CONTENTS

A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE.


CHAPTER I.   THE SPORT OF FOOLS.

CHAPTER II.   THE KING OF NAVARRE.

CHAPTER III.   BOOT AND SADDLE.

CHAPTER IV.   MADEMOISELLE DE LA VIRE.

CHAPTER V.   THE ROAD TO BLOIS.

CHAPTER VI.   MY MOTHER’S LODGING.

CHAPTER VII.   SIMON FLEIX

CHAPTER VIII.   AN EMPTY ROOM.

CHAPTER IX.   THE HOUSE IN THE RUELLE D’ARCY.

CHAPTER X.   THE FIGHT ON THE STAIRS.

CHAPTER XI.   THE MAN AT THE DOOR.

CHAPTER XII.   MAXIMILIAN DE BETHUNE, BARON DE ROSNY.

CHAPTER XIII.   AT ROSNY.

CHAPTER XIV.   M. DE RAMBOUILLET.

CHAPTER XV.   VILAIN HERODES.

CHAPTER XVI.   IN THE KING’S CHAMBER.

CHAPTER XVII.   THE JACOBIN MONK.

CHAPTER XVIII.   THE OFFER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XIX.   MEN CALL IT CHANCE.

CHAPTER XX.   THE KING’S FACE.

CHAPTER XXI.   TWO WOMEN.

CHAPTER XXII.   ‘LA FEMME DISPOSE.’

CHAPTER XXIII.   THE LAST VALOIS.

CHAPTER XXIV.   A ROYAL PERIL.

CHAPTER XXV.   TERMS OF SURRENDER.

CHAPTER XXVI.   MEDITATIONS.

CHAPTER XXVII.   TO ME, MY FRIENDS!

CHAPTER XXVIII.   THE CASTLE ON THE HILL.

CHAPTER XXIX.   PESTILENCE AND FAMINE.

CHAPTER XXX.   STRICKEN.

CHAPTER XXXI.   UNDER THE GREENWOOD.

CHAPTER XXXII.   A TAVERN BRAWL.

CHAPTER XXXIII.     AT MEUDON.

CHAPTER XXXIV.   ’TIS AN ILL WIND.’

CHAPTER XXXV.   ‘LE ROI EST MORT!’

CHAPTER XXXVI.   ‘VIVE LE ROI!’

The death of the Prince of Conde, which occurred in the spring of 1588, by depriving me of my only patron, reduced me to such straits that the winter of that year, which saw the King of Navarre come to spend his Christmas at St. Jean d’Angely, saw also the nadir of my fortunes. I did not know at this time—I may confess it to-day without shame—wither to turn for a gold crown or a new scabbard, and neither had nor discerned any hope of employment. The peace lately patched up at Blois between the King of France and the League persuaded many of the Huguenots that their final ruin was at hand; but it could not fill their exhausted treasury or enable them to put fresh troops into the field.

The death of the Prince had left the King of Navarre without a rival in the affections of the Huguenots; the Vicomte de Turenne, whose turbulent; ambition already began to make itself felt, and M. de Chatillon, ranking next to him. It was my ill-fortune, however, to be equally unknown to all three leaders, and as the month of December which saw me thus miserably straitened saw me reach the age of forty, which I regard, differing in that from many, as the grand climacteric of a man’s life, it will be believed that I had need of all the courage which religion and a campaigner’s life could supply.

I had been compelled some time before to sell all my horses except the black Sardinian with the white spot on its forehead; and I now found myself obliged to part also with my valet de chambre and groom, whom I dismissed on the same day, paying them their wages with the last links of gold chain left to me. It was not without grief and dismay that I saw myself thus stripped of the appurtenances of a man of birth, and driven to groom my own horse under cover of night. But this was not the worst. My dress, which suffered inevitably from this menial employment, began in no long time to bear witness to the change in my circumstances; so that on the day of the King of Navarre’s entrance into St. Jean I dared not face the crowd, always quick to remark the poverty of those above them, but was fain to keep within doors and wear out my patience in the garret of the cutler’s house in the Rue de la Coutellerie, which was all the lodging I could now afford.

