"I\n\n_A flash of lightning._\n\n\nAt the stair-foot the landlord stopped me. \"Here, lad, take a candle.\nThe stairs are dark, and, since I like your looks, I would not have you\nbreak your neck.\"\n\n\"And give the house a bad name,\" I said.\n\n\"No fear of that; my house has a good name. There is no fairer inn in\nall Paris. And your chamber is a good chamber, though you will have\nlarger, doubtless, when you are Minister of Finance.\"\n\nThis raised a laugh among the tavern idlers, for I had been bragging a\nbit of my prospects. I retorted:\n\n\"When I am, Maître Jacques, look out for a rise in your taxes.\"\n\nThe laugh was turned on mine host, and I retired with the honours of\nthat encounter. And though the stairs were the steepest I ever climbed,\nI had the breath and the spirit to whistle all the way up. What mattered\nit that already I ached in every bone, that the stair was long and my\nbed but a heap of straw in the garret of a mean inn in a poor quarter? I\nwas in Paris, the city of my dreams!\n\nI am a Broux of St. Quentin. The great world has never heard of the\nBroux? No matter; they have existed these hundreds of years, Masters of\nthe Forest, and faithful servants of the dukes of St. Quentin. The great\nworld has heard of the St. Quentins? I warrant you! As loudly as it has\nof Sully and Villeroi, Trémouille and Biron. That is enough for the\nBroux.\n\nI was brought up to worship the saints and M. le Duc, and I loved and\nrevered them alike, by faith, for M. le Duc, at court, seemed as far\naway from us as the saints in heaven. But the year after King Henry III\nwas murdered, Monsieur came to live on his estate, to make high and low\nlove him for himself.\n\nIn that bloody time, when the King of Navarre and the two Leagues were\ntearing our poor France asunder, M. le Duc found himself between the\ndevil and the deep sea. He was no friend to the League; for years he had\nstood between the king, his master, and the machinations of the Guises.\nOn the other hand, he was no friend to the Huguenots. \"To seat a heretic\non the throne of France were to deny God,\" he said. Therefore he came\nhome to St. Quentin, where he abode in quiet for some three years, to\nthe great wonderment of all the world.\n\nHad he been a cautious man, a man who looked a long way ahead, his\ncompeers would have understood readily enough that he was waiting to see\nhow the cat would jump, taking no part in the quarrel lest he should\nmix with the losing side. But this theory jibed so ill with Monsieur's\ncharacter that not even his worst detractor could accept it. For he was\nknown to all as a hotspur--a man who acted quickly and seldom counted\nthe cost. Therefore his present conduct was a riddle, nor could any of\nthe emissaries from King or League, who came from time to time to enlist\nhis aid and went away without it, read the answer. The puzzle was too\ndeep for them. Yet it was only this: to Monsieur, honour was more than a\npretty word. If he could not find his cause honest, he would not draw\nhis sword, though all the curs in the land called him coward.\n\nThus he stayed alone in the château for a long, irksome three years.\nMonsieur was not of a reflective mind, content to stand aside and watch\nwhile other men fought out great issues. It was a weary procession of\ndays to him. His only son, a lad a few years older than I, shared none\nof his father's scruples and refused point-blank to follow him into\nexile. He remained in Paris, where they knew how to be gay in spite of\nsieges. Therefore I, the Forester's son, whom Monsieur took for a page,\nhad a chance to come closer to my lord and be more to him than a mere\nservant, and I loved him as the dogs did. Aye, and admired him for a\nfortitude almost more than human, in that he could hold himself passive\nhere in farthest Picardie, whilst in Normandie and Île de France battles\nraged and towns fell and captains won glory.\n\nAt length, in the opening of the year 1593, M. le Duc began to have a\nfrequent visitor, a gentleman in no wise remarkable save for that he was\naccorded long interviews with Monsieur. After these visits my lord was\nalways in great spirits, putting on frisky airs, like a stallion when he\nis led out of the stable. I looked for something to happen, and it was\nno surprise to me when M. le Duc announced one day, quite without\nwarning, that he was done with St. Quentin and would be off in the\nmorning for Mantes. I was in the seventh heaven of joy when he added\nthat he should take me with him. I knew the King of Navarre was at\nMantes--at last we were going to make history! There was no bound to my\ngolden dreams, no limit to my future.\n\nBut my house of cards suffered a rude tumble, and by no hand but my\nfather's. He came to Monsieur, and, presuming on an old servitor's\nprivilege, begged him to leave me at home.\n\n\"I have lost two sons in Monsieur's service,\" he said: \"Jean, hunting in\nthis forest, and Blaise, in the fray at Blois. I have never grudged them\nto Monsieur. But Félix is all I have left.\"\n\nThus it came about that I was left behind, hidden in the hay-loft, when\nmy duke rode away. I could not watch his going.\n\nThough the days passed drearily, yet they passed. Time does pass, at\nlength, even when one is young. It was July. The King of Navarre had\nmoved up to St. Denis, in his siege of Paris, but most folk thought he\nwould never win the city, the hotbed of the League. Of M. le Duc we\nheard no word till, one night, a chance traveller, putting up at the inn\nin the village, told a startling tale. The Duke of St. Quentin, though\nknown to have been at Mantes and strongly suspected of espousing\nNavarre's cause, had ridden calmly into Paris and opened his hôtel! It\nwas madness--madness sheer and stark. Thus far his religion had saved\nhim, yet any day he might fall under the swords of the Leaguers.\n\nMy father came, after hearing this tale, to where I was lying on the\ngrass, the warm summer night, thinking hard thoughts of him for keeping\nme at home and spoiling my chances in life. He gave me straightway the\nwhole of the story. Long before it was over I had sprung to my feet.\n\n\"Do you still wish to join M. le Duc?\" he said.\n\n\"Father!\" was all I could gasp.\n\n\"Then you shall go,\" he answered. That was not bad for an old man who\nhad lost two sons for Monsieur!\n\nI set out in the morning, light of baggage, purse, and heart. I can tell\nnaught of the journey, for I heeded only that at the end of it lay\nParis. I reached the city one day at sundown, and entered without a\npassport at the St. Denis gate, the warders being hardly so strict as\nMayenne supposed. I was dusty, foot-sore, and hungry, in no guise to\npresent myself before Monsieur; wherefore I went no farther that night\nthan the inn of the Amour de Dieu, in the Rue des Coupejarrets.\n\nFar below my garret window lay the street--a trench between the high\nhouses. Scarce eight feet off loomed the dark wall of the house\nopposite. To me, fresh from the wide woods of St. Quentin, it seemed the\ndesire of Paris folk to outhuddle in closeness the rabbits in a warren.\nSo ingenious were they at contriving to waste no inch of open space\nthat the houses, standing at the base but a scant street's width apart,\never jutted out farther at each story till they looked to be fairly\ntoppling together. I could see into the windows up and down the way; see\nthe people move about within; hear opposite neighbours call to each\nother. But across from my aery were no lights and no people, for that\nhouse was shuttered tight from attic to cellar, its dark front as\nexpressionless as a blind face. I marvelled how it came to stand empty\nin that teeming quarter.\n\nToo tired, however, to wonder long, I blew out the candle, and was\nasleep before I could shut my eyes.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCrash! Crash! Crash!\n\nI sprang out of bed in a panic, thinking Henry of Navarre was bombarding\nParis. Then, being fully roused, I perceived that the noise was thunder.\n\nFrom the window I peered into floods of rain. The peals died away.\nSuddenly came a terrific lightning-flash, and I cried out in\nastonishment. For the shutter opposite was open, and I had a vivid\nvision of three men in the window.\n\nThen all was dark again, and the thunder shook the roof.\n\nI stood straining my eyes into the night, waiting for the next flash.\nWhen it came it showed me the window barred as before. Flash followed\nflash; I winked the rain from my eyes and peered in vain. The shutter\nremained closed as if it had never been opened. Sleep rolled over me in\na great wave as I groped my way back to bed.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n_At the Amour de Dieu._\n\n\nWhen I woke in the morning, the sun was shining broadly into the room,\nglinting in the little pools of water on the floor. I stared at them,\nsleepy-eyed, till recollection came to me of the thunder-storm and the\nopen shutter and the three men. I jumped up and ran to the window. The\nshutters opposite were closed; the house just as I had seen it first,\nsave for the long streaks of wet down the wall. The street below was one\nvast puddle. At all events, the storm was no dream, as I half believed\nthe vision to be.\n\nI dressed speedily and went down-stairs. The inn-room was deserted save\nfor Maître Jacques, who, with heat, demanded of me whether I took myself\nfor a prince, that I lay in bed till all decent folk had been hours\nabout their business, and then expected breakfast. However, he brought\nme a meal, and I made no complaint that it was a poor one.\n\n\"You have strange neighbours in the house opposite,\" said I.\n\nHe started, and the thin wine he was setting before me splashed over on\nthe table.\n\n\"What neighbours?\"\n\n\"Why, they who close their shutters when other folks would keep them\nopen, and open them when others keep them shut,\" I said airily. \"Last\nnight I saw three men in the window opposite mine.\"\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"Aha, my lad, your head is not used to our Paris wines. That is how you\ncame to see visions.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" I cried, nettled. \"Your wine is too well watered for that,\nlet me tell you, Maître Jacques.\"\n\n\"Then you dreamed it,\" he said huffily. \"The proof is that no one has\nlived in that house these twenty years.\"\n\nNow, I had plenty to trouble about without troubling my head over\nnight-hawks, but I was vexed with him for putting me off. So, with a\nfine conceit of my own shrewdness, I said:\n\n\"If it was only a dream, how came you to spill the wine?\"\n\nHe gave me a keen glance, and then, with a look round to see that no one\nwas by, leaned across the table, up to me.\n\n\"You are sharp as a gimlet,\" said he. \"I see I may as well tell you\nfirst as last. Marry, an you will have it, the place is haunted.\"\n\n\"Holy Virgin!\" I cried, crossing myself.\n\n\"Aye. Twenty years ago, in the great massacre--you know naught of that:\nyou were not born, I take it, and, besides, are a country boy. But I was\nhere, and I know. A man dared not stir out of doors that dark day. The\ngutters ran blood.\"\n\n\"And that house--what happened in that house?\"\n\n\"Why, it was the house of a Huguenot gentleman, M. de Béthune,\" he\nanswered, bringing out the name hesitatingly in a low voice. \"They were\nall put to the sword--the whole household. It was Guise's work. The Duc\nde Guise sat on his white horse, in this very street here, while it was\ngoing on. Parbleu! that was a day.\"\n\n\"Mon dieu! yes.\"\n\n\"Well, that is an old story now,\" he resumed in a different tone.\n\"One-and-twenty years ago, that was. Such things don't happen now. But\nthe people, they have not forgotten; they will not go near that house.\nNo one will live there.\"\n\n\"And have others seen as well as I?\"\n\n\"So they say. But I'll not let it be talked of on my premises. Folk\nmight get to think them too near the haunted house. 'Tis another matter\nwith you, though, since you have had the vision.\"\n\n\"There were three men,\" I said, \"young men, in sombre dress--\"\n\n\"M. de Béthune and his cousins. What further? Did you hear shrieks?\"\n\n\"There was naught further,\" I said, shuddering. \"I saw them for the\nspace of a lightning-flash, plain as I see you. The next minute the\nshutters were closed again.\"\n\n\"'Tis a marvel,\" he answered gravely. \"But I know what has disturbed\nthem in their graves, the heretics! It is that they have lost their\nleader.\"\n\nI stared at him blankly, and he added:\n\n\"Their Henry of Navarre.\"\n\n\"But he is not lost. There has been no battle.\"\n\n\"Lost to them,\" said Maître Jacques, \"when he turns Catholic.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" I cried.\n\n\"Oh!\" he mocked. \"You come from the country; you don't know these\nthings.\"\n\n\"But the King of Navarre is too stiff-necked a heretic!\"\n\n\"Bah! Time bends the stiffest neck. Tell me this: for what do the\nlearned doctors sit in council at Mantes?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said I, bewildered, \"you tell me news, Maître Jacques.\"\n\n\"If Henry of Navarre be not a Catholic before the month is out, spit me\non my own jack,\" he answered, eying me rather keenly as he added:\n\n\"It should be welcome news to you.\"\n\nWelcome was it; it made plain the reason Monsieur's change of base. Yet\nit was my duty to be discreet.\n\n\"I am glad to hear of any heretic coming to the faith,\" I said.\n\n\"Pshaw!\" he cried. \"To the devil with pretences! 'Tis an open secret\nthat your patron has gone over to Navarre.\"\n\n\"I know naught of it.\"\n\n\"Well, pardieu! my Lord Mayenne does, then. If when he came to Paris M.\nde St. Quentin counted that the League would not know his parleyings, he\nwas a fool.\"\n\n\"His parleyings?\" I echoed feebly.\n\n\"Aye, the boy in the street knows he has been with Navarre. For, mark\nyou, all France has been wondering these many months where St. Quentin\nwas coming out. His movements do not go unnoted like a yokel's. But, i'\nfaith, he is not dull; he understands that well enough. Nay, 'tis my\nbelief he came into the city in pure effrontery to show them how much he\ndared. He is a bold blade, your duke. And, mon dieu! it had its effect.\nFor the Leaguers have been so agape with astonishment ever since that\nthey have not raised a finger against him.\"\n\n\"Yet you do not think him safe?\"\n\n\"Safe, say you? Safe! Pardieu! if you walked into a cage of lions, and\nthey did not in the first instant eat you, would you therefore feel\nsafe? He was stark mad to come to Paris. There is no man the League\nhates more, now they know they have lost him, and no man they can afford\nso ill to spare to King Henry. A great Catholic noble, he would be meat\nand drink to the Béarnais. He was mad to come here.\"\n\n\"And yet nothing has happened to him.\"\n\n\"Verily, fortune favours the brave. No, nothing has happened--yet. But I\ntell you true, Félix, I had rather be the poor innkeeper of the Amour de\nDieu than stand in M. de St. Quentin's shoes.\"\n\n\"I was talking with the men here last night,\" I said. \"There was not one\nbut had a good word for Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Aye, so they have. They like his pluck. And if the League kills him it\nis quite on the cards that the people will rise up and make the town\nlively. But that will not profit M. de St. Quentin if he is dead.\"\n\nI would not be dampened, though, by an old croaker.\n\n\"Nay, maître, if the people are with him, the League will not dare--\"\n\n\"There you fool yourself, my springald. If there is one thing which the\nnobles of the League neither know nor care about it is what the people\nthink. They sit wrangling over their French League and their Spanish\nLeague, their kings and their princesses, and what this lord does and\nthat lord threatens, and they give no heed at all to us--us, the people.\nBut they will find out their mistake. Some day they will be taught that\nthe nobles are not all of France. There will come a reckoning when more\nblood will flow in Paris than ever flowed on St. Bartholomew's day. They\nthink we are chained down, do they? Pardieu! there will come a day!\"\n\nI scarcely knew the man; his face was flushed, his eyes sparkling as if\nthey saw more than the common room and mean street. But as I stared the\nglow faded, and he said in a lower tone:\n\n\"At least, it will happen unless Henry of Navarre comes to save us from\nit. He is a good fellow, this Navarre.\"\n\n\"They say he can never enter Paris.\"\n\n\"They say lies. Let him but leave his heresies behind him and he can\nenter Paris to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Mayenne does not think so.\"\n\n\"No; but Mayenne knows little of what goes on. He does not keep an inn\nin the Rue Coupejarrets.\"\n\nHe stated the fact so gravely that I had to laugh.\n\n\"Laugh if you like; but I tell you, Félix Broux, my lord's\ncouncil-chamber is not the only place where they make kings. We do it,\ntoo, we of the Rue Coupejarrets.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"I leave you, then, to make kings. I must be off to my\nduke. What's the scot, maître?\"\n\nHe dropped the politician, and was all innkeeper in a second.\n\n\"A crown!\" I cried in indignation. \"Do you think I am made of crowns?\nRemember, I am not yet Minister of Finance.\"\n\n\"No, but soon will be,\" he grinned. \"Besides, what I ask is little\nenough, God knows. Do you think food is cheap in a siege?\"\n\n\"Then I pray Navarre may come soon and end it.\"\n\n\"Amen to that,\" said old Jacques, quite gravely. \"If he comes a Catholic\nit cannot be too soon.\"\n\nI counted out my pennies with a last grumble.\n\n\"They ought to call this the Rue Coupebourses.\"\n\nHe laughed; he could afford to, with my silver jingling in his pouch. He\nembraced me tenderly at parting, and hoped to see me again at his inn. I\nsmiled to myself; I had not come to Paris--I--to stay in the Rue\nCoupejarrets!\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n_M. le Duc is well guarded._\n\n\nI stepped out briskly from the inn, pausing now and again to inquire my\nway to the Hôtel St. Quentin, which stood, I knew, in the Quartier\nMarais, where all the grand folk lived. Once I had found the broad,\nstraight Rue St. Denis, all I need do was to follow it over the hill\ndown to the river-bank; my eyes were free, therefore, to stare at all\nthe strange sights of the great city--markets and shops and churches and\nprisons. But most of all did I gape at the crowds in the streets. I had\nscarce realized there were so many people in the world as passed me that\nsummer morning in the Town of Paris. Bewilderingly busy and gay the\nplace appeared to my country eyes, though in truth at that time Paris\nwas at its very worst, the spirit being well-nigh crushed out of it by\nthe sieges and the iron rule of the Sixteen.\n\nI knew little enough of politics, and yet I was not so dull as not to\nsee that great events must happen soon. A crisis had come. I looked at\nthe people I passed who were going about their business so tranquilly.\nEvery one of them must be either Mayenne's man, or Navarre's. Before a\nweek was out these peaceable citizens might be using pikes for tools and\nexchanging bullets for good mornings. Whatever happened, here was I in\nParis in the thick of it! My feet fairly danced under me; I could not\nreach the hôtel soon enough. Half was I glad of Monsieur's danger, for\nit gave me chance to show what stuff I was made of. Live for him, die\nfor him--whatever fate could offer I was ready for.\n\nThe hôtel, when at length I arrived before it, was no disappointment.\nHere one did not wait till midday to see the sun; the street was of\ndecent width, and the houses held themselves back with reserve, like the\nproud gentlemen who inhabited them. Nor did one here regret his\npossession of a nose, as he was forced to do in the Rue Coupejarrets.\n\nOf all the mansions in the place, the Hôtel St. Quentin was, in my\nopinion, the most imposing; carved and ornamented and stately, with\ngardens at the side. But there was about it none of that stir and\nliveliness one expects to see about the houses of the great. No visitors\npassed in or out, and the big iron gates were shut, as if none were\nlooked for. Of a truth, the persons who visited Monsieur these days\npreferred to slip in by the postern after nightfall, as if there had\nnever been a time when they were proud to be seen in his hall.\n\nBeyond the grilles a sentry, in the green and scarlet of Monsieur's\nmen-at-arms, stood on guard, and I called out to him boldly.\n\nHe turned at once; then looked as if the sight of me scarce repaid him.\n\n\"I wish to enter, if you please,\" I said. \"I am come to see M. le Duc.\"\n\n\"You?\" he ejaculated, his eye wandering over my attire, which, none of\nthe newest, showed signs of my journey.\n\n\"Yes, I,\" I answered in some resentment. \"I am one of his men.\"\n\nHe looked me up and down with a grin.\n\n\"Oh, one of his men! Well, my man, you must know M. le Duc is not\nreceiving to-day.\"\n\n\"I am Félix Broux,\" I told him.\n\n\"You may be Félix anybody for all it avails; you cannot see Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Then I will see Vigo.\" Vigo was Monsieur's Master of Horse, the\nstaunchest man in France. This sentry was nobody, just a common fellow\npicked up since Monsieur left St. Quentin, but Vigo had been at his side\nthese twenty years.\n\n\"Vigo, say you! Vigo does not see street boys.\"\n\n\"I am no street boy,\" I cried angrily. \"I know Vigo well. You shall\nsmart for flouting me, when I have Monsieur's ear.\"\n\n\"Aye, when you have! Be off with you, rascal. I have no time to bother\nwith you.\"\n\n\"Imbecile!\" I sputtered. But he had turned his back on me and resumed\nhis pacing up and down the court.\n\n\"Oh, very well for you, monsieur,\" I cried out loudly, hoping he could\nhear me. \"But you will laugh t'other side of your mouth by and by. I'll\npay you off.\"\n\nIt was maddening to be halted like this at the door of my goal; it made\na fool of me. But while I debated whether to set up an outcry that\nwould bring forward some officer with more sense than the surly sentry,\nor whether to seek some other entrance, I became aware of a sudden\nbustle in the courtyard, a narrow slice of which I could see through the\ngateway. A page dashed across; then a pair of flunkeys passed. There was\nsome noise of voices and, finally, of hoofs and wheels. Half a dozen\nmen-at-arms ran to the gates and swung them open, taking their stand on\neach side. Clearly, M. le Duc was about to drive out.\n\nA little knot of people had quickly collected--sprung from between the\nstones of the pavement, it would seem--to see Monsieur emerge.\n\n\"He is a bold man,\" I heard one say, and a woman answer, \"Aye, and a\nhandsome,\" ere the heavy coach rolled out of the arch.\n\nI pushed myself in close to the guardsmen, my heart thumping in my\nthroat now that the moment had come when I should see my Monsieur. At\nthe sight of his face I sprang bodily up on the coach-step, crying, all\nmy soul in my voice, \"Oh, Monsieur! M. le Duc!\"\n\nMonsieur looked at me coldly, blankly, without a hint of recognition.\nThe next instant the young gentleman beside him sprang up-and struck me\na blow that hurled me off the step. I fell where the ponderous wheels\nwould have ended me had not a guardsman, quick and kind, pulled me out\nof the way. Some one shouted, \"Assassin!\"\n\n\"I am no assassin,\" I cried; \"I only sought to speak with Monsieur.\"\n\n\"He deserves a hiding, the young cur,\" growled my foe, the sentry.\n\"He's been pestering me this half-hour to let him in. He was one of\nMonsieur's men, he said. Monsieur would see him. Well, we have seen how\nMonsieur treats him!\"\n\n\"Faith, no,\" said another. \"We have only seen how our young gentleman\ntreats him. Of course he is too proud and dainty to let a common man so\nmuch as look at him.\"\n\nThey all laughed; the young gentleman seemed no favourite.\n\n\"Parbleu! that was why I drew him from the wheels, because _he_ knocked\nhim there,\" said my preserver. \"I don't believe there's harm in the boy.\nWhat meant you, lad?\"\n\n\"I meant no harm,\" I said, and turned sullenly off up the street. This,\nthen, was what I had come to Paris for--to be denied entrance to the\nhouse, thrown under the coach-wheels, and threatened with a drubbing\nfrom the lackeys!\n\nFor three years my only thought had been to serve Monsieur. From waking\nin the morning to sleep at night, my whole life was Monsieur's. Never\nwas duty more cheerfully paid. Never did acolyte more throw his soul\ninto his service than I into mine. Never did lover hate to be parted\nfrom his mistress more than I from Monsieur. The journey to Paris had\nbeen a journey to Paradise. And now, this!\n\nMonsieur had looked me in the face and not smiled; had heard me beseech\nhim and not answered--not lifted a finger to save me from being mangled\nunder his very eyes. St. Quentin and Paris were two very different\nplaces, it appeared. At St. Quentin Monsieur had been pleased to take\nme into the château and treat me to more intimacy than he accorded to\nthe high-born lads, his other pages. So much the easier, then, to cast\nme off when he had tired of me. My heart seethed with rage and\nbitterness against Monsieur, against the sentry, and, more than all,\nagainst the young Comte de Mar, who had flung me under the wheels.\n\nI had never before seen the Comte de Mar, that spoiled only son of M. le\nDuc's, who was too fine for the country, too gay to share his father's\nexile. Maybe I was jealous of the love his father bore him, which he so\nlittle repaid. I had never thought to like him, St. Quentin though he\nwere; and now that I saw him I hated him. His handsome face looked ugly\nenough to me as he struck me that blow.\n\nI went along the Paris streets blindly, the din of my own thoughts\nlouder than all the noises of the city. But I could not remain in this\ntrance forever, and at length I woke to two unpleasant facts: first, I\nhad no idea where I was, and, second, I should be no better off if I\nknew.\n\nNever, while there remained in me the spirit of a man, would I go back\nto Monsieur; never would I serve the Comte de Mar. And it was equally\nobvious that never, so long as my father retained the spirit that was\nhis, could I return to St. Quentin with the account of my morning's\nachievements. It was just here that, looking at the business with my\nfather's eyes, I began to have a suspicion that I had behaved like an\ninsolent young fool. But I was still too angry to acknowledge it.\n\nRemained, then, but one course--to stay in Paris, and keep from\nstarvation as best I might.\n\nMy thrifty father had not seen fit to furnish me any money to throw away\nin the follies of the town. He had calculated closely what I should need\nto take me to Monsieur, with a little margin for accidents; so that,\nafter paying Maître Jacques, I had hardly two pieces to jingle together.\n\nFor three years I had browsed my fill in the duke's library; I could\nwrite a decent letter both in my own tongue and in Italian, thanks to\nFather Francesco, Monsieur's Florentine confessor, and handle a sword\nnone so badly, thanks to Monsieur; and I felt that it should not be hard\nto pick up a livelihood. But how to start about it I had no notion, and\nfinally I made up my mind to go and consult him whom I now called my one\nfriend in Paris, Jacques the innkeeper.\n\n'Twas easier said than done. I had strayed out of the friendly Rue St.\nDenis into a network of dark and narrow ways that might have been laid\nout by a wily old stag with the dogs hot on him, so did they twist and\nturn and double on themselves. I could make my way only at a snail's\npace, asking new guidance at every corner. Noon was long past when at\nlength I came on laggard feet around the corner by the Amour de Dieu.\n\nYet was it not fatigue that weighted my feet, but pride. Though I had\nresolved to seek out Maître Jacques, still 'twas a hateful thing to\nenter as suppliant where I had been the patron. I had paid for my\nbreakfast like a lord, but I should have to beg for my dinner. I had\nbragged of Monsieur's fondness, and I should have to tell how I had been\nflung under the coach-wheels. My pace slackened to a stop. I could not\nbring myself to enter the door. I tried to think how to better my story,\nso to tell it that it should redound to my credit. But my invention\nstuck in my pate.\n\nAs I stood striving to summon up a jaunty demeanour, I found myself\ngazing straight at the shuttered house, and of a sudden my thoughts\nshifted back to my vision.\n\nThose murdered Huguenots, dead and gone ere I was born, had appeared to\nme as plain as the men I passed in the street. Though I had beheld them\nbut the space of a lightning-flash, I could call up their faces like\nthose of my comrades. One, the nearest me, was small, pale, with\npinched, sharp face, somewhat rat-like. The second man was conspicuously\nbig and burly, black-haired and-bearded. The third and youngest--all\nthree were young--stood with his hand on Blackbeard's shoulder. He, too,\nwas tall, but slenderly built, with clear-cut visage and fair hair\ngleaming in the glare. One moment I saw them, every feature plain; the\nnext they had vanished like a dream.\n\nIt was an unholy thing, no doubt, yet it held me with a shuddery\nfascination. Was it indeed a portent, this rising of heretics from their\nunblessed graves? And why had it been shown to me, true son of the\nChurch? Had any one else ever seen what I had seen? Maître Jacques had\nhinted at further terrors, and said no one dared enter the place. Well,\ngrant me but the opportunity, and I would dare.\n\nThus was hatched in my brain the notion of forcing an entrance into that\nbanned house. I was an idle boy, foot-loose and free to do whatever mad\nmischief presented itself. Here was the house just across the street.\n\nNeglected as it was, it remained the most pretentious edifice in the\nrow, being large and flaunting a half-defaced coat of arms over the\ndoor. Such a house might well boast two entrances. I hoped it did, for\nthere was no use in trying to batter down this door with the eye of the\nRue Coupejarrets upon me. I turned along the side street, and after\nexploring several muck-heaped alleys found one that led me into a small\nsquare court bounded on three sides by a tall house with shuttered\nwindows.\n\nFortune was favouring me. But how to gain entrance? The two doors were\nboth firmly fastened. The windows on the ground floor were small, high,\nand iron-shuttered. Above, one or two shutters swung half open, but I\ncould not climb the smooth wall. Yet I did not despair; I was not\nwithout experience of shutters. I selected one closed not quite tight,\nleaving a crack for my knife-blade. I found the hook inside, got my\ndagger under it, and at length drove it up. The shutter creaked shrilly\nopen.\n\nA few good blows knocked in the casement. I followed.\n\nI found myself in a small room bare of everything but dust. From this,\nonce a porter's room, I fancied, I passed out into a hallway dimly\nlighted from the open window behind me. The hall was large, paved with\nblack and white marbles; at the end a stately stairway mounted into\nmysterious gloom.\n\nMy heart jumped into my mouth and I cringed back in terror, a choked cry\nrasping my throat. For, as I crossed the hall, peering into the dimness,\nI descried, stationed on the lowest stair with upraised bludgeon, a man.\n\nFor a second I stood in helpless startlement, voiceless, motionless,\nwaiting for him to brain me. Then my half-uttered scream changed to a\nquavering laugh, as my eyes, becoming used to the gloom, discovered my\nbogy to be but a figure carved in wood, holding aloft a long since\nquenched flambeau.\n\nI blushed with shame, yet I cannot say that now I felt no fear. I\nthought of the panic-stricken women, the doomed men, who had fled at the\nsword's point up these very stairs. The silence seemed to shriek at me,\nand I half thought I saw fear-maddened eyes peering out from the\nshadowed corners. Yet for all that--nay, because of that--I would not\ngive up the adventure. I went back into the little room and carefully\nclosed the shutter, lest some other meddler should spy my misdeed. Then\nI set my feet on the stair.\n\nIf the half-light before had been full of eery terror, it was naught to\nthe blackness now. My hand on the rail was damp. Yet I mounted steadily.\n\nUp one flight I climbed, groped in the hot dark for the foot of the next\nflight, and went on. Suddenly, above, I heard a noise. I came to an\ninstant halt. All was as still as the tomb. I listened; not a breath\nbroke the silence. It never occurred to me to imagine a rat in this\nhouse of the dead, and the noise shook me. With a sick feeling about my\nheart I went on again.\n\nOn the next floor it was lighter. Faint outlines of doors and passages\nwere visible. I could not stand the gloom a moment longer; I strode into\nthe nearest doorway and across the room to where a gleam of brightness\noutlined the window. My shaking fingers found the hook of the shutter\nand flung it wide, letting in a burst of honest sunshine. I leaned out\ninto the free air, and saw below me the Rue Coupejarrets and the sign of\nthe Amour de Dieu.\n\nThe next instant a cloth fell over my face and was twisted tight; strong\narms pulled me back, and a deep voice commanded:\n\n\"Close the shutter.\"\n\nSome one pushed past me and shut it with a clang.\n\n\"Devil take you! You'll rouse the quarter,\" cried my captor, fiercely,\nyet not loud. \"Go join monsieur.\" With that he picked me up in his arms\nand walked across the room.\n\nThe capture had been so quick I had no time for outcry. I fought my best\nwith him, half strangled as I was by the cloth. I might as well have\nstruggled against the grip of the Maiden. The man carried me the length\nof the house, it seemed; flung me down upon the floor, and banged a door\non me.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n_The three men in the window_\n\n\nI tore the cloth from my head and sprang up. I was in pitch-darkness. I\ndashed against the door to no avail. Feeling the walls, I discovered\nmyself to be in a small, empty closet. With all my force I flung myself\nonce more upon the door. It stood firm.\n\n\"Dame! but I have got into a pickle,\" I thought.\n\nThey were no ghosts, at all events. Scared as I was, I rejoiced at that.\nI could cope with men, but who can cope with the devil? These might be\nvillains--doubtless were, skulking in this deserted house,--yet with\nreadiness and pluck I could escape them.\n\nIt was as hot as a furnace in my prison, and as still as the grave. The\nmen, who seemed by their footsteps to be several, had gone cautiously\ndown the stairs after caging me. Evidently I had given them a fine\nfright, clattering through the house as I had, and even now they were\nlooking for my accomplices.\n\nIt seemed hours before the faintest sound broke the stillness. If ever\nyou want to squeeze away a man's cheerfulness like water from a rag,\nshut him up alone in the dark and silence. He will thank you to take him\nout into the daylight and hang him. In token whereof, my heart welcomed\nlike brothers the men returning.\n\nThey came into the room, and I thought they were three in number. I\nheard the door shut, and then steps approached my closet.\n\n\"Have a care now, monsieur; he may be armed,\" spoke the rough voice of a\nman without breeding.\n\n\"Doubtless he carries a culverin up his sleeve,\" sneered the deep tones\nof my captor.\n\nSome one else laughed, and rejoined, in a clear, quick voice:\n\n\"Natheless, he may have a knife. I will open the door, and do you look\nout for him, Gervais.\"\n\nI had a knife and had it in my hand, ready to charge for freedom. But\nthe door opened slowly, and Gervais looked out for me--to the effect\nthat my knife went one way and I another before I could wink. I reeled\nagainst the wall and stayed there, cursing myself for a fool that I had\nnot trusted to fair words instead of to my dagger.\n\n\"Well done, my brave Gervais!\" cried he of the vivid voice--a tall\nfair-haired youth, whom I had seen before. So had I seen the stalwart\nblackbeard, Gervais. The third man was older, a common-looking fellow\nwhose face was new to me. All three were in their shirts on account of\nthe heat; all were plain, even shabby, in their dress. But the two young\nmen wore swords at their sides.\n\nThe half-opened shutters, overhanging the court, let plenty of light\ninto the room. It had two straw beds on the floor and a few old chairs\nand stools, and a table covered with dishes and broken food and\nwine-bottles. More bottles, riding-boots, whips and spurs, two or three\nhats and saddle-bags, and various odds and ends of dress littered the\nfloor and the chairs. Everything was of mean quality except the bearing\nof the two young men. A gentleman is a gentleman even in the Rue\nCoupejarrets--all the more, maybe, in the Rue Coupejarrets. These two\nwere gently born.\n\nThe low man, with scared face, held off from me. He whose name was\nGervais confronted me with an angry scowl. Yeux-gris alone--for so I\ndubbed the third, from his gray eyes, well open under dark\nbrows--Yeux-gris looked no whit alarmed or angered; the only emotion to\nbe read in his face was a gay interest as the blackavised Gervais put me\nquestions.\n\n\"How came you here? What are you about?\"\n\n\"No harm, messieurs,\" I made haste to protest, ruing my stupidity with\nthat dagger. \"I climbed in at a window for sport. I thought the house\nwas deserted.\"\n\nHe clutched my shoulder till I could have screamed for pain.\n\n\"The truth, now. If you value your life you will tell the truth.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, it is the truth. I came in idle mischief; that was the whole\nof it. I had no notion of breaking in upon you or any one. They said the\nhouse was haunted.\"\n\n\"Who said that?\"\n\n\"Maître Jacques, at the Amour de Dieu.\"\n\nHe stared at me in surprise.\n\n\"What had you been asking about this house?\"\n\nYeux-gris, lounging against the table, struck in:\n\n\"I can tell you that myself. He told Jacques he saw us in the window\nlast night. Did you not?\"\n\n\"Aye, monsieur. The thunder woke me, and when I looked out I saw you\nplain as day. But Maître Jacques said it was a vision.\"\n\n\"I flattered myself I saw you first and got that shutter closed very\nneatly,\" said Yeux-gris. \"Dame! I am not so clever as I thought. So old\nJacques called us ghosts, did he?\"\n\n\"Yes, monsieur. He told me this house belonged to M. de Béthune, who was\na Huguenot and killed in the massacre.\"\n\nYeux-gris burst into joyous laughter.\n\n\"He said my house belonged to the Béthunes! Well played, Jacques! You\nowe that gallant lie to me, Gervais, and the pains I took to make him\nthink us Navarre's men. He is heart and soul for Henri Quatre. Did he\nsay, perchance, that in this very courtyard Coligny fell?\"\n\n\"No,\" said I, seeing that I had been fooled and had had all my terrors\nfor naught, and feeling much chagrined thereat. \"How was I to know it\nwas a lie? I know naught about Paris. I came up but yesterday from St.\nQuentin.\"\n\n\"St. Quentin!\" came a cry from the henchman. With a fierce \"Be quiet,\nfool!\" Gervais turned to me and demanded my name.\n\n\"Félix Broux.\"\n\n\"Who sent you here?\"\n\n\"Monsieur, no one.\"\n\n\"You lie.\"\n\nAgain he gripped me by the shoulder, gripped till the tears stood in my\neyes.\n\n\"No one, monsieur; I swear it.\"\n\n\"You will not speak! I'll make you, by Heaven.\"\n\nHe seized my thumb and wrist to bend one back on the other, torture with\nstrength such as his. Yeux-gris sprang off the table.\n\n\"Let alone, Gervais! The boy's honest.\"\n\n\"He is a spy.\"\n\n\"He is a fool of a country boy. A spy in hobnailed shoes, forsooth! No\nspy ever behaved as he has. I said when you first seized him he was no\nspy. I say it again, now I have heard his story. He saw us by chance,\nand Maître Jacques's bogy story spurred him on instead of keeping him\noff. You are a fool, my cousin.\"\n\n\"Pardieu! it is you who are the fool,\" growled Gervais. \"You will bring\nus to the rope with your cursed easy ways. If he is a spy it means the\nwhole crew are down upon us.\"\n\n\"What of that?\"\n\n\"Pardieu! is it nothing?\"\n\nYeux-gris returned with a touch of haughtiness:\n\n\"It is nothing. A gentleman may live in his own house.\"\n\nGervais looked as if he remembered something. He said much less\nboisterously:\n\n\"And do you want Monsieur here?\"\n\nYeux-gris flushed red.\n\n\"No,\" he cried. \"But you may be easy. He will not trouble himself to\ncome.\"\n\nGervais regarded him silently an instant, as if he thought of several\nthings he did not say. What he did say was: \"You are a pair of fools,\nyou and the boy. Whatever he came for, he has spied on us now. He shall\nnot live to carry the tale of us.\"\n\n\"Then you have me to kill as well!\"\n\nGervais turned on him snarling. Yeux-gris laid a hand on his sword-hilt.\n\n\"I will not have an innocent lad hurt. I was not bred a ruffian,\" he\ncried hotly. They glared at each other. Then Yeux-gris, with a sudden\nexclamation, \"Ah, bah, Gervais!\" broke into laughter.\n\nNow, this merriment was a heart-warming thing to hear. For Gervais was\ntaking the situation with a seriousness that was as terrifying as it was\nstupid. When I looked into his dogged eyes I could not but think the end\nof me might be near. But Yeux-gris's laugh said the very notion was\nridiculous; I was innocent of all harmful intent, and they were\ngentlemen, not cutthroats.\n\n\"Messieurs,\" I said, \"I swear by the blessed saints I am what I told\nyou. I am no spy, and no one sent me here. Who you are, or what you do,\nI know no more than a babe unborn. I belong to no party and am no man's\nman. As for why you choose to live in this empty house, it is not my\nconcern and I care no whit about it. Let me go, messieurs, and I will\nswear to keep silence about what I have seen.\"\n\n\"I am for letting him go,\" said Yeux-gris.\n\nGervais looked doubtful, the most encouraging attitude toward me he had\nyet assumed. He answered:\n\n\"If he had not said the name--\"\n\n\"Stuff!\" interrupted Yeux-gris. \"It is a coincidence, no more. If he\nwere what you think, it is the very last name he would have said.\"\n\nThis was Greek to me; I had mentioned no names but Maître Jacques's and\nmy own. And he was their friend.\n\n\"Messieurs,\" I said, \"if it is my name that does not please you, why, I\ncan say for it that if it is not very high-sounding, at least it is an\nhonest one and has ever been held so down where we live.\"\n\n\"And that is at St. Quentin,\" said Yeux-gris.\n\n\"Yes, monsieur. My father, Anton Broux, is Master of the Forest to the\nDuke of St. Quentin.\"\n\nHe started, and Gervais cried out:\n\n\"Voilà! who is the fool now?\"\n\nMy nerves, which had grown tranquil since Yeux-gris came to my rescue,\nquivered anew. The common man started at the very word St. Quentin, and\nthe masters started when I named the duke. Was it he whom they had\nspoken of as Monsieur? Who and what were they? There was more in this\nthan I had thought at first. It was no longer a mere question of my\nliberty. I was all eyes and ears for whatever information I could\ngather.\n\nYeux-gris spoke to me, for the first time gravely:\n\n\"This is not a time when folks take pleasure-trips to Paris. What\nbrought you?\"\n\n\"I used to be Monsieur's page down at St. Quentin,\" I answered, deeming\nthe straight truth best. \"When we learned that he was in Paris, my\nfather sent me up to him. I reached the city last night, and lay at the\nAmour de Dieu. This morning I went to the duke's hôtel, but the guard\nwould not let me in. Then, when Monsieur drove out I tried to get speech\nwith him, but he would have none of me.\"\n\nThe bitterness I felt over my rebuff must have been in my voice and\nface, for Gervais spoke abruptly:\n\n\"And do you hate him for that?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said I, churlishly enough. \"It is his to do as he chooses. But I\nhate the Comte de Mar for striking me a foul blow.\"\n\n\"The Comte de Mar!\" exclaimed Yeux-gris.\n\n\"His son.\"\n\n\"He has no son.\"\n\n\"But he has, monsieur. The Comte de--\"\n\n\"He is dead,\" said Yeux-gris.\n\n\"Why, we knew naught--\" I was beginning, when Gervais broke in:\n\n\"You say the fellow's honest, when he tells such tales as this! He saw\nthe Comte de Mar--!\"\n\n\"I thought it must be he,\" I protested. \"A young man who sat by\nMonsieur's side, elegant and proud-looking, with an aquiline face--\"\n\n\"That is Lucas, that is his secretary,\" declared Yeux-gris, as who\nshould say, \"That is his scullion.\"\n\nGervais looked at him oddly a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and\ndemanded of me:\n\n\"What next?\"\n\n\"I came away angry.\"\n\n\"And walked all the way here to risk your life in a haunted house?\nPardieu! too plain a lie.\"\n\n\"Oh, I would have done the like; we none of us fear ghosts in the\ndaytime,\" said Yeux-gris.\n\n\"You may believe him; I am no such fool. He has been caught in two lies;\nfirst the Béthunes, then the Comte de Mar. He is a clumsy spy; they\nmight have found a better one. Not but what that touch about\nill-treatment at Monsieur's hand was well thought of. That was\nMonsieur's suggestion, I warrant, for the boy has talked like a dolt\nelse.\"\n\n\"I am no liar,\" I cried hotly. \"Ask Jacques whether he did not tell me\nabout the Béthunes. It is his lie, not mine. I did not know the Comte de\nMar was dead, and this Lucas of yours is handsome enough for a count. I\ncame here, as I told you, in curiosity concerning Maître Jacques's\nstory. I had no idea of seeing you or any living man. It is the truth,\nmonsieur.\"\n\n\"I believe you,\" Yeux-gris answered. \"You have an honest face. You came\ninto my house uninvited. Well, I forgive it, and invite you to stay. You\nshall be my valet.\"\n\n\"He shall be nobody's valet,\" Gervais cried.\n\nThe gray eyes flashed, but their owner rejoined lightly:\n\n\"You have a man; surely I should have one, too. And I understand the\nservices of M. Félix are not engaged.\"\n\n\"Mille tonnerres! you would take this spy--this sneak--\"\n\n\"As I would take M. de Paris, if I chose,\" responded Yeux-gris, with a\ncold hauteur that smacked more of a court than of this shabby room. He\nadded lightly again:\n\n\"You think him a spy, I do not. But in any case, he must not blab of us.\nTherefore he stays here and brushes my clothes. Marry, they need it.\"\n\nEasily, with grace, he had disposed of the matter. But I said:\n\n\"Monsieur, I shall do nothing of the kind.\"\n\n\"What!\" he cried, as if the clothes-brush itself had risen in rebellion,\n\"what! you will not.\"\n\n\"No,\" said I.\n\n\"And why not?\" he demanded, plainly thinking me demented.\n\n\"Because I know you are against the Duke of St. Quentin.\"\n\nWhatever they had thought me, neither expected that speech.\n\n\"I am no spy or sneak,\" said I. \"It is true I came here by chance; it is\ntrue Monsieur turned me off this morning. But I was born on his land and\nI am no traitor. I will not be valet or henchman for either of you, if I\ndie for it.\"\n\nI was like to die for it. For Gervais whipped out his sword and sprang\nfor me. I thought I saw Yeux-gris's out, too, when Gervais struck me\nover the head with his sword-hilt. The rest was darkness.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n_Rapiers and a vow._\n\n\nI came to my senses slowly, to hear loud, angry voices. As I opened my\neyes and stirred, the room reeled from me and all was blank again.\nAwhile after, I grew aware of a clashing of steel. I lay wondering\nthickly what it was and why it had to be going on while my head ached\nso, till at length it dawned on my dull brain that swords were crossing.\nI opened my eyes again, then.\n\nThey were fighting each other, Yeux-gris and Gervais. The latter was\nalmost trampling on me, Yeux-gris had pressed him so close to the wall.\nThen he forced his way out, and they drove each other round in a circle\ntill the room seemed to spin once more.\n\nI crawled out of the way and watched them, bewildered, absorbed. I had\nmore reason to thrill over the contest than the mere excellence of\nit,--which was great,--since I was the cause of the duel, and my very\nlife, belike, hung on its issue.\n\nThey were both admirable swordsmen, yet it was clear from the first\nwhere the palm lay. Anything nimbler, lighter, easier than the\nsword-play of Yeux-gris I never hope to see in this imperfect world.\nThe heavier adversary was hot, angry, breathing hard. A smile hovered\nover Yeux-gris's lips; already a red disk on Gervais's shirt showed\nwhere his cousin's sword had been and would soon go again, and deeper. I\nhad forgotten my bruise in my interest and delight, when, of a sudden,\none whom we all had ignored took a hand in the game. Gervais's lackey\nstarted forward and knocked up Yeux-gris's arm. His sword flew wide, and\nGervais slashed his arm from wrist to elbow.\n\nWith a smothered cry, Yeux-gris caught at his wound. Gervais, ablaze\nwith rage, sprang past him on his creature. The man gaped with\namazement; then, for there was no time for parley, leaped for the door.\nIt was locked. He turned, and with a look of deathly terror fell on his\nknees, crouched up against the door-post. Gervais lunged. His blade\npassed clean through the man's shoulders and pinned him to the door. His\nhead fell heavily forward.\n\n\"Have you killed him?\" cried Yeux-gris.\n\n\"By my faith! I meant to,\" came the answer. Gervais was bending over the\nman. With an abrupt laugh he called out: \"Killed him, pardieu! He has\ncome off cheap.\"\n\nHe raised the fellow's limp head, and we saw that the sword had passed\njust over his shoulder, piercing the linen, not the flesh. He had\nswooned from sheer terror, being in truth not so much as scratched.\n\nGervais turned to his cousin.\n\n\"I never meant that foul trick. It was no thought of mine. I would have\nturned the blade if I could. I will kill Pontou now, if you say the\nword.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" answered the other, faintly; \"help me.\"\n\nThe blood was pouring from his arm; he was half swooning. Gervais and I\nran to him and, between us, bathed the cut, bandaged it with strips torn\nfrom a shirt, and made a sling of a scarf. The wound was long, but not\ndeep, and when we had poured some wine down his throat he was himself\nagain.\n\n\"You will not bear me malice for that poltroon's work, Étienne?\" Gervais\nasked, more humbly than I ever thought to hear him speak. \"That was a\nfoul cut, but it was no fault of mine. I am no blackguard; I fight fair.\nI will kill the knave, if you like.\"\n\n\"You are ungrateful, Gervais; he saved you when you needed saving,\"\nYeux-gris laughed. \"Faith! let him live. I forgive him. You will pay me\nfor my hurt by yielding me Félix.\"\n\nGervais looked at me. While we had worked side by side over Yeux-gris he\nseemed to have forgotten that he was my enemy. But now all the old\nsuspicion and dislike came into his face again. However, he answered:\n\n\"Aye, you would have been the victor had it not been for Pontou. You\nshall do what you like with your boy. I promise you that.\"\n\n\"Now that is well said, Gervais,\" returned Yeux-gris, rising, and\npicking up his sword, which he sheathed. \"That is very well said. For if\nyou did not feel like promising it, why, I should have to begin over\nagain with my left hand.\"\n\n\"Oh, I give you the boy,\" Gervais repeated rather sullenly, turning away\nto pour himself some wine.\n\nI could not but wonder at Yeux-gris, at his gaiety and his\nsteadfastness. He had hardly looked grave through the whole affair; he\nhad fought with a smile on his lips and had taken a cruel wound with a\nlaugh. Withal, he had been the constant champion of my innocence, even\nto drawing his sword on his cousin for me. Now, with his bloody arm in\nits sling, he was as debonair and careless as ever. I had been stupid\nenough to imagine the big Gervais the leader of the two, and I found\nmyself mistaken. I dropped on my knee and kissed my saviour's hand in\nall gratitude.\n\n\"Aha,\" said Yeux-gris, \"what think you now of being my valet?\"\n\nVerily, I was hard pushed.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I said, \"I owe you much more than I can ever pay. If you\nwere any man's enemy but my duke's, I would serve you on my knees. But I\nwas born on the duke's land and I cannot be disloyal. You may kill me\nyourself, if you like.\"\n\n\"No,\" he answered gravely, \"that is not my métier.\"\n\nGervais laughed.\n\n\"Make me that offer, and I accept.\"\n\nYeux-gris turned to him with that little hauteur he assumed\noccasionally.\n\n\"You are helpless, my cousin. You have passed your word.\"\n\n\"Aye. I leave him to you.\"\n\nHis sullen eyes told me it was no new-born tenderness for me that\nprompted his surrender. Nor had I, truth to tell, any great faith in the\nsacredness of his word. Yet I believed he would let me be. For it was\nborne in upon me that, despite his passion and temper, he had no wish to\nquarrel with Yeux-gris. Whether at bottom he loved him or in some way\ndreaded him, I could not tell; but of this my fear-sharpened wits were\nsure: he had no desire to press an open breach. He was honestly ashamed\nof his henchman's low deed; yet even before that his judgment had\ndisliked the quarrel. Else why had he struck me with the hilt of the\nsword?\n\n\"I leave him to you,\" he repeated. \"Do as you choose. If you deem his\nlife a precious thing, cherish it. When did you learn a taste for\ninsolence, Étienne? Time was when you were touchy on that score.\"\n\n\"Time never was when I did not love courage.\"\n\n\"Oh, it is courage!\" With a sneer he turned away.\n\n\"Gervais,\" said Yeux-gris, \"have the kindness to unlock the door.\"\n\nGervais wheeled around, his face an angry question.\n\nYeux-gris answered it with cold politeness:\n\n\"That Félix Broux may pass out.\"\n\n\"By Heaven, he shall not!\"\n\n\"You gave your word you would leave him to me. Did you lie?\"\n\n\"I do leave him to you!\" Gervais thundered. \"I would slit his impudent\nthroat; but since you love him, you may have him to eat out of your\nplate and sleep in your bosom. I will put up with it. But go out of\nthat door till the thing is done, sang dieu! he shall not!\"\n\n\"If he goes straight to the duke, what then? He will say he found us\nliving in my house. What harm? We are no felons. Let him say it.\"\n\n\"And put Lucas on his guard?\" returned Gervais. He was angry, yet he\nspoke with evident attempt at restraint. \"Put Lucas on the trail? He is\nwary as a cat. Let him get wind of us here, and he will never let us\ncatch him.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Yeux-gris, reluctantly, \"it is true. And though I will not\nhave the boy harmed, he shall stay here. I will not put a spoke in the\nwheel. We will take no risks till Lucas is shent. The boy shall be held\nprisoner. And afterward--\"\n\n\"I will come myself and let him out,\" said Gervais, and laughed.\n\nI glanced at my protector, not liking to think of that moment, whenever\nit might be, \"afterward.\" He went up to Gervais.\n\n\"My cousin, are we friends or foes? For, faith! you treat me strangely\nlike a foe.\"\n\n\"We are friends.\"\n\n\"I am your friend, since it is in your cause that I am here. I have\nstood at your shoulder like a brother--you cannot deny it.\"\n\n\"No,\" Gervais answered; \"you stood my friend,--my one friend in that\nhouse,--as I was yours. I stood at your shoulder in the Montluc\naffair--you cannot deny that. I have been your ally, your servant, your\nmessenger to mademoiselle, your envoy to Mayenne. I have done all in my\npower to win you your lady.\"\n\nA shadow fell over Yeux-gris's open face.\n\n\"That task needs a greater power than yours, my Gervais.\"\n\nHe regarded Gervais with a rueful smile, his thoughts of a sudden as far\naway from me as if I had never set foot in the Rue Coupejarrets. He\nshook his head, sighing, and said, with a hand on Gervais's shoulder:\n\"It's beyond you, cousin.\"\n\nGervais brought him back to the point.\n\n\"Well, I've done what I could for you. But you don't help me when you\nlet loose a spy to warn Lucas.\"\n\n\"He shall not go. You know well, cousin, you will be no gladder than I\nwhen that knave is dead. But I will not have Félix Broux suffer because\nhe dared speak for the Duke of St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"As you choose, then. I will not touch a hair of his head if you keep\nhim from Lucas.\"\n\nOnce more he turned away across the room. My bewilderment was so great\nthat the words came out of themselves:\n\n\"Messieurs, is it Lucas you mean to kill?\"\n\nYeux-gris looked at me, not instantly replying. I cried again to him:\n\n\"Monsieur, is it Lucas or the duke?\"\n\nThen Yeux-gris, despite a gesture from Gervais, who would have told me\nnothing I might ask, exclaimed:\n\n\"Why, Lucas!\"\n\nHe said it in such honest surprise and with such a steady glance that\nthe heavy fear that had hung on me dropped from me like a dead-weight,\nand suddenly I turned quite dizzy and fell into the nearest chair.\n\nA dash of water in the face made me look up, to see Yeux-gris standing\nwet-handed by me.\n\n\"Mon dieu!\" he cried, \"you were as white as the wall. Do you love so\nmuch this Lucas who struck you?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, rising; \"I thought you meant to kill the duke.\"\n\n\"Did you take us for Leaguers?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\nHe spoke as if actually he felt it important to set himself right in my\neyes.\n\n\"Well, we are none. We are no politicians, but private gentlemen with a\ngrudge to pay. I care not what the parties do. Whether we have the\nPrincess Isabelle or Henry the Huguenot, 'tis all one to me; I am not\nputting either on the throne. So if you have got it into your head that\nwe are plotting for the League, why, get it out again.\"\n\n\"But you are enemies to the Duke of St. Quentin?\"\n\nHe answered me slowly:\n\n\"We do not love him. But we do not plot his death. He goes his way\nunharmed by us. We are gentlemen, not bravos.\"\n\n\"And Lucas?\"\n\n\"Lucas is my cousin's enemy, and, being a great man's man, skulks behind\nthe bars of the Hôtel st. Quentin and will not face my cousin's sword.\nSo to reach him takes a little plotting. Do you believe me?\"\n\nI looked into his gray eyes, that had flashed so hotly in my defence,\nand I could not but believe him.\n\n\"Yes, monsieur,\" I said.\n\nHe regarded me curiously.\n\n\"The duke's life seems much to you.\"\n\n\"Why, monsieur, I am a Broux.\"\n\n\"And could not be disloyal to save your life?\"\n\n\"My life! Monsieur, the Broux would not seek to save their souls if M.\nle Duc preferred them damned.\"\n\nI expected he would rebuke me for the outburst, but he did not; he\nmerely said:\n\n\"And Lucas?\"\n\n\"Oh, Lucas!\" I said. \"I know nothing of him. He is new with the duke\nsince my time. I do not owe him anything, save a grudge for that blow\nthis morning. Mon dieu, monsieur, I am thankful to you for befriending\nme. Dying for Monsieur is all in a day's work; we expect to do that.\nBut, my faith, if I had died just now, it would have been for Lucas.\"\n\nAt this moment a long groan came from the end of the room. We turned;\nthe lackey was waking from his swoon, under the ministration of Gervais.\nHe opened his eyes; their glance was dull till they fell upon his\nmaster. And then at once they looked venomous.\n\nGervais kicked him into fuller consciousness.\n\n\"Get up, hound. It is time to meet Martin.\"\n\nThe wretch scrambled shakily to his feet, and stood clutching the\ndoor-jamb and eying Gervais, terror writ large on his chalky\ncountenance. Yet there was more than terror in his face; there was the\nlook you see in the eyes of a trapped animal that watches its chance to\nbite. Yeux-gris cried out:\n\n\"You dare not send that man, Gervais.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because the moment he is clear of the house he will betray you. Look at\nhis face.\"\n\n\"He shall swear on the cross!\"\n\n\"Aye. But you cannot trust the oath of such as he.\"\n\n\"What would you? We must send.\"\n\n\"As you will. But you are mad if you send him.\"\n\nGervais pondered a moment, his slower wits taking in the situation. Then\nhe seized the man by the collar, fairly flung him across the room into\nthe closet, and bolted the door upon him.\n\n\"I will settle with him later. But you are right. We cannot send him.\"\n\nYeux-gris burst into laughter.\n\n\"My faith! we could not have more trouble if we were heads of the League\nthan this little duel of yours is giving us. Why, what if we are seen? I\nwill go.\"\n\nGervais started.\n\n\"No; that will not do.\"\n\n\"Eh, bien, then, what will you propose?\"\n\nBut it was some one else who proposed. I said to Yeux-gris:\n\n\"Monsieur, if all your purpose is against Lucas and no other, I am your\nman. I will go.\"\n\n\"What, my stubborn-neck, you?\"\n\n\"Why, monsieur, I owe you a great debt. While I thought you meant ill to\nM. le Duc, I could not serve you. But this Lucas is another pair of\nsleeves. I owe him no allegiance. Moreover, he nearly killed me this\nmorning. Therefore I am quite at your disposal.\"\n\n\"Now, I wonder if you are lying,\" said Gervais.\n\n\"I do not think he is lying,\" Yeux-gris said. \"I trow, Gervais, we have\ngot our messenger.\"\n\n\"You tell me to beware of Pontou because he hates me, and then would\nhave me trust this fellow?\" Gervais demanded with some acumen.\n\nI said: \"Monsieur, you do not seem to understand how I come to make this\noffer.\"\n\n\"To get out of the house with a whole skin.\"\n\nI had a joy in daring him, being sure of Yeux-gris.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I said, \"I should be glad to leave this house with my skin\nwhole or broken, so long as I left on my own feet. But you have\nmentioned the very reason why I shall not betray you. I do not love you\nand I do not love Lucas. Therefore, if you and M. Lucas are to fight, I\nask nothing better than to help the quarrel on.\"\n\nHe stared at me with an air more of bewilderment than aught else, but\nYeux-gris's ready laughter rang out.\n\n\"Bravo, Félix! I am proud of you. That is an idea worthy of Cæsar! You\nwould set your enemies to exterminate each other. And I asked you to be\nmy valet!\"\n\n\"Which do you wish to see slain?\" demanded the black Gervais.\n\nI answered quite truthfully:\n\n\"Monsieur, I shall be pleased either way.\"\n\nI know not how he relished the answer, for Yeux-gris cried out at once:\n\n\"Bravo, Félix, you are a paragon! I have not wit enough to know whether\nyou are as simple as sunshine or as deep as a well, but I love you.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I answered, as I think, very neatly, \"if I am a well, truth\nlies at the bottom.\"\n\n\"Well, Gervais?\" demanded Yeux-gris.\n\nGervais bent his lowering brows on his cousin.\n\n\"Do you say, trust him?\"\n\n\"Aye, I would trust him. For never yet did villain turn honest, nor\nhonest man false, in one short hour. When he was asked to serve against\nthe duke he showed his stuff. He was no traitor; he was no coward; he\nwas no liar. I think he is not those now.\"\n\nGervais was still doubtful.\n\n\"It is a risk. If he betrays--\"\n\n\"What is life without risks?\" cried Yeux-gris. \"I thought you too good a\ngambler, Gervais, to falter before a risk.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Gervais consented, \"I leave it to you. Do as you like.\"\n\nYeux-gris said at once to me:\n\n\"This Lucas, as I told you, is too cowardly to meet my cousin in open\nfight. Since he got the challenge he has never stuck his nose out of\ndoors without two or three of the duke's guard about him. Therefore we\nhave the right to get at him as we can. We have paid a man in the house\nto tell of his movements. He is to fare out secretly at night on a\nmission for M. le Duc, with one comrade only. M. Gervais and I will\ninterrupt that little journey.\"\n\n\"Very good, monsieur. And I?\"\n\n\"You will meet our spy and learn the hour of the expedition. Last night,\nwhen he told us of the plan, it had not been decided.\"\n\n\"Then he will be the other man I saw in the window? I shall know him.\"\n\n\"You have sharp eyes and a sharp brain, youngster. But he will not know\nyou. Therefore you can say you come from the shuttered house in the Rue\nCoupejarrets. You will meet him in the little alley to the north of the\nHôtel St. Quentin. Do you know your way to the hôtel? Well, then, you\nare to go down the passageway between the house and M. de Portreuse's\ngarden--you cannot mistake it, for on two sides of the house is the\nstreet, on the third the garden, and on the fourth the alleyway.\nHalf-way down the alley is an arch with a small door. In that arch our\nman, Louis Martin, will meet you. Do you understand?\"\n\nI repeated the directions.\n\n\"You have learned your lesson. You will ask him the hour--only that.\"\n\n\"And you will take oath not to betray us,\" commanded Gervais.\n\nI took out the cross that hung on my rosary. I was ready to swear.\nGervais prompted:\n\n\"I swear to go and come straight, and speak no word to any but Martin.\"\n\nWith all solemnity I swore it on my cross.\n\n\"That oath will be kept,\" said Yeux-gris. He held out a sudden hand for\nthe cross, which I gave him, wondering.\n\n\"I swear that we mean no harm whatsoever to the Duke of St. Quentin.\" He\nkissed the cross and flung the chain back over my neck.\n\nAt last I saw the door unlocked. Yeux-gris even returned to me my knife.\n\n\"Au revoir, messieurs.\"\n\nGervais, sullen to the last, vouchsafed no answer, but Yeux-gris called\nout cheerily, \"Au revoir.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n_A matter of life and death._\n\n\nNothing in life can be so sweet as freedom after captivity, safety after\ndanger. When I gained the open street once more and breathed the open\nair, no one molesting or troubling me, I could have sung with joy. I\nfairly hugged myself for my cleverness in getting out of my plight. As\nfor the combat I was furthering, my only doubt about that was lest the\nskulking Lucas should not prove good sword enough to give trouble to M.\nGervais. It was very far from my wish that he should come out of the\nattempt unscathed.\n\nBut as I went along and had more time to ponder the matter, other doubts\nforced themselves into my reluctant mind. Put it as I pleased, the\naffair smacked too much of secrecy to be quite savoury. It was curious,\nto say the least, that an honest encounter should require so much\nplotting. Also, Lucas, coward and rascal though he might be, was\nMonsieur's man, doing Monsieur's errand, and for me to mix myself up in\na plot against him was scarcely in keeping with my vaunted loyalty to\nthe house of St. Quentin. My friend Gervais's quarrel might be just;\nhis manner of procedure, even, might be just, and yet I have no right to\ntake part in it.\n\nAnd yet Monsieur had signified plainly enough that he was no longer my\npatron. For my birth's sake I might never work against him, but I was\nfree to do whatever else I chose. Monsieur himself had made it necessary\nfor me to take another master, and assuredly I owed something to\nYeux-gris. I had reason to feel confidence in his honour; surely I might\nreckon that he would not be in the affair unless it were honest. Lucas\nwas like enough a scoundrel of whom Monsieur would be well rid. And\nlastly and finally and above all, I was sworn, so there was no use\nworrying about it. I had taken oath, and could not draw back.\n\nI hurried along to the rendezvous, only pausing one moment at the\nstreet-corner to buy sausages hot from the brazier, which I crammed into\nmy mouth as I ran. But after all was there no need of haste; the little\narch, when I panted up to it, was all deserted.\n\nNo better place for a tryst could have been found in the heart of busy\nParis. Only the one door opened into the alley; M. de Portreuse's high\ngarden wall, forming the other side of the passage, was unbroken by a\ngate, and no curious eyes from the house could look into the deep arch\nand see the narrow nail-studded door at the back where I awaited the\nrat-faced Martin.\n\nI stood there long, first on one foot and then on the other, fearful\nevery moment lest some one of Monsieur's true men should come along to\ndemand my business. No one appeared, either foe or friend, for so long\nthat I began to think Yeux-gris had tricked me and sent me here on a\nfool's errand, when, all at once, a low voice said close to my ear:\n\n\"What seek you here?\"\n\nI jumped on finding at my side a little, pale, sharp-faced man--the man\nof the vision. He had slipped through the door so suddenly and quietly\nthat I was once more tempted to take him for a ghost. He eyed me for a\nbare second; then his eyes dropped before mine.\n\n\"I am come to learn the hour,\" said I.\n\n\"Did you not hear the chimes ring five?\"\n\n\"Oh, no need for disguise. I am come from the two in the Rue\nCoupejarrets. They bade me ask the hour.\"\n\nHe favoured me with another of his shifty glances.\n\n\"What hour meant they?\"\n\nI said bluntly, in a louder tone:\n\n\"The hour when M. Lucas sets out on his secret mission.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" he cried. \"Hush! Don't say names aloud--his or the other's.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said crossly, \"you have kept me waiting already more time than\nI care to lose. How much longer before you will tell me what I came to\nknow?\"\n\nHe looked at me sharply for another brief instant before his eyes slunk\naway from mine.\n\n\"You should have a password.\"\n\n\"They gave me none. They told me to say I came from the shuttered house\nin the Rue Coupejarrets, and that would be enough.\"\n\n\"How came you into this business?\"\n\n\"By a back window.\"\n\nHe gave me another suspicious glance, but making nothing by it, he\nrejoined:\n\n\"Eh bien, I trust you. I will tell you.\"\n\nHe clutched my arm and drew me to the back of the arch, where the\nafternoon shadows were already gathered.\n\n\"What have you for me?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Nothing. What should I have?\"\n\n\"No gold?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"He promised me ten pistoles to-day. He did not give them to you?\"\n\n\"I tell you, no.\"\n\n\"You are a thief! You have them!\"\n\nHe stepped forward menacingly; so did I. He then fell back as abruptly.\n\n\"Nay, it was a jest; I know you are honest. But he promised me ten\npistoles.\"\n\n\"He did not give them to me,\" I said. \"Perhaps he was not so convinced\nof my honesty. He will doubtless pay you afterward.\"\n\n\"Afterward!\" he retorted in a high key. \"By our Lady, he shall pay me\nafterward! The gutters will run gold then, will they? Pardieu! I will\nsee that a good stream flows my way. But one cannot play to-day with\nto-morrow's coin. He said I should have ten pistoles when I let him know\nthe hour.\"\n\n\"I cannot mend that. It lies between you and him. I have not seen or\nheard of any money.\"\n\nMartin edged up close to the door of retreat and waxed defiant.\n\n\"Then all I have to say is, he may go whistle for his news.\"\n\nNow, had I but thought of it, here was an easy road out of a bad\nbusiness. If Martin would not tell the hour of rendezvous, Lucas was\nsaved, Monsieur's interests not endangered, yet at the same time I was\nnot forsworn. But touch pitch and be defiled. You cannot go hand and\nglove with villains and remain an honest man. I returned directly:\n\n\"As you choose. But M. Gervais carries a long sword.\"\n\nHe started at that and made no instant reply, seeming to be balancing\nconsiderations. Then he gave his decision.\n\n\"I will tell you. But your M. Gervais is wrong if he thinks I can be\nslighted and robbed of my dues. I know enough to make trouble for him,\nand I know where to take my knowledge. He will not find it easy to shut\nmy mouth afterward, except with good broad gold pieces.\"\n\n\"Enfin, are you telling me the hour?\" I said impatiently. I was ill at\nease; my only wish was to get the errand done and be gone.\n\nHe laid a hand on my shoulder and made me bend to him, and even then\nspoke so low I could scarce catch the words.\n\n\"They have fixed positively on to-night. They will leave by this door\nand take the route I described last night to M. Gervais. They will start\nas soon as the streets are quiet, sometime between ten and eleven. They\nmust allow an hour to reach the gate, and the man goes off at twelve. In\nall likelihood they will not set out before a quarter of eleven; M. le\nDuc does not care to be recognized.\"\n\nSo they planned to kill Lucas at Monsieur's side? Yeux-gris had not\ndared to tell me that. But he had looked me straight in the face and\nsworn on the cross no harm was meant to M. le Duc. Natheless, the thing\nlooked ugly. My heart leaped up at the next words:\n\n\"Also Vigo will go.\"\n\n\"Vigo!\"\n\n\"Not so loud! You will have the guard on us! Yes, he is to go. At first\nMonsieur did not tell even him, he desired to keep this visit to the\nking so secret. But this morning he took Vigo into his confidence, and\nnothing would serve the man but to go. He watches over Monsieur like a\nhen over a chick.\"\n\n\"Then it will be three to three,\" I said. I thought of Gervais,\nYeux-gris, and Pontou, for of course I would take no part in it.\n\n\"Three to two; Lucas will not fight.\"\n\nLucas must be a poltroon, indeed!\n\n\"But Vigo and Monsieur--\" I began.\n\n\"Aye, they are quick enough with their swords. Your side must be\nquicker, that's all. If you are sudden enough you can easily kill the\nduke before he can draw.\"\n\nTalk of words like thunderbolts! All the thunder of heaven could not\nhave whelmed me like those words. Yeux-gris and his oaths! It _was_ the\nduke, after all!\n\nI could not speak. I looked I know not how. But it was dusky in the\narch.\n\n\"It sounds simple,\" he went on. \"But, three of you as you are, you will\nhave trouble with Vigo. That is all. I have told you all. I must get\nback before I am missed. Good luck to the enterprise.\"\n\nStill I stood like a block of wood.\n\n\"Tell M. Gervais to remember me,\" he said, and opening the door, passed\nin. I heard him lock and bolt it after him, and his footsteps hurrying\ndown the passageway.\n\nThen I came to myself and sprang to the door and beat upon it furiously.\nBut if he heard he was afraid to respond. After a futile moment that\nseemed an hour I rushed out of the arch and around to the great gate.\n\nThe grilles were closed as before, but the sentry's face, luckily, was\nstrange to me.\n\n\"Open! open!\" I shouted, breathless. \"I must see M. le Duc!\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" he demanded, staring.\n\n\"My name is Broux. I have news for M. le Duc. Let me in. It is a matter\nof life and death.\"\n\n\"Why, I suppose, then, I must let you in,\" that good fellow answered,\ndrawing back the bolts. \"But you must wait here till--\"\n\nThe gate was open. I took base advantage of him by sliding under his arm\nand shooting across the court up the steps to the house. The door stood\nopen, and a couple of lackeys lounged on a bench in the hall.\n\n\"M. le Duc!\" I cried. \"I must see him.\"\n\nThey jumped up, the picture of bewilderment.\n\n\"Who are you? How came you here?\" cried the quicker-tongued of the two.\n\n\"The sentry opened for me. Where am I to find M. le Duc? I must see him!\nI have news!\"\n\n\"M. le Duc sees no one to-day,\" the second lackey announced pompously.\n\n\"But I must see him, I tell you,\" I repeated. I had completely lost what\nlittle head I ever had; it seemed to me that if I could not see M. le\nDuc on the instant I should find him weltering in his gore. \"I must see\nhim,\" I cried, parrot-like. \"It is a matter of life and death.\"\n\n\"From whom do you come?\"\n\n\"That's my affair. Enough that I come with news of the highest moment.\nYou will be sorry if I you do not get me quickly to M. le Duc.\"\n\nThey looked at each other, somewhat impressed.\n\n\"I will go for M. Constant,\" said the one who had spoken first.\n\nConstant was Master of the Household; M. le Duc had inherited him with\nthe estate and kept him in his place for old time's sake. He was old,\nfussy, and self-important, and withal no friend to me.