant entered.
"Mademoiselle!—I mean Mademoiselle Lucille."
"What is it?"
"A man would speak with—with you."
"Or with me?" asked Christine sharply.
"With—with——"
"Bring him here," said Christine. "We will see him together."
"I cannot—I——Ah! He is here already!"
From the darkness of the passage without a priest advanced into the room. His cloak was wrapped closely round him and the hood drawn low over his face.
"Leave us, Lucille," said Christine. "A priest may enter anywhere, even to a prisoner."
"The Countess said——"
"Go! You may lose the friendship of the Countess to find a better one. Christine de Liancourt has stillpower in Vayenne. Go! You shall have excuse. See, I force you from the room!" And she gently pushed her out, shut the door, and locked it.
As she turned Herrick threw back his hood, and let the cloak fall apart.
"Again as a priest I come to you, mademoiselle."
"But this house is dangerous for you. Only to-night I have learned that I am virtually a prisoner in it."
"To-night I believe Count Felix has learned that you are here," said Herrick.
"From whom?"
"From the Countess Elisabeth. Jean saw her approach the Count, heard your name mentioned. That is why I have come. I thought it might be that as a priest I should more easily gain admittance, and Jean borrowed the cloak for me."
"But they may be here at any moment if the Countess has betrayed me."
"That is why I have come," Herrick answered.
"You must not stay. Felix will not really harm me, but you——"
"Have no fear, mademoiselle. I go armed, as you see. This dress proclaims me in the suite of De Bornais, and to-day no one has recognized the man they took for a spy in it. I have come from the castle. I am lodged there—a guest."
Christine turned again to the door to make certain it was locked, and then ran to the window, and closed it.
"I am afraid," she said, a color in her cheeks; "Jean climbed in this way, and bid me remember that an enemy might do the same. Oh, why have you come! Could you not have sent a messenger, could you not have sent Jean?"
"No, mademoiselle. I could trust none with my message to-night."
"Tell me," she said. "Tell me quickly. Every passing moment makes me more afraid."
"In three days Count Felix will be formally proclaimed Duke," said Herrick. "The blow we have planned will be struck then. It is a desperate venture; it may fail, but it is the only way."
"And if it fails?" said Christine.
"To-night the Count is almost certain to send for you," Herrick went on, as though he did not hear her question. "If you will not go willingly, he will probably have ordered that you shall be taken by force. No one knows better than he does how much questioning there is at your absence from the castle at this time. Your presence must help him, and I could have wished that you had not been there until the day he is proclaimed. As it is, you must go willingly."
"And then?"
"Wait, mademoiselle."
"What part have I to play?" said Christine.
"Ours is a scheme in which little can be arranged beforehand," Herrick answered. "Much of our action must be decided by the events of the moment. If I fail——"
"Yes; if you fail?"
"Who can tell, mademoiselle? Even then luck may show me a way out," said Herrick. "A man who hopes to achieve never allows himself to consider what may happen in the case of failure. It would make a coward of him."
"But those who—others—his friends may think for him," she answered.
"We will not think of failure."
"Let me judge. Tell me the whole plot."
"Mademoiselle, I came myself to-night, so that you might understand. In the hut yonder in the forest you accepted my service. The other night when I sent you a message which must have sounded strangely like a command, you sent me an answer, obedience and trust. Even as Jean gave it me I could see you smile at the promise to obey."
"I did not smile. I meant it. Witness that I am here to-night."
"And trust, did you mean that too?" asked Herrick.
"Yes."
"I am going to try your trust to the utmost limit. I cannot tell you the plot. I cannot tell you what I intend to do."
"Why not?"
"Do not ask me. I cannot answer."
"The trust is to be all on my side," said Christine slowly.
"And it may be strained to breaking point. You may—indeed, I fear you will—find it difficult to believe in me. I am here to-night to tell you so. For no duke am I doing this thing, but for you—you. There will be plenty of tongues to fill your ears with evil thoughts of me; then remember what I have said to-night. Circumstances have forced me into this part that I must play, circumstances and a woman—you."
"Circumstances; yes, I understand that; but——"
"But the other you cannot understand," said Herrick quickly. "Is it anything to me, do you suppose, who rules in Montvilliers?"
"Did I not urge that upon you in the forest?" said Christine.
"Yes; and I gave you an answer. My whim compelled me to see the game to the end. There was truth in that answer, but not all the truth. Did you guess that?"
"I thought of it afterward," she answered.
"Circumstances I might break through," Herrick went on. "They may still be looking for a priest in Vayenne, but this dress of the De Bornais would pass me out of the gates. In a few hours I might be across the frontier."