Pardieu, ‘tis a strange world! Strange that time seems to me; more strange compared with this. My reflections on that day, I remember, were of the most melancholy. Look at it how I would, I could not but see that my life’s spring was over. The crows’ feet were gathering about my eyes, and my moustachios, which seemed with each day of ill-fortune to stand out more fiercely in proportion as my face grew leaner, were already grey. I was out at elbows, with empty pockets, and a sword which peered through the sheath. The meanest ruffler who, with broken feather and tarnished lace, swaggered at the heels of Turenne, was scarcely to be distinguished from me. I had still, it is true, a rock and a few barren acres in Brittany, the last remains of the family property; but the small small sums which the peasants could afford to pay were sent annually to Paris, to my mother, who had no other dower. And this I would not touch, being minded to die a gentleman, even if I could not live in that estate.

Small as were my expectations of success, since I had no one at the king’s side to push my business, nor any friend at Court, I nevertheless did all I could, in the only way that occurred to me. I drew up a petition, and lying in wait one day for M. Forget, the King of Navarre’s secretary, placed it in his hand, begging him to lay it before that prince. He took it, and promised to do so, smoothly, and with as much lip-civility as I had a right to expect. But the careless manner in which he doubled up and thrust away the paper on which I had spent so much labour, no less than the covert sneer of his valet, who ran after me to get the customary present—and ran, as I still blush to remember, in vain—warned me to refrain from hope.

In this, however, having little save hope left, I failed so signally as to spend the next day and the day after in a fever of alternate confidence and despair, the cold fit following the hot with perfect regularity. At length, on the morning of the third day—I remember it lacked but three of Christmas—I heard a step on the stairs. My landlord living in his shop, and the two intervening floors being empty, I had no doubt the message was for me, and went outside the door to receive it, my first glance at the messenger confirming me in my highest hopes, as well as in all I had ever heard of the generosity of the King of Navarre. For by chance I knew the youth to be one of the royal pages; a saucy fellow who had a day or two before cried ‘Old Clothes’ after me in the street. I was very far from resenting this now, however, nor did he appear to recall it; so that I drew the happiest augury as to the contents of the note he bore from the politeness with which he presented it to me.

I would not, however, run the risk of a mistake, and before holding out my hand, I asked him directly and with formality if it was for me.

He answered, with the utmost respect, that it was for the Sieur de Marsac, and for me if I were he.

‘There is an answer, perhaps?’ I said, seeing that he lingered.

‘The King of Navarre, sir,’ he replied, with a low bow, ‘will receive your answer in person, I believe.’ And with that, replacing the hat which he had doffed out of respect to me, he turned and went down the stairs.

Returning to my room, and locking the door, I hastily opened the missive, which was sealed with a large seal, and wore every appearance of importance. I found its contents to exceed all my expectations. The King of Navarre desired me to wait on him at noon on the following day, and the letter concluded with such expressions of kindness and goodwill as left me in no doubt of the Prince’s intentions. I read it, I confess, with emotions of joy and gratitude which would better have become a younger man, and then cheerfully sat down to spend the rest of the day in making such improvements in my dress as seemed possible. With a thankful heart I concluded that I had now escaped from poverty, at any rate from such poverty as is disgraceful to a gentleman; and consoled myself for the meanness of the appearance I must make at Court with the reflection that a day or two would mend both habit and fortune.

Accordingly, it was with a stout heart that I left my lodgings a few minutes before noon next morning, and walked towards the castle. It was some time since I had made so public an appearance in the streets, which the visit of the King of Navarre’s Court; had filled with an unusual crowd, and I could not help fancying as I passed that some of the loiterers eyed me with a covert smile; and, indeed, I was shabby enough. But finding that a frown more than sufficed to restore the gravity of these gentry, I set down the appearance to my own self-consciousness, and, stroking my moustachios, strode along boldly until I saw before me, and coming to meet me, the same page who had delivered the note.

He stopped in front of me with an air of consequence, and making me a low bow—whereat I saw the bystanders stare, for he was as gay a young spark as maid-of-honour could desire—he begged me to hasten, as the king awaited me in his closet.

‘He has asked for you twice, sir,’ he continued importantly, the feather of his cap almost sweeping the ground.

‘I think,’ I answered, quickening my steps, ‘that the king’s letter says noon, young sir. If I am late on such an occasion, he has indeed cause to complain of me.’

‘Tut, tut!’ he rejoined waving his hand with a dandified ‘It is no matter. One man may steal a horse when another may not look over the wall, you know.’