\n\n\"I had rather you fetched Vigo,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, Vigo will not come. He is with Monsieur. If I bring M. Constant, it\nis the best I can do for you.\"\n\nI had recovered myself sufficiently by this time to remember the nature\nof lackeys, and gave the messenger the last silver piece I had in the\nworld. He regarded it contemptuously, but pocketed it and departed in\nleisurely fashion up the stairs.\n\nThe other was not too grand to cross-examine me.\n\n\"What sort of news have you? Do you come from the king?\" he asked in a\nlowered voice.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"From M. de Valère?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then who the devil are you?\"\n\n\"Félix Broux of St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"Ah, St. Quentin,\" he said, as if he found that rather tame. \"You bring\nnews from there?\"\n\n\"No, I do not. Think you I shall tell you? This news is for Monsieur.\"\n\n\"It won't reach Monsieur unless you learn politeness toward the\ngentlemen of his household,\" he retorted.\n\nWe were getting into a lively quarrel when Constant appeared on the\nstairway--Constant and the lackey who had fetched him, and two more\nlackeys, and a page, all of whom had somehow scented that something was\nin the wind. They came flocking about us as I said:\n\n\"Ah, M. Constant! You know me, Félix Broux of St. Quentin. I must see M.\nle Duc.\"\n\nConstant's face of surprise at me changed to one of malice. Down at St.\nQuentin he had suffered much from us pages, as a slow, peevish old\ndotard must. I had played many a prank on him, but I had not thought he\nwould revenge himself at such time as this. He looked at me with a\nspiteful grin, and said to the men:\n\n\"He lies. I do not know him. I never saw him.\"\n\n\"Never saw me, Félix Broux!\" I cried, completely taken aback.\n\n\"No,\" maintained Constant. \"You are an impostor.\"\n\n\"Impostor! Nonsense!\" I cried out. \"Constant, you know me as well as you\nknow yourself. I say I must see the duke; his life is in danger!\"\n\nConstant was paying off old scores with interest.\n\n\"An impostor,\" he yelled shrilly, \"or else a madman--or an assassin.\"\n\n\"That is the truth,\" said some one, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder.\n\nI turned; two men of the guard had come up, my friend of just now and my\nfoe of the morning. It was the latter who held me and said:\n\n\"This is the very rascal who sprang on Monsieur's coach-step in the\nmorning. M. Lucas threw him off, else he might have stabbed Monsieur. We\nwere fools enough to let him go free. But this time he shall not get off\nso easy.\"\n\n\"I am innocent of all thought of harm,\" I cried. \"I am M. le Duc's loyal\nservant. I meant no harm this morning, and I mean none now. I am here to\nsave Monsieur's life.\"\n\n\"He is here to kill Monsieur; he is an assassin!\" screamed Constant.\n\"Flog him, men; he will own the truth then!\"\n\n\"I am no assassin!\" I shouted, struggling in their grasp. \"Let me go,\nvillains, let me go! I tell you, Monsieur's life is at stake--Monsieur's\nvery life, I tell you!\"\n\nThey paid me no heed. Not one of them--save hat lying knave\nConstant--knew me as other than the shabby fellow who had acted\nsuspiciously in the morning. They were dragging me to the door in spite\nof my shouts and struggles, when suddenly a ringing voice spoke from\nabove:\n\n\"What is this rumpus? Who talks of Monsieur's life?\"\n\nThe guards halted dead, and I cried out joyfully:\n\n\"Vigo!\"\n\n\"Yes, I am Vigo,\" the big man answered, striding down the stairs. \"Who\nare you?\"\n\nI wanted to shout, \"Félix Broux, Monsieur's page,\" but a sort of\nnightmare dread came over me lest Vigo, too, should disclaim me, and my\nvoice stuck in my throat.\n\n\"Whoever you are, you will be taught not to make a racket in M. le Duc's\nhall. By the saints! it's the boy Félix.\"\n\nAt the friendliness in his voice the guards dropped their hands from me.\n\n\"M. Vigo,\" I said, \"I have news for Monsieur of the gravest moment. I am\ncome on a matter of life and death. And I am stopped in the hall by\nlackeys.\"\n\nHe looked at me sternly.\n\n\"This is not one of your fooleries, Félix?\"\n\n\"No, M. Vigo.\"\n\n\"Come with me.\"\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n_A divided duty._\n\n\nThat was Vigo's way. The toughest snarl untangled at his touch. He had\nmore sense and fewer airs than any other, he saw at once that I was in\nearnest; and Constant's voluble protests were as so much wind. The title\ndoes not make the man. Though Constant was Master of the Household and\nVigo only Equery, yet Vigo ruled every corner of the establishment and\nevery man in it, save only Monsieur, who ruled him.\n\nHe said no word to me as we climbed the broad stair; neither reproved me\nfor the fracas nor questioned me about my coming. He would not pry into\nMonsieur's business; and, save as I concerned Monsieur, he had no\ninterest in me whatsoever. He led the way straight into an antechamber,\nwhere a page sprang up to bar our passage.\n\n\"No one may enter, M. Vigo, not even you. M. le Duc has ordered it. Why,\nFélix! You in Paris!\"\n\n\"I enter,\" said Vigo; and, sweeping Marcel aside, he knocked loudly.\n\n\"I came last night,\" I found time to say under my breath to my old\ncomrade before the door was opened.\n\nThe handsome secretary whom I had taken for the count stood in the\ndoorway looking askance at us. He knew me at once and wondered.\n\n\"You cannot enter, Vigo. M. le Duc is occupied.\"\n\nHe made to shut the door, but Vigo's foot was over the sill.\n\n\"Natheless, I must enter,\" he answered unabashed and pushed his way into\nthe room.\n\n\"Then you must answer for it,\" returned the secretary, with a scowl that\nsat ill on his delicate face.\n\n\"_You_ shall answer for it if it turns out a mare's nest,\" said Vigo, in\na low, meaning voice to me. But I hardly heard him. I passed him and\nLucas, and flew down the long room to Monsieur.\n\nM. le Duc was seated before a table heaped with papers. He had been\nwatching the scene at the door in surprise and anger. He looked at me\nwith a sharp frown, while the deer-hound at his feet rose on its\nhaunches growling.\n\n\"Roland!\" I said. The dog sprang up and came to me.\n\n\"Félix Broux!\" Monsieur exclaimed, with his quick, warm smile--a smile\nno man in France could match for radiance.\n\nI had no thought of kneeling, of making obeisance, of waiting permission\nto speak.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I cried, half choked, \"there is a plot--a vile plot to\nmurder you!\"\n\n\"Where? At St. Quentin?\"\n\n\"No, Monsieur. Here in Paris. In the streets to-night, when you go to\nthe king.\"\n\nMonsieur sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword. Lucas turned white.\nVigo swore. Monsieur cried:\n\n\"How, in God's name, know you that?\"\n\n\"You have been betrayed, Monsieur. Your plan is known. You leave the\nhouse to-night, near a quarter of eleven, to go in secret to the king.\nYou leave by the little door in the alley--\"\n\n\"Diable!\" breathed Vigo.\n\n\"They set on you on your way--three of them--to run you through before\nyou can draw.\"\n\n\"But, ventre bleu! Monsieur is not alone.\"\n\n\"No; he walks between you and M. Lucas.\"\n\nNot one of them spoke. They stared at me as if I were something uncanny.\nI, a raw country boy, disclosing a perfect knowledge of their most\nintimate plans!\n\n\"How know you this?\" Monsieur demanded of me. But he was not looking at\nme. His keen glance went first to Lucas, then to Vigo, the two men who\nhad shared his confidence. The secretary cried out:\n\n\"You cannot think, Monsieur, that I betrayed you?\"\n\nVigo said nothing. His steady eyes never left Monsieur's face.\n\n\"No,\" answered Monsieur to Lucas, \"I cannot think it.\" And to Vigo he\nsaid: \"I shall accuse you when I accuse myself. But--none knew this\nthing save our three selves.\" And his gaze went back to Lucas.\n\n\"It is not likely to be he,\" I said, impelled to be just to him though I\ndid not like him, \"for they meant to kill him as well.\"\n\nLucas started, then instantly recovered himself.\n\n\"A comprehensive plot, Monsieur,\" he said, with a smile.\n\n\"Then who was it?\" cried Monsieur to me. \"You know. Speak.\"\n\n\"There is a spy in the house--an eavesdropper,\" I said, and then paused.\n\n\"Aye?\" said Monsieur. \"Who?\"\n\nNow the answer to this was easy, yet I flinched before it; for I knew\nwell enough what Monsieur would do. He feared no man, and waited on no\nman's advice. And if he was a good lover, he was a good hater. He would\nnot inform the governor, and await the tardy course of justice, that\nwould probably accomplish--nothing. Nor would he consider the troubled\ntimes and the danger of his position, and ignore the affair, as many\nwould have deemed best. He would not stop to think what the Sixteen\nmight have to say to it. No; he would call out his guards and slay the\nplotters in the Rue Coupejarrets like the wolves they were. It was right\nhe should, but--I owed my life to Yeux-gris.\n\n\"His name, man, his name!\" Monsieur was crying.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I returned, flushing hot, \"Monsieur--\"\n\n\"Do you know his name?\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsieur, I know his name, but--\"\n\nMonsieur looked at me in surprise and frowning, impatience. Quickly\nLucas struck in:\n\n\"Monsieur, I have grave doubts of the boy's honesty.\"\n\n\"Doubts!\" cried Monsieur, with a sudden laugh. \"It is not a case for\ndoubts. The boy states facts.\"\n\nHe seated himself in his chair, his face growing stern again. The little\naction seemed to make him no longer merely my questioner, but my judge.\n\n\"Now, Félix Broux, let us get to the bottom of this.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I began, struggling to put the case clearly, \"I learned of\nthe plot by accident. I did not guess for a long time it was you who\nwere the victim. When I found out that, I came straight here to you.\nMonsieur, there are four men in the plot, and one of them has stood my\nfriend.\"\n\n\"And my assassin!\"\n\n\"He is a black-hearted villain!\" I acknowledged. \"For he swore no harm\nwas meant to you. He swore it was only a private grudge against M.\nLucas. But when one of them let out the truth I came straight to you.\"\n\n\"That is likely true,\" said Vigo, \"for he was ready to kill the men who\nbarred his way.\"\n\n\"You were in a plot to kill my secretary!\"\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur!\" I cried.\n\n\"You--Félix Broux!\"\n\nI curled with shame.\n\n\"M. Lucas had struck me,\" I muttered; \"I thought the fight was fair\nenough. And they threatened my life.\"\n\nMonsieur's contemptuous eyes shrivelled me as flame shrivels a leaf.\n\n\"You--a Broux of St. Quentin!\"\n\nLucas, who had watched me close all the while, as they all three did,\nsaid now:\n\n\"I believe he is a cheat, Monsieur. There is no plot. He has learned of\nyour plan through the eavesdropper he speaks of and thinks to make\ncredit out of a trumped-up tale of murder.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Monsieur. \"You may think that, Lucas, for he is a\nstranger to you. But I know him. He was a fool sometimes, but he was\nnever dishonest. You used to be fond of me, Félix. What has happened to\nmake you consort with my enemies?\"\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur, I love you. I have always loved you,\" I cried. \"I am not\nlying now, nor cheating you. There is a plot. I learned it and came\nstraight to you, though I was under oath not to betray them.\"\n\n\"Then, in Heaven's name, Félix,\" burst out Vigo, \"which side are you\non?\"\n\nMonsieur began to laugh.\n\n\"That is what I should like to know. For, by St. Quentin, I can make\nnothing of it.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" insisted Lucas, \"whatever he was once, I believe him a\ntrickster now.\"\n\nMonsieur bent his keen eyes on me.\n\n\"No; he is plainly in earnest. Therefore with patience I look to get\nsome sense out of this snarl of a story. Something is there we have not\nyet fathomed.\"\n\n\"Will Monsieur let me speak?\"\n\n\"I have done naught but urge you to do so for some time past,\" he\nanswered dryly.\n\n\"Monsieur, you know my father would not let me leave St. Quentin with\nyou, three months back. But at length he said I should come, and I\nreached Paris last night and, since it was late, lodged at an inn. This\nmorning I came to your gate, but the guard would not let me enter. I was\nso mad to see you, Monsieur, that when you drove out I sprang up on your\ncoach-step--\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Monsieur, a new light breaking in upon him, \"that was you,\nFélix? I did not know you; I was thinking of other matters. And Lucas\ntook you for a miscreant. Now I _am_ sorry.\"\n\nIf I had been a noble he could not have spoken franker apology. But at\nonce he was stern again. \"And because my secretary took you in all good\nfaith for a possible assassin and struck you to save me, you turn\ntraitor and take part in a plot to set on him and kill him! I had\nbelieved that of some hired lackey, not of a Broux.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I was wrong--a thousand times wrong. I knew that as soon as I\nhad sworn. And when I found it was you they meant, I came to you, oath\nor no oath.\"\n\n\"There spoke the Broux!\" cried Monsieur with his brilliant smile. \"Now\nyou are Félix. Who are my would-be murderers?\"\n\nWe had come round in a circle to the place where we had stuck before,\nand here we stuck again.\n\n\"Monsieur, I would tell you all before you could count ten--tell you\ntheir names, their whereabouts, everything--were it not for one man who\nstood my friend.\"\n\nThe duke's eyes flashed.\n\n\"You call him that--my assassin!\"\n\n\"He is an assassin,\" I was forced to answer; \"even Monsieur's\nassassin--and a perjurer. But--but, Monsieur, he saved my life from the\nother, at the risk of his own. How can I pay him back by betraying him?\"\n\n\"According to your own account, he betrayed you.\"\n\n\"Aye, he lied to me,\" I said brokenly. \"Yet Monsieur, if it were your\nown case and one had saved your life, were he the scum of the gutter,\nwould you send him to his death?\"\n\n\"To whom do you owe your first duty?\"\n\n\"Monsieur, to you.\"\n\n\"Then speak.\"\n\nBut I could not do it. Though I knew Yeux-gris for a villain, yet he had\nsaved my life.\n\n\"Monsieur, I cannot.\"\n\nThe duke cried out:\n\n\"This to me!\"\n\nThere was a silence. I stood with hanging head, the picture of a\nshame-faced knave. Shame so filled me that I could not look up to meet\nMonsieur's sentence. But when I had remembered the good hater in\nMonsieur, I should have remembered, too, the good lover. Monsieur had\nbeen fond of me at St. Quentin. As I waited for the lightning to strike,\nhe said with utmost gentleness:\n\n\"Félix, let me understand you. In what manner did this man save your\nlife?\"\n\nNow that was like my lord. Though a hot man, he loved fairness and ever\nstrove to do the just thing, and his patience was the finer that it was\nnot his nature. His leniency fired me with a sudden hope.\n\n\"Monsieur, there are four of them in the plot. But one cannot be as vile\nas the others, since he saved my life. Monsieur, if I tell you, will you\nlet that one go?\"\n\n\"I shall do as I see fit,\" he answered, all the duke. \"Félix, will you\nspeak?\"\n\n\"If Monsieur will promise to let him go--\"\n\n\"Insolence, sirrah! I do not bargain with my servants.\"\n\nHis words were like whips. I flinched before his proud anger, and for\nthe second time stood with hanging head awaiting his sentence. And again\nhe did what I could not guess. He cried out:\n\n\"Félix, you are blind, besotted, mad. You know not what you do. I am in\nconstant danger. The city is filled with my enemies. The Leagues hate me\nand are ever plotting mischief against me. Every day their mistrust and\nhatred grow. I did a bold thing in coming to Paris, but I had a great\nend to serve--to pave a way into the capital for the Catholic king and\nbring the land to peace. For that, I live in hourly jeopardy, and risk\nmy life to-night on foot in the streets. If I am killed, more than my\nlife is lost. The Church may lose the king, and this dear France of ours\nbe harried to a desert in the civil wars!\"\n\nI had braced myself to bear Monsieur's anger, but this unlooked-for\nappeal pierced me through and through. All the love and loyalty in\nme--and I had much, though it may not have seemed so--rose in answer to\nMonsieur's call. I fell on my knees before him, choked with sobs.\n\nMonsieur's hand lay on my head as he said quietly:\n\n\"Now, Félix, speak.\"\n\nI answered huskily:\n\n\"Would Monsieur have me turn Judas?\"\n\n\"Judas betrayed his _master_.\"\n\nIt was my last stand. My last redoubt had fallen. I raised my head to\ntell him all.\n\nMaybe it was the tears in my eyes, but as I lifted them to M. le Duc, I\nsaw--not him, but Yeux-gris--Yeux-gris looking at me with warm good\nwill, as he had looked when he was saving me from Gervais. I saw him, I\nsay, plain before my eyes. The next instant there was nothing but\nMonsieur's face of rising impatience.\n\nI rose to my feet, and said:\n\n\"Kill me, Monsieur; I cannot tell.\"\n\n\"Nom de dieu!\" he shouted, springing up.\n\nI shut my eyes and waited. Had he slain me then and there it were no\nmore than my deserts.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" said Vigo, immovably, \"shall I go for the boot?\"\n\nI opened my eyes then. Monsieur stood quite still, his brow knotted, his\nhands clenched as if to keep them off me.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I said, \"send for the boot, the thumbscrew, whatever you\nplease. I deserve it, and I will bear it. Monsieur, it is not that I\nwill not tell. It is something stronger than I. I _cannot_.\"\n\nHe burst into an angry laugh.\n\n\"Say you are possessed of a devil, and I will believe it. My faith!\nthough you are a low-born lad and I Duke of St. Quentin, I seem to be\ngetting the worst of it.\"\n\n\"There is the boot, Monsieur.\"\n\nMonsieur laughed again, no less angrily.\n\n\"That does not help me, my good Vigo. I cannot torture a Broux.\"\n\n\"There Monsieur is wrong. The lad has been disloyal and insolent, if he\nis a Broux.\"\n\n\"Granted, Vigo,\" said M. le Duc. But he did not add, \"Fetch the boot.\"\n\nVigo went on with steady persistence. \"He has not been loyal to Monsieur\nand his interests in refusing to tell what he knows. And if he goes\ncounter to Monsieur's interests he is a traitor, Broux or no Broux. He\nhas no claim to be treated as other than an enemy. These are serious\ntimes. Monsieur does not well to play with his dangers. The boy must\ntell what he knows. Am I to go for the boot, Monsieur?\"\n\nM. le Duc was silent for a moment, while the hot flush that had sprung\nto his face died away. Then he answered Vigo:\n\n\"Nevertheless, it is owing to Félix that I shall not walk out to meet my\ndeath to-night.\"\n\nThe secretary had stood silent for a long time, fingering nervously the\npapers on the table. I had forgotten his presence, when now he stepped\nforward and said:\n\n\"If I might be permitted a suggestion, Monsieur--\"\n\nMonsieur silenced him with a sharp gesture.\n\n\"Félix Broux,\" he said to me, \"you have been following a bad plan. No\nman can run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. You are either my\nloyal servant or my enemy, one thing or the other. Now I am loath to\nhurt you. You have seen how I am loath to hurt you. I give you one more\nchance to be honest. Go and think it over. If in half an hour you have\ndecided that you are my true man, well and good. If not, by St. Quentin,\nwe will see what a flogging can do!\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n_Charles-André-Étienne-Marie._\n\n\nUnpleased, but unprotesting, Vigo led me out into the anteroom. Those\nmen who judged by the outside of things and, knowing Vigo's iron ways,\nsaid that he ruled Monsieur, were wrong.\n\nThe big equery gave me over to the charge of Marcel and returned to the\ninner room. Hardly had the door closed behind him when the page burst\nout:\n\n\"What is it? What is the coil? What have you done, Félix?\"\n\nNow you can guess I was too sick-hearted for chatter. I had defied and\ndisobeyed my liege lord; I could never hope for pardon or any man's\nrespect. They threatened me with flogging; well, let them flog. They\ncould not make my back any sorer than my conscience was. For I had not\nthe satisfaction in my trouble of thinking that I had done right.\nMonsieur's danger should have been my first consideration. What was\nYeux-gris, perjured scoundrel, in comparison with M. le Duc? And yet I\nknew that at the end of the half-hour I should not tell; at the end of\nthe flogging I should not tell. I had warned Monsieur; that I would\nhave done had it been the breaking of a thousand oaths. But give up\nYeux-gris? Not if they tore me limb from limb!\n\n\"What is it all about?\" cried Marcel, again. \"You look as glum as a\nJesuit in Lent. What is the matter with you, Félix?\"\n\n\"I have cooked my goose,\" I said gloomily.\n\n\"What have you done?\"\n\n\"Nothing that I can speak about. But I am out of Monsieur's books.\"\n\n\"What was old Vigo after when he took you in to Monsieur? I never saw\nanything so bold. When Monsieur says he is not to be disturbed he means\nit.\"\n\nI had nothing to tell him, and was silent.\n\n\"What is it? Can't you tell an old chum?\"\n\n\"No; it is Monsieur's private business.\"\n\n\"Well, you are grumpy!\" he cried out pettishly. \"You must be out of\ngrace.\" He seemed to decide that nothing was to be made out of me just\nnow on this tack, and with unabated persistence tried another.\n\n\"Is it true, Félix, what one of the men said just now, that you tried to\nspeak with Monsieur this morning when he drove out?\"\n\n\"Yes. But Monsieur did not recognize me.\"\n\n\"Like enough,\" Marcel answered. \"He has a way of late of falling into\nthese absent fits. Monsieur is not the man he was.\"\n\n\"He does look older,\" I said, \"and worn. I trow the risk he is\nrunning--\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" cried Marcel, with scorn. \"Is Monsieur a man to mind risks? No;\nit is M. le Comte.\"\n\nI started like a guilty thing, remembering what Yeux-gris had told me\nand I, wrapped in my petty troubles, had forgotten. Monsieur had lost\nhis only son. And I had chosen this time to defy him!\n\n\"How long ago was it?\" I asked in a hushed voice.\n\n\"Since M. le Comte left us? It will be three weeks next Friday.\"\n\n\"How did he die?\"\n\n\"Die?\" echoed Marcel. \"You crazy fellow, he is not dead!\"\n\nIt was my turn to stare.\n\n\"Then where is he?\"\n\n\"It would be money in my pouch if I knew. What made you think him dead,\nFélix?\"\n\n\"A man told me so.\"\n\n\"Pardieu!\" he cried in some excitement. \"When? Who was it?\"\n\n\"To-day. I do not know the man's name.\"\n\n\"It seems you know very little. Pardieu! I do not believe M. le Comte is\ndead. What else did your man say?\"\n\n\"Nothing. He only said the Comte de Mar was dead.\"\n\n\"Pshaw! I don't believe it. You believe everything you hear because you\nare just from the country. No; if M. le Comte were dead we should hear\nof it. Oh, certainly, we should hear.\"\n\n\"But where is he, then? You say he is lost.\"\n\n\"Aye. He has not been seen or heard of since the day they had the\nquarrel.\"\n\n\"Who quarrelled?\"\n\n\"Why, he and Monsieur,\" answered Marcel, in a lower voice, pointing to\nthe door of the inner room. \"M. le Comte has been his own master too\nlong to take kindly to a hand over him; that is the whole of it. He has\na quick temper. So has Monsieur.\"\n\nBut I thought of Monsieur's wonderful patience, and I cried:\n\n\"Shame!\"\n\n\"What now?\"\n\n\"To speak like that of Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Enfin, it is true. He is none the worse for that. But I suppose if\nMonsieur had a cloven hoof one must not mention it.\"\n\n\"One would get his head broken.\"\n\n\"Oh, you Broux!\" he cried out. \"I have not seen you for half a year. I\nhad forgotten that with you the St. Quentins rank with the saints.\"\n\n\"You--you are a hired servant. You come to Monsieur as you might come to\nanybody. With the Broux it is different,\" I retorted angrily. Yet I\ncould not but know in my heart that any hired servant might have served\nMonsieur better than I. My boasted loyalty--what was it but lip-service?\nI said more humbly: \"Pshaw! it is no great matter. Tell me about the\nquarrel.\"\n\n\"And so I will, if you're civil. In the first place, there was the\nquestion of M. le Comte's marriage.\"\n\n\"What! is he married?\"\n\n\"Oh, by no means. Monsieur wouldn't have it. You see, Félix,\" Marcel\nsaid in a tone deep with importance, \"we're Navarre's men now.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said I.\n\n\"I suppose you would say 'of course' just like that to Mayenne himself.\nYou greenhorn! It is as much as our lives are worth to side openly with\nNavarre. The League may attack us any day.\"\n\n\"I know,\" I said uneasily. Every chance word Marcel spoke seemed to dye\nmy guilt the deeper. \"But what has this to do with M. le Comte's\nmarriage?\" I asked him.\n\n\"Why, he was more than half a Leaguer. Perhaps he is one now. Some say\nhe and Monsieur were at daggers drawn about politics; but I warrant it\nwas about Mlle. de Montluc. They call her the Rose of Lorraine. She's\nthe Duke of Mayenne's own cousin and housemate. And we're king's men, so\nof course it was no match for Monsieur's son. They say Mayenne himself\nfavoured the marriage, but our duke wouldn't hear of it. However, the\nbackbone of the trouble was M. de Grammont.\"\n\n\"And who may he be?\"\n\n\"He's a cousin of the house. He and M. le Comte are as thick as thieves.\nBefore we came to Paris they lodged together. So when M. le Comte came\nhere he brought M. de Grammont. Dare I speak ill of Monsieur's cousin,\nFélix? For I would say, at the risk of a broken head, that he is a\nsour-faced churl. You cannot deny it. You never saw him.\"\n\n\"No, nor M. le Comte, either.\"\n\n\"Why, you have seen M. le Comte!\"\n\n\"Never. The only time he came to St. Quentin I was laid up in bed with a\nstrained leg. I missed the chase. Don't you remember?\"\n\n\"Why, you are right; that was the time you fell out of the buttery\nwindow when you were stealing tarts, and Margot got after you with the\nbroomstick. I remember very well.\"\n\nHe was for calling up all our old pranks at the château, but it was\nlittle joy to me to think on those fortunate days when I was Monsieur's\nfavourite. I said:\n\n\"Nay, Marcel, you were telling me of M. le Comte and the quarrel.\"\n\n\"Oh, as for that, it is easy told. You see M. le Comte and this Grammont\ntook no interest in Monsieur's affairs, and they had very little to say\nto him, and he to them. They had plenty of friends in Paris, Leaguers or\nnot, and they used to go about amusing themselves. But at last M. de\nGrammont had such a run of bad luck at the tables that he not only\nemptied his own pockets but M. le Comte's as well. I will say for M. le\nComte that he would share his last sou with any one who asked.\"\n\n\"And so would any St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"Oh, you are always piping up for the St. Quentins.\"\n\n\"He should have no need in this house.\"\n\nWe jumped up to find Vigo standing behind us.\n\n\"What have you been saying of Monsieur?\"\n\n\"Nothing, M. Vigo,\" stammered the page. \"I only said M. le Comte--\"\n\n\"You are not to discuss M. le Comte. Do you hear?\"\n\n\"Yes, M. Vigo.\"\n\n\"Then obey. And you, Félix, I shall have a little interview with you\nshortly.\"\n\n\"As you will, M. Vigo,\" I said hopelessly.\n\nHe went off down the corridor, and Marcel turned angrily on me.\n\n\"Mon dieu, Félix, you have got me into a nice scrape with your eternal\nchanting of the praises of Monsieur. Like as not I shall get a beating\nfor it. Vigo never forgets.\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" I said. \"We should not have been talking of it.\"\n\n\"No, we should not. Come over here where we can watch both doors, and\nI'll tell you the rest before the old lynx gets back.\"\n\nWe sat down close together, and he proceeded in a low tone to disobey\nVigo.\n\n\"Enfin, as I said, the two young gentlemen were quite sans le sou, for\nthings had come to a point where M. le Duc looked pretty black at any\napplication for funds--he has other uses for his gold, you see. One day\nMonsieur was expecting some one to whom he was to pay a thousand\npistoles, and to have the money handy he put it in a secret drawer in\nhis cabinet in the room yonder. The man arrives and is taken to\nMonsieur's private room. Monsieur gives him his orders and goes to the\ncabinet for his pistoles. No pistoles there!\"\n\nMarcel paused dramatically. \"And what then?\" I asked.\n\n\"Well, it appears he had once shown M. le Comte the trick of the drawer,\nso he sent for him--not to accuse him, mind you. For M. le Comte is wild\nenough, yet Monsieur did not think he would steal pistoles, nor would\nhe, I will stake my oath. No, Monsieur merely asked him if he had ever\nshown any one the drawer, and M. le Comte answered, 'Only Grammont.'\"\n\nAnd how have you learned all this?\"\n\n\"Oh, one hears.\"\n\n\"One does, with one's ears to the keyhole.\"\n\n\"It behooves you, Félix, to be civil to your better!\"\n\nI made pretence of looking about me.\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"He sits here. I am page to the Duke of St. Quentin. And you?\"\n\n\"Touché!\" I admitted bitterly enough. Little Marcel, my junior, my\nunquestioning follower in the old days, was now indeed my better, quite\nin a position to patronize.\n\n\"Continue, if you please, Marcel. Yet, in passing, I should like to ask\nyou how much you heard our talk in there just now.\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" he answered candidly. \"When they are so far down the room one\ncannot hear a word. In the affair of the pistoles they stood near the\ncabinet at this end. One could not help but hear. As for listening at\nkeyholes, I scorn it.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is well to scorn it. People have an unpleasant trick of opening\ndoors so suddenly.\"\n\nHe laughed cheerfully.\n\n\"Old Vigo caught us, certes. Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes, then\nMonsieur put on his proud look and said, if it was a case of no one but\nhis son and his cousin, he preferred to drop the matter. But M. le Comte\ngot out of him what the trouble was and went off for Grammont, red as\nfire. The two together came back to Monsieur and denied up and down\nthat either of them knew aught of his pistoles, or had told of the\nsecret to any one. They say it was easy to see that Monsieur did not\nbelieve Grammont, but he did not give him the lie, and the matter came\nnear dropping there, for M. le Duc would not accuse a kinsman. But then\nLucas gave a new turn to the affair.\"\n\n\"How long has Lucas been here, Marcel? Who is he?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's a rascal of a Huguenot. Monsieur picked him up at Mantes, just\nbefore we came to the city. And if he spies on Monsieur's enemies as\nwell as he does on this household, he must be a useful man. He has that\nlong nose of his in everything, let me tell you. Of course he was\npresent when Monsieur missed the pistoles. So then, quite on his own\naccount, without any orders, he took two of the men and searched M. de\nGrammont's room. And in a locked chest of his which they forced open\nthey found five hundred of the pistoles in the very box Monsieur had\nkept them in.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\nMarcel made a fine gesture.\n\n\"And then, pardieu! the storm broke. M. de Grammont raved like a madman.\nHe said Lucas was the thief and had put half the sum in his chest to\ndivert suspicion. He said it was a plot to ruin him contrived between\nMonsieur and his henchman, Lucas. It is true enough, certes, that\nMonsieur never liked him. He threatened Monsieur's life and Lucas's. He\nchallenged Monsieur, and Monsieur declined to cross swords with a\nthief. He challenged Lucas, and Lucas took the cue from Monsieur. I was\nnot there--on either side of the door. What I tell you has leaked out\nbit by bit from Lucas, for Monsieur keeps his mouth shut. The upshot of\nthe matter was that Grammont goes at Lucas with a knife, and Monsieur\nhas the guards pitch my gentleman into the street. Then M. le Comte\nswore a big oath that he would go with Grammont. Monsieur told him if he\nwent in such company it would be forever. M. le Comte swore he would\nnever come back under his father's roof if M. le Duc crawled to him on\nhis knees to beg him.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" I cried; \"and then?\"\n\n\"Marry, that's all. M. le Comte went straight out of this gate, without\nhorse or squire. And we have not heard a word of either of them since.\"\n\nHe paused, and when I made no comment, said, a trifle aggrieved:\n\n\"Eh bien, you take it calmly, but you would not had you been here. It\nwas an altogether lively affair. It wouldn't surprise me a whit if some\nday Monsieur should be attacked as he drives out. He's not one to forget\nan injury, this M. Gervais de Grammont.\"\n\nAt the name, intelligence flashed over me, sudden and clear as last\nnight's lightning-gleam. Yet this thing I seemed to see was so hideous,\nso horrible, that my mind recoiled from it.\n\n\"Marcel,\" I stammered, shuddering, \"Marcel--\"\n\n\"Mordieu! what ails you? Is some one walking on your grave?\"\n\n\"Marcel, how is M. le Comte named?\"\n\n\"The Comte de Mar? Oh, do you mean his names in baptism?\nCharles-André-Étienne-Marie. They call him Étienne. Why do you ask? What\nis it?\"\n\nIt was a certainty, then. Yet I could not bring myself to believe this\nhorrible thing.\n\n\"I have never seen him. How does he look?\"\n\n\"Oh, not at all like Monsieur. He has fair hair and gray eyes--que\ndiable!\"\n\nFor I had flung open Monsieur's door and dashed in.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n_The honour of St. Quentin._\n\n\nMonsieur was seated at his table, talking in a low tone and hurriedly to\nLucas. They started and stared as I broke in upon them, and then\nMonsieur cried out to me:\n\n\"Ah, Félix! You have come to your senses.\"\n\n\"I will tell Monsieur all, the whole story.\"\n\nHe tested my honesty with a glance, then looked beyond me at Marcel,\nstanding agape in the doorway.\n\n\"Leave us, Marcel. Go down-stairs. Leave that door open, and shut the\ndoor into the corridor.\"\n\nMarcel obeyed. Monsieur turned to me with a smile.\n\n\"Now, Félix.\"\n\nI had hardly been able to hold my words back while Marcel was disposed\nof.\n\n\"Monsieur, I knew not, myself, the names of those men. Now I have found\nout. They--\"\n\nMy eyes met the secretary's fixed excitedly upon me and the words died\non my tongue. Even in my rage I had the grace to know that this was no\nstory to tell Monsieur before another.\n\n\"I will tell Monsieur alone.\"\n\n\"You may speak before M. Lucas,\" he rejoined impatiently.\n\n\"No,\" I persisted. \"I must tell Monsieur alone.\"\n\nHe saw in my face that I had strong reasons for asking it, and said to\nthe secretary:\n\n\"You may go, Lucas.\"\n\nLucas protested.\n\n\"M. le Duc will be wiser not to see him alone. He is not to be trusted.\nPerchance, Monsieur, this demand covers an attack on your life.\"\n\nThe warning nettled my lord. He answered curtly:\n\n\"You may go.\"\n\n\"Monsieur--\"\n\n\"Go!\"\n\nLucas passed out, giving me, as he went, a look of hatred that startled\nme. But I did not pay it much heed.\n\n\"Well!\" exclaimed Monsieur.\n\nBut by this time I had bethought myself what a story it was I had to\ntell a father of his son. I could not blurt it out in two words. I stood\nsilent, not knowing how to start.\n\n\"Félix! Beware how much longer you abuse my patience!\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I began, \"the spy in the house is named Martin.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Monsieur. \"So it is Louis Martin. How he knew--But go on.\nThe others--\"\n\n\"I lay the night in the Rue Coupejarrets, not far from the St. Denis\ngate,\" I said, still beating about the bush, \"at the sign of the Amour\nde Dieu. Opposite is a closed house, shuttered with iron from garret\nto cellar. You can enter from a court behind. It is here that they\nplot.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"WITH A CRY MONSIEUR SPRANG TOWARD ME.\"]\n\nMonsieur's brows drew together, as if he were trying to recall something\nhalf remembered, half forgotten.\n\n\"But the men,\" he cried, \"the men!\"\n\n\"They are three. One a low fellow named Pontou.\"\n\n\"Pontou? The name is nothing to me. The others?\" He was leaning forward\neagerly. I knew of what he was thinking--the quickest way to reach the\nRue Coupejarrets.\n\n\"There are two others, Monsieur,\" I said slowly. \"Young men--noble.\"\n\nI looked at him. But no light whatever had broken in upon him.\n\n\"Their names, lad!\"\n\nThen, seeing him unsuspecting, the fury in my heart surged up and\ncovered every other feeling. I burst out:\n\n\"Gervais de Grammont and the Comte de Mar.\"\n\nHe looked me in the face, and he knew I was telling the truth.\nUnexpected as it was, hideous as it was, yet he knew I was telling the\ntruth.\n\nI had seen cowards turn pale, but never the colour washed from a brave\nman's face. The sight made my fingers itch to strangle that gray-eyed\ncheat.\n\nWith a cry Monsieur sprang toward me.\n\n\"You lie, you cur!\"\n\n\"No, Monsieur,\" I gasped; \"it is the truth.\"\n\nHe let me go then, and laid his hand on the collar of the dog, who had\nsprung to his aid. But Monsieur had got a hurt from which the dumb\nbeast's loyalty could not defend him. He stood with bowed head, a man\nstricken to the heart's core. Full of wrath as I was, the tears came to\nmy eyes for Monsieur.\n\nHe recovered himself.\n\n\"It is some damnable mistake! You have been tricked!\"\n\nMy rage blazed up again.\n\n\"No! They tricked me once. Not again! Not this time. I knew not who they\nwere till now, when I talked with Marcel. The two things fitted.\"\n\n\"Then it is your guess! You dare to say--\"\n\n\"No, I know!\" I interrupted rudely, too excited to remember respect.\n\"Shall I tell what these men were like? I had never seen M. le Comte nor\nM. de Grammont before. One was broad-shouldered and heavy, with a black\nbeard and a black scowl, whom the other called Gervais. The younger was\ncalled Étienne, tall and slender, with gray eyes and fair hair. And like\nMonsieur!\" I cried, suddenly aware of it. \"Mordieu, how he is like,\nthough he is light! In face, in voice, in manner! He speaks like\nMonsieur. He has Monsieur's laugh. I was blind not to see it. I believe\nthat was why I loved him so much.\"\n\n\"It was he whom you would not betray?\"\n\n\"Aye. That was before I knew.\"\n\nThinking of the trust I had given him, my wrath boiled up again.\nMonsieur took me by the shoulder and looked at me as if he would look\nthrough me to the naked soul.\n\n\"How do I know that you are not lying?\"\n\n\"Monsieur does know it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered after a moment. \"Alas! yes, I know it.\"\n\nHe stood looking at me, with the dreariest face I ever saw--the face of\na man whose son has sought to murder him. Looking back on it now, I\nwonder that I ever went to Monsieur with that story. I wonder why I did\nnot bury the shame and disgrace of it in my own heart, at whatever cost\nkeep it from Monsieur. But the thought never entered my head then. I was\nso full of black rage against Yeux-gris--him most of all, because he had\nwon me so--that I could feel nothing else. I knew that I pitied\nMonsieur, yet I hardly felt it.\n\n\"Tell me everything--how you met them--all. Else I shall not believe a\nword of your devilish rigmarole,\" Monsieur cried out.\n\nI told him the whole shameful story, every word, from my lightning\nvision to my gossip with Marcel in the antechamber, he listening in\nhopeless silence. At length I finished. It seemed hours since he had\nspoken. At last he said, \"Then it is true.\" The grayness of his face\ndrew the cry from me:\n\n\"The villain! the black-hearted villain!\"\n\n\"Take care, Félix, he is my son!\"\n\nI got hold of my cross and tore it off, breaking the chain.\n\n\"See, Monsieur. That is the cross on which he swore the plot was not\nagainst you. He swore it, and Gervais de Grammont laughed! I swore, too,\nnever to betray them! Two perjuries!\"\n\nI flung the cross on the floor and stamped on it, splintering it.\n\n\"Profaner!\" cried Monsieur.\n\n\"It is no sacrilege!\" I retorted. \"That is no holy thing since he has\ntouched it. He has made it vile--scoundrel, assassin, parricide!\"\n\nMonsieur struck the words from my lips.\n\n\"It is true,\" I muttered.\n\n\"Were it ten times true, you have no right to say it.\"\n\n\"No, I have none,\" I answered, shamed. I might not speak ill of a St.\nQuentin, though he were the devil's own. But my rage came uppermost\nagain.\n\n\"I can bring Monsieur to the house in twenty minutes. Vigo and a handful\nof men can take them prisoners before they suspect aught amiss. They are\nonly three--he and Grammont and the lackey.\"\n\nBut Monsieur shook his head.\n\n\"I cannot do that.\"\n\n\"Why not, Monsieur?\"\n\n\"Can I take my own son prisoner?\"\n\n\"Monsieur need not go,\" said I, wondering. In his place I would have\ngone and killed Yeux-gris with my own hands. \"Vigo and I and two more\ncan do it. Vigo and I alone, if Monsieur would not shame him before the\nmen.\" I guessed at what he was thinking.\n\n\"Not even you and Vigo,\" he answered. \"Think you I would arrest my son\nlike a common felon--shame him like that?\"\n\n\"He has shamed himself!\" I cried. I cared not whether I had a right to\nsay it. \"He has forgotten his honour.\"\n\n\"Aye. But I have remembered mine.\"\n\n\"Monsieur! Monsieur cannot mean to let him go scot-free?\"\n\nBut his eyes told me that he did mean it.\n\n\"Then,\" I said in more and more amazement, \"Monsieur forgives him?\"\n\nHis face set sternly.\n\n\"No,\" he answered. \"No, Félix. He has placed himself beyond my\nforgiveness.\"\n\n\"Then we will go there alone, we two, and kill him! Kill the three!\"\n\nHe laughed. But not a man in France felt less mirthful.\n\n\"You would have me kill my son?\"\n\n\"He would have killed you.\"\n\n\"That makes no difference.\"\n\nI looked at him, groping after the thoughts that swayed him, and\ncatching at them dimly. I knew them for the principles of a proud and\nhonour-ruled man, but there was no room for them in my angry heart.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I cried, \"will you let three villains go unpunished for the\nsake of one?\" It was what I had meant to do, awhile back, but the case\nwas changed now.\n\n\"Of two: Gervais de Grammont is also of my blood.\"\n\n\"Monsieur would spare him as well--him, the ringleader!\"\n\n\"He is my cousin.\"\n\n\"He forgets it.\"\n\n\"But I do not.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, will you have no vengeance?\"\n\nMonsieur looked at me.\n\n\"When you are a man, Félix Broux, you will know that there are other\nthings in this world besides vengeance. You will know that some injuries\ncannot be avenged. You will know that a gentleman cannot use the same\nweapons that blackguards use to him.\"\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur!\" I cried. \"Monsieur is indeed a nobleman!\" But I was\nfurious with him for it.\n\nHe turned abruptly and paced down the room. The dog, which had been\nstanding at his side, stayed still, looking from him to me with puzzled,\ntroubled eyes. He knew quite well something was wrong, and vented his\nfeelings in a long, dismal whine. Monsieur spoke to him; Roland bounded\nup to him and licked his hand. They walked up and down together,\ncomforting each other.\n\n\"At least,\" I cried in desperation, \"Monsieur has the spy.\"\n\nHe laughed. Only a man in utter despair could have laughed then as he\ndid.\n\n\"Even the spy to wreak vengeance on consoles you somewhat, Félix? But\ndoes it seem to you fair that a tool should be punished when the leaders\ngo free?\"\n\n\"No,\" said I; \"but it is the common way.\"\n\n\"That is a true word,\" he said, turning away again.\n\nI waited till he faced me once more.\n\n\"Monsieur will not suffer the spy to go free?\"\n\n\"No, Félix. He shall be punished lest he betray again.\"\n\nHe passed me in his dreary walk. Half a dozen times he passed by me, a\nbroken-hearted man, striving to collect his courage to take up his life\nonce more. But I thought he would never get over the blow. A husband may\nforget his wife's treachery, and a mother will forgive her child's, but\na father can neither forget nor forgive the crime of the son who bears\nhis name.\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur, you are noble, and I love you!\" I cried from the depths\nof my heart, and knelt to kiss his hand.\n\nMonsieur laid that kind hand on my shoulder.\n\n\"You shall serve me. Go now and send Vigo here. I must be looking to the\ncountry's business.\"\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n_Lucas and \"Le Gaucher.\"_\n\n\nI cursed myself for a fool that I had carried the tale to Monsieur. It\nshould have been my business to keep a still tongue and go kill\nYeux-gris myself. For this last it was not yet too late.\n\nMarcel was hanging about in the corridor, and to him I gave the word for\nVigo. I tore away from his eager questionings and hurried to the gate.\n\nIn the morning I had not been able to get in, and now I could no more\nget out. By Vigo's orders, no man might leave the house.\n\nVigo was after the spy, of course. Monsieur knew the traitor now; he\nwould inform Vigo, and the gates would be open for honest men. But that\nmight take time and I could not wait five minutes. I had the audacity to\ncry to the guards:\n\n\"M. le Duc will let me pass out. I refer you to M. le Duc.\"\n\nThe men were impressed. They had a respect for me, since I had been\ncloseted with Monsieur. Yet they dared not disobey Vigo for their lives.\nIn this dilemma the poor sentry, fearful of getting into trouble\nwhatever he did, sent up an envoy to ask Monsieur. I was frightened\nthen. I had uttered my speech in sheer bravado, and was very doubtful as\nto how he would answer my impudence. But he was utterly careless, I\ntrow, what I did, for presently the word came down that I might pass\nout.\n\nThe sun was setting as I hastened along the streets. I must reach the\nRue Coupejarrets before dark, else there was no hope for me. A man in\nhis senses would have known there was no hope anyway. Who but a madman\nwould think of venturing back, forsworn, to those three villains, for\nthe killing of one? It would be a miracle if aught resulted but failure\nand death. Yet I felt no jot of fear as I plunged into the mesh of\ncrooked streets in the Coupejarrets quarter--only ardour to reach my\ngoal. When, on turning a corner, I came upon a group of idlers choking\nthe narrow ruelle, I said to myself that a dozen Parisians in the way\ncould no more stop me than they could stop a charge of horse. All heels\nand elbows, I pushed into them. But, to my abasement, promptly was I\nseized upon by a burly porter and bidden, with a cuff, to mind my\nmanners. Then I discovered the occasion of the crowd to be a little\nprocession of choristers out of a neighbouring church--St. Jean of the\nSpire it was, though I knew then no name for it. The boys were singing,\nthe watchers quiet, bareheaded. They sang as if there were nothing in\nthe world but piety and love. The last level rays of the sun crowned\nthem with radiant aureoles, painted their white robes with glory. I shut\nmy eyes, dazzled; it was as if I beheld a heavenly host. When I opened\nthem again the folk at my side were kneeling as the cross came by. I\nknelt, too, but the holy sign spoke to me only of the crucifix I had\ntrampled on, of Yeux-gris and his lies. I prayed to the good God to let\nme kill Yeux-gris, prayed, kneeling there on the cobbles, with a fervour\nI had never reached before. When I rose I ran on at redoubled speed,\nnever doubting that a just God would strengthen my hand, would make my\ncause his.\n\nI entered the little court. The shutter was fastened, as before, but I\nhad my dagger, and could again free the bolt. I could creep up-stairs\nand mayhap stab Yeux-gris before they were aware of my coming. But that\nwas not my purpose. I was no bravo to strike in the back, but the\ninstrument of a righteous vengeance. He must know why he died.\n\nOne to three, I had no chance. But if I knocked openly it was likely\nthat Yeux-gris, being my patron, would be the one to come down to me.\nThen there was the opportunity, man to man. If it were Grammont or the\nlackey, I would boldly declare that I would give my news to none but\nYeux-gris. In pursuance of this plan I was pounding vigorously on the\ndoor when a voice behind me cried out blithely:\n\n\"So you are back at last, Félix Broux\"\n\nAt the first word I wheeled around. In the court entrance stood\nYeux-gris, smiling and debonair. He had laid aside his sword, and held\non his left arm a basket containing a loaf of bread, a roast capon, and\nsome bottles, for all the world like an honest prentice doing his\nmaster's errand.\n\n\"Yes, I am back!\" I shouted. \"Back to kill you, parricide!\"\n\nHe had a knife in his belt; the fight was even. I was upon him, my\ndagger raised to strike. He made no motion to draw, and I remembered in\na flash he could not: his right arm was powerless. He sprang back,\nflinging up his burdened left as a shield, and my blade buried itself in\nthe side of the basket.\n\nAs I stabbed I heard feet thundering down the stairs within. I jerked my\nknife from the wicker and turned to face this new enemy. \"Grammont,\" I\nthought, and that my end had come.\n\nThe door flew open and, shoulder to shoulder like brothers, out rushed\nGrammont and--Lucas!\n\nMy fear was drowned in amaze. I forgot to run and stood staring in\nsheer, blank bewilderment. Crying \"Damned traitor!\" Gervais, with drawn\nsword, charged at me.\n\nI had only the little dagger. I owe my life to Yeux-gris's quick wits\nand no less quick fingers. Dropping the basket, he snatched a bottle\nfrom it and hurled it at Gervais.\n\n\"Ware, Grammont!\" shouted Lucas, springing forward. But the missile flew\ntoo quickly. It struck Grammont square on the forehead, and he went down\nlike a slaughtered ox.\n\nWe looked, not at him, but at Lucas--Lucas, the duke's deferential\nservant, the coward and skulker, Grammont's hatred, standing here by\nGrammont's side, glaring at us over his naked sword.\n\nI saw in one glance that Yeux-gris was no less astounded than I, and\nfrom that instant, though the inwardness of the matter was still a\nriddle to me, my heart acquitted him of all dishonesty, of all\ncomplicity. His was not the face of a parricide.\n\n\"Lucas!\" he cried, in a dearth of words. \"_Lucas!_\"\n\nI was staring at Lucas in thick bewilderment. The man was transformed\nfrom the one I knew. At M. le Duc's he had been pale, nervous, and\nshaken--senselessly and contemptibly scared, as I thought, since he was\nwarned of the danger and need not face it. But now he was another man. I\ncan think only of those lanterns I have seen, set with coloured glass.\nThey look dull enough all day, but when the taper within is lighted\nshine like jewels. So Lucas now. His face, so keen and handsome of\nfeature, was brilliant, his eyes sparkling, his figure instinct with\ndefiance. A smile crossed his face.\n\n\"Aye,\" he answered evenly, \"it is Lucas.\"\n\nM. le Comte appeared to be in a state of stupor. He could not for a\nspace find his tongue to demand:\n\n\"How, in the name of Heaven, come you here?\"\n\n\"To fight Grammont,\" Lucas answered at once.\n\n\"A lie!\" I shouted. \"You're Grammont's friend. You came here to warn him\noff. It's your plot!\"\n\n\"Félix! The plot?\" Yeux-gris cried.\n\n\"The plot's to murder Monsieur. Martin let it out. I thought it was you\nand Grammont. But it's Lucas and Grammont!\"\n\nLucas hesitated. Even now he debated whether he could not lie out of it.\nThen he burst into laughter.\n\n\"It seems the cat's out of the bag. Aye, M. le Comte de Mar, I came to\nwarn Grammont off. The duke will be here straightway. How will you like\nto swing for parricide?\"\n\nYeux-gris stared at him, neither in fear nor in fury, but in utter\nstupefaction.\n\n\"But Gervais? He plotted with you? But he hates you!\"\n\nWe gaped at Lucas like yokels at a conjurer. He made us no answer but\nlooked from one to the other of us with the alertness of an angry viper.\nWe were two, but without swords. I knew he was thinking how easiest to\nend us both.\n\nM. le Comte cried: \"You! You come from Navarre's camp, from M. de\nRosny!\"\n\n\"Aye. I have outwitted more than one man.\"\n\n\"Mordieu! I was right to hate you!\"\n\nLucas laughed. Yeux-gris blazed out:\n\n\"Traitor and thief! You stole the money. I said that from the first. You\ndrove us from the house. How you and Grammont--\"\n\n\"Came together? Very simple,\" Lucas answered with easy insolence.\n\"Grammont did not love Monsieur, your honoured father. It was child's\nplay to make an assignation with him and to lament the part forced on me\nby Monsieur. Grammont was ready enough to scent a scheme of M. le Duc's\nto ruin him. He had said as much to Monsieur, as you may deign to\nremember.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said M. le Comte, still like a puzzled child, \"he was angry with\nmy father. But afterward he changed his mind. He knew it was you, and\nonly you.\"\n\nLucas broke again into derisive laughter.\n\n\"M. de Grammont is as dull a dolt as ever I met, yet clever enough to\ngull you. He thought you must suspect. I dreaded it--needlessly. You\nwise St. Quentins! You cannot see what goes on under your very nose.\"\n\nM. le Comte sprang forward, scarlet. Lucas flourished the sword.\n\n\"The boy there caught at a glance what you had not found out in a\nfortnight. He gets to the duke and blocks my game--for to-day. But if\nthey sent him ahead to hold us till their men came up, they were fools,\ntoo. I'll have the duke yet, and I'll have you now.\"\n\nHe rushed at the unarmed Yeux-gris. The latter darted at Grammont's\nfallen sword, seized it, was on guard, all in the second before Lucas\nreached him. He might have been in a fortnight's trance, but he was\nawake at last.\n\nI trembled for him, then took heart again, as he parried thrust after\nthrust and pressed Lucas hard. I had never seen a man fight with his\nleft arm before; I had not realized it could be done, being myself\nhelpless with that hand. But as I watched this combat I speedily\nperceived how dangerous is a left-handed adversary. In later years I was\nto understand better, when M. le Comte had become known the length of\nthe land by the title \"Le Gaucher.\" But at this time he was in the\nhabit, like the rest of the world, of fencing with his right hand; his\ndexterity with the other he rated only as a pretty accomplishment to\nsurprise the crowd. He used his left hand scarcely as well as Lucas the\nright; yet, the thrust sinister being in itself a strength, they were\nnot badly matched. I stood watching with all my eyes, when of a sudden I\nfelt a grasp on my ankle and the next instant was thrown heavily to the\npavement.\n\nGrammont had come to life and taken prompt part in the fray.\n\nI fell close to him, and instantly he let go my leg and wound his arms\naround me. I tried to rise and could not, and we rolled about together\nin the wine and blood and broken glass. All the while I heard the\nsword-blades clashing. Yeux-gris, God be thanked! seemed to be holding\nhis own.\n\nFighting Gervais was like fighting two men. Slowly but steadily he\npressed me down and held me. I struggled for dear life--and could not\npush him back an inch.\n\nI still held my knife but my arms were pinned down. Gervais raised\nhimself a little to get a better clutch, and his fingers closed on my\nthroat. One grip, and life seemed flowing from me. My arm was free now\nif I could but lift it. If I could not, nevermore should I lift it on\nthis sunny earth. I did lift it, and drove the dagger deep into him.\n\nI could not take aim; I could not tell where the knife struck. A gasp\nshowed he was hit; then he clinched my throat once more. Sight went from\nme, and hearing. \"It is no use,\" I thought, and then thought went, too.\n\nBut once again the saints were kind to me. The blackness passed, and I\nwondered what had happened that I was spared. Then I saw Grammont\nclutching with both hands at the dagger-hilt. After all, the blow had\ngone home. I had struck him in the left side under the arm. Three good\ninches of steel were in him.\n\nHe had turned over on his side, half off me. I scrambled out from under\nhim. To my surprise, Yeux-gris and Lucas were still engaged. I had\nthought it hours since Grammont pulled me down.\n\nAs I rose, Yeux-gris turned his head toward me. Only for a second, but\nin that second Lucas pinked his shoulder. I dashed between them; they\nlowered their points.\n\n\"First blood for me!\" cried Lucas. \"That serves for to-day, M. le Comte.\nI regret that I cannot wait to kill you, but that will come. It is\nnecessary that I go before M. le Duc arrives. Clear the way.\"\n\nM. le Comte stood his ground, barring the alley. They glared at each\nother motionless.\n\nGrammont had raised himself to his knees and was trying painfully to get\non his feet.\n\n\"A hand, Lucas,\" he gasped.\n\nLucas gave him a startled glance but neither went nor spoke to him.\n\n\"I am not much hurt,\" said Grammont, huskily. Holding by the wall, he\nclambered up on his feet. He swayed, reeled forward, and clutched\nLucas's arm.\n\n\"Lucas, Lucas, help me! Draw out the knife. I cannot. I shall be myself\nwhen the knife is out. Lucas, for God's sake!\"\n\n\"You will die when the knife is out,\" said Lucas, wrenching himself\nfree. He turned again to M. le Comte, and his eyes gleamed as he saw the\nblood trickling down his sleeve and the sword tremble in his hand.\n\n\"Come on, then,\" he cried to Yeux-gris.\n\nBut I sprang forward and seized the sword from M. le Comte's hand.\n\n\"On guard!\" I shouted, and we went to work.\n\nI could handle a sword as well as the next one. M. le Duc had taught me\nin his idle days at St. Quentin. It served me well now, and him, too.\n\nThe light was fading in the narrow court. Our blades shone white in the\ntwilight as the weapons clashed in and out. I saw, without looking,\nGrammont leaning against the wall, his gory face ashen, and Yeux-gris\nwatching me with all his soul, now and then shouting a word of advice.\n\nI had had good training, and I fought for all there was in me. Yet I was\na boy not come to my full strength, and Lucas was more than my match. He\ndrove me back farther and farther toward the house-wall. Of a sudden I\nslipped in a smear of blood ('tis no lying excuse, I did slip) and lost\nmy guard. He ran his blade into my shoulder, as he had done with\nYeux-gris.\n\nHe would likely have finished me had not a cry from Grammont shaken him.\n\n\"The duke!\"\n\nIn truth, a deepening noise of hoofs and shouts came down the alley from\nthe street.\n\nLucas looked at me, who had regained my guard and stood, little hurt,\nbetween him and M. le Comte. He could not push past me into the house\nand so through to the other street. He made for the alley, crying out:\n\n\"Au revoir, messieurs! We shall meet again.\"\n\nGrammont seized him.\n\n\"Help me, Lucas, for the love of Christ! Don't leave me, Lucas!\"\n\nLucas beat him off with the sword.\n\n\"Every man for himself!\" he cried, and sprang down the alley.\n\n\"It is not the duke,\" I said to Yeux-gris. \"It is most likely the\nwatch.\" I paled at the thought, for the watch was the League's, and\nLucas by all signs the League's tool. It might go hard with us if\ncaptured. \"Go through the house, M. le Comte,\" I cried. \"Quick, if you\nlove your life! I'll keep them at the alley's mouth as long as I can.\"\n\nNot waiting for his answer, I rushed down the passage. At the end of it\nI ran against Lucas, who, in his turn, had bowled into Vigo.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n_Vigo._\n\n\nI knew of old that it was easier to catch a weasel asleep than Vigo\nabsent where he was needed; yet I did not expect to meet him in the\nalley. Monsieur, then, had changed his mind.\n\n\"Well caught!\" cried Vigo, winding his arms round Lucas, who was\nstruggling furiously for liberty. \"Here, Maurice, Jules, I have number\none. Ah, you young sinner! with your crew again? I thought as much. Tie\nthe knots hard, boys. Better be quiet, you snake; you can't get away.\"\n\nLucas seemed to make up his mind to this, for he quieted down directly.\n\n\"So the game is up,\" he said pleasantly. \"I had hoped to be gone before\nyou arrived, dear Vigo.\"\n\nWe had both been deprived promptly of our swords and Lucas's wrists were\nroped together, but my only bond was Vigo's hand on my arm.\n\n\"Where are the others?\" he demanded. \"No tricks, now.\"\n\n\"Here,\" I said, and led the way down the passage. Maurice and Jules,\nwith their prisoner, pressed after us, and half a dozen of the duke's\nguard after them. The rest stayed without to mind the horses and keep\noff the gathering crowd.\n\nOne of the men had a torch which lighted the red pavement. Vigo saw this\nfirst.\n\n\"Morbleu! is it a shambles?\"\n\n\"That is wine,\" I said.\n\n\"They spilled wine for effect, they spilled so little blood!\" Thus\nLucas, speaking with as cool devilry as if he still commanded the\nsituation. Vigo could not know what he meant but he asked no questions;\ninstead, bade Lucas hold his tongue.\n\n\"I am dumb,\" Lucas rejoined, with a mock meekness more insolent than\ninsolence. But we paid it no heed for M. le Comte came forward out of\nthe shadows. He held his head well up but his face was white above his\ncrimsoned doublet.\n\n\"M. Étienne! Are you hurt?\" shouted Vigo.\n\n\"No, but he is.\" M. le Comte stepped aside to show us Grammont leaning\nagainst the wall.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Vigo, triumphantly. He and two of the men rushed at Gervais.\n\n\"You would not take me so easily but for a cursed knife in my back,\"\nGrammont muttered thickly. \"For the love of Heaven, Vigo, draw it out.\"\n\nWith amazement Vigo perceived the knife.\n\n\"Who did it?\"\n\n\"I.\"\n\n\"You, Félix? In the back?\" Vigo looked at me as if to demand again which\nside I was on.\n\n\"He lay on me, throttling me,\" I explained. \"I stabbed any way I\ncould.\"\n\n\"I trow you are a dead man,\" Vigo told Grammont. \"Natheless, here comes\nthe knife.\"\n\nIt came, with a great cry from the victim. He fell back against Vigo's\nman, clapping his hand to his side.\n\n\"I am done for,\" he gasped faintly.\n\n\"That is well,\" said Vigo, carefully wiping off the knife.\n\n\"Yon is the scoundrel,\" Grammont gasped, pointing to Lucas.\n\n\"He will die a worse death than you,\" said Vigo.\n\nGrammont looked from the one to the other of us, the sullen rage in his\nface fading to a puzzled helplessness. He said fretfully:\n\n\"Which--which is Étienne?\"\n\nHe could no longer see us plain. M. le Comte came forward silently.\nGrammont struggled for breath in a way pitiable to see. I put my arm\nabout him and helped the guardsman to hold him straighter. He reached\nout his hand and caught at M. le Comte's sleeve.\n\n\"Étienne--Étienne--pardon. It was wrong toward you--but I never had the\npistoles. He called me thief--the duke. I beseech--your--pardon.\"\n\nM. le Comte was silent.\n\n\"It was all Lucas--Lucas did it,\" Grammont muttered with stiffening\nlips. \"I am sorry for--it. I am dying--I cannot die--without a chance.\nSay you--for--give--\"\n\nStill M. le Comte held back, silent. Treachery was no less treachery\nthough Grammont was dying. All the more that they were cousins,\nbedfellows, was the injury great to forgive. M. le Comte said nothing.\n\nHow Grammont found the strength only God knows, who haply in his\ngoodness gave him a last chance of mercy. Suddenly he straightened his\nsinking body, started from our hold, and tottered toward his cousin,\nboth hands outstretched in appeal.\n\nM. le Comte's face was set like a flint. The dying man faltered forward.\nThen M. Étienne, never changing his countenance, slowly, half\nreluctantly, like a man in a dream, held out his hand.\n\nBut the old comrades, estranged by traitory, were never to clasp again.\nAs he reached M. le Comte, Grammont fell at his feet.\n\n\"He was a strong man,\" said Vigo. He turned Grammont's face up and added\nthe word, \"Dead.\" Vigo adored the Duke of St. Quentin. Otherwise he had\nno emotions.\n\nBut I was not case-hardened. And I--I myself--had slain this man, who\nhad died slowly and in great pain. Vigo's voice sounded to me far off as\nhe said bluntly:\n\n\"M. le Comte, I make you my prisoner.\"\n\n\"No, by Heaven!\" cried M. Étienne, in a vibrating voice that brought me\nback to reality; \"no, Vigo! I am no murderer. Things may look black\nagainst me but I am innocent. You have one villain at your feet and one\na prisoner, but I am not a third! I am a St. Quentin; I do not plot\nagainst my father. I was to aid Grammont to set on Lucas, who would not\nanswer a challenge. I have been tricked. Gervais asked my\nforgiveness--you heard him. Their dupe, yes--accomplice I was not.\nNever have I lifted my hand against my father, nor would I, whatever\ncame. That I swear. Never have I laid eyes on Lucas since I left\nMonsieur's presence, till now when he came out of that door side by side\nwith Grammont. Whatever the plot, I knew naught of it. I am a St.\nQuentin--no parricide!\"\n\nThe ringing voice ceased and M. le Comte stood silent, with haggard eyes\non Vigo. Had he been prisoner at the bar of judgment he could not have\nwaited in greater anxiety. For Vigo, the yeoman and servant, never\nminced words to any man nor swerved from the stark truth.\n\nI burned to seize Vigo's arm, to spur him on to speech. Of course he\nbelieved M. Étienne; how dared he make his master wait for the\nassurance? On his knees he should be, imploring M. le Comte's pardon.\n\nBut no thought of humbling himself troubled Vigo. Nor did he pronounce\njudgment, but merely said:\n\n\"M. le Comte will go home with me now. To-morrow he can tell his story\nto my master.\"\n\n\"I will tell it before this hour is out!\"\n\n\"No. M. le Duc has left Paris. But it matters not, M. Étienne. Monsieur\nsuspects nothing against you. Félix kept your name from him. And by the\ntime I had screwed it out of Martin, Monsieur was gone.\"\n\n\"Gone out of Paris?\" M. Étienne echoed blankly. To his eagerness it was\nas if M. le Duc were out of France.\n\n\"Aye. He meant to go to-night--Monsieur, Lucas, and I. But when Monsieur\nlearned of this plot, he swore he'd go in open day. 'If the League must\nkill me,' says he, 'they can do it in daylight, with all Paris\nwatching.' That's Monsieur!\"\n\nAt this I understood how Vigo came to be in the Rue Coupejarrets.\nMonsieur, in his distress and anxiety to be gone from that unhappy\nhouse, had forgotten the spy. Left to his own devices, the equery,\nstruck with suspicion at Lucas's absence, laid instant hands on Martin\nthe clerk, with whom Lucas, disliked in the household, had had some\nintimacy. It had not occurred to Vigo that M. le Comte, if guilty,\nshould be spared. At once he had sounded boots and saddles.\n\n\"I will return with you, Vigo,\" M. le Comte said. \"Does the meanest\nlackey in my father's house call me parricide, I must meet the charge.\nMy father and I have differed but if we are no longer friends we are\nstill noblemen. I could never plot his murder, nor could he for one\nmoment believe it of me.\"\n\nI, guilty wretch, quailed. To take a flogging were easier than to\nconfess to him the truth. But I conceived I must.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I said, \"I told M. le Duc you were guilty. I went back a\nsecond time and told him.\"\n\n\"And he?\" cried M. Étienne.\n\n\"Yes, monsieur, he did believe it.\"\n\n\"Morbleu! that cannot be true,\" Vigo cried, \"for when I saw him he gave\nno sign.\"\n\n\"It is true. But he would not have M. le Comte touched. He said he could\nnot move in the matter; he could not punish his own kin.\"\n\nM. le Comte's face blazed as he cried out:\n\n\"Vastly magnanimous! I thank him not. I'll none of his mercy. I expected\nhis faith.\"\n\n\"You had no claim to it, M. le Comte.\"\n\n\"Vigo!\" cried the young noble, \"you are insolent, sirrah!\"\n\n\"I cry monsieur's pardon.\"\n\nHe was quite respectful and quite unabashed. He had meant no insolence.\nBut M. Étienne had dared criticise the duke and that Vigo did not allow.\n\nM. Étienne glared at him in speechless wrath. It would have liked him\nwell to bring this contumelious varlet to his knees. But how? It was a\nbyword that Vigo minded no man's ire but the duke's. The King of France\ncould not dash him.\n\nVigo went on:\n\n\"It seems I have exceeded my duty, monsieur, in coming here. Yet it\nturns out for the best, since Lucas is caught and M. de Grammont dead\nand you cleared of suspicion.\"\n\n\"What!\" Yeux-gris cried. \"What! you call me cleared!\"\n\nVigo looked at him in surprise.\n\n\"You said you were innocent, M. le Comte.\"\n\nM. le Comte stared, without a word to answer. The equery, all unaware of\nhaving said anything unexpected, turned to the guardsman Maurice:\n\n\"Well, is Lucas trussed? Have you searched him?\"\n\nMaurice displayed a poniard and a handful of small coins for sole booty,\nbut Jules made haste to announce: \"He has something else, though--a\npaper sewed up in his doublet. Shall I rip it out, M. Vigo?\"\n\nWith Lucas's own knife the grinning Jules slashed his doublet from\nthroat to thigh, to extract a folded paper the size of your palm. Vigo\npondered the superscription slowly, not much at home with the work of a\nquill, save those that winged arrows. M. Étienne, coming forward, with a\nsharp exclamation snatched the packet.\n\n\"How came you by my letter?\" he demanded of Lucas.\n\n\"M. le Comte was pleased to consign it for delivery to Martin.\"\n\n\"What purpose had you with it?\"\n\n\"Rest assured, dear monsieur, I had a purpose.\"\n\nThe questions were stormily vehement, the answers so gentle as to be\nfairly caressing. It was waste of time and dignity to parley with the\nscoundrel till one could back one's queries with the boot. But M.\nÉtienne's passion knew no waiting. Thrusting the letter into his breast\nere I, who had edged up to him, could catch a glimpse of its address, he\ncried upon Lucas:\n\n\"Speak! You were ready enough to jeer at me for a dupe. Tell me what you\nwould do with your dupe. You dared not open the plot to me--you did me\nthe honour to know I would not kill my father. Then why use me\nblindfold? An awkward game, Lucas.\"\n\nLucas disagreed as politely as if exchanging pleasantries in a salon.\n\n\"A dexterous game, M. le Comte. Your best friends deemed you guilty.\nWhat would your enemies have said?\"\n\n\"Ah-h,\" breathed M. Étienne.\n\n\"It dawns on you, monsieur? You are marvellous thick-witted, yet surely\nyou must perceive. We had a dozen fellows ready to swear that your hand\nkilled Monsieur.\"\n\n\"You would kill me for my father's murder?\"\n\n\"Ma foi, no!\" cried Lucas, airily. \"Never in the world! We should have\nlet you live, in the knowledge that whenever you displeased us we could\nsend you to the gallows.\"\n\nM. le Comte, silent, stared at him with wild eyes, like one who looks\ninto the open roof of hell. Lucas fell to laughing.\n\n\"What! hang you and let our cousin Valère succeed? Mon dieu, no! M. de\nValère is a man!\"\n\nWith a blow the guardsman struck the words and the laughter from his\nlips. But I, who no more than Lucas knew how to hold my tongue, thought\nI saw a better way to punish this brazen knave. I cried out:\n\n\"You are the dupe, Lucas! Aye, and coward to boot, fleeing here\nfrom--nothing. I knew naught against you--you saw that. To slip out and\nwarn Martin before Vigo got a chance at him--that was all you had to do.\nYet you never thought of that but rushed away here, leaving Martin to\nbetray you. Had you stuck to your post you had been now on the road to\nSt. Denis, instead of the road to the Grève! Fool! fool! fool!\"\n\nHe winced. He had not been ashamed to betray his benefactor, to bite the\nhand that fed him, to desert a wounded comrade; but he was ashamed to\nconfront his own blunder. I had the satisfaction of pricking, not his\nconscience, for he had none, but his pride.\n\n\"I had to warn Grammont off,\" he retorted. \"Could I believe St. Quentin\nsuch a lack-wit as to forgive these two because they were his kin? You\ndid better than you knew when you shut the door on me. You tracked me,\nyou marplot, you sneak! How came you into the coil?\"\n\n\"By God's grace,\" M. le Comte answered. He laid a hand on my shoulder\nand leaned there heavily. Lucas grinned.\n\n\"Ah, waxing pious, is he? The prodigal prepares to return.\"\n\nM. Étienne's hand clinched on my shoulder. Vigo commanded a gag for\nLucas, saying, with the only touch of anger I ever knew him to show:\n\n\"He shall hang when the king comes in. And now to horse, lads, and out\nof the quarter; we have wasted too much time palavering. King Henry is\nnot in Paris yet. We shall do well not to rouse Belin, though we can\nmake him trouble if he troubles us. Come, monsieur. Men, guard your\nprisoner. I misjudge if he is not cropful of the devil still.\"\n\nHe did not look it. His figure was drooping; his face purple and\ncontorted, for one of the troopers had crammed his scarf into the man's\nmouth, half strangling him. As he was led past us, with a sudden frantic\neffort, fit to dislocate his jaw, he disgorged the gag to cry out\nwildly:\n\n\"Oh, M. l'Écuyer, have mercy! Have pity upon me! For Christ's sake,\npity!\"\n\n[Illustration: \"IN A FLASH HE WAS OUT OF THEIR GRASP, FLYING DOWN THE\nALLEY.\"]\n\nHis bravado had broken down at last. He tried to fling himself at Vigo's\nfeet. The guards relaxed their hold to see him grovel.\n\nThat was what he had hoped for. In a flash he was out of their grasp,\nflying down the alley.\n\n\"To Vigo! Vigo is attacked,\" we heard him shout.\n\nIt was so quick, we stood dumfounded. And then we dashed after,\npell-mell, tumbling over one another in our stampede. In the alley we\nran against three or four of the guard answering Lucas's cry. We lost\nprecious seconds disentangling ourselves and shouting that it was a ruse\nand our prisoner escaped. When they comprehended, we all rushed together\nout of the passage, emerging among frightened horses and a great press\nof excited men.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n_The Comte de Mar._\n\n\n\"Which way went he?\"\n\n\"The man who just came out?\"\n\n\"This way!\"\n\n\"No, yonder!\"\n\n\"Nay, I saw him not.\"\n\n\"A man with bound hands, you say?\"\n\n\"Here!\"\n\n\"Down that way!\"\n\n\"A man in black, was he? Here he is!\"\n\n\"Fool, no; he went that way!\"\n\nM. Étienne, Vigo, I, and the guardsmen rushed hither and thither into\nthe ever-thickening crowd, shouting after Lucas and exchanging rapid\nquestions with every one we passed. But from the very first the search\nwas hopeless. It was dark by this time and a mass of people blocked the\nstreet, surging this way and that, some eagerly joining in the chase,\nothers, from ready sympathy with any rogue, doing their best to hinder\nand confuse us. There was no way to tell how he had gone. A needle in a\nhaystack is easy found compared with him who loses himself in a Paris\ncrowd by night.\n\nM. Étienne plunged into the first opening he saw, elbowing his way\nmanfully. I followed in his wake, his tall bright head making as good an\noriflamme as the king's plume at Ivry, but when at length we came out\nfar down the street we had seen no trace of Lucas.\n\n\"He is gone,\" said M. le Comte.\n\n\"Yes, monsieur. If it were day they might find him, but not now.\"\n\n\"No. Even Vigo will not find him. He is worsted for once. He has let\nslip the shrewdest knave in France. Well, he is gone,\" he repeated after\na minute. \"It cannot be mended by me. He is off, and so am I.\"\n\n\"Whither, monsieur?\"\n\n\"That is my concern.\"\n\n\"But monsieur will see M. le Duc?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"But, monsieur--\"\n\nHe broke in on me fiercely.\n\n\"Think you that I--I, smirched and sullied, reeking with plots of\nmurder--am likely to betake myself to the noblest gentleman in France?\"\n\n\"He will welcome M. le Comte.\"\n\n\"Nay; he believed me guilty.\"\n\n\"But, monsieur--\"\n\n\"You may not say 'but' to me.\"\n\n\"Pardon, monsieur. Am I to tell Vigo monsieur is gone?\"\n\n\"Yes, tell him.\" His lip quivered; he struggled hard for steadiness.\n\"You will go to M. le Duc, Félix, and rise in his favour, for it was you\nsaved his life. Then tell him this from me--that some day, when I have\nmade me worthy to enter his presence, then will I go to him and beg his\nforgiveness on my knees. And now farewell.\"\n\nHe slipped away into the darkness.\n\nI stood hesitating for a moment. Then I followed my lord.\n\nHe slackened his pace as he heard footsteps overtake him, and where a\nbeam of light shone out from an open door he wheeled about, thinking me\na footpad.\n\n\"You, Félix?\"\n\n\"Yes, monsieur; I go with M. le Comte.\"\n\n\"I have not permitted you.\"\n\n\"Then must I go in despite. Monsieur is wounded; I cannot leave him to\ngo unsquired.\"\n\n\"There are lackeys to hire. I bade you seek M. le Duc.\"\n\n\"Is not monsieur a thought unreasonable? I cannot be in two places at\nonce. Monsieur can send a letter. The duke has Vigo and a household. I\ngo with M. le Comte.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he cried, \"you are a faithful servant! We are ridden to death by\nour faithful servants, we St. Quentins. Myself, I prefer fleas!\" He\nadded, growing angrier, \"Will you leave me?\"\n\n\"No, monsieur,\" said I.\n\nHe glowered at me and I think he had some notion of chasing me away with\nhis sword. But since his dignity could not so stoop, he growled:\n\n\"Come, then, if you choose to come unasked and most unwelcome!\"\n\nWith this he walked on a yard ahead of me, never turning his head nor\nsaying a word, I following meekly, wondering whither, and devoutly\nhoping it might be to supper. Presently I observed that we were in a\nbetter quarter of the town, and before long we came to a broad,\nwell-lighted inn, whence proceeded a merry chatter and rattle of dice.\nM. Étienne with accustomed feet turned into the court at the side, and\nseizing upon a drawer who was crossing from door to door despatched him\nfor the landlord. Mine host came, fat and smiling, unworried by the hard\ntimes, greeted Yeux-gris with acclaim as \"this dear M. le Comte,\"\nwondered at his long absence and bloody shirt, and granted with all\nalacrity his three demands of a supper, a surgeon, and a bed. I stood\nback, ill at ease, aching at the mention of supper, and wondering\nwhether I were to be driven off like an obtrusive puppy. But when M. le\nComte, without glancing at me, said to the drawer, \"Take care of my\nserving-man,\" I knew my stomach was safe.\n\nThat was the most I thought of then, I do confess, for, except for my\nsausage, I had not tasted food since morning. The barber came and\nbandaged M. le Comte and put him straight to bed, and I was left free to\nfall on the ample victuals set before me, and was so comfortable and\nhappy that the Rue Coupejarrets seemed like an evil dream. Since that\nday I have been an easy mark for beggars if they could but manage to\nlook starved.\n\nPresently came a servant to say that my bed was spread in M. le Comte's\nroom, and up-stairs ran I with an utterly happy heart, for I saw by this\ntoken that I was forgiven. Indeed, no sooner had I got fairly inside\nthe door than my master raised himself on his sound elbow and called\nout:\n\n\"Ah, Félix, do you bear me malice for an ungrateful churl?\"\n\n\"I bear malice?\" I cried, flushing. \"Monsieur is mocking me. I know\nmonsieur cannot love me, since I attempted his life. Yet my wish is to\nbe allowed to serve him so faithfully that he can forget it.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" he said; \"I have forgotten it. And it was freely forgiven from\nthe moment I saw Lucas at my cousin's side.\"\n\n\"For the second time,\" I said, \"monsieur saved my life.\" And I dropped\non my knees beside the bed to kiss his hand. But he snatched it away\nfrom me and flung his arm around my neck and kissed my cheek.\n\n\"Félix,\" he cried, \"but for you my hands would be red with my father's\nblood. You rescued him from death and me from worse. If I have any\nshreds of honour left 'tis you have saved them to me.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I stammered, \"I did naught. I am your servant till I die.\"\n\n\"You deserve a better master. What am I? Lucas's puppet! Lucas's fool!\"\n\n\"Monsieur, it was not Lucas alone. It was a plot. You know what he\nsaid--\"\n\n\"Aye,\" he cried with bitter vehemence. \"I shall remember for some time\nwhat he said. They would not kill me to make my cousin Valère duke! He\nwas a man. But I--nom de dieu, I was not worth the killing.\"\n\n\"It is the League's scheming, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Oh, that does not need the saying. Secretaries don't plot against\ndukedoms on their own account. Some high man is behind Lucas--I dare\nswear his Grace of Mayenne himself. It is no secret now where Monsieur\nstands. Yet the king's party grows so strong and the mob so cheers\nMonsieur, the League dare not strike openly. So they put a spy in the\nhouse to choose time and way. And the spy would not stab, for he saw he\ncould make me do his work for him. He saw I needed but a push to come to\nopen breach with my father. He gave the push. Oh, he could make me pull\nhis chestnuts from the fire well enough, burning my hands so that I\ncould never strike a free blow again. I was to be their slave, their\nthrall forever!\"\n\n\"Never that, monsieur; never that!\"\n\n\"I am not so sure,\" he cried. \"Had it not been for the advent of a stray\nboy from Picardie, I trow Lucas would have put his purpose through. I\nwas blindfolded; I saw nothing. I knew my cousin Gervais to be morose\nand cruel; yet I had done him no harm; I had always stood his friend. I\nthought him shamefully used; I let myself be turned out of my father's\nhouse to champion him. I had no more notion he was plotting my ruin than\na child playing with his dolls. I was their doll, mordieu! their toy,\ntheir crazy fool on a chain. But life is not over yet. To-morrow I go to\npledge my sword to Henry of Navarre.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, if he comes to the faith--\"\n\n\"Mordieu! faith is not all. Were he a pagan of the wilderness he were\nbetter than these Leaguers. He fights honestly and bravely and\ngenerously. He could have had the city before now, save that he will not\nstarve us. He looks the other way, and the provision-trains come in. But\nthe Leaguers, with all their regiments, dare not openly strike down one\nman,--one man who has come all alone into their country,--they put a spy\ninto his house to eat his bread and betray him; they stir up his own kin\nto slay him, that it may not be called the League's work. And they are\nmost Catholic and noble gentlemen! Nay, I am done with these pious\nplotters who would redden my hands with my father's blood and make me\noutcast and despised of all men. I have spent my playtime with the\nLeague; I will go work with Henry of Navarre!\"\n\nI caught his fire.\n\n\"By St. Quentin,\" I cried, \"we will beat these Leaguers yet!\"\n\nHe laughed, yet his eyes burned with determination.\n\n\"By St. Quentin, shall we! You and I, Félix, you and I alone will\noverturn the whole League! We will show them what we are made of. They\nthink lightly of me. Why not? I never took part with my father. I lazed\nabout in these gay Paris houses, bent on my pleasure, too shallow a fop\neven to take sides in the fight for a kingdom. What should they see in\nme but an empty-headed roisterer, frittering away his life in follies?\nBut they will find I am something more. Well, enter there!\"\n\nHe dropped back among the pillows, striving to look careless, as Maître\nMenard, the landlord, opened the door and stood shuffling on the\nthreshold.\n\n\"Does M. le Comte sleep?\" he asked me deferentially, though I think he\ncould not but have heard M. Étienne's tirading half-way down the\npassage.\n\n\"Not yet,\" I answered. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"Why, a man came with a billet for M. le Comte and insisted it be sent\nin. I told him Monsieur was not to be disturbed; he had been wounded and\nwas sleeping; I said it was not sense to wake him for a letter that\nwould keep till morning. But he would have it 'twas of instant import,\nand so--\"\n\n\"Oh, he is not asleep,\" I declared, eagerly ushering the maître in, my\nmind leaping to the conclusion, for no reason save my ardent wish, that\nVigo had discovered our whereabouts.\n\n\"I dared not deny him further,\" added Maître Menard. \"He wore the\nliveries of M. de Mayenne.\"\n\n\"Of Mayenne,\" I echoed, thinking of what M. Étienne had said. \"Pardieu,\nit may be Lucas himself!\" And snatching up my master's sword I dashed\nout of the door and was in the cabaret in three steps.\n\nThe room contained some score of men, but I, peering about by the\nuncertain candle-light, could find no one who in any wise resembled\nLucas. A young gamester seated near the door, whom my sudden entrance\nhad jostled, rose, demanding in the name of his outraged dignity to\ncross swords with me. On any other day I had deemed it impossible to say\nhim nay, but now with a real vengeance, a quarrel à outrance on my\nhands, he seemed of no consequence at all. I brushed him aside as I\ndemanded M. de Mayenne's man. They said he was gone. I ran out into the\ndark court and the darker street.\n\nA tapster, lounging in the courtyard, had seen my man pass out, and he\nopined with much reason that I should not catch him. Yet I ran a hundred\nyards up street and a hundred yards down street, shouting on the name of\nLucas, calling him coward and skulker, bidding him come forth and fight\nme. The whole neighbourhood became aware than I wanted one Lucas to\nfight: lights twinkled in windows; men, women, and children poured out\nof doors. But Lucas, if it were he, had for the second time vanished\nsoft-footed into the night.\n\nI returned with drooping tail to M. Étienne. He was alone, sitting up in\nbed awaiting me, his cheeks scarlet, his eyes blazing.\n\n\"He is gone,\" I panted. \"I looked everywhere, but he was gone. Oh, if I\ncaught Lucas--\"\n\n\"You little fool!\" he exclaimed. \"This was not Lucas. Had you waited\nlong enough to hear your name called, I had told you. This is no errand\nof Lucas but a very different matter.\"\n\nHe sat a moment, thinking, still with that glitter of excitement in his\neyes. The next instant he threw off the bedclothes and started to rise.\n\n\"Get my clothes, Félix. I must go to the Hôtel de Lorraine.\"\n\nBut I flung myself upon him, pushing him back into bed and dragging the\ncover over him by main force.\n\n\"You can go nowhere, M. Étienne; it is madness. The surgeon said you\nmust lie here for three days. You will get a fever in your wounds; you\nshall not go.\"\n\n\"Get off me, 'od rot you; you're smothering me,\" he gasped. Cautiously I\nrelaxed my grip, still holding him down. He appealed: \"Félix, I must go.\nSo long as there is a spark of life left in me, I have no choice but to\ngo.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, you said you were done with the Leaguers--with M. de\nMayenne.\"\n\n\"Aye, so I did,\" he cried. \"But this--but this is Lorance.\"\n\nThen, at my look of mystification, he suddenly opened his hand and\ntossed me the letter he had held close in his palm.\n\nI read:\n\n _M. de Mar appears to consider himself of very little consequence,\n or of very great, since he is absent a whole month from the Hôtel\n de Lorraine. Does he think he is not missed? Or is he so sure of\n his standing that he fears no supplanting? In either case he is\n wrong. He is missed but he will not be missed forever. He may, if\n he will, be forgiven; or he may, if he will, be forgotten. If he\n would escape oblivion, let him come to-night, at the eleventh hour,\n to lay his apologies at the feet of_\n\n LORANCE DE MONTLUC.\n\n\"And she--\"\n\n\"Is cousin and ward to the Duke of Mayenne. Yes, and my heart's desire.\"\n\n\"Monsieur--\"\n\n\"Aye, you begin to see it now,\" he cried vehemently. \"You see why I have\nstuck to Paris these three years, why I could not follow my father into\nexile. It was more than a handful of pistoles caused the breach with\nMonsieur; more than a quarrel over Gervais de Grammont. That was the\nspark kindled the powder, but the train was laid.\"\n\n\"Then you, monsieur, were a Leaguer?\"\n\n\"Nay, I was not!\" he cried. \"To my credit,--or my shame, as you\nchoose,--I was not. I was neither one nor the other, neither fish nor\nflesh. My father thought me a Leaguer, but I was not. I was not\ndisloyal, in deed at least, to the house that bore me. Monsieur reviled\nme for a skulker, a fainéant; nom de diable, he might have remembered\nhis own three years of idleness!\"\n\n\"Monsieur held out for his religion--\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle is my religion,\" he cried, and then laughed, not merrily.\n\n\"Pardieu! for all my pains I have not won her. I have skulked and evaded\nand temporized--for nothing. I would not join the League and break my\nfather's heart; would not stand out against it and lose Lorance. I have\nbeen trying these three years to please both the goat and the\ncabbage--with the usual ending. I have pleased nobody. I am out of\nMayenne's books: he made me overtures and I refused him. I am out of my\nfather's books: he thinks me a traitor and parricide. And I am out of\nmademoiselle's: she despises me for a laggard. Had I gone in with\nMayenne I had won her. Had I gone with Monsieur I was sure of a command\nin King Henry's army. But I, wanting both, get neither. Between two\nstools, I fall miserably to the ground. I am but a dawdler, a\ndo-nothing, the butt and laughing-stock of all brave men.\n\n\"But I am done with shilly-shally!\" he added, catching his breath. \"For\nonce I shall do something. Mlle. de Montluc has given me a last chance.\nShe has sent for me, and I go. If I fall dead on her threshold, I at\nleast die looking at her.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, monsieur,\" I cried in despair, \"you will not die looking at\nher, for you will die out here in the street, and that will profit\nneither you nor her, but only Lucas and his crew.\"\n\n\"That is as may be. At least I make the attempt. A month back I sent her\na letter. I found it to-night in Lucas's doublet. She thinks me careless\nof her. I must go.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, you are mad,\" I cried. \"You have said yourself Mayenne is\nlikely to be behind Lucas. If you go you do but walk into the enemies'\nvery jaws. It is a trap, a lure.\"\n\n\"Félix, beware what you say!\" he interrupted with quick-blazing ire. \"I\ndo not permit such words to be spoken in connection with Mlle. de\nMontluc.\"\n\n\"But, monsieur--\"\n\n\"Silence!\" he commanded in a voice as sharp as crack of pistolet. The\nSt. Quentins had ever the most abundant faith in those they loved. I\nremembered how Monsieur in just such a blaze of resentment had forbidden\nme to speak ill of his son. And I remembered, too, that Monsieur's faith\nhad been justified and that my accusations were lies. Natheless, I\nliked not the look of this affair, and I attempted further warnings.\n\n\"Monsieur, in my opinion--\"\n\n\"You are not here to hold opinions, Félix, but your tongue.\"\n\nI did, at that, and stood back from the bed to let him do as it liked\nhim. He rose and went over to the chair where his clothes lay, only to\ndrop into it half swooning. I ran to the ewer and dashed half the water\nin it into his face.\n\n\"Peste, you need not drown me!\" he cried testily. \"I am well; it was but\na moment's dizziness.\" He got up again at once, but was forced to seize\nmy shoulder to keep from falling.\n\n\"It was that damnable potion he made me drink,\" he muttered. \"I am all\nwell else; I am not weak. Curse the room; it reels about like a ship at\nsea.\"\n\nI put my arm about him and led him back to bed; nor did he argue about\nit but lay back with his eyes shut, so white against the white bed-linen\nI thought him fainted for sure. But before I could drench him again he\nraised his lids.\n\n\"Félix, will you go get a shutter? For I see clearly that I shall reach\nMlle. de Montluc this night in no other way.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I said, \"I can go. I can tell your mistress you cannot walk\nacross this room to-night. I can do my best for you, M. Étienne.\"\n\n\"My faith! I think I must e'en let you try. But what to bid you say to\nher--pardieu! I scarce know what I could say to her myself.\"\n\n\"I can tell her how sorely you are hurt--how you would come, but\ncannot.\"\n\n\"And make her believe it,\" he cried eagerly. \"Do not let her think it a\nflimsy excuse. And yet I do think she will believe you,\" he added, with\nhalf a laugh. \"There is something very trust-compelling about you,\nFélix. And assure her of my lifelong, never-failing service.\"\n\n\"But I thought monsieur was going to take service with Henry of\nNavarre.\"\n\n\"I was!\" he cried. \"I am! Oh, Félix, was ever a poor wight so harried\nand torn betwixt two as I? Whom Jupiter would destroy he first makes\nmad. I shall be gibbering in a cage before I have done with it.\"\n\n\"Monsieur will be gibbering in his bed unless he sleeps soon. I go now,\nmonsieur.\"\n\n\"And good luck to you! Félix, I offer you no reward for this midnight\njourney into the house of our enemies. For recompense you will see her.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n_Mademoiselle._\n\n\nI went to find Maître Menard, to urge upon him that some one should stay\nwith M. Étienne while I was gone, lest he swooned or became\nlight-headed. But the surgeon himself was present, having returned from\nbandaging up some common skull to see how his noble patient rested. He\npromised that he would stay the night with M. le Comte; so, eased of\nthat care, I set out for the Hôtel de Lorraine, one of the inn-servants\nwith a flambeau coming along to guide and guard me. M. Étienne was a\nfavourite in this inn of Maître Menard's; they did not stop to ask\nwhether he had money in his purse before falling over one another in\ntheir eagerness to serve him. It is my opinion that one gets more out of\nthe world by dint of fair words than by a long purse or a long sword.\n\nWe had not gone a block from the inn before I turned to the right-about,\nto the impatience of my escort.\n\n\"Nay, Jean, I must go back,\" I said. \"I will only delay a moment, but\nsee Maître Menard I must.\"\n\nHe was still in the cabaret where the crowd was thinning.\n\n\"Now what brings you back?\"\n\n\"This, maître,\" said I, drawing him into a corner. \"M. le Comte has been\nin a fracas to-night, as you perchance may have divined. His arch-enemy\ngave us the slip. And I am not easy for monsieur while this Lucas is at\nlarge. He has the devil's own cunning and malice; he might track him\nhere to the Three Lanterns. Therefore, maître, I beg you to admit no one\nto M. le Comte--no one on any business whatsoever. Not if he comes from\nthe Duke of Mayenne himself.\"\n\n\"I won't admit the Sixteen themselves,\" the maître declared.\n\n\"There is one man you may admit,\" I conceded. \"Vigo, M. de St. Quentin's\nequery. You will know him for the biggest man in France.\"\n\n\"Good. And this other; what is he like?\"\n\n\"He is young,\" I said, \"not above four or five and twenty. Tall and\nslim,--oh, without doubt, a gentleman. He has light-brown hair and thin,\naquiline face. His tongue is unbound, too.\"\n\n\"His tongue shall not get around me,\" Maître Menard promised. \"The host\nof the Three Lanterns was not born yesterday let me tell you.\"\n\nWith this comforting assurance I set out once more on my expedition\nwith, to tell truth, no very keen enthusiasm for the business. It was\nall very well for M. Étienne to declare grandly that as recompense for\nmy trouble I should see Mlle. de Montluc. But I was not her lover and I\nthought I could get along very comfortably without seeing her. I knew\nnot how to bear myself before a splendid young noblewoman. When I had\ndashed across Paris to slay the traitor in the Rue Coupejarrets I had\nnot been afraid; but now, going with a love-message to a girl, I was\nscared.\n\nAnd there was more than the fear of her bright eyes to give me pause. I\nwas afraid of Mlle. de Montluc, but more afraid of M. de Mayenne's\ncousin. What mocking devil had driven Étienne de Mar, out of a whole\nFrance full of lovely women, to fix his unturnable desire on this\nLigueuse of Mayenne's own brood? Had his father's friends no daughters,\nthat he must seek a mistress from the black duke's household? Were there\nno families of clean hands and honest speech, that he must ally himself\nwith the treacherous blood of Lorraine?\n\nI had seen a sample of the League's work to-day, and I liked it not. If\nMayenne were, as Yeux-gris surmised, Lucas's backer, I marvelled that my\nmaster cared to enter his house; I marvelled that he cared to send his\nservant there. Yet I went none the less readily for that; I was here to\ndo his bidding. Nor was I greatly alarmed for my own skin; I thought\nmyself too small to be worth my Lord Mayenne's powder. And I had, I do\nconfess, a lively curiosity to behold the interior of the greatest house\nin Paris, the very core and centre of the League. Belike if it had not\nbeen for terror of this young demoiselle I had stepped along cheerfully\nenough.\n\nThough the hour was late, many people still loitered in the streets,\nthe clear summer night, and all of them were talking politics. As Jean\nand I passed at a rapid pace the groups under the wine-shop lanterns, we\ncaught always the names of Mayenne and Navarre. Everywhere they asked\nthe same two questions: Was it true that Henry was coming into the\nChurch? And if so, what would Mayenne do next? I perceived that old\nMaître Jacques of the Amour de Dieu knew what he was talking about: the\npeople of Paris were sick to death of the Leagues and their intriguery,\ngalled to desperation under the yoke of the Sixteen.\n\nMayenne's fine new hôtel in the Rue St. Antoine was lighted as for a\nfête. From its open windows came sounds of gay laughter and rattling\ndice. You might have thought them keeping carnival in the midst of a\nhappy and loyal city. If the Lieutenant-General found anything to vex\nhim in the present situation, he did not let the commonalty know it.\n\nThe Duke of Mayenne's house, like my duke's, was guarded by men-at-arms;\nbut his grilles were thrown back while his soldiers lounged on the stone\nbenches in the archway. Some of them were talking to a little knot of\nstreet idlers who had gathered about the entrance, while others, with\nthe aid of a torch and a greasy pack of cards, were playing lansquenet.\n\nI knew no way to do but to ask openly for Mlle. de Montluc, declaring\nthat I came on behalf of the Comte de Mar.\n\n\"That is right; you are to enter,\" the captain of the guard replied at\nonce. \"But you are not the Comte de Mar yourself? Nay, no need to ask,\"\nhe added with a laugh. \"A pretty count you would make.\"\n\n\"I am his servant,\" I said. \"I am charged with a message for\nmademoiselle.\"\n\n\"Well, my orders were to admit the count, but I suppose you may go in.\nIf mademoiselle cannot land her lover it were cruel to deny her the\nconsolation of a message.\"\n\nA laugh went up and one of the gamblers looked round to say:\n\n\"It has gone hard with mademoiselle lately, sangdieu! Here's the Comte\nde Mar has not set foot in the house for a month or more, and M. Paul\nfor a quarter of a year is vanished off the face of the earth. It seemed\nas if she must take the little cheese or nothing. But now things are\nlooking up with her. M. Paul has walked calmly in, and here is a\nmessenger at least from the other.\"\n\n\"But M. Paul has walked calmly out again,\" a third soldier took up the\ntale. \"He did not stay very long, for all mademoiselle's graces.\"\n\n\"Then I warrant 'twas mademoiselle sent him off with a flea in his\near,\" another cried. \"She looks higher than a bastard, even Le Balafré's\nown.\"\n\n\"She had better take care how she flouts Paul de Lorraine,\" came the\nretort, but the captain bade me march along. I followed him into the\nhouse, leaving Jean to be edified, no doubt, by a whole history, false\nand true, concerning Mlle. de Montluc. We bow down before the lofty of\nthe earth, we underlings, but behind their backs there is none with\nwhose names we make so free. And there we have the advantage of our\nmasters; for they know little of our private matters while we know\neverything of theirs.\n\nIn the hall the captain turned me over to a lackey who conducted me\nthrough a couple of antechambers to a curtained doorway whence issued a\nmerry confusion of voices and laughter. He passed in while I remained to\nundergo the scrutiny of the pair of flunkies whose repose we had\ninvaded. But in a moment my guide appeared again, lifting the curtain\nfor me to enter.\n\nThe big room was ablaze with candles set in mirrored sconces along the\nwalls, set also in silver candelabra on the tables. There was a crowd of\npeople in the place, a hundred it seemed to my dazzled eyes; grouped,\nmost of them, about the tables set up and down, either taking hands\nthemselves at cards or dice or betting on those who did. Bluff soldiers\nin breastplate and jack-boots were not wanting in the throng, but the\nlarger number of the gallants were brave in silken doublets and spotless\nruffs, as became a noble's drawing-room. And the ladies! mordieu, what\nam I to say of them? Tricked out in every gay colour under the sun,\nagleam with jewels--eh bien, the ladies of St. Quentin, that I had\nthought so fine, were but serving-maids to these.\n\nI stood blinking, dazed by the lights and the crowd and the chatter,\nunable in the first moment to note clearly any face in the congregation\nof strange countenances. Nor would it have helped me if I could, for\nhere close about were a dozen fair women, any one of whom might be\nMlle. de Montluc. My heart hammered in my throat. I knew not whom to\naddress. But a young noble near by, dazzling in a suit of pink, took the\nburden on himself.\n\n\"I heard Mar's name; yet you are not M. de Mar, I think.\"\n\nHe spoke with a languid but none the less teasing derision. In truth, I\nmust have resembled a little brown hare suddenly turned out of a bag in\nthe midst of that gorgeous company.\n\n\"No,\" I stammered; \"I am his servant. I seek Mlle. de Montluc.\"\n\n\"I have wondered what has become of Étienne de Mar this last month,\"\nspoke a second young gentleman, advancing from his place behind a fair\none's chair. He was neither so pretty nor so fine as the other, but in\nhis short, stocky figure and square face there was a force which his\ncomrade lacked. He regarded me with a far keener glance as he asked:\n\n\"Peste! he must be in low water if this is the best he can do for a\nlackey.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the fellow's errand is to beg an advance from Mlle. de\nMontluc,\" suggested the pink youth.\n\n\"Who speaks my name?\" a clear voice called; and a lady, laying down her\nhand at cards, rose and came toward me.\n\nShe was clad in amber satin. She was tall, and she carried herself with\nstately grace. Her black hair shadowed a cheek as purely white and pink\nas that of any yellow-locked Frisian girl, while her eyes, under their\nsooty lashes, shone blue as corn-flowers.\n\nI began to understand M. Étienne.\n\n\"Who is it wants me?\" she repeated, and catching sight of me stood\nregarding me in some surprise, not unfriendly, waiting for me to explain\nmyself. But before I could find my tongue the man in pink answered her\nwith his soft drawl:\n\n\"Mademoiselle, this is a minister plenipotentiary and envoy\nextraordinary--most extraordinary--from the court of his Highness the\nComte de Mar.\"\n\n\"Oh, that is it!\" she cried with a little laugh, but not, I think, at my\nuncouthness, though she looked me over curiously.\n\n\"He has not come himself, M. de Mar?\"\n\n\"It appears not, mademoiselle.\"\n\nShe did not seem vastly disconcerted for all she cried in doleful tones:\n\n\"Alack! alack! I have lost. And Paul is not present to enjoy his\ntriumph. He wagered me a pair of pearl-broidered gloves that I could not\nproduce M. de Mar.\"\n\n\"But it is not his fault,\" I answered her, eagerly. \"It is not M. de\nMar's fault, mademoiselle. He has been hurt to-day, and he could not\ncome. He is in bed of his wounds; he could not walk across his room. He\ntried. He bade me lay at mademoiselle's feet his lifelong services.\"\n\n\"Ah, Lorance!\" cried a young demoiselle in a sky-coloured gown,\n\"methinks you have indeed lost M. de Mar if he sends you no better\nmessenger of his regrets than this horse-boy.\"\n\n\"I have lost the gloves, that is certain and sad,\" Mlle. de Montluc\nreplied, as if the loss of the wager were all her care. \"I am punished\nfor my vanity, mesdames et messieurs. I undertook to produce my recreant\nsquire and I have failed. Alas!\" And she put up her white hands before\nher face with a pretty imitation of despair, save that her eyes sparkled\nfrom between her fingers.\n\nBy this time the gamesters about us had stopped their play, in a general\ninterest in the affair. An older lady coming forward with an air of\nauthority demanded:\n\n\"What is this disturbance, Lorance?\"\n\n\"A wager between me and my cousin Paul, madame,\" she answered with\ninstant gravity and respect.\n\n\"Paul de Lorraine! Is he here?\" the other asked, unpleased, I thought.\n\n\"Yes, madame. He dropped from the skies on us this afternoon. He is out\nof the house again now.\"\n\n\"But while he was in the house,\" quoth she in sky-colour, \"though he did\nnot find time to pay his respects to Mme. la Duchesse, he had the\nleisure for considerable conversation with Mlle. de Montluc.\"\n\nThe other lady, whom I now guessed to be the Duchesse de Mayenne\nherself, turned somewhat sharply on her cousin of Montluc.\n\n\"I do not yet hear your excuses, mademoiselle, for the introduction of a\nstable-boy into my salon.\"\n\n\"I beg you to believe, madame, I am not responsible for it,\" she\nprotested. \"Paul, when he was here, saw fit to rally me concerning M. de\nMar. Mlle. de Tavanne informed him of the count's defection and they\nwere pleased to be merry with me over it. I vowed I could get him back\nif I wished. The end of the matter was that I wrote a letter which my\ncousin promised to have conveyed to M. le Comte's old lodgings. This is\nthe answer,\" mademoiselle cried, with a wave of her hand toward me. \"But\nI did not expect it in this guise, madame. Blame your lackeys who know\nnot their duties, not me.\"\n\n\"I blame you, mademoiselle,\" Mme. de Mayenne answered her, tartly. \"I\nconsider my salon no place for intrigues with horse-boys. If you must\nhold colloquy with this fellow, take him whither he belongs--to the\nstables.\"\n\nA laugh went up among those who laugh at whatever a duchess says.\n\n\"Come, mesdames, we will resume our play,\" she added to the ladies who\nhad followed her on the scene, and turned her back in lofty disdain on\nMlle. de Montluc and her concerns. But though some of the company obeyed\nher, a curious circle still surrounded us.\n\n\"Dame! if you must be banished to the stables, we all will go,\nmademoiselle,\" declared the pink gallant. \"We all want news of the\nvanished Mar.\"\n\n\"Indeed we do. We have missed him sorely. And I dare swear this\nmessenger's account will prove diverting,\" lisped the sky-coloured\ndemoiselle.\n\nI was not enjoying myself. I had given all my hopes of glory to be out\nin the street again. I wished Mlle. de Montluc would take me to the\nstables--anywhere out of this laughing company. But she had no such\nintent.\n\n\"I think madame does not mean her sentence,\" she rejoined. \"I would not\nfor the world frustrate your curiosity, Blanche; nor yours, M. de\nChampfleury. Tell us what has befallen your master, Sir Courier.\"\n\n\"He has been in a duel, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"Whom was he fighting?\"\n\n\"And for what lady's favour?\"\n\n\"Is it a pretty Huguenot this time?\"\n\n\"Does she make him read his Bible?\"\n\n\"Or did her big brother set on him for a wicked papist?\"\n\nThe questions chorussed upon me; I saw they were framed to tease\nmademoiselle. I answered as best I might:\n\n\"He thinks of no lady but Mlle. de Montluc. The fight was over other\nmatters. I am only told to say M. le Comte regrets most heartily that\nhis wound prevents his coming, and to assure mademoiselle that he is too\nweak and faint to walk across the floor.\"\n\n\"Then exceed your instructions a little. Tell us what monsieur has been\nabout these four weeks that he could not take time to visit us.\"\n\nI was in a dilemma. I knew she was M. Étienne's chosen lady and\ntherefore deserving of all fealty from me; yet at the same time I could\nnot answer her question. It was sheer embarrassment and no intent of\nrudeness that caused my short answer:\n\n\"About his own concerns, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"The young puppy begins to growl!\" exclaimed the thick-set soldierly\nfellow who had bespoken me before, whose hostile gaze had never left my\nface. \"I'll have him flogged, mademoiselle, for this insolence.\"\n\n\"M. de Brie--\" she began at the same moment that I cried out to her:\n\n\"I meant no insolence; I crave mademoiselle's pardon.\" I added, in my\nhaste floundering deeper into the mire: \"Mademoiselle sees for herself\nthat I cannot tell about M. le Comte's affairs in this house.\"\n\nBrie had me by the collar.\n\n\"So that is what has become of Mar!\" he cried triumphantly. \"I thought\nas much. If Mar's affairs are to be a secret from this house, then, nom\nde dieu, they are no secret.\"\n\nHe shook me back and forth as if to shake the truth out of me, till my\nteeth rattled together; I could not have spoken if I would. But he cried\non, his voice rising with excitement:\n\n\"It has been no secret where St. Quentin stands and what he has been\nabout. He came into Paris, smooth and smiling, his own man,\nforsooth--neither ours nor the heretic's! Mordieu! he was Henry's, fast\nand sure, save that he was not man enough to say so. I told Mayenne last\nmonth we ought to settle with M. de St. Quentin; I asked nothing better\nthan to attend to him. But the general would not, but let him alone,\nfree and unmolested in his work of stirring up sedition. And Mar, too--\"\n\nHe stopped in the middle of a word. All the company who had been\npressing around us halted still. I knew that behind me some one had\nentered the room.\n\nM. de Brie dragged me back from where we were blocking the passage. I\nturned in his grasp to face the newcomer.\n\nHe was a tall, stout man, deep-chested, thick-necked, heavy-jowled. His\nwavy hair, brushed up from a high forehead, was lightest brown, while\nhis brows, mustachios, and beard were dark. His eyes were dark also, his\nfull lips red and smiling. He had the beauty and presence of all the\nGuises; it needed not the star on his breast to tell me that this was\nMayenne himself.\n\nHe advanced into the room returning the salutes of the company, but his\nglance travelling straight to me and my captor.\n\n\"What have we here, François?\"\n\n\"This is a fellow of Étienne de Mar's, M. le Duc,\" Brie answered. \"He\ncame here with messages for Mlle. de Montluc. I am getting out of him\nwhat Mar has been up to since he disappeared a month back.\"\n\n\"You are at unnecessary pains, my dear François; I already know Mar's\nwhereabouts and doings rather better than he knows them himself.\"\n\nBrie dropped his hand from my collar, looking by no means at ease. I\nperceived that this was the way with Mayenne: you knew what he said but\nyou did not know what he thought. His somewhat heavy face varied little;\nwhat went on in his mind behind the smiling mask was matter for anxiety.\nIf he asked pleasantly after your health, you fancied he might be\nthinking how well you would grace the gallows.\n\nM. de Brie said nothing and the duke continued:\n\n\"Yes, I have kept watch over him these five weeks. You are late,\nFrançois. You little boys are fools; you think because you do not know a\nthing I do not know it. Was I cruel to keep my information from you, ma\nbelle Lorance?\"\n\nThe attack was absolutely sudden; he had not seemed to observe her.\nMademoiselle coloured and made no instant reply. His voice was neither\nloud nor rough; he was smiling upon her.\n\n\"Or did you need no information, mademoiselle?\"\n\nShe met his look unflinching.\n\n\"I have not been sighing for tidings of the Comte de Mar, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Because you have had tidings, mademoiselle?\"\n\n\"No, monsieur, I have had no communication with M. de Mar since\nMay--until to-night.\"\n\n\"And what has happened to-night?\"\n\n\"To-night--Paul appeared.\"\n\n\"Paul!\" ejaculated the duke, startled momentarily out of his phlegm.\n\"Paul here?\"\n\n\"He was, monsieur, an hour ago. He has since gone forth again, I know\nnot whither or for what.\"\n\nMayenne ruminated over this, pulling off his gloves slowly.\n\n\"Well? What has this to do with Mar?\"\n\nShe had no choice, though in evident fear of his displeasure, but to go\nthrough again the tale of the wager and letter. She was moistening her\ndry lips as she finished, her eyes on his face wide with apprehension.\nBut he answered amiably, half absently, as if the whole affair were a\ntriviality:\n\n\"Never mind; I will give you a pair of gloves, Lorance.\"\n\nHe stood smiling upon us as if amused for an idle moment over our\nchildish games. The colour came back to her cheeks; she made him a\ncurtsey, laughing lightly.\n\n\"Then my grief is indeed cured, monsieur. A new bit of finery is the\nbest of balms for wounded self-esteem, is it not, Blanche? I confess I\nam piqued; I had dared to imagine that my squire might remember me still\nafter a month of absence. I should have known it too much to ask of\nmortal man. Not till the rivers run up-hill will you keep our memories\ngreen for more than a week, messieurs.\"\n\n\"She turns it off well,\" cried the little demoiselle in blue, Mlle.\nBlanche de Tavanne; \"you would not guess that she will be awake the\nnight long, weeping over M. de Mar's defection.\"\n\n\"I!\" exclaimed Mlle. de Montluc; \"I weep over his recreancy? It is a\nfar-fetched jest, my Blanche; can you invent no better? The Comte de\nMar--behold him!\"\n\nShe snatched a card from a tossed-down hand, holding it up aloft for us\nall to see. It was by chance the knave of diamonds; the pictured face\nwith its yellow hair bore, in my fancy at least, a suggestion of M.\nÉtienne.\n\n\"Behold M. de Mar--behold his fate!\" With a twinkling of her white\nfingers she had torn the luckless knave into a dozen pieces and sent\nthem whirling over her head to fall far and wide among the company.\n\n[Illustration: \"I DO NOT FORGIVE HIS DESPATCHING ME HIS HORSE-BOY.\"]\n\n\"Summary measures, mademoiselle!\" quoth a grizzled warrior, with a\nlaugh. \"Mordieu! have we your good permission to deal likewise with the\nflesh-and-blood Mar, when we go to arrest him for conspiring against the\nHoly League?\"\n\nBut Mlle. de Tavanne's quick tongue robbed him of his answer.\n\n\"Marry, you are severe on him, Lorance. To be sure he does not come\nhimself, but he sends so gallant a messenger!\"\n\nMademoiselle glanced at me with hard blue eyes.\n\n\"That is the greatest insult of all,\" she said. \"I could forgive--and\nforget--his absence; but I do not forgive his despatching me his\nhorse-boy.\"\n\nThus far I had choked down my swelling rage at her faithlessness, her\nvanity, her despiteful entreatment of my master's plight. I knew it was\nsheer madness for me to attempt his defence before this hostile company;\nnay, there was no object in defending him; there was not one here who\ncared to hear good of him. But at her last insult to him my blood boiled\nso hot that I lost all command of myself, and I burst out:\n\n\"If I were a horse-boy,--which I am not,--I were twenty times too good\nto be carrying messages hither. You need not rail at his poverty,\nmademoiselle; it was you brought him to it. It was for you he was turned\nout of his father's house. But for you he would not now be lying in a\ngarret, penniless and dishonoured. Whatever ills he suffers, it is you\nand your false house have brought them.\"\n\nBrie had me by the throat. Mayenne interfered without excitement.\n\n\"Don't strangle him, François; I may need him later. Let him be flogged\nand locked in the oratory.\"\n\nHe turned away as one bored over a trifling matter. And as the lackeys\ndragged me back to the door, I heard Mlle. de Montluc saying:\n\n\"Oh, M. de Latour, what have I done in destroying your knave of\ndiamonds! Ma foi, you had a quatorze!\"\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n_In the oratory._\n\n\n\"Here, Pierre!\" M. de Brie called to the head lackey, \"here's a\ncandidate for a hiding. This is a cub of that fellow Mar's. He reckoned\nwrong when he brought his insolence into this house. Lay on well, boys;\nmake him howl.\"\n\nBrie would have liked well enough, I fancy, to come along and see the\nfun, but he conceived that his duty lay in the salon. Pierre, the same\nwho had conducted me to Mlle. de Montluc, now led the way into a long\noak-panelled parlour. Opposite the entrance was a huge chimney carved\nwith the arms of Lorraine; at one end a door led into a little oratory\nwhere tapers burned before the image of the Virgin; at the other, before\nthe two narrow windows, stood a long table with writing-materials.\nChests and cupboards nearly filled the walls. I took this to be a sort\nof council-room of my Lord Mayenne.\n\nPierre sent one of his men for a cane and to the other suggested that he\nshould quench the Virgin's candles.\n\n\"For I don't see why this rascal should have the comfort of a light in\nthere,\" he said. \"As for Madonna Mary, she will not mind; she has a\nmillion others to see by.\"\n\nI was left alone with him and I promised myself the joy of one good blow\nat his face, no matter how deep they flayed me for it. But as I gathered\nmyself for the rush he spoke to me low and cautiously:\n\n\"Now howl your loudest, lad; and I'll not lay on too hard.\"\n\nMy clinched fist dropped to my side.\n\n\"You never did me any harm,\" he muttered. \"Howl till they think you half\nkilled, and I'll manage.\"\n\nI gaped at him, not knowing what to make of it. But this is the way of\nthe world; if there is much cruelty in it, there is much kindness, too.\n\n\"Here's the cane, nom d'un chien!\" Pierre exclaimed boisterously. \"Give\nit here, Jean; there'll not be much of it left when I get through.\"\n\n\"You'll strip his coat off?\" said the second lackey, from the oratory.\n\n\"My faith! no; I should kill him if I did, and the duke wants him,\"\nPierre retorted. So without more ado the two men tied my wrists in front\nof me, and Jean held me by the knot while Pierre laid on. And he, good\nfellow, grasping my collar, contrived to pull my loose jerkin away from\nmy back, so that he dusted it down without greatly incommoding me. Some\nhard whacks I did get, but they were nothing to what a strong man could\nhave given in grim earnest.\n\nI trust I could have taken a real flogging with as close lips as\nanybody, but if my kind succourer wanted howls, howls he should have. I\nyelled and cowered and dodged about, to the roaring delight of Jean and\nhis mate. Indeed, I had drawn a crowd of grinning varlets to the door\nbefore my performance was over. But at length, when I thought I had done\nenough for their pleasure and that of the nobles in the salon, I dropped\ndown on the floor and lay quiet, with shut eyes.\n\n\"He has had his fill, I trow; we must not spoil him for the master,\"\nPierre said.\n\n\"Oh, he'll come to in a minute,\" another answered. \"Why, you have not\neven drawn blood, Pierre!\" He laid his hand on my back, whereat I\ngroaned my hollowest.\n\n\"It will be many a day before he cares to have his back touched,\"\nlaughed Pierre. \"Here, men, lend a hand. Pardieu! I wonder what Our Lady\nthinks of some of the devotees we bring her.\"\n\nAs they lifted me he took my hand with an inquiring squeeze; and I\nsqueezed back, grateful, if ever a boy was. They flung me down on the\noratory floor and left me there a prisoner.\n\nI spent the next hour or so trying to undo the knot of my handcuff with\nmy teeth; and failing that, to chew the stout rope in two. I was minded\nas I worked of Lucas and his bonds, and wondered whether he had managed\nto rid himself of their inconvenience. He went straightway, doubtless,\nto some confederate who cut them for him, and even now was planning\nfresh evil against the St. Quentins. I remembered his face as he cried\nto M. le Comte that they should meet again; and I thought that M.\nÉtienne was likely to have his hands full with Lucas, without this\nunlucky tanglement with Mlle. de Montluc. In the darkness and solitude I\ncalled down a murrain on his folly. Why could he not leave the girl\nalone? There were other blue eyes in the world. And it would be hard on\nhumanity if there were none kindlier.\n\nHe had been at it three years, too. For three long years this girl's\nfair face had stood between him and his home, between him and action,\nbetween him and happiness. It was a fair face, truly; yet, in my\nopinion, neither it nor any maid's was worth such pains. If she had\nloved him it had not been worth it, but this girl spurned and flouted\nhim. Why, in the name of Heaven, could he not put the jade out of his\nmind and turn merrily to St. Denis and the road to glory? When I got\nback to him and told him how she had mocked him, hang me but he should,\nthough!\n\nAh, but when was I to get back to him? That rested not with me but with\nmy dangerous host, the League's Lieutenant-General, dark-minded Mayenne.\nWhat he wanted with me he had not revealed; nor was it a pleasant\nsubject for speculation. He meant me, of course, to tell him all I knew\nof the St. Quentins; well, that was soon done; belike he understood more\nthan I of the day's work. But after he had questioned me, what?\n\nWould he consider, with his servant Pierre, that I had never done him\nany harm? Or would he--I wondered, if they flung me out stark into some\nalley's gutter, whether M. le Comte would search for me and claim my\ncarcass? Or would he, too, have fallen by the blades of the League?\n\nI was shuddering as I waited there in the darkness. Never, not even this\nmorning in the closet of the Rue Coupejarrets, had I been in such mortal\ndread. I had walked out of that closet to find M. Étienne; but I was not\nlikely to happen on succour here. Pierre, for all his kind heart, could\nnot save me from the Duke of Mayenne.\n\nThen, when my hope was at its nadir, I remembered who was with me in the\nlittle room. I groped my way to Our Lady's feet and prayed her to save\nme, and if she might not, then to stand by me during the hard moment of\ndying and receive my seeking soul. Comforted now and deeming I could\npass, if it came to that, with a steady face, I laid me down, my head on\nthe prie-dieu cushion, and presently went to sleep.\n\nI was waked by a light in my face, and, all a-quiver, sprang up to meet\nmy doom. But it was not the duke or any of his hirelings who bent over\nme, candle in hand; it was Mlle. de Montluc.\n\n\"Oh, my boy, my poor boy!\" she cried pitifully, \"I could not save you\nthe flogging; on my honour, I could not. It would have availed you\nnothing had I pleaded for you on my bended knees.\"\n\nWith bewilderment I observed that the tears were brimming over her\nlashes and splashing down into the candle-flame. I stared, too confused\nfor speech, while she, putting down the shaking candlestick on the\naltar, as she crossed herself, covered her face with her hands,\nsobbing.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" I stammered, \"it is not worth mademoiselle's tears! The\nman, Pierre, he told me to scream, so they would think he was half\nflaying me. But in truth he did not strike very hard. He did not hurt so\nmuch.\"\n\nShe struggled to check the rising tempest of her tears, and presently\ndropped her hands and looked at me earnestly from out her shining wet\neyes. \"Is that true? Are you not flayed?\" And to make sure, she laid her\nhand delicately on my back.\n\n\"They have whacked your coat to ribbons, but, thank St. Généviève, they\nhave not brought the blood. I saw a man flogged once--\" she shut her\neyes, shuddering, and her mouth quivered anew. \"But I am not much hurt,\nmademoiselle,\" I answered her.\n\nShe took out her film of a handkerchief to wipe her wet cheeks, her hand\nstill trembling. I could think of nothing but to repeat:\n\n\"I am not in the least hurt, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"Ah, but if they have spared you the flogging to take your life!\" she\nbreathed.\n\nIt was not a heartening suggestion. To my astonishment, suddenly I found\nmyself, frightened victim, striving to comfort this noblewoman for my\ndeath.\n\n\"Nay, I am not afraid. Since mademoiselle weeps over me, I can die\nhappily.\"\n\nShe sprang toward me as if to protect me with her body from some\nmenacing thrust.\n\n\"They shall not kill you!\" she cried, her eyes flashing blue fire. \"They\nshall not! Mon dieu! is Lorance de Montluc so feeble a thing that she\ncannot save a serving-boy?\"\n\nShe fell back a pace, pressing her hands to her temples as if to stifle\ntheir throbbing.\n\n\"It was my fault,\" she cried--\"it was all my fault. It was my vanity and\nsilliness brought you to this. I should never have written that\nletter--a three years' child would have known better. But I had not seen\nM. de Mar for five weeks--I did not know, what I readily guess now, that\nhe had taken sides against us. M. de Lorraine played on my pique.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" I said, \"the worst has not followed, since M. Étienne\ndid not come himself.\"\n\n\"You are glad for that?\"\n\n\"Why, of course, mademoiselle. Was it not a trap for him?\"\n\nShe caught her breath as if in pain.\n\n\"I knew that as soon as I saw that my cousin Mayenne was not angry. When\nI told what I had done and he smiled at me and said I should have my\ngloves, why, then I thought my heart would stop beating. I saw what I\nhad accomplished--mon dieu, I was sick with repentance of it!\"\n\nI had to tell her I had not thought it.\n\n\"No,\" she answered; \"I had got you into this by my foolishness; I must\nneeds try to get you out by my wits. Brie, the one who took you by the\nthroat--there has been bad blood between him and your lord this\ntwelvemonth; only last May M. le Comte ran him through the wrist. Had I\ninterfered for you,\" she said, colouring a little, \"M. de Brie would\nhave inferred interest in the master from that in the man, and he had\nseen to your beating himself.\"\n\nIt suddenly dawned on me that this M. de Brie was the \"little cheese\" of\nguard-room gossip. And I thought that the gentleman would hardly display\nso much venom against M. Étienne unless he were a serious obstacle to\nhis hopes. Nor would mademoiselle be here at midnight, weeping over a\nserving-lad, if she cared nothing for the master. If she had not worn\nher heart on her sleeve before the laughing salon, mayhap she would show\nit to me.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" I cried, \"when the billet was brought him M. Étienne\nrose from his bed at once to come. But he was faint from fatigue and\nloss of blood; he could not walk across the room. But he bade me try to\nmake mademoiselle believe his absence was no fault of his. He wrote her\na month ago; he found to-day the letter was never delivered.\"\n\n\"Is he hurt dangerously?\"\n\n\"No,\" I admitted reluctantly; \"no, I think not. He was wounded in the\nright forearm, and again pinked in the shoulder; but he will recover.\"\n\n\"You said,\" she went on, the tears standing in her eyes, \"that he was\npenniless. I have not much, but what I have is freely his.\"\n\nShe advanced upon me holding out her silken purse which she had taken\nfrom her bosom; but I retreated.\n\n\"No, no, mademoiselle,\" I cried, ashamed of my hot words; \"we are not\npenniless--or if we are, we get on very well sans le sou. They do\neverything for monsieur at the Trois Lanternes, and he has only to\nreturn to the Hôtel St. Quentin to get all the gold pieces he can spend.\nOh, no; we are in no want, mademoiselle. I was angry when I said it; I\ndid not mean it. I cry mademoiselle's pardon.\"\n\nShe looked at me a little hesitatingly.\n\n\"You are telling me true?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, mademoiselle; if my monsieur needed money, indeed, indeed, I\nwould not refuse it.\"\n\n\"Then if you cannot take it for him, you can take it for yourself. It\nwill be strange if in all Paris you cannot find something you like as a\ntoken from me.\" With her own white fingers she slipped some tinkling\ncoins into my pouch, and cut short my thanks with the little wailing\ncry:\n\n\"Oh, your poor, bound hands! I have my poniard in my dress. I could free\nthem in a second. But if they knew I had been here with you they never\nwill let you go.\"\n\n\"If mademoiselle is running into danger staying here, I pray her to go\nback to bed. M. Étienne did not send me hither to bring her grief and\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" she asked me abruptly. \"You have never been here before\non monsieur's errands?\"\n\n\"No, mademoiselle; I came up only yesterday from Picardie. I belong on\nthe St. Quentin estate. My name is Félix Broux.\"\n\n\"Alack, you have chosen a bad time to visit Paris!\"\n\n\"I came up to see life,\" I said, \"and mordieu! I am seeing it.\"\n\n\"I pray God you may not see death, too,\" she answered soberly.\n\nShe stood looking at me helplessly.\n\n\"I am in my lord's black books,\" she said slowly, as if to herself; \"but\nI might weep François de Brie's rough heart to softness. Then it is a\nquestion whether he could turn Mayenne. I wish I knew whether the duke\nhimself or only Paul de Lorraine has planned this move to-night. That\nis,\" she added, blushing, but speaking out candidly, \"whether they\nattack M. de Mar as the League's enemy or as my lover.\"\n\n\"This M. Paul de Lorraine,\" said I, speaking as respectfully as I knew\nhow, but eager to find out all I could for M. Étienne--\"this M. de\nLorraine is mademoiselle's lover, too?\"\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders, neither assenting nor denying. \"We are all\npawns in the game for M. de Mayenne to push about as he chooses. For a\ntime M. de Mar was high in his favour. Then my cousin Paul came back\nafter a two years' disappearance, and straightway he was up and M. de\nMar was down. And then Paul vanished again as suddenly as he had come,\nand it became the turn of M. de Brie. Now to-night Paul walked in as\nsuddenly as he had left and at once played on me to write that unlucky\nletter. And what it bodes for _him_ I know not.\"\n\nShe spoke with amazing frankness; yet, much as she had told me, the fact\nof her telling it told me even more. I saw that she was as lonely in\nthis great house as I had been at St. Quentin. She would have talked\ndelightedly to M. le Comte's dog.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" I said, \"I would like well to tell you what has been\nhappening to my M. Étienne this last month, if you are not afraid to\nstay long enough to hear it.\"\n\n\"Oh, every one is asleep long ago; it is past two o'clock. Yes, you may\ntell me if you wish.\"\n\nShe sat down on a praying-cushion, motioning me to the other, and I\nbegan my tale. At first she listened with a little air of languor, as if\nthe whole were of slight consequence and she really did not care at all\nwhat M. le Comte had been about these five weeks. But as I got into the\naffair of the Rue Coupejarrets she forgot her indifference and leaned\nforward with burning cheeks, hanging on my words with eager questions.\nAnd when I told her how Lucas had evaded us in the darkness, she cried:\n\n\"Blessed Virgin! M. de Mar has enough to contend with in this Lucas,\nwithout Paul de Lorraine, and Brie, and the Duke of Mayenne himself.\"\n\nI was silent, being of her opinion. Presently she asked reluctantly:\n\n\"Does your master think this Lucas a tool of M. de Mayenne's?\"\n\n\"Yes, mademoiselle. He says secretaries do not plot against dukedoms for\ntheir own pleasure.\"\n\n\"Asassination was not wont to be my cousin Mayenne's way,\" she said with\nan accent of confidence that rang as false as a counterfeit coin. I saw\nwell enough that mademoiselle did fear, at least, Mayenne's guilt. I\nthought I might tell her a little more.\n\n\"M. le Comte told me that since his father's coming to Paris M. de\nMayenne made him offers to join the League, and he refused them. So then\nM. de Mayenne, seeing himself losing the whole house of St. Quentin,\ninvented this.\"\n\n\"But it failed. Thank God, it failed! And now he will leave Paris. He\nwill--he must!\"\n\n\"He did mean to seek Navarre's camp to-morrow,\" I answered; \"but--\"\n\n\"But what?\"\n\n\"But then the letter came.\"\n\n\"But that makes no difference! He must go for all that. The time is over\nfor trimming. He must stand on one side or the other. I am a Ligueuse\nborn and bred, and I tell him to go to King Henry. It is his father's\nside; it is his side. He cannot stay in Paris another day.\"\n\n\"I do not think he will go, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"But he must!\" she cried with vehemence. \"Paris is not safe for him. If\nhe cannot stand for his wound, he must go. I will send him a letter\nmyself to tell him he must.\"\n\n\"Then he will never go.\"\n\n\"Félix!\"\n\n\"He will not. He was going because he thought his lady flouted him; when\nhe finds she does not--well, if he budges a step out of Paris, I do not\nknow him. When he thought himself despised--\"\n\n\"And why did I turn his suit into laughter in the salon if I did not\nmean that I despised him? I did it for you to tell him how I made a mock\nof him, that he might hate me and keep away from me.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said, \"mademoiselle is beyond me; I cannot keep up with her.\"\n\n\"And you believed it! But you must needs spoil all by flaring out with\nimpudent speech.\"\n\n\"I crave mademoiselle's pardon. I was wrong and insolent. But she played\ntoo well.\"\n\n\"And if it was not play?\" she cried, rising. \"If I do--well, I will not\nsay despise him--but care nothing for him? Will he then go to St. Denis?\nThen tell him from me that he has my pity as one cruelly cozened, and my\nesteem as a one-time servant of mine, but never my love. Tell him I\nwould willingly save him alive, for the sake of the love he once bore\nme. But as for any answering love in my bosom, I have not one spark.\nTell him to go find a new mistress at St. Denis. He might as well cry\nfor the moon as seek to win Lorance de Montluc.\"\n\n\"That may be true,\" I said; \"but all the same he will try. Can\nmademoiselle suppose he will go out of Paris now, and leave her to marry\nBrie and Lorraine?\"\n\n\"Only one,\" she protested with the shadow of a smile; and then a sudden\nrush of tears blinded her. \"I am a very miserable girl,\" she said\nwoefully, \"for I bring nothing but danger to those that love me.\"\n\nI dropped on my knees before her and kissed the hem of her dress.\n\n\"Ah, Félix,\" she said, \"if you really pitied me, you would get him out\nof Paris!\" And she fell to weeping as if her heart would break.\n\nI had no skill to comfort her. I bent my head before her, silent. At\nlength she sobbed out:\n\n\"It boots little for us to quarrel over what you shall say to M. de Mar,\nwhen we know not that you will ever speak to him again. And it was all\nmy fault.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, it was the fault of my hasty tongue.\"\n\nBut she shook her head.\n\n\"I maintained that to you, but it was not true. Mayenne had something in\nhis mind before. A general holds his schemes so dear and lives so cheap.\nBut I will do my utmost, Félix, lad. It is not long to daylight now. I\nwill go to François de Brie and we'll believe I shall prevail.\"\n\nShe took up her candle and said good night to me very gently and\nquietly, and gave me her hand to kiss. She opened the door,--with my\nfettered wrists I could not do the office for her,--and on the threshold\nturned to smile on me, wistfully, hopefully. In the next second, with a\ngasp that was half a cry, she blew out the light and pushed the door\nshut again.\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n_My Lord Mayenne._\n\n\nI knew she was shutting the door by the click of the latch; in the next\nsecond I made the discovery that she was still on my side of it.\n\"What--\" I was beginning, when she laid her hand over my mouth. A line\nof light showed through the crack. She had not quite closed the door on\naccount of the noise of the latch. She tried again; again it rattled and\nshe desisted. I heard her fluttered breathing and I heard something\nelse--a rapid, heavy tread in the corridor without. Into the\ncouncil-room came a man carrying a lighted taper. It was Mayenne.\n\nMademoiselle, with a whispered \"God save us!\" sank in a heap at my feet.\n\nI bent over her to find if she had swooned, when she seized my hand in a\nsharp grip that told me plain as words to be quiet.\n\nMayenne was yawning; he had a rumpled and dishevelled look like one just\nroused from sleep. He crossed over to the table, lighted the\nthree-branched candlestick standing there, and seated himself with his\nback to us, pulling about some papers. I hardly dared glance at him,\nfor fear my eyes should draw his; the crack of our door seemed to call\naloud to him to mark it; but the candle-light scarcely pierced the\nshadows of the long room.\n\nMore quick footsteps in the corridor. Mayenne hitched his chair about,\nsidewise to the table and to us, facing the outer door. A tall man in\nblack entered, saluting the general from the threshold.\n\n\"So you have come back?\" spoke the duke in his even tones. It was\nimpossible to tell whether the words were a welcome or a sentence.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the other, in a voice as noncommittal as Mayenne's own.\nHe shut the door after him and walked over to the table.\n\n\"And how goes it?\"\n\n\"Badly.\"\n\nThe newcomer threw his hat aside and sat down without waiting for an\ninvitation.\n\n\"What! Badly, sirrah!\" Mayenne exclaimed sharply. \"You come to me with\nthat report?\"\n\n\"I do, monsieur,\" answered the other with cool insolence, leaning back\nin his chair. The light fell directly on his face and proved to me what\nI had guessed at his first word. The duke's night visitor was Lucas.\n\"Yes,\" he repeated indifferently, \"it has gone badly. In fact, your game\nis up.\"\n\nMayenne jumped to his feet, bringing his fist down on the table.\n\n\"You tell me this?\"\n\nLucas regarded him with an easy smile.\n\n\"Unfortunately, monsieur, I do.\"\n\n[Illustration: MLLE. De MONTLUC AND FÉLIX BROUX IN THE ORATORY]\n\nMayenne turned on him, cursing. Lucas with the quickness of a cat\nsprang a yard aside, dagger unsheathed.\n\n\"Put up that knife!\" shouted Mayenne.\n\n\"When you put up yours, monsieur.\"\n\n\"I have drawn none!\"\n\n\"In your sleeve, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Liar!\" cried Mayenne.\n\nI know not who was lying, for I could not tell whether the blade that\nflashed now in the duke's hand came from his sleeve or from his belt.\nBut if he had not drawn before he had drawn now and rushed at Lucas. He\ndodged and they circled round each other, wary as two matched cocks.\nLucas was strictly on the defensive; Mayenne, the less agile by reason\nof his weight, could make no chance to strike. He drew off presently.\n\n\"I'll have your neck wrung for this,\" he panted.\n\n\"For what, monsieur?\" asked Lucas, imperturbably. \"For defending\nmyself?\"\n\nMayenne let the charge go by default.\n\n\"For coming to me with the tale of your failures. Nom de dieu, do I\nemploy you to fail?\"\n\n\"We are none of us gods, monsieur. You yourself lost Ivry.\"\n\nMayenne backed over to his chair and seated himself, laying his knife on\nthe table in front of him. His face smoothed out to good humour--no mean\ntribute to his power of self-control. For the written words can convey\nno notion of the maddening insolence of Lucas's bearing--an insolence so\nstudied that it almost seemed unconscious and was thereby well-nigh\nimpossible to silence.\n\n\"Sit down,\" bade the duke, \"and tell me.\"\n\nLucas, standing at the foot of the table, observed:\n\n\"They turned you out of your bed, monsieur, to see me. It was\nunnecessary severity. My tale will keep till morning.\"\n\n\"By Heaven, it shall not!\" Mayenne shouted. \"Beware how much further you\ndare anger me, you Satan's cub!\"\n\nHe was fingering the dagger again as if he longed to plunge it into\nLucas's gullet, and I rather marvelled that he did not, or summon his\nguard to do it. For I could well understand how infuriating was Lucas.\nHe carried himself with an air of easy equality insufferable to the\nfirst noble in the land. Mayenne's chosen rôle was the unmoved, the\ninscrutable, but Lucas beat him at his own game and drove him out into\nthe open of passion and violence. It was a miracle to me that the man\nlived--unless, indeed, he were a prince in disguise.\n\n\"Satan's cub!\" Lucas repeated, laughing. \"Our late king had called me\nthat, pardieu! But I knew not you acknowledged Satan in the family.\"\n\n\"I ordered Antoine to wake me if you returned in the night,\" Mayenne\nwent on gruffly. \"When I heard you had been here I knew something was\nwrong--unless the thing were done.\"\n\n\"It is not done. The whole plot is ruined.\"\n\n\"Nom de dieu! If it is by your bungling--\"\n\n\"It was not by my bungling,\" Lucas answered with the first touch of heat\nhe had shown. \"It was fate--and that fool Grammont.\"\n\n\"Explain then, and quickly, or it will be the worse for you.\"\n\nLucas sat down, the table between them.\n\n\"Look here,\" he said abruptly, leaning forward over the board. \"Have you\nMar's boy?\"\n\n\"What boy?\"\n\n\"A young Picard from the St. Quentin estate, whom the devil prompted to\ncome up to town to-day. Mar sent him here to-night with a love-message\nto Lorance.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mayenne, slowly, \"if it is a question of mademoiselle's\nlove-affairs, it may be put off till to-morrow. It is plain to the very\nlackeys that you are jealous of Mar. But at present we are discussing\nl'affaire St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"It is all one,\" Lucas answered quickly. \"You know what is to be the\nreward of my success.\"\n\n\"I thought you told me you had failed.\"\n\nLucas's hand moved instinctively to his belt; then he thought better of\nit and laid both hands, empty, on the table.\n\n\"Our plot has failed; but that does not mean that St. Quentin is\nimmortal.\"\n\n\"You may be very sure of one thing, my friend,\" the duke observed. \"I\nshall never give Lorance de Montluc to a white-livered flincher.\"\n\n\"The Duke of St. Quentin is not immortal,\" Lucas repeated. \"I have\nmissed him once, but I shall get him in spite of all.\"\n\n\"I am not sure about Lorance even then,\" said Mayenne, reflectively.\n\"François de Brie is agitating himself about that young mistress. And he\nhas not made any failures--as yet.\"\n\nLucas sprang to his feet.\n\n\"You swore to me I should have her.\"\n\n\"Permit me to remind you again that you have not brought me the price.\"\n\n\"I will bring you the price.\"\n\n\"E'en then,\" spoke Mayenne, with the smile of the cat standing over the\nmouse--\"e'en then I might change my mind.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Lucas, roundly, \"there will be more than one dead duke in\nFrance.\"\n\nMayenne looked up at him as unmoved as if it were not in the power of\nmortal man to make him lose his temper. In stirring him to draw dagger,\nLucas had achieved an extraordinary triumph. Yet I somehow thought that\nthe man who had shown hot anger was the real man; the man who sat there\nquiet was the party leader.\n\nHe said now, evenly:\n\n\"That is a silly way to talk to me, Paul.\"\n\n\"It is the truth for once,\" Lucas made sullen answer.\n\nSo long as he could prick and irritate Mayenne he preserved an air of\nunshakable composure; but when Mayenne recovered patience and himself\nbegan to prick, Lucas's guard broke down. His voice rose a key, as it\nhad done when I called him fool; and he burst out violently:\n\n\"Mort de dieu! monsieur, what am I doing your dirty work for? For love\nof my affectionate uncle?\"\n\n\"It might well be for that. I have been your affectionate uncle, as you\nsay.\"\n\n\"My affectionate uncle, you say? My hirer, my suborner! I was a\nProtestant; I was bred up by the Huguenot Lucases when my father cast\noff my mother and me to starve. I had no love for the League or the\nLorraines. I was fighting in Navarre's ranks when I was made prisoner at\nIvry.\"\n\n\"You were spying for Navarre. It was before the fight we caught you. You\nhad been hanged and quartered in that gray dawn had I not recognized\nyou, after twelve years, as my brother's son. I cut the rope from you\nand embraced you for your father's sake. You rode forth a cornet in my\narmy, instead of dying like a felon on the gallows.\"\n\n\"You had your ends to serve,\" Lucas muttered.\n\n\"I took you into my household,\" Mayenne went on. \"I let you wear the\nname of Lorraine. I did not deny you the hand of my cousin and ward,\nLorance de Montluc.\"\n\n\"Deny me! No, you did not. Neither did you grant it me, but put me off\nwith lying promises. You thought then you could win back the faltering\nhouse of St. Quentin by a marriage between your cousin and the Comte de\nMar. Afterward, when my brother Charles dashed into Paris, and the\npeople clamoured for his marriage with the Infanta, you conceived the\nscheme of forcing Lorance on him. But it would not do, and again you\npromised her to me if I could get you certain information from the\nroyalist army. I returned in the guise of an escaped prisoner to Henry's\ncamp to steal you secrets; and the moment my back was turned you\nlistened to proposals from Mar again.\"\n\n\"Mar is not in the race now. You need not speak of him, nor of your\nbrother Charles, either.\"\n\n\"No; I can well understand that my brother's is not a pleasant name in\nyour ears,\" Lucas agreed. \"You acknowledged one King Charles X; you\nwould like well to see another Charles X, but it is not Charles of Guise\nyou mean.\"\n\n\"I have no desire to be King of France,\" Mayenne began angrily.\n\n\"Have you not? That is well, for you will never feel the crown on your\nbrows, good uncle! You are ground between the Spanish hammer and the\nBéarnais anvil; there will soon be nothing left of you but powder.\"\n\n\"Nom de dieu, Paul--\" Mayenne cried, half rising; but Lucas, leaning\nforward on the table, riveting him with his keen eyes, went on:\n\n\"Do not mistake me, monsieur uncle. I think you in bad case, but I am\nready to sink or swim with you. So long as the hand of Lorance is in\nyour bestowing I am your faithful servant. I have not hesitated to risk\nthe gallows to serve you. Last March I made my way here, disguised, to\ntell you of the king's coming change of faith and of St. Quentin's\ncertain defection. I demanded then my price, my marriage with\nmademoiselle. But you put me off again. You sent me back to Mantes to\nkill you St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"Aye. And you have been about it these four months, and you have not\nkilled him.\"\n\nLucas reddened with ire.\n\n\"I am no Jacques Clément to stab and be massacred. You cannot buy such a\nservice of me, M. de Mayenne. If I do bravo's work for you I choose my\nown time and way. I brought the duke to Paris, delivered him up to you\nto deal with as it liked you. But you with your army at your back were\nafraid to kill him. You flinched and waited. You dared not shoulder the\nonus of his death. Then I, to help you out of your strait, planned to\nmake his own son's the hand that should do the deed; to kill the duke\nand ruin his heir; to put not only St. Quentin but Mar out of your\nway--\"\n\n\"Let us be accurate, Paul,\" Mayenne said. \"Mar was not in my way; he was\nof no consequence to me. You mean, put him out of your way.\"\n\n\"He was in your way, too. Since he would not join the Cause he was a\nhindrance to it. You had as much to gain as I by his ruin.\"\n\n\"Something--not as much. I did not want him killed--I preferred him to\nValère.\"\n\n\"Nor did I want him killed; so our views jibed well.\"\n\n\"Why not, then? Did you prefer him as your wife's lover to some other\nwho might appear?\"\n\n\"I do not intend that my wife shall have lovers,\" Lucas answered.\n\nMayenne broke into laughter.\n\n\"Nom d'un chien, where will you keep her? In the Bastille? Lorance and\nno lovers! Ho, ho!\"\n\n\"I mean none whom she favours.\"\n\n\"Then why do you leave Mar alive? She adores the fellow,\" Mayenne said.\nI had no idea whether he really thought it or only said it to annoy\nLucas. At any rate it had its effect. Lucas's brows were knotted; he\nspoke with an effort, like a man under stress of physical pain.\n\n\"I know she loves him now, and she would love him dead; but she would\nnot love him a parricide.\"\n\n\"Is that your creed? Pardieu! you don't know women. The blacker the\nvillain the more they adore him.\"\n\n\"I know it is true, monsieur,\" Lucas said smoothly, \"that you have had\nsuccesses.\"\n\nMayenne started forward with half an oath, changing to a laugh.\n\n\"So it is not enough for you to possess the fair body of Lorance; you\nmust also have her love?\"\n\n\"She will love me,\" Lucas answered uneasily. \"She must.\"\n\n\"It is not worth your fret,\" Mayenne declared. \"If she did, how long\nwould it last? _Souvent femme varie_--that is the only fixed fact about\nher. If Lorance loves Mar to-day, she will love some one else to-morrow,\nand some one else still the day after to-morrow. It is not worth while\ndisturbing yourself about it.\"\n\n\"She will not love any one else,\" Lucas said hoarsely.\n\nMayenne laughed.\n\n\"You are very young, Paul.\"\n\n\"She shall not love any one else! By the throne of heaven, she shall\nnot!\"\n\nMayenne went on laughing. If Lucas had for the moment teased him out of\nhis equanimity, the duke had paid back the score a hundredfold. Lucas's\nface was seared with his passions as with the torture-iron; he clinched\nhis hands together, breathing hard. On my side of the door I heard a\nsharp little sound in the darkness; mademoiselle had gritted her teeth.\n\n\"It is a little early to sweat over the matter,\" Mayenne said, \"since\nmademoiselle is not your wife nor ever likely to become so.\"\n\n\"You refuse her to me?\" Lucas cried, livid. I thought he would leap over\nthe table at one bound on Mayenne. It occurred to the duke to take up\nhis dagger.\n\n\"I promise her to you when you kill me St. Quentin. And you have not\nkilled me St. Quentin but instead come airily to tell me the scheme--my\nscheme--is wrecked. Pardieu! it was never my scheme. I never advocated\nstolen pistoles and suborned witnesses and angered nephews and deceived\nsons and the rest of your cumbrous machinery. I would have had you stab\nhim as he bent over his papers, and walk out of the house before they\ndiscovered him. But you had not the pluck for that; you must needs plot\nand replot to make some one else do your work. Now, after months of\nintriguing and waiting, you come to me to tell me you have failed.\nMorbleu! is there any reason why I should not have you kicked into the\ngutter, as no true son of the valourous Le Balafré?\"\n\nLucas's hand went to his belt again; he made one step as if to come\naround the table. Mayenne's angry eye was on him but he did not move;\nand Lucas made no more steps. Controlling himself with an effort, he\nsaid:\n\n\"It was not my fault, monsieur. No man could have laboured harder or\nplanned better than I. I have been diligent, I have been clever. I have\nmade my worst enemy my willing tool--I have made Monsieur's own son my\ncat's-paw. I have left no end loose, no contingency unprovided for--and\nI am ruined by a freak of fate.\"\n\n\"I never knew a failure yet but what the fault was fate's,\" Mayenne\nreturned.\n\n\"Call it accident, then, call it the devil, call it what you like!\"\nLucas cried. \"I still maintain it was not my fault. Listen, monsieur.\"\n\nHe sat down again and began his story, striving as he talked to\nreconquer something of his old coolness.\n\n\"The thing was ruined by the advent of this boy, Mar's lackey I spoke\nof. You said he had not been here?\"\n\n\"You may go to Lorance with that question,\" Mayenne answered; \"I have\nsomething else to attend to than the intrigues of my wife's maids.\"\n\n\"He started hither; I thought some one would have the sense to keep him.\nMordieu! I will find from Lorance whether she saw him.\"\n\nHe fell silent, gnawing his lip; I could see that his thought had\ntravelled away from the plot to the sore subject of mademoiselle's\naffections.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mayenne, sharply, \"what about your boy?\"\n\nIt was a moment before Lucas answered. When he did he spoke low and\nhurriedly, so that I could scarce catch the words. I knew it was no fear\nof listeners that kept his voice down--they had shouted at each other\nas if there was no one within a mile. I guessed that Lucas, for all his\nbravado, took little pride in his tale, nor felt happy about its\nreception. I could catch names now and then, Monsieur's, M. Étienne's,\nGrammont's, but the hero of the tale was myself.\n\n\"You let him to the duke?\" Mayenne cried presently.\n\nAt the harsh censure of his voice, Lucas's rang out with the old\ndefiance:\n\n\"With Vigo at his back I did. Sangdieu! you have yet to make the\nacquaintance of St. Quentin's equery. A regiment of your lansquenets\ncouldn't keep him out.\"\n\n\"Does he never take wine?\" Mayenne asked, lifting his hand with shut\nfingers over the table and then opening them.\n\n\"That is easy to say, monsieur, sitting here in your own hôtel stuffed\nwith your soldiers. But it was not so easy to do, alone in my enemy's\nhouse, when at the least suspicion of me they had broken me on the\nwheel.\"\n\n\"That is the rub!\" Mayenne cried violently. \"That is the trouble with\nall of you. You think more of the safety of your own skins than of\naccomplishing your work. Mordieu! where should I be to-day--where would\nthe Cause be--if my first care was my own peril?\"\n\n\"Then that is where we differ, uncle,\" Lucas answered with a cold sneer.\n\"You are, it is well known, a patriot, toiling for the Church and the\nKing of Spain, with never a thought for the welfare of Charles of\nLorraine, Lord of Mayenne. But I, Paul of Lorraine, your humble nephew,\nlord of my brain and hands, freely admit that I am toiling for no one\nbut the aforesaid Paul of Lorraine. I should find it most inconvenient\nto get on without a head on my shoulders, and I shall do my best to keep\nit there.\"\n\n\"You need not tell me that; I know it well enough,\" Mayenne answered.\n\"You are each for himself, none for me. At the same time, Paul, you will\ndo well to remember that your interest is to forward my interest.\"\n\n\"To the full, monsieur. And I shall kill you St. Quentin yet. You need\nnot call me coward; I am working for a dearer stake than any man in your\nranks.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Mayenne rejoined, \"get on with your tale.\"\n\nLucas went on, Mayenne listening quietly, with no further word of blame.\nHe moved not so much as an eyelid till Lucas told of M. le Duc's\ndeparture, when he flung himself forward in his chair with a sharp oath.\n\n\"What! by daylight?\"\n\n\"Aye. He was afraid, after this discovery, of being set on at night.\"\n\n\"He went out in broad day?\"\n\n\"So Vigo said. I saw him not,\" Lucas answered with something of his old\nnonchalance.\n\n\"Mille tonnerres du diable!\" Mayenne shouted. \"If this is true, if he\ngot out in broad day, I'll have the head of the traitor that let him.\nI'll nail it over his own gate.\"\n\n\"It is not worth your fret, monsieur,\" Lucas said lightly. \"If you did,\nhow long would it avail? _Souvent homme trahie_; that is the only fixed\nfact about him. If they pass St. Quentin to-day, they will pass some one\nelse to-morrow, and some one else still the day after.\"\n\nMayenne looked at him, half angry, half startled into some deeper\nemotion at this deft twisting of his own words.\n\n \"Souvent homme trahie,\n Mal habile qui s'y fie,\"\n\nhe repeated musingly. He might have been saying over the motto of the\nhouse of Lorraine. For the Guises believed in no man's good faith, as no\nman believed in theirs.\n\n\"_Souvent homme trahie_,\" Mayenne said again, as if in the words he\nrecognized a bitter verity. \"And that is as true as King Francis's\nversion. I suppose you will be the next, Paul.\"\n\n\"When I give up hope of Lorance,\" Lucas said bluntly.\n\nI caught myself suddenly pitying the two of them: Mayenne, because, for\nall his power and splendour and rank next to a king's and ability second\nto none, he dared trust no man--not the son of his body, not his\nbrother. He had made his own hell and dwelt in it, and there was no need\nto wish him any ill. And Lucas, perjured traitor, was farther from the\ngoal of his desire than if we had slain him in the Rue Coupejarrets.\n\n\"What next? It appears you escaped the redoubted Vigo,\" Mayenne went on\nin his every-day tone; and the vision faded, and I saw him once more as\nthe greatest noble and greatest scoundrel in France, and feared and\nhated him, and Lucas too, as the betrayer of my dear lord Étienne.\n\n\"Trust me for that.\"\n\n\"Then came you here?\"\n\n\"Not at once. I tracked Mar and this Broux to Mar's old lodgings at the\nThree Lanterns. When I had dogged them to the door I came here and\nworked upon Lorance to write Mar a letter commanding his presence. For I\nthought that the night was yet young and to-morrow he might be out of my\nreach. Well, it appears he had not the courage to come but he sent the\nboy. I was not sorry. I thought I could settle him more quietly at the\ninn. The boy went back once and almost ran into me in the court, but he\ndid not see me. I entered and asked for lodgings; but the fat old fool\nof a host put me through the catechism like an inquisitor, and finally\ndeclared the inn was full. I said I would take a garret; but it was no\nuse. Out I must trudge. I did, and paid two men to get into a brawl in\nfront of the house, that the inn people might run out to look. But\ninstead they locked the gate and put up the shutters in the cabaret.\"\n\nMayenne burst out laughing.\n\n\"It was not your night, Paul.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Lucas, shortly.\n\n\"And what then? It did not take you till three o'clock to be put out of\nthe inn.\"\n\n\"No,\" Lucas answered; \"I spoke to you of the varlet Pontou with whom\nGrammont had quarrelled. He had shut him up in a closet of the house in\nthe Rue Coupejarrets. After the fight in the court we all went our ways,\nforgetting him. So I paid the house a visit; I was afraid some one else\nmight find him and he might tell tales.\"\n\n\"And will he tell tales?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Lucas, \"he will tell no tales.\"\n\n\"How about your spy in the Hôtel St. Quentin?\"\n\n\"Martin, the clerk? Oh, I warned him off before I left,\" Lucas said\neasily. \"He will lie perdu till we want him again. And Grammont, you\nsee, is dead too. There is no direct witness to the thing but the boy\nBroux.\"\n\n\"That's as good as to say there is none,\" Mayenne answered; \"for I have\nthe boy.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n_Mayenne's ward._\n\n\nLucas sprang up.\n\n\"You have him? Where?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have him,\" Mayenne answered with his tantalizing slowness.\n\n\"Alive?\"\n\n\"I suppose so. He had his flogging but I told them I was not done with\nhim. I thought we might have a use for him. He is in the oratory there.\"\n\n\"Diable! Listening?\" cried Lucas, as if a quick doubt of Mayenne's good\nfaith to him struck his mind.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" Mayenne answered. \"The door is bolted; he might be in\nthe street for all he can hear. The wall was built for that.\"\n\n\"What will you do with him, monsieur?\"\n\n\"We'll have him out,\" said Mayenne. Lucas, needing no second bidding,\nhastened down the room.\n\nAll this while mademoiselle, on the floor at my feet, had neither\nstirred nor whispered, as rigid as the statued Virgin herself. But now\nshe rose and for one moment laid her hand on my shoulder with an\nencouraging pat; the next she flung the door wide just as Lucas reached\nthe threshold.\n\nHe recoiled as from a ghost.\n\n\"Lorance!\" he gasped, \"Lorance!\"\n\n\"Nom de dieu!\" came Mayenne's shout from the back of the room. \"What!\nLorance!\"\n\nHe caught up the candelabrum and strode over to us.\n\nMademoiselle stepped out into the council-room, I hanging back on the\nother side of the sill. She was as white as linen, but she lifted her\nhead proudly. She had not the courage that knows no fear, but she had\nthe courage that rises to the need. Crouching on the oratory floor she\nhad been in a panic lest they find her. But in the moment of discovery\nshe faced them unflinching.\n\n\"You spying here, Lorance!\" Mayenne stormed at her.\n\n\"I did not come here to spy, monsieur,\" she answered. \"I was here first,\nas you see. Your presence was as unlooked for by me as mine by you.\"\n\nHis next accusation brought the blood in scarlet flags to her pale\ncheeks; she made him no answer but burned him with her indignant eyes.\n\n\"Mordieu, monsieur!\" Lucas cried. \"This is Mlle. de Montluc.\"\n\n\"Then why did you come?\" demanded Mayenne.\n\n\"Because I had done harm to the lad and was sorry,\" she said. \"You\ndefend me now, Paul, but you did not hesitate to make a tool of me in\nyour cowardly schemes.\"\n\n\"It was kindly meant, mademoiselle,\" Lucas retorted. \"Since I shall kill\nM. le Comte de Mar in any case, I thought it would pleasure you to have\na word with him first.\"\n\nI think it did not need the look she gave him to make him regret the\nspeech. This Lucas was an extraordinary compound of shrewdness and\nrecklessness, one separating from the other like oil and vinegar in a\nsloven's salad. He could plan and toil and wait, to an end, with skill\nand fortitude and patience; but he could not govern his own gusty\ntempers.\n\n\"You have been crying, Lorance,\" Mayenne said in a softer tone.\n\n\"For my sins, monsieur,\" she answered quickly. \"I am grieved most\nbitterly to have been the means of bringing this lad into danger. Since\nPaul cozened me into doing what I did not understand, and since this is\nnot the man you wanted but only his servant, will you not let him go\nfree?\"\n\n\"Why, my pretty Lorance, I did not mean to harm him,\" Mayenne protested,\nsmiling. \"I had him flogged for his insolence to you; I thought you\nwould thank me for it.\"\n\n\"I am never glad over a flogging, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Then why not speak? A word from you and it had stopped.\"\n\nShe flushed red for very shame.\n\n\"I was afraid--I knew you vexed with me,\" she faltered. \"Oh, I have done\nill!\" She turned to me, silently imploring forgiveness. There was no\nneed to ask.\n\n\"Then you will let him go, monsieur? Alack that I did not speak before!\nThank you, my cousin!\"\n\n\"Of what did you suspect me? The boy was whipped for a bit of\nimpertinence to you; I had no cause against him.\"\n\nMy heart leaped up; at the same time I scorned myself for a craven that\nI had been overcome by groundless terror.\n\n\"Then I have been a goose so to disturb myself,\" mademoiselle laughed\nout in relief. \"You do well to rebuke me, cousin. I shall never meddle\nin your affairs again.\"\n\n\"That will be wise of you,\" Mayenne returned. \"For I did mean to let the\nboy go. But since you have opened his door and let him hear what he\nshould not, I have no choice but to silence him.\"\n\n\"Monsieur!\" she gasped, cowering as from a blow.\n\n\"Aye,\" he said quietly. \"I would have let him go. But you have made it\nimpossible.\"\n\nNever have I seen so piteous a sight as her face of misery. Had my hands\nbeen free, Mayenne had been startled to find a knife in his heart.\n\n\"Never mind, mademoiselle,\" I cried to her. \"You came and wept over me,\nand that is worth dying for.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" she cried, recovering herself after the first instant of\nconsternation, \"you are degrading the greatest noble in the land! You,\nthe head of the house of Lorraine, the chief of the League, the\ncommander of the allied armies, debase yourself in stooping to take\nvengeance on a stable-boy.\"\n\n\"It is no question of vengeance; it is a question of safety,\" he\nanswered impatiently. Yet I marvelled that he answered at all, since\nabsolute power is not obliged to give an account of itself.\n\n\"Is your estate then so tottering that a stable-boy can overturn it? In\nthat case be advised. Go hang yourself, monsieur, while there is yet\ntime.\"\n\nHe flushed with anger, and this time he offered no justification. He\nadvanced on the girl with outstretched hand.\n\n\"Mademoiselle, it is not my habit to take advice from the damsels of my\nhousehold. Nor do I admit them to my council-room. Permit me then to\nconduct you to the staircase.\"\n\nShe retreated toward the threshold where I stood, still covering me as\nwith a shield.\n\n\"Monsieur, you are very cruel to me.\"\n\n\"Your hand, mademoiselle.\"\n\nShe did not yield it to him but held out both hands, clasped in appeal.\n\n\"Monsieur, you have always been my loving kinsman. I have always tried\nto do your pleasure. I thought you meant harm to the boy because he was\na servant to M. de Mar, and I knew that M. de St. Quentin, at least, had\ngone over to the other side. I did not know what you would do with him,\nand I could not rest in my bed because it was through me he came here.\nMonsieur, if I was foolish and frightened and indiscreet, do not punish\nthe lad for my wrong-doing.\"\n\nMayenne was still holding out his hand for her.\n\n\"I wish you sweet dreams, my cousin Lorance.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" she cried, shrinking back till she stood against the\ndoor-jamb, \"will you not let the boy go?\"\n\n\"How will you look to-morrow,\" he said with his unchanged smile, \"if\nyou lose all your sleep to-night, my pretty Lorance?\"\n\n\"A reproach to you,\" she answered quickly. \"You will mark my white\ncheeks and my red eyes, and you will say, 'Now, there is my little\ncousin Lorance, my good ally Montluc's daughter, and I have made her cry\nher eyes blind over my cruelty. Her father, dying, gave her to me to\nguard and cherish, and I have made her miserable. I am sorry. I wish I\nhad not done it.'\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" the duke repeated, \"will you get to your bed?\"\n\nShe did not stir, but, fixing him with her brilliant eyes, went on as if\nthinking aloud.\n\n\"I remember when I was a tiny maid of five or six, and you and your\nbrother Guise (whom God rest!) would come to our house. You would ask my\nfather to send for me as you sat over your wine, and I would run in to\nkiss you and be fed comfits from your pockets. I thought you the\nhandsomest and gallantest gentleman in France, as indeed you were.\"\n\n\"You were the prettiest little creature ever was,\" Mayenne said\nabruptly.\n\n\"And my little heart was bursting with love and admiration of you,\" she\nreturned. \"When I first could lisp, I learned to pray for my cousin\nHenri and my cousin Charles. I have never forgotten them one night in\nall these years. 'God receive and bless the soul of Henri de Guise; God\nguard and prosper Charles de Mayenne.' But you make it hard for me to\nask it for my cousin Charles.\"\n\n\"This is a great coil over a horse-boy,\" Mayenne said curtly.\n\n\"Life is as dear to a horse-boy as to M. le Duc de Mayenne.\"\n\n\"I tell you I did not mean to kill the boy,\" Mayenne said. \"With the\ndoor shut he could hear nothing. I meant to question him and let him go.\nBut you have seen fit to meddle in what is no maid's business,\nmademoiselle. You have unlocked the door and let him listen to my\nconcerns. Dead men, mademoiselle, tell no tales.\"\n\n\"M. de Mayenne,\" she said, \"I cannot see that you need trouble for the\ntales of boys--you, the lord of half France. But if you must needs fear\nhis tongue, why, even then you should set him free. He is but a\nserving-boy sent here with a message. It is wanton murder to take his\nlife; it is like killing a child.\"\n\n\"He is not so harmless as you would lead one to suppose, mademoiselle,\"\nthe duke retorted. \"Since you have been eavesdropping, you have heard\nhow he upset your cousin Paul's arrangements.\"\n\n\"For that you should be thankful to him, monsieur. He has saved you the\nstain of a cowardly crime.\"\n\n\"Mordieu!\" Mayenne exclaimed, \"who foully murdered my brother?\"\n\n\"The Valois.\"\n\n\"And his henchman, St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" she cried. \"He was here in Paris when it happened. He was\nrevolted at the deed.\"\n\n\"Did they teach you that at the convent?\"\n\n\"No, but it is true. M. de St. Quentin warned my cousin Henri not to go\nto Blois.\"\n\n\"Pardieu, you think them angels, these St. Quentins.\"\n\n\"I think them brave and honest gentlemen, as I think you, Cousin\nCharles.\"\n\n\"That sounds ill on the lips that have but now called me villain and\nmurderer,\" Mayenne returned.\n\n\"I have not called you that, monsieur; I said you had been saved from\nthe guilt of murder, and I knew one day you would be glad.\"\n\nHe kept silence, eying her in a puzzled way. After a moment she went on:\n\n\"Cousin Charles, it is our lot to live in such days of blood and turmoil\nthat we know not any other way to do but injure and kill. I think you\nare more harassed and troubled than any man in France. You have Henry of\nNavarre and the Huguenots and half the provinces to fight in the field,\nand your own League to combat at home. You must make favour with each of\na dozen quarrelling factions, must strive and strive to placate and\nloyalize them all. The leaders work each for his own end, each against\nthe others and against you; and the truth is not in one of them, and\ntheir pledges are ropes of straw. They intrigue and rebel and betray\ntill you know not which way to turn, and you curse the day that made you\nhead of the League.\"\n\n\"I do curse the day Henri was killed,\" Mayenne said soberly. \"And that\nis true, Lorance. But I am head of the League, and I must do my all to\nlead it to success.\"\n\n\"But not by the path of shame!\" she cried quickly. \"Success never yet\nlay that way. Henri de Valois slew our Henri, and see how God dealt with\nhim!\"\n\nHe looked at her fixedly; I think he heeded her words less than her\nshining, earnest eyes. And he said at last:\n\n\"Well, you shall have your boy, Lorance.\"\n\n\"Ah, monsieur!\"\n\nWith tears dimming the brightness of those sweet eyes she dropped on her\nknees before him, kissing his hand.\n\nLucas, since his one unlucky outburst, had said never a word but stood\nlooking on with a ruefulness of visage that it warmed the cockles of my\nheart to see.\n\nCertes, he was in no very pleasant corner, this dear M. Paul. His\nmistress had heard his own lips describe his plot against the St.\nQuentins; there was no possibility of lying himself clear of it. Out of\nhis own mouth he was convicted of spycraft, treachery, and cowardly\nmurder. And in the Hôtel de Lorraine, as in the Hôtel de St. Quentin,\nhis betrayal had come about through me. I was unwitting agent in both\ncases; but that did not make him love me the more. Could eyes slay, I\nhad fallen of the glance he shot me over mademoiselle's bowed head; but\nwhen she rose he said to her:\n\n\"Mademoiselle, the boy is as much my prisoner as M. le Duc's, since I\ngot him here. But I, too, freely give him up to you.\"\n\nShe swept him a curtsey, silently, without looking at him. He made an\neager pace nearer her.\n\n\"Lorance,\" he cried in a low, rapid voice, \"I see I am out of your\ngraces. Now, by Our Lady, what's life worth to me if you will not take\nme back again? I admit I have tried to ruin the Comte de Mar. Is that\nany marvel, since he is my rival with you? Last March, when I was hiding\nhere and watched from my window the gay M. de Mar come airily in, day\nafter day, to see and make love to you, was it any marvel that I swore\nto bring his proud head to the dust?\"\n\nNow she turned to him and met his gaze squarely.\n\n\"The means you employed was the marvel,\" she said. \"If you did not\napprove of his visits, you had only to tell him so. He had been ready to\ndefend to you his right to make them. But you never showed him your\nface; of course, had you, you could not have become his father's\nhousemate and Judas. Oh, I blush to know that the same blood runs in\nyour veins and mine!\"\n\n\"You speak hard words, mademoiselle,\" Lucas returned, keeping his temper\nwith a stern effort. \"You forget that we live in France in war-time, and\nnot in the kingdom of heaven. I was toiling for more than my own\nrevenges. I was working at your cousin Mayenne's commands, to aid our\nholy cause, for the preservation of the Catholic Church and the Catholic\nkingdom of France.\"\n\n\"Your conversion is sudden, then; only an hour ago you were working for\nnothing and no one but Paul de Lorraine.\"\n\n\"Come, come, Lorance,\" Mayenne interposed, his caution setting him ever\non the side of compromise. \"Paul is no worse than the rest of us. He\nhates his enemies, and so do we all; he works against them to the best\nof his power, and so do we all. They are Kingsmen, we are Leaguers; they\nfight for their side, and we fight for ours. If we plot against them,\nthey plot against us; we murder lest we be murdered. We cannot scruple\nover our means. Nom de dieu, mademoiselle, what do you expect? Civil war\nis not a dancing-school.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle is right,\" Lucas said humbly, refusing any defence. \"We\nhave been using cowardly means, weapons unworthy of Christian gentlemen.\nAnd I, at least, cannot plead M. le Duc's excuse that I was blinded in\nmy zeal for the Cause. For I know and you know there is but one cause\nwith me. I went to kill St. Quentin because I was promised you for it,\nas I would have gone to kill the Pope himself. This is my excuse; I did\nit to win you. There is no crime in God's calendar I would not commit\nfor that.\"\n\nHe had possessed himself of her hand and was bending over her, burning\nher with his hot eyes. Mass of lies as the man was, in this last\nsentence I knew he spoke the truth.\n\nShe strove to free herself from him with none of the flattered pride in\nhis declaration which he had perhaps looked for. Instead, she eyed him\nwith positive fear, as if she saw no way of escape from his rampant\ndesire.\n\n\"I wish rather you would practise a little virtue to win me,\" she said.\n\n\"So I will if you ask it,\" he returned, unabashed. \"Lorance, I love you\nso there is no depth to which I could not stoop to gain you; there is\nno height to which I cannot rise. There is no shame so bitter, no danger\nso awful, that I would not face it for you. Nor is there any sacrifice I\nwill not make to gain your good will. I hate M. de Mar above any living\nman because you have smiled on him; but I will let him go for your sake.\nI swear to you before the figure of Our Blessed Lady there that I will\ndrop all enmity to Étienne de Mar. From this time forward I will neither\nmove against him nor cause others to move against him in any shape or\nmanner, so help me God!\"\n\nHe dropped her hand to kiss the cross of his sword. She retreated from\nhim, her face very pale, her breast heaving.\n\n\"You make it hard for me to know when you are speaking the truth,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"May the lightning strike me if I am lying!\" Lucas cried. \"May my tongue\nrot at the root if ever I lie to you, Lorance!\"\n\n\"Then I am very grateful and glad,\" she said gravely, and again curtsied\nto him.\n\n\"Yes, I give you my word for that, too, Lorance,\" Mayenne added. \"I have\nno quarrel with young Mar. His father has stirred up more trouble for me\nthan any dozen of Huguenots; I have my score to settle with St. Quentin.\nBut I have no quarrel with the son. I will not molest him.\"\n\n\"Grand'merci, monsieur,\" she said, sweeping him another of her graceful\nobeisances.\n\n\"Understand me, mademoiselle,\" Mayenne went on. \"I pardon him, but not\nthat he may be anything to you. That time is past. The St. Quentins are\nNavarre's men now, and our enemies. For your sake I will let Mar alone;\nbut if he come near you again, I will crush him as I would a buzzing\nfly.\"\n\n\"That I understand, monsieur,\" she answered in a low tone. \"While I live\nunder your roof, I shall not be treacherous to you. I am a Ligueuse and\nhe is a Kingsman, and there can be nothing between us. There shall be\nnothing, monsieur. I do not swear it, as Paul needs, because I have\nnever lied to you.\"\n\nShe did not once look at Lucas, yet I think she saw him wince under her\nstab. The Duke of Mayenne was right; not even Mlle. de Montluc loved her\nenemies.\n\n\"You are a good girl, Lorance,\" Mayenne said.\n\n\"Will you let the boy go now, Cousin Charles?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, I will let your boy go,\" he made answer. \"But if I do this for\nyou, I shall expect you henceforth to do my bidding.\"\n\n\"You have called me a good girl, cousin.\"\n\n\"Aye, so you are. And there is small need to look so Friday-faced about\nit. If I have denied you one lover, I will give you another just as\ngood.\"\n\n\"Am I Friday-faced?\" she said, summoning up a smile. \"Then my looks\nbelie me. For since you free this poor boy whom I was like to have\nruined I take a grateful and happy heart to bed.\"\n\n\"Aye, and you must stay happy. Pardieu, what does it matter whether your\nhusband have yellow hair or brown? My brother Henri was for getting\nhimself into a monastery because he could not have his Margot. Yet in\nless than a year he is as merry as a fiddler with the Duchesse\nKatharine.\"\n\n\"You have made me happy, to-night at least, monsieur,\" she answered\ngently, if not merrily.\n\n\"It is the most foolish act of my life,\" Mayenne answered. \"But it is\nfor you, Lorance. If ill comes to me by it, yours is the credit.\"\n\n\"You can swear him to silence, monsieur,\" she cried quickly.\n\n\"What use? He would not keep silence.\"\n\n\"He will if I ask it,\" she returned, flinging me a look of bright\nconfidence that made the blood dance in my veins. But Mayenne laughed.\n\n\"When you have lived in the world as long as I have, you will not so\nflatter yourself, Lorance.\"\n\nThus it happened that I was not bound to silence concerning what I had\nseen and heard in the house of Lorraine.\n\nMayenne took out his dagger.\n\n\"What I do I do thoroughly. I said I'd set you free. Free you shall be.\"\n\nMademoiselle sprang forward with pleading hand.\n\n\"Let me cut the cords, Cousin Charles.\"\n\nHe recoiled a bare second, the habit of a lifetime prompting him against\nthe putting of a weapon in any one's hand. Then, ashamed of the\nsuspicion, which indeed was not of her, he yielded the knife and she cut\nmy bonds. She looked straight into my eyes, with a glance earnest,\nbeseeching, loving; I could not begin to read all she meant by it. The\nnext moment she was making her deep curtsey before the duke.\n\n\"Monsieur, I shall never cease to love you for this. And now I thank you\nfor your long patience, and bid you good night.\"\n\nWith a bare inclination of the head to Lucas, she turned to go. But\nMayenne bade her pause.\n\n\"Do I get but a curtsey for my courtesy? No warmer thanks, Lorance?\"\n\nHe held out his arms to her, and she let him kiss both her cheeks.\n\n\"I will conduct you to the staircase, mademoiselle,\" he said, and taking\nher hand with stately politeness led her from the room. The light seemed\nto go from it with the gleam of her yellow gown.\n\n\"Lorance!\" Lucas cried to her, but she never turned her head. He stood\nglowering, grinding his teeth together, his glib tongue finding for once\nno way to better his sorry case. He was the picture of trickery\nrewarded; I could not repress a grin at him. Marking which, he burst out\nat me, vehemently, yet in a low tone, for Mayenne had not closed the\ndoor:\n\n\"You think I am bested, do you, you devil's brat? Let him laugh that\nwins; I shall have her yet.\"\n\n\"I will tell M. le Comte so,\" I answered with all the impudence I could\nmuster.\n\n\"By Heaven, you will tell him nothing,\" he cried. \"You will never see\ndaylight again.\"\n\n\"I have Mayenne's word,\" I began, but his retort was to draw dagger. I\ndeemed it time to stop parleying, and I did what the best of soldiers\nmust do sometimes: I ran. I bounded into the oratory, flinging the door\nto after me. He was upon it before I could get it shut, and the heavy\noak was swung this way and that between us, till it seemed as if we must\ntear it off the hinges. I contrived not to let him push it open wide\nenough to enter; meantime, as I was unarmed, I thought it no shame to\nshriek for succour. I heard an answering cry and hurrying footsteps.\nThen Lucas took his weight from the door so suddenly that mine banged it\nshut. The next minute it flew open again, mademoiselle, frightened and\npanting, on the threshold.\n\nA tall soldier with a musket stood at her back; at one side Lucas\nlounged by the cabinet where the duke had set down the light. His right\nhand he held behind his back, while with his left he poked his dagger\ninto the candle-flame.\n\nMayenne, red and puffing, hurried into the room.\n\n\"What is the pother?\" he demanded. \"What devilment now, Paul?\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle's protégé is nervous,\" Lucas answered with a fine sneer.\n\"When I drew out my knife to get the thief from the candle he screamed\nto wake the dead and took sanctuary in the oratory.\"\n\nI had given him the lie then and there, but as I emerged from the\ndarkness Mayenne commanded:\n\n\"Take him out to the street, d'Auvray.\"\n\nThe tall musketeer, saluting, motioned me to precede him. For a moment I\nhesitated, burning to defend my valour before mademoiselle. Then,\nreflecting how much harm my hasty tongue had previously done me, and\nthat the path to freedom was now open before me, I said nothing. Nor had\nI need. For as I turned she flashed over to Lucas and said straight in\nhis face:\n\n\"When you marry me, Paul de Lorraine, you will marry a dead wife.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n_\"I'll win my lady!\"_\n\n\nLucas's prophecy came to grief within five minutes of the making. For\nwhen the musketeer unbarred the house door for me, the first thing I saw\nwas the morning sun.\n\nMy spirits danced at sight of him, as he himself might dance on Easter\nday. Within the close, candle-lit room I had had no thought but that it\nwas still black midnight; and now at one step I passed from the gloomy\nhouse into the heartening sunshine of a new clean day. I ran along as\njoyously as if I had left the last of my troubles behind me, forgotten\nin some dark corner of the Hôtel de Lorraine. Always my heart lifts\nwhen, after hours within walls, I find myself in the open again. I am\nafraid in houses, but out of doors I have no fear of harm from any man\nor any thing.\n\nThough Sir Sun was risen this half-hour, and at home we should all have\nbeen about our business, these lazy Paris folk were still snoring. They\nliked well to turn night into day and lie long abed of a morning.\nAlthough here a shopkeeper took down shutters, and there a brisk\nservant-lass swept the door-step, yet I walked through a sleeping city,\nquiet as our St. Quentin woods, save that here my footsteps echoed in\nthe emptiness. At length, with the knack I have, whatever my\nstupidities, of finding my way in a strange place, I arrived before the\ncourtyard of the Trois Lanternes. The big wooden doors were indeed shut,\nbut when I had pounded lustily awhile a young tapster, half clad and\ncross as a bear, opened to me. I vouchsafed him scant apology, but,\ndropping on a heap of hay under a shed in the court, passed straightway\ninto dreamless slumber.\n\nWhen I awoke my good friend the sun was looking down at me from near his\nzenith, and my first happy thought was that I was just in time for\ndinner. Then I discovered that I had been prodded out of my rest by the\npitchfork of a hostler.\n\n\"Sorry to disturb monsieur, but the horses must be fed.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am obliged to you,\" I said, rubbing my eyes. \"I must go up to M.\nle Comte.\"\n\n\"He has been himself to look at you, and gave orders you were not to be\ndisturbed. But that was last week. Dame! you slept like a sabot.\"\n\nIt did not take me long to brush the straw off me, wash my face at the\ntrough, and present myself before monsieur. He was dressed and sitting\nat table in his bedchamber, while a drawer served him with dinner.\n\n\"You are out of bed, monsieur,\" I cried.\n\n\"But yes,\" he answered, springing up, \"I am as well as ever I was.\nFélix, what has happened to you?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"SORRY TO DISTURB MONSIEUR, BUT THE HORSES MUST BE\nFED.\"]\n\nI glanced at the serving-man; M. Étienne ordered him at once from the\nroom.\n\n\"Now tell me quickly,\" he cried, as I faltered, tongue-tied from very\nrichness of matter. \"Mademoiselle?\"\n\n\"Ah, mademoiselle!\" I exclaimed. \"Mademoiselle is--\" I paused in a\ndearth of words worthy of her.\n\n\"She is, she is!\" he agreed, laughing. \"Oh, go on, you little slow-poke!\nYou saw her? And she said--\"\n\nHe was near to laying hands on me, to hurry my tale.\n\n\"I saw her and Mayenne and Lucas and ever so many things,\" I told him.\n\"And they had me flogged, and mademoiselle loves you.\"\n\n\"She does!\" he cried, flushing. \"Félix, does she? You cannot know.\"\n\n\"But I do know it,\" I answered, not very lucidly. \"You see, she wouldn't\nhave wept so much, just over me.\"\n\n\"Did she weep? Lorance?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"They flogged me,\" I said. \"They didn't hurt me much. But she came down\nin the night with a candle and cried over me.\"\n\n\"And what said she? Now I am sorry they beat you. Who did that? Mayenne?\nWhat said she, Félix?\"\n\n\"And then,\" I went on, not heeding his questions in sudden remembrance\nof my crowning news, \"Mayenne and Lucas came in. And here is something\nyou do not know, monsieur. Lucas is Paul de Lorraine, Henri de Guise's\nson.\"\n\n\"Mille tonnerres du ciel! But he is a Huguenot, a Rochelais!\"\n\n\"Yes, but he is a son of Henri le Balafré. His mother was Rochelaise, I\nthink. He was a spy for Navarre and captured at Ivry. They were going to\nhang him when Mayenne, worse luck, recognized him for a nephew. Since\nthen he has been spying for them. Because Mayenne promised him Mlle. de\nMontluc in marriage.\"\n\nHe stared at me with dropped jaw, absolutely too startled to swear.\n\n\"He has not got her yet!\" I cried. \"Mayenne told him he should have her\nwhen he had killed St. Quentin. And St. Quentin is alive.\"\n\n\"Great God!\" said M. Étienne, only half aloud, dropping down on the arm\nof his chair, overcome to realize the issue that had hung on a paltry\nhandful of pistoles. Then, recovering, himself a little, he cried:\n\n\"But she--mademoiselle?\"\n\n\"You need give yourself no uneasiness there,\" I said. \"Mademoiselle\nhates him.\"\n\n\"Does she know--\"\n\n\"I think she understands quite well what Lucas is,\" I made answer.\n\"Monsieur, I must tell you everything that happened from the beginning,\nor I shall never make it clear to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, go on,\" he cried.\n\nHe sat down at table again, with the intention of eating his dinner as I\ntalked, but precious few mouthfuls he took. At every word I spoke he got\ndeeper into the interest of my tale. I never talked so much in my life,\nme, as I did those few days. I was always relating a history, to\nMonsieur, to mademoiselle, to M. Étienne, to--well, you shall know.\n\nI had finished at length, and he burst out at me:\n\n\"You little scamp, you have all the luck! I never saw such a boy! Well\ndo they call you Félix! Mordieu, here I lie lapped in bed like a baby,\nwhile you go forth knight-erranting. I must lie here with old Galen for\nall company, while you bandy words with the Generalissimo himself! And\nmake faces at Lucas, and kiss the hands of mademoiselle! But I'll stand\nit no longer. I'm done with lying abed and letting you have all the fun.\nNo; to-day I shall take part myself.\"\n\n\"But monsieur's arm--\"\n\n\"Pshaw, it is well!\" he cried. \"It is a scratch--it is nothing. Pardieu,\nit takes more than that to put a St. Quentin out of the reckoning.\nTo-day is no time for sloth; I must act.\"\n\n\"Monsieur--\" I began, but he broke in on me:\n\n\"Nom de dieu, Félix, are we to sit idle while mademoiselle is carried\noff by that beast Lucas?\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" I said. \"I was only trying to ask what monsieur meant\nto do.\"\n\n\"To take the moon in my teeth,\" he cried.\n\n\"Yes, monsieur, but how?\"\n\n\"Ah, if I knew!\"\n\nHe stared at me as if he would read the answer in my face, but he found\nit as blank as the wall. He flung away and made a turn down the room,\nand came back to seize me by the arm.\n\n\"How are we to do it, Félix?\" he demanded.\n\nBut I could only shrug my shoulders and answer:\n\n\"Sais pas.\"\n\nHe paced the floor once more, and presently faced me again with the\ndeclaration:\n\n\"Lucas shall have her only over my dead body.\"\n\n\"He will only have her own dead body,\" I said.\n\nHe turned away abruptly and stood at the window, looking out with\nunseeing eyes. \"Lorance--Lorance,\" he murmured to himself. I think he\ndid not know he spoke aloud.\n\n\"If I could get word to her--\" he went on presently. \"But I can't send\nyou again. Should I write a letter--But letters are mischievous. They\nfall into the wrong hands, and then where are we?\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I suggested, \"if I could get a letter into the hands of\nPierre, that lackey who befriended me--\" But he shook his head.\n\n\"They know you about the place. It were safer to despatch one of these\ninn-men--if any had the sense to go rein in hand. Hang me if I don't\nthink I'll go myself!\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I said, \"Lucas swore by all things sacred that he would\nnever molest you more. Therefore you will do well to keep out of his\nway.\"\n\n\"My faith, Félix,\" he laughed, \"you take a black view of mankind.\"\n\n\"Not of mankind, M. Étienne. Only of Lucas. Not of Monsieur, or you, or\nVigo.\"\n\n\"And of Mayenne?\"\n\n\"I don't make out Mayenne,\" I answered. \"I thought he was the worst of\nthe crew. But he let me go. He said he would, and he did.\"\n\n\"Think you he meant to let you go from the first?\"\n\n\"Who knows?\" I said, shrugging. \"Lucas is always lying. But\nMayenne--sometimes he lies and sometimes not. He's base, and then again\nhe's kind. You can't make out Mayenne.\"\n\n\"He does not mean you shall,\" M. Étienne returned. \"Yet the key is not\nburied. He is made up, like all the rest of us, of good and bad.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I said, \"if there is any bad in the St. Quentins I, for one,\ndo not know it.\"\n\n\"Ah, Félix,\" he cried, \"you may believe that till doomsday--you will--of\nMonsieur.\"\n\nHis face clouded a little, and he fell silent. I knew that, besides his\nthoughts of his lady, came other thoughts of his father. He sat gravely\nsilent. But of last night's bitter distress he showed no trace. Last\nnight he had not been able to take his eyes from the miserable past; but\nto-day he saw the future. A future not altogether flowery, perhaps, but\none which, however it turned out, should not repeat the old mistakes and\nshames.\n\n\"Félix,\" he said at length, \"I see nothing for it but to eat my pride.\"\n\nI kept still in the happy hope that I should hear just what I longed to;\nhe went on:\n\n\"I swore then that I would never darken his doors again; I was mad with\nanger; so was he. He said if I went with Gervais I went forever.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, if you repent your hot words, so does he.\"\n\n\"I must e'en give him the chance. If he do repent them, it were\nchurlish to deny him the opportunity to tell me so. If he still maintain\nthem, it were cowardly to shrink from hearing it. No, whatever Monsieur\nreplies, I must go tell him I repent.\"\n\nI came forward to kiss his hand, I was so pleased.\n\n\"Oh, you look very smiling over it,\" he cried. \"Think you I like\nsneaking back home again like a whipped hound to his kennel?\"\n\n\"But,\" I protested, indignant, \"monsieur is not a whipped hound.\"\n\n\"Well, a prodigal son, as Lucas named me yesterday. It is the same\nthing.\"\n\n\"I have heard M. l'Abbé read the story of the prodigal son,\" I said.\n\"And he was a vaurien, if you like--no more monsieur's sort than Lucas\nhimself. But it says that when his father saw him coming a long way off,\nhe ran out to meet him and fell on his neck.\"\n\nM. Étienne looked not altogether convinced.\n\n\"Well, however it turns out, it must be gone through with. It is only\ndecent to go to Monsieur. But even at that, I think I should not go if\nit were not for mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"You will beg his aid, monsieur?\"\n\n\"I will beg his advice at least. For how you and I are to carry off\nmademoiselle under Mayenne's hand--well, I confess for the nonce that\nbeats me.\"\n\n\"We must do it, monsieur,\" I cried.\n\n\"Aye, and we will! Come, Félix, you may put your knife in my dish. We\nmust eat and be off. The meats have got cold and the wine warm, but\nnever mind.\"\n\nI did not mind, but was indeed thankful to get any dinner at all. Once\nresolved on the move, he was in a fever to be off; it was not long\nbefore we were in the streets, bound for the Hôtel St. Quentin. He said\nno more of Monsieur as we walked, but plied me with questions about\nMlle. de Montluc--not only as to every word she said, but as to every\nturn of her head and flicker of her eyelids; and he called me a dull oaf\nwhen I could not answer. But as we entered the Quartier Marais he fell\nsilent, more Friday-faced than ever his lady looked. He had his fair\nallowance of pride, this M. Étienne; he found his own words no palatable\nmeal.\n\nHowever, when we came within a dozen paces of the gate he dropped, as\none drops a cloak, all signs of gloom or discomposure, and approached\nthe entrance with the easy swagger of the gay young gallant who had\nlived there. As if returning from a morning stroll he called to the\nsentry:\n\n\"Holà, squinting Charlot! Open now!\"\n\n\"Morbleu, M. le Comte!\" the fellow exclaimed, running to draw the bolts.\n\"Well, this is a sight for sore eyes, anyway.\"\n\nM. Étienne laughed out in pleasure. It put heart into him, I could see,\nthat his first greeting should be thus friendly.\n\n\"Vigo didn't know what had become of you, monsieur,\" Chariot\nvolunteered. \"The old man wasn't in the best of tempers last night,\nafter Lucas got away and you gave us the slip, too. He called us all\nblockheads and cursed idiots. Things were lively for a time, nom d'un\nchien!\"\n\n\"Eh bien, I am found,\" M. Étienne returned. \"In time we'll get Lucas,\ntoo. Is Monsieur back?\"\n\n\"No, M. Étienne, not yet.\"\n\nI think he was half sorry, half glad.\n\n\"Where's Vigo?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Somewhere about. I'll find him for monsieur.\"\n\n\"No, stay at your post. I'll find him.\"\n\nHe went straight across the court and in at the door he had sworn never\nagain to darken. Humility and repentance might have brought him there,\nbut it was the hand of mademoiselle drew him over the threshold without\na falter.\n\nAlone in the hall was my little friend Marcel, throwing dice against\nhimself to while the time away. He sprang up at sight of us, agleam with\nexcitement.\n\n\"Well, Marcel,\" my master said, \"and where is M. l'Écuyer?\"\n\n\"I think in the stables, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Bid him come to me in the small cabinet.\"\n\nHe turned with accustomed feet into the room at the end of the hall\nwhere Vigo kept the rolls of the guard. I, knowing it to be my duty to\nkeep close at hand lest I be wanted, followed. Soon Marcel came flying\nback to say Vigo was on his way. M. Étienne thanked him, and he hung\nabout, longing to pump me, and, in my lord's presence, not quite daring,\ntill I took him by the shoulders and turned him out. I hate curiosity.\n\nM. Étienne stood behind the table, looking his haughtiest. He was unsure\nof a welcome from the contumacious Vigo; I read in his eyes a stern\ndetermination to set this insolent servant in his place.\n\nThe big man entered, saluted, came straight over to his young lord's\nside, no whit hesitating, and said, as heartily as if there had never\nbeen a hard word between them:\n\n\"M. Étienne, I had liefer see you stand here than the king himself.\"\n\nM. Étienne displayed the funniest face of bafflement. He had been\nprepared to lash rudeness or sullenness, to accept, de haut en bas,\nshamed contrition. But this easy cordiality took the wind out of his\nsails. He stared, and then flushed, and then laughed. And then he held\nout his hand, saying simply:\n\n\"Thank you, Vigo.\"\n\nVigo bent over to kiss it in cheerful ignorance of how that hand had\nitched to box his ears.\n\n\"What became of you last night, M. Étienne?\" he inquired.\n\n\"I was hunting Lucas. When does Monsieur return, Vigo?\"\n\n\"He thought he might be back to-day. But he could not tell.\"\n\n\"Have you sent to tell him about me?\" he asked, colouring.\n\n\"No, I couldn't do that,\" Vigo said. \"You see, it is quite on the cards\nthat the Spanish gang may come hither to clean us out. I want every man\nI have if they do.\"\n\n\"I understand that,\" M. Étienne said, \"but--\"\n\n\"So long as you are innocent a day or two matters not,\" Vigo\npronounced. \"He will presently turn up here or send word that he will\nnot return till the king comes in. But since you are impatient, M. le\nComte, you can go to him at St. Denis. If _he_ can get through the gates\n_you_ can.\"\n\n\"Aye, but I have business in Paris. I mean to join King Henry, Vigo.\nThere's glory going begging out there at St. Denis. It would like me\nwell to bear away my share. But--\"\n\nHe broke off, to begin again abruptly:\n\n\"Ah, Vigo, that still tongue of yours! You knew, then, that there was\nmore cause of trouble between my father and me than the pistoles?\"\n\n\"I knew he suspected you of a kindness for the League, monsieur. But you\nare cured of that.\"\n\n\"There you are wrong. For I never had it, and I am not cured of it. If I\nhung around the Hôtel de Lorraine, it was not for politics; it was for\npetticoats.\"\n\nVigo made no answer, but the corners of his grim mouth twitched.\n\n\"That's no news, either? Well, then, since you know so much, you may as\nwell know more. Step up, Félix, and tell your tale.\"\n\nI did as I was bid, M. Étienne now and then taking the words out of my\nmouth in his eagerness, Vigo listening to us both with grave attention.\nI had for the second time in my career the pleasure of startling him out\nof his iron composure when I told him the true name and condition of\nLucas. But at the end of the adventure all the comment he made was:\n\n\"A fool for luck.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said M. Étienne, impatiently, \"is that all you have to say? What\nare we to do about it?\"\n\n\"Do? Why, nothing.\"\n\n\"Nothing?\" he cried, with his hand on his sword. \"Nothing? And let that\nscoundrel have her?\"\n\n\"That is M. de Mayenne's affair,\" Vigo said. \"We can't help it.\"\n\n\"I will help it!\" M. Étienne declared. \"Mordieu! Am I to let that\ntraitor, that spy, that soul of dirt, marry Mlle. de Montluc?\"\n\n\"What Mayenne wishes he'll have,\" Vigo said. \"Some day you will surely\nget a chance to fight Lucas, monsieur.\"\n\n\"And meantime he is to enjoy her?\"\n\n\"It is a pity,\" Vigo admitted. \"But there is Mayenne. Can we storm the\nHôtel de Lorraine? No one can drink up the sea.\"\n\n\"One could if he wanted to as much as I want mademoiselle,\" my lord\ndeclared.\n\nBut Vigo shook his head.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" he said gravely, \"monsieur, you have a great chance. You\nhave a sword and a good cause to draw it in. What more should a man ask\nin the world than that? Your father has been without it these three\nyears, and for want of it he has eaten his heart out. You have been\nwithout it, and you have got yourself into all sorts of mischief. But\nnow all that is coming straight. King Henry is turning Catholic, so that\na man may follow him without offence to God. He is a good fellow and a\nfirst-rate general. He's just out there, at St. Denis. There's your\nplace, M. Étienne.\"\n\n\"Not to-day, Vigo.\"\n\n\"Yes, M. Étienne, to-day. Be advised, monsieur,\" Vigo said with his\nsteady persistence. \"There is nothing to gain by staying here to drink\nup the sea. Mayenne will no more give your lady to you now than he would\ngive her to Félix. And you can no more carry her off than could Félix.\nMayenne will have you killed and flung into the Seine, as easy as eat\nbreakfast.\"\n\n\"And you bid me grudge my life? Strange counsel from you, Vigo.\"\n\n\"No, monsieur, but I bid you not throw it away. We all hope to die\nafield, but we have a preference how and where. If you fell fighting for\nNavarre, I should be sorry; Monsieur would grieve deep. But we should\nsay it was well; we grudged not your life to the country and the king.\nWhile, if you fall in this fool affair--\"\n\n\"I fall for my lady,\" M. Étienne finished. \"The bravest captain of them\nall does no better than that.\"\n\n\"M. Étienne, she is no wife for you. You cannot get her. And if you\ncould 'twere pity. She is a Ligueuse, and you from now on are a staunch\nKingsman. Give her up, monsieur. You have had this maggot in your brain\nthis four years. Once for all, get it out. Go to St. Denis; take your\ntroop among Biron's horse. That is the place for you. You will marry a\nmaid of honour and die a marshal of France.\"\n\nM. Étienne laid his arm around Vigo's shoulder with a smile.\n\n\"Good old Vigo! Vigo, tell me this; if you saw a marshal's baton waiting\nyou in the field, and at home your dearest friend were alone and in\nperil, would you go off after glory?\"\n\n\"Aye, if 'twas a hopeless business to stay, certes I would go.\"\n\n\"Oh, tell that in Bedlam!\" M. Étienne cried. \"You would do nothing of\nthe sort. Was it to win glory you stayed three years in that hole, St.\nQuentin?\"\n\n\"I had no choice, monsieur. My master was there.\"\n\n\"And my mistress is here! You may save your breath, Vigo; I know what I\nshall do. The eloquence of monk Christin wouldn't change me.\"\n\n\"What is your purpose, M. Étienne?\" Vigo asked.\n\nIndeed, there was a vagueness about his scheme as revealed to us.\n\n\"It is quite simple. I purpose to get speech with mademoiselle if I can\ncontrive it, and I think I can. I purpose to smuggle her out of the\nHôtel de Lorraine--such feats have been accomplished before and may be\nagain. Then I shall bring her here and hold her against all comers.\"\n\n\"No,\" Vigo said, \"no, monsieur. You may not do that.\"\n\n\"Ventre bleu, Vigo!\" his young lord cried.\n\n\"No,\" said Vigo. \"I can't have her here, and Mayenne's army after her.\"\n\n\"Coward!\" shouted M. Étienne.\n\nI thought Vigo would take us both by the scruff of our necks and throw\nus out of the place. But he answered undisturbed:\n\n\"No, that is not the reason, monsieur. If M. le Duc told me to hold this\nhouse against the armies of France and Spain, I'd hold it till the last\nman of us was dead. But I am here in his absence to guard his hôtel, his\nmoneys, and his papers. I don't call it guarding to throw a firebrand\namong them. Bringing Mayenne's niece here would be worse than that.\"\n\n\"Monsieur would never hesitate! Monsieur is no chicken-heart!\" M.\nÉtienne cried. \"If he were here, he'd say, 'We'll defend the lady if\nevery stone in this house is pulled from its fellow!'\"\n\nA twinkle came into Vigo's eyes.\n\n\"I think that is likely true,\" he said. \"Monsieur opposed the marriage\nas long as Mayenne desired it; but now that Mayenne forbids it, stealing\nthe demoiselle is another pair of sleeves.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" cried M. Étienne, all good humour in a moment, \"what more\ndo you want? We'll divert ourselves pouring pitch out of the windows on\nMayenne's ruffians.\"\n\n\"No, M. Étienne, it can't be done. If M. le Duc were here and gave the\ncommand to receive her, that would be one thing. No one would obey with\na readier heart than I. Mordieu, monsieur, I have no objection to\nsuccouring a damsel in distress; I have been in the business before\nnow.\"\n\n\"Then why not now? Death of my life, Vigo! When I know, and you know,\nMonsieur would approve.\"\n\n\"I don't know it, monsieur,\" Vigo said. \"I only think it. And I cannot\nmove by my own guesswork. I am in charge of the house till Monsieur\nreturns. I purpose to do nothing to jeopard it. But I interfere in no\nway with your liberty to proceed as you please.\"\n\n\"I should think not, forsooth!\" M. Étienne blazed out furiously.\n\n\"I could,\" rejoined Vigo, with his maddening tranquillity. \"I could\norder the guard--and they would obey--to lock you up in your chamber. I\nbelieve Monsieur would thank me for it. But I don't do it. I leave you\nfree to act as it likes you.\"\n\nMy lord was white with ire.\n\n\"Who is master here, you or I?\"\n\n\"Neither of us, M. le Comte. But Monsieur, leaving, put the keys in my\nhand, and I am head of the house till he returns. You are very angry, M.\nÉtienne, but my shoulders are broad enough to bear it. Your madness will\nget no countenance from me.\"\n\n\"Hang you for an obstinate pig!\" M. Étienne cried.\n\nVigo said no more. He had made plain his position; he had naught to add\nor retract. Yeux-gris's face cleared. After all, there was no use being\nangry with Vigo; one might as well make fists at the flow of the Seine.\n\n\"Very well.\" M. Étienne swallowed his wrath. \"It is understood that I\nget no aid from you. Then I have nobody in the world with me save Félix\nhere. But for all that I'll win my lady!\"\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n_To the Bastille._\n\n\nBut Vigo proved better than his word. If he would give us no\ncountenance, he gave freely good broad gold pieces. He himself suggested\nM. Étienne's need of the sinews of war, not in the least embarrassed or\noffended because he knew M. le Comte to be angry with him. He was no\nfeather ruffled, serene in the consciousness that he was absolutely in\nthe right. His position was impregnable; neither persuasion, ridicule,\nnor abuse moved him one whit. He had but a single purpose in life; he\nwas born to forward the interests of the Duke of St. Quentin. He would\nforward them, if need were, over our bleeding corpses.\n\nOn top of all his disobedience and disrespect he was most amiable to M.\nÉtienne, treating him with a calm assumption of friendliness that would\nhave maddened a saint. Yet it was not hypocrisy; he liked his young\nlord, as we all did. He would not let him imperil Monsieur, but aside\nfrom that he wished him every good fortune in the world.\n\nM. Étienne argued no more. He was wroth and sore over Vigo's attitude,\nbut he said little. He accepted the advance of money--\"Of course\nMonsieur would say, What coin is his is yours,\" Vigo explained--and\ndespatched me to settle his score at the Three Lanterns.\n\nI set out on my errand rather down in the mouth. We had accomplished\nnothing by our return to the hôtel. Nay, rather had we lost, for we were\nboth of us, I thought, disheartened by the cold water flung on our\nambitions. I took the liberty of doubting whether perfect loyalty to\nMonsieur included thwarting and disobeying his heir. It was all very\nwell for Monsieur to spoil Vigo and let him speak his mind as became not\nhis station, for Vigo never disobeyed _him_, but stood by him in all\nthings. But I imagined that, were M. Étienne master, Vigo, for all his\nyears of service, would be packed off the premises in short order.\n\nI walked along in a brown study, wondering how M. Étienne did purpose to\nrescue mademoiselle. His scheme, so far as vouchsafed to me, was\nsomewhat in the air. I could only hope he had more in his mind than he\nhad let me know. It seemed to me a pity not to be doing something in the\nmatter, and though I had no particular liking for Hôtel de Lorraine\nhospitality, I had very willingly been bound thither at this moment to\ntry to get a letter to mademoiselle. But he would not send me.\n\n\"No,\" he had said, \"it won't do. Think of something better, Félix.\"\n\nBut I could not, and so was taking my dull way to the inn of the Trois\nLanternes.\n\nThe city wore a sleepy afternoon look. It was very hot, and few cared\nto be stirring. I saw nothing worth my notice until, only a stone's\nthrow from the Three Lanterns, I came upon a big black coach standing at\nthe door of a rival auberge, L'Oie d'Or. It aroused my interest at once,\nfor a travelling-coach was a rare sight in the beleaguered city. As my\nmaster had said, this was not a time of pleasure-trips to Paris. I\nreadily imagined that the owner of this chariot came on weighty business\nindeed. He might be an ambassador from Spain, a legate from Rome.\n\nI paused by the group of street urchins who were stroking the horses and\nclambering on the back of the coach, to wonder whether it would be worth\nwhile to wait and see the dignitary come out. I was just going to ask\nthe coachman a question or two concerning his journey, when he began to\nsnap his whip about the bare legs of the little whelps. The street was\nso narrow that he could hardly chastise them without danger to me, so it\nseemed best to saunter off. The screaming urchins stopped just out of\nthe reach of his lash and set to pelting mud at him with a right good\nwill, but I was too old for that game. I reflected that I was charged\nwith business for my master, and that it was nothing to me what envoys\nmight come to Mayenne. I went on into the Three Lanterns.\n\nThe cabaret was absolutely deserted; one might have walked all about and\ncarried off what he pleased, as from the sleeping palace in the tale.\n\"This is a pretty way to keep an inn,\" I thought. \"Where have all the\nlazy rascals got to?\" Then I heard a confused murmur of voices and\nshuffle of feet from the back, and I went through into the passage where\nthe staircase was.\n\nHere were gathered, in a huddle, like scared sheep, some dozen of the\nserving-folk, men and maids, the lasses most of them in tears, the men\nlooking scarce less terrified. Their gaze was fixed on the closed door\nof Maître Menard's little counting-room, whence issued the shrill cry:\n\n\"Spare me, noble gentlemen! Spare a poor innkeeper! I swear I know\nnothing of his whereabouts.\"\n\nAs my footsteps sounded on the threshold, one and all spun round to look\nat me in fresh dread.\n\n\"Mon dieu, it is his lackey!\" a chambermaid cried. In the next second a\nlittle wiry dame, her eyes blazing with fury, darted out of the group\nand seized me by the arm with a grip of her nails that made me think a\npanther had got me.\n\n\"So here you are,\" she screamed. I declare I thought she was going to\nbite me. \"Oh-h-h, you and your fine master, that come here and devour\nour substance and never pay one sou, but bring ruin to the house! Now,\ngo you straight in there and let them squeeze your throat awhile, and\nsee how you like it yourself!\"\n\nShe swept me across the passage like a whirlwind, opened the door,\nshoved me in, and banged it after me before I could collect my senses.\n\nThe room was small; it was very well filled up by a bureau, a strong\nbox, a table, two chairs, three soldiers, one innkeeper, and myself.\n\nThe bureau stood by the window, with Maître Menard's account-books on\nit. Opposite was the table, with a captain of dragoons on it. Of his two\nmen, one took the middle of the room, amusing himself with the windpipe\nof Maître Menard; the other was posted at the door. I was shot out of\nMme. Menard's grasp into his, and I found his the gentler of the two.\n\n\"I say I know not where he went,\" Maître Menard was gasping, black in\nthe face from the dragoon's attentions. \"He did not tell--I have no\nnotion. Ah--\" The breath failed him utterly, but his eyes, bloodshot and\nbulging, rolled toward me.\n\n\"What now?\" the captain cried, springing to his feet. \"Who are you?\"\n\nHe wore under his breastplate what I took to be the uniform of the city\nguards. I had seen the like on the officer of the gate the night I\nentered Paris. He was a young man of a decidedly bourgeois appearance,\nas if he were not much, outside of his uniform.\n\n\"My name is Félix Broux,\" I said. \"I came to pay a bill--\"\n\n\"His servant,\" Maître Menard contrived to murmur, the dragoon allowing\nhim a breath.\n\n\"Oh, you are the Comte de Mar's servant, are you? Where have you left\nyour master?\"\n\n\"What do you want of him?\" I asked in turn.\n\n\"Never you mind. I want him.\"\n\n\"But Mayenne said he should not be touched,\" I cried. \"The Duke of\nMayenne said himself he should not be touched.\"\n\n\"I know nothing about that,\" he returned, a trifle more civilly than he\nhad spoken. \"I have naught to do with the Duke of Mayenne. If he is\nfriends with your master, M. de Mar may not stay behind bars very long.\nBut I have the governor's warrant for his arrest.\"\n\n\"On what charge?\"\n\n\"A trifle. Merely murder.\"\n\n\"_Murder?_\"\n\n\"Yes, the murder of a lackey, one Pontou.\"\n\n\"But that is ridiculous!\" I cried. \"M. le Comte did not--\"\n\nI came to a halt, not knowing what to say. \"Lucas--Paul de Lorraine\nkilled him,\" was on the tip of my tongue, but I choked it down. To fling\nwild accusations against a great man's man were no wisdom. By accident I\nhad given the officer the impression that we were friends of Mayenne. I\nshould do ill to imperil the delusion. \"M. le Comte--\" I began again,\nand again stopped. I meant to say that monsieur had never left the inn\nlast night; he could have had no hand in the crime. Then I bethought me\nthat I had better not know the hour of the murder. \"M. le Comte is a\nvery grand gentleman; he would not murder a lackey,\" I got out at last.\n\n\"You can tell that to the judges,\" the captain rejoined.\n\nAt this I felt ice sliding down my spine. To be arrested as a witness\nwas the last thing I desired.\n\n\"I know nothing whatever about it,\" I cried. \"He seemed to me a very\nfine gentleman. But you can't always tell about these nobles. The Comte\nde Mar, I've only known him twenty-four hours. Until he engaged me as\nlackey, yesterday afternoon, I had never laid eyes on him. I know not\nwhat he has been about. He engaged me yesterday to carry a message for\nhim to the Hôtel St. Quentin. I came into Paris but night before last,\nand put up at the Amour de Dieu in the Rue Coupejarrets. Yesterday he\nemployed me to run his errands, and last night brought me here with him.\nBut I had never seen him till this time yesterday. I know nothing about\nhim save that he seemed a very free-handed, easy master.\"\n\nTo a nice ear I might have seemed a little too voluble, but the captain\nonly laughed at my patent fright.\n\n\"Oh, you need not look so whey-faced; I have no warrant for your arrest.\nI dare say you are as great a rogue as he, but the order says nothing\nabout you. Don't swoon away; you are in no peril.\"\n\nI was stung to be thought such a craven, but I pocketed the insult, and\nmerely answered:\n\n\"I assure you, monsieur, I know naught of the matter.\" Yesterday I would\nhave blurted out to him the whole truth; decidedly my experiences were\nteaching me something.\n\n\"Come now, I can't fool about here all day,\" he said impatiently. \"Tell\nme where that precious master of yours is now. And be quicker about it\nthan this old mule.\"\n\nMaître Menard, then, had told them nothing--staunch old loyalist. He\nknew perfectly that M. le Comte had gone home, and they had throttled\nhim, and yet he had not told. Well, he should not lose by it.\n\n\"Monsieur is about the streets somewhere. On my life, I know not where.\nBut I know he will be back here to supper.\"\n\n\"Oh, you don't know, don't you? Then perhaps Gaspard can quicken your\nmemory.\"\n\nAt the word the soldier who had attended to Maître Menard came over to\nme and taught me how it feels to be hanged. I said to myself that if I\nhad talked like a dastard I was not one, and every time he let me speak\nI gasped, \"I don't know.\" The room was black to me, and the sea roared\nin my ears, and I wondered whether I had done well to tell the lie. For\nhad I said that my master was in the Hôtel St Quentin, still those\nfellows would have found it no easy job to take him. Vigo might not be\nready to defend Mlle. de Montluc, but he would defend Monsieur's heir to\nthe last gasp. Yet I would not yield before the choking Maître Menard\nhad withstood, and I stuck to my lie.\n\nThen I bethought me, while the room reeled about me and my head seemed\nlike to burst, that perchance if they should keep me here a captive for\nM. le Comte's arrival he might really follow to see what had become of\nme. I turned sick with the fear of it, and resolved on the truth. But\nGaspard's last gullet-gripe had robbed me of the power to speak. I could\nonly pant and choke. As I struggled painfully for wind, the door was\nflung open before a tall young man in black. Through the haze that hung\nbefore my vision I saw the soldier seize him as he crossed the\nthreshold. Through the noise of waters I heard the captain's cry of\ntriumph.\n\n\"Oh, M. Étienne!\" I gasped, in agony that my pain had been for nothing.\nNow all was lost. Then the blur lifted, and my amazed eyes beheld not my\nmaster, but--Lucas!\n\n\"How now, sirrah?\" he cried to the dragoon. \"Hands off me, knaves!\" For\nthe second soldier had seized his other arm.\n\n\"I regret to inconvenience monsieur,\" the captain answered, \"but he is\nwanted at the Bastille.\"\n\n\"Wanted? I?\" Lucas cried, fear flashing into his eyes.\n\nHe felt an instant's terror, I deem, lest Mayenne had betrayed him.\nQuick as he was, he did not see that he had been taken for another man.\n\n\"You, monsieur. You are wanted for the murder of your man, Pontou.\"\n\nHe grew white, looking instinctively at me, remembering where I had been\nat three o'clock this morning.\n\n\"It is a lie! He left my service a month back and I have never seen him\nsince.\"\n\n\"Tell that to the judges,\" the captain said, as he had said to me. \"I am\nnot trying you. The handcuffs, men.\"\n\nOne of them produced a pair. Lucas struggled frantically in his captors'\ngrasp. He dragged them from one end of the room to the other, calling\ndown all the curses of Heaven upon them; but they snapped the handcuffs\non for all that.\n\n\"If this is Mayenne's work--\" he panted.\n\nThe officer caught nothing but the name Mayenne.\n\n\"The boy said you were a friend to his Grace, monsieur, but orders are\norders. I have the warrant for your arrest from M. de Belin.\"\n\n\"At whose instigation?\"\n\n\"How should I know'? I am a soldier of the guard. I have naught to do\nwith it but to arrest you.\"\n\n\"Let me see the warrant.\"\n\n\"I am not obliged to. But I will, though. It may quiet your bluster.\"\n\nHe took out the warrant and held it at a safe distance before Lucas's\neyes. A great light broke in on that personage.\n\n\"Mille tonnerres! I am not the Comte de Mar!\"\n\n\"Oh, you say that now, do you? Pity you had not thought of it sooner.\"\n\n\"But I am not the Comte de Mar! I am Paul de Lorraine, nephew to my Lord\nMayenne.\"\n\n\"Why don't you say straight out that you're the Duc de Guise?\"\n\n\"I am not the Due de Guise,\" Lucas returned with dignity. He must have\nbeen cursing himself that he had not given his name sooner. \"But I am\nhis brother.\"\n\n\"You take me for a fool.\"\n\n\"Aye, who shall hang for his folly!\"\n\n\"You must think me a fool,\" the captain repeated. \"The Duke of Guise's\neldest brother is but seventeen--\"\n\n\"I did not say I was legitimate.\"\n\n\"Oh, you did not say that? You did not know, then, that I could reel off\nthe ages of every Lorraine of them all. No, M. de Mar, I am not so\nsimple as you think. You will come along with me to the Bastille.\"\n\n\"Blockhead! I'll have you broken on the wheel for this,\" Lucas stormed.\n\"I am no more Count of Mar than I am King of Spain. Speak up, you old\nturnspit,\" he shouted to Maître Menard. \"Am I he?\"\n\nPoor Maître Menard had dropped down on his iron box, too limp and sick\nto know what was going on. He only stared helplessly.\n\n\"Speak, rascal,\" Lucas cried. \"Am I Comte de Mar?\"\n\n\"No,\" the maître answered in low, faltering tones. He was at the last\npoint of pain and fear. \"No, monsieur officer, it is as he says. He is\nnot the Comte de Mar.\"\n\n\"Who is he, then?\"\n\n\"I know not,\" the maître stammered. \"He came here last night. But it is\nas he says--he is not the Comte de Mar.\"\n\n\"Take care, mine host,\" the officer returned; \"you're lying.\"\n\nI could not wonder at him; if I had not been in a position to know\notherwise, I had thought myself the maître was lying.\n\n\"If you had spoken at first I might have believed you,\" the captain\nsaid, bestowing a kick on him. \"Get out of here, old ass, before I cram\nyour lie down your throat. And clear your people away from this door.\nI'll not walk through a mob. Send every man Jack about his business, or\nit will be the worse for him. And every woman Jill, too.\"\n\n\"M. le Capitaine,\" Maître Menard quavered, rising unsteadily to his\nfeet, \"you make a mistake. On my sacred word, you mistake; this is\nnot--\"\n\n\"Get out!\" cried the captain, helping him along with his boot. Maître\nMenard fell rather than walked out of the door.\n\nA gray hue came over Lucas's face. His first fright had given way to\nfury at perceiving himself the victim of a mistake, but now alarm was\nborn in his eyes again. Was it, after all, a mistake? This obstinate\ndisbelief in his assertion, this ordering away of all who could swear to\nhis identity--was it not rather a plot for his ruin? He swallowed hard\nonce or twice, fear gripping his throat harder than ever the dragoon's\nfingers had gripped mine. Certainly he was not the Comte de Mar; but\nthen he was the man who had killed Pontou.\n\n\"If this is a plot against me, say so!\" he cried. \"If you have orders to\narrest me, do so. But arrest me by the name of Paul de Lorraine, not of\nÉtienne de Mar.\"\n\n\"The name of Étienne de Mar will do,\" the captain returned; \"we have no\nfancy for aliases at the Bastille.\"\n\n\"It is a plot!\" Lucas cried.\n\n\"It is a warrant; that is all I know about it\"\n\n\"But I am not Comte de Mar,\" Lucas repeated.\n\nHis uneasy conscience had numbed his wits. In his dread of a plot he had\ndone little to dissipate an error. But now he pulled himself together;\nerror or intention, he would act as if he knew it must be error.\n\n\"My captain, you have made a mistake likely to cost you your\nshoulder-straps. I tell you I am not Mar; the landlord, who knows him\nwell, tells you I am not Mar. Ask those who know M. de Mar; ask these\ninn people. They will one and all tell you I am not he. Ask that boy\nthere; even he dares not say to my face that I am.\"\n\nHis eyes met mine, and I could see that, even in the moment of\nchallenging me, he repented. He believed that I would give the lie. But\nthe dragoon who was bending over him, relieving him of his sword-belt,\nspared me the necessity.\n\n\"Captain, you need give yourself no uneasiness; this is the Comte right\nenough. I live in the Quartier Marais, and I have seen this gentleman a\nscore of times riding with M. de St. Quentin.\"\n\nLucas, at this unexpected testimony, looked so taken aback that the\ncaptain burst out laughing.\n\n\"Yes, my dear monsieur, it is a little hard for M. de Mayenne's\nnephew--you are a nephew, are you not?--to explain how he comes to ride\nwith the Duc de St. Quentin.\"\n\nIt was awkward to explain. Lucas, knowing well that there was no future\nfor him who betrayed the Generalissimo's secrets, cried out angrily:\n\n\"He lies! I never rode out with M. de St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"Oh, come now. Really you waste a great deal of breath,\" the captain\nsaid. \"I regret the cruel necessity of arresting you, M. de Mar; but\nthere is nothing gained by blustering about it. I usually know what I am\nabout.\"\n\n\"You do not know! Nom de dieu, you do not know. Félix Broux, speak up\nthere. If you have told him behind my back that I am Étienne de Mar, I\ndefy you to say it to my face.\"\n\n\"I know nothing about it, messieurs.\" I repeated my little refrain.\n\"Monsieur captain, remember, if you please, I never saw him till\nyesterday; he may be Paul de Lorraine for all I know. But he did not\ncall himself that yesterday.\"\n\n\"You hell-hound!\" Lucas cried.\n\n\"Go tell Louis to drive up to the cabaret door, Gaspard,\" bade the\ncaptain.\n\nLucas gazed at him as if to tear out of him the truth of the matter. I\nthink he was still a prey to suspicion of a plot in this, and it\nparalyzed his tongue. He so reeked with intrigue that he smelled one\nwherever he went. He was much too clever to believe that this arresting\nofficer was simply thick-witted.\n\n\"I say no more,\" he cried. \"You may spare yourself your lies, the whole\ncrew of you. I go as your prisoner, but I go as Paul of Lorraine, son of\nHenry, Duke of Guise.\"\n\nHe said it with a certain superbness; but the young captain, bourgeois\nof the bourgeois, did not mean to let himself be put down by any sprig\nof the noblesse.\n\n\"Certainly, if it is any comfort to you,\" he retorted. \"But you are very\ndull, monsieur, not to be aware that your identity is known perfectly\nto others besides your lackey here and my man. I did not come to arrest\nyou without a minute description of you from M. de Belin himself.\"\n\n\"Ventre bleu!\" Lucas shouted. \"I wrote the description. I myself lodged\ninformation against Mar. I came here to make sure you took him. Carry me\nbefore Belin; he will know me.\"\n\nI trembled lest the officer could not but see that the man spoke truth.\nBut I had no need to fear; there is a combination of stupidity and\nvanity which nothing can move.\n\n\"I have no orders to take you to M. de Belin,\" he returned calmly. \"So\nyou wrote the description, did you? Perhaps you will deny that it fits\nyou?\"\n\nHe read from the paper:\n\n\"'Charles-André-Étienne-Marie de St. Quentin, Comte de Mar. Age,\nthree-and-twenty; figure, tall and slender; was dressed yesterday in\nblack with a plain falling-band; carries his right arm in a sling--\"\n\n\"Is my arm in a sling?\" Lucas demanded.\n\n\"No, in a handcuff,\" the captain laughed, at the same moment that his\ndragoon exclaimed, \"His right wrist is bandaged, though.\"\n\n\"That is nothing! It is a mere scratch. I did it myself last night by\naccident,\" Lucas shouted, striving with his hampered left hand to pull\nthe folds apart to show it. But he could not, and fell silent,\nwide-eyed, like one who sees the net of fate drawing in about him. The\ncaptain went on reading from his little paper:\n\n[Illustration: \"HE WAS DEPOSITED IN THE BIG BLACK COACH.\"]\n\n\"'Fair hair, gray eyes, aquiline nose'--I suppose you will still tell\nus, monsieur, that you are not the man?\"\n\n\"I am not he. The Comte de Mar and I are nothing alike. We are both\nyoung, tall, yes; but that is all. He is slashed all up the forearm; my\nwrist is but scratched with a knife-edge. He has yellow hair; mine is\nbrown. His eyes--\"\n\n\"It is plain to me, monsieur,\" the officer interrupted, \"that the\ndescription fits you in every particular.\" And so it did.\n\nI, who had heard M. Étienne described twenty times, had yesterday\nmistaken Lucas for him; the same items served for both. It was the more\nremarkable because they actually looked no more alike than chalk and\ncheese. Lucas had set down his catalogue without a thought that he was\ndrawing his own picture. If ever hunter was caught in his own gin, Lucas\nwas!\n\n\"You lie!\" he cried furiously. \"You know I am not Mar. You lie, the\nwhole pack of you!\"\n\n\"Gag him, Ravelle,\" the captain commanded with an angry flush.\n\n\"I demand to be taken before M. de Belin!\" Lucas shouted.\n\nThe next moment the soldier had twisted a handkerchief about his mouth.\n\n\"Ready?\" the captain asked of Gaspard, who had come back just in time to\naid in the throttling. \"Move on, then.\"\n\nHe led the way out, the two dragoons following with their prisoner. And\nthis time Lucas's fertile wits failed him. He did not slip from his\ncaptors' fingers between the room and the street. He was deposited in\nthe big black coach that had aroused my wonder. Louis cracked his whip\nand off they rumbled.\n\nI laughed all the way back to the Hôtel St. Quentin.\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n_To the Hôtel de Lorraine._\n\n\nI found M. Étienne sitting on the steps before the house. He had doffed\nhis rusty black for a suit of azure and silver; his sword and poniard\nwere heavy with silver chasings. His blue hat, its white plume pinned in\na silver buckle, lay on the stone beside him. He had discarded his sling\nand was engaged in tuning a lute.\n\nEvidently he was struck by some change in my appearance; for he asked at\nonce:\n\n\"What has happened, Félix?\"\n\n\"Such a lark!\" I cried.\n\n\"What! did old Menard share the crowns with you for your trouble?\"\n\n\"No; he pocketed them all. That was not it.\"\n\nI was so choked with laughter as to make it hard work to explain what\nwas it, while his first bewilderment changed to an amazed interest,\nwhich in its turn gave way, not to delight, but to distress.\n\n\"Mordieu!\" he cried, starting up, his face ablaze, \"if I resemble that\ndirt--\"\n\n\"As chalk and cheese,\" I said. \"No one seeing you both could possibly\nmistake you for two of the same race. But there was nothing in his\ncatalogue that did not fit him. It mentioned, to be sure, the right arm\nin a sling; his was not, but he had his wrist bandaged. I think he cut\nhimself last night when he was after me and I flung the door in his\nface, for afterward he held his hand behind his back. At any rate, there\nwas the bandage; that was enough to satisfy the captain.\"\n\n\"And they took him off?\"\n\n\"Truly. They gagged him because he protested so much, and lugged him\noff.\"\n\n\"To the Bastille?\" he demanded, as if he could scarcely realize the\nevent.\n\n\"To the Bastille. In a big travelling-coach, between the officer and his\nmen. He may be there by this time.\"\n\nHe looked at me as if he were still not quite able to believe the thing.\n\n\"It is true, monsieur. If I were inventing it I could not invent\nanything better; but it is true.\"\n\n\"Certes, you could not invent anything better! Nor anything half so\ngood. If ever there was a case of the biter bit--\" he broke off,\nlaughing.\n\n\"Monsieur, you know not half how funny it was. Had you seen their\nfaces--the more Lucas swore he was not Comte de Mar, the more the\nofficer was sure he was.\"\n\n\"Félix, you have all the luck. I said this morning you should go about\nno more without me. Then I send you off on a stupid errand, and see what\nyou get into!\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I put it to you: Had you been there, how could Lucas have\nbeen arrested for Comte de Mar?\"\n\n\"He won't stay arrested long--more's the pity.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said regretfully; \"but they may keep him overnight.\"\n\n\"Aye, he may be out of mischief overnight. I am happy to say that my\nface is not known at the Bastille.\"\n\n\"Nor his, I take it. I thought from what I heard last night that he had\nnever been in Paris save for a while in the spring, when he lay perdu.\nAt the Bastille they may know nothing of the existence of a Paul de\nLorraine. But, monsieur, if Mayenne has broken his word already, if they\nare arresting you on this trumped-up charge, you must get out of the\ngates to-night.\"\n\n\"Impossible,\" he answered, smiling; \"I have an engagement in Paris.\"\n\n\"But monsieur may not keep it. He must go to St. Denis.\"\n\n\"I must go nowhere but to the Hôtel Lorraine.\"\n\n\"Monsieur!\"\n\n\"Why, look you, Félix; it is the safest spot for me in all Paris; it is\nthe last place where they will look for me. Besides, now that they think\nme behind bars, they will not be looking for me at all. I shall be as\nsafe as the hottest Leaguer in the camp.\"\n\n\"But in the hôtel-\"\n\n\"Be comforted; I shall not enter the hôtel. There is a limit to my\nmadness. No; I shall go softly around to a window in the side street\nunder which I have often stood in the old days. She used to contrive to\nbe in her chamber after supper.\"\n\n\"But, monsieur, how long is it since you were there last?\"\n\n\"I think it must be two months. I had little heart for it after my\nfather--So, you see, no one will be on the lookout for me to-night.\"\n\n\"Neither will mademoiselle,\" I made my point.\n\n\"I hope she may,\" he answered. \"She will know I must see her to-night.\nAnd I think she will be at the window.\"\n\nThe reasoning seemed satisfactory to him. And I thought one wet blanket\nin the house was enough.\n\n\"Very well, monsieur. I am ready for anything you propose.\"\n\n\"Then I propose supper.\"\n\nAfterward we played shovel-board, I risking the pistoles mademoiselle\nhad given me. I won five more, for he paid little heed to what he was\nabout, but was ever fidgeting over to the window to see if it was dark\nenough to start. At length, when it was still between dog and wolf, he\nannounced that he would delay no longer.\n\n\"Very well, monsieur,\" I said with all alacrity.\n\n\"But you are not to come!\"\n\n\"Monsieur!\"\n\n\"Certainly not. I must go alone to-night.\"\n\n\"But, monsieur, you will need me. You will need some one to watch the\nstreet while you speak with mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"I can have no listener to-night,\" he replied immovably.\n\n\"But I will not listen, monsieur! I shall stand out of ear-shot. But you\nmust have some one to give you warning should the guard set on you.\"\n\n\"I can manage my own affairs,\" he retorted haughtily; \"I desire neither\nyour advice nor your company.\"\n\n\"Monsieur!\" I cried, almost in tears.\n\n\"Enough!\" he bade sharply. \"Go send me Vigo.\"\n\nI went like one in whose face the doors of heaven had shut.\n\nVigo came at once from the guard-room at my summons. It was on my tongue\nto tell him of M. le Comte's mad resolve to fare forth alone; to beg him\nto stop it. But I remembered how blameworthy I myself had held the\nequery for interfering with M. Étienne, and I made up my mind that no\nword of cavil at my lord should ever pass my lips. I lagged across the\ncourt at Vigo's heels, silent.\n\nM. Étienne was standing in the doorway.\n\n\"Vigo,\" he said, without a change of countenance, \"get Félix a rapier,\nwhich he can use prettily enough. I cannot take him out to-night\nunarmed.\"\n\nVigo hesitated a moment, saluted, and went.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I cried out, \"you meant all the time to take me!\"\n\nHe gazed down on my heated visage and laughed and laughed.\n\n\"Félix,\" he gasped, \"you had your sport over there at the inn. But I\nhave seen nothing this summer as funny as _your_ face.\"\n\nVigo came back with a sword and baldric for me, and a horse-pistol\nbesides, but M. Étienne would not let me have it.\n\n\"Circumstances are such, Vigo, that I want no noisy weapons.\"\n\nThe equery regarded him with a troubled countenance.\n\n\"I wish I knew, monsieur, whether I do right to let you go.\"\n\n\"We will not discuss that, an it please you.\"\n\n\"I do not, monsieur. I have no right to curtail M. le Comte's liberties.\nBut I let you go with a heavy heart.\"\n\nHe looked after us with foreboding eyes as we went out of the great\ngate, alone, with not so much as a linkboy. But if his heart was heavy,\nour hearts were light. We paced along as merrily as though to a feast.\nM. Étienne hung his lute over his neck and strummed it; and whenever we\npassed under a window whence leaned a pretty head, he sang snatches of\nlove-songs. We were alone in the dark streets of a hostile city, bound\nfor the house of a mighty foe; and one of us was wounded and one a tyro.\nYet we laughed as we went; for there was Lucas languishing in prison,\nand here were we, free as air, steering our course for mademoiselle's\nwindow. One of us was in love, and the other wore a sword for the first\ntime, and all the power of Mayenne daunted us not.\n\nWe came at length within bow-shot of the Hôtel de Lorraine, where M.\nÉtienne was willing to abate somewhat his swagger. We left the Rue St.\nAntoine, creeping around behind the house through a narrow and twisting\nalley--it was pitch-black, but he knew the way well--into a little\nstreet dim-lighted from the windows of the houses upon it. It was only a\nfew rods long, running from the open square in front of the hôtel to the\nnetwork of unpaved alleys behind. On the farther side stood a row of\nhigh-gabled houses, their doors opening directly on the pavement; on\nthis side was but one big pile, the Hôtel de Lorraine. The wall was\nbroken by few windows, most of them dark; this was not the gay side of\nthe house. The overhanging turret on the low second story, under which\nM. Étienne halted, was as dark as the rest, nor, though the casement was\nopen wide, could we tell whether any one was in the room. We could hear\nnothing but the breeze crackling in the silken curtains.\n\n\"Take your station at the corner there,\" he bade, \"and shout if they\nseem to be coming for us. But I think we shall not be molested. My\nfingers are so stiff they will hardly recognize my hand on the strings.\"\n\nI went to my post, and he began singing, scarce loud enough for any but\nhis lady above to mark him:\n\n _Fairest blossom ever grew\n Once she loosened from her breast.\n This I say, her eyes are blue.\n\n From her breast the rose she drew,\n Dole for me, her servant blest,\n Fairest blossom ever grew._\n\nThe music paused, and I turned from my watch of the shadowy figures\ncrossing the square, in instant alarm lest something was wrong. But\nwhatever startled him ceased, for in a moment he went on again, and as\nhe sang his voice rang fuller:\n\n _Of my love the guerdon true,\n 'Tis my bosom's only guest.\n This I say, her eyes are blue.\n\n Still to me 'tis bright of hue\n As when first my kisses prest\n Fairest blossom ever grew.\n\n Sweeter than when gathered new\n 'Twas the sign her love confest.\n This I say, her eyes are blue._\n\nHe stopped again and stood gazing up into the window, but whether he saw\nsomething or heard something I could not tell. Apparently he was not\nsure himself, for presently, a little tremulous, he added the four\nverses:\n\n _Askest thou of me a clue\n To that lady I love best?\n Fairest blossom ever grew!\n This I say, her eyes are blue._\n\nHe doffed his hat, pushing back the hair from his brow, and waited,\neager, hopeful. There was a little stir in the room that one thought was\nnot the wind.\n\nI had come unconsciously half-way up the street to him in the ardour of\nmy interest; but now I was startled back to my duty by the sound of men\nrunning round the corner behind me. One glance was enough; two abreast,\nswords in hand, they were charging us. I ran before them, drawing blade\nas I went and shouting to M. Étienne. But even as I called an answering\nshout came from the alley; two men of the Spanish guards shot out of the\ndarkness and at us.\n\nM. Étienne, with his extraordinary quickness, had got the lute off his\nneck, and now, for want of a better use of it, flung it at the head of\nhis nearest assailant, who received it full in the face, stopped,\nhesitated a moment, and ran back the way he had come. But three foes\nremained, with the whole Hôtel de Lorraine behind them.\n\nWe put our backs to the wall and set to. The remaining Spaniard engaged\nme; M. Étienne, protected somewhat in the embrasure of a doorway, held\nat bay with his good left arm a pair of attackers. These were in the\ndress of gentlemen, and wore masks as if their cheeks blushed (well they\nmight) for the deeds of their hands.\n\nA broad window in the Hôtel de Lorraine was flung open; a man leaned far\nout with a torch. The bright glare in our faces bewildered our\ngloom-accustomed eyes; I could not see what I was about, and rammed my\npoint against my Spaniard's hilt, snapping my blade.\n\nThe sudden impact sent him stumbling back a pace, and M. Étienne, who,\nwith the quick eye of the born fencer, saw everything, cried to me,\n\"Here!\"\n\nI darted back into the doorway beside him. His two assailants finding\nthat they gained nothing by their joint attack, but rather hampered each\nother, one dropped back to watch his comrade, the cleverer swordsman.\nThis was decidedly a man of talent, but he was shorter in the arm than\nmy master and had the disadvantage of standing on the ground, whereas M.\nÉtienne was up one step. He could not force home any of his\nshrewd-planned thrusts; nor could he drive M. Étienne out of his coign\nto where in the open the two could make short work of him. The rapiers\nclashed and parted and twisted about each other and flew apart again;\nand then before I could see who was touched the attacker fell to his\nknees, with M. Étienne's sword in his breast.\n\nM. Étienne wrenched the blade out; the wounded man sank backward, his\nmask-string breaking. He was the one whom I had thought him--François de\nBrie.\n\nM. Étienne was ready for the second gentleman, but neither he nor the\nsoldier attacked. The torch-bearer in the window, with a shout, waved\nhis arm toward the square. A mob of armed men hurled itself around the\ncorner, a pikeman with lowered point in the van.\n\nThis was not combat; it was butchery. M. Étienne, with a little moan,\nlifted his eyes for the first time from his assailant to the turret\nwindow. In the same instant I felt the door behind us give. Throwing my\nwhole weight upon it, I seized M. Étienne and pulled him over the\nthreshold. Some one inside slammed the door to, just as the Spaniard\nhurled himself against it.\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\n_\"On guard, monsieur.\"_\n\n\nWe found ourselves in a narrow panelled passageway, lighted by a\nflickering oil-lamp pendent from a bracket. Confronting us was our\npreserver--a little old lady in black velvet, leaning back in chuckling\ntriumph against the shot bolts.\n\nShe was very small and very old. Her figure was bent and shrunken, a\npitiful little bag of bones in a rich dress; her hair was as white as\nher ruff; her skin as yellow and dry as parchment, furrowed with a\nthousand wrinkles; but her black eyes sparkled like a girl's.\n\n\"I did not mean to let my nightingale's throat be slit,\" she cried in a\nshrill voice quavering like a young child's. \"I have listened to your\nsinging many a night, monsieur; I was glad to-night to find the\nnightingale back again. When I saw that crew rush at you, I said I would\nsave you if only you would put your back to my door. Monsieur, you are a\nyoung man of intelligence.\"\n\n\"I am a young man of amazing good fortune, madame,\" M. Étienne replied,\nwith his handsomest bow, sheathing his wet blade. \"I owe you a debt of\ngratitude which is ill repaid in the base coin of bringing trouble to\nthis house.\"\n\n\"Not at all--not at all!\" she protested with animation. \"No one is\nlikely to molest this house. It is the dwelling of M. Ferou.\"\n\n\"Of the Sixteen?\"\n\n\"Of the Sixteen,\" she nodded, her shrewd face agleam with mischief. \"In\ntruth, if my son were within, you were little likely to find harbourage\nhere. But, as it is, he and his wife are supping with his Grace of\nLyons. And the servants are one and all gone to mass, leaving madame\ngrand'mère to shift for herself. No, no, my good friends; you may knock\ntill you drop, but you won't get in.\"\n\nThe attacking party was indeed hammering energetically on the door,\nshouting to us to open, to deny them at our peril. The eyes of the old\nlady glittered with new delight at every rap.\n\n\"I fancy they will think twice before they batter down M. Ferou's door!\nMa foi! I fancy they are a little mystified at finding you sanctuaried\nin this house. Was it not my Lord Mayenne's jackal, François de Brie?\"\n\n\"Yes; and Marc Latour.\"\n\n\"I thought I knew them,\" she cried in evident pride at her sharpness.\n\"It was dark, and they were masked, and my eyes are old, but I knew\nthem! And which of the ladies is it?\"\n\nHe could do no less than answer his saviour.\n\n\"Ah, well,\" she said, with a little sigh, \"I too once--but that is a\nlong time ago.\" Then her eyes twinkled again; I trow she was not much\ngiven to sighing. \"That is a long time ago,\" she repeated briskly, \"and\nnow they think I am too old to do aught but tell my beads and wait for\ndeath. But I like to have a hand in the game.\"\n\n\"I will come to take a hand with you any time, madame,\" M. Étienne\nassured her. \"I like the way you play.\"\n\nShe broke into shrill, delighted laughter.\n\n\"I'll warrant you do! And I don't mean to do the thing by halves. No; I\nshall save you, hide and hair. Be so kind, my lad, as to lift the\nlantern from the hook.\"\n\nI did as she bade me, and we followed her down the passage like\nspaniels. She was so entirely equal to the situation that we made no\nprotests and asked no questions. At the end of the hall she paused,\nopening neither the door on the right nor the door on the left, but,\npassing her hand up one of the panels of the wainscot, suddenly she\nflung it wide.\n\n\"You are not so small as I,\" she chuckled, \"yet I think you can make\nshift to get through. You, monsieur lantern-bearer, go first.\"\n\nI doubled myself up and scrambled through. The old lady, gathering her\npetticoats daintily, followed me without difficulty, but M. Étienne was\nput to some trouble to bow his tall head low enough. We stood at the top\nof a flight of stone steps descending into blackness. The old lady\nunhesitatingly tripped down before us.\n\nAt the foot of the stairs was a vaulted stone passageway, slippery with\nlichen, the dampness hanging in beads on the wall. Turning two corners,\nwe brought up at a narrow, nail-studded door.\n\n\"Here I bid you farewell,\" quoth the little old lady. \"You have only to\nwalk on till you get to the end. At the steps, pull the rope once and\nwait. When he opens to you, say, 'For the Cause,' and draw a crown with\nyour finger in the air.\"\n\n\"Madame,\" M. Étienne cried, \"I hope the day may come when I shall make\nyou suitable acknowledgements. My name--\"\n\n\"I prefer not to know it,\" she interrupted, glancing up at him. \"I will\ncall you M. Yeux-gris; that is enough. As for acknowledgments--pooh! I\nam overpaid in the sport it has been.\"\n\n\"But, madame, when monsieur your son discovers--\"\n\n\"Mon dieu! I am not afraid of my son or of any other woman's son!\" she\ncried, with cackling laughter. And I warrant she was not.\n\n\"Madame,\" M. Étienne said, \"I trust we shall meet again when I shall\nhave time to tell you what I think of you.\" He dropped on his knees\nbefore her, kissing both her hands.\n\n\"Yes, yes, of course you are grateful,\" she said, somewhat bored\napparently by his demonstration. \"Naturally one does not like to die at\nyour age. I wish you a pleasant journey, M. Yeux-gris, and you too, you\nfresh-faced boy. Give me back my lantern and fare you well.\"\n\n\"You will let us see you safe back in your hall.\"\n\n\"I will do nothing of the sort! I am not so decrepit, thank you, that I\ncannot get up my own stairs. No, no; no more gallantries, but get on\nyour way! Begone with you! I must be back in my chamber working my\naltar-cloth when my daughter-in-law comes home.\"\n\nCrowing her elfin laugh, she pulled the door open and fairly hustled us\nthrough.\n\n\"Good-by--you are fine boys\"; and she slammed the door upon us. We were\nin absolute darkness. As we took our first breath of the dank, foul air,\nwe heard bolts snap into place.\n\n\"Well, since we cannot go back, let us go forward,\" said M. Étienne,\ncheerfully. \"I am glad she has bolted the door; it is to throw them off\nthe scent should they track us.\"\n\nI knew very well that he was not at all glad; that the same thought\nwhich chilled my blood had come to him. This little beldam, with her\nbeady eyes and her laughter, was the wicked witch of our childhood days;\nshe had shut us up in a charnel-house to die.\n\nI heard him tapping the pavement before him with his scabbard, using it\nas a blind man's staff. And so we advanced through the fetid gloom, the\npassage being only wide enough to let us walk shoulder to shoulder.\nThere was a whirring of wings about us, and a squeaking; once something\nswooped square into my face, knocking a cry of terror from me, and a\nlaugh from him.\n\n\"What was it? a bat? Cheer up, Félix; they don't bite.\" But I would not\ngo on till I had made sure, as well as I could without seeing, that the\ncursed thing was not clinging on me somewhere.\n\nWe walked on then in silence, the stone walls vibrant with our tread.\nWe went on till it seemed we had traversed the width of Paris; and I\nwondered who were sleeping and feasting and scheming and loving over our\nheads. M. Étienne said at length:\n\n\"Mordieu! I hope this snake-hole does not empty us out into the Seine.\"\nBut I thought that as long as it emptied us out somewhere, I should not\ngreatly mind the Seine.\n\nAt this very moment M. Étienne clutched my arm, jerking me to a halt. I\nbounded backward, trying in the blackness to discern a precipice yawning\nat my feet. \"Look!\" he cried in a low, tense voice. I perceived, far\nbefore us in the gloom, a point of light, which, as we watched it, grew\nbigger and bigger, till it became an approaching lantern.\n\n\"This is like to be awkward,\" murmured M. Étienne.\n\nThe man carrying the light came on with firm, heavy tread; naturally he\ndid not see us as soon as we saw him. I thought him alone, but it was\nhard to tell in this dark, echoy place.\n\nHe might easily have approached within touch of my sad clothing without\nbecoming aware of me, but M. Étienne's azure and white caught the\nlantern rays a rod away. The newcomer stopped short, holding up the\nlight between us and his face. We could make nothing of him, save that\nhe was a large man, soberly clad.\n\n\"Who is it?\" he demanded, his voice ringing out loud and steady. \"Is it\nyou, Ferou?\"\n\nM. Étienne hooked his scabbard in place, and went forward into the clear\ncircle of light.\n\n\"No, M. de Mayenne; it is Étienne de Mar.\"\n\n\"Ventre bleu!\" Mayenne ejaculated, changing his lantern with comical\nalacrity to his left hand, and whipping out his sword. My master's came\nbare, too, at that. They confronted each other in silence, till\nMayenne's ever-increasing astonishment forced the cry from him:\n\n\"How the devil come you here?\"\n\n\"Evidently by way of M. Ferou's house,\" M. Étienne answered. Mayenne\nstill stared in thick amazement; after a moment my master added: \"I must\nin justice say that M. Ferou is not aware that I am using this passage;\nhe is, with madame his wife, supping with the Archbishop of Lyons.\"\n\nM. Étienne leaned his shoulder against the wall, smiling pleasantly, and\nwaiting for the duke to make the next move. Mayenne kept a nonplussed\nsilence. The situation was indeed somewhat awkward. He could not come\nforward without encountering an agile opponent, whose exceeding skill\nwith the sword was probably known to him. He could not turn tail, had\nhis dignity allowed the course, without exposing himself to be spitted.\nHe was in the predicament of the goat on the bridge. Yet was he gaping\nat us less in fear, I think, than in bewilderment. This Ferou, as I\nlearned later, was one of his right-hand men, years-long supporter.\nMayenne had as soon expected to meet a lion in the tunnel as to meet a\nfoe. He cried out again upon us, with an instinctive certainty that a\ngreat prince's question must be answered:\n\n\"How came you here?\"\n\n\"I don't ask,\" said M. Étienne, \"how it happens that M. le Duc is\nwalking through this rat-hole. Nor do I feel disposed to make any\nexplanation to him.\"\n\n\"Very well, then,\" said Mayenne; \"our swords, if you are ready, will\nmake adequate explanation.\"\n\n\"Now, that is gallant of you,\" returned M. Étienne, \"as it is evident\nthat the closeness of these walls will inconvenience your Grace more\nthan it will me.\"\n\nThe walls of the passage were roughly laid. Mayenne perched his lantern\non a projecting stone.\n\n\"On guard, sir,\" he answered.\n\nThe silence was profound. Mayenne had no companion following him. He was\nalone with his sword. He was not now head of the state, but only a man\nwith a sword, standing opposite another man with a sword. Nor was he in\nthe pink of form. Though he gave the effect, from his clear colour and\nproud bearing, perhaps also from his masterful energy, of tremendous\nforce and strength, his body was in truth but a poor machine, his great\ncorpulence making him clumsy and scant of breath. He must have known, as\nhe eyed his supple antagonist, what the end would be. Yet he merely\nsaid:\n\n\"On guard, monsieur.\"\n\nM. Étienne did not raise his weapon. I retreated a pace, that I might\nnot be in the way of his jump, should Mayenne spring on him. M. Étienne\nsaid slowly:\n\n\"M. de Mayenne, this encounter was none of my contriving. Nor have I any\nwish to cross swords with you. Family quarrels are to be deprecated.\nSince I still intend to become your cousin, I must respectfully beg to\nbe released from the obligation of fighting you.\"\n\nA man knowing himself overmatched cannot refuse combat. He may, even as\nMayenne had done, think himself compelled to offer it. But if he insists\non forcing battle with a reluctant adversary, he must be a hothead\nindeed. And Mayenne was no hothead. He stood hesitant, feeling that he\nwas made ridiculous in accepting the clemency and should be still more\nridiculous to refuse it. He half lifted his sword, only to lower it\nagain, till at last his good sense came to his relief in a laugh.\n\n\"M. de Mar, it appears that, after all, some explanations are necessary.\nYou think that in declining to fight you put me in your debt. Possibly\nyou are right. But if you expect that in gratitude I shall hand over\nLorance de Montluc, you were never more mistaken. Never, while I live,\nshall she marry into the king's camp. Now, monsieur, that we understand\neach other, I abide by your decision whether we fight or not.\"\n\nFor answer, M. Étienne put up his blade. The Duke of Mayenne, saluting\nwith his, did the like. \"Mar,\" he said, \"you stood off from us, like a\ncoquetting girl, for three years. At length, last May, you refused\npoint-blank to join us. I do not often ask a man twice, but I ask you.\nWill you join the League to-night, and marry Lorance to-morrow?\"\n\nNo man could have spoken with a franker grace. I believe then, I\nbelieve now, he meant it. M. Étienne believed he meant it.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" he answered, \"I have shilly-shallied long; but I am planted\nsquarely at last with my father on the king's side. You put your\ninteresting nephew into my father's house to kill him; I shall not sign\nmyself with the League.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" returned Mayenne, \"perhaps we might each continue on his\nway.\"\n\n\"With all my heart, monsieur.\"\n\nEach drew back against the wall to let the other pass, with a wary eye\nfor daggers. Then M. Étienne, laughing a little, but watching Mayenne\nlike a lynx, started to go by. The duke, seeing the look, suddenly\nraised his hands over his head, holding them there while both of us\nsqueezed past him.\n\n\"Cousin Charles,\" said M. Étienne, \"I see that when I have married\nLorance you and I shall get on capitally. Till then, God have you ever\nin guard.\"\n\n\"I thank you, monsieur. You make me immortal.\"\n\n\"I have no need to make you witty. M. de Mayenne, when you have\nsubmitted to the king, as you will one of these days, I shall have as\ndelightful a kinsman as heart of man could wish. You and I will yet\ndrink a loving-cup together. Till that happy hour, I am your good enemy.\nFare you well, monsieur.\"\n\nHe bowed; the duke, half laughing despite a considerable ire, returned\nthe obeisance with all pomp. M. Étienne took me by the arm and departed.\nMayenne stood still for a space; then we heard his retreating\nfootsteps, and the glimmer of his light slowly faded away.\n\n[Illustration: \"WE CLIMBED OUT INTO A SILK-MERCER'S SHOP.\"]\n\n\"It wasn't necessary to tell him the door is bolted,\" M. Étienne\nmuttered.\n\nWe hurried along now without precaution, knowing that the floor which\nhad supported Mayenne would support us. The consequence was that we\nstumbled abruptly against a step, and fell with a force like to break\nour kneecaps. I picked myself up at once, and ran headlong up the\nstairs, to hit my crown on the ceiling and reel back on M. Étienne,\nsweeping him off his feet, so that we rolled in a struggling heap on the\nstones of the passage. And for the minute the place was no longer dark;\nI saw more lightning than even flashed in the Rue Coupejarrets.\n\n\"Are you hurt, Félix?\" cried M. Étienne, the first to disentangle\nhimself.\n\n\"No,\" I said, groaning; \"but I banged my head. She did not say it was a\ntrap-door.\"\n\nWe ascended the stairs a second time--this time most cautiously on our\nhands and knees. Above us, at the end, we could feel, with upleaping of\nspirit, a wooden ceiling.\n\n\"Ah, I have the cord!\" he exclaimed.\n\nThe next instant we heard a faint but most comforting tinkle somewhere\nabove us. Before we had time to wonder whether any marked it but us, we\nheard steps overhead, and a noise as of a chest being pulled about, and\nthen the trap lifted. We climbed out into a silk-mercer's shop.\n\n\"Faith, my man,\" said M. Étienne to the little bourgeois who had opened\nto us, \"I am glad to see you appear so promptly.\"\n\nHe looked at us, somewhat troubled or alarmed.\n\n\"You must have met--\" he suggested with hesitancy.\n\n\"Yes,\" said M. Étienne; \"but he did not object. We are, of course, of\nthe initiated.\"\n\n\"Of course, of course,\" the little fellow assented, with a funny\nassumption of knowing all about it. \"Not every one has the secret of the\npassage. Well, I can call myself a lucky man. 'Tis mighty few mercers\nhave a duke in their shop as often as I.\"\n\nWe looked curiously about us. The shop was low and dim, with piles of\nstuff in rolls on the shelves, and other stuffs lying loose on the\ncounter before us, as if the man had just been measuring them--gorgeous\nbrocades and satins. Above us, a bell on the rafter still quivered.\n\n\"Yes, that is the bell of the trap,\" the proprietor said, following our\nglance. \"Customers do not know where it rings from. And if I am not at\nliberty to open, I drop my brass yardstick on the floor--But they told\nyou that, doubtless, monsieur?\" he added, regarding M. Étienne again a\nlittle uneasily.\n\n\"They told me something else I had near forgotten,\" M. Étienne answered,\nand, drawing a crown in the air, gave the password, \"For the Cause.\"\n\n\"For the King,\" the shopkeeper made instant rejoinder, drawing in the\nair in his turn a letter C and the numeral X.\n\nM. Étienne laid a gold piece on the counter, and if the shopkeeper had\nfelt any doubts of this well-dressed gallant who wore no hat, they\nvanished in its radiance.\n\n\"And now, my friend, let us out into the street and forget our faces.\"\n\nThe man took up his candle to light us to the door.\n\n\"Perhaps it would not trouble monsieur to say a word for me over there?\"\nhe suggested, pointing in the direction of the tunnel. \"M. le Duc has\nevery confidence in me. Still, it would do no harm if monsieur should\nmention how quickly I let him out.\"\n\n\"When I see him, I will surely mention it,\" M. Étienne promised him.\n\"Continue to be vigilant to-night, my friend. There is another man to\ncome.\"\n\nFollowed by the little bourgeois's thanks and adieus, we walked out into\nthe sweet open air. As soon as his door was shut again, we took to our\nheels, nor stopped running till we had put half a dozen streets between\nus and the mouth of the tunnel. Then we walked along in breathless\nsilence.\n\nPresently M. Étienne cried out:\n\n\"Death of my life! Had I fought there in the burrow, I should have\nchanged the history of France!\"\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\n_A chance encounter._\n\n\nThe street before us was as orderly as the aisle of Notre Dame. Few\nway-farers passed us; those there were talked together as placidly as if\nlove-trysts and mêlées existed not, and tunnels and countersigns were\nbut the smoke of a dream. It was a street of shops, all shuttered,\nwhile, above, the burghers' families went respectably to bed.\n\n\"This is the Rue de la Ferronnerie,\" my master said, pausing a moment to\ntake his bearings. \"See, under the lantern, the sign of the Pierced\nHeart. The little shop is in the Rue de la Soierie. We are close by the\nHalles--we must have come half a mile underground. Well, we'll swing\nabout in a circle to get home. For this night I've had enough of the\nHôtel de Lorraine.\"\n\nAnd I. But I held my tongue about it, as became me.\n\n\"They were wider awake than I thought--those Lorrainers. Pardieu! Féix,\nyou and I came closer quarters with death than is entirely amusing.\"\n\n\"If that door had not opened-\" I shuddered.\n\n\"A new saint in the calendar--la Sainte Ferou! But what a madcap of a\nsaint, then! My faith, she must have led them a dance when Francis I was\nking!\n\n\"Natheless it galls me,\" he went on, half to himself, \"to know that I\nwas lost by my own folly, saved by pure chance. I underrated the\nenemy--worst mistake in the book of strategy. I came near flinging away\ntwo lives and making a most unsightly mess under a lady's window.\"\n\n\"Monsieur made somewhat of a mess as it was.\"\n\n\"Aye. I would I knew whether I killed Brie. We'll go round in the\nmorning and find out.\"\n\n\"I am thankful that monsieur does not mean to go to-night.\"\n\n\"Not to-night, Félix; I've had enough. No; we'll get home without\npassing near the Hôtel de Lorraine, if we go outside the walls to do it.\nTo-night I draw my sword no more.\"\n\nTo this day I have no quite clear idea of how we went. A strange city at\nnight--Paris of all cities--is a labyrinth. I know that after a time we\ncame out in some meadows along the river-bank, traversed them, and\nplunged once more into narrow, high-walled streets. It was very late,\nand lights were few. We had started in clear starlight, but now a rack\nof clouds hid even their pale shine.\n\n\"The snake-hole over again,\" said M. Étienne. \"But we are almost at our\nown gates.\"\n\nBut, as in the snake-hole, came light. Turning a sharp corner, we ran\nstraight into a gentleman and his porte-flambeau, swinging along at as\nsmart a pace as we.\n\n\"A thousand pardons,\" M. Étienne cried to his encounterer, the possessor\nof years and gravity but of no great size, whom he had almost knocked\ndown. \"I heard you, but knew not you were so close. We were speeding to\nget home.\"\n\nThe personage was also of a portliness, and the collision had knocked\nthe wind out of him. He leaned panting against the wall. As he scanned\nM. Étienne's open countenance and princely dress his alarm vanished.\n\n\"It is unseemly to go about on a night like this without a lantern,\" he\nsaid with asperity. \"The municipality should forbid it. I shall\ncertainly bring the matter up at the next sitting.\"\n\n\"Monsieur is a member of the Parliament?\" M. Étienne asked with immense\nrespect.\n\n\"I have that honour, monsieur,\" the little man replied, delighted to\nimpress us, as he himself was impressed, by the sense of his importance.\n\n\"Oh,\" said M. Étienne, with increasing solemnity, \"perhaps monsieur had\na hand in a certain decree of the 28th June?\"\n\nThe little man began to look uneasy.\n\n\"There was, as monsieur says, a measure passed that day,\" he stammered.\n\n\"A rebellious and contumacious decree,\" M. Étienne rejoined, \"most\noffensive to the general-duke.\" Whereupon he fingered his sword.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" the little deputy cried, \"we meant no offence to his Grace,\nor to any true Frenchman. We but desire peace after all these years of\nblood. We were informed that his Grace was angry; yet we believed that\neven he will come to see the matter in a different light--\"\n\n\"You have acted in a manner insulting to his Grace of Mayenne,\" M.\nÉtienne repeated inexorably, and he glanced up the street and down the\nstreet to make sure the coast was clear. The wretched little deputy's\nteeth chattered.\n\nThe linkman had retreated to the other side of the way, where he seemed\non the point of fleeing, leaving his master to his fate. I thought it\nwould be a shame if the badgered deputy had to stumble home in the dark,\nso I growled out to the fellow:\n\n\"Stir one step at your peril!\"\n\nI was afraid he would drop the flambeau and run, but he did not; he only\nsank back against the wall, eyeing my sword with exceeding deference. He\nknew not that there was but a foot of blade in the scabbard.\n\nThe burgher looked up the street and down the street, after M. Étienne's\nexample, but there was no help to be seen or heard. He turned to his\ntormentor with the valour of a mouse at bay.\n\n\"Monsieur, beware what you do. I am Pierre Marceau!\"\n\n\"Oh, you are Pierre Marceau? And can M. Pierre Marceau explain how he\nhappened to be faring forth from his dwelling at this unholy hour?\"\n\n\"I am not faring forth; I am faring home. I--we had a little con--that\nis, not to say a conference, but merely a little discussion on matters\nof no importance--\"\n\n\"I have the pleasure,\" interrupted M. Étienne, sternly, \"of knowing\nwhere M. Marceau lives. M. Marceau's errand in this direction is not\naccounted for.\"\n\n\"But I was going home--on my sacred honour I was! Ask Jacques, else. But\nas we went down the Rue de l'Évêque we saw two men in front of us. As\nthey reached the wall by M. de Mirabeau's garden a gang of footpads fell\non them. The two drew blades and defended themselves, but the ruffians\nwere a dozen--a score. We ran for our lives.\"\n\nM. Étienne wheeled round to me.\n\n\"Félix, here is work for us. As I was saying, M. Marceau, your decree is\nmost offensive to the general-duke, and therefore, since he is my\nparticular enemy, most pleasing to me. A beautiful night, is it not,\nsir? I wish you a delightful walk home.\"\n\nHe seized me by the hand, and we dashed up the street.\n\nAt the corner the noise of a fray came faintly but plainly to our ears.\nM. le Comte without hesitation plunged down a lane in the direction of\nthe sound.\n\n\"I said I wanted no more fighting to-night, but two against a mob! We\nknow how it feels.\"\n\nThe clash of steel on steel grew ever louder, and as we wheeled around a\njutting garden wall we came full upon the combatants.\n\n\"A rescue, a rescue!\" cried M. Étienne. \"Shout, Félix! Montjoie St.\nDenis! A rescue, a rescue!\"\n\nWe charged down the street, drawing our swords and shouting at the top\nof our lungs.\n\nIt was too dark to see much save a mass of struggling figures, with\nevery now and then, as the steel hit, a point of light flashing out, to\nfade and appear again like a brilliant glow-worm. We could scarce tell\nwhich were the attackers, which the two comrades we had come to save.\n\nBut if we could not make them out, neither could they us. We shouted as\nboldly as if we had been a company, and in the clatter of their heels on\nthe stones they could not count our feet. They knew not how many\nfollowers the darkness held. The group parted. Two men remained in hot\ncombat close under the left wall. Across the way one sturdy fighter held\noff two, while a sixth man, crying on his mates to follow, fled down the\nlane.\n\nM. Étienne knew now what he was about, and at once took sides with the\nsolitary fencer. The combat being made equal, I started in pursuit of\nthe flying figure. I had run but a few yards, however, when I tripped\nand fell prostrate over the body of a man. I was up in a moment, feeling\nhim to find out if he were dead; my hands over his heart dipped into a\npool of something wet and warm like new milk. I wiped them on his sleeve\nas best I could, and hastily groped about for his sword. He did not need\nit now, and I did.\n\nWhen I rose with it my quarry was swallowed up in the shadows. M.\nÉtienne, whose light clothing made a distinguishable spot in the gloom,\nhad driven his opponent, or his opponent had driven him, some rods up\nthe lane the way we had come. I stood perplexed, not knowing where to\nbusy myself. M. Étienne's side I could not reach past the two duels; and\nof the four men near me, I could by no means tell, as they circled\nabout and about, which were my chosen allies. They were all sombrely\nclad, their faces blurred in the darkness. When one made a clever pass,\nI knew not whether to rejoice or despair. But at length I picked out one\nwho fenced, though valiantly enough, yet with greater effort than the\nrest; and I deemed that this had been the hardest pressed of all and\nmust certainly be one of the attacked and the one most deserving of\nsuccour. He was plainly losing ground. I darted to his side just as his\nfoe ran him through the arm.\n\nThe assailant pulled his blade free and darted back against the wall to\nface the two of us. But the sword of the wounded man fell from his loose\nfingers.\n\n\"I'm out of it,\" he cried to me; \"I go for aid.\" And as his late\ncombatant sprang forward to engage me, I heard him running off,\nstumbling where I had.\n\nThere had been little light toward the last in the court of the house in\nthe Rue Coupejarrets, and less under the windows of the Hôtel de\nLorraine; but here was none at all, I had to use my sword solely by the\nfeel of his against it, and I underwent chilling qualms lest presently,\nwithout in the least knowing how it got there, I should find his point\nsticking out of my back. I could hardly believe he was not hitting me; I\nbegan to prickle in half a dozen places, and knew not whether the stings\nwere real or imaginary. But one was not imaginary; my shoulder which\nLucas had pinked and the doctor bandaged was throbbing painfully. I\nfancied that in my earlier combat the wound had opened again and that I\nwas bleeding to death; and the fear shook me. I lunged wildly, and I\nhad been sent to my account in short order had not at this moment one of\nthe other pair near us, as it afterward appeared, driven his weapon\nsquare through his vis-à-vis's breast.\n\n\"I am done for. Run who can!\" he cried as he fell. The sword snapped in\ntwo against the paving-stones; he rolled over and lay still, his face in\nthe dirt.\n\nMy encounterer, with a shout to his single remaining comrade, made off\ndown the lane. On my part, I was very willing to let him depart in\npeace.\n\nThe clash of swords up the lane had ceased at the stricken man's cry,\nand out of the gloom came the sound of footfalls fainter and fainter. I\ndeemed that the battle was over.\n\nThe champion came toward me, three white patches visible for his face\nand hands; the rest of him but darkness moving in darkness. He held a\nsword rifled from the enemy, and advanced on me hesitatingly, not sure\nwhether friend or foe remained to him. I felt that an explanation was\ndue from me, but in my ignorance as to who he was and who his foes were,\nand why they had been fighting him and why we had been fighting them, I\nstood for a moment confused. It is hard to open conversation with a\nshadow.\n\nHe spoke first, in a voice husky from his exertion:\n\n\"Who are you?\"\n\n\"A friend,\" I said. \"My master and I saw two men fighting four--we came\nto help the weaker side. Your friend was hurt, but he got away safe to\nfetch aid.\"\n\nThe unknown made a rapid step toward me, crying, \"What--\"\n\nBut at the word M. Étienne emerged from the shadows.\n\n\"Who lives?\" he called out. \"You, Félix?\"\n\n\"Not hurt, monsieur. And you?\"\n\n\"Not a scratch. Nor did I scratch my man. Permit me to congratulate you,\nmonsieur l'inconnu, on our coming up when we did.\"\n\nThe unknown said one word:\n\n\"Étienne!\"\n\nI sprang forward with the impulse to throw my arms about him, in the\npure rapture of recognizing his voice. This struggler, whom we had\nrushed in, blindfold, to save, was Monsieur! If we had been content to\nmind our own business, had sheered away like the deputy--it turned me\nfaint to think how long we had delayed with old Marceau, we were so\nnearly too late. I wanted to seize Monsieur, to convince myself that he\nwas all safe, to feel him quick and warm.\n\nI made one pace and stopped; for I remembered what ghastly shape stood\nbetween me and Monsieur--that horrible lying story.\n\n\"Dieu!\" gasped M. Étienne, \"Monsieur!\"\n\nFor a moment we all kept silence, motionless; then Monsieur flung his\nsword over the wall.\n\n\"Do your will, Étienne.\"\n\nHis son darted forward with a cry.\n\n\"Monsieur, Monsieur, I am not your assassin! I came to your aid not\ndreaming who you were; but, had I known, I would have fought a hundred\ntimes the harder. I never plotted against you. On the honour of a St.\nQuentin I swear it.\"\n\nMonsieur said naught, and we could not see his face; could not know\nwhether he believed or rejected, softened or condemned.\n\nM. Étienne, catching at his breath, went on:\n\n\"Monsieur, I know it is hard to credit. I have been a bad son to you,\nunloving, rebellious, insolent. We quarrelled; I spoke bitter words. But\nI am no ruffian. I am a St. Quentin. Had you had me whipped from the\nhouse, still would I never have raised hand against you. I knew nothing\nof the plot. Félix told you I was in it--small blame to him. But he was\nwrong. I knew naught of it.\"\n\nHad he been content to rest his case here, I think Monsieur could not\nbut have believed his innocence on his bare word. The stones in the\npavement must have known that he was uttering truth. But he in his\neagerness paused for no answer, but went on to stun Monsieur with\nstatements new and amazing to his ear.\n\n\"My cousin Grammont--who is dead--was in the plot, and his lackey\nPontou, and Martin the clerk; but the contriver was Lucas.\"\n\n\"Lucas?\"\n\n\"Lucas,\" continued M. Étienne. \"Or, to give him his true title, Paul de\nLorraine, son of Henri de Guise.\"\n\n\"But that is impossible\" Monsieur cried, stupefied.\n\n\"It is impossible, but it is true. He is a Lorraine--Mayenne's nephew,\nand for years Mayenne's spy. He came to you to kill you--for that\nobject pure and simple. Last spring, before he came to you, he was here\nin Paris with Mayenne, making terms for your murder. He is no Huguenot,\nno Kingsman. He is Mayenne's henchman, son to Guise himself.\"\n\n\"And how long have you known this?\" asked Monsieur.\n\n\"Since this morning.\" Then, as the import of the question struck him, he\nfell back with a groan. \"Ah, Monsieur, if you can ask that, I have no\nmore to say. It is useless.\" He turned away into the darkness.\n\nThat they should part thus was too miserable to be endured. I was sure\nMonsieur's question was no accusation, but the groping of bewilderment.\n\n\"M. Étienne, stop!\" I commanded. \"Monsieur, it is the truth. Indeed it\nis the truth. He is innocent, and Lucas _is_ a Guise. Monsieur, you must\nlisten to me. M. Étienne, you must wait. I stirred up the whole trouble\nwith my story to you, Monsieur, and I take it back. I believed I was\ntelling the truth. I was wrong. When I left you, I went straight back to\nthe Rue Coupejarrets to kill your son--your murderer, I thought. And\nthere I found Grammont and Lucas side by side. We thought them sworn\nfoes: they were hand in glove. They came at me to end me because I had\ntold, and M. Étienne saved me. Lucas mocked him to his face because he\nhad been tricked; Lucas bragged that it was his own scheme--that M.\nÉtienne was his dupe. Vigo will tell you. Vigo heard him. His scheme\nwas to saddle M. Étienne with your murder. He was tricked. He believed\nwhat he told me--that the thing was a duel between Lucas and Grammont.\nYou must believe it, Monsieur!\"\n\nM. Étienne, who had actually obeyed me,--me, his lackey,--turned to his\nfather once again.\n\n\"Monsieur, if you cannot believe me, believe Félix. You believed him\nwhen he took away my good name. Believe him now when he restores it.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" Monsieur cried; \"I believe thee, Étienne.\"\n\nAnd he took his son in his arms.\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\n_The signet of the king._\n\n\nAlready a wan light was revealing the round tops of the plum-trees in M.\nde Mirabeau's garden, the high gray wall, and the narrow alleyway\nbeneath it. And the two vague shapes by me were no longer vague shapes,\nbut were turning moment by moment, as if coming out of an enchantment,\ninto their true forms. It really was Monsieur in the flesh, with a wet\nglint in his eyes as he kissed his boy.\n\nNeither thought of me, and it was none of my concern what they said to\neach other. I went a rod or two down the lane, round a curve in the\nwall, and watched the bands of light streaking the eastern sky, in utter\ncontent. Never before had the world seemed to me so good a place. Since\nthis misery had come right, I knew all the rest would; I should yet\ndance at M. Étienne's wedding.\n\nI leaned my head back against the wall, and had shut my eyes to consider\nthe matter more quietly, when I heard my name.\n\n\"Félix! Félix! Where is the boy got to?\"\n\nThe sun was clean up over the horizon, and as I blinked and wondered\nhow he had contrived the feat so quickly, my two messieurs came hand in\nhand round the corner to me, the level rays glittering on Monsieur's\nburnished breastplate, on M. Étienne's bright head, and on both their\nshining faces. Now that for the first time I saw them together, I found\nthem, despite the dark hair and the yellow, the brown eyes and the gray,\nwonderfully alike. There was the same carriage, the same cock of the\nhead, the same smile. If I had not known before, I knew now, the instant\nI looked at them, that the quarrel was over. Save as it gave them a\ndeeper love of each other, it might never have been.\n\nI sprang up, and Monsieur, my duke, embraced me.\n\n\"Lucky we came up the lane when we did, eh, Félix?\" M. Étienne said.\n\"But, Monsieur, I have not asked you yet what madness sent you\ntraversing this back passage at two in the morning.\"\n\n\"I might ask you that, Étienne.\"\n\nThe young man hesitated a bare moment before he answered:\n\n\"I am just come from serenading Mlle. de Montluc.\"\n\nA shade fell over Monsieur's radiance. At his look, M. Étienne cried\nout:\n\n\"I've told you I'm no Leaguer! Mayenne offered me mademoiselle if I\nwould come over. I refused. Last night he sent me word that he would\nkill me as a common nuisance if I sought to see her. That was why I\ntried.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I cried, curiosity mastering me, \"was she in the window?\"\n\nHe shook his head, his eyes on his father' face.\n\n\"Étienne,\" Monsieur said slowly, \"can't you see that Mlle. de Montluc is\nnot for you?\"\n\n\"I shall never see it, Monsieur. The first article in my creed says she\nis for me. And I'll have her yet, for all Mayenne.\"\n\n\"Then, mordieu, we'll steal her together!\"\n\n\"You! You'll help me?\"\n\n\"Why, dear son,\" Monsieur explained, \"it broke my heart to think of you\nin the League. I could not bear that my son should help a Spaniard to\nthe throne of France, or a Lorrainer either. But if it is a question of\nstealing the lady--well, I never prosed about prudence yet, thank God!\"\n\nM. Étienne, wet-eyed, laughing, hugged Monsieur.\n\n\"By St. Quentin, we'll get you your lady! I hated the marriage while I\nthought it would make you a Leaguer. I could not see you sacrifice your\nhonour to a girl's bright eyes. But your life--that is different.\"\n\n\"My life is a little thing.\"\n\n\"No,\" Monsieur said; \"it is a good deal--one's life. But one is not to\nguard one's life at the cost of all that makes life sweet.\"\n\n\"Ah, you know how I love her!\"\n\n\"They call me a fool,\" Monsieur went on musingly, \"because I risk my\nlife in wild errands. But, mordieu! I am the wise man. For they who\nthink ever of safety, and crouch and scheme and shuffle to procure it,\nwhy, look you, they destroy their own ends. For, when all is done, they\nhave never really lived. And that is why they hate death so, these\nworthies. While I, who have never cringed to fear, I live like a king.\nI go my ways without any man's leave; and if death comes to me a little\nsooner for that, I am a poor creature if I do not meet him smiling. If I\nmay live as I please, I am content to die when I must.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said M. Étienne, \"and if we live as we do not please, still we\nmust die presently. Therefore do I purpose never to give over striving\nafter my lady.\"\n\n\"Oh, we'll win her by noon. But first we'll sleep. There's Félix yawning\nhis head off. Come, come.\"\n\nWe set off along the alley, the St. Quentins arm in arm, I at their\nheels. Monsieur looked over his shoulder with a sudden anxiety.\n\n\"Félix, you said Huguet had run for aid?\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsieur; Vigo should have been here before now,\" I answered,\nremembering Vigo's promptitude yesterday.\n\n\"Every one was asleep; he has been hammering this half-hour to get in,\"\nM. Étienne said easily.\n\nBut Monsieur asked of me:\n\n\"Was he much hurt, Félix?\"\n\n\"No; I am sure not, Monsieur. He was run through the arm; I am sure he\nwas not hurt otherwise.\"\n\nWe came to where the two slain men lay across the way. M. Étienne\nexclaimed:\n\n\"If you do not hold your life dear, you sell it dear, Monsieur! How many\nof the rascals were there?\"\n\n\"It was hard to tell in the dark. Five, I think.\"\n\n\"Now, Monsieur, how came you to be in this place in the dark?\"\n\n\"Why, what to do, Étienne? I came in at the gate just after midnight. I\ncould not leave St. Denis earlier, and night is my time to enter Paris.\nThe inns were shut--\"\n\n\"But some friend near the gate? Tarigny would have sheltered you.\"\n\n\"Aye, and got into trouble for it, had it leaked out to the Sixteen.\"\n\n\"Tarigny is no craven.\"\n\n\"But neither am I,\" said Monsieur, smiling.\n\n\"Oh, I give you up! Go your ways. But I will not come to save you next\ntime.\"\n\n\"No, lad; you will be at my side hereafter.\"\n\nM. Étienne laughed and said no more.\n\n\"But in truth,\" Monsieur added, \"I did not expect waylaying. If these\nfellows watched by the gate, they hid cleverly. I never saw a finger-tip\nof them till they sprang upon us by the corner here, when we were almost\nhome.\"\n\nM. Étienne bent over and turned face up the man whom Monsieur had run\nthrough the heart. He was an ugly enough fellow, one eye entirely closed\nby a great scar that ran from his forehead nearly to his grizzled\nmustache.\n\n\"This is Bernet le Borgne,\" he said. \"Have you encountered him before,\nMonsieur? He was a soldier under Guise once, they say, but he has done\nnaught but hang about Paris taverns this many a year. We used to wonder\nhow he lived; we knew he did somebody's dirty work. Clisson employed\nhim once, so I know something of him. With his one eye he could fence\nbetter than most folks with two. My congratulations to you, Monsieur.\"\n\nBut Monsieur, not heeding, was bending over the other man.\n\n\"Your acquaintance is wider than mine. Do you know this one?\"\n\nM. Étienne shook his head over this other man, who lay face up, staring\nwith wide dark eyes into the sky. His hair curled in little rings about\nhis forehead, and his cheeks were smooth; he looked no older than I.\n\n\"He dashed at me the first of all,\" Monsieur said in a low voice. \"I ran\nhim through before the others came up. Mordieu! I am glad it was dark. A\nboy like that!\"\n\n\"He had good mettle to run up first,\" M. Étienne said. \"And it is no\ndisgrace to fall to your sword, Monsieur. Come, let us go.\"\n\nBut Monsieur looked back again at the dead lad, and then at his son and\nat me, and came with us heavy of countenance.\n\nOn the stones before us lay a trail of blood-drops.\n\n\"Now, that is where Huguet ran with his wounded arm,\" I said to M.\nÉtienne.\n\n\"Aye, and if we did not know the way home we could find it by this red\ntrack.\"\n\nBut the trail did not reach the door; for when we turned into the little\nstreet where the arch is, where I had waited for Martin, as we turned\nthe familiar corner under the walls of the house itself, we came\nsuddenly on the body of a man. Monsieur ran forward with a cry, for it\nwas the squire Huguet.\n\nHe wore a leather jerkin lined with steel rings, mail as stout as any\nforged. Some one had stabbed once and again at the coat without avail,\nand had then torn it open and stabbed his defenceless breast. Though we\nhad killed two of their men, they had rained blows enough on this man of\nours to kill twenty.\n\nMonsieur knelt on the ground beside him, but he was quite cold.\n\n\"The man who fled when we charged them must have lurked about,\" I said.\n\"Huguet's sword-arm was useless; he could not defend himself.\"\n\n\"Or else he fainted from his wound, he bled so,\" M. Étienne answered.\n\"And one of those who fled last came upon him helpless and did this.\"\n\n\"Why didn't I follow him instead of sitting down, a John o'dreams?\" I\ncried. \"But I was thinking of you and Monsieur; I forgot Huguet.\"\n\n\"I forgot him, too,\" Monsieur sorrowed. \"Shame to me; he would not have\nforgotten me.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" his son said, \"it was no negligence of yours. You could have\nsaved him only by following when he ran. And that was impossible.\"\n\n\"In sight of the door,\" Monsieur said sadly. \"In sight of his own door.\"\n\nWe held silent. Monsieur got soberly to his feet.\n\n\"I never lost a better man.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I cried, \"he asks no better epitaph. If you will say that\nof me when I die, I shall not have lived in vain.\"\n\nHe smiled at the outburst, but I did not care; if he would only smile, I\nwas content it should be at me.\n\n\"Nay, Félix,\" he said. \"I hope it will not be I who compose your\nepitaph. Come, we must get to the house and send after poor Huguet.\"\n\n\"Félix and I will carry him,\" M. Étienne said, and we lifted him between\nus--no easy task, for he was a heavy fellow. But it was little enough to\ndo for him.\n\nWe bore him along slowly, Monsieur striding ahead. But of a sudden he\nturned back to us, laying quick fingers on the poor torn breast.\n\n\"What is it, Monsieur?\" cried his son.\n\n\"My papers.\"\n\nWe set him down, and the three of us examined him from top to toe,\nstripping off his steel coat, pulling apart his blood-clotted linen,\nprying into his very boots. But no papers revealed themselves.\n\n\"What were they, Monsieur?\"\n\nA drawn look had come over Monsieur's face.\n\n\"Papers which the king gave me, and which I, fool and traitor, have\nlost.\"\n\nI ran back to the spot where we had found Huguet; there was his hat on\nthe ground, but no papers. I followed up the red trail to its beginning,\nlooking behind every stone, every bunch of grass; but no papers. In my\ndesperation I even pulled about the dead man, lest the packet had been\ncovered, falling from Huguet in the fray. The two gentlemen joined me\nin the search, and we went over every inch of the ground, but to no\npurpose.\n\n\"I thought them safer with Huguet than with me,\" Monsieur groaned. \"I\nknew we ran the risk of ambush. Myself would be the object of attack; I\nbade Huguet, were we waylaid, to run with the papers.\"\n\n\"And of course he would not.\"\n\n\"He should; it was my command. He stayed and saved my life perhaps, and\nlost me what is dearer than life--my honour.\"\n\n\"He could not leave you to be killed, Monsieur; that were asking the\nimpossible.\"\n\n\"Aye, but I am saved at the ruin of a hundred others!\" Monsieur cried.\n\"The papers contained certain lists of names of Mayenne's officers\npledged to support the king if he turn Catholic. I had them for\nLemaître. But at this date, in Mayenne's hands, they spell the men's\ndestruction. Huguet should have known that if I told him to desert me, I\nmeant it.\"\n\nM. Étienne ventured no word, understanding well enough that in such\nbitter moments no consolation consoles. M. le Duc added after a moment:\n\n\"Mordieu! I am ashamed of myself. I might be better occupied than in\nblaming the dead--the brave and faithful dead. Belike he could not run,\nthey set on us so suddenly. When he could, he did go, and he went to his\ndeath. They were my charge, the papers. I had no right to put the\nresponsibility on any other. I should have kept them myself. I should\nhave gone to Tarigny. I should never have ventured myself through these\nblack lanes. Fool! traitorous fool!\"\n\n\"Nay, Monsieur, the mischance might have befallen any one.\"\n\n\"It would not have befallen Villeroi! It would not have befallen Rosny!\"\nMonsieur exclaimed bitterly. \"It befalls me because I am a lack-wit who\nrushes into affairs for which he is not fit. I can handle a sword, but I\nhave no business to meddle in statecraft.\"\n\n\"Then have those wiseheads out at St. Denis no business to employ you,\"\nM. Étienne said. \"He is not unknown to fame, this Duke of St. Quentin;\neverybody knows how he goes about things. Monsieur, they gave you the\npapers because no one else would carry them into Paris. They knew you\nhad no fear in you; and it is because of that that the papers are\nlacking. But take heart, Monsieur. We'll get them back.\"\n\n\"When? How?\"\n\n\"Soon,\" M. Étienne answered, \"and easily, if you will tell me what they\nare like. Are they open?\"\n\n\"I fear by now they may be. There are three sheets of names, and a\nfourth sheet, a letter--all in cipher.\"\n\n\"Ah, but in that case--\"\n\nMonsieur cut short his son's jubilation.\n\n\"But--Lucas.\"\n\n\"Of course--I forgot him. He knows your ciphers, then?\"\n\n\"Dolt that I was, he knows everything.\"\n\n\"Then must we lay hands on the papers before they reach Mayenne, and\nall is saved,\" M. Étienne declared cheerfully. \"These fellows can't read\na cipher. If the packet be not open, Monsieur?\"\n\n\"It was a span long, and half as wide; for all address, the letters _St.\nQ._ in the corner. It was tied with red cord and bore the seal of a\nflying falcon, and the motto, _Je reviendrai_.\"\n\n\"What! the king's seal? That's serious. Expect, then, Monsieur, to see\nthe papers in an hour's time.\"\n\n\"Étienne, Étienne,\" Monsieur cried, \"are you mad?\"\n\n\"No madder than is proper for a St. Quentin. It's simple enough. I told\nyou I recognized that worthy back there for one Bernet, who lodged at an\ninn I wot of over beyond the markets. Do we betake ourselves thither, we\nmay easily fall in with some comrades of his bosom who have not the\nmisfortune to be lying dead in a back lane, who will know something of\nyour loss. Bernet's sort are no bigots; while they work for the League,\nthey will lend a kindly ear to the chink of Kingsmen's florins.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried Monsieur, \"then let us go.\" But M. Étienne laid a\nrestraining hand on his shoulder.\n\n\"Not you. I. They will kill you in the Halles just as cheerfully as in\nthe Quartier Marais. This is my affair.\"\n\nHe looked at Monsieur with kindling eyes, seeing his chance to prove his\ndevotion. The duke yielded to his eagerness.\n\n\"But,\" M. Étienne added generously, \"you may have the honour of paying\nthe piper.\"\n\n\"I give you carte blanche, my son. Étienne, if you put that packet into\nmy hand, it is more than if you brought the sceptre of France.\"\n\n\"Then go practise, Monsieur, at feeling more than king.\"\n\nHe embraced his father, and we turned off down the street.\n\nThe sun was well up by this time, and the city rousing to the labours of\nthe day. Half was I glad of the lateness of the hour, for we ran no risk\nnow of cutthroats; and half was I sorry, for it behooves not a man\nsupposed to be in the Bastille to show himself too liberally to the\nbroad eye of the streets. Every time--and it was often--that we\napproached a person who to my nervous imagination looked official, I\nshook in my shoes. The way seemed fairly to bristle with soldiers,\nofficers, judges; for aught I knew, members of the Sixteen, Governor\nBelin himself. It was a great surprise to me when at length we arrived\nwithout let or hindrance before the door of a mean little\ndrinking-place, our goal.\n\nWe went in, and M. Étienne ordered wine, much to my satisfaction. My\nstomach was beginning to remind me that I had given it nothing for\ntwelve hours or so, while I had worked my legs hard.\n\n\"Does M. Bernet lodge with you?\" my master asked of the landlord. We\nwere his only patrons at the moment.\n\n\"M. Bernet? Him with the eye out?\"\n\n\"The same.\"\n\n\"Why, no, monsieur. I don't let lodgings. The building is not mine. I\nbut rent the ground floor for my purposes.\"\n\n\"But M. Bernet lodges in the house, then?\"\n\n\"No, he doesn't. He lodges round the corner, in the court off the Rue\nClichet.\"\n\n\"But he comes here often?\"\n\n\"Oh, aye. Every morning for his glass. And most evenings, too.\"\n\nM. Étienne laid down the drink-money, and something more.\n\n\"Sometimes he has a friend with him, eh?\"\n\nThe man laughed.\n\n\"No, monsieur; he comes in here alone. Many's the time I'll standing in\nmy door when he'll go by with some gallant, and he never chances to see\nme or my shop. While if he's alone it's 'Good morning, Jean. Anything in\nthe casks to-day?' He can no more get by my door than he'll get by\nDeath's when the time comes.\"\n\n\"No,\" agreed M. Étienne; \"we all stop there, soon or late. Those friends\nof M. Bernet, then--there is none you could put a name to?\"\n\n\"Why, no, monsieur, more's the pity. He has none lives in this quarter.\nM. Bernet's in low water, you understand, monsieur. If he lives here, it\nis because he can't help it. But he goes elsewhere for his friends.\"\n\n\"Then you can tell us, my man, where he lodges?\"\n\n\"Aye, that can I,\" mine host answered, bustling out from behind the bar,\neager in the interest of the pleasant-spoken, open-handed gallant. \"Just\nround the corner of the Rue Clichet, in the court. The first house on\nthe left, that is his. I would go with monsieur, only I cannot leave the\nshop alone, and the wife not back from market. But monsieur cannot miss\nit. The first house in the court. Thank you, monsieur. Au revoir,\nmonsieur.\"\n\nIn the doorway of the first house on the left in the little court stood\nan old man with a wooden leg, sweeping heaps of refuse out of the\npassage.\n\n\"It appears that every one on this stair lacks something,\" M. Étienne\nmurmured to me. \"It is the livery of the house. Can you tell me, friend,\nwhere I may find M. Bernet?\"\n\nThe concierge regarded us without cordiality, while by no means ceasing\nhis endeavours to cover our shoes with his sweepings.\n\n\"Third story back,\" he said.\n\n\"Does M. Bernet lodge alone?\"\n\n\"One of him's enough,\" the old fellow growled, whacking out his dirty\nbroom on the door-post, powdering us with dust. M. Étienne, coughing,\npursued his inquiries:\n\n\"Ah, I understood he shared his lodgings with a comrade. He has a\nfriend, then, in the building?\"\n\n\"Aye, I suppose so,\" the old chap grinned, \"when monsieur walks in.\"\n\n\"But he has another friend besides me, has he not?\" M. Étienne\npersisted. \"One who, if he does not live here, comes often to see M.\nBernet?\"\n\n\"You seem to know all about it. Better see Bernet himself, instead of\nchattering here all day.\"\n\n\"Good advice, and I'll take it,\" said M. Étienne, lightly setting foot\non the stair, muttering to himself as he mounted, \"and come back to\nbreak your head, mon vieillard.\"\n\nWe went up the three flights and along the passage to the door at the\nback, whereon M. Étienne pounded loudly. I could not see his reason, and\nheartily I wished he would not. It seemed to me a creepy thing to be\nknocking on a man's door when we knew very well he would never open it\nagain. We knocked as if we fully thought him within, when all the while\nwe knew he was lying a stone on the stones under M. de Mirabeau's garden\nwall. Perhaps by this time he had been found; perhaps one of the\nmarquis's liveried lackeys, or a passing idler, or a woman with a\nmarket-basket had come upon him; perhaps even now he was being borne\naway on a plank to be identified. And here were we, knocking, knocking,\nas if we innocently expected him to open to us. I had a chill dread that\nsuddenly he would open to us. The door would swing wide and show him\npale and bloody, with the broken sword in his heart. At the real\ncreaking of a hinge I could scarce swallow a cry.\n\nIt was not Bernet's door, but the door at the front which opened,\nletting a stream of sunlight into the dark passage. In the doorway stood\na woman, with two bare-legged babies clinging to her skirts.\n\n\"Madame,\" M. Étienne addressed her, with the courtesy due to a duchess,\n\"I have been knocking at M. Bernet's door without result. Perhaps you\ncould give me some hint as to his whereabouts?\"\n\n\"Ah, I am sorry. I know nothing to tell monsieur,\" she cried\nregretfully, impressed, as the concierge had not been, by his look and\nmanner. \"But this I can say: he went out last night, and I do not\nbelieve he has been in since. He went out about nine--or it may have\nbeen later than that. Because I did not put the children to bed till\nafter dark; they enjoy running about in the cool of the evening as much\nas anybody else, the little dears. And they were cross last night, the\nday was so hot, and I was a long time hushing them to sleep. Yes, it\nmust have been after ten, because they were asleep, and the man\nstumbling on the stairs woke Pierre. And he cried for an hour. Didn't\nyou, my angel?\"\n\nShe picked one of the brats up in her arms to display him to us. M.\nÉtienne asked:\n\n\"What man?\"\n\n\"Why, the one that came for him. The one he went out with.\"\n\n\"And what sort of person was this?\"\n\n\"Nay, how was I to see? Would I be out walking the common passage with a\nchild to hush? I was rocking the cradle.\"\n\n\"But who does come here to visit M. Bernet?\"\n\n\"I've never seen any one, monsieur. I've never laid eyes on M. Bernet\nbut twice. I keep in my apartment. And besides, we have only been here a\nweek.\"\n\n\"I thank you, madame,\" M. Étienne said, turning to the stairs.\n\nShe ran out to the rail, babies and all.\n\n\"But I could take a message for him, monsieur. I will make a point of\nseeing him when he comes in.\"\n\n\"I will not burden you, madame,\" M. Étienne answered from the story\nbelow. But she was loath to stop talking, and hung over the railing to\ncall:\n\n\"Beware of your footing, monsieur. Those second-floor people are not so\ntidy as they might be; one stumbles over all sorts of their rubbish out\nin the public way.\"\n\nThe door in front of us opened with a startling suddenness, and a big,\nbrawny wench bounced out to demand of us:\n\n\"What is that she says? What are you saying of us, you slut?\"\n\nWe had no mind to be mixed in the quarrel. We fled for our lives down\nthe stair.\n\nThe old carl, though his sweeping was done, leaned on his broom on the\nouter step.\n\n\"So you didn't find M. Bernet at home? I could have told you as much had\nyou been civil enough to ask.\"\n\nI would have kicked the old curmudgeon, but M. Étienne drew two gold\npieces from his pouch.\n\n\"Perchance if I ask you civilly, you will tell me with whom M. Bernet\nwent out last night?\"\n\n\"Who says he went out with anybody?\"\n\n\"I do,\" and M. Étienne made a motion to return the coins to their place.\n\n\"Since you know so much, it's strange you don't know a little more,\" the\nold chap growled. \"Well, Lord knows if it is really his, but he goes by\nthe name of Peyrot.\"\n\n\"And where does he lodge?\"\n\n\"How should I know? I have trouble enough keeping track of my own\nlodgers, without bothering my head about other people's.\"\n\n\"Now rack your brains, my friend, over this fellow,\" M. Étienne said\npatiently, with a persuasive chink of his pouch. \"Recollect now; you\nhave been sent to this monsieur with a message.\"\n\n\"Well, Rue des Tournelles, sign of the Gilded Shears,\" the old carl spat\nout at last.\n\n\"You are sure?\"\n\n\"Hang me else.\"\n\n\"If you are lying to me, I will come back and beat you to a jelly with\nyour own broom.\"\n\n\"It's the truth, monsieur,\" he said, with some proper show of respect at\nlast. \"Peyrot, at the Gilded Shears, Rue des Tournelles. You may beat me\nto a jelly if I lie.\"\n\n\"It would do you good in any event,\" M. Étienne told him, but flinging\nhim his pistoles, nevertheless. The old fellow swooped upon them,\ngathered them up, and was behind the closed door all in one movement.\nBut as we walked away, he opened a little wicket in the upper panel, and\nstuck out his ugly head to yell after us:\n\n\"If M. Bernet's not at home yet, neither will his friend be. I've told\nyou what will profit you none.\"\n\n\"You mistake, Sir Gargoyle,\" M. Étienne called over his shoulder. \"Your\ninformation is entirely to my needs.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\n_The Chevalier of the Tournelles._\n\n\nIt was a long walk to the Rue des Tournelles, which lay in our own\nquarter, not a dozen streets from the Hôtel St. Quentin itself. We found\nthe Gilded Shears hung before a tailor's shop in the cellar of a tall,\ncramped structure, only one window wide. Its narrow door was\ninhospitably shut, but at our summons the concierge appeared to inform\nus that M. Peyrot did truly live here and, moreover, was at home, having\narrived but half an hour earlier than we. He would go up and find out\nwhether monsieur could see us.\n\nBut M. Étienne thought that formality unnecessary, and was able, at\nsmall expense, to convince the concierge of it. We went alone up the\nstairs and crept very quietly along the passage toward the door of M.\nPeyrot. But our shoes made some noise on the flags; had he been\nlistening, he might have heard us as easily as we heard him. Peyrot had\nnot yet gone to bed after the night's exertion; a certain clatter and\ngurgle convinced us that he was refreshing himself with supper, or\nbreakfast, before reposing.\n\nM. Étienne stood still, his hand on the door-knob, eager, hesitating.\nHere was the man; were the papers here? If they were, should we secure\nthem? A single false step, a single wrong word, might foil us.\n\nThe sound of a chair pushed back came from within, and a young man's\nquick, firm step passed across to the far side of the room. We heard a\nbox shut and locked. M. Étienne nipped my arm; we thought we knew what\nwent in. Then came steps again and a loud yawn, and presently two whacks\non the floor. We knew as well as if we could see that Peyrot had thrown\nhis boots across the room. Next a clash and jangle of metal, that meant\nhis sword-belt with its accoutrements flung on the table. M. Étienne,\nwith the rapid murmur, \"If I look at you, nab him,\" turned the\ndoor-handle.\n\nBut M. Peyrot had prepared against surprise by the simple expedient of\nlocking his door. He heard us, too, for he stopped in the very middle of\na prolonged yawn and held himself absolutely still. M. Étienne called\nout softly:\n\n\"Peyrot!\"\n\n\"Who is it?\"\n\n\"I want to speak with you about something important.\"\n\n\"Who are you, then?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you when you let me in.\"\n\n\"I'll let you in when you tell me.\"\n\n\"My name's Martin. I'm a friend of Bernet. I want to speak to you\nquietly about a matter of importance.\"\n\n\"A friend of Bernet. Hmm! Well, friend of Bernet, it appears to me you\nspeak very well through the door.\"\n\n\"I want to speak with you about the affair of to-night.\"\n\n\"What affair?\"\n\n\"To-night's affair.\"\n\n\"To-night? I go to a supper-party at St. Germain. What have you to say\nabout that?\"\n\n\"Last night, then,\" M. Étienne amended, with rising temper. \"If you want\nme to shout it out on your stairs, the St. Quentin affair.\"\n\n\"Now, what may you mean by that?\" called the voice from within. If\nPeyrot was startled by the name, he carried it off well.\n\n\"You know what I mean. Shall I take the house into our confidence?\"\n\n\"The house knows as much of your meaning as I. See here, friend of\nBernet, if you are that gentleman's mate, perhaps you have a password\nabout you.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said M. Étienne, readily. \"This is it: twenty pistoles.\"\n\nNo answer came immediately; I could guess Peyrot puzzled. Presently he\ncalled to us:\n\n\"By the bones of St. Anne, I don't believe a word you've been saying.\nBut I'll have you in and see what you look like.\"\n\nWe heard him getting into his boots again and buckling on his baldric.\nThen we listened to the turning of a key; a lid was raised and banged\ndown again, and the lock refastened. It was the box once more. M.\nÉtienne and I looked at each other.\n\nAt length Peyrot opened the door and surveyed us.\n\n\"What, two friends of Bernet, ventre bleu!\" But he allowed us to enter.\n\nHe drew back before us with a flourishing bow, his hand resting lightly\non his belt, in which was stuck a brace of pistols. Any idea of doing\nviolence on the person of M. Peyrot we dismissed for the present.\n\nOur eyes travelled from his pistols over the rest of him. He was small,\nlean, and wiry, with dark, sharp face and deep-set twinkling eyes. One\nmoment's glance gave us to know that Peyrot was no fool.\n\nMy lord closed the door after him and went straight to the point.\n\n\"M. Peyrot, you were engaged last night in an attack on the Duke of St.\nQuentin. You did not succeed in slaying him, but you did kill his man,\nand you took from him a packet. I come to buy it.\"\n\nHe looked at us a little dazed, not understanding, I deem, how we knew\nthis. Certes, it had been too dark in the lane for his face to be seen,\nand he had doubtless made sure that he was not followed home. He said\ndirectly:\n\n\"You are the Comte de Mar.\"\n\n\"Even so, M. Peyrot. I did not care to have the whole stair know it, but\nto you I have no hesitation in confiding that I am M. de Mar.\"\n\nM. Peyrot swept a bow till his head almost touched the floor.\n\n\"My poor apartment is honoured.\"\n\nAs he louted low, I made a spring forward; I thought to pin him before\nhe could rise. But he was up with the lightness of a bird from the bough\nand standing three yards away from me, where I crouched on the spring\nlike a foiled cat. He grinned at me in open enjoyment.\n\n\"Monsieur desired?\" he asked sympathetically.\n\n\"No, it is I who desire,\" said M. Étienne, clearing himself a place to\nsit on the corner of the table. \"I desire that packet, monsieur. You\nknow this little expedition of yours to-night was something of a\nfailure. When you report to the general-duke, he will not be in the best\nof humours. He does not like failures, the general; he will not incline\nto reward you dear. While I am in the very best humour in the world.\"\n\nHe smiled to prove it. Nor do I think his complaisance altogether\nfeigned. The temper of our host amused him.\n\nAs for friend Peyrot, he still looked dazed. I thought it was because he\nhad not yet made up his mind what line to take; but had I viewed him\nwith neutral eyes I might easily have deemed his bewilderment genuine.\n\n\"Perhaps we should get on better if I could understand what monsieur is\ndriving at?\" he suggested. \"Monsieur's remarks about his noble father\nand the general-duke are interesting, but humble Jean Peyrot, who does\nnot move in court circles, is at a loss to translate them. In other\nwords, I have no notion what you are talking about.\"\n\n\"Oh, come,\" M. Étienne cried, \"no shuffling, Peyrot. We know as well as\nyou where you were before dawn.\"\n\n\"Before dawn? Marry, I was sleeping the sleep of the virtuous.\"\n\nM. Étienne slipped across the room as quickly as Peyrot's self might\nhave done, lifted up a heavy curtain hanging before an alcove, and\ndisclosed the bed folded smooth, the pillow undisturbed. He turned with\na triumphant grin on the owner, who showed all his teeth pleasantly in\nanswer, no whit abashed.\n\n\"For all you are a count, monsieur, you have the worst manners ever came\ninside these walls.\"\n\nM. le Comte, with no attempt at mending them, went on a tour about the\nroom, examining with sniffing interest all its furniture, even to the\ndishes and tankards on the table. Peyrot, leaning against the wall by\nthe window, regarded him steadily, with impassive face. At length M.\nÉtienne walked over to the chest by the chimneypiece and deliberately\nput his hand on the key.\n\nInstantly Peyrot's voice rang out, \"Stop!\" M. Étienne, turning, looked\ninto his pistol-barrel.\n\nMy lord stood exactly as he was, bent over the chest, his fingers on the\nkey, looking over his shoulder at the bravo with raised, protesting\neyebrows and laughing mouth. But though he laughed, he stood still.\n\n\"If you make a movement I do not like, M. de Mar, I will shoot you as I\nwould a rat. Your side is down and mine is up; I have no fear to kill\nyou. It will be painful to me, but if necessary I shall do it.\"\n\nM. Étienne sat down on the chest and smiled more amiably than ever.\n\n\"Why--have I never known you before, Peyrot?\"\n\n\"One moment, monsieur.\" The nose of the pistol pointed around to me. \"Go\nover there to the door, you.\"\n\nI retreated, covered by the shining muzzle, to a spot that pleased him.\n\n\"Now are we more comfortable,\" Peyrot observed, pulling a chair over\nagainst the wall and seating him, the pistol on his knee. \"Monsieur was\nsaying?\"\n\nMonsieur crossed his legs, as if of all seats in the world he liked his\npresent one the best. He had brought none of the airs of the noble into\nthis business, realizing shrewdly that they would but hamper him, as\nlace ruffles hamper a duellist. Peyrot, treeless adventurer, living by\nhis sharp sword and sharp wits, reverenced a count no more than a\nhod-carrier. His occasional mocking deference was more insulting than\noutright rudeness; but M. Étienne bore it unruffled. Possibly he\nschooled himself so to bear it, but I think rather that he felt so\neasily secure on the height of his gentlehood that Peyrot's impudence\nmerely tickled him.\n\n\"I was wondering,\" he answered pleasantly, \"how long you have dwelt in\nthis town and I not known it. You are from Guienne, methinks.\"\n\n\"Carcassonne way,\" the other said indifferently. Then memory bringing a\ndeep twinkle to his eye, he added: \"What think you, monsieur? I was left\na week-old babe on the monastery step; was reared up in holiness within\nits sacred walls; chorister at ten, novice at eighteen, full-fledged\nfriar, fasting, praying, and singing misereres, exhorting dying saints\nand living sinners, at twenty.\"\n\n\"A very pretty brotherhood, you for sample.\"\n\n\"Nay, I am none. Else I might have stayed. But one night I took\nleg-bail, lived in the woods till my hair grew, and struck out for\nParis. And never regretted it, neither.\"\n\nHe leaned his head back, his eyes fixed contemplatively on the ceiling,\nand burst into song, in voice as melodious as a lark's:\n\n _Piety and Grace and Gloom,\n For such like guests I have no room!\n Piety and Gloom and Grace,\n I bang my door shut in your face!\n Gloom and Grace and Piety,\n I set my dog on such as ye!_\n\nFinishing his stave, he continued to beat time with his heel on the\nfloor and to gaze upon the ceiling. But I think we could not have\ntwitched a finger without his noting it. M. Étienne rose and leaned\nacross the table toward him.\n\n\"M. Peyrot has made his fortune in Paris? Monsieur rolls in wealth, of\ncourse?\"\n\nPeyrot shrugged his shoulders, his eyes leaving the ceiling and making a\nmocking pilgrimage of the room, resting finally on his own rusty\nclothing.\n\n\"Do I look it?\" he answered.\n\n\"Oh,\" said M. Étienne, slowly, as one who digests an entirely new idea,\n\"I supposed monsieur must be as rich as a Lombard, he is so cold on the\nsubject of turning an honest penny.\"\n\nPeyrot's roving eye condescended to meet his visitor's.\n\n\"Say on,\" he permitted lazily.\n\n\"I offer twenty pistoles for a packet, seal unbroken, taken at dawn from\nthe person of M. de St. Quentin's squire.\"\n\n\"Now you are talking sensibly,\" the scamp said, as if M. Étienne had\nbeen the shuffler. \"That is a fair offer and demands a fair answer.\nMoreover, such zeal as you display deserves success. I will look about a\nbit this morning among my friends and see if I can get wind of your\npacket. I will meet you at dinner-time at the inn of the Bonne Femme.\"\n\n\"Dinner-time is far hence. You forget, M. Peyrot, that you are risen\nearlier than usual. I will go out and sit on the stair for five minutes\nwhile you consult your friends.\"\n\nPeyrot grinned cheerfully.\n\n\"M. de Mar doesn't seem able to get it through his head that I know\nnothing whatever of this affair.\"\n\n\"No, I certainly don't get that through my head.\"\n\nPeyrot regarded him with an air ill-used yet compassionate, such as he\nmight in his monkish days have employed toward one who could not be\nconvinced, for instance, of the efficacy of prayer.\n\n\"M. de Mar,\" quoth he, plaintively, in pity half for himself so\nmisunderstood, half for his interlocutor so wilfully blind, \"I do\nsolemnly assure you, once and for all, that I know nothing of this\naffair of yours. Till you so asserted, I had no knowledge that Monsieur,\nyour honoured father, had been set on, and deeply am I pained to hear\nit. These be evil days when such things can happen. As for your packet,\nI learn of it only through your word, having no more to do with this\ndeplorable business than a babe unborn.\"\n\nI declare I was almost shaken, almost thought we had wronged him. But M.\nÉtienne gauged him otherwise.\n\n\"Your words please me,\" he began.\n\n\"The contemplation of virtue,\" the rascal droned with down-drawn lips,\nin pulpit tone, \"is always uplifting to the spirit.\"\n\n\"You have boasted,\" M. Étienne went on, \"that your side was up and mine\ndown. Did you not reflect that soon my side may be up and yours down,\nyou would hardly be at such pains to deny that you ever bared blade\nagainst the Duke of St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"I have made my declaration in the presence of two witnesses, far too\nhonourable to falsify, that I know nothing of the attack on the duke,\"\nPeyrot repeated with apparent satisfaction. \"But of course it is\npossible that by scouring Paris I might get on the scent of your packet.\nTwenty pistoles, though. That is not much.\"\n\nM. Étienne stood silent, drumming tattoos on the table, not pleased with\nthe turn of the matter, not seeing how to better it. Had we been sure of\nour suspicions, we would have charged him, pistol or no pistol,\ntrusting that our quickness would prevent his shooting, or that the\npowder would miss fire, or that the ball would fly wide, or that we\nshould be hit in no vital part; trusting, in short, that God was with us\nand would in some fashion save us. But we could not be sure that the\npacket was with Peyrot. What we had heard him lock in the chest might\nhave been these very pistols that he had afterward taken out again.\nThree men had fled from M. de Mirabeau's alley; we had no means of\nknowing whether this Peyrot were he who ran as we came up, he whom I had\nencountered, or he who had engaged M. Étienne. And did we know, that\nwould not tell us which of the three had stabbed and plundered Huguet.\nPeyrot might have the packet, or he might know who had it, or he might\nbe in honest ignorance of its existence. If he had it, it were a crying\nshame to pay out honest money for what we might take by force; to buy\nyour own goods from a thief were a sin. But supposing he had it not? If\nwe could seize upon him, disarm him, bind him, threaten him, beat him,\nrack him, would he--granted he knew--reveal its whereabouts? Writ large\nin his face was every manner of roguery, but not one iota of cowardice.\nHe might very well hold us baffled, hour on hour, while the papers went\nto Mayenne. Even should he tell, we had the business to begin again from\nthe very beginning, with some other knave mayhap worse than this.\n\nPlainly the game was in Peyrot's hands; we could play only to his lead.\n\n\"If you will put the packet into my hands, seal unbroken, this day at\neleven, I engage to meet you with twenty pistoles,\" M. Étienne said.\n\n\"Twenty pistoles were a fair price for the packet. But monsieur forgets\nthe wear and tear on my conscience incurred for him. I must be\nreimbursed for that.\"\n\n\"Conscience, quotha!\"\n\n\"Certainly, monsieur. I am in my way as honest a man as you in yours. I\nhave never been false to the hand that fed me. If, therefore, I divert\nto you a certain packet which of rights goes elsewhere, my sin must be\nmade worth my while. My conscience will sting me sorely, but with the\naid of a glass and a lass I may contrive to forget the pain.\n\n _Mirth, my love, and Folly dear,\n Baggages, you're welcome here!_\n\nI fix the injury to my conscience at thirty pistoles, M. le Comte. Fifty\nin all will bring the packet to your hand.\"\n\nIt had been a pleasure to M. le Comte to fling a tankard in the fellow's\nface. But the steadfast determination to win the papers for Monsieur,\nand, possibly, respect for Peyrot's weapon, withheld him.\n\n\"Very well, then. In the cabaret of the Bonne Femme, at eleven. You may\ndo as you like about appearing; I shall be there with my fifty\npistoles.\"\n\n\"What guaranty have I that you will deal fairly with me?\"\n\n\"The word of a St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"Sufficient, of course.\"\n\nThe scamp rose with a bow.\n\n\"Well, I have not the word of a gentleman to offer you, but I give you\nthe opinion of Jean Peyrot, sometime Father Ambrosius, that he and the\npacket will be there. This has been a delightful call, monsieur, and I\nam loath to let you go. But it is time I was free to look for that\npacket.\"\n\nM. Étienne's eyes went over to the chest.\n\n\"I wish you all success in your arduous search.\"\n\n\"It is like to be, in truth, a long and weary search,\" Peyrot sighed.\n\"My ignorance of the perpetrators of the outrage makes my task difficult\nindeed. But rest assured, monsieur, that I shall question every man in\nParis, if need be. I shall leave no stone unturned.\"\n\nM. Étienne still pensively regarded the chest.\n\n\"If you leave no key unturned, 'twill be more to the purpose.\"\n\n\"You appear yet to nurse the belief that I have the packet. But as a\nmatter of fact, monsieur, I have not.\"\n\nI studied his grave face, and could not for the life of me make out\nwhether he were lying. M. Étienne said merely:\n\n\"Come, Félix.\"\n\n\"You'll drink a glass before you go?\" Peyrot cried hospitably, running\nto fill a goblet muddy with his last pouring. But M. Étienne drew back.\n\n\"Well, I don't blame you. I wouldn't drink it myself if I were a count,\"\nPeyrot said, setting the draught to his own lips. \"After this noon I\nshall drink it no more all summer. I shall live like a king.\n\n _Kiss me, Folly; hug me, Mirth:\n Life without you's nothing worth!_\n\nMonsieur, can I lend you a hat?\"\n\nI had already opened the door and was holding it for my master to pass,\nwhen Peyrot picked up from the floor and held out to him a battered and\ndirty toque, with its draggled feather hanging forlornly over the side.\nChafed as he was, M. Étienne could not deny a laugh to the rascal's\nimpudence.\n\n\"I cannot rob monsieur,\" he said.\n\n\"M. le Comte need have no scruple. I shall buy me better out of his\nfifty pistoles.\"\n\nBut M. Étienne was out in the passage, I following, banging the door\nafter me. We went down the stair in time to Peyrot's lusty carolling:\n\n _Mirth I'll keep, though riches fly,\n While Folly's sure to linger by!_\n\n\"Think you we'll get the packet?\" I asked.\n\n\"Aye. I think he wants his fifty pistoles. Mordieu! it's galling to let\nthis dog set the terms.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I cried, \"perhaps he'll not stir out at once. I'll run home\nfor Vigo and his men, and we'll make the rascal disgorge.\"\n\n\"Now are you more zealous than honest, boy.\"\n\nI was silent, abashed, and he added:\n\n\"I had not been afraid to try conclusions with him, pistols or not, were\nI sure that he had the packet. I believe he has, yet there is the\nchance that, after all, in this one particular he speaks truth. I cannot\ntake any chances; I must get those papers for Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Yes, we could not have done otherwise, M. Étienne. But, monsieur, will\nyou dare go to this inn? M. le Comte is a man in jeopardy; he may not\nkeep rendezvous of the enemy's choosing.\"\n\n\"I might not keep one of Lucas's choosing. Though,\" he added, with a\nsmile, \"natheless, I think I should. But it is not likely this fellow\nknows of the warrant against me. Paris is a big place; news does not\ntravel all over town as quickly as at St. Quentin. I think friend Peyrot\nhas more to gain by playing fair than playing false, and appointing the\ncabaret of the Bonne Femme has a very open, pleasing sound. Did he mean\nto brain me he would scarce have set that place.\"\n\n\"It was not Peyrot alone I meant. But monsieur is so well known. In the\nstreets, or at the dinner-hour, some one may see you who knows Mayenne\nis after you.\"\n\n\"Oh, of that I must take my chance,\" he made answer, no whit troubled by\nthe warning. \"I go home now for the ransom, and I will e'en be at the\npains to doff this gear for something darker.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I pleaded, \"why not stay at home to get your dues of sleep?\nVigo will bring the gold; he and I will put the matter through.\"\n\n\"I ask not your advice,\" he cried haughtily; then with instant\nsoftening: \"Nay, this is my affair, Félix. I have taken it upon myself\nto recover Monsieur his papers. I must carry it through myself to the\nvery omega.\"\n\nI said no more, partly because it would have done no good, partly\nbecause, in spite of the strange word, I understood how he felt.\n\n\"Perhaps you should go home and sleep,\" he suggested tenderly.\n\n\"Nay,\" cried I. \"I had a cat-nap in the lane; I'm game to see it\nthrough.\"\n\n\"Then,\" he commanded, \"you may stay here-abouts and watch that door. For\nI have some curiosity to know whether he will need to fare forth after\nthe treasure. If he do as I guess, he will spend the next hours as you\ncounsel me, making up arrears of sleep, and you'll not see him till a\nquarter or so before eleven. But whenever he comes out, follow him. Keep\nyour safe distance and dog him if you can.\"\n\n\"And if I lose him?\"\n\n\"Come back home. Station yourself now where he won't notice you. That\narch there should serve.\"\n\nWe had been standing at the street corner, sheltered by a balcony over\nour heads from the view of Peyrot's window.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I said, \"I do wish you would bring Vigo back with you.\"\n\n\"Félix,\" he laughed, \"you are the worst courtier I ever saw.\"\n\nI crossed the street as he told me, glancing up at the third story of\nthe house of the Gilded Shears. No watcher was visible. From the\narchway, which was entrance to a court of tall houses, I could well\ncommand Peyrot's door, myself in deep shadow M. Étienne nodded to me and\nwalked off whistling, staring full in the face every one he met.\n\nI would fain have occupied myself as we guessed the knave Peyrot to be\ndoing, and shut mine aching eyes in sleep. But I was sternly determined\nto be faithful to my trust, and though for my greater comfort--cold\nenough comfort it was--I sat me down on the paving-stones, yet I kept my\neyelids propped open, my eyes on Peyrot's door. I was helped in carrying\nout my virtuous resolve by the fact that the court was populous and my\ncarcass in the entrance much in the way of the busy passers-by, so that\nfull half of them swore at me, and the half of that half kicked me. The\nhard part was that I could not fight them because of keeping my eyes on\nPeyrot's door.\n\nHe delayed so long and so long that I feared with shamed misgiving I\nmust have let him slip, when at length, on the very stroke of eleven, he\nsauntered forth. He was yawning prodigiously, but set off past my lair\nat a smart pace. I followed at goodly distance, but never once did he\nglance around. He led the way straight to the sign of the Bonne Femme.\n\n[Illustration: AT THE \"BONNE FEMME.\"]\n\nI entered two minutes after him, passing from the cabaret, where my men\nwere not, to the dining-hall, where, to my relief, they were. At two\nhuge fireplaces savoury soups bubbled, juicy rabbits simmered, fat\ncapons roasted; the smell brought the tears to my eyes. A concourse of\npeople was about: gentles and burghers seated at table, or passing in\nand out; waiters running back and forth from the fires, drawers from\nthe cabaret. I paused to scan the throng, jostled by one and another,\nbefore I descried my master and my knave. M. Étienne, the prompter at\nthe rendezvous, had, like a philosopher, ordered dinner, but he had\ndeserted it now and stood with Peyrot, their backs to the company, their\nelbows on the deep window-ledge, their heads close together. I came up\nsuddenly to Peyrot's side, making him jump.\n\n\"Oh, it's you, my little gentleman!\" he exclaimed, smiling to show all\nhis firm teeth, as white and even as a court beauty's. He looked in the\nbest of humours, as was not wonderful, considering that he was engaged\nin fastening up in the breast of his doublet something hard and lumpy.\nM. Étienne held up a packet for me to see, before Peyrot's shielding\nbody; it was tied with red cord and sealed with a spread falcon over the\ntiny letters, _Je reviendrai_. In the corner was written very small,\n_St. Q._ Smiling, he put it into the breast of his doublet.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" my scamp said to him with close lips that the room might not\nhear, \"you are a gentleman. If there ever comes a day when You-know-who\nis down and you are up, I shall be pleased to serve you as well as I\nhave served him.\"\n\n\"I hanker not for such service as you have given him,\" M. Étienne\nanswered. Peyrot's eyes twinkled brighter than ever.\n\n\"I have said it. I will serve you as vigourously as I have served him.\nBear me in mind, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Come, Félix,\" was all my lord's answer.\n\nPeyrot sprang forward to detain us.\n\n\"Monsieur, will you not dine with me? Both of you, I beg. I will have\nevery wine the cellar affords.\"\n\n\"No,\" said M. Étienne, carelessly, not deigning to anger; \"but there is\nmy dinner for you, an you like. I have paid for it, but I have other\nbusiness than to eat it.\"\n\nBidding a waiter serve M. Peyrot, he walked from the room without other\nglance at him. A slight shade fell over the reckless, scampish face; he\nwas a moment vexed that we scorned him. Merely vexed, I think; shamed\nnot at all; he knew not the feel of it. Even in the brief space I\nwatched him, as I passed to the door, his visage cleared, and he sat him\ndown contentedly to finish M. Étienne's veal broth.\n\nMy lord paced along rapidly and gladly, on fire to be before Monsieur\nwith the packet. But one little cloud, transient as Peyrot's, passed\nacross his lightsome countenance.\n\n\"I would that knave were of my rank,\" he said. \"I had not left him\nwithout slapping a glove in his face.\"\n\nThat Peyrot had come off scot-free put me out of patience, too, but I\nregretted the gold we had given him more than the wounds we had not. The\nmoney, on the contrary, troubled M. Étienne no whit; what he had never\ntoiled for he parted with lightly.\n\nWe came to our gates and went straightway up the stairs to Monsieur's\ncabinet. He sprang to meet us at the door, snatching the packet from\nhis son's eager hand.\n\n\"Well done, Étienne, my champion! An you brought me the crown of France\nI were not so pleased!\"\n\nThe flush of joy at generous praise of good work kindled on M. Étienne's\ncheek; it were hard to say which of the two messieurs beamed the more\ndelightedly on the other.\n\n\"My son, you have brought me back my honour,\" spoke Monsieur, more\nquietly, the exuberance of his delight abating, but leaving him none the\nless happy. \"If you had sinned against me--which I do not admit, dear\nlad--it were more than made up for now.\"\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur, I have often asked myself of late what I was born for.\nNow I know it was for this morning.\"\n\n\"For this and many more mornings, Étienne,\" Monsieur made gay answer,\nlaying a hand on his son's shoulder. \"Courage, comrade. We'll have our\nlady yet.\"\n\nHe smiled at him hearteningly and turned away to his writing-table. For\nall his sympathy, he was, as was natural, more interested in his papers\nthan in Mlle. de Montluc.\n\n\"I'll get this off my hands at once,\" he went on, with the effect of\ntalking to himself rather than to us. \"It shall go straight off to\nLemaître. You'd better go to bed, both of you. My faith, you've made a\nnight of it!\"\n\n\"Won't you take me for your messenger, Monsieur? You need a trusty\none.\"\n\n\"A kindly offer, Étienne. But you have earned your rest. And you, true\nas you are, are yet not the only staunch servant I have, God be thanked.\nGilles will take this straight from my hand to Lemaître's.\"\n\nHe had inclosed the packet in a clean wrapper, but now, a thought\nstriking him, he took it out again.\n\n\"I'd best break off the royal seal, lest it be spied among the\npresident's papers. I'll scratch out my initial, too. The cipher tells\nnothing.\"\n\n\"He is not likely to leave it about, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"No, but this time we'll provide for every chance. We'll take all the\nprecautions ingenuity can devise or patience execute.\"\n\nHe crushed the seal in his fingers, and took the knife-point to scrape\nthe wax away. It slipped and severed the cords. Of its own accord the\nstiff paper of the flap unfolded.\n\n\"The cipher seems as determined to show itself to me again as if I were\nin danger of forgetting it,\" Monsieur said idly. \"The truth is--\"\n\nHe stopped in the middle of a word, snatching up the packet, slapping it\nwide open, tearing it sheet from sheet. Each was absolutely blank!\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\n_The Florentines._\n\n\nM. Étienne, forgetting his manners, snatched the papers from his\nfather's hand, turning them about and about, not able to believe his\nsenses. A man hurled over a cliff, plunging in one moment from flowery\nlawns into a turbulent sea, might feel as he did.\n\n\"But the seal!\" he stammered.\n\n\"The seal was genuine,\" Monsieur answered, startled as he. \"How your\nfellow could have the king's signet--\"\n\n\"See,\" M. Étienne cried, scratching at the fragments. \"This is it. Dunce\nthat I am not to have guessed it! Look, there is a layer of paper\nembedded in the wax. Look, he cut the seal out, smeared hot wax on the\nfalse packet, pressed in the seal, and curled the new wax over the edge.\nIt was cleverly done; the seal is but little thicker, little larger than\nbefore. It did not look tampered with. Would you have suspected it,\nMonsieur?\" he demanded piteously.\n\n\"I had no thought of it. But this Peyrot--it may not yet be too late--\"\n\n\"I will go back,\" M. Étienne cried, darting to the door. But Monsieur\nlaid forcible hands on him.\n\n\"Not you, Étienne. You were hurt yesterday; you have not closed your\neyes for twenty-four hours. I don't want a dead son. I blame you not for\nthe failure; not another man of us all would have come so near success.\"\n\n\"Dolt! I should have known he could not deal honestly,\" M. Étienne\ncried. \"I should have known he would trick me. But I did not think to\ndoubt the crest. I should have opened it there in the inn, but it was\nLemaître's sealed packet. However, Peyrot sat down to my dinner: I can\nbe back before he has finished his three kinds of wine.\"\n\n\"Stop, Étienne,\" Monsieur commanded. \"I forbid you. You are gray with\nfatigue. Vigo shall go.\"\n\nM. Étienne turned on him in fiery protest; then the blaze in his eyes\nflickered out, and he made obedient salute.\n\n\"So be it. Let him go. I am no use; I bungle everything I touch. But he\nmay accomplish something.\"\n\nHe flung himself down on the bench in the corner, burying his face in\nhis hands, weary, chagrined, disheartened. A statue-maker might have\ncopied him for a figure of Defeat.\n\n\"Go find Vigo,\" Monsieur bade me, \"and then get you to bed.\"\n\nI obeyed both orders with all alacrity.\n\nI too smarted, but mine was the private's disappointment, not the\ngeneral's who had planned the campaign. The credit of the rescue was\nnone of mine; no more was the blame of failure. I need not rack myself\nwith questioning, Had I in this or that done differently, should I not\nhave triumphed? I had done only what I was told. Yet I was part of the\nexpedition; I could not but share the grief. If I did not wet my pillow\nwith my tears, it was because I could not keep awake long enough.\nWhatever my sorrows, speedily they slipped from me.\n\n * * * * *\n\nI roused with a start from deep, dreamless sleep, and then wondered\nwhether, after all, I had waked. Here, to be sure, was Marcel's bed, on\nwhich I had lain down; there was the high gable-window, through which\nthe westering sun now poured. There was the wardrobe open, with Marcel's\nSunday suit hanging on the peg; here were the two stools, the little\nimage of the Virgin on the wall. But here was also something else, so\nout of place in the chamber of a page that I pinched myself to make sure\nit was real. At my elbow on the pallet lay a box of some fine foreign\nwood, beautifully grained by God and polished by grateful man. It was\nabout as large as my lord's despatch-box, bound at the edges with\nshining brass and having long brass hinges wrought in a design of leaves\nand flowers. Beside the box were set three shallow trays, lined with\nblue velvet, and filled full of goldsmith's work-glittering chains,\nlinked or twisted, bracelets in the form of yellow snakes with green\neyes, buckles with ivory teeth, glove-clasps thick with pearls,\near-rings and finger-rings with precious stones.\n\nI stared bedazzled from the display to him who stood as showman. This\nwas a handsome lad, seemingly no older than I, though taller, with a\nshock of black hair, rough and curly, and dark, smooth face, very boyish\nand pleasant. He was dressed well, in bourgeois fashion; yet there was\nabout him and his apparel something, I could not tell what, unfamiliar,\ndifferent from us others.\n\nHe, meeting my eye, smiled in the friendliest way, like a child, and\nsaid, in Italian:\n\n\"Good day to you, my little gentleman.\"\n\nI had still the uncertain feeling that I must be in a dream, for why\nshould an Italian jeweller be displaying his treasures to me, a\npenniless page? But the dream was amusing; I was in no haste to wake.\n\nI knew my Italian well enough, for Monsieur's confessor, the Father\nFrancesco, who had followed him into exile, was Florentine; and as he\nalways spoke his own tongue to Monsieur, and I was always at the duke's\nheels, I picked up a deal of it. After Monsieur's going, the father,\nalready a victim, poor man, to the falling-sickness, of which he died,\nstayed behind with us, and I found a pricking pleasure in talking with\nhim in the speech he loved, of Monsieur's Roman journey, of his exploits\nin the war of the Three Henrys. Therefore the words came easily to my\nlips to answer this lad from over the Alps:\n\n\"I give you good day, friend.\"\n\nHe looked somewhat surprised and more than pleased, breaking at once\ninto voluble speech:\n\n\"The best of greetings to you, young sir. Now, what can I sell you this\nfine day? I have not been half a week in this big city of yours, yet\nalready I have but one boxful of trinkets left. They are noble,\nopen-handed customers, these gallants of Paris. I have not to show them\nmy wares twice, I can tell you. They know what key will unlock their\nfair mistresses' hearts. And now, what can I sell you, my little\ngentleman, to buy your sweetheart's kisses?\"\n\n\"Nay, I have no sweetheart,\" I said, \"and if I had, she would not wear\nthese gauds.\"\n\n\"She would if she could get them, then,\" he retorted. \"Now, let me give\nyou a bit of advice, my friend, for I see you are but young: buy this\ngold chain of me, or this ring with this little dove on it,--see, how\ncunningly wrought,--and you'll not lack long for a sweetheart.\"\n\nHis words huffed me a bit, for he spoke as if he were vastly my senior.\n\n\"I want no sweetheart,\" I returned with dignity, \"to be bought with\ngold.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" he cried quickly, \"but when your own valour and prowess have\ninflamed her with passion, you should be willing to reward her devotion\nand set at rest her suspense by a suitable gift.\"\n\nI looked at him uneasily, for I had a suspicion that he might be making\nfun of me. But his countenance was as guileless as a kitten's.\n\n\"Well, I tell you again I have no sweetheart and I want no sweetheart,\"\nI said; \"I have no time to bother with girls.\"\n\nAt once he abandoned the subject, seeing that he was making naught by\nit.\n\n\"The messer is very much occupied?\" he asked with exceeding deference.\n\"The messer has no leisure for trifling in boudoirs; he is occupied with\ngreat matters? Oh, that can I well believe, and I cry the messer's\npardon. For when the mind is taken up with affairs of state, it is\ndistasteful to listen even for a moment to light talk of maids and\njewels.\"\n\nAgain I eyed him challengingly; but he, with face utterly unconscious,\nwas sorting over his treasures. I made up my mind his queer talk was but\nthe outlandish way of a foreigner. He looked at me again, serious and\nrespectful.\n\n\"The messer must often be engaged in great risks, in perilous\nencounters. Is it not so? Then he will do well to carry ever over his\nheart the sacred image of our Lord.\"\n\nHe held up to my inspection a silver rosary from which depended a\ncrucifix of ivory, the sad image of the dying Christ carved upon it.\nEven in Monsieur's chapel, even in the church at St. Quentin, was\nnothing so masterfully wrought as this figurine to be held in the palm\nof the hand. The tears started in my eyes to look at it, and I crossed\nmyself in reverence. I bethought me how I had trampled on my crucifix;\nthe stranger all unwittingly had struck a bull's-eye. I had committed\ngrave offence against God, but perhaps if, putting gewgaws aside, I\nshould give my all for this cross, he would call the account even. I\nknew nothing of the value of a carving such as this, but I remembered I\nwas not moneyless, and I said, albeit somewhat shyly:\n\n\"I cannot take the rosary. But I should like well the crucifix. But\nthen, I have only ten pistoles.\"\n\n\"Ten pistoles!\" he repeated contemptuously. \"Corpo di Bacco! The\nworkmanship alone is worth twenty.\" Then, viewing my fallen visage, he\nadded: \"However, I have received fair treatment in this house, beshrew\nme but I have! I have made good sales to your young count. What sort of\nmaster is he, this M. le Comte de Mar?\"\n\n\"Oh, there's nobody like him,\" I answered, \"except, of course, M. le\nDuc.\"\n\n\"Ah, then you have two masters?\" he inquired curiously, yet with a\ncertain careless air. It struck me suddenly, overwhelmingly, that he was\na spy, come here under the guise of an honest tradesman. But he should\ngain nothing from me.\n\n\"This is the house of the Duke of St. Quentin,\" I said. \"Surely you\ncould not come in at the gate without discovering that?\"\n\n\"He is a very grand seigneur, then, this duke?\"\n\n\"Assuredly,\" I replied cautiously.\n\n\"More of a man than the Comte de Mar?\"\n\nI would have told him to mind his own business, had it not been for my\nhopes of the crucifix. If he planned to sell it to me cheap, thereby\nhoping to gain information, marry, I saw no reason why I should not buy\nit at his price--and withhold the information. So I made civil answer:\n\n\"They are both as gallant gentlemen as any living. About this cross,\nnow--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" he answered at once, accepting with willingness--well\nfeigned, I thought--the change of topic. \"You can give me ten pistoles,\nsay you? 'Tis making you a present of the treasure. Yet, since I have\nreceived good treatment at the hands of your master, I will e'en give it\nto you. You shall have your cross.\"\n\nWith suspicions now at point of certainty, I drew out my pouch from\nunder my pillow, and counted into his hand the ten pieces which were my\nstore. My rosary I drew out likewise; I had broken it when I shattered\nthe cross, but one of the inn-maids had tied it together for me with a\nthread, and it served very well. The Italian unhooked the delicate\ncarving from the silver chain and hung it on my wooden one, which I\nthrew over my neck, vastly pleased with my new possession. Marcel's\nVirgin was a botch compared with it. I remembered that mademoiselle, who\nhad given me half my wealth, the half that won me the rest, had bidden\nme buy something in the marts of Paris; and I told myself with pride\nthat she could not fail to hold me high did she know how, passing by all\nvanities, I had spent my whole store for a holy image. Few boys of my\nage would be capable of the like. Certes, I had done piously, and should\nnow take a further pious joy, my purchase safe on my neck, in thwarting\nthe wiles of this serpent. I would play with him awhile, tease and\nbaffle him, before handing him over in triumph to Vigo.\n\nSure enough, he began as I had expected:\n\n\"This M. de Mar down-stairs, he is a very good master, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, without enthusiasm.\n\n\"He has always treated you well?\"\n\nI bethought myself of the trick I had played successfully with the\nofficer of the burgess guard.\n\n\"Why, yes, I suppose so. I have only known him two days.\"\n\n\"But you have known him well? You have seen much of him?\" he demanded\nwith ill-concealed eagerness.\n\n\"But not so very much,\" I made tepid answer. \"I have not been with him\nall the time of these two days. I have seen really very little of him.\"\n\n\"And you know not whether or no he be a good master?\"\n\n\"Oh, pretty good. So-so.\"\n\nHe sprang forward to deal me a stinging box on the ear.\n\nI was out of bed at one bound, scattering the trinkets in a golden rain\nand rushing for him. He retreated before me. It was to save his jewels,\nbut I, fool that I was, thought it pure fear of me. I dashed at him, all\nheadlong confidence; the next I knew he had somehow twisted his foot\nbetween mine, and tripped me before I could grapple. Never was wight\nmore confounded to find himself on the floor.\n\nI was starting up again unhurt when I saw something that made me to\nforget my purpose. I sat still where I was, with dropped jaw and bulging\neyes. For his hair, that had been black, was golden.\n\n\"Ventre bleu!\" I said.\n\n\"And so you know not you little villain, whether you have a good master\nor not?\"\n\n\"But how was I to dream it was monsieur?\" I cried, confounded. \"I knew\nthere was something queer about him--about you, I mean--about the person\nI took you for, that is. I knew there was something wrong about\nyou--that is to say, I mean, I thought there was; I mean I knew he\nwasn't what he seemed--you were not. And Peyrot fooled us, and I didn't\nwant to be fooled again.\"\n\n\"Then I am a good master?\" he demanded truculently, advancing upon me.\n\nI put up my hands to my ears.\n\n\"The best, monsieur. And monsieur wrestled well, too.\"\n\n\"I can't prove that by you, Félix,\" he retorted, and laughed in my\nnettled face. \"Well, if you've not trampled on my jewels, I forgive your\ncontumacy.\"\n\nIf I had, my bare toes had done them no harm. I crawled about the floor,\ngathering them all up and putting them on the bed, where I presently sat\ndown myself to stare at him, trying to realize him for M. le Comte. He\nhad seated himself, too, and was dusting his trampled wig and clapping\nit on again.\n\nHe had shaved off his mustaches and the tuft on his chin, and the whole\nlook of him was changed. A year had gone for every stroke of the razor;\nhe seemed such a boy, so particularly guileless! He had stained his face\nso well that it looked for all the world as though the Southern sun had\ndone it for him; his eyebrows and, lashes were dark by nature. His wig\ncame much lower over his forehead than did his own hair, and altered the\nupper part of his face as much as the shaving of the lower. Only his\neyes were the same. He had had his back to the window at first, and I\nhad not noted them; but now that he had turned, his eyes gleamed so\nlight as to be fairly startling in his dark face--like stars in a stormy\nsky.\n\n\"Well, then, how do you like me?\"\n\n\"Monsieur confounds me. It's witchery. I cannot get used to him.\"\n\n\"That's as I would have it,\" he returned, coming over to the bedside to\narrange his treasures. \"For if I look new to you, I think I may look so\nto the Hôtel de Lorraine.\"\n\n\"Monsieur goes to the Hôtel de Lorraine as a jeweller?\" I cried,\nenlightened.\n\n\"Aye. And if the ladies do not crowd about me--\" he broke off with a\ngesture, and put his trays back in his box.\n\n\"Well, I wondered, monsieur. I wondered if we were going to sell\nornaments to Peyrot.\"\n\nHe locked the box and proceeded solemnly and thoroughly to damn Peyrot.\nHe cursed him waking, cursed him sleeping; cursed him eating, cursed him\ndrinking; cursed him walking, riding, sitting; cursed him summer, cursed\nhim winter; cursed him young, cursed him old; living, dying, and dead. I\ninferred that the packet had not been recovered.\n\n\"No, pardieu! Vigo went straight on horseback to the Bonne Femme, but\nPeyrot had vanished. So he galloped round to the Rue Tournelles, whither\nhe had sent two of our men before him, but the bird was flown. He had\nbeen home half an hour before,--he left the inn just after us,--had\npaid his arrears of rent, surrendered his key, and taken away his chest,\nwith all his worldly goods in it, on the shoulders of two porters, bound\nfor parts unknown. Gilles is scouring Paris for him. Mordieu, I wish him\nluck!\"\n\nHis face betokened little hope of Gilles. We both kept chagrined\nsilence.\n\n\"And we thought him sleeping!\" presently cried he.\n\n\"Well,\" he added, rising, \"that milk's spilt; no use crying over it.\nPlan a better venture; that's the only course. Monsieur is gone back to\nSt. Denis to report to the king. Marry, he makes as little of these\ngates as if he were a tennis-ball and they the net. Time was when he\nthought he must plan and prepare, and know the captain of the watch, and\ngo masked at midnight. He has got bravely over that now; he bounces in\nand out as easily as kiss my hand. I pray he may not try it once too\noften.\"\n\n\"Mayenne dare not touch him.\"\n\n\"What Mayenne may dare is not good betting. Monsieur thinks he dares\nnot. Monsieur has come through so many perils of late, he is happily\nconvinced he bears a charmed life. Félix, do you come with me to the\nHôtel de Lorraine?\"\n\n\"Ah, monsieur!\" I cried, bethinking myself that I had forgotten to\ndress.\n\n\"Nay, you need not don these clothes,\" he interposed, with a look of\nwickedness which I could not interpret. \"Wait; I'm back anon.\"\n\nHe darted out of the room, to return speedily with an armful of apparel,\nwhich he threw on the bed.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I gasped in horror, \"it's woman's gear!\"\n\n\"Verily.\"\n\n\"Monsieur! you cannot mean me to wear this!\"\n\n\"I mean it precisely.\"\n\n\"Monsieur!\"\n\n\"Why, look you, Félix,\" he laughed, \"how else am I to take you? You were\nat pains to make yourself conspicuous in M. de Mayenne's salon; they\nwill recognize you as quickly as me.\"\n\n\"Oh, monsieur, put me in a wig, in cap and bells, an you like! I will be\nmonsieur's clown, anything, only not this!\"\n\n\"I never heard of a jeweller accompanied by his clown. Nor have I any\nparty-colour in my armoires. But since I have exerted myself to borrow\nthis toggery,--and a fine, big lass is the owner, so I think it will\nfit,--you must wear it.\"\n\nI was like to burst with mortification; I stood there in dumb, agonized\nappeal.\n\n\"Oh, well, then you need not go at all. If you go, you go as Félicie.\nBut you may stay at home, if it likes you better.\"\n\nThat settled me. I would have gone in my grave-clothes sooner than not\ngo at all, and belike he knew it. I began arraying myself sullenly and\nclumsily in the murrain petticoats.\n\nThere was a full kirtle of gray wool, falling to my ankles, and a white\napron. There was a white blouse with a wide, turned-back collar, and a\nscarlet bodice, laced with black cords over a green tongue. I was soon\nin such a desperate tangle over these divers garments, so utterly\nmuddled as to which to put on first, and which side forward, and which\nend up, and where and how by the grace of God to fasten them, that M.\nÉtienne, with roars of laughter, came unsteadily to my aid. He insisted\non stuffing the whole of my jerkin under my blouse to give my figure the\nproper curves, and to make me a waist he drew the lacing-cords till I\nwas like to suffocate. His mirth had by this time got me to laughing so\nthat every time he pulled me in, a fit of merriment would jerk the laces\nfrom his fingers before he could tie them. This happened once and again,\nand the more it happened the more we laughed and the less he could dress\nme. I ached in every rib, and the tears were running down his cheeks,\nwashing little clean channels in the stain.\n\n\"Félix, this will never do,\" he gasped when at length he could speak.\n\"Never after a carouse have I been so maudlin. Compose yourself, for the\nlove of Heaven. Think of something serious; think of me! Think of\nPeyrot, think of Mayenne, think of Lucas. Think of what will happen to\nus now if Mayenne know us for ourselves.\"\n\n\"Enough, monsieur,\" I said. \"I am sobered.\"\n\nBut even now that I held still we could not draw the last holes in the\nbodice-point nearly together.\n\n\"Nay, monsieur, I can never wear it like this,\" I panted, when he had\ntied it as tight as he could. \"I shall die, or I shall burst the seams.\"\nHe had perforce to give me more room; he pulled the apron higher to\ncover gaps, and fastened a bunch of keys and a pocket at my waist. He\nset a brown wig on my head, nearly covered by a black mortier, with its\nwide scarf hanging down my back.\n\n\"Hang me, but you make a fine, strapping grisette,\" he cried, proud of\nme as if I were a picture, he the painter. \"Félix, you've no notion how\nhandsome you look. Dame! you defrauded the world when you contrived to\nbe born a boy.\"\n\n\"I thank my stars I was born a boy,\" I declared. \"I wouldn't get into\nthis toggery for any one else on earth. I tell monsieur that, flat.\"\n\n\"You must change your shoes,\" he cried eagerly. \"Your hobnails spoil\nall.\"\n\nI put one of his gossip's shoes on the floor beside my foot.\n\n\"Now, monsieur, I ask you, how am I to get into that?\"\n\n\"Shall I fetch you Vigo's?\" he grinned.\n\n\"No, Constant's,\" I said instantly, thinking how it would make him\nwrithe to lend them.\n\n\"Constant's best,\" he promised, disappearing. It was as good as a play\nto see my lord running errands for me. Perhaps he forgot, after a month\nin the Rue Coupejarrets, that such things as pages existed; or, more\nlikely, he did not care to take the household into his confidence. He\nwas back soon, with a pair of scarlet hose, and shoes of red morocco,\nthe gayest affairs you ever saw. Also he brought a hand-mirror, for me\nto look on my beauty.\n\n\"Nay, monsieur,\" I said with a sulk that started anew his laughter.\n\"I'll not take it; I want not to see myself. But monsieur will do well\nto examine his own countenance.\"\n\n\"Pardieu! I should say so,\" he cried. \"I must e'en go repair myself; and\nyou, Félix,--Félicie,--must be fed.\"\n\nI was in truth as hollow as a drum, yet I cried out that I had rather\nstarve than venture into the kitchen.\n\n\"You flatter yourself,\" he retorted. \"You'd not be known. Old Jumel will\ngive you the pick of the larder for a kiss,\" he roared in my sullen\nface, and added, relenting: \"Well, then, I will send one of the lackeys\nup with a salver. The lazy beggars have naught else to do.\"\n\nI bolted the door after him, and when the man brought my tray, bade him\nset it down outside. He informed me through the panels that he would go\ndrown himself before he would be content to lie slugabed the livelong\nday while his betters waited on him. I trembled for fear in his virtuous\nscorn he should take his fardel away again. But he had had his orders.\nWhen, after listening to his footsteps descending the stairs, I reached\nout a cautious arm, the tray was on the floor. The generous meat and\nwine put new heart into me; by the time my lord returned I was eager for\nthe enterprise.\n\n\"Have you finished?\" he demanded. \"Faith, I see you have. Then let us\nstart; it grows late. The shadows, like good Mussulmans, are stretching\nto the east. I must catch the ladies in their chambers before supper.\nCome, we'll take the box between us.\"\n\n\"Why, monsieur, I carry that on my shoulders.\"\n\n\"What, my lass, on your dainty shoulders? Nay, 'twould make the\ntownsfolk stare.\"\n\nI gnawed my lip in silence; he exclaimed:\n\n\"Now, never have I seen a maid fresh from the convent blush so prettily.\nI'd give my right hand to walk you out past the guard-room.\"\n\nI shrank as a snail when you touch its horns. He cried:\n\n\"Marry, but I will, though!\"\n\nNow I, unlike Sir Snail, had no snug little fortress to take refuge in;\nI might writhe, but I could not defend myself.\n\n\"As you will, monsieur,\" I said, setting my teeth hard.\n\n\"Nay, I dare not. Those fellows would follow us laughing to the doors of\nLorraine House itself. I've told none of this prank; I have even\ncontrived to send all the lackeys out of doors on fools' errands. We'll\nsneak out like thieves by the postern. Come, tread your wariest.\"\n\nOn tiptoe, with the caution of malefactors, we crept from stair to\nstair, giggling under our breath like the callow lad and saucy lass we\nlooked to be. We won in safety to the postern, and came out to face the\nterrible eye of the world.\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\n_A double masquerade._\n\n\n\"Félix, we are speaking in our own tongue. It is such lapses as these\nbring men to the gallows. Italian from this word, my girl.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, I have no notion how to bear myself, what to say,\" I answered\nuneasily.\n\n\"Say as little as you can. For, I confess, your voice and your hands\ngive me pause; otherwise I would take you anywhere for a lass. Your part\nmust be the shy maiden. My faith, you look the rôle; your cheeks are\npoppies! You will follow docile at my heels while I tell lies for two. I\nhave the hope that the ladies will heed me and my jewels more than you.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, could we not go safelier at night?\"\n\n\"I have thought of that. But at night the household gathers in the\nsalon; we should run the gantlet of a hundred looks and tongues. While\nnow, if we have luck, we may win to mademoiselle's own chamber--\" He\nbroke off abruptly, and walked along in a day-dream.\n\n\"Well,\" he resumed presently, coming back to the needs of the moment,\n\"let us know our names and station. I am Giovanni Rossini, son of the\nfamous goldsmith of Florence; you, Giulietta, my sister. We came to\nParis in the legate's train, trade being dull at home, the gentry having\nfled to the hills for the hot month. Of course you've never set foot out\nof France, Fé--Giulietta?\"\n\n\"Never out of St. Quentin till I came hither. But Father Francesco has\ntalked to me much of his city of Florence.\"\n\n\"Good; you can then make shift to answer a question or two if put to it.\nYour Italian, I swear, is of excellent quality. You speak French like\nthe Picard you are, but Italian like a gentleman--that is to say, like a\nlady.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" I bemoaned miserably, \"I shall never come through it alive,\nnever in the world. They will know me in the flick of an eye for a boy;\nI know they will. Why, the folk we are passing can see something wrong;\nthey all are staring at me.\"\n\n\"Of course they stare,\" he answered tranquilly. \"I should think some\nwrong if they did not. Can your modesty never understand, my Giulietta,\nwhat a pretty lass you are?\"\n\nHe fell to laughing at my discomfort, and thus, he full of gay\nconfidence, I full of misgiving, we came before the doors of the Hôtel\nde Lorraine.\n\n\"Courage,\" he whispered to me. \"Courage will conquer the devil himself.\nPut a good face on it and take the plunge.\" The next moment he was in\nthe archway, deluging the sentry with his rapid Italian.\n\n\"Nom d'un chien! What's all this? What are you after?\" the man shouted\nat us, to make us understand the better. \"Haven't you a word of honest\nFrench in your head?\"\n\nM. Étienne, tapping his box, very brokenly, very laboriously stammered\nforth something about jewels for the ladies.\n\n\"Get in with you, then.\"\n\nWe were not slow to obey.\n\nThe courtyard was deserted, nor did we see any one in the windows of the\nhouse, against which the afternoon sun struck hotly. To keep out his\nunwelcome rays, the house door was pushed almost shut. We paused a\nmoment on the step, to listen to the voices of gossiping lackeys within,\nand then M. Étienne boldly knocked.\n\nThere was a scurrying in the hall, as if half a dozen idlers were\nplunging into their doublets and running to their places. Then my good\nfriend Pierre opened the door. In the row of underlings at his back I\nrecognized the two who had taken part in my flogging. The cold sweat\nbroke out upon me lest they in their turn should know me.\n\nM. Étienne looked from one to another with the childlike smile of his\nbare lips, demanding if any here spoke Italian.\n\n\"I,\" answered Pierre himself. \"Now, what may your errand be?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's soon told,\" M. Étienne cried volubly, as one delighted to find\nhimself understood. \"I am a jeweller from Florence; I am selling my\nwares in your great houses. I have but just sold a necklace to the\nDuchesse de Joyeuse; I crave permission to show my trinkets to the fair\nladies here. But take me up to them, and they'll not make you repent\nit.\"\n\n\"Go tell madame,\" Pierre bade one of his men, and turning again to us\ngave us kindly permission to set down our burden and wait.\n\nFor incredible good luck, the heavy hangings were drawn over the sunny\nwindows, making a soft twilight in the room. I sidled over to a bench in\nthe far corner and was feeling almost safe, when Pierre--beshrew\nhim!--called attention to me.\n\n\"Now, that is a heavy box for a maid to help lug. Do you make the lasses\ndo porters' work, you Florentines?\"\n\n\"But I am a stranger here,\" M. Étienne explained. \"Did I hire a porter,\nhow am I to tell an honest one? Belike he might run off with all my\ntreasures, and where is poor Giovanni then? Besides, it were cruel to\nleave my little sister in our lodging, not a soul to speak to, the long\nday through. There is none where we lodge knows Italian, as you do so\nlike an angel, Sir Master of the Household.\"\n\nNow, Pierre was no more maître d'hôtel than I was, but that did not\ndampen his pleasure to be called so. He sat down on the bench by M.\nÉtienne.\n\n\"How came you two to be in Paris?\" he asked.\n\nMy lord proceeded to tell him I know not what glib and convincing\nfarrago, with every excellence, I made no doubt, of accent and gesture.\nBut I could not listen; I had affairs of my own by this time. The\nlackeys had come up close round me, more interested in me than in my\nbrother, and the same Jean who had held me for my beating, who had\nwanted my coat stripped off me that I might be whacked to bleed, now\nsaid:\n\n\"I'll warrant you're hot and tired and thirsty, mademoiselle, for all\nyou look as fresh as cress. Will you drink a cup of wine if I fetch it?\"\n\nI had kept my eyes on the ground from the first moment of encounter, in\nmortal dread to look these men in the face; but now, gaining courage, I\nraised my glance and smiled at him bashfully, and faltered that I did\nnot understand.\n\nHe understood the sense, if not the words, of my answer, and repeated\nhis offer, slowly, loudly. I strove to look as blank as the wall, and\nshook my head gently and helplessly, and turned an inquiring gaze to the\nothers, as if beseeching them to interpret. One of the fellows clapped\nJean on the shoulder with a roar of laughter.\n\n\"A fall, a fall!\" he shouted. \"Here's the all-conquering Jean Marchand\ntripped up for once. He thinks nothing that wears petticoats can\nwithstand him, but here's a maid that hasn't a word to throw at him.\"\n\n\"Pshaw! she doesn't understand me,\" Jean returned, undaunted, and\npromptly pointed a finger at my mouth and then raised his fist to his\nown, with sucks and gulps. I allowed myself to comprehend then. I smiled\nin as coquettish a fashion as I could contrive, and glanced on the\nground, and slowly looked up again and nodded.\n\nThe men burst into loud applause.\n\n\"Good old Jean! Jean wins. Well played, Jean! Vive Jean!\"\n\nJean, flushed with triumph, ran off on his errand, while I thought of\nMargot, the steward's daughter, at home, and tried to recollect every\nair and grace I had ever seen her flaunt before us lads. It was not bad\nfun, this. I hid my hands under my apron and spoke not at all, but\nsighed and smiled and blushed under their stares like any fine lady.\nOnce in one's life, for one hour, it is rather amusing to be a girl. But\nthat is quite long enough, say I.\n\nJean came again directly with a great silver tankard.\n\n\"Burgundy, pardieu!\" cried one of his mates, sticking his nose into the\npot as it passed him, \"and full! Ciel, you must think your lass has a\nhead.\"\n\n\"Oh, I shall drink with her,\" Jean answered.\n\nI put out my hand for the tankard, running the risk of my big paw's\nbetraying me, resolved that he should not drink with me of that draught,\nwhen of a sudden he leaned over to snatch a kiss. I dodged him, more\nfrightened than the shyest maid. Though in this half-light I might\nperfectly look a girl, I could not believe I should kiss like one. In a\npanic, I fled from Jean to my master's side.\n\nM. Étienne, wheeling about, came near to laughing out in my face, when\nhe remembered his part and played it with a zeal that was like to undo\nus. He sprang to his feet, drawing his dagger.\n\n\"Who insults my sister?\" he shouted. \"Who is the dog does this!\"\n\nThey were on him, wrenching the knife from his hand, wrenching his lame\narm at the same time so painfully that he gasped. I was scared chill; I\nknew if they mishandled him they would brush the wig off.\n\n\"Mind your manners, sirrah!\" Jean cried.\n\nMonsieur's ardour vanished; a gentle, appealing smile spread over his\nface.\n\n\"I cry your pardon, sir,\" he said to Jean; then turning to Pierre, \"This\nmesser does not understand me. But tell him, I beg you, I crave his good\npardon. I was but angered for a moment that any should think to touch my\nlittle sister. I meant no harm.\"\n\n\"Nor he,\" Pierre retorted. \"A kiss, forsooth! What do you expect with a\nhandsome lass like that? If you will take her about--\"\n\n\"Madame says the jeweller fellow is to come up,\" our messenger\nannounced, returning.\n\nMy lord besought Pierre:\n\n\"My knife? I may have my knife? By the beard of St. Peter, I swear to\nyou, I meant no harm with it. I drew it in jest.\"\n\nNow, this, which was the sole true statement he had made since our\narrival, was the only one Pierre did not quite believe. He took the\nknife from Jean, but he hesitated to hand it over to its owner.\n\n\"No,\" he said; \"you were angry enough. I know your Italian temper. I'm\nthinking I'll keep this little toy of yours till you come down.\"\n\n\"Very well, Sir Majordomo,\" M. Étienne rejoined indifferently, \"so be it\nyou give it to me when I go.\" He grasped the handle of the box, and we\nfollowed our guide up the stair, my master offering me the comforting\nassurance:\n\n\"It really matters not in the least, for if we be caught the dagger's\nnot yet forged can save us.\"\n\nWe were ushered into a large, fair chamber hung with arras, the carpet\nunder our feet deep and soft as moss. At one side stood the bed, raised\non its dais; opposite were the windows, the dressing-table between them,\ncovered with scent-bottles and boxes, brushes and combs, very glittering\nand grand. Fluttering about the room were some half-dozen fine dames and\ndemoiselles, brave in silks and jewels. Among them I was quick to\nrecognize Mme. de Mayenne, and I thought I knew vaguely one or two other\nfaces as those I had seen before about her. I started presently to\ndiscover the little Mlle. de Tavanne: that night she had worn sky-colour\nand now she wore rose, but there was no mistaking her saucy face.\n\nWe set our box on a table, as the duchess bade us, and I helped M.\nÉtienne to lay out its contents, which done, I retired to the\nbackground, well content to leave the brunt of the business to him. It\nwas as he prophesied: they paid me no heed whatever. He was smoothly\nlaunched on the third relating of his tale; I trow by this time he\nalmost believed it himself. Certes, he never faltered, but rattled on as\nif he had two tongues, telling in confidential tone of our father and\nmother, our little brothers and sisters at home in Florence; our journey\nwith the legate, his kindness and care of us (I hoped that dignitary\nwould not walk in just now to pay his respects to madame la générale);\nof our arrival in Paris, and our wonder and delight at the city's\ngrandeur, the like of which was not to be found in Italy; and, last, but\nnot least, he had much to say, with an innocent, wide-eyed gravity, in\npraise of the ladies of Paris, so beautiful, so witty, so generous! They\nwere all crowding around him, calling him pretty boy, laughing at his\ncompliments, handling and exclaiming over his trinkets, trying the\neffect of a buckle or a bracelet, preening and cooing like\nbright-breasted pigeons about the corn-thrower. It was as pretty a sight\nas ever I beheld, but it was not to smile at such that we had risked our\nheads. Of Mlle. de Montluc there was no sign.\n\nNo one was marking me, and I wondered if I might not slip out unseen and\nmake my way to mademoiselle's chamber. I knew she lodged on this story,\nnear the back of the house, in a room overlooking the little street and\nhaving a turret-window. But I was somewhat doubtful of my skill to find\nit through the winding corridors of a great palace. I was more than\nlikely to meet some one who would question my purpose, and what answer\ncould I make? I scarce dared say I was seeking mademoiselle. I am not\nready at explanations, like M. le Comte.\n\nYet here were the golden moments flying and our cause no further\nadvanced. Should I leave it all to M. Étienne, trusting that when he had\nmade his sales here he would be permitted to seek out the other ladies\nof the house? Or should I strive to aid him? Could I win in safety to\nmademoiselle's chamber, what a feat!\n\nIt so irked me to be doing nothing that I was on the very point of\ngingerly disappearing when one of the ladies, she with the yellow curls,\nthe prettiest of them all, turned suddenly from the group, calling\nclearly:\n\n\"Lorance!\"\n\nOur hearts stood still--mine did, and I can vouch for his--as the heavy\nwindow-curtain swayed aside and she came forth.\n\nShe came listlessly. Her hair sweeping against her cheek was ebony on\nsnow, so white she was; while under her blue eyes were dark rings, like\nthe smears of an inky finger. M. Étienne let fall the bracelet he was\nholding, staring at her oblivious of aught else, his brows knotted in\ndistress, his face afire with love and sympathy. He made a step forward;\nI thought him about to catch her in his arms, when he recollected\nhimself and dropped on his knees to grope for the fallen trinket.\n\n\"You wanted me, madame?\" she asked Mme. de Mayenne.\n\n\"No,\" said the duchess, with a tartness of voice she seemed to reserve\nfor Mlle. de Montluc; \"'twas Mme. de Montpensier.\"\n\n\"It was I,\" the fair-haired beauty answered in the same breath. \"I want\nyou to stop moping over there in the corner. Come look at these baubles\nand see if they cannot bring a sparkle to your eye. Fie, Lorance! The\nhaving too many lovers is nothing to cry about. It is an affliction many\nand many a lady would give her ears to undergo.\"\n\n\"Take heart o' grace, Lorance!\" cried Mlle. de Tavanne. \"If you go on\nlooking as you look to-day, you'll not long be troubled by lovers.\"\n\nShe made no answer to either, but stood there passively till it might be\ntheir pleasure to have done with her, with a patient weariness that it\nwrung the heart to see.\n\n\"Here's a chain would become you vastly, Lorance,\" Mme. de Montpensier\nwent on, friendlily enough, in her brisk and careless voice. \"Let me try\nit on your neck. You can easily coax Paul or some one to buy it for\nyou.\"\n\nShe fumbled over the clasp. M. Étienne, with a \"Permit me, madame,\" took\nit boldly from her hand and hooked it himself about mademoiselle's neck.\nHe delayed longer than he need over the fastening of it, looking with\nburning intentness straight into her face. She lifted her eyes to his\nwith a quick frown of displeasure, drawing herself back; then all at\nonce the colour waved across her face like the dawn flush over a gray\nsky. She blushed to her very hair, to her very ruff. Then the red\nvanished as quickly as it had come; she clutched at her bosom, on the\nverge of a swoon.\n\nHe threw out his arms to catch her. Instantly she stepped aside, and,\nturning with a little unsteady laugh to the lady at whose elbow she\nfound herself, asked:\n\n\"Does it become me, madame?\"\n\nThe little scene had passed so quickly that it seemed none had marked\nit. Mademoiselle had stood a little out of the group, monsieur with his\nback to it, and the ladies were busy over the jewels. She whom\nmademoiselle had addressed, a big-nosed, loud-voiced lady, older than\nany of the others, answered her bluntly:\n\n\"You look a shade too green-faced to-day, mademoiselle, for anything to\nbecome you.\"\n\n\"What can you expect, Mme. de Brie?\" Mlle. Blanche promptly demanded.\n\"Mlle. de Montluc is weary and worn from her vigils at your son's\nbedside.\"\n\nMme. de Montpensier had the temerity to laugh; but for the rest, a sort\nof little groan ran through the company. Mme. de Mayenne bade sharply,\n\"Peace, Blanche!\" Mme. de Brie, red with anger, flamed out on her and\nMlle. de Montluc equally:\n\n\"You impudent minxes! 'Tis enough that one of you should bring my son\nto his death, without the other making a mock of it.\"\n\n\"He's not dying,\" began the irrepressible Blanche de Tavanne, her eyes\ntwinkling with mischief; but whatever naughty answer was on her tongue,\nour mademoiselle's deeper voice overbore her:\n\n\"I am guiltless of the charge, madame. It was through no wish of mine\nthat your son, with half the guard at his back, set on one wounded man.\"\n\n\"I'll warrant it was not,\" muttered Mlle. Blanche.\n\n\"Mar has turned traitor, and deserves nothing so well as to be spitted\nin the dark,\" Mme. de Brie cried out.\n\nMademoiselle waited an instant, with flashing eyes meeting madame's. She\nhad spoken hotly before, but now, in the face of the other's passion,\nshe held herself steady.\n\n\"Your charge is as false, madame, as your wish is cruel. Do you go to\nvespers and come home to say such things? M. de Mar is no traitor; he\nwas never pledged to us, and may go over to Navarre when he will.\"\n\nIt was quietly spoken, but the blue lightning of her eyes was too much\nfor Mme. de Brie. She opened her mouth to retort, faltered, dropped her\neyes, and finally turned away, yet seething, to feign interest in the\ntrinkets. It was a rout.\n\n\"Then you are the traitor, Lorance,\" chimed the silvery tones of Mme. de\nMontpensier. \"It is not denied that M. de Mar has gone over to the\nenemy; therefore are you the traitor to have intercourse with him.\"\n\nShe spoke without heat, without any appearance of ill feeling. Hers was\nmerely the desire, for the fun of it, to keep the flurry going. But\nmademoiselle answered seriously, with the fleetingest glance at M. le\nComte, where he, forgetting he knew no French, feasted his eyes\nrecklessly on her, pitying, applauding, adoring her. I went softly\naround the group to pull his sleeve; we were lost if any turned to see\nhim.\n\n\"Madame,\" mademoiselle addressed her cousin of Montpensier, speaking\nparticularly clearly and distinctly, \"I mean ever to be loyal to my\nhouse. I came here a penniless orphan to the care of my kinsman Mayenne;\nand he has always been to me generous and loving--\"\n\n\"If not madame,\" murmured Mile. Blanche to herself.\n\n\"--as I in my turn have been loving and obedient. It was only two nights\nago he told me M. de Mar must be as dead to me. Since then I have held\nno intercourse with him. Last night he came under my window; I was not\nin my chamber, as you know. I knew naught of the affair till M. de Brie\nwas brought in bleeding. It was not by my will M. de Mar came here--it\nwas a misery to me. I sent him word by his boy that other night to leave\nParis; I implored him to leave Paris. If, instead, he comes here, he\nracks my heart. It is no joy to me, no triumph to me, but a bitter\ndistress, that any honest gentleman should risk his life in a vain and\nempty quest. M. de Mar must go his ways, as I must go mine. Should he\never make attempt to reach me again, and could I speak to him, I should\ntell him just what I have said now to you.\"\n\nI pressed monsieur's hand in the endeavour to bring him back to sense;\nhe seemed about to cry out on her. But mademoiselle's earnestness had\ndrawn all eyes.\n\n\"Pshaw, Lorance! banish these tragedy airs!\" Mme. de Montpensier\nrejoined, her lightness little touched. A wounded bird falls by the\nrippling water, but the ripples tinkle on. \"M. de Mar is not likely ever\nto venture here again; he had too warm a welcome last night. My faith,\nhe may be dead by this time--dead to all as well as to you. After he\nvanished into Ferou's house, no one seems to know what happened. Has\nCharles told you, my sister?\"\n\n\"Ferou gave him up, of course,\" Mme. de Mayenne answered. \"Monsieur has\ndone what seemed to him proper.\"\n\n\"You are darkly mysterious, sister.\"\n\nMme. de Mayenne raised her eyebrows and smiled, as one solemnly pledged\nto say no more. She could not, indeed, say more, knowing nothing\nwhatever about it. Our mademoiselle spoke in a low voice, looking\nstraight before her:\n\n\"If Heaven willed that he escaped last night, I pray he may leave the\ncity. I pray he may never try to see me more. I pray he may depart\ninstantly--at once.\"\n\n\"I pray your prayers may be answered, so be it we hear no more of him,\"\nMme. de Montpensier retorted, tired of the subject she herself had\nstarted. \"He was never tedious himself, M. de Mar, but all this solemn\nprating about him is duller than a sermon.\" She raised a dainty hand\nbehind which to yawn audibly. \"Come, mesdames, let us get back to our\npurchases. Ma foi! it's lucky these jeweller folk know no French.\"\n\nM. Étienne was himself again, all smiles and quick pleasantries. I\nslipped off to my post in the background, trying to get out of the eye\nof Mlle. de Tavanne, who had been staring at me the last five minutes in\na way that made my goose-flesh rise, so suspicious, so probing, was it.\nOn my retreat she did indeed move her gaze from me, but only to watch M.\nle Comte as a hound watches a thicket. It was a miracle that none had\npounced on him before, so reckless had he been. I perceived with\nsickening certainty that Mlle. de Tavanne had guessed something amiss.\nShe fairly bristled with suspicion, with knowledge. I waited from\nbreathless moment to moment for announcement. There was nothing to be\ndone; she held us in the hollow of her hand. We could not flee, we could\nnot fight. We could do nothing but wait quietly till she spoke, and then\nsubmit quietly to arrest; later, most like, to death.\n\nMinute followed minute, and still she did not speak. Hope flowed back to\nme again; perhaps, after all, we might escape. I wondered how high were\nthe windows from the ground.\n\nAs I stole across the room to see, Mlle. de Tavanne detached herself\nfrom the group and glided unnoticed out of the door.\n\nIt was thirty feet to the stones below--sure death that way. But she had\ngiven us a respite; something might yet be done. I seized M. Étienne's\narm in a grip that should tell him how serious was our pass.\nRemembering, for a marvel, my foreign tongue, I bespoke him:\n\n\"Brother, it grows late. We must go. It will soon be dark. We must go\nnow--now!\"\n\nHe turned on me with an impatient frown, but before he could answer,\nMme. de Montpensier cried, with a laugh:\n\n\"And do you fear the dark, wench? Marry, you look as if you could take\ncare of yourself.\"\n\n\"Nay, madame,\" I protested, \"but the box. Come, Giovanni. If we linger,\nwe may be robbed in the dark streets.\"\n\n\"Why, my sister, where are your manners?\" he retorted, striving to shake\nme off. \"The ladies have not yet dismissed me.\"\n\n\"We shall be robbed of the box,\" I persisted; \"and the night air is bad\nfor your health, my Nino. If you stay longer you will have trouble in\nthe throat.\"\n\nHe looked at me hard. I tried to make my eyes tell him that my fear was\nno vague one of the streets, that his throat was in peril here and now.\nHe understood; he cried with merry laughter to Mme. de Montpensier:\n\n\"Pray excuse her lack of manners, duchessa. I know what moves the maid.\nI must tell you that in the house where we lodge dwells also a beautiful\nyoung captain--beautiful as the day. It's little of his time he spends\nat home, but we have observed that he comes every evening to array\nhimself grandly for supper at some one's palace. We count our day lost\nan we cannot meet him, by accident, on the stairs.\"\n\nThey all laughed. I, with my cheeks burning like any silly maid's, set\nto work to put up our scattered wares. But despair weighed me down; if\nwe had to remember ceremony we were lost. The ladies were protesting,\ndeclaring they had not made their bargains, and monsieur was smirking\nand bowing, as if he had the whole night before him. Our one chance was\nto bolt; to charge past the sentry and flee as from the devil. I pulled\nmonsieur's arm again, and muttered in his ear:\n\n\"She knows us; she's gone to tell. We must run for it.\"\n\nAt this moment there arose from down the corridor piercing shriek on\nshriek, the howls of a young child frantic with rage and terror. At the\nsame time sounded other different cries, wild, outlandish chattering.\n\n\"The baby! It's Toto! Oh, ciel!\" Mme. de Mayenne gasped. \"Help,\nmesdames!\" She rushed from the room, Mme. de Montpensier at her heels,\nall the rest following after.\n\nAll, that is, but one. Mlle. de Montluc started as the rest, but at the\nthreshold paused to let them pass. She flung the door to behind them,\nand ran back to monsieur, her face drawn with terror, her hand\noutstretched.\n\n\"Monsieur, monsieur!\" she panted. \"Go! you must go!\"\n\nHe seized her hand in both of his.\n\n\"O Lorance! Lorance!\"\n\nShe laid her left hand on his for emphasis.\n\n\"Go! go! An you love me, go!\"\n\nFor answer he fell on his knees before her, covering those sweet hands\nwith kisses.\n\nThe door was flung open; Mlle. de Tavanne stood on the threshold. They\nstarted apart, monsieur leaping to his feet, mademoiselle springing back\nwith choking cry. But it was too late; she had seen us.\n\nShe was rosy with running, her little face brimming over with mischief.\nShe flitted into the room, crying:\n\n\"I knew it! I knew it was M. de Mar! The gray eyes! M. le Duc has done\nwith him as he thought proper, forsooth! Well, I have done as I thought\nproper. I unchained Mme. de Montpensier's monkey and threw him into the\nnursery, where he's scared the baby nearly into spasms. Toto carried the\ncloth-of-gold coverlet up on top of the tester, where he's picking it to\npieces, the darling! They won't be back--you're safe for a while, my\nchildren. I'll keep watch for you. Make good use of your time. Kiss her\nwell, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, you are an angel.\"\n\n\"No, she is the angel,\" Mlle. Blanche laughed back at him. \"I'm but your\nwarder. Have no fear; I'll keep good watch. Here, you in the petticoats,\nthat were a boy the other night, go to the farther door. Mme. de Nemours\ntakes her nap in the second room beyond. You watch that door; I'll watch\nthe corridor. Farewell, my children! Peste! think you Blanche de Tavanne\nis so badly off for lovers that she need grudge you yours, Lorance?\"\n\nShe danced out of the door, while I ran across to my station, Mlle. de\nMontluc standing bewildered, ardent, grateful, half laughing, half in\ntears.\n\n\"Lorance, Lorance!\" M. Étienne murmured tremulously. \"She said I should\nkiss you--\"\n\nI put my fingers in my ears and then took them out again, for if my ears\nwere sealed, how was I to hear Mme. de Nemours approaching? But I admit\nI should have kept my eyes glued to the crack of the door; that I ever\nturned them is my shame. I have no business to know that mademoiselle\nbowed her face upon her lover's shoulder, her hand clasping his neck,\nsilent, motionless. He pressed his cheek against her hair, holding her\nclose; neither had any will to move or speak. It seemed they were well\ncontent to stand so the rest of their lives.\n\nMademoiselle was the first to stir; she raised her head and strove to\nbreak away from his locked arms.\n\n\"Monsieur! monsieur! This is madness! You must go!\"\n\n\"Are you sorry I came?\" he demanded vibrantly. \"Are you sorry, Lorance?\"\n\nHis eyes held hers; she threw pretence to the winds.\n\n\"No, monsieur; I am glad. For if we never meet again, we have had this.\"\n\n\"Aye. If I die to-night, I have had to-day.\"\n\nTheir voices were like the rune of the heart of the forest, like the\nmusic of deep streams. I turned away my head ashamed, and strove to\nthink of nothing but the waking of Mme. de Nemours.\n\n\"I thought you dead,\" she moaned, her voice muffled against his cheek.\n\"No one would tell me what happened last night. I could not devise any\nway of escape for you--\"\n\n\"There is a tunnel from Ferou's house to the Rue de la Soierie. His\nmother--merciful angel--let me through.\"\n\n\"And you were not hurt?\"\n\n\"Not a scratch, ma mie.\"\n\n\"But the wound before? Félix said--\"\n\n\"I was put out of combat the night I got it,\" he explained earnestly,\ntroubled even now because he had not obeyed her summons. \"I was dizzy; I\ncould not walk.\"\n\n\"But now, monsieur? Does it heal?\"\n\n\"It is well--almost. 'Twas but a slash on the arm.\"\n\n\"Oh, then have I no anxiety,\" she murmured, with a smile that twinkled\nacross her lips and was gone. \"I cannot perceive you to be disabled,\nmonsieur.\"\n\n\"My sweeting!\" he laughed out. \"If I cannot hold a sword yet, I can hold\nmy love.\"\n\n\"But you must not, monsieur,\" she cried, fear, that had slept a moment,\nspringing on her again. \"You must go, and this instant, while the others\nare yet away. I knew you, Blanche knew you; some other will. Oh, go, go,\nI implore you!\"\n\n\"If you will come with me.\"\n\nShe made no answer, save to look at him as at a madman.\n\n\"Nay, I mean not now, past the sentry. I am not so crazy as that. But\nyou will slip out, you will find a way, and come to me.\"\n\nSilently, sadly, she shook her head. His arms loosened, and she freed\nherself from him. But instantly he was close on her again.\n\n\"But you must! you will, you must! Ah, Lorance, my father is won over.\nHe bids me win you. He has sworn to welcome you; when he sees you he\nwill be your slave.\"\n\n\"But my cousin Mayenne is not won over.\"\n\n\"Devil fly away with your cousin Mayenne!\" M. Étienne retorted with a\nvehemence that made me shudder, lest the walls have ears.\n\n\"Ah, you are free to say that, monsieur, but I am not. I am of his\nblood, and dwell in his house, and eat at his board.\"\n\nHe was looking at her with a passionate ardour, grasping her actual\nwords less than their import of refusal.\n\n\"Are you afraid?\" he cried. \"Are you frightened, heart-root of mine? You\nneed not be, mignonne. You can contrive to slip from the house--Mlle. de\nTavanne will help you. Once in the street, I will meet you; I will carry\nyou home to hold you against all the world.\"\n\n\"It is not that,\" she answered.\n\n\"Am I your fear?\" he cried quickly. \"Ah, Lorance, my Lorance, you need\nnot. I love you as I love the Queen of Heaven.\"\n\n\"Ah, hush!\"\n\n\"As I love the Queen of Heaven. I will as soon do sacrilege toward her\nas ill to you.\"\n\nHe dropped on his knees before her, kissing the hem of her gown. She\nstood looking down on his bowed head with a tenderness that seemed to\ninfold him as with a mantle.\n\nHe raised his eyes to hers, still kneeling at her feet.\n\n\"Lorance, will you come with me?\"\n\nShe was silent a moment, with heaving breast and face a-quiver.\n\n\"Monsieur, I am sworn. That night when Félix came, when I was in deadly\nterror for him and for you, Étienne, I promised my lord, an he would\nlift his hand from you, to obey him in all things. He bade me never\nagain to hold intercourse with you--alack, I am already forsworn! But I\ncannot--\"\n\nHe leaped to his feet, crying out:\n\n\"Lorance, he was the first forsworn! For he did move against me--\"\n\n\"He told you--the warning went through Félix--that if you tried to reach\nme he would crush you as a buzzing fly. Oh, monsieur, I implored you to\nleave Paris! You are not kind to me, you are cruel, when you venture\nhere.\"\n\n\"You are cruel to me, Lorance.\"\n\nSighing, she turned from him, hiding her face in her hands.\n\n\"Mayenne has not kept faith with you!\" monsieur went on vehemently. \"He\nhas broken his oath. I mean not last night. I had my warning; the attack\nwas provoked. But yesterday in the afternoon, before I made the attempt\nto see you, he sent to arrest me for the murder of the lackey Pontou.\"\n\n\"Paul's deed!\" she cried in white surprise. \"He spoke of it--we heard,\nFélix and I. What, monsieur! sent to arrest you? But you are here.\"\n\n\"They missed me. They took by mistake Paul de Lorraine.\"\n\n\"He was not here last night!\" she cried. \"Mayenne was demanding him of\nme.\"\n\n\"Then he slept pleasantly in the Bastille. May he never look on the\noutside of its walls again!\"\n\n\"But he will, he does. He must be free by this time; they cannot keep\nMayenne's nephew in the Bastille. And oh, if he hated you before, how he\nwill hate you now! Oh, Étienne, if you love me, go! Go to your own camp,\nyour own side, at St. Denis. There are you safe. Here in Paris you may\nnot draw a tranquil breath.\"\n\n\"And shall I flee my dangers? Shall I run, in the face of my peril?\"\n\n\"Ah, monsieur, perhaps your life is nothing to you. But it is more to me\nthan tongue can tell.\"\n\n\"My love, my love!\" He snatched her into his arms; she held away from\nhim to look him beseechingly in the face, her little clutching hands on\nhis shoulders.\n\n\"Oh, you will go! you will go!\"\n\n\"Only if you come with me. Lorance, it is such a little way! Only to\nmeet me in the next square. We will slip out of the gates\ntogether--leave Paris and all its plots and murders, and at St. Denis\nkeep our honeymoon.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" she said slowly, \"I am told that my cousin Mayenne offered a\nmonth ago to give me to you for your name on the roster of the League.\nIs that true?\"\n\n\"It is true. But you cannot think, Lorance, it was for any lack of love\nfor you. I swear to you--\"\n\n\"Nay, you need not. I have it by heart that you love me.\"\n\n\"Lorance!\"\n\n\"But when you could not take me with honour you would not take me. Your\nhouse stands against us; you would not desert your house. Am I then to\nbe false to mine?\"\n\n\"A woman belongs to her husband's house.\"\n\n\"Aye, but she does not wed the enemy of her own. Monsieur, you are full\nof loyalty; shall I have none? I was born, my father before me, in the\nshadow of the house of Lorraine; the Lorraine princes our kinsmen, our\nmasters, our friends. When I was orphaned young, and penniless because\nKing Henry's Huguenots had wrenched our lands away, I came here to my\ncousin Mayenne, to dwell here in kindness and love as a daughter of the\nhouse. Am I to turn traitor now?\"\n\n\"Lorance,\" he was fiercely beginning, when Mlle. de Tavanne bounded in.\n\n\"On guard!\" she hissed at us. \"They come!\"\n\nShe looked behind her into the corridor. Mademoiselle gave her lips to\nmonsieur in one last kiss, and slipped like water from his arms. I was\nat his side, and we busied ourselves over the trinkets, he with shaking\nfingers, cheeks burning through the stain.\n\nThe ladies streamed into the room, the lovely Mme. de Montpensier alone\nconspicuous by her absence. Mme. de Mayenne's face was hot and angry,\nand bore marks of tears. Not in this room only had a combat raged.\n\n\"Never shall he come into this house again,\" madame was crying\nvigorously. \"I had had him strangled, the vile little beast, an she had\nnot seized him. I will now, if she ever dares bring him hither again.\"\n\n\"You certainly should, madame,\" replied the nearest of the ladies. \"You\nhave been, in the goodness of your heart, far too forbearing, too\npatient under many presumptions. One would suppose the mistress here to\nbe Mme. de Montpensier.\"\n\n\"I will show who is mistress here,\" the Duchesse de Mayenne retorted.\nThen her eye fell on Mlle. de Montluc, making her way softly to the\ndoor, and the vials of her wrath overflowed upon her:\n\n\"What, Lorance, you could not be at the pains to follow me to the rescue\nof my child! Your little cousin, poor innocent, may be eaten by the\nbeasts for aught you care, while you prink over trinkets.\"\n\nMademoiselle faced her blankly, scarce understanding, midst the whirl of\nher own thoughts, of what she was accused. The little Tavanne came\ngallantly to the rescue:\n\n\"I did not follow you either, madame. We thought it scarcely safe;\nLorance could not bear to leave this fellow alone.\"\n\nMme. de Mayenne glanced instinctively at her dressing-table's rich\naccoutrements, touched in spite of herself by such care of her\nbelongings.\n\n\"I had not suspected you maids of such fore-thought,\" she said with\nrelenting. \"I vow for once I am beholden to you. You did quite right,\nLorance.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\n_Within the spider's web._\n\n\nMademoiselle slipped softly out of the room, taking our hearts with her.\nOur one desire now was to be gone; but it was easier wished than\naccomplished, for there remained the dreary process of bargaining. Mme.\nde Mayenne had set her heart on a pearl bracelet, Mme. de Brie wanted a\nvinaigrette, a third lady a pair of shoe-buckles. M. Étienne developed a\nrecklessness about prices that would have whitened the hair of a\ngoldsmith father; I thought the ladies could not fail to be suspicious\nof such prodigality, to imagine we carried stolen goods. But no; the\nquick settlements defeated their own ends: they fired our customers with\nlonging to purchase further. I was despairing, when at length Mme. de\nMayenne bethought herself that supper-time was at hand, and that no one\nwas yet dressed. To my eyes the company already looked fine enough for a\ncoronation; but I rejoiced to hear them thanking madame for her\nreminder, with the gratitude of victims snatched from an awful fate. We\nwere commanded to bundle out, which with all alacrity we did.\n\nFreedom was in sight. I was not so nervous on this journey as I had been\ncoming in. As we passed, lackey-led, through the long corridors, I had\nease enough of mind to enable me to take my bearings, and to whisper to\nmy master, \"That door yonder is the door of the council-room, where I\nwas.\" Even as I spoke the door opened, two gentlemen appearing at the\nthreshold. One was a stranger; the other was Mayenne.\n\nOur guide held back in deference. The duke and his friend stood a moment\nor two in low-voiced converse; then the visitor made his farewells, and\nwent off down the staircase.\n\nMayenne had not appeared aware of our existence, thirty feet up the\npassage, but now he inquired, as if we had been pieces of merchandise:\n\n\"What have you there, Louis?\"\n\n\"An Italian goldsmith, so please your Grace. Madame has just dismissed\nhim.\"\n\nHe led us forward. Mayenne surveyed us deliberately, and at length said\nto M. le Comte:\n\n\"I will look at your wares.\"\n\nM. Étienne smiled his eager, deprecating smile, informing his Highness\nthat we, poor creatures, spoke no French.\n\n\"How came you in Paris, then?\"\n\nM. Étienne for the fourth time went through with his tale. I think this\ntime he must have trembled over it. My Lord Mayenne had not the\nreputation of being easily gulled. For aught we knew, he might be\ninformed of the name and condition of every person who had entered Paris\nthis year. He might, as he listened stolid-faced, be checking off to\nhimself the number of monsieur's lies. But if M. Étienne trembled in his\nsoul, his words never faltered; he knew his history well, by this. At\nits finish Mayenne said:\n\n\"Come in here.\"\n\nThe lackey was ordered to wait outside, while we followed his Grace of\nMayenne across the council-room to that table by the window where he had\nsat with Lucas night before last. I clinched my teeth to keep them from\nchattering together. Not Grammont's brutality, not Lucas's venom, not\nMlle. de Tavanne's rampant suspicion, had ever frightened me so horribly\nas did Mayenne's amiable composure. He made me feel as I had felt when I\nentered the tunnel, helpless in the dark, unable to cope with dangers I\ncould not see. Mayenne was a well, the light shining down its sides a\nway, and far below the still surface of the water. You hang over the\nedge and peer till your eyes drop out; you can as easily look through\niron as discern how deep the water is. I seemed to see clearly that\nMayenne suspected us not in the least. He was as placid as a summer day,\nturning over the contents of the box, showing little interest in us,\nmuch in our wares, every now and then speaking a generous word of praise\nor asking a friendly question. He was the very model of the gracious\nprince; the humble tradesmen whom we feigned to be must needs have\nworshipfully loved him. Yet withal I believed that all the time he knew\nus; that he was amusing himself with us. Presently, when he tired, he\nwould walk casually out of the room and send in his creatures to stab\nus.\n\nHad I known this for a truth, that he had discovered us, I should have\nbraced myself, I trow, to meet it. The certainty would have been\nbearable; I had courage to face ruin. It was the uncertainty that was so\nheart-shaking--like crossing a morass in the dark. We might be on the\nsafe path; we might with every step be wandering away farther and\nfarther into the treacherous bog; there was no way to tell. Mayenne was\nquite the man to be kindly patron of the crafts, to pick out a rich\npresent for a friend. He was also the man to sit in the presence of his\nenemy, unbetraying, tranquil, assured, waiting. It seemed to me that in\na few minutes more of this I should go mad; I should scream out: \"Yes, I\nam Félix Broux, and he is M. le Comte de Mar!\"\n\nBut before I had verily come to this, something happened to change the\nsituation. Entered like a young tempest, slamming the door after him,\nLucas.\n\nM. Étienne clutched me by the arm, drawing me back into the embrasure of\nthe window, where we stood in plain sight but with our faces blotted out\nagainst the light. Mayenne looked up from two rings he was comparing,\none in each hand. Lucas, hat on head, came rapidly across the room.\n\n\"So you have appeared again,\" Mayenne said. \"I could almost believe\nmyself back in night before last.\"\n\n\"Aye; at last I have.\" Lucas was all hot and ruffled, panting half from\nhurry, half from wrath.\n\n\"You saw fit to be absent last night,\" Mayenne went on indifferently,\nhis eyes on the ring. \"I trust, for your sake, you have used your time\nprofitably.\"\n\n\"I have been about my own concerns,\" Lucas answered lightly, arming\nhimself with his insolence against the other's disdain. In a moment he\nhad mastered the excitement that brought him so stormily into the room.\nHe was once more the Lucas who had entered that other night, nonchalant,\nmocking.\n\n\"Pretty trinkets,\" he observed, sitting down and lifting a bracelet from\nthe tray.\n\nThe close kinship of these men betrayed itself in nothing so sharply as\nin their unerring instinct for annoying each other. Had Lucas\nvolunteered explanation for his absence, Mayenne would not have listened\nto it; but as he withheld it, the duke demanded brusquely:\n\n\"Well, do you give an account of yourself? You had better.\"\n\nLucas repeated the tactics which he had found such good entertainment\nbefore. He looked with raised eyebrows toward us.\n\n\"You would not have me speak before these vermin, uncle?\"\n\n\"These vermin understand no French,\" Mayenne made answer. \"But do as it\nlikes you. It is nothing to me.\"\n\nMy master pinched my hand. Mayenne did not know us! After all, he was\nwhat M. Étienne had called him--a man, neither god nor devil. He could\nmake mistakes like the rest of us. For once he had been caught napping.\n\nLucas leaned back in his chair with a meditative air, as if idly\nwondering whether to speak or not. In his place I should not have\nwondered one moment. Had Mayenne assured me in that quiet tone that he\ncared nothing whether I spoke, I should scarce have been able to utter\nmy words fast enough. But there was so strange a twist in Lucas's nature\nthat he must sometimes thwart his own interests, value his caprice above\nhis prosperity. Also, in this case his story was no triumphant one. But\nat length he did begin it:\n\n\"I went to Belin to inform him that day before yesterday Étienne de Mar\nmurdered his lackey, Pontou, in Mar's house in the Rue Coupejarrets.\"\n\n\"Was that your errand?\" Mayenne said, looking up in slow surprise. \"My\nfaith! your oaths to Lorance trouble you little.\"\n\nLucas started forward sharply. \"Do you tell me you did not know my\npurpose?\"\n\n\"I knew, of course, that you were up to some warlockry,\" Mayenne\nanswered; \"I did not concern myself to discover what.\"\n\n\"There speaks the general! There speaks the gentleman!\" Lucas cried out.\n\"A general hangs a spy, yet he profits by spying. The spy runs the\nrisks, incurs the shames; the general sits in his tent, his honour\nuntarnished, pocketing all the glory. Faugh, you gentlemen! You will not\ndo dirty work, but you will have it done for you. You sit at home with\nclean hands and eyes that see not, while we go forth to serve you. You\nare the Duke of Mayenne. I am your bastard nephew, living on your\nfavour. But you go too far when you sneer at my smirches.\"\n\nHe was on his feet, standing over Mayenne, his face blazing. M. Étienne\nmade an instinctive step forward, thinking him about to knife the duke.\nBut Mayenne, as we well knew, was no craven.\n\n\"Be a little quieter, Paul,\" he said, unmoved. \"You will have the guard\nin, in a moment.\"\n\nLucas held absolutely still for a second. So did Mayenne. He knew that\nLucas, standing, could stab quicker than he defend. He sat there with\nboth hands on the table, looking composedly up at his nephew. Lucas\nflung away across the room.\n\n\"I shall have dismissed these people directly,\" Mayenne continued. \"Then\nyou can tell me your tale.\"\n\n\"I can tell it now in two words,\" Lucas answered, coming abruptly back.\n\"Belin signed the warrant, and sent a young ass of the burgher guard\nafter Mar. I attended to some affairs of my own. Then after a time I\nwent round to the Trois Lanternes to see if they had got him. He was not\nthere--only that cub of a boy of his. When I came in, he swore, the\ninnkeeper swore, the whole crew swore, I was Mar. The fool of an officer\narrested me.\"\n\nI expected Mayenne to burst out laughing in Lucas's chagrined face. But\ninstead he seemed less struck with his nephew's misfortunes than with\nsome other aspect of the affair. He said slowly:\n\n\"You told Belin this arrest was my desire?\"\n\n\"I may have implied something of the sort.\"\n\n\"You repeated it to the arresting officer before Mar's boy!\"\n\n\"I had no time to say anything before they hustled me off,\" Lucas\nexclaimed. \"Mille tonnerres! Never had any man such luck as I. It's\nenough to make me sign papers with the devil.\"\n\n\"Mar would believe I had broken faith with him?\"\n\n\"I dare say. One isn't responsible for what Mar believes,\" Lucas\nanswered carelessly.\n\nMayenne was silent, with knit brows, drumming his hand on the table.\nLucas went on with the tale of his woes:\n\n\"At the Bastille, I ordered the commissary to send to you. He did not;\nhe sent to Belin. Belin was busy, didn't understand the message,\nwouldn't be bothered. I lay in my cell like a mouse in a trap till an\nhour agone, when at last he saw fit to appear--damn him!\"\n\nMayenne fell to laughing. Lucas cried out:\n\n\"When they arrested me my first thought was that this was your work.\"\n\n\"In that case, how should you be free now?\"\n\n\"You found you needed me.\"\n\n\"You are twice wrong, Paul. For I knew nothing of your arrest. Nor do I\nthink I need you. Pardieu! you succeed too badly to give me confidence.\"\n\nLucas stood glowering, gnawing his lip, picturing the chagrin, the angry\nreproaches, the justifications he did not utter. I am certain he pitied\nhimself as the sport of fate and of tyrants, the most shamefully used\nof mortal men. And so long as he aspired to the hand of Mayenne's ward,\nso long was he helpless under Mayenne's will.\n\n\"'Twas pity,\" Mayenne said reflectively, \"that you thought best to be\nabsent last night. Had you been here, you had had sport. Your young\nfriend Mar came to sing under his lady's window.\"\n\n\"Saw she him?\" Lucas cried sharply.\n\n\"How should I know? She does not confide in me.\"\n\n\"You took care to find out!\" Lucas cried, knowing he was being badgered,\nyet powerless to keep himself from writhing.\n\n\"I may have.\"\n\n\"Did she see him?\" Lucas demanded again, the heavy lines of hatred and\njealousy searing his face.\n\n\"No credit to you if she did not. You accomplish singularly little to\nharass M. de Mar in his love-making. You deserve that she should have\nseen him. But, as a matter of fact, she did not. She was in the chapel\nwith madame.\"\n\n\"What happened?\"\n\n\"François de Brie--now there is a youngster, Paul,\" Mayenne interrupted\nhimself to point out, \"who has not a tithe of your cleverness; but he\nhas the advantage of being on the spot when needed. Desiring a word with\nmademoiselle, he betook himself to her chamber. She was not there, but\nMar was warbling under the window.\"\n\n\"Brie?\"\n\n\"Brie bestirred himself. He sent two of the guard round behind the\nhouse to cut off the retreat, while he and Latour attacked from the\nfront.\"\n\n\"Mar's killed?\" Lucas cried. \"He's killed!\"\n\n\"By no means,\" answered Mayenne. \"He got away.\"\n\nBefore he could explain further,--if he meant to,--the door opened, and\nMlle. de Montluc came in.\n\nHer eyes travelled first to us, in anxiety; then with relief to Mayenne,\nsitting over the jewels; last, to Lucas, with startlement. She advanced\nwithout hesitation to the duke.\n\n\"I am come, monsieur, to fetch you to supper.\"\n\n\"Pardieu, Lorance!\" Mayenne exclaimed, \"you show me a different face\nfrom that of dinner-time.\" Indeed, so she did, for her eyes were shining\nwith excitement, while the colour that M. Étienne had kissed into them\nstill flushed her cheeks.\n\n\"If I do,\" she made quick answer, \"it is because, the more I think on\nit, the surer I grow that my loving cousin will not break my heart.\"\n\n\"I want a word with you, Lorance,\" Mayenne said quietly.\n\n\"As many as you like, monsieur,\" she replied promptly. \"But will you not\nsend these creatures from the room first?\"\n\n\"Do you include your cousin Paul in that term?\"\n\n\"I meant these jewellers. But since you suggest it, perhaps it would be\nas well for Paul to go.\"\n\n\"You hear your orders, Paul.\"\n\n\"Aye, I hear and I disobey,\" Lucas retorted. \"Mademoiselle, I take too\nmuch joy in your presence to be willing to leave it.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" she said to the duke, ignoring her cousin Paul with a\ncoolness that must have maddened him, \"will you not dismiss your\ntradespeople? Then can we talk comfortably.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" answered Mayenne, \"I will. I am more gallant than Paul. If you\ncommand it, out they go, though I have not half had time to look their\nwares over. Here, master jeweller,\" he addressed M. Étienne, slipping\neasily into Italian, \"pack up your wares and depart.\"\n\nM. Étienne, bursting into rapid thanks to his Highness for his\ncondescension in noticing the dirt of the way, set about his packing.\nMayenne turned to his lovely cousin.\n\n\"Now for my word to you, mademoiselle. You wept so last night, it was\nimpossible to discuss the subject properly. But now I rejoice to see you\nmore tranquil. Here is the beginning and the middle and the end of the\nmatter: your marriage is my affair, and I shall do as I like about it.\"\n\nShe searched his face; before his steady look her colour slowly died. M.\nÉtienne, whether by accident or design, knocked his tray of jewels off\nthe table. Murmuring profuse apologies, he dropped on his knees to grope\nfor them. Neither of the men heeded him, but kept their eyes steadily on\nthe lady.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" Mayenne deliberately went on, \"I have been over-fond\nwith you. Had I followed my own interests instead of bowing to your\nwhims, you had been a wife these two years. I have indulged you,\nmademoiselle, because you were my ally Montluc's daughter, because you\ncame to me a lonely orphan, because you were my little cousin whose\nbaby mouth I kissed. I have let you cavil at this suitor and that, pout\nthat one was too tall and one too short, and a third too bold and a\nfourth not bold enough. I have been pleased to let you cajole me. But\nnow, mademoiselle, I am at the end of my patience.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" she cried, \"I never meant to abuse your kindness. You let me\ncajole you, as you say, else I could not have done it. You treated my\nwhims as a jest. You let me air them. But when you frowned, I have put\nthem by. I have always done your will.\"\n\n\"Then do it now, mademoiselle. Be faithful to me and to your birth.\nCease sighing for the enemy of our house.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" she said, \"when you first brought him to me, he was not the\nenemy of our house. When he came here, day after day, season after\nseason, he was not our enemy. When I wrote that letter, at Paul's\ndictation, I did not know he was our enemy. You told me that night that\nI was not for him. I promised you obedience. Did he come here to me and\nimplore me to wed with him, I would send him away.\"\n\nMayenne little imagined how truly she spoke; but he could not look in\nher eyes and doubt her honesty.\n\n\"You are a good child, Lorance,\" he said. \"I could wish your lover as\ndocile.\"\n\n\"He will not come here again,\" she cried. \"He knows I am not for him. He\ngives it up, monsieur--he takes himself out of Paris. I promise you it\nis over. He gives me up.\"\n\n\"I have not his promise for that,\" Mayenne said dryly; \"but the next\ntime he comes after you, he may settle with your husband.\"\n\nShe uttered a little gasp, but scarce of surprise--almost of relief that\nthe blow, so long expected, had at last been dealt.\n\n\"You will marry me, monsieur?\" she murmured. \"To M. de Brie?\"\n\n\"You are shrewd, mademoiselle. You know that it will be a good three\nmonths before François de Brie can stand up to be wed. You say to\nyourself that much may happen in three months. So it may. Therefore will\nyour bridegroom be at hand to-morrow morning.\"\n\nShe made no rejoinder, but her eyes, wide like a hunted animal's, moved\nfearsomely, loathingly, to Lucas. Mayenne uttered an abrupt laugh.\n\n\"No; Paul is not the happy man. Besides bungling the St. Quentin affair,\nhe has seen fit to make free with my name in an enterprise of his own.\nTherefore, Paul, you will dance at Lorance's wedding a bachelor.\nMademoiselle, you marry in the morning Señor el Conde del Rondelar y\nSaragossa of his Majesty King Philip's court. After dinner you will\ndepart with your husband for Spain.\"\n\nLucas sprang forward, hand on sword, face ablaze with furious protest.\nMayenne, heeding him no more than if he had not been there, rose and\nwent to Mlle de Montluc.\n\n\"Have I your obedience, cousin?\"\n\n\"You know it, monsieur.\"\n\nShe was curtseying to him when he folded her in his arms, kissing both\nher cheeks.\n\n\"You are as good as you are lovely, and that says much, ma mie. We will\ntalk a little more about this after supper. Permit me, mademoiselle.\"\n\nHe took her hand and led her in leisurely fashion out of the room.\n\nIt wondered me that Lucas had not killed him. He looked murder. Haply\nhad the duke disclosed by so much as a quivering eyelid a consciousness\nof Lucas's rage, of danger to himself, Lucas had struck him down. But he\nwalked straight past, clad in his composure as in armour, and Lucas made\nno move. I think to stab was the impulse of a moment, gone in a moment.\nInstantly he was glad he had not killed the Duke of Mayenne, to be cut\nhimself into dice by the guard. After the duke was gone, Lucas stood\nstill a long time, no less furious, but cogitating deeply.\n\nWe had gathered up our jewels and locked our box, and stood holding it\nbetween us, waiting our chance to depart. We might have gone a dozen\ntimes during the talking, for none marked us; but M. Étienne, despite my\ntuggings, refused to budge so long as mademoiselle was in the room. Now\nwas he ready enough to go, but hesitated to see if Lucas would not leave\nfirst. That worthy, however, showed no intention of stirring, but\nremained in his pose, buried in thought, unaware of our presence. To get\nout, we had to walk round one end or the other of the table, passing\neither before or behind him. M. le Comte was for marching carelessly\nbefore his face, but I pulled so violently in the other direction that\nhe gave way to me. I think now that had we passed in front of him, Lucas\nwould have let us go by without a look. As it was, hearing steps at his\nback, he wheeled about to confront us. If the eye of love is quick, so\nis the eye of hate. He cried out instantly:\n\n\"Mar!\"\n\nWe dropped the box, and sprang at him. But he was too quick for us. He\nleaped back, whipping out his sword.\n\n\"I have you now, Mar!\" he cried.\n\nM. Étienne grabbed up the heavy box in both hands to brain him. Lucas\nretreated. He might run through M. Étienne, but only at the risk of\nhaving his head split. After all, it suited his book as well to take us\nalive. Shouting for the guards, he retreated toward the door.\n\nBut I was there before him. As he ran at M. Étienne, I had dashed by,\nslammed the door shut, and bolted it. If we were caught, we would make a\nfight for it. I snatched up a stool for weapon.\n\nHe halted. Then he darted over to the chimney, and pulled violently the\nbell-rope hanging near. We heard through the closed door two loud peals\nsomewhere in the corridor.\n\nWe both ran for him. Even as he pulled the rope, M. Étienne struck the\nbox over his sword, snapping it. I dropped my stool, as he his box, and\nwe pinned Lucas in our arms.\n\n\"The oratory!\" I gasped. With a strength born of our desperation, we\ndragged him kicking and cursing across the room, heaved him with all our\nforce into the oratory, and bolted the door on him.\n\n\"Your wig!\" cried M. Étienne, running to recover his box. While I picked\nit up and endeavoured with clumsy fingers to put it on properly, he set\non its legs the stool I had flung down, threw the pieces of Lucas's\nsword into the fireplace, seized his box, dashed to me and set my wig\nstraight, dashed to the outer door, and opened it just as Pierre came up\nthe corridor.\n\n\"Well, what do you want?\" the lackey demanded. \"You ring as if it was a\nquestion of life and death.\"\n\n\"I want to be shown out, if the messer will be so kind. His Highness the\nduke, when he went to supper, left me here to put up my wares, but I\nknow not my way to the door.\"\n\nIt was after sunset, and the room, back from the windows, was dusky. The\nlackey seemed not to mark our flushed and rumpled looks, and to be quite\nsatisfied with M. Étienne's explanation, when of a sudden Lucas, who had\nbeen stunned for the moment by the violent meeting of his head and the\ntiles, began to pound and kick on the oratory door.\n\nHe was shouting as well. But the door closed with absolute tightness; it\nhad not even a keyhole. His cries came to us muffled and inarticulate.\n\n\"Corpo di Bacco!\" M. Étienne exclaimed, with a face of childlike\nsurprise. \"Some one is in a fine hurry to enter! Do you not let him in,\nSir Master of the Household?\"\n\n\"I wonder who he's got there now,\" Pierre muttered to himself in\nFrench, staring in puzzled wise at the door. Then he answered M. Étienne\nwith a laugh:\n\n\"No, my innocent; I do not let him in. It might cost me my neck to open\nthat door. Come along now. I must see you out and get back to my\ntrenchers.\"\n\nWe met not a soul on the stairs, every one, served or servants, being in\nthe supper-room. We passed the sentry without question, and round the\ncorner without hindrance. M. Étienne stopped to heave a sigh of\nthanksgiving.\n\n\"I thought we were done for that time!\" he panted. \"Mordieu! another\nscored off Lucas! Come, let us make good time home! 'Twere wise to be\ninside our gates when he gets out of that closet.\"\n\nWe made good time, ever listening for the haro after us. But we heard it\nnot. We came unmolested up the street at the back, of the Hôtel St.\nQuentin, on our way to the postern. Monsieur took the key out of his\ndoublet, saying as we walked around the corner tower:\n\n\"Well, it appears we are safe at home.\"\n\n\"Yes, M. Étienne.\"\n\nEven as I uttered the words, three men from the shadow of the wall\nsprang out and seized us.\n\n\"This is he!\" one cried. \"M. le Comte de Mar, I have the pleasure of\ntaking you to the Bastille.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\n_The countersign._\n\n\nInstantly two more men came running from the postern arch. The five were\nupon us like an avalanche. One pinned my arms while another gagged me.\nTwo held M. Étienne, a third stopping his mouth.\n\n\"Prettily done,\" quoth the leader. \"Not a squeal! Morbleu! I wasn't\nanxious to have old Vigo out disputing my rights.\"\n\nM. Étienne's wrists were neatly trussed by this time. At a word from the\nleader, our captors turned us about and marched us up the lane by\nMirabeau's garden, where Bernet's blood lay rusty on the stones. We\noffered no resistance whatever; we should only have been prodded with a\nsword-point for our pains. I made out, despite the thickening twilight,\nthe familiar uniform of the burgher guard; M. de Belin, having bagged\nthe wrong bird once, had now caught the right one.\n\nThe captain bade one of the fellows go call the others off; I could\nguess that the job had been done thoroughly, every approach to the house\nguarded. I gnashed my teeth over the gag, that I had not suspected the\ndanger. The truth was, both of us had our heads so full of mademoiselle,\nof Mayenne, and of Lucas, that we had forgotten the governor and his\npreposterous warrant.\n\nThey led us into the Rue de l'Évêque, where was waiting the same black\ncoach that had stood before the Oie d'Or, the same Louis on the box. Its\nlamps were lighted; by their glimmer our captors for the first time saw\nus fairly.\n\n\"Why, captain,\" cried the man at M. Étienne's elbow, \"this is no Comte\nde Mar! The Comte de Mar is fair-haired; I've seen him scores of times.\"\n\n\"The Comte de Mar answers to the name of Étienne, and so does this\nfellow,\" the captain answered. He took the candle from one of the lamps\nand held it in M. Étienne's face. Then he put out a sudden hand, and\npulled the wig off.\n\n\"Good for you, captain!\" cried the men. We were indeed unfortunate to\nencounter an officer with brains.\n\n\"We'll take your gag off too, M. le Comte, in the coach,\" the captain\ntold him.\n\n\"Will you bring the lass along, captain?\"\n\n\"Not exactly,\" the leader laughed. \"A fine prison it would be, could a\nfelon have his bonnibel at his side. No, I'll leave the maid; but she\nneedn't give the alarm yet. Do you stay awhile with her, L'Estrange;\nyou'll not mind the job. Keep her a quarter of an hour, and then let her\ngo her ways.\"\n\nThey bundled my lord into the coach, box and all, the captain and two\nmen with him. The fourth clambered up beside Louis as he cracked his\nwhip and rattled smartly down the street.\n\nMy guardian stole a loving arm around my waist and marched me down the\nquiet lane between the garden walls. He was clutching my right wrist,\nbut my left hand was free, and I fumbled at my gag. In the middle of the\ndeserted lane he halted.\n\n\"Now, my beauty, if you'll be good I'll take that stopper off. But if\nyou make a scream, by Heaven, it'll be your last!\"\n\nI shook my head and squeezed his hand imploringly, while he, holding me\ntight in one sinewy arm, plucked left-handedly at the knot. I waited,\nmeek as Griselda, till the gag was off, and then I let him have it.\nVolleying curses, I hammered him square in the eye.\n\nIt was a mad course, for he was armed, I not. But instead of stabbing,\nhe dropped me like a hot coal, gasping in the blankest consternation:\n\n\"Thousand devils! It's a boy!\"\n\nA second later, when he recollected himself, I was tearing down the\nlane.\n\nI am a good runner, and then, any one can run well when he runs for his\nlife. Despite the wretched kirtle tying up my legs, I gained on him, and\nwhen I had reached the corner of our house, he dropped the pursuit and\nmade off in the darkness. I ran full tilt round to the great gate,\nbellowing for the sentry to open. He came at once, with a dripping\ntorch, to burst into roars of laughter at the sight of me. My wig was\nsomewhere in the lane behind me; he knew me perfectly in my silly\ntoggery. He leaned against the wall, helpless with laughing, shouting\nfeebly to his comrades to come share the jest. I, you may well imagine,\nsaw nothing funny about it, but kicked and shook the grilles in my rage\nand impatience. He did open to me at length, and in I dashed, clamouring\nfor Vigo. He had appeared in the court by this, as also half a dozen of\nthe guard, who surrounded me with shouts of astonished mockery; but I,\nlittle heeding, cried to the equery:\n\n\"Vigo, M. le Comte is arrested! He's in the Bastille!\"\n\nVigo grasped my arm, and lifted rather than led me in at the guard-room\ndoor, slamming it in the soldiers' faces.\n\n\"Now, Félix.\"\n\n\"M. Étienne!\" I gasped--\"M. Étienne is arrested! They were lying in wait\nfor him at the back of the house, by the tower. They've taken him off in\na coach to the Bastille.\"\n\n\"Who have?\"\n\n\"The governor's guard. You'll saddle and pursue? You'll rescue him?\"\n\n\"How long ago?\"\n\n\"About ten minutes. The coach was standing in the Rue de l'Évêque. They\nleft a man guarding me, but I broke away.\"\n\n\"It can't be done,\" Vigo said. \"They'll be out of the quarter by now. If\nI could catch them at all, it would be close by the Bastille. No good in\nthat; no use fighting four regiments. What the devil are they arresting\nhim for, Félix? I understand Mayenne wants his blood, but what has the\ncity guard to do with it?\"\n\n\"It's Lucas's game,\" I said. Then I remembered that we had not confided\nto him the tale of the first arrest. I went on to tell of the adventure\nof the Trois Lanternes, and, reflecting that he might better know just\nhow the land lay with us, I made a clean breast of everything--the fight\nbefore Ferou's house, the rescue, the rencounter in the tunnel, to-day's\nexcursion, and all that befell in the council-room. I wound up with a\nsecond full account of our capture under the very walls of the house,\nour garroting before we could cry on the guards to save us. Vigo said\nnothing for some time; at length he delivered himself:\n\n\"Monsieur wouldn't have a patrol about the house. He wouldn't publish to\nthe mob that he feared any danger whatever. Of course no one foresaw\nthis. However, the arrest is the best thing could have happened.\"\n\n\"Vigo!\" I gasped in horror. Was Vigo turned traitor? The solid earth\nreeled beneath my feet.\n\n\"He'd never rest till he got himself killed,\" Vigo went on. \"Monsieur's\nhot enough, but M. Étienne's mad to bind. If they hadn't caught him\nto-night he'd have been in some worse pickle to-morrow; while, as it is,\nhe's safe from swords at least.\"\n\n\"But they can murder as well in the Bastille as elsewhere!\" I cried.\n\nVigo shook his head.\n\n\"No; had they meant murder, they'd have settled him here in the alley.\nSince they lugged him off unhurt, they don't mean it. I know not what\nthe devil they are up to, but it isn't that.\"\n\n\"It was Lucas's game in the first place,\" I repeated. \"He's too prudent\nto come out in the open and fight M. Étienne. He never strikes with his\nown hand; his way is to make some one else strike for him. So he gets M.\nÉtienne into the Bastille. That's the first step. I suppose he thinks\nMayenne will attend to the second.\"\n\n\"Mayenne dares not take the boy's life,\" Vigo answered. \"He could have\nkilled him, an he chose, in the streets, and nobody the wiser. But now\nthat monsieur's taken publicly to the Bastille, Mayenne dares not kill\nhim there, by foul play or by law--the Duke of St. Quentin's son. No;\nall Mayenne can do is to confine him at his good pleasure. Whence\npresently we will pluck him out at King Henry's good pleasure.\"\n\n\"And meantime is he to rot behind bars?\"\n\n\"Unless Monsieur can get him out. But then,\" Vigo went on, \"a month or\ntwo in a cell won't be a bad thing for him, neither. His head will have\na chance to cool. After a dose of Mayenne's purge he may recover of his\nfever for Mayenne's ward.\"\n\n\"Monsieur! You will send to Monsieur?\"\n\n\"Of course. You will go. And Gilles with you to keep you out of\nmischief.\"\n\n\"When? Now?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Vigo. \"You will go clothe yourself in breeches first, else\nare you not likely to arrive anywhere but at the mad-house. And then eat\nyour supper. It's a long road to St. Denis.\"\n\nI ran at once, through a fusillade of jeers from soldiers, grooms, and\nhouse-men, across the court, through the hall, and up the stairs to\nMarcel's chamber. Never was I gladder of anything in my life than to\ndoff those swaddling petticoats. Two minutes, and I was a man again. I\nfound it in my heart to pity the poor things who must wear the trappings\ntheir lives long.\n\nBut for all my joy in my freedom, I choked over my supper and pushed it\naway half tasted, in misery over M. Étienne. Vigo might say comfortably\nthat Mayenne dared not kill him, but I thought there were few things\nthat gentleman dared not do. Then there was Lucas to be reckoned with.\nHe had caught his fly in the web; he was not likely to let him go long\nundevoured. At best, if M. Étienne's life were safe, yet was he\nhelpless, while to-morrow our mademoiselle was to marry. Vigo seemed to\nthink that a blessing, but I was nigh to weeping into my soup. The one\nray of light was that she was not to marry Lucas. That was something.\nStill, when M. Étienne came out of prison, if ever he did,--I could\nscarce bring myself to believe it,--he would find his dear vanished over\nthe rocky Pyrenees.\n\nVigo would not even let me start when I was ready. Since we were too\nlate to find the gates open, we must wait till ten of the clock, at\nwhich hour the St. Denis gate would be in the hands of a certain\nBrissac, who would pass us with a wink at the word St. Quentin.\n\nI was so wroth with Vigo that I would not stay with him, but went\nup-stairs into M. Étienne's silent chamber, and flung myself down on the\nwindow-bench his head might never touch again, and wondered how he was\nfaring in prison. I wished I were there with him. I cared not much what\nthe place was, so long as we were together. I had gone down the mouth of\nhell smiling, so be it I went at his heels. Mayhap if I had struggled\nharder with my captors, shown my sex earlier, they had taken me too.\nHeartily I wished they had; I trow I am the only wight ever did wish\nhimself behind bars. And promptly I repented me, for if Vigo had proved\nbut a broken reed, there was Monsieur. Monsieur was not likely to sit\nsmug and declare prison the best place for his son.\n\nThe slow twilight faded altogether, and the dark came. The city was very\nstill. Once in a while a shout or a sound of bell was borne over the\nroofs, or infrequent voices and footsteps sounded in the street beyond\nour gate. The men in the court under my window were quiet too, talking\namong themselves without much raillery or laughter; I knew they\ndiscussed the unhappy plight of the heir of St. Quentin. The chimes had\nrung some time ago the half-hour after nine, and I was fidgeting to be\noff, but huffed as I was with him, I could not lower myself to go ask\nVigo's leave to start. He might come after me when he wanted me.\n\n\"Félix! Félix!\" Marcel shouted down the corridor. I sprang up; then,\nremembering my dignity, moved no further, but bade him come in to me.\n\n\"Where are you mooning in the dark?\" he demanded, stumbling over the\nthreshold. \"Oh, there you are. Dame! you'd come down-stairs mighty quick\nif you knew what was there for you?\"\n\n\"What?\" I cried, divided between the wild hope that it was Monsieur and\nthe wilder one that it was M. Étienne.\n\n\"Don't you wish I'd tell you? Well, you're a good boy, and I will. It's\nthe prettiest lass I've seen in a month of Sundays--you in your\npetticoats don't come near her.\"\n\n\"For me?\" I stuttered.\n\n\"Aye; she asked for M. le Duc, and when he wasn't here, for you. I\nsuppose it's some friend of M. Étienne's.\"\n\nI supposed so, indeed; I supposed it was the owner of my borrowed\nplumage come to claim her own, angry perhaps because I had not returned\nit to her. I wondered whether she would scratch my eyes out because I\nhad lost the cap--whether I could find it if I went to look with a\nlight. None too eagerly I descended to her.\n\nShe was standing against the wall in the archway. Two or three of the\nguardsmen were about her, one with a flambeau, by which they were all\nsurveying her. She wore the coif and blouse, the black bodice and short\nstriped skirt, of the country peasant girl, and, like a country girl,\nshe showed a face flushed and downcast under the soldiers' bold\nscrutiny. She looked up at me as at a rescuing angel. It was Mlle. de\nMontluc!\n\nI dashed past the torch-bearer, nearly upsetting him in my haste, and\nsnatched her hand.\n\n\"Mademoiselle! Come into the house!\"\n\nShe clutched me with fingers as cold as marble, which trembled on mine.\n\n\"Where is M. de St. Quentin?\"\n\n\"At St. Denis.\"\n\n\"You must take me there to-night.\"\n\n\"I was going,\" I stammered, bewildered; \"but you, mademoiselle--\"\n\n\"You knew of M. de Mar's arrest?\"\n\n\"Aye.\"\n\n\"What coil is this, Félix?\" demanded Vigo, coming up. He took the torch\nfrom his man, and held it in mademoiselle's face, whereupon an amazing\nchange came over his own. He lowered the light, shielding it with his\nhand, as if it were an impertinent eye.\n\n\"You are Vigo,\" she said at once.\n\n\"Yes; and I know not what noble lady mademoiselle can be, save--will it\nplease her to come into the house?\"\n\nHe led the way with his torch, not suffering himself to look at her\nagain. He had his foot on the staircase, when she called to him, as if\nshe had been accustomed to addressing him all her life:\n\n\"Vigo, this will do. I will speak to you here.\"\n\n\"As mademoiselle wishes. I thought the salon fitter. My cabinet here\nwill be quieter than the hall, mademoiselle.\"\n\nHe opened the door, and she entered. He pushed me in next, giving me the\ntorch and saying:\n\n\"Ask mademoiselle, Félix, whether she wants me.\" He amazed me--he who\nalways ordered.\n\n\"I want you, Vigo,\" mademoiselle answered him herself. \"I want you to\nsend two men with me to St. Denis.\"\n\n\"To-morrow?\"\n\n\"No; to-night.\"\n\n\"But mademoiselle cannot go to St. Denis.\"\n\n\"I can, and I must.\"\n\n\"They will not let a horse-party through the gate at night,\" Vigo began.\n\n\"We will go on foot.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" Vigo answered, as if she had proposed flying to the\nmoon, \"you cannot walk to St. Denis.\"\n\n\"I must!\" she cried.\n\nI had put the flambeau in a socket on the wall. Now that the light shone\non her steadily, I saw for the first time, though I might have known it\nfrom her presence here, how rent with emotion she was, white to the\nlips, with gleaming eyes and stormy breast. She had spoken low and\nquietly, but it was a main-force composure, liable to snap like glass. I\nthought her on the very verge of passionate tears. Vigo looked at her,\npuzzled, troubled, pitying, as on some beautiful, mad creature. She\ncried out on him suddenly, her rich voice going up a key:\n\n\"You need not say 'cannot' to me, Vigo! You know not how I came here. I\nwas locked in my chamber. I changed clothes with my Norman maid. There\nwas a sentry at each end of the street. I slid down a rope of my\nbedclothes; it was dark--they did not see me. I knocked at Ferou's\ndoor--thank the saints, it opened to me quickly! I told M. Ferou--God\nforgive me!--I had business for the duke at the other end of the tunnel.\nHe took me through, and I came here.\"\n\n\"But, mademoiselle, the bats!\" I cried.\n\n\"Yes, the bats,\" she returned, with a little smile. \"And my hands on the\nropes!\" She turned them over; the skin was torn cruelly from her\ndelicate palms and the inside of her fingers. Little threads of blood\nmarked the scores. \"Then I came here,\" she repeated. \"In all my life I\nhave never been in the streets alone--not even for one step at noonday.\nNow will you tell me, M. Vigo, that I cannot go to St. Denis?\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, it is yours to say what you can do.\"\n\nAs for me, I dropped on my knees and laid my lips to her fingers,\nsoftly, for fear even their pressure might hurt her tenderness.\n\n\"Mademoiselle!\" I cried in pure delight. \"Mademoiselle, that you are\nhere!\"\n\nShe flushed under my words.\n\n\"Ah, it is no little thing brought me. You knew M. de Mar was arrested?\"\n\nWe assented; she went on, more to me than to Vigo, as if in telling me\nshe was telling M. Étienne. She spoke low, as if in pain.\n\n\"After supper M. de Mayenne went back to his cabinet and let out Paul de\nLorraine.\"\n\n\"I wish we had killed him,\" I muttered. \"We had no time or weapons.\"\n\n\"M. de Mayenne sent for me then,\" she went on, wetting her lips. \"I have\nnever seen him so angry. He was furious because M. de Mar had been\nbefore his face and he had not known it. He felt he had been made a mock\nof. He raged against me--I never knew he could be so angry. He said the\nSpanish envoy was too good for me; I should marry Paul de Lorraine\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Mordieu, mademoiselle!\"\n\n\"That was not it. I had borne that!\" she cried. \"Mayhap I deserved it.\nBut while my lord thundered at me, word came that M. de Mar was taken.\nMy lord swore he should die. He swore no man ever set him at naught and\nlived to boast of it.\"\n\n\"Will--\"\n\nShe swept on unheeding:\n\n\"He said he should be tried for the murder of Pontou--he should be\ntortured to make him confess it.\"\n\nShe dropped down on her knees, hiding her face in her arms on the table,\nshaking from head to foot as in an ague. Vigo swore to himself, loudly,\nviolently: \"If Mayenne do that, by the throne of Heaven, I'll kill him!\"\n\nShe sprang to her feet, dry-eyed, fierce as a young lioness.\n\n\"Is that all you can say? Mayenne may torture him and be killed for it?\"\n\n\"I shall send to the duke--\" Vigo began.\n\n\"Aye! I shall go to the duke! I can say who killed Pontou. I know much\nbesides to tell the king. I was Mayenne's cousin, but if he would save\nhis secrets he must give up M. de Mar. Mother of God! I have been his\nobedient child; I have let him do so with me as he would. I sent my\nlover away. I consented to the Spanish marriage. But to this I will not\nsubmit. He shall not torture and kill Étienne de Mar!\"\n\nVigo took her hand and kissed it.\n\n\"Shall we start, Vigo? Once at St. Denis, I am hostage for his safety.\nThe king can tell Mayenne that if Mar is tortured he will torture me!\nMayenne may not tender me greatly, but he will not relish his cousin's\nbreaking on the wheel.\"\n\n\"Mayenne won't torture M. Étienne,\" Vigo said, patting her hand in both\nof his, forgetting she was a great lady, he an equery. \"Fear not! you\nwill save him, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"Let us go!\" she cried feverishly. \"Let us go!\"\n\nGilles was in the court waiting, stripped of his livery, dressed\npeaceably as a porter, but with a mallet in his hand that I should not\nlike to receive on my crown. I thought we were ready, but Vigo bade us\nwait. I stood on the house-steps with mademoiselle, while he took aside\nSquinting Charlot for a low-voiced, emphatic interview.\n\n\"Must we wait?\" mademoiselle urged me, quivering like the arrow on the\nbow-string. \"They may discover I am gone. Need we wait?\"\n\n\"Aye,\" I answered; \"if Vigo bids us. He knows.\"\n\nWe waited then. Vigo disappeared presently. Mademoiselle and I stood\npatient, with, oh! what impatience in our hearts, wondering how he could\nso hinder us. Not till he came back did it dawn on me for what we had\nstayed. He was dressed as an under-groom, not a tag of St. Quentin\ncolours on him.\n\n\"I beg a thousand pardons, mademoiselle. I had to give my lieutenant his\norders. Now, if you will give the word, we go.\"\n\n\"Do you go, M. Vigo?\" She breathed deep. It was easy to see she looked\nupon him as a regiment.\n\n\"Of course,\" Vigo answered, as if there could be no other way.\n\nI said in pure devilry, to try to ruffle him:\n\n\"Vigo, you said you were here to guard Monsieur's interests-his house,\nhis goods, his moneys. Do you desert your trust?\"\n\nMademoiselle turned quickly to him:\n\n\"Vigo, you must not let me take you from your rightful post. Félix and\nyour man here will care for me--\"\n\n\"The boy talks silliness, mademoiselle,\" Vigo returned tranquilly.\n\"Mademoiselle is worth a dozen hôtels. I go with her.\"\n\nHe walked beside her across the court, I following with Gilles, laughing\nto myself. Only yesterday had Vigo declared that never would he give aid\nand comfort to Mlle. de Montluc. It was no marvel she had conquered M.\nÉtienne, for he must needs have been in love with some one, but in\nbringing Vigo to her feet she had won a triumph indeed.\n\nWe had to go out by the great gate, because the key of the postern was\nin the Bastille. But as if by magic every guardsman and hanger-about had\ndisappeared--there was not one to stare at the lady; though when we had\npassed some one locked the gates behind us. Vigo called me up to\nmademoiselle's left. Gilles was to loiter behind, far enough to seem\nnot to belong to us, near enough to come up at need. Thus, at a good\npace, mademoiselle stepping out as brave as any of us, we set out across\nthe city for the Porte St. Denis.\n\nOur quarter was very quiet; we scarce met a soul. But afterward, as we\nreached the neighbourhood of the markets, the streets grew livelier. Now\nwere we gladder than ever of Vigo's escort; for whenever we approached a\nband of roisterers or of gentlemen with lights, mademoiselle sheltered\nherself behind the equery's broad back, hidden as behind a tower. Once\nthe gallant M. de Champfleury, he who in pink silk had adorned Mme. de\nMayenne's salon, passed close enough to touch her. She heaved a sigh of\nrelief when he was by. For her own sake she had no fear; the midnight\nstreets, the open road to St. Denis, had no power to daunt her: but the\ndread of being recognized and turned back rode her like a nightmare.\n\nClose by the gate, Vigo bade us pause in the door of a shop while he\nwent forward to reconnoiter. Before long he returned.\n\n\"Bad luck, mademoiselle. Brissac's not on. I don't know the officer, but\nhe knows me, that's the worst of it. He told me this was not St. Quentin\nnight. Well, we must try the Porte Neuve.\"\n\nBut mademoiselle demurred:\n\n\"That will be out of our way, will it not, Vigo? It is a longer road\nfrom the Porte Neuve to St. Denis?\"\n\n\"Yes; but what to do? We must get through the walls.\"\n\n\"Suppose we fare no better at the Porte Neuve? If your Brissac is\nsuspected, he'll not be on at night. Vigo, I propose that we part\ncompany here. They will not know Gilles and Félix at the gate, will\nthey?\"\n\n\"No,\" Vigo said doubtfully; \"but--\"\n\n\"Then can we get through!\" she cried. \"They will not stop us, such\nhumble folk! We are going to the bedside of our dying mother at St.\nDenis. Your name, Gilles?\"\n\n\"Forestier, mademoiselle,\" he stammered, startled.\n\n\"Then are we all Forestiers--Gilles, Félix, and Jeanne. We can pass out,\nVigo; I am sure we can pass out. I am loath to part with you, but I fear\nto go through the city to the Porte Neuve. My absence may be\ndiscovered--I must place myself without the walls speedily.\n\n\"Well, mademoiselle may try it,\" Vigo gave reluctant consent. \"If you\nare refused, we can fall back on the Porte Neuve. If you succeed--Listen\nto me, you fellows. You will deliver mademoiselle into Monsieur's hands,\nor answer to me for it. If any one touches her little finger--well,\ntrust me!\"\n\n\"That's understood,\" we answered, saluting together.\n\n\"Mademoiselle need have no doubts of them,\" Vigo said. \"Félix is M. le\nComte's own henchman. And Gilles is the best man in the household, next\nto me. God speed you, my lady. I am here, if they turn you back.\"\n\nWe went boldly round the corner and up the street to the gate. The\nsentry walking his beat ordered us away without so much as looking at\nus. Then Gilles, appointed our spokesman, demanded to see the captain of\nthe watch. His errand was urgent.\n\nBut the sentry showed no disposition to budge. Had we a passport? No, we\nhad no passport. Then we could go about our business. There was no\nleaving Paris to-night for us. Call the captain? No; he would do nothing\nof the kind. Be off, then!\n\nBut at this moment, hearing the altercation, the officer himself came\nout of the guard-room in the tower, and to him Gilles at once began his\nstory. Our mother at St. Denis had sent for us to come to her dying bed.\nHe was a street-porter; the messenger had had trouble to find him. His\nyoung brother and sister were in service, kept to their duties till\nlate. Our mother might even now be yielding up the ghost! It was a\npitiful case, M. le Capitaine; might we not be permitted to pass?\n\nThe young officer appeared less interested in this moving tale than in\nthe face of mademoiselle, lighted up by the flambeau on the tower wall.\n\n\"I should be glad to oblige your charming sister,\" he returned, smiling,\n\"but none goes out of the city without a passport. Perhaps you have one,\nthough, from my Lord Mayenne?\"\n\n\"Would our kind be carrying a passport from the Duke of Mayenne?\" quoth\nGilles.\n\n\"It seems improbable,\" the officer smiled, pleased with his wit. \"Sorry\nto discommode you, my dear. But perhaps, lacking a passport, you can yet\noblige me with the countersign, which does as well. Just one little\nword, now, and I'll let you through.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"IT DESOLATES ME TO HEAR OF HER EXTREMITY.\"]\n\n\"If monsieur will tell me the little word?\" she asked innocently.\n\nHe burst into laughter.\n\n\"No, no; I am not to be caught so easy as that, my girl.\"\n\n\"Oh, come, monsieur captain,\" Gilles urged, \"many and many a fellow goes\nin and out of Paris without a passport. The rules are a net to stop big\nfish and let the small fry go. What harm will it do to my Lord Mayenne,\nor you, or anybody, if you have the gentleness to let three poor\nservants through to their dying mother?\"\n\n\"It desolates me to hear of her extremity,\" the captain answered, with a\nfine irony, \"but I am here to do my duty. I am thinking, my dear, that\nyou are some great lady's maid?\"\n\nHe was eying her sharply, suspiciously; she made haste to protest:\n\n\"Oh, no, monsieur; I am servant to Mme. Mesnier, the grocer's wife.\"\n\n\"And perhaps you serve in the shop?\"\n\n\"No, monsieur,\" she said, not seeing his drift, but on guard against a\ntrap. \"No, monsieur; I am never in the shop. I am far too busy with my\nwork. Monsieur does not seem to understand what a servant-lass has to\ndo.\"\n\nFor answer, he took her hand and lifted it to the light, revealing all\nits smooth whiteness, its dainty, polished nails.\n\n\"I think mademoiselle does not understand it, either.\"\n\nWith a little cry, she snatched her hand from him, hiding it in the\nfolds of her kirtle, regarding him with open terror. He softened\nsomewhat at sight of her distress.\n\n\"Well, it's none of my business if a lady chooses to be masquerading\nround the streets at night with a porter and a lackey. I don't know what\nyour purpose is--I don't ask to know. But I'm here to keep my gate, and\nI'll keep it. Go try to wheedle the officer at the Porte Neuve.\"\n\nIn helpless obedience, glad of even so much leniency, we turned away--to\nface a tall, grizzled veteran in a colonel's shoulder-straps. With a\ndragoon at his back, he had come so softly out of a side alley that not\neven the captain had marked him.\n\n\"What's this, Guilbert?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Some folks seeking to get through the gates, sir. I've just turned them\naway.\"\n\n\"What were you saying about the Porte Neuve?\"\n\n\"I said they could go see how that gate is kept. I showed them how this\nis.\"\n\n\"Why must you pass through at this time of night?\" said the commanding\nofficer, civilly. Gilles once again bemoaned the dying mother. The young\ncaptain, eager to prove his fidelity, interrupted him:\n\n\"I believe that's a fairy-tale, sir. There's something queer about these\npeople. The girl says she is a grocer's servant, and has hands like a\nduchess's.\"\n\nThe colonel looked at us sharply, neither friendly nor unfriendly. He\nsaid in a perfectly neutral manner:\n\n\"It is of no consequence whether she be a servant or a duchess--has a\nmother or not. The point is whether these people have the countersign.\nIf they have it, they can pass, whoever they are.\"\n\n\"They have not,\" the captain answered at once. \"I think you would do\nwell, sir, to demand the lady's name.\"\n\nMademoiselle started forward for a bold stroke just as the superior\nofficer demanded of her, \"The countersign?\" As he said the word, she\npronounced distinctly her name:\n\n\"Lorance--\"\n\n\"Enough!\" the colonel said instantly. \"Pass them through, Guilbert.\"\n\nThe young captain stood in a mull, but no more bewildered than we.\n\n\"Mighty queer!\" he muttered. \"Why didn't she give it to me?\"\n\n\"Stir yourself, sir!\" his superior gave sharp command. \"They have the\ncountersign; pass them through.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\n_St. Denis--and Navarre!_\n\n\nAs the gates clanged into place behind us, Gilles stopped short in his\ntracks to say, as if addressing the darkness before him:\n\n\"Am I, Gilles, awake or asleep? Are we in Paris, or are we on the St.\nDenis road?\"\n\n\"Oh, come, come!\" Mademoiselle hastened us on, murmuring half to herself\nas we went: \"O you kind saints! I saw he could not make us out for\nfriends or foes; I thought my name might turn the scale. Mayenne always\ngives a name for a countersign; to-night, by a marvel, it was mine!\"\n\nI like not to think often of that five-mile tramp to St. Denis. The road\nwas dark, rutty, and in places still miry from Monday night's rain.\nStrange shadows dogged us all the way. Sometimes they were only bushes\nor wayside shrines, but sometimes they moved. This was not now a wolf\ncountry, but two-footed wolves were plenty, and as dangerous. The\nhangers-on of the army--beggars, feagues, and footpads--hovered, like\nthe cowardly beasts of prey they were, about the outskirts of the city.\nDid a leaf rustle, we started; did a shambling shape in the gloom whine\nfor alms, we made ready for onset. Gilles produced from some place of\nconcealment--his jerkin, or his leggings, or somewhere--a brace of\npistols, and we walked with finger on trigger, taking care, whenever a\nrustle in the grass, a shadow in the bushes, seemed to follow us, to\ntalk loud and cheerfully of common things, the little interests of a\nhumble station. Thanks to this diplomacy, or the pistol-barrels shining\nin the faint starlight, none molested us, though we encountered more\nthan one mysterious company. We never passed into the gloom under an\narch of trees without the resolution to fight for our lives. We never\ncame out again into the faint light of the open road without wondering\nthanks to the saints--silent thanks, for we never spoke a word of any\nfear, Gilles and I. I trow mademoiselle knew well enough, but she spoke\nno word either. She never faltered, never showed by so much as the turn\nof her head that she suspected any danger, but, eyes on the distant\nlights of St. Denis, walked straight along, half a step ahead of us all\nthe way. Stride as we might, we two strong fellows could never quite\nkeep up with her.\n\nThe journey could not at such pace stretch out forever. Presently the\ndistant lights were no longer distant, but near, nearer, close at\nhand--the lights of the outposts of the camp. A sentinel started out\nfrom the quoin of a wall to stop us, but when we had told our errand he\nbecame as friendly as a brother. He went across the road into a\nneighbouring tournebride to report to the officer of the guard, and\ncame back presently with a torch and the order to take us to the Duke of\nSt. Quentin's lodging.\n\nIt was near an hour after midnight, and St. Denis was in bed. Save for a\ndrowsy patrol here and there, we met no one. Fewer than the patrols were\nthe lanterns hung on ropes across the streets; these were the only\nlights, for the houses were one and all as dark as tombs. Not till we\nhad reached the middle of the town did we see, in the second story of a\nhouse in the square, a beam of light shining through the shutter-chink.\n\n\"Some one in mischief.\" Gilles pointed.\n\n\"Aye,\" laughed the sentry, \"your duke. This is where he lodges, over the\nsaddler's.\"\n\nHe knocked with the butt of his musket on the door. The shutter above\ncreaked open, and a voice--Monsieur's voice--asked, \"Who's there?\"\n\nMademoiselle was concealed in the embrasure of the doorway; Gilles and I\nstepped back into the street where Monsieur could see us.\n\n\"Gilles Forestier and Félix Broux, Monsieur, just from Paris, with\nnews.\"\n\n\"Wait.\"\n\n\"Is it all right, M. le Duc?\" the sentry asked, saluting.\n\n\"Yes,\" Monsieur answered, closing the shutter.\n\nThe soldier, with another salute to the blank window, and a nod of\n\"Good-by, then,\" to us, went back to his post. Left in darkness, we\npresently heard Monsieur's quick step on the flags of the hall, and the\nclatter of the bolts. He opened to us, standing there fully dressed,\nwith a guttering candle.\n\n\"My son?\" he said instantly.\n\nMademoiselle, crouching in the shadow of the door-post, pushed me\nforward. I saw I was to tell him.\n\n\"Monsieur, he was arrested and driven to the Bastille to-night between\nseven and eight. Lucas--Paul de Lorraine--went to the governor and swore\nthat M. Étienne killed the lackey Pontou in the house in the Rue\nCoupejarrets. It was Lucas killed him--Lucas told Mayenne so. Mlle. de\nMontluc heard him, too. And here is mademoiselle.\"\n\nAt the word she came out of the shadow and slowly over the threshold.\n\nHer alarm and passion had swept her to the door of the Hôtel St. Quentin\nas a whirlwind sweeps a leaf. She had come without thought of herself,\nwithout pause, without fear. But now the first heat of her impulse was\ngone. Her long tramp had left her faint and weary, and here she had to\nface not an equery and a page, hers to command, but a great duke, the\nenemy of her house. She came blushfully in her peasant dress, shoes\ndirty from the common road, hair ruffled by the night winds, to show\nherself for the first time to her lover's father, opposer of her hopes,\nthwarter of her marriage. Proud and shy, she drifted over the door-sill\nand stood a moment, neither lifting her eyes nor speaking, like a bird\nwhom the least movement would startle into flight.\n\nBut Monsieur made none. He kept as still, as tongue-tied, as she,\nlooking at her as if he could hardly believe her presence real. Then as\nthe silence prolonged itself, it seemed to frighten her more than the\nharsh speech she may have feared; with a desperate courage she raised\nher eyes to his face.\n\nThe spell was broken. Monsieur stepped forward at once to her.\n\n\"Mademoiselle, you have come a journey. You are tired. Let me give you\nsome refreshment; then will you tell me the story.\"\n\nIt was an unlucky speech, for she had been on the very point of\nunburdening herself; but now, without a word, she accepted his escort\ndown the passage. But as she went, she flung me an imploring glance; I\nwas to come too. Gilles bolted the door again, and sat down to wait on\nthe staircase; but I, though my lord had not bidden me, followed him and\nmademoiselle. It troubled me that she should so dread him--him, the\nwarmest-hearted of all men. But if she needed me to give her confidence,\nhere I was.\n\nMonsieur led her into a little square parlour at the end of the passage.\nIt was just behind the shop, I knew, it smelt so of leather. It was\ndoubtless the sitting-and eating-room of the saddler's family. Monsieur\nset his candle down on the big table in the middle; then, on second\nthought, took it up again and lighted two iron sconces on the wall.\n\n\"Pray sit, mademoiselle, and rest,\" he bade, for she was starting up in\nnervousness from the chair where he had put her. \"I will return in a\nmoment.\"\n\nWhen he had gone from the room, I said to her, half hesitating, yet\neagerly:\n\n\"Mademoiselle, you were never afraid on the way, where there was good\ncause for fear. But now there is nothing to dread.\"\n\nShe rose and fluttered round the walls of the room, looking for\nsomething. I thought it was for a way of escape, but it was not, for she\npassed the three doors and came back to her place with an air of\ndisappointment, smoothing the loose strands of her hair.\n\n\"I never before went anywhere unmasked,\" she murmured.\n\nMonsieur entered with a salver containing a silver cup of wine and some\nRheims biscuit. He offered it to her formally; she accepted with\nscarcely audible thanks, and sat, barely touching the wine to her lips,\ncrumbling the biscuit into bits with restless fingers, making the\npretence of a meal serve as excuse for her silence. Monsieur glanced at\nher, puzzled-wise, waiting for her to speak. Had the Infanta Isabella\ncome to visit him, he could not have been more surprised. It seemed to\nhim discourteous to press her; he waited for her to explain her\npresence.\n\nI wanted to shake mademoiselle. With a dozen swift words, with a glance\nof her blue eyes, she could sweep Monsieur off his feet as she had swept\nVigo. And instead, she sat there, not daring to look at him, like a\nchild caught stealing sweets. She had found words to defend herself from\nthe teasing tongues at the Hôtel de Lorraine, to plead for me, to lash\nLucas, to move Mayenne himself; but she could not find one syllable for\nthe Duke of St. Quentin. She had been to admiration the laughing\ncoquette, the stout champion, the haughty great lady, the frank lover;\nbut now she was the shy child, blushing, stammering, constrained.\n\nHad Monsieur attacked her with blunt questions, had he demanded of her\nup and down what had brought her this strange road at such amazing hour\nand in such unfitting company, she must needs have answered, and, once\nstarted, she would quickly have kindled her fire again. Had he, on other\npart, with a smile, an encouraging word, given her ever so little a\npush, she had gone on easily enough. But he did neither. He was\ncourteous and cold. Partly was his coldness real; he could not look on\nher as other than the daughter of his enemy's house, ward of the man who\nhad schemed to kill him, will-o'-the-wisp who had lured his son to\ndisaster. Partly was it mere absence; M. Étienne's plight was more to\nhim than mademoiselle's. When she spoke not, he turned impatiently to\nme.\n\n\"Tell me, Félix, all about it.\"\n\nBefore I could answer him the door behind us opened to admit two\ngentlemen, shoulder to shoulder. They were dressed much alike, plainly,\nin black. One was about thirty years of age, tall, thin-faced, and dark,\nand of a gravity and dignity beyond his years. Living was serious\nbusiness to him; his eyes were thoughtful, steady, and a little cold.\nHis companion was some ten years older; his beard and curling hair, worn\naway from his forehead by the helmet's chafing, were already sprinkled\nwith gray. He had a great beak of a nose and dark-gray eyes, as keen as\na hawk's, and a look of amazing life and vim. The air about him seemed\nto tingle with it. We had all done something, we others; we were no\nshirks or sluggards: but the force in him put us out, penny candles\nbefore the sun. I deem not Jeanne the Maid did any marvel when she\nrecognized King Charles at Chinon. Here was I, a common lout, never\nheard a heavenly voice in all my days, yet I knew in the flick of an eye\nthat this was Henri Quatre.\n\nI was hot and cold and trembling, my heart pounding till it was like to\nchoke me. I had never dreamed of finding myself in the presence. I had\nnever thought to face any man greater than my duke. For the moment I was\nutterly discomfited. Then I bethought me that not for God alone were\nknees given to man, and I slid down quietly to the floor, hoping I did\nright, but reflecting for my comfort that in any case I was too small to\ngive great offence.\n\nMademoiselle started out of her chair and swept a curtsey almost to the\nground, holding the lowly pose like a lady of marble. Only Monsieur\nremained standing as he was, as if a king was an every-day affair with\nhim. I always thought Monsieur a great man, but now I knew it.\n\nThe king, leaving his companion to close the door, was across the room\nin three strides.\n\n\"I am come to look after you, St. Quentin,\" he cried, laughing. \"I\ncannot have my council broken up by pretty grisettes. The precedent is\ndangerous.\"\n\nWith the liveliest curiosity and amusement he surveyed the top of\nmademoiselle's bent head, and Monsieur's puzzled, troubled countenance.\n\n\"This is no grisette, Sire,\" Monsieur answered, \"but a very high-born\ndemoiselle indeed--cousin to my Lord Mayenne.\"\n\nAstonishment flashed over the king's mobile face; his manner changed in\nan instant to one of utmost deference.\n\n\"Rise, mademoiselle,\" he begged, as if her appearance were the most\nnatural and desirable thing in the world. \"I could wish it were my good\nadversary Mayenne himself who was come to treat with us; but be assured\nhis cousin shall lack no courtesy.\"\n\nShe swayed lightly to her feet, raising her face to the king's. Into his\ncountenance, which mirrored his emotions like a glass, came a quick\ndelight at the sight of her. The colour waxed and waned in her cheeks;\nher breath fluttered uncertainly; her eyes, anxious, eager, searched his\nface.\n\n\"I cry your Majesty's good pardon,\" she faltered. \"I had urgent business\nwith M. de St. Quentin--I did not guess he was with your Majesty--\"\n\n\"The king's business is glad to step aside for yours, mademoiselle.\"\n\nShe curtseyed, blushing, hiding her eyes under their sooty lashes;\nthinking as I did, I made no doubt, here was a king indeed. His Majesty\nwent on:\n\n\"I can well believe, mademoiselle, 'tis no trifling matter brings you at\nmidnight to our rough camp. We will not delay you further, but be at\npains to remember that if in anything Henry of France can aid you he\nstands at your command.\"\n\n[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO ST. DENIS.]\n\nHe made her a noble bow and took her hand to kiss, when she, like a\nchild that sees itself losing a protector, clutched his hand in her\nlittle trembling fingers, her wet eyes fixed imploringly on his face. He\nbeamed upon her; he felt no desire whatever to be gone.\n\n\"Am I to stay?\" he asked radiantly; then with grave gentleness he added:\n\"Mademoiselle is in trouble. Will she bring her trouble to the king?\nThat is what a king is for--to ease his subjects' burdens.\"\n\nShe could not speak; she made him her obeisance with a look out of the\ndepths of her soul.\n\n\"Then are you my subject, mademoiselle?\" he demanded slyly.\n\nShe shook the tears from her lashes, and found her voice and her smile\nto answer his:\n\n\"Sire, I was a true Ligueuse this morning. But I came here half\nNavarraise, and now I swear I am wholly one.\"\n\n\"Now, that is good hearing!\" the king cried. \"Such a recruit from\nMayenne! Also is it heartening to discover that my conversion is not the\nonly sudden one in the world. It has taken me five months to turn my\ncoat, but here is mademoiselle turns hers in a day.\"\n\nHe had glanced over his shoulder to point this out to his gentleman, but\nnow he faced about in time to catch his recruit looking triste again.\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" he said, \"you are beautiful, grave; but, as you had the\ngraciousness to show me just now, still more beautiful, smiling. Now we\nare going to arrange matters so that you will smile always. Will you\ntell me what is the trouble, my child?\"\n\n\"Gladly, Sire,\" she answered, and dropped down a moment on her knees\nbefore him, to kiss his hand.\n\nI marvelled that Mayenne and all his armies had been able to keep this\nman off his throne and in his saddle four long years. It was plain why\nhis power grew stronger every day, why every hour brought him new allies\nfrom the ranks of the League. You had only to see him to adore him. Once\nget him into Paris, the struggle would be over. They would put up with\nno other for king.\n\n\"Sire,\" mademoiselle said with hesitancy, \"I shall tire you with my\nstory.\"\n\n\"I am greatly in dread of it,\" the king answered, ceremoniously placing\nher in a chair before seating himself to listen. Then, to give her a\nmoment, I think, to collect herself, he turned to his companion:\n\n\"Here, Rosny, if you ache to be grubbing over your papers, do not let us\ndelay you.\"\n\n\"I am in no haste, Sire,\" his gentleman answered, unmoving.\n\n\"Which is to say, you dare not leave me alone,\" the king laughed out. \"I\ntell you, St. Quentin, if I am not dragooned into a staid, discreet,\nsteady-paced monarch, 'twill be no lapse of Whip-King Rosny's. I am\nlistening, mademoiselle.\"\n\nShe began at once, eager and unfaltering. All her confusion was gone.\nIt had been well-nigh impossible to tell the story to M. de St. Quentin,\nimpossible to tell it to this impassive M. de Rosny. But to the King of\nFrance and Navarre it was as easy to talk as to one's playfellow.\n\n\"Sire, I am Lorance de Montluc. My grandfather was the Marshal Montluc.\"\n\n\"Were to-day next Monday, I could pray, 'God rest his soul,'\" the king\nrejoined. \"But even a heretic may say that he was a gallant general, an\nhonour to France. He married a sister of François le Balafré? And\nmademoiselle is orphaned now, and my friend Mayenne's ward?\"\n\n\"Yes, Sire. I came here, Sire, to tell M. de St. Quentin concerning his\nson. And though I am talking of myself, it is all the same story. Three\nyears ago, after the king died, M. de Mayenne was endeavouring with all\nhis might to bring the Duke of St. Quentin into the League. He offered\nme to him for his son, M. de Mar.\"\n\n\"And you are still Mlle. de Montluc?\"\n\nShe turned to Monsieur with the prettiest smile in the world.\n\n\"M. de St. Quentin, though he has not fought for you, Sire, has ever\nbeen whole-heartedly loyal.\"\n\n\"Ventre-saint-gris!\" the king exclaimed. \"He is either an incredible\nloyalist or an incredible ass!\"\n\nEven the grave Rosny smiled, and the victim laughed as he defended\nhimself.\n\n\"That my loyalty may be credible, Sire, I make haste to say that I had\nnever seen mademoiselle till this hour.\"\n\n\"I know not whether to think better of you for that, or worse,\" the king\nretorted. \"Had I been in your place, beshrew me but I should have seen\nher.\"\n\nMonsieur smiled and was silent, with anxious eyes on mademoiselle.\n\n\"M. de St. Quentin withdrew to Picardie, Sire, but M. de Mar stayed in\nParis. And my cousin Mayenne never gave up entirely the notion of the\nmarriage. He is very tenacious of his plans.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said the king, with a grimace. \"Well I know.\"\n\n\"He blew hot and cold with M. de Mar. He favoured the marriage on Sunday\nand scouted it on Wednesday and discussed it again on Friday.\"\n\n\"And what were M. de Mar's opinions?\"\n\nShe met his probing gaze blushing but candid.\n\n\"M. de Mar, Sire, favoured it every day in the week.\"\n\n\"I'll swear he did!\" the king cried.\n\n\"When M. le Duc came back to Paris,\" mademoiselle went on, \"and it was\nknown he had espoused your cause, Sire, Mayenne was so loath to lose the\nwhole house of St. Quentin to you that he offered to marry me out of\nhand to M. de Mar. And he refused.\"\n\n\"Ventre-saint-gris!\" Henry cried. \"We will marry you to a king's son. On\nmy honour, mademoiselle--\"\n\n\"Sire,\" she pleaded, \"you promised to hear me.\"\n\n\"That I will, then. But I warn you I am out of patience with these St.\nQuentins.\"\n\n\"Then you are out of patience with devotion to your cause, Sire.\"\n\n\"What! you speak for the recreants?\"\n\n\"I assure you, Sire, you have no more loyal servant than M. de Mar.\"\n\n\"Strange I cannot recollect the face of my so loyal servant,\" the king\nsaid dryly.\n\nBut she, with a fine scorn of argument, made the audacious answer:\n\n\"When you see it, you will like it, Sire.\"\n\n\"Not half so well as I like yours, mademoiselle, I promise you! But he\ncomes to me well commended, since you vouch for him. Or rather, he does\nnot come. What is this ardent follower doing so long away from me? Where\nthe devil does this eager partizan keep himself? St. Quentin, where is\nyour son?\"\n\n\"He had been with you long ago, Sire, but for the bright eyes of a lady\nof the League. And now she comes to tell me--my page tells me--he is in\nthe Bastille.\"\n\n\"Ventre-saint-gris! And how has that calamity befallen?\"\n\nShe hesitated a moment, embarrassed by her very wealth of matter,\nconfused between her longing to set the whole case before the king, and\nher fear of wearying his patience. But his glance told her she need have\nno misgiving. Had she come to present him Paris, he could not have been\nmore interested.\n\nIn the little silence Monsieur found his moment and his words.\n\n\"Sire, may I interrupt mademoiselle? Last night, for the first time in\na month, I saw my son. He was just returned from an adventure under her\nwindow. Mayenne's guard had set on him, and he was escaped by the skin\nof his teeth. He declared to me that never till he was slain should he\ncease endeavour to win Mlle. de Montluc. And I? Marry, I ate my words in\nhumblest fashion. After three years I made my surrender. Since you are\nhis one desire, mademoiselle, then are you my one desire. I bade him\nGod-speed.\"\n\nShe gave her hand to Monsieur, sudden tears welling over her lashes.\n\n\"Monsieur, I thought to-night I had no friends. And I have so many!\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" the king cried in the same breath, \"fear not. I will get\nyou your lover if I sell France for him.\"\n\nShe brushed the tears away and smiled on him.\n\n\"I have no fear, Sire. With you and M. de St. Quentin to save him, I can\nhave no fear. But he is in desperate case. Has M. de St. Quentin told\nyou of his secretary Lucas, my cousin Paul de Lorraine?\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said the king, \"it is a dolourous topic--very painful! Eh,\nRosny?\"\n\n\"I do not shrink from my pains, Sire,\" M. de Rosny answered quietly. \"I\nhold myself much to blame in this matter. I thought I knew the Lucases\nroot and branch--I did not discover that a daughter of the house had\never been a friend to Henri de Guise.\"\n\n\"And how should you discover it?\" the king demanded. He had made the\nattack; now, since Rosny would not resent it, he rushed himself to the\ndefence. \"How were you to dream it? Henri de Guise's side was the last\nplace to look for a girl of the Religion. But I forgive him. If he stole\na Rochelaise, we have avenged it deep: we have stolen the flower of\nLorraine.\"\n\n\"Paul Lucas--Paul de Lorraine,\" she went on eagerly, \"was put into M. le\nDuc's house to kill him. He went all the more willingly that he believed\nM. de Mar to be my favoured suitor. He tried to draw M. de Mar into the\nscheme, to ruin him. He failed. And the whole plot came to naught.\"\n\n\"I have learned that,\" the king said. \"I have been told how a country\nboy stripped his mask off.\"\n\nHe glanced around suddenly at me where I stood red and abashed. He was\nso quick that he grasped everything at half a word. Instantly he had\nturned to the lady again. \"Pray continue, dear mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"Afterward--that is, yesterday--Paul went to M. de Belin and swore\nagainst M. de Mar that he had murdered a lackey in his house in the Rue\nCoupejarrets. The lackey was murdered there, but Paul de Lorraine did\nit. The man knew the plot; Paul killed him to stop his tongue. I heard\nhim confess it to M. de Mayenne. I and this Félix Broux were in the\noratory and heard it.\"\n\n\"Then M. de Mar was arrested?\"\n\n\"Not then. The officers missed him. To-day he came to our house, dressed\nas an Italian jeweller, with a case of trinkets to sell. Madame\nadmitted him; no one knew him but me and my chamber-*mate. On the way\nout, Mayenne met him and kept him while he chose a jewel. Paul de\nLorraine was there too. I was like to die of fear. I went in to M. de\nMayenne; I begged him to come out with me to supper, to dismiss the\ntradespeople that I might talk with him there--anything. But it availed\nnot. M. de Mayenne spoke freely before them, as one does before common\nfolk. Presently he led me to supper. Paul was left alone with M. de Mar\nand the boy. He recognized them. He was armed, and they were not, but\nthey overbore him and locked him up in the closet.\"\n\n\"Mordieu, mademoiselle! I was to rescue M. de Mar for your sake, but now\nI will do it for his own. I find him much to my liking. He came away\nclear, mademoiselle?\"\n\n\"Aye, to be seized in the street by the governor's men. When M. de\nMayenne found how he had been tricked, Sire, he blazed with rage.\"\n\n\"I'll warrant he did!\" the king answered, suppressing, however, in\ndeference to her distress, his desire to laugh. \"Ventre-saint-gris,\nmademoiselle! forgive me if this amuses me here at St. Denis. I trow it\nwas not amusing in the Hôtel de Lorraine.\"\n\n\"He sent for me, Sire,\" she went on, blanching at the memory; \"he\naccused me of shielding M. de Mar. It was true. He called me liar,\ntraitor, wanton. He said I was false to my house, to my bread, to my\nhonour. He said I had smiling lips and a Judas-heart--that I had kissed\nhim and betrayed him. I had given him my promise never to hold\nintercourse with M. de Mar again, I had given my word to be true to my\nhouse. M. de Mar came by no will of mine. I had no inkling of such\npurpose till I beheld him before madame and her ladies. He came to\nentreat me to fly--to wed him. I denied him, Sire. I sent him away. But\nwas I to say to the guard, 'This way, gentlemen. This is my lover'?\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" the king exclaimed, \"good hap that you have turned your\nback on the house of Lorraine. Here, if we are but rough soldiers, we\nknow how to tender you.\"\n\n\"It was not for myself I came,\" she said more quietly. \"My lord had the\nright to chasten me. I am his ward, and I did deceive him. But while he\nfoamed at me came word of M. de Mar's capture. Then Mayenne swore he\nshould pay for this dear. He said he should be found guilty of the\nmurder. He said plenty of witnesses would swear to it. He said M. de Mar\nshould be tortured to make him confess.\"\n\nWith an oath Monsieur sprang forward.\n\n\"Aye,\" she cried, starting up, \"he swore M. de Mar should suffer the\npreparatory and the previous, the estrapade and the brodekins!\"\n\n\"He dare not,\" the king shouted. \"Mordieu, he dare not!\"\n\n\"Sire,\" she cried, \"you can promise him that for every blow he strikes\nÉtienne de Mar you will strike me two. Mar is in his hands, but I am in\nyours. For M. de Mar, unhurt, you will deliver him me, unhurt. If he\ntorture Mar, you will torture me.\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle,\" the king cried, \"rather shall he torture every chevalier\nin France than I touch a hair of your head!\"\n\n\"Sire--\" the word died away in a sigh; like a snapt rose she fell at his\nfeet.\n\nThe king was quick, but Monsieur quicker. On his knees beside her,\nraising her head on his arm, he commanded me:\n\n\"Up-stairs, Félix! The door at the back--bid Dame Verney come\ninstantly.\"\n\nI flew, and was back to find him risen, holding mademoiselle in his\narms. Her hair lay loose over his shoulder like a rippling flag; her\nlashes clung to her cheeks as they would never lift more.\n\n\"St. Quentin,\" his Majesty was saying, \"I would have married her to a\nprince. But since she wants your son she shall have him,\nventre-saint-gris, if I storm Paris to-morrow!\" And as Monsieur was\ncarrying her from the room, the king bent over and kissed her.\n\n\"Mademoiselle has dropped a packet from her dress,\" M. de Rosny said.\n\"Will you take it, St. Quentin?\"\n\nThe king, who was nearest, turned to pass it to him; at the sight of it\nhe uttered his dear \"ventre-saint-gris!\" It was a flat, oblong packet,\ntied about with common twine, the seal cut out. The king twitched the\nstring off, and with one rapid glance at the papers put them into\nMonsieur's hand.\n\n\"Take them, St. Quentin; they are yours.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\n_The two dukes._\n\n\nMademoiselle being given into Dame Verney's motherly hands, Gilles and I\nwere ordered to repose ourselves on the skins in the saddler's shop.\nLying there in the malodourous gloom, I could see the crack of light\nunder the door at the back and hear, between Gilles's snores, the murmur\nof voices. The king and his gentlemen were planning to save my master; I\nwent to sleep in perfect peace.\n\nAt daybreak, even before the saddler opened the shop, Monsieur routed us\nout.\n\n\"I'm off for Paris, lads. Félix comes with me. Gilles stays to guard\nmademoiselle.\"\n\nI felt not a little injured, deeming that I, whom mademoiselle knew\nbest, should not be the one chosen to stay by her. But the sting passed\nquickly. After all, Paris was likely to be more exciting than St. Denis.\n\nThe day being Friday, we delayed not to eat, but straightway mounted the\ntwo nags that a sunburnt Béarn pikeman had brought to the door. As we\nwalked them gently across the square, which at this rath hour we alone\nshared with the twittering birds, we saw coming down one of the empty\nstreets the hurrying figure of M. de Rosny. My lord drew rein at once.\n\n\"You are no slugabed, St. Quentin,\" the young councillor called. \"I\ndeserved to miss you. Fear not! I come not to hinder you, but to wish\nyou God-speed.\"\n\n\"Now, this is kind, Rosny,\" Monsieur answered, grasping his hand. \"The\nmore that you don't approve me.\"\n\nRosny smiled, like a sudden burst of sunshine in a December day. Another\nman's embrace would have meant less.\n\n\"I approve you so much, St. Quentin, that I cannot composedly see you\nputting your head into the lion's jaws.\"\n\n\"My head is used to the pillow. Do the teeth close, I am no worse off\nthan my son.\"\n\n\"Your death makes your son's no easier.\"\n\n\"Why, what else to do, Rosny?\" Monsieur exclaimed. \"Mishandle the lady?\nStorm Paris? Sell the Cause?\"\n\n\"I would we could storm Paris,\" Rosny sighed. \"It would suit me better\nto seize the prisoner than to sue for him. But Paris is not ripe for us\nyet. You know my plan--to send to Villeroi. I believe he could manage\nthis thing.\"\n\n\"I am second to none,\" Monsieur said politely, \"in my admiration of M.\nde Villeroi's abilities. But to reach him is uncertain; what he can or\nwill do, uncertain. Étienne de Mar is not Villeroi's son; he is mine.\"\n\n\"Aye, it is your business,\" Rosny assented. \"It is yours to take your\nway.\"\n\n\"A mad way, but mine. But come, now, Rosny, you must admit that once or\ntwice, when all your wiseacres were deadlocked, my madness has served.\"\n\nRosny took Monsieur's hand in a silent grip.\n\n\"Maximilien,\" the duke said, smiling down on him, \"what a pity you are a\nscamp of a heretic!\"\n\n\"Henri,\" Rosny returned gravely, \"I would you had had the good fortune\nto be born in the Religion.\"\n\nAgain he wished us God-speed, and we gathered up our reins. As we turned\nthe corner I glanced back to find him still standing as we had left him,\ngazing soberly after us.\n\nThe man who was going into the lion's den was far less solemn over it.\nBy fits and starts, as he thought on his son's great danger, he\ncontrived a gloomy countenance: but Monsieur had ridden all his life\nwith Hope on the pillion; she did not desert him now. As we cantered\nsteadily along in the fresh, cool morning, he already pictured M.\nÉtienne released. However mad he acknowledged his errand to be, I think\nhe was scarce visited by a doubt of its success. It was impossible to\nhim that his son should not be saved.\n\nWe entered with perfect ease the gate of Paris, and took our way without\nhesitancy through the busiest streets. Nowhere did the guard spring on\nus, but, instead, more than once, the passers-by gathered in knots, the\ntradesmen and artisans ran out of their shops to cheer St. Quentin, to\ncheer France, to cheer peace, to cheer to the echo the Catholic king.\n\n\"I hope Mayenne hears them,\" Monsieur said to me, doffing his hat to a\nbig farrier who had come out of his smithy waving impudently in the eye\nof all the world the white flag of the king.\n\nWe kept a brisk pace alike where they cheered us and where, in other\nstreets, they scowled and hooted at us, so that I looked out for men\nwith pistols in second-story windows. But, friend or foe, none stopped\nus till at length we drew rein before the grilles of the Hôtel de\nLorraine.\n\nThey made no demur at admitting us. Monsieur went into the house, while\nI led the horses to the stables, where three or four grooms at once\nvolunteered to rub them down, in eagerness to pump their guardian. But\nbefore the fellows had had time to get much out of me came Jean\nMarchand, all unrecognizing, to summon me indoors. I followed him in\ndelight, partly for curiosity, partly because it had seemed to me when\nthe doorway swallowed Monsieur that I might never see him more. Jean\nushered me into the well-remembered council-room, where Monsieur stood\nalone, surprised at the sight of me.\n\n\"A lackey came for me,\" I said. \"Look, Monsieur, that's where we shut up\nLucas.\"\n\nI ceased hastily, for I knew the step in the corridor.\n\nIt was difficult to credit mademoiselle's tale, to believe that Mayenne\ncould ever be in a rage. In he came, big and calm and smiling, whatever\nemotion he may have felt at Monsieur's arrival not only buried, but with\na flower-bed blooming over it. He greeted his guest with all the\ncourteous ease of an unruffled conscience and a kindly heart. Not till\nhis glance fell on me did he show any sign of discomposure.\n\n\"What, you!\" he exclaimed brusquely.\n\n\"Your servant brought him hither,\" Monsieur said for me.\n\n\"I understood that one of your gentlemen had come with you. I sent for\nhim, deeming his presence might conduce to your ease, M. de St.\nQuentin.\"\n\n\"I am at my ease, M. de Mayenne,\" my lord answered, with every\nappearance of truth. \"You may go, Félix.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mayenne. \"Since he is here, he may stay. He serves the\npurpose as well as another.\"\n\nHe did not say what the purpose was, nor could I see for what he had\nkept me, unless as a sign to Monsieur that he meant to play fair. I\nbegan to feel somewhat heartened.\n\n\"You have guessed, M. de Mayenne, my errand?\"\n\n\"Certainly. You have come to join the League.\"\n\nMonsieur laughed out.\n\n\"On the contrary, M. de Mayenne, I have come to persuade you to join the\nKing.\"\n\n\"That was a waste of horse-flesh.\"\n\n\"My friend, you know as well as we do that before long you will come\nover.\"\n\n\"I am not there yet, nor are my enemies scattered, nor is the League\ndead.\"\n\n\"Dying, my lord. It will get its coup de grâce o' Sunday, when the king\ngoes to mass.\"\n\n\"St. Quentin,\" Mayenne made quiet answer, \"when I am in such case that\nnothing remains to me but to fall on my sword or to kneel to Henry, be\nassured I shall kneel to Henry. Till then I play my game.\"\n\n\"Play it, then. We have the patience to wait for you, monsieur. Be\nassured, in your turn, that when you do come on your knees to his\nMajesty you will do well to have a friend or two at court.\"\n\n\"Morbleu,\" Mayenne cried, suddenly showing his teeth, \"you will never go\nback to him if I choose to stop you!\"\n\nMonsieur raised his eyebrows at him, pained by the unsuavity.\n\n\"Of course not, monsieur. I quite understood that when I entered the\ngate. I shall never leave this house if you will otherwise.\"\n\n\"You will leave the house unharmed,\" Mayenne said curtly. \"I shall not\ntreat you as your late master treated my brother.\"\n\n\"I thank your generosity, monsieur, and commend your good sense.\"\n\nMayenne looked for a moment as if he repented of both. Then he broke\ninto a laugh.\n\n\"One permits the insolences of the court jester.\"\n\nMonsieur sprang up, his hand on his sword. But at once the quick flush\npassed from his face, and he, too, laughed.\n\nMayenne sat as he was, in somewhat lowering silence. My duke made a\nstep nearer him, and spoke for the first time with perfect seriousness.\n\n\"My Lord Mayenne, it was no outrecuidance brought me here this morning.\nThere is the Bastille. There is the axe. I know that my course has been\noffensive to you--your nephew proved me that. I know also that you do\nnot care to meddle with me openly. At least, you have not meddled.\nWhether you will change your method--but I venture to believe not. I am\npopular just now in Paris. I had more cheers as I came in this morning\nthan have met your ears for many a month. You have a great name for\nprudence, M. de Mayenne; I believe you will not molest me.\"\n\nI hardly thought my duke was making a great name for prudence. But then,\nas he said, he had to work in his own way. Mayenne returned, with\nchilling calm:\n\n\"You may find me, St. Quentin, less timid than you suppose.\"\n\n\"Impossible. Mayenne's courage is unquestioned. I rely not on his\ntimidity, but on his judgment.\"\n\n\"You take a great deal upon yourself in supposing that I wanted your\ndeath on Tuesday and do not want it on Friday.\"\n\n\"The king is three days nearer the true faith than on Tuesday. His party\nis three days stronger. On Tuesday it would have been a blunder to kill\nme; on Friday it is three days worse a blunder.\"\n\n\"But not less a pleasure. I have had something of the kind in mind ever\nsince your master killed my brother.\"\n\n\"You should profit by that murderer's experience before you take a leaf\nfrom his book, M. de Mayenne. Henry of Valois gained singularly little\nwhen he slew Guise to make you head of the League.\"\n\nMayenne started, and then laughed to show his scorn of the flattery. But\nI think he was, all the same, half pleased, none the less because he\nknew it to be flattery. He said unexpectedly:\n\n\"Your son comes honestly by his unbound tongue.\"\n\n\"Ah, my son! Now that you mention him, we shall discuss him a little.\nYou have put my son, monsieur, in the Bastille.\"\n\n\"No; Belin and my nephew Paul, whom you know, have put him there.\"\n\n\"But M. de Mayenne can get him out if he choose.\"\n\n\"If he choose.\"\n\nMonsieur sat down again, with the air of one preparing for an amiable\ndiscussion.\n\n\"He is charged with the murder of one Pontou, a lackey. Of course he did\nnot commit it, nor would you care if he had. His real offence is making\nlove to your ward.\"\n\n\"Well, do you deny it?\"\n\n\"Not the love, but the offence of it. Palpably you might do much worse\nthan dispose of the lady to my heir.\"\n\n\"I might do much better than bestow my time on you if that is all you\nhave to say.\"\n\n\"We have hardly opened the subject, M. de Mayenne--\"\n\n\"I have no wish to carry it further.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, the king's ranks afford no better match than my heir.\"\n\n\"No maid of mine shall ever marry a Royalist.\"\n\n\"I swore no son of mine should ever marry a Leaguer, but I have come to\nsee the error of my ways, as you will see yours, Mayenne. It is for you\nto choose where among the king's forces you will marry mademoiselle.\"\n\nA vague uneasiness, a fear which he would not own a fear, crept into\nMayenne's eyes. He studied the face before him, a face of gay challenge,\nand said, at length, not quite confidently himself:\n\n\"You speak with a confidence, St. Quentin.\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure.\"\n\nMayenne jumped heavily to his feet.\n\n\"What mean you?\"\n\n\"I mean that mademoiselle's marrying is in my hands. Where is your ward,\nM. de Mayenne?\"\n\n\"Mordieu! Have you found her?\"\n\n\"You speak sooth.\"\n\n\"In your hôtel--\"\n\n\"No, eager kinsman. In a place whither you cannot follow her.\"\n\nMayenne looked about, as if with some instinctive idea of seeking a\nweapon, of summoning his soldiers.\n\n\"By God's throne, you shall tell me where!\"\n\n\"With pleasure. She is at St. Denis.\"\n\nMayenne cried helplessly, as numbed under a blow:\n\n\"St. Denis! But how--\"\n\n\"How came she there? On foot, every step. I suppose she never walked\ntwo streets in her life before, has she, M. de Mayenne? But she tramped\nto St. Denis through the dark, to knock at my door at one in the\nmorning.\"\n\nMayenne seized Monsieur's wrist.\n\n\"She is safe, St. Quentin? She is safe?\"\n\n\"As safe, monsieur, as the king's protection can make her.\"\n\n\"Pardieu! Is she with the king?\"\n\n\"She is at my lodgings, in the care of the saddler's wife who lets them.\nI left a staunch man in charge--I have no doubt of him.\"\n\n\"You answer for her safety?\" Mayenne cried huskily; his breath coming\nshort. He was flushed, the veins in his forehead corded.\n\n\"When she came last night, it happened that the king was there,\"\nMonsieur went on. \"Her loveliness and her misery moved him to the\nheart.\"\n\n\"Thousand thunders of heaven! You, with your son, shall be hostages for\nher safe return.\"\n\n\"The king,\" Monsieur went on, as immovably as Mayenne himself at his\nbest, \"with that warm heart of his pitying beauty in distress, is eager\nfor mademoiselle's marriage with her lover Mar. But he did not favour my\nventure here; he called it a silly business. He said you would clap me\nin jail, and he told me flat I might rot my life out there before he\nwould give up to you Mlle. de Montluc.\"\n\n\"Well, then, pardieu, we'll try if he means it!\"\n\n\"He gave me to understand that he meant it. The St. Quentins out of the\nway, there is Valère, stout Kingsman, to succeed. The king loses\nlittle.\"\n\n\"Then are you gone mad that you put yourself in my grasp?\"\n\n\"I was never saner. I come, my friend, to make you listen to sanity.\"\n\nI had waited from moment to moment Mayenne's summons to his soldiers.\nBut he had not rung, and now he flung himself down again in his\narm-chair.\n\n\"What, to your understanding, is sanity?\"\n\n\"If you send me to join my son, monsieur, you leave mademoiselle without\na protector, friendless, penniless, in the midst of a hostile army\ncursing the name of Mayenne. Have you reared her delicately, tenderly,\nfor that?\"\n\nMayenne sat silent, his face a mask. It was impossible to tell whether\nthe shot hit. Monsieur went on:\n\n\"You can of course hold us in durance, torture us, kill us; but you must\nanswer for it to the people of Paris.\"\n\nStill was Mayenne silent, drumming on the edge of the table. Finally he\nsaid roughly, as if the words were dragged from him against his will:\n\n\"I shall not torture you. I never meant to torture Mar. The arrest was\nnot my work. Since it was done, I meant to profit by it to keep him\nawhile out of my way--only that. I threatened my cousin otherwise in\nheat of passion. But I shall not torture him. I shall not kill him.\"\n\n\"Monsieur--\"\n\n\"I put a card in your hand,\" Mayenne said curtly. His pride ill brooked\nto concede the point, but he could not have it supposed that he did not\nsee what he was doing. \"I give you a card. Do what you can with it.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, you show what little surprises me--knightly generosity. It is\nto that generosity I appeal.\"\n\n\"Is the horse of that colour? But now you were frightening my prudence.\"\n\n\"Ah, but how fortunate the man to whom generosity and prudence point the\nsame path!\"\n\nIt may have been but pretence, this smiling bonhomie of Monsieur's.\nMayenne doubtless gauged it as such, but, at any rate, he suffered it to\nwarm him. He regained of a sudden all the amiability with which he had\ngreeted his guest. Smiling and calm, he answered:\n\n\"St. Quentin, I care little for either your threats or your cajoleries.\nThey amuse me alike, and move me not. But I have a care for my sweet\ncousin. Since you threaten me with her danger, you have the whiphand.\"\n\nNow it was Monsieur's turn to sit discreetly silent, waiting.\n\n\"I went last night to tell the child I would not harm her lover. Lo! she\nhad flown. I had a regiment searching Paris for her. I was in the\nstreets myself till dawn.\"\n\n\"Monsieur, she made her way to us at St. Denis to offer herself to our\ntorture did you torture Mar.\"\n\n\"Morbleu!\" Mayenne cried, half rising.\n\n\"God's mercy, we're not ruffians out there! I tell it to show you to\nwhat the maid was strung.\"\n\n\"I never thought it great matter whom one married,\" Mayenne said\nslowly: \"one boy is much like another. I should have mated her as\nbefitted her station--I thought she would be happy enough. And she was\ngood about it: I did not see how deep she cared. She was docile till I\ndrove her too hard. She's a loving child. You are fortunate in your\ndaughter, St. Quentin.\"\n\nMonsieur sprang up radiant, advancing on him open-armed. Mayenne added,\nwith his cool smile:\n\n\"You need not flatter yourself, Monsieur, that it is your doing. I laugh\nat your threats. 'Twere sport to me to clap you behind bars, to say to\nyour king, to the mob you brag of, 'Come, now, get him out.'\"\n\n\"Then,\" cried Monsieur, \"I must value my sweet daughter more than ever.\"\n\nHe was standing over Mayenne with outstretched hand, but the chief\ndelayed taking it.\n\n\"Not quite so fast, my friend. If I yield up the Duc de St. Quentin, the\nComte de Mar, and Mlle. Lorance de Montluc, I demand certain little\nconcessions for myself.\"\n\n\"By all means, monsieur. You stamp us churls else.\"\n\nMy duke sat again, his smile a shade uneasy. Which Mayenne perceived\nwith quiet enjoyment, as he went on blandly: \"Nothing that I could ask\nof you, M. de St. Quentin, could equal, could halve, what I give. Still,\nthat the knightliness may not be, to your mortification, all on one\nside, I have thought of something for you to grant.\"\n\n\"Name it, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Another point in your favour I had forgot,\" Mayenne observed, with his\nusual reluctance to show his cards even when the time had come to spread\nthem. \"Last night I laid on this table a packet, just arrived, which I\nwas told belonged to you. When I had time to think of it again, it had\nvanished. I accused my lackeys, but later it occurred to me that Mlle.\nde Montluc, arming for battle, had purloined it.\"\n\n\"Your shrewdness does you credit.\"\n\n\"You see you have scored a fourth point, though again by no prowess of\nyour own. Therefore am I emboldened to demand what I want.\"\n\n\"Even to half my fortune--\"\n\n\"No, not your gear. Save that for your Béarnais's itching palm.\"\n\n\"Then what the devil is it you want? You will not get my name in the\nLeague.\"\n\n\"I am glad my nephew Paul bungled that affair of his,\" Mayenne went on\nat his own pace. \"It might have been a blunder to kill you; it had\ncertainly been a pity. Though we Lorraines have two murders to avenge, I\nhave changed my mind about beginning with yours.\"\n\n\"You are wise, monsieur. I am, after all, a harmless creature.\"\n\nMayenne laughed.\n\n\"Natheless have you done your best here in Paris to undermine me. Did I\nlet you carry on your little works unhindered, they might in time annoy\nme. Therefore I request that so long as I stay in Paris you stay out.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't like that!\"\n\nThe naïveté amazed while it amused Mayenne.\n\n\"Possibly not, but you will consent to it. You will ride out of my\ncourt, when we have finished some necessary signing of papers, straight\nto the St. Denis gate. And you will pledge me your honour to make no\nattempt hereafter to enter so long as the city is mine.\"\n\nMayenne was smiling broadly, Monsieur frowning. He relished the\ncondition little. He was enjoying himself much in Paris, his dangers,\nhis successes, his biting his thumb at the power of the League. To be\nkilled at his post was nothing, but to be bundled away from it to\ninglorious safety, that stuck in his gorge. For a moment he actually\nhesitated. Then he began to laugh at his own hesitation.\n\n\"Well, ma foi! what do I expect? To walk, a rabbit, into the lion's den\nand make my own terms to Leo? I am happy to accept yours, M. de Mayenne,\nespecially since, do I refuse, you will none the less pack me off.\"\n\n\"You mistake, St. Quentin. You are welcome to spend the rest of your\ndays with me.\"\n\n\"In the Bastille?\"\n\n\"Or in the League.\"\n\n\"The former is preferable.\"\n\n\"You may count yourself thrice fortunate, then, that a third alternative\nis given you.\"\n\n\"It needs not the reminder. You have treated me as a prince indeed. Be\nassured the St. Quentins will not forget.\"\n\n\"Every one forgets.\"\n\n\"Perhaps. But when you need our good offices we shall not have had time\nto forget.\"\n\n\"Pardieu, St. Quentin, you have good courage to tell me to my head my\ncourse is run!\"\n\n\"My dear Mayenne, none punishes the maunderings of the court jester.\"\n\nMonsieur laughed out with a gay gusto; after a moment Mayenne laughed\ntoo. My duke cried quickly, rising and walking the length of the table\nto his host:\n\n\"You have dealt with me munificently, Mayenne. You have kept back but\none thing I want. That is yourself. You know you must come over to us\nsooner or later. Come now!\"\n\nThe other did not flame out at Monsieur, but answered coldly:\n\n\"I have no taste to be Navarre's vassal.\"\n\n\"Better his than Spain's.\"\n\nMayenne shrugged his shoulders, his face at its stolidest.\n\n\"Well, I am no astrologer to read the future.\"\n\nMonsieur laid an emphatic hand on his host's shoulder.\n\n\"But I read it, my friend. I see a French land under a French king, a\nCatholic and a gallant fellow, faithful to old friends, friendly to old\nfoes. I see the dear land at peace at last, the looms humming, the mills\nclacking, wheat growing thick on the battle-fields.\"\n\nMayenne looked up with a grim smile.\n\n\"I have still a field or two to water for that wheat. My compliments to\nyour new master, St. Quentin; you may tell him from me that when I\nsubmit, I submit. When I have made my surrender, from that hour forth am\nI his hound to lick his hand, to guard and obey him. Till then, let him\nbeware of my teeth! While I have one pikeman to my back, one sou in my\npouch, I fight my cause.\"\n\n\"And when you have none, you yet have three pairs of hands at Henry's\ncourt to pull you up out of the mire.\"\n\n\"I thank their graciousness, though I shall never need their offices,\"\nMayenne said grandly. He stood there stately and proud and confident,\nthe picture of princeliness and strength. Last night at St. Denis it had\nseemed to me that no power could defy my king. Now it seemed to me that\nno king could nick the power of my Lord Mayenne. When suddenly,\nprecisely like a mummer who in his great moment winks at you to let you\nknow it is make-believe, the general-duke's dignity melted into a smile.\n\n\"After all,\" he said, \"it's as well to lay an anchor to windward.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\n_My young lord settles scores with two foes at once._\n\n\nOccupied in wrangling with the grooms over the merits of our several\nstables, with the soldiers over politics and the armies, I awaited in a\nshady corner of the court the conclusion of formalities. I had just\ndeclared that King Henry would be in Paris within a week, and was on the\npoint of getting my crown cracked for it, when, as if for the very\npurpose--save the mark!--of rescuing me, entered from the street Lucas.\nHe approached rapidly, eyes straight in front of him, heeding us no\nwhit; but all the loungers turned to stare at him. Even then he paid no\nheed, passing us without a glance. But the tall d'Auvray bespoke him.\n\n\"M. de Lorraine! Any news?\"\n\nHe started and turned to us in half-absent surprise, as if he had not\nknown of our presence nor, indeed, quite realized it now. He was both\npale and rumpled, like one who has not closed an eye all night.\n\n\"Any news here?\" he made Norman answer.\n\n\"No, monsieur, unless his Grace has information. We have heard nothing.\"\n\n\"And the woman?\"\n\n\"Sticks to it mademoiselle told her never a word.\"\n\nLucas stood still, his eyes travelling dully over the group of us, as if\nhe expected somewhere to find help. At the same time he was not in the\nleast thinking of us. He looked straight at me for a full minute before\nhe awoke to my identity.\n\n\"You!\"\n\n\"Yes, M. de Lorraine,\" I said, with all the respectfulness I could\nmuster, which may not have been much. Considering our parting, I was\nready for any violence. But after the first moment of startlement he\nregarded me in a singularly lack-lustre way, while he inquired without\napparent resentment how I came there.\n\n\"With M. le Duc de St. Quentin,\" I grinned at him. \"We and M. de Mayenne\nare friends now.\"\n\nI could not rouse him even to curiosity, it seemed. But he turned\nabruptly to the men with more life than he had yet shown.\n\n\"You've not told this fellow?\"\n\n\"We understand our orders, monsieur,\" d'Auvray answered, a bit huffed.\n\nNow this was eminently the place for me to hold my tongue, but of course\nI could not.\n\n\"They had no need to tell me, M. de Lorraine. I know quite well what the\ntrouble is. I know rather more about it than you do yourself.\"\n\nHe confronted me now with all the fire I could ask.\n\n\"What mean you, whelp?\"\n\n\"I mean mademoiselle. What else should I mean?\"\n\n\"What do you know?\"\n\n\"Everything.\"\n\n\"Her whereabouts?\"\n\n\"Her whereabouts.\"\n\nHe had his hand to his knife by this. I abated somewhat of my drawl to\nsay, still airily:\n\n\"Go ask M. de St. Quentin. He's here. He'll be so glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Here?\"\n\n\"Certes. He's closeted now with M. de Mayenne. They're thicker than\nbrothers. Go see for yourself, M.--Lucas.\"\n\n\"Where is mademoiselle?\"\n\n\"Safe. She's to marry the Comte de Mar to-morrow.\"\n\nHe stared at me for one moment, weighing whether this could be true;\nthen without further parley he shot into the house.\n\n\"Is that true?\" d'Auvray demanded.\n\nTheir tongues loosened now, they flooded me with questions concerning\nmademoiselle, which I answered warily as I could, heartily repenting me\nby this of baiting Lucas. No good could come of it. He might even turn\nMayenne from his bargain, upset all our triumph. I hardly heard what the\nsoldiers said to me; I was almost nervous enough, wild enough, to dash\nup-stairs after him. But that was no help. I stayed where I was, fevered\nwith anxiety.\n\nAt the end of five minutes he came out of the house again, and, without\na glance at us, went straight through the gate with the step and air of\na man who knows what he is about. I was no easier in my mind though I\nsaw him gone.\n\nSoon on his steps came a lackey to order M. de St. Quentin's horses and\ntwo musketeers to mount and ride with him. On reaching the door with the\nnags, I discovered I was not to be of the party; our second steed must\ncarry gear of mademoiselle's and her handwoman, a hard-faced peasant,\nsilent as a stone. Though the men quizzed her, asking if she were glad\nto get to her mistress again, whether she had known all this time the\nlady's whereabouts, she answered no single word, but busied herself\nseeing the horse loaded to her notion. Presently, in the guidance of\nPierre, Monsieur appeared.\n\n\"You stay, Félix, and go to the Bastille for your master. Then you will\nwait at the St. Denis gate for Vigo, with horses.\"\n\n\"Is all right, Monsieur?\" I had to ask, as I held his stirrup. \"Is all\nright? Lucas--\"\n\nHis face had been a little clouded as he came down the stairs, and now\nit darkened more, but he answered:\n\n\"Quite right, Achates. M. de Mayenne stands to his word. Lucas availed\nnothing.\"\n\nHe stood a moment frowning, then his countenance cleared up.\n\n\"My faith! I have enough to gladden me without fretting that Lucas is\nalive. Fare you well, Félix. You are like to reach St. Denis as soon as\nI. My son's horse will not lag.\"\n\nHe sprang to the saddle with a smiling salute to his guardians, and the\nlittle train clattered off.\n\nPierre came to my elbow with an open paper--the order signed and sealed\nfor M. de Mar's release.\n\n\"Here, my young cockerel, you and d'Auvray are to take this to the\nBastille, and it will be strange if your master does not walk free\nagain. His Grace bids you tell M. de Mar he remembers Wednesday night,\nunderground.\"\n\n\"And I remember Tuesday night in the council-room, Pierre,\" I was\nbeginning, but he cut me short. Even now that I was in favour, he risked\nno mention of his disobedience. He packed me off with d'Auvray on the\ninstant; I had no chance to ask him whether he suspected us yesterday.\nSometimes I have thought he did, but I am bound to say he gave us no\nlook to show it.\n\nD'Auvray and I walked straight across Paris to the many-towered\nBastille. It seemed a little way. Before the potent name of Mayenne bars\nflew open; a sentry on guard in the court led us into a small room all\nstone, floor, walls, ceiling, where sat at the table some high official,\nperhaps the governor of the prison himself. He was an old campaigner,\ngrizzled and weather-beaten, his right sleeve hanging empty. An\ninteresting figure, no doubt, but I paid him scant attention, for at his\nside stood Lucas.\n\n\"I come on M. de Mayenne's business,\" he was expostulating, vehement,\nyet civil. \"I suppose he did not think it necessary to write the order,\nsince you know me.\"\n\n\"The regulations, M. de Lorraine--\" The officer broke off to demand of\nour escort, \"Well, what now?\"\n\nI went straight up to him, not waiting permission, and held out my\npaper.\n\n\"An order, if it please you, monsieur, for the Comte de Mar's release.\"\n\nLucas's hand went out to snatch and crumple it; then his clenched fist\ndropped to his side. It seemed as if his eyes would blacken the paper\nwith their fire.\n\n\"Just that--the requisition for M. de Mar's release,\" the officer told\nhim, looking up from it. \"All perfectly regular and in order. In five\nminutes, M. de Lorraine, the Comte de Mar shall be before you. You may\nhave all the conversation you wish.\"\n\nLucas's face was as blank as the wall.\n\n\"I am a soldier, and a soldier's orders must be obeyed,\" the officer\nwent on to explain, evidently not caring to offend the general's nephew.\n\"Without the written order I could not admit your brother of Guise. But\nnow you can have all the conversation you desire with M. de Mar.\"\n\nLucas's face did not change, save to scowl at the very name of his\nbrother Guise. He said curtly, \"No, I must get back to his Grace,\" and,\nbarely bowing, went from the room.\n\n\"Now, I don't make that out,\" the keeper muttered in his beard. That\nLucas should be in one moment cured of his urgent need of seeing the\nComte de Mar was too much for him, but no riddle to me. I knew he had\ncome to stab M. Étienne in his cell. It was his last chance, and he had\nmissed it. I feared him no longer, for I believed in Mayenne's faith. My\nmaster once released, Lucas could not hurt him.\n\nWhat was as much to the point, the officer had no doubt of Mayenne's\ngood faith. He went with his paper into an inner room, where we caught\nsight, through the door, of big books with a clerk or two behind them,\nand in a moment appeared again with a key.\n\n\"Since the young gentleman's a count, I'll do turnkey's office myself,\"\nhe said, his grim old battlement of a face smiling.\n\nThis was our day; from Mayenne down, everybody went out of his way to\npleasure us. I was suddenly emboldened by his manner.\n\n\"Monsieur, perhaps it is preposterous to ask, but might I go with you?\"\n\nHe looked at me a moment, surprised.\n\n\"Well, after all, why not? You too, Sir Musketeer, an you like.\"\n\nSo the three of us, he and d'Auvray and I, went to rescue the Comte de\nMar.\n\nWe passed through corridor after corridor, row after row of heavy-barred\ndoors. The deeper we penetrated the mighty pile, the fonder I grew of my\nfriend Mayenne, by whose complaisance none of these doors would shut on\nme. We climbed at last a steep turret stair winding about a huge fir\ntrunk, lighted by slits of windows in the four-foot wall, and at the\ntop turned down a dark passage to a door at the end, the bolts of which,\ninvisible to me in the gloom, the veteran drew back with familiar hand.\n\nThe cell was small, with one high window through which I could see\nnaught but the sky. For all furniture it contained a pallet, a stool, a\nbench that might serve as table. M. Étienne stood at the window, his arm\ncrooked around the iron bars, gazing out over the roofs of Paris.\n\nHe wheeled about at the door's creaking.\n\n\"I go to trial, monsieur?\" he asked quickly, not seeing me behind the\nkeeper.\n\n\"No, M. le Comte. The charge is cancelled. I come to set you free.\"\n\nI dashed in past the officer, snatching my lord's hand to kiss.\n\n\"It's true, monsieur! You're free! It's all settled with Mayenne.\nMonsieur's seen him; he sets you free. He said, 'In recognizance of\nWednesday night.'\"\n\nIncredulous joy flashed over his face, to give way to belief without\njoy.\n\n\"Now I know she's married.\"\n\n\"Nothing of the sort!\" I fairly shouted at him, dancing up and down in\nmy eagerness. \"She's to marry M. le Comte. She's at St. Denis with\nMonsieur. She's to marry you. It's all arranged. Mayenne consents--the\nking--everybody. It's all settled. She marries you.\"\n\nPreposterous as it seemed, he could not discredit my fervour. He\nfollowed us out of the cell and through the fortress in a radiant daze.\nHe half believed himself dreaming, I think, and feared to speak lest his\nhappiness should melt. I fancied even that he walked lightly and\ngingerly, as if the slightest unwary movement might break the spell. Not\ntill we were actually in the open door of the court, face to face with\nfreedom, did he rouse himself to acknowledge the thing real. With a\njoyous laugh, he turned to the keeper:\n\n\"M. de La Motte, you should employ your leisure in writing down your\nreflections, like the Chevalier de Montaigne. You could give us a\ntrenchant essay on the Ingratitude of Man. Here are you host of the\nbiggest inn in Paris--a pile more imposing than the Louvre itself. Your\nhospitality is so eager that you insist on entertaining me, so lavish\nthat you lodge me for nothing, would keep me without a murmur till the\nend of my life. Yet I, ingrate that I am, depart without a thank you!\"\n\n\"They don't leave in such case that they can very well thank me, most of\nmy guests,\" La Motte answered, with a dry smile. \"You are a fortunate\nman, M. de Mar.\"\n\n\"M. le Comte, will you come quietly with me to the St. Denis gate?\"\nd'Auvray asked him. \"Or must I borrow a guard from M. de La Motte?\"\n\nM. Étienne's whole face was smiling; not his lips alone, but his eyes.\nEven his skin and hair seemed to have taken on a brighter look. He\nglanced at d'Auvray in surprise at the absurd question.\n\n\"I will come like a lamb, M. le Mousquetaire.\"\n\nWe saluted La Motte and walked merrily out into the Place Bastille. I\nthink I never felt so grand as when I passed through the noble\nsally-port, the soldiers making no motion to hinder us, but all saluting\nas if we owned the place. It had its advantage, this making friends with\nMayenne.\n\nThe first thing my lord did, still in the shadow of the prison, was to\ncome to terms with d'Auvray.\n\n\"See here, my friend, why must you put yourself to the fatigue of\nescorting me to the gate?\"\n\n\"Orders, monsieur. The general-duke wants to know that you get into no\nmischief between here and the gate. You are banished, you understand,\nfrom Paris.\"\n\n\"I pledge you my word I shall make no attempt to elude my fate. I go\nstraight to the gate. But, with all politeness to you, Sir Musketeer, I\ncould dispense with your company.\"\n\n\"I am a soldier, and a soldier's orders must be obeyed,\" d'Auvray quoted\nthe keeper's words, which seemed to have impressed him. \"However, M. le\nComte, if I had something to look at, I could walk ten paces behind you\nand look at it.\"\n\n\"Oh, if it is a question of something to play with!\" M. Étienne laughed.\n\nD'Auvray was provided with toys, and M. Étienne linked arms with me, the\nsoldier out of ear-shot behind us. He followed till we were in the Rue\nSt. Denis, when, waving his hand in farewell, he turned his steps with\nthe pious consciousness of duty done. Only I looked back to see it;\nmonsieur had forgotten his existence.\n\n\"I am not proud; I don't mind being marched through the streets by a\nmusketeer,\" M. Étienne explained as we started; \"but I can't talk before\nhim. Tell me, Félix, the story, if you would have me live.\"\n\nAnd I told him, till we almost ran blindly into the tower of the St.\nDenis gate.\n\nWe learned of the warder that M. de St. Quentin had recently passed out,\nbut that nothing had been seen of his equery. No steeds were here for\nus.\n\n\"Well, then, we'll go have a glass. But if Vigo doesn't come soon, by my\nfaith, I'll walk to St. Denis!\"\n\nBut that promised glass was never drunk, nor were we to set out at once\nfor St. Denis; for in the door of the wine-shop we met Lucas.\n\nI had dismissed him from thought, as something out of the reckoning,\ndead and done with, powerless as yesterday's broken sword. I thought him\ngone out of our lives when he went out of prison--gone forever, like\nlast year's snow. And here within the hour we encountered him, a naked\nsword in his hand, a smile on his lips. He said, in the flower of his\neasy insolence:\n\n\"Tuesday I told you our hour would come. It is here.\"\n\n\"At your service,\" quoth my lord.\n\n\"Then it needs not to slap your face?\"\n\n\"You insult me safely, Lucas. You have but one life. That is forfeit, be\nyou courteous.\"\n\n\"You think so?\"\n\n\"I know it.\"\n\nLucas held out the bare sword, hilt toward us.\n\n\"Monsieur had a box for weapon yesterday, but as I prefer to fight in\nthe established way, I ventured to provide him with a sword.\"\n\n\"Thoughtful of you, Lucas. Is this the make of sword you elect to be\nkilled with?\"\n\nHe was bending the blade to try its temper. Lucas unsheathed his own.\n\n\"M. de Mar may have his choice.\"\n\nM. de Mar professed himself satisfied with the blade given him.\n\n\"Have you summoned your seconds, Lucas?\"\n\nLucas raised his eyebrows.\n\n\"Is that necessary? I thought we might settle our affairs without delay.\nI confess myself impatient.\"\n\n\"Your sentiments for once are mine.\"\n\n\"It is understood you bring your spaniel with you. He will watch that I\ndo not spring on you before you are ready,\" Lucas said, with a fine\nsneer.\n\n\"And who is to watch me?\"\n\n\"Oh, monsieur's chivalry is notorious. Precautions are unnecessary. It\nis your privilege, monsieur, to appoint the happy spot.\"\n\n\"The spot is near at hand. Where you slew Pontou is the fitting place\nfor you to die.\"\n\n\"It is fitting for you to die in your own house,\" Lucas amended.\n\nWithout further parley we turned into the Rue des Innocents, on our way\nto that of the Coupejarrets.\n\nNow, I had been on the watch from the first instant for foul play. I had\nsuspected something wrong with the sword, but my lord, who knew, had\naccepted it. Then, when Lucas proposed no seconds, I had felt sure of a\ntrap. But his inviting my presence at the place of our choice smelt like\nhonesty.\n\nM. Étienne remarked casually to me:\n\n\"Faith, there'll soon be as many ghosts in the house as you thought you\nsaw there--Grammont, Pontou, and now Lucas. What ails you, lad?\nFootsteps on your grave?\"\n\nBut it was not thoughts of my grave caused the shudder, but of his. For\nof the three men of the lightning-flash, the third was not Lucas, but M.\nÉtienne. What if the vision were, after all, the thing I had at first\nbelieved it--a portent? An appearance not of those who had died by\nsteel, but of those who must. One, two, and now the third.\n\nNext moment I almost laughed out in relief. It was not Pontou I had\nseen, but Louis Martin. And he was living. The vision was no omen, but a\nmere happening. Was I a babe to shiver so?\n\nAnd yet Martin, if not dead, was like to die. He was in duress as a\nLeaguer spy, to await King Henry's will. All who entered this house lay\nunder a curse. We should none of us pass out again, save to our tombs.\n\nWe entered the well-remembered little passage, the well-remembered\ncourt, where shards of glass still strewed the pavement. Some one--the\ngendarmes, I fancy, when they took away Pontou--had put a heavy padlock\non the door Lucas and Grammont left swinging.\n\n\"We go in by your postern, Félix,\" my master said. \"M. Lucas, I confess\nI prefer that you go first.\"\n\nLucas put his back to the wall.\n\n\"Why go farther, M. le Comte?\"\n\n\"Do you long for interruption'?\"\n\n\"We were not noticed coming in. The street was quiet.\"\n\nHe crossed the court abruptly and went down the alley to look into the\nstreet.\n\n\"Not a soul in sight,\" he said, coming back. \"I think we shall not be\ninterrupted. Still, it is wise to use every care. We will fight, if you\nlike, in the house.\"\n\nHe opened with his knife the fastened shutter, and leaped lightly in.\nMonsieur followed. I, the last, was for closing the shutter, but he\nstopped me.\n\n\"No; leave it wide. I have no fancy for a walk in pitch-darkness with M.\nLucas.\"\n\n\"Do we fight here?\" Lucas asked, facing us in the wide, square hall. \"We\ncan let in more light.\"\n\n\"You seem anxious, my friend, to call attention to your whereabouts. As\nI am host, I designate the fighting-ground. Up-stairs, if you please.\"\n\n\"I suppose you insist on my walking first,\" Lucas sneered.\n\n\"I request it, monsieur.\"\n\n\"With all the willingness in the world,\" his rogue-ship answered,\nsetting foot straightway on the stair and mounting steadily, never\nturning to see how near we followed, or what we did with our hands. His\ntrust made me ashamed of our lack of it. I almost believed we did him\ninjustice. Yet at heart I could not bring myself to credit him with any\nfair dealing.\n\nWe went up one flight, up two. We had left behind us the twilight of the\nlower story, had not reached dawn again at the top. We walked in\nblackness. Suddenly I halted.\n\n\"Monsieur!\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I heard a noise.\"\n\n\"Of course you did. The place is full of rats.\"\n\n\"It was no rat. It was footsteps.\"\n\nWe all three held still.\n\n\"There, monsieur. Don't you hear?\"\n\n\"Nothing, Félix; your teeth are chattering. Cross yourself and come on.\"\n\nBut I could not stand it.\n\n\"I'll go back and see, monsieur.\"\n\n\"No,\" Lucas said, striding back from the foot of the next flight. \"I\nwill go.\"\n\nWe saw a glint in the gloom, monsieur's bared sword.\n\n\"You will go neither one of you. Hush! If we show ourselves, there'll be\nno duel to-day.\"\n\nWe kept still, all three leaning over the banister, peering down to\nwhere the white tiles picked themselves out of the floor of the hall far\nbeneath. We could see them better than we could see one another. All was\nsilent. Not so much as a rustle came up from below. Suddenly Lucas made\na step or two, as if to pass us. M. Étienne wheeled about, raising his\nsword toward the spot where from his footfalls we supposed Lucas to be.\n\n\"You show an eagerness to get away from me, M. de Lorraine.\"\n\n\"Not in the least, M. de Mar. This alarm is but Félix's poltroonery, yet\nit prompts me to go down and close the shutter.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, you will go up with me. Félix will close the shutter.\"\n\nThey confronted each other, vague shapes in the darkness, each with\ndrawn sword. Then Lucas raised his in salute.\n\n\"As you will; so be some one sees to it.\"\n\n\"Go, Félix.\"\n\nLucas first, they mounted the last flight of stairs, and their footsteps\npassed along the corridor to the room at the back. I, as I was ordered,\nset my face down the stairs.\n\nThey might mock me as they liked, but I could not get it out of my head\nthat I had heard steps below. Cautiously, with a thumping heart, I stole\nfrom stair to stair, pausing at the bottom of the flight. I heard\nplainly the sound of moving above me, and of voices; but below not a\nwhisper, not a creak. It must have been my silly fears. Resolved to\nchoke them, I planted my feet boldly on the next flight, and descended\nhumming, to prove my ease, the rollicky tune of Peyrot's catch.\nSuddenly, from not three feet off, came the soft singing:\n\n _Mirth, my love, and Folly dear_--\n\nMy knees knocked together, and the breath fluttered in my throat. It\nseemed the darkness itself had given tongue. Then came a low laugh and\nthe muttered words:\n\n\"Here we are, M. de Lorraine. Are you ready?\"\n\nThere was a stir of feet on the landing before me, behind the voice. The\nhouse, then, was full of Lucas's cutthroats, the first of them Peyrot.\nIn the height of my terror, I remembered that M. Étienne's life, too,\ndepended on my wits, and I kept them. I whispered, for whispering voices\nare hard to tell apart:\n\n\"Not yet. The two of them are up there. Keep quiet, and I'll send the\nboy down. When you've finished him, come up.\"\n\n\"As you say, monsieur. It is your job.\"\n\nI turned, scarce able to believe my luck, and, not daring to run, walked\nup-stairs again. Prick my ears as I might, I heard no movement after me.\nActually, I had fooled Peyrot. I had gone down to meet my death, and a\ntune had saved me.\n\nWhen I reached the uppermost landing, I rushed along the passage and\ninto the room, flinging the door shut, locking and bolting it.\n\nThey had not begun to fight, but had busied themselves clearing the\nspace of all obstacles. The table was pushed against the wall in the\ncorner by the door; the chairs were heaped one on another at the end of\nthe room. Both shutters were wide open. M. Étienne, bareheaded, in his\nshirt, stood at guard. Lucas was kneeling on the floor, picking up with\nscrupulous care some bits of a broken plate. He sprang to his feet at\nsight of me.\n\n\"What is it?\" cried M. Étienne.\n\n\"Cutthroats. They'll be here in a minute.\"\n\nEven as I spoke, I heard tramping on the stairs below. My slam of the\ndoor had warned them that something was wrong.\n\n\"Was that your delay?\" M. Étienne shouted, springing at his foe.\n\n\"I play to win!\" Lucas answered, smiling.\n\nThe blades met; the men circled about and about. Lucas, though he\npreferred to murder, knew how to duel.\n\nWe were doomed. With monsieur's sword for only weapon, we could never\nhope to pass the gang. In another minute they would be here to batter\nthe door down and end us. Our consolation lay in killing Lucas first.\nYet as I watched, I feared that M. Étienne, in the brief moments that\nremained to him, could not conquer him, so shrewd and strong was Lucas's\nfence. Must the scoundrel win? I started forward to play Pontou's trick.\nLucas sought to murder us. Why not we him?\n\nOne flash from my lord's eyes, and I retreated in despair. For I knew\nthat did I touch Lucas, M. Étienne would let fall his sword, let Lucas\nkill him. And the bravos were on the last flight.\n\nWas there no escape? There were three doors in the room. One led to the\npassage, one to the closet, the third--I dashed through to find myself\nin a large empty chamber, a door wide open giving on the passage.\nThrough it I could see the dusky figures of four men running up the\nstairs.\n\nI was across the room like an arrow, and got the door shut and bolted\nbefore they could reach the landing. The next moment some one flung\nagainst it. It stood firm. Delaying only a moment to shake it, three of\nthe four I could hear run to the farther door, whence issued the noise\nof the swords.\n\nI, inside the wall, ran back too. The combat still raged. Neither, that\nI could see, had gained the least advantage. Outside, the murderers\ndashed themselves upon the door.\n\nI dragged at the heavy table, and, with a strength that amazed myself,\npushed and pulled it before the door. It would make the panels a little\nfirmer.\n\nWas there no escape? None? I ran once more into the second chamber. Its\nshutters were closed; I threw them open. There was no other door to the\nroom, no hiding-place. There was a chimney, but spanned a foot above the\nfireplace by two iron bars. The thinnest sweep that ever wielded broom\ncould not have squeezed between them.\n\nIn despair, I ran to the window again. Top of the house as it was, I\nthought I would sooner leap than be stabbed to death. I stuck my head\nout. It was the same window where I had stood when Grammont seized me.\nThere, not ten feet away, eight at the most, but a little above me, was\nthe casement of my garret in the Amour de Dieu. Would it be possible to\njump and catch the sill? If I did, I could scarce pull myself in.\n\nI looked below me. There swung the sign of the Amour de Dieu. And there\nbeside it stood a homespun figure surely known to me. There was no\nmistaking that bald pate. I yelled at the top of my lungs:\n\n\"Maître Jacques!\"\n\nHe looked up, gaping at this voice out of the sky, but, despite his\namazement, I saw that he knew me.\n\n\"Maître Jacques! We're being murdered! We can't get out! Help us for the\nlove of Christ! Bring a plank, a rope, to the window there!\"\n\nFor an instant he stood confounded. Then he vanished into the inn.\n\nI waited, on fire. Still from the next room sounded the clash of steel.\nWhite shirt and black doublet passed the door in turn, unflagging,\nungaining.\n\nSuddenly came a new noise from the passage, of trampling and rending,\nblows and oaths. My first thought was that they were fighting out there,\nthat rescuers had come. Then, as I listened, I learned better.\nDespairing of kicking down the door, they were tearing out a piece of\nstair-rail for a battering-ram. It would not long stand against that.\n\nI ran back to the window. No Jacques appeared. We were lost, lost!\n\nHark, from the next room a cry, a fall! Well, were it Lucas's victory,\nhe might kill me as well as another. I walked into the back room. But it\nwas Lucas who lay prone.\n\n\"Come, come!\" I cried, clutching monsieur's wrist. But he would not till\nwith Lucas's own misericorde he had given him coup de grâce.\n\nCrash! Crash! The upper panel shivered in twain. A great splinter six\ninches wide, hanging from the top, blocked the opening. A hand came\nthrough to wrench it away.\n\nM. Étienne, across the room at a leap, drove his knife through the hand,\nnailing it to the wood. On the instant he recognized its owner.\n\n\"Good morning, Peyrot. We've recovered the packet.\"\n\nNot waiting for further amenities, I seized my lord and dashed him into\nthe front room, only a faint hope to lead me, but the oaths of the\nbravos a good spur. And, St. Quentin be thanked, there in the garret\nwindow were Jacques and his tapsters, pushing a ladder to us.\n\n\"Go, monsieur! There are four behind us. Go!\"\n\n\"You first!\"\n\nBut I, who had snatched up his sword as he stabbed Lucas, ran back to\nguard the door. He had the sense to see there was no good arguing.\nCrying, \"Quick after me, Félix!\" he crawled out on the ladder.\n\nPeyrot was released. Another blow from the ram, and the door fell to\nfinders. They leaped in over the table like a freshet over a dam. I\ndarted to the window. M. Étienne was in the garret, helping hold the\nladder for me. I flung myself upon it all too eagerly. Like a lath it\nsnapped.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\n_\"The very pattern of a king.\"_\n\n\nThe next world appeared to be strangely like this. I found myself lying\non a straw bed in a little low attic, my head resting comfortably on\nsome one's shoulder, while some one else poured wine down my gullet.\nPresently I discovered that Maître Jacques's was the ministering hand,\nM. Étienne's the shoulder. After all, this was not heaven, but still\nParis.\n\nI had no desire to speak so long as the flow of old Jacques's best\nBurgundy continued; but when he saw my eyes wide open, he stopped, and I\nsaid, my voice, to my surprise, very faint and quavery:\n\n\"What happened?\"\n\n\"Dear, brave lad! You fainted!\"\n\nMy lord's voice was as unsteady as mine.\n\n\"But the ladder?\" I murmured.\n\n\"The ladder broke. But you had hold beyond the break. You hung on till\nwe seized you. And then you swooned.\"\n\n\"What a baby!\" I said, getting to my feet. \"But the men, monsieur?\nPeyrot?\"\n\n\"I think we've seen the last of those worthies. They took to their heels\nwhen you escaped them.\"\n\n\"But, monsieur, they've gone to inform! You'll be taken for killing\nLucas.\"\n\n\"I doubt it. Themselves smell too strong of blood to dare bruit the\nmatter. Natheless, if you can walk now, we'll make good time to the\ngate.\"\n\nBut for all his haste, he would not start till I had had some bread and\nsoup down in the kitchen.\n\n\"We must take good care of you, boy Félix,\" he said. \"For where the St.\nQuentins would be without you, I tremble to think.\"\n\nI set out a new man. In three steps, it seemed to me, we had reached the\ncity gate, to find the way blocked by a company of twenty or thirty\nhorse, the St. Quentin uniform flaunting gay in the sun. The nearest\ntrooper set up a shout at sight of us, when Vigo, coming out suddenly\nfrom behind a nag, took M. le Comte in his big embrace. He released him\nimmediately, looking immensely startled at his own demonstration.\n\nM. Étienne laughed out at him.\n\n\"Be more careful, I beg you, Vigo! You will make me imagine myself of\nsome importance.\"\n\n\"I thought you swallowed up,\" Vigo growled. \"You had been here--I\ncouldn't get a trace of you.\"\n\n\"I was killing Lucas.\"\n\n\"Sacré! He's dead?\"\n\n\"Dead.\"\n\n\"That's the best morning's work ever you did, M. Étienne.\"\n\n\"Have you horse for us, Vigo?\"\n\n\"Of course. Some of the men will walk. I suppose we're leaving Paris to\nbuy you out of the Bastille?\"\n\n\"Not worth it, eh, Vigo?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Vigo, gravely--\"yes, M. Étienne. You are worth it.\"\n\nVigo's troop was but slow-moving, as some of the horses carried double,\nsome were loaded with chattels. M. Étienne and I, on the duke's\nblood-chargers, soon left the cavalcade behind us. Before I knew it, we\nwere halted at the outpost of the camp. My lord gave his name.\n\n\"To be sure!\" cried the sentry. \"We've orders about you. You dine with\nthe king, M. de Mar.\"\n\n\"Mordieu! I do?\"\n\n\"You do. Orders are to take you to him out of hand. Captain!\"\n\nThe officer lounged out of the tavern door.\n\n\"Captain, M. de Mar.\"\n\n\"Oh, aye!\" cried the captain, coming forward with brisk interest. \"M. de\nMar, you're the child of luck. You dine with the king.\"\n\n\"I am the child of bewilderment, captain.\"\n\n\"And you've not too much time to recover from it, M. le Comte. You are\nto go straight to the king.\"\n\n\"I may go to M. de St. Quentin's lodgings first?\"\n\n\"No, monsieur; straight to the king.\"\n\n\"What! in my shirt?\"\n\n\"I can't help it, monsieur,\" the captain laughed. \"I suppose the king\ndid not guess you were coming in your shirt. Anyway, his order was to\nfetch you direct. And direct you go. But never care. Our king's no\nstickler for toggery. He's known what it is himself to lack for a coat.\"\n\n\"I might wash my face, then.\"\n\n\"Certainly. No harm in that.\"\n\nSo M. Étienne went into the tournebride and washed his face. And that\nwas all the toilet he made for audience with the greatest king in the\nworld.\n\n\"You'll ride to Monsieur's,\" he commanded me, when the captain answered:\n\n\"No; he goes with you, monsieur, if he's the boy Choux, Troux, whatever\nit is.\"\n\n\"Broux--Félix Broux!\" I cried, a-quiver.\n\n\"That's it. You go to the king, too. Another luck-child.\"\n\nI thought so indeed. We followed the sentry through the town in a waking\ndream, content to let him do with us as he would. He did the talking,\nexplained to the grandees in the king's hall our names and errand. One\nof them led us up the stairs and knocked at a closed door.\n\n\"Enter!\"\n\nIt was Henry's own voice. I pinched monsieur's hand to tell him. Our\nguide opened the door a crack.\n\n\"M. de Mar, Sire, and his servant.\"\n\n\"Good, La Force. Let them enter.\"\n\nM. La Force fairly pushed us over the sill, so abashed were we, and shut\nthe door upon us.\n\nThe king was alone. But before this simple gentleman in the rusty black,\nM. Étienne caught his breath as he had not done before a court in full\npomp. He had seen courts, but he had never seen the first soldier of\nEurope. He advanced three steps into the room, and forgot to kneel,\nforgot to lower his gaze in the presence, but merely stared wide-eyed at\nmajesty, as majesty stared at him. Thus they stood surveying each other\nfrom top to toe in the frankest curiosity, till at length the king\nspoke:\n\n\"M. de Mar, you look less like a carpet-knight than I expected.\"\n\nM. Étienne came to himself, to kneel at once.\n\n\"Sire, I blush for my looks. But your zealous soldiers would not let me\nfrom their clutches. I am just come from killing Paul de Lorraine.\"\n\n\"What! the spy Lucas?\"\n\n\"Himself. And when I left the spot by way of the window in some haste, I\nwas not expecting this honour, Sire.\"\n\n\"Nor do I think you deserve it, ventre-saint-gris!\" the king cried.\n\"Though you come hatless and coat-less to-day, you have been a long time\non the road, M. de Mar.\"\n\n\"Aye, Sire.\"\n\n\"You might as well have stayed away as come at this hour. Marry, all's\nover! Go hang yourself, my breathless follower! We have fought all our\ngreat battles, and you were not there!\"\n\nScarlet under the lash, M. Étienne, kneeling, bent his eyes on the\nground. He was silent, but as the king spoke not, he felt it incumbent\nto stammer something:\n\n\"That is my life's misfortune, Sire.\"\n\n\"Misfortune, sirrah? Misfortune you call it? Let me hear you say fault.\"\n\n\"I dare not, Sire,\" M. Étienne murmured. \"It was of course your\nMajesty's fault. We cannot serve heretics, we St. Quentins.\"\n\n\"Ventre-saint-gris! You think well of yourself, young Mar.\"\n\n\"I must, Sire, when your Majesty invites me to dinner.\"\n\nThe king burst into laughter, and his temper, which I believe was all a\nplay, vanished to the winds.\n\n\"Pardieu! you're a glib fellow, Mar. But I didn't invite you to dinner\nfor your own sake, little as you can imagine it. So you would have\njoined my flag four years ago, had I not been a stinking heretic?\"\n\n\"Aye, Sire, I needs must have. Therefore am I everlastingly beholden to\nyour Majesty for remaining so long a Huguenot.\"\n\n\"How now, cockerel?\"\n\nM. Étienne faltered a moment. He was not burdened by shyness, but before\nthe king's sharp glance he underwent a cold terror lest he had been too\nfree with his tongue. However, there was naught to do but go on.\n\n\"Sire, had I fought under your banner like a man, at Dieppe and Arques\nand Ivry, M. de Mayenne had never dreamed of marrying his ward to me. I\nhad never known her.\"\n\n\"The loveliest demoiselle I ever saw!\" the king cried. \"I shall marry\nher to one of my staunchest supporters.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE MEETING.]\n\nThe smile was washed from M. Étienne's lips. He turned as white as\nlinen. In one moment his youth seemed to go from him. The king,\nunnoting, picked a parchment off the table.\n\n\"To one of my bravest captains. Here's his commission, my lad.\"\n\nM. Étienne stared up from the writing into the king's laughing face.\n\n\"I, Sire? I?\"\n\n\"You, Mar, you. You are my staunch supporter, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Your horse-boy, an you ask it, Sire!\"\n\nHe pressed his lips to the king's hand, great, helpless tears dripping\ndown upon it.\n\n\"If I ever desert you, I am a dog, Sire! But the fighting is not all\ndone. I will capture you a flag yet.\"\n\n\"Perhaps. I much fear me there's life in Mayenne still.\"\n\nM. Étienne, not venturing to rise, yet lifted beseeching eyes to the\nking's.\n\n\"What! you want to get away from me, ventre-saint-gris!\"\n\nMy lord, who wanted precisely that, had no choice but to protest that\nnothing was farther from his thoughts.\n\n\"Stuff!\" the king exclaimed. \"You're in a sweat to be gone, you\nunmannerly churl! You, a raw, untried boy, are invited to dine with the\nking, and your one itch is to escape the tedium!\"\n\n\"Sire--\"\n\n\"Peace! You are guilty, sirrah. Take your punishment!\"\n\nHe darted across the room, and throwing open an inner door, called\ngently, \"Mademoiselle!\"\n\n\"Yes, Sire,\" she answered, coming to the threshold.\n\nThe peasant lass was gone forever. The great lady, regal in satins,\nstood before us. She bent on the king a little, eager, questioning\nglance; then she caught sight of her lover. Faith, had the sun gone out,\nthe room would have been brilliant with the light of her face.\n\nM. Étienne sprang up and toward her. And she, pushing by the king as if\nhe had been the door-post, went to him. They stood before each other,\nneither touching nor speaking, but only looking one at the other like\ntwo blind folk by a heavenly miracle restored to sight.\n\n\"How now, children? Am I not a model monarch? Do you swear by me\nforever? Do you vouch me the very pattern of a king?\"\n\nAnswer he got none. They heard nothing, knew nothing, but each other.\nThe slighted king chuckled and, beckoning me, withdrew to his cabinet.\n\nSo here an end. For if Henry of France leave them, you and I may not\nstay."