"Why not go?" she asked, looking suddenly up into his eyes.
"Because you hold me."
"And Captain Lemasle, who is a prisoner, trusts you," said Christine. "You are not the man to leave a comrade like that."
"For the moment I had forgotten him," said Herrick. "You reprove me in kindly fashion; but after to-night we may never speak again as we are now, you and I alone—man and woman. It is nothing to me that you are the greatest lady in this land; to me you are only the woman I love, the lady I worship. I am dedicated to your service. The avowal is wrung from me to-night because—because failure may bring death—at the best flight, and success may bring your contempt."
"Death!" she said slowly.
"That were better than your contempt," he answered.
"I shall not easily hate you," she returned.
"I shall remember always that you have confessed so much," he said quietly, kneeling to kiss her hand.
Into Christine's thoughts came the memory of Lucille's dream and the prince who knelt to her, bringing the fulfilment of all her desires.
"Far from hating you, I might confess more," she whispered, bending over his bowed head.
"Christine!"
The next moment Herrick had sprung to his feet. There were heavy steps in the corridor without, rapidly approaching the room.
"Quick, the window!" said Christine.
"Open it wide," said Herrick, pulling his hood over his head, and noiselessly drawing his sword from its sheath. His cloak was a heavy double one, and the inner part he fastened to conceal his dress, the outer folds he drew together to hide the drawn sword.
"What will you do? Go. No harm can happen to me," said Christine.
The door was rattled sharply.
"Open! Open!"
"Go," Christine whispered. "They will kill you."
"They might insult you," he answered. "Open the door."
"For my sake, go," she said, pointing to the window.
"Open the door," Herrick repeated.
"Open! Open!" came from without as the door was rattled fiercely again.
"Go," she said, her arm stretched out to him. "Just now you said—I thought you meant you——"
"I did mean it," Herrick answered. "Christine, I love you. Now open the door."
She hesitated a moment, then unlocked it, and threw it open, and Felix strode into the room.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she asked.
The Count did not answer her, but advanced toward Herrick.
"Whom have we here masquerading as a priest?"
"You have been looking for me, Count; now you have found me. You came to speak to Mademoiselle. You could hardly have expected to find me here."
By a sudden movement Christine placed herself between the two men.
"What do you want with me, Felix?"
"You will go with me presently to the castle."
"I will go with you now."
"Presently," said Felix.
"Mademoiselle, summon the young girl who was here with you just now," said Herrick. "You may go together to the castle."
The Count's sword rang from its scabbard as a fierce oath left his lips.
"Stay!" Herrick said, his sword's point flashing instantly toward the Count's breast. "Would you fight in the presence of this lady?"
Lucille hurried in with a pale face.
"You must be my maid to-night and come with me to the castle," said Christine.
"Go quickly," said Herrick.
"Felix, you shall go with us," said Christine.
"I will follow," he answered, his eyes fixed on Herrick. "Go. No one will stop you. You are expected at the castle."
"Obedience and trust," said Herrick quietly.
For a moment Christine hesitated, then she went out quickly with Lucille, closing the door.
"Now, Count, I am at your service," said Herrick. "What is our quarrel?"
"It lies too deep for words," said Felix, attacking his adversary hotly. "Say it concerns a woman's honor, if you will."
"Say rather that it springs from the Duke Maurice, whom you have buried in St. Etienne to-day," Herrick answered sternly.
Had he sought to put his adversary off his guard, hecould have chosen no better way than the sudden utterance of these words. Mad with rage, and with the consciousness that it was in this man's power to betray him, he rushed upon Herrick wildly, bent on silencing so dangerous a foe at once and forever. The next instant his sword clattered to the floor, and a moment later Herrick had tossed it through the window into the garden.
"This is not to be a fight to the death, Count," he said. "Yours is a small hurt. I will leave you to bind it up."
"Curse you!"
"Curses fall lightly on honest men," Herrick answered, retreating backward to the door, his sword still in his hand. "You would not have come alone had you expected to find me here; therefore I am fortunate, and in your present humor, mademoiselle is fortunate too in not having your escort back to the castle. There you will hardly dare to insult her."
While Herrick spoke he had opened the door, and fitted the key into the lock on the outside. Now he went out quickly, and locked the door after him.
"Good-night," he called out. "When you have bound up your wound, no doubt some one will come to your shouting."
"Curse you!" came the answer. "The future shall make you regret your present luck."
Herrick laughed, and went quickly down into the hall.
"There is a sword in the garden," he said to the sleepy porter, who was still wondering at the sudden coming and going. "Take a lantern and find it. Count Felix, who is up-stairs, will be calling for it presently."
Once out of the house, Herrick walked rapidly away, and a little later walked in at the castle gate; but no longer a priest. The cloak lay behind the wall of agarden near the old markets, and was destined to cause much wonder when it was found next day.
He rushed upon Herrick wildly.
Jean shuffled along near him as Herrick went to his quarters.
"Mademoiselle came to the castle not long since. Is all well?"
"Yes."
"And the Count?"
"I left him binding a cut in his wrist."
"Good, friend Roger, though it might have saved trouble if you had made a slit in his heart which could not be bound." And Jean turned aside, and was lost in the shadows.
THE ORDERS FOR RELEASE
On the terrace below the western tower the sentry slowly paced his appointed round, looking down over the city at intervals, and once or twice glancing up at the tower above him, where, clad in his motley of scarlet and green, Jean sat perched upon the battlements. The dawn was two hours old now, and for full two hours the dwarf had sat there, his grave face sadly at variance with his gay dress, and grinning bauble furnished with jingling bells, which he had stuck under his arm. From this western tower was the widest view of Vayenne, and Jean looked over the city and beyond it to the far hills as though he would imprint the picture upon his memory. Only that morning he had put on his motley for the first time. "The Duke's gift, Jean," Felix had said last night. "Who hurts the fool shall henceforth have to reckon with the Duke." And it would almost seem that the dwarf had come to this exalted spot to show himself to the new day. The sentry smiled at the fool's pride; and some sensation of showing himself to the earth and sky of a new dawn may have passed through the dwarf's mind, but there was no pride in it. He played a part; under the motley was the same Jean, wise, cunning, and alert. He had climbed to the battlements for a purpose, and thoughts had come into his mind as he sat there which had made his face grave as he looked over the city, and to the distant hills, which shut in all the world he had ever known.
It was the third day since Christine de Liancourt had come to the castle, and twice Jean had had speech with her. She had questioned him concerning Roger Herrick, but he could tell her nothing, because Herrick had commanded silence. The hours had been busy for the dwarf, and fortunately for Count Felix also. Jean had not been wanted, and could go about his own affairs unmolested. His work lay in all directions in Vayenne; in the smaller streets and alleys behind St. Etienne, where men lived poorly and nursed discontent in their hearts; in the network of narrow ways about the old markets; in mean cafés and taverns; and in some houses of a better sort where grievances sheltered. Some work, too, there was in the castle itself among the soldiers, who found it unnatural to speak of Felix as the Duke, or who were more than ordinarily superstitious and still marvelled who the spy who had escaped might be, or were suspicious concerning the death of the young scholar of Passey. For each there was different treatment, wisdom here, cunning there; and hardly had Jean slept these few nights past. Last night, indeed, many in Vayenne had not slept, for all signs of mourning had to be folded away, and the city must be decked with wreaths, and colored bunting, and flags, and prepare itself to shout "Long life to the Duke!" So workmen were busy all through the night, and the sounds of hammering faintly ascended to Jean's ears now. He had been in and out among these workers last night, and whatever else he told them, he whispered this in their ears:
"To-morrow! To-morrow! Justice shall be born to-morrow, toward evening, when the Duke mounts the steps of the throne. Then be ready to shout what you have been bidden to shout. All else shall happenas I have told you. I play my part, a mean part, the part of a fool, clad in gaudy coloring with jingling cap and bells. Look for me at dawn at the summit of the western tower. There shall you see me, and what manner of part it is I play. It is the sign that all things are as I have told you."
Thus it was that the dwarf sat long upon the battlements, knowing well that many hundred eyes had turned to look in his direction since daybreak. He had looked down into the streets to see men stop and stare upward; he had looked to this side and that where he knew men were waiting eagerly for light; he had looked toward the high-pitched roof of the great hall of the castle, running lengthways to the great square, and he pictured the scene that a few short hours must bring, the climax to the work with which he had been busy night and day. Still he sat there, looking now to the distant hills, which wrapped themselves about the city, and instead of eager expectation in his face, there was grave contemplation, even the look that he might have worn when in St. Etienne he saw visions. The dawn would break again to-morrow. The morning star would pale in the quivering, golden beams up-springing from behind those sheltering hills. What would another new day lighten in Vayenne?
"Failure," murmured Jean, "and then swift death for us all. Success, and even that must mean rebellion and carnage in her streets once more."
He rose suddenly, and with an impassioned gesture spread wide his arms as if he blessed the city that he loved, a strange, uncouth little figure, ugly as an ancient gargoyle of some great Gothic church. Who shall chronicle all the thoughts that were in him as he stood there? Then he swung himself from the battlementto the roof of the tower, and slowly descended to the court-yard, where busy men greeted him with roars of laughter.
"Your commands, my Lord Fool! Your will, Sir Jester!" they shouted.
"You shall know through your captains, my good fellows," said Jean grandiloquently as he passed on his way to Count Felix.
There was much coming and going in the corridors of the castle, and the dwarf had to run the gauntlet of much chaff, good-natured banter for the most part; and for every one he had an answer, which if not witty passed for such and drew its measure of laughter. It is easy to see humor even in the commonplaces of a licensed jester. No one questioned Jean's right to go where he would, and he passed through the ante-rooms, where many were awaiting an audience, and entered the Count's private apartment unannounced.
Felix looked up, and then burst out laughing, the first time he had laughed since he had returned from the Place Beauvoisin with his hand bound up; and Barbier, who was standing by the Count's table, arrayed in his new uniform as Captain of the Duke's Guard, laughed too.
"So we are three gossips, but only two of us are dressed in our new clothes yet," said Jean. "Haven't they sent yours home yet, friend Felix? Grant they may not come too late."
"Little fear of that now," said Felix, but he became solemn again, and turned to Barbier. "There is nothing more, captain. See that the sentries are doubled everywhere. See that a special guard of honor is given Mademoiselle de Liancourt to-night, and make it clear that neither she nor any of her suite has permission toleave the castle. And remember no priest may enter the Castle of Vayenne but Father Bertrand."
"Had I my will, I would keep him out, too," said Barbier.
"That is impossible," Felix answered. "Every detail of ancient custom must be observed. Go, Barbier, I depend upon you."
"We trust you, Barbier," said Jean. "You are earning your new dress very creditably."
The captain shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at the dwarf as he went out. Barbier had little appreciation of such humor, and perhaps he was not so comfortable in his new uniform as he pretended to be. The Count's wounded hand troubled the Captain of the Guard. Somewhere, undetected, in their midst was a man who knew their secrets.
The wounded hand also troubled the Count. Who was his adversary? What had he to do with Christine de Liancourt?
"No more visions, Jean?" he said, turning to the dwarf, who had seated himself on the floor beside his chair.
"None."
"We travel swiftly to the goal."
"Ay; straight to the goal," Jean answered. "I saw carpenters and servants putting the final touches to the great hall as I passed. It will be a grand spectacle."
"I would it were over," said Felix, "or that we could do without it."
"Why so? The Duke is dead, young Maurice is dead, and Montvilliers must have a duke."
"I have enemies, Jean, and they trouble me. What can I do with them?"
"Bury them quickly, just as we buried the old Duke and his son," the dwarf answered.
"That would be easy could I find these enemies," answered Felix, "but they are secret foes, striking in the dark."
"At your hand," was the quick retort; "your heart is whole. It puzzles me why your enemy did not run you through the heart the other night."
"It puzzles me, too, Jean."
"It would have saved a lot of trouble," the dwarf went on in a musing manner, "and you would have gone to your account proclaimed as a martyr. There would have been pilgrimages to your tomb in St Etienne, and Vayenne would have become famous."
"Since he did not kill me, he must mean other mischief," murmured Felix, following his own train of thoughts and paying little attention to the dwarf.
"Ay; you will lose much by being a duke instead of a martyr," said Jean.
Count Felix roused himself with a sudden effort. This was not the time for fears or dismal forebodings, and he struck the gong upon his table. He had much to do, many persons to see, many things to arrange; and Jean sat there while all this business was transacted, welcoming and dismissing each person with a little musical shake of his fool's bauble. Most of them laughed at him, a few were angry, but it made no difference to the dwarf.
Presently the Count rose.
"Play the fool where you will, Jean, until evening; I go to see the Countess Elisabeth, and I will not take you with me."
"Are you jealous?" asked the dwarf.
"No."
"I'll go and see Christine de Liancourt," said Jean. "I warrant I shall have a hearty welcome. Art jealous now?"
"A little, perhaps."
"She might have liked you as a martyr," chuckled the dwarf. "Oh, I grant you, being a fool has its advantages." And he shook his bauble as the Count passed out of the room.
Then Jean seated himself thoughtfully on the corner of the Count's table, and for a few moments was busy with his seals and wax.
"Since the sentries are doubled, we must take double precaution," he murmured. "Chance is a very useful mistress sometimes, but it does not pay to leave too much to her."
Count Felix went quickly to the suite of rooms Countess Elisabeth occupied for the time being in the castle. He had requested her not to return to the Place Beauvoisin until after he was crowned Duke. He wanted his talisman beside him, he said; and the Countess, perhaps hoping that she would never permanently return to the Place Beauvoisin, remained.
She received him now, as she always did, with a smile of welcome, and he bent over her hand in silence before seating himself beside her.
"I would it were well over, Elisabeth."
"To-morrow at this time it will be," she answered.
"Had I dared to do so, I would have altered the ceremony," he went on; "I would have curtailed some of these absurd customs, and made my coronation far more simple and direct. It should have been swiftly done, and I would have had the reins firmly in my hands before any had time to question me."
"Who can question you?"
"I fear even the voice of one starveling about the court, or even of some soldier who mayhap has begun his revelling too early."
"Your fears are groundless, Felix."
"Are they?" And he held out his bound-up hand to her.
"That was but the stroke of a lover mad with jealousy," Elisabeth answered. "When I sent you to Christine that night I little thought you would find her lover there."
"Who is this lover?"
"Indeed, I cannot tell; but being a woman I read another woman easily. As I told you, I thought she loved this Captain Lemasle; in that I was mistaken, but I was not at fault when I said she was in love. That you must know now."
Felix was silent. A lover of Christine's this sham priest might well be, but he was something more—he was the man who knew his secret. This he could not tell to the Countess without betraying himself.
"Would you still marry her, Felix?" she asked.
"Only for the good of Montvilliers," he answered.
"She will hate you, Felix, even though she be your wife. They are her own words."
"I must risk even that for the good of Montvilliers."
"Ah, your love is a small thing beside your ambition," she said, turning away from him.
"Your love is the dearest thing I have in life, Elisabeth," he said quickly. "Do not turn from me, even for a moment, in such a time as this. I am like a child stepping in the dark who holds out its hands for guidance and protection. After to-morrow, who can tell what action of mine may be best for Montvilliers? If Christine hates me so much, she may show it now, andgive strength to my enemies; she has that power, I cannot rob her of it. Let me once feel that I am firm without her, and then——"
"Well, Felix?"
Her face was raised to his, and he bent and kissed her lips.
"For the present know that I love you," he whispered, "and give me strength for the ordeal through which I have to pass."
"You ask so much and give so little."
"Wait," he answered. "After to-morrow, I may give all."
"Yours are, indeed, a child's fears," she said. "Come, tell me them one by one, and like some good nurse I will try and show you how foolish they are."
All his fears he could not tell her, perhaps she recognized that he did not, but many he could talk to her about, and she comforted and strengthened him. All the ghosts that conscience sent to harass him were powerless to annul the Countess Elisabeth's work altogether, and it was with firm step and steady eye that presently the Count met his friends and foes.
Meanwhile Jean went about his work, but it did not include a visit to Mademoiselle de Liancourt. He passed slowly through the ante-rooms, where men were still waiting.
"The audience is at an end," he said. "We have too much to attend to to-day to see any more of you. The Count is tired; and has gone to rest a little."
"My Lord Misshapen, won't you attend to us?" said one.
"My unique limbs also require rest; still, what would you have? We know nothing against you."
"A high place at court, to which my love for you entitles me," said the man.
"What say you to a rope over the great gate?" said Jean. "It is the most prominent place I can think of."
The man's hand went suddenly to his sword hilt.
"If you draw sword on me," said Jean, tapping him on the arm with his bauble, making the bells jingle, "you are likely to earn your high place rather easily."
The laugh was turned against the man, and the dwarf passed on.
"It is very well to jest," mused Jean as he crossed the court-yard, "but I'm likely to hang yonder over the gate myself if anything goes wrong in the next few hours."
He entered a low doorway, and going slowly along a dark passage, was challenged at the end of it by a sentry. There were two sentries standing there.
"I have come to see the prisoner."
"We have no orders," answered the sentry.
"I go everywhere under a general order," said Jean. "You should know that, blockhead; it has been shouted loud enough in every corner of the castle."
"It does not apply to-day, Jean."
"Who has been telling you fairy tales, that cocksparrow Barbier?"
The sentry smiled. The new Captain of the Guard was no great friend of his.
"We shall have to cut his feathers," said the dwarf. "Did he tell you that all prisoners were likely to be released to-morrow in honor of the Duke's coronation?"
"No; he did not tell us that."
"And I'm a fool," said the dwarf, "for I was told to keep it secret when I was ordered to bring this release to one of the prisoners to-day." And Jean held out to the sentry a paper, an order of release forthwith, signedand sealed by Count Felix. "You see the name, Pierre Briant, the jailer who let the spy escape. Now, blockheads, are you going to let me pass?"
There was no disputing that order, the sentries stood aside, and one of them proceeded to unlock the cell door.
Pierre Briant looked at the paper and then at the dwarf.
"You are free, jailer Briant," said Jean, "but you are dismissed the Duke's service. You'll have to turn 'prentice to some pedler in the town."
"I'm sorry for that," said the sentry.
"I'll see you on your way to the gate," said the dwarf, and then, when they were out of hearing of the sentries, he went on quickly: "All goes well. Those in the square to-night will follow you. You know what you have to do. Here, put this order of your release in your pocket, walk boldly to the gate, you will not be questioned. Say 'Obedience and trust,' that's your password, and make all speed you can to the Cheval Noir in the Rue de la Grosse Horloge. You will find friends there."
He stood watching the retreating figure across the court-yard, and saw the jailer pass safely through the postern by the great gates.
"That's one deed that would serve to hang me," he muttered. "Barbier is no fool; it is well I had the papers."
He entered the castle again, taking a different direction this time, but again before the door of Gaspard Lemasle's cell two sentries barred his way. Not until he had produced another order of release would they let him pass.
Lemasle walked away with the dwarf in silence.
"What now, Jean?" he whispered when they had passed out of earshot of the sentries.
"Lie low until dark. Then make for guard-room C. They will be all friends there, stout men, captain, that wait their stout leader. 'Obedience and trust' is our password to-night. You understand what you have to do?"
"Never fear, Jean; and grant there's a skirmish of some sort, for I have several scores outstanding."
"We had better both hasten to cover then."
"I know a likely hole," Lemasle answered, and he turned quickly into a side passage, and was gone.
"I'll hide, too," muttered the dwarf. "I have no great desire to meet Barbier until I see him to-night in the great hall." And he, too, turned into a dark corridor and silently disappeared.
THE DUKE OF MONTVILLIERS
Darkness crept slowly over Vayenne. Lights shone in the wider thoroughfares, and blinked dimly in the narrower streets. The taverns and the cafés were full, and although there were some who went about their business as though this night were as other nights, there were many who had waited eagerly for the close of day and knew that the hour of action was at hand. Only a few, perhaps, had any clear notion what was to happen; the majority would merely follow where they were led, do what they were told, without question, and without knowing to what end their actions tended. Whatever that end might be, they understood in a vague manner that it would be to their own individual advantage, and in every city there are large numbers who want no greater incentive than this to make them turn out of the ordinary course of their daily routine. They will eagerly follow a possibility without pausing to weigh probabilities. So they waited in the taverns, in the cafés, and at street corners for their leaders, who were discussing the final plans with Pierre Briant at the Cheval Noir.
Within the castle all was life and movement, all men working toward the same purpose it would seem, and if there were an undercurrent which set in an opposite direction, none but those interested in it had time to notice it. Even the lynx-eyed Barbier surveyed his preparations, and found little wanting. For the Dukemust be crowned with all ancient customs, and it was so long since a duke had been crowned in Vayenne that some of the usages had been almost forgotten.
The custom had come down from ancient times, and Count Felix dared not alter it. To-night was the civil crowning. In the great hall stood the chair of state, mounted on a platform of six steps; and here in the presence of the nobles of the land and representative burghers of the city, must Felix claim to mount that throne as rightful heir, or by the power given him of the people. If any choose, now might they question him, and he must answer, but being once seated in the chair of state, all right of question was over; only could petition be made then, which the new Duke might answer or not as he willed. Then a priest, placing a golden circle upon his brows, proclaimed him crowned Duke of this land of Montvilliers, and bade him consecrate such crowning on the morrow according to all rites and customs. Then must the representative nobles and burghers, each and individually, bow the knee and swear fealty to their sovereign, making oath to keep the realm inviolate with their lives, and to hold their swords and revenues at the Duke's service for the defence of the state and of his person. Thus was the Duke crowned by his court and by his people. To-morrow in St. Etienne must he be crowned by the Church. Here for a space he must wear the iron crown of Montvilliers and make his vows before the altar in the midst of gorgeous ceremonial and splendor.
There had been occasions when the religious crowning had not followed the civil one immediately, but this was only when stress of state affairs intervened, or an enemy thundered at the gates. Count Felix had decreed that it should follow at once. To-night the civil, to-morrowmorning the religious ceremony. When darkness fell again the double ordeal should be over.
The dwarf squatted upon his doubled-up legs in the deep embrasure of one of the windows in the great hall which overlooked the square. He was lifted well above the heads of those who were rapidly filling the hall from end to end, and no one entered without Jean's keen eye noting them and the particular position they took up. Yet to watch him, one would not have supposed that he took any very keen interest in what was going forward. He sat in a more huddled-up fashion than usual, his eyes half closed, as though he might fall asleep at any moment. His bauble was tucked under his arm, and held there so that the little bells on it might not jingle; and although several men looked up at him and made some passing jest, he had no answer for them. The lights in the hall left this window somewhat in shadow, and the dwarf seemed to have chosen it in order to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Beside him lay a small, unlighted torch.
The chair of state stood on its raised dais at the upper end of the hall, and the space around it was at present empty. The less important folk came into the hall first, soldiers and retainers, those who held office about the castle, and others who held civil offices in the town and who by custom had a right to be present at this ceremony.
Captain Barbier, still ignorant apparently of the release of the prisoners, was the most conspicuous person in the assembly at present, and Jean gave more than a passing glance to him. He noted how he placed the company of guards who presently tramped into the hall, noted that, for all his fine appearance and buoyant camaraderie, the captain was no great favorite; a sneer met him here, and a look of contempt followedhim yonder. Barbier was quite oblivious of the one and the other. He could afford to smile and strut in his gay new feathers, for was he not trusted by the new Duke, was he not a man in authority, one it would be ill considered to offend? Barbier knew the full strength of his position, and was unlikely to let any of its advantages slip. Jean was quick to recognize the tact and wisdom there was in this man, and to understand that with a few more like him Duke Felix's throne might stand firmer than it did at present.
Next there came into the hall representatives of the suites of the nobles who had come to Vayenne for the funeral of the old Duke and for the coronation of the new. Some of these nobles had been lodged in the castle, some in the town. For the most part they had brought few retainers with them, having, indeed, few to bring. There were rich men in Montvilliers, but not many of them were of noble descent, and some of the most ancient families were comparatively poor. De Bornais was one of the exceptions, and besides loved to uphold his dignity. He had come to Vayenne with a considerable retinue, and although all his followers did not find a place in the hall to-night, he had a larger representation there than anyone else. Jean looked at these men keenly as they were marshalled to their places at the very edge of the open space which surrounded the raised dais. They were fewer in number than he could have wished, but they were stalwart men. One, who fell into his place behind the others, and who, while Barbier was near, kept his hand over his brow, hiding the upper part of his face, glanced presently toward the window where the dwarf sat, and their eyes met. No heads were turned to look at this man particularly, yet for Jean the most important person whowould find place in that assembly to-night had already come. It was Roger Herrick.
And now from the side doors which led from the great hall, nobles entered, and took up their positions in the vacant place around the chair of state, and there were many ladies, their wives or daughters, or those who in their own right held high place in the land. The beautiful Countess Elisabeth drew all eyes to her as she took her place at the foot of the dais. Jewels were at her throat and in her hair, and there was no woman fairer to look upon in all that great assembly. After her coming there was a pause, and then, followed by Lucille, Christine de Liancourt entered the hall. A murmur of welcome, like a ripple of low music, greeted her, and the eyes that had rested upon the Countess turned to rest on her. Jewels were at her throat, too, and on her brow a jewelled diadem; almost it seemed as though for her all ceremony was at an end, that already she was crowned Duchess. It was the first time Herrick had seen her arrayed in all the splendor of beautiful womanhood, and that beauty and her position seemed to lift her far beyond his reach. All that had happened in these last days, the ride through the forest, the desperate encounter, the charcoal-burners' hut, their last meeting in the house in the Place Beauvoisin, all seemed to sink far back into the past, to fade and take indefinite outline, to wrap themselves in the dim mantle which belongs to dreams. The present, and all thought of the things he was to do in it, was for the moment forgotten, and fascination riveted his eyes on this woman as a man may look upward and gaze spellbound at the beauty of a distant star. Was it true that only a few nights since she had almost confessed that she loved him? That such a thing could be, seemed impossible now.
Christine was pale, but her eyes shone, and the little firm mouth was brave and determined; yet Lucille, who stood beside her, knew that she was nervous. Christine spoke to her companion, looking into her eyes as she uttered some commonplace. She paid no heed to the girl's answer, her only desire was to steady herself. To-night something was to happen, in a few moments it might be. What was to happen, how it was to come, she did not know; she was only certain that whether came success or failure, bloodshed must assuredly follow. What part had she to play in this rebellion? Then growing steady, she turned and looked to where de Bornais' men stood close behind their master, and saw how Roger Herrick's eyes were fixed upon her. If she read any message at all in them, it did not help her to understand what was to occur. She did not glance at the window in the shadows. She had no knowledge that Jean was there. "Obedience and trust," the dwarf was muttering to himself and wondering how it was friend Roger had succeeded in making her promise so much. Truth to tell there was something like resentment in Christine's mind at that moment at being kept so entirely in the dark. What could happen to-night? What power had this one man, who stood, insignificant, behind de Bornais?
Suddenly there was movement in the hall and shouting, loud shouts of welcome rising sharply above a low, murmuring accompaniment which might be a welcome, differently expressed, or might not. At least there was no harsh and unruly cry of dissatisfaction, nothing that broke upon the ear as actual discord. Those at the back stretched themselves and stood on tiptoe in an endeavor to look over their neighbors' heads; and even Jean from his exalted position could not see clearly whatwas going forward, for the crowd had closed in at the upper end of the hall for a moment. Then it fell back a little, to show that Count Felix stood at the foot of the dais, and that Father Bertrand had mounted it and stood by the chair of state.
There was a moment's pause, during which the shifting feet became silent, and Jean, leaning backward in the shadow of the embrasure, stole a glance down into the great square below.
"It has ever been our custom to crown the Dukes of Montvilliers according to certain peculiar rites and customs," said Father Bertrand, speaking slowly and in a tone which carried his words clearly to the utmost limits of the great hall. "You know, most of you, what these ancient rites and customs are, how your future Duke, claiming this throne, must stand to answer your questioning before he seats himself to receive your homage. There have been occasions when the claim has stood more by might than by right, when your voices by common consent have bid a warrior, or a deliverer from oppression, to wear the crown and rule over you. This is no such occasion. Since Maurice, son of the late Duke, is dead, Count Felix stands before you, the legal heir to Duke Robert. I have then but to ask him those questions which every Duke that has reigned in Montvilliers has been asked, solemn questions which here, in this old hall of Vayenne, each one of them has been required to answer. Count Felix, I demand by what right you claim to ascend this throne of Montvilliers?"
"By right of birth," came the answer, spoken quickly and in a loud voice.
There was a pause, but no sound broke the silence which followed.
"Count Felix, I charge you, is there any reason known to you which makes your claim a false one?"
"There is no such reason," said the Count. Again he spoke quickly and in a clear tone, and he looked at Christine. Her eyes met his for a moment, but hers were the first to look away. Whatever she knew or believed, she was not going to speak.
Again the silence remained unbroken.
"Count Felix, do you swear to govern this land according to the same laws of right and liberty by which it has heretofore been governed, and to hold the welfare of your people as a sacred trust?"
"All this I swear to do," answered the Count.
"My lords, knights, burghers, and men of Montvilliers, those are the questions I have to ask, and which you have heard the Count answer. Now question him as you will," said Father Bertrand.
Count Felix stood on the lower step of the dais, and turned to face his questioners. He was pale as a man facing such an ordeal well might be, but he smiled bravely. He felt that the worst was over. Christine had not spoken. The time for the questions which he had dreaded most seemed to be passed. Christine did not look at him. Her eyes were fixed upon the group of men behind de Bornais. One of them no longer kept himself in the background. His companions had made way for him, and he stood almost at de Bornais' side. Why had Roger Herrick not spoken? Had fear kept him dumb at the last moment?
For some little time no question was asked, and then a burgher, stammering in his words and half fearful of the sound of his own voice, prayed for an alteration in some civic law, a mere triviality it seemed to break so momentous a silence. Yet it set others askingquestions, and Felix answered them, promising future grave attention where no immediate relief could be given. Such questioning served to stimulate the Count, and a color gradually stole into his face. A new courage was in his soul as may come to a man who feels himself whole, and knows that the danger he has so much dreaded is past.
The questioning was over. A long pause had come, and not a voice was raised in the hall. The dwarf silently put down his bauble by his side, careful that the little bells should not jingle, and took up the torch. Matches were in his hand, but his eyes were fixed upon the dais. No movement below caused him to look away for an instant.
"Count Felix," the priest's voice rang out clearly, "you have answered my questions, you have answered the questions of your people as represented by this assembly. To this throne you must now ascend."
Count Felix turned, and his foot was on the second step of the dais when a loud voice cried:
"Stay!"
Felix, white again suddenly, and to his very lips, looked down into the face of the man who had dared thus to approach the throne and stand even with his foot upon the first step. He wore the uniform of the de Bornais, but Felix hardly noticed this. It was the face of the man that riveted his attention. He recognized it. How could he forget it, since when last he looked into those eyes it had been across keen, naked blades. Does a man ever forget a face seen thus?
"Your interference comes late," said the priest, "yet is it not, I think, against the ancient custom. Until the Duke is seated he may be questioned. What is your question?"
Christine bent suddenly forward almost as though she expected the question to be asked in a whisper. But the words rang out clearly.