A man may be gray-haired, he may be sad-complexioned, and yet he may retain some of the freshness of youth. On receiving this indication of a favour exceeding all expectation, I remember I felt the blood rise to my face, and experienced the most lively gratitude. I wondered who had spoken in my behalf, who had befriended me; and concluding at last that my part in the affair at Brouage had come to the king’s ears, though I could not conceive through whom, I passed through the castle gates with an air of confidence and elation which was not unnatural, I think, under the circumstances. Thence, following my guide, I mounted the ramp and entered the courtyard.

A number of grooms and valets were lounging here, some leading horses to and fro, others exchanging jokes with the wenches who leaned from the windows, while their fellows again stamped up and down to keep their feet warm, or played ball against the wall in imitation of their masters. Such knaves are ever more insolent than their betters; but I remarked that they made way for me with respect, and with rising spirits, yet a little irony, I reminded myself as I mounted the stairs of the words, ‘whom the king delighteth to honour!’

Reaching the head of the flight, where was a soldier on guard, the page opened the door of the antechamber, and standing aside bade me enter. I did so, and heard the door close behind me.

For a moment I stood still, bashful and confused. It seemed to me that there were a hundred people in the room, and that half the eyes which met mine were women’s, Though I was not altogether a stranger to such state as the Prince of Conde had maintained, this crowded anteroom filled me with surprise, and even with a degree of awe, of which I was the next moment ashamed. True, the flutter of silk and gleam of jewels surpassed anything I had then seen, for my fortunes had never led me to the king’s Court; but an instant’s reflection reminded me that my fathers had held their own in such scenes, and with a bow regulated rather by this thought than by the shabbiness of my dress, I advanced amid a sudden silence.

‘M. de Marsac!’ the page announced, in a tone which sounded a little odd in my ears; so much so, that I turned quickly to look at him. He was gone, however, and when I turned again the eyes which met mine were full of smiles. A young girl who stood near me tittered. Put out of countenance by this, I looked round in embarrassment to find someone to whom I might apply.

The room was long and narrow, panelled in chestnut, with a row of windows on the one hand, and two fireplaces, now heaped with glowing logs, on the other. Between the fireplaces stood a rack of arms. Round the nearer hearth lounged a group of pages, the exact counterparts of the young blade who had brought me hither; and talking with these were as many young gentlewomen. Two great hounds lay basking in the heat, and coiled between them, with her head on the back of the larger, was a figure so strange that at another time I should have doubted my eyes. It wore the fool’s motley and cap and bells, but a second glance showed me the features were a woman’s. A torrent of black hair flowed loose about her neck, her eyes shone with wild merriment, and her face, keen, thin, and hectic, glared at me from the dog’s back. Beyond her, round the farther fireplace, clustered more than a score of gallants and ladies, of whom one presently advanced to me.

‘Sir,’ he said politely—and I wished I could match his bow—‘you wished to see—?’

‘The King of Navarre,’ I answered, doing my best.

He turned to the group behind him, and said, in a peculiarly even, placid tone, ‘He wishes to see the King of Navarre.’ Then in solemn silence he bowed to me again and went back to his fellows.

Upon the instant, and before I could make up my mind how to take this, a second tripped forward, and saluting me, said, ‘M. de Marsac, I think?’

‘At your service, sir,’ I rejoined. In my eagerness to escape the gaze of all those eyes, and the tittering which was audible behind me, I took a step forward to be in readiness to follow him. But he gave no sign. ‘M. de Marsac to see the King of Navarre’ was all he said, speaking as the other had close to those behind. And with that he too wheeled round and went back to the fire.

I stared, a first faint suspicion of the truth aroused in my mind. Before I could act upon it, however—in such a situation it was no easy task to decide how to act—a third advanced with the same measured steps. ‘By appointment I think, sir?’ he said, bowing lower than the others.

‘Yes,’ I replied sharply, beginning to grow warm, ‘by appointment at noon.’

‘M. de Marsac,’ he announced in a sing-song tone to those behind him, ‘to see the King of Navarre by appointment at noon.’ And with a second bow—while I grew scarlet with mortification he too wheeled gravely round and returned to the fireplace.

I saw another preparing to advance, but he came too late. Whether my face of anger and bewilderment was too much for them, or some among them lacked patience to see the end, a sudden uncontrollable shout of laughter, in which all the room joined, cut short the farce. God knows it hurt me: I winced, I looked this way and that, hoping here or there to find sympathy and help. But it seemed to me that the place rang with gibes, that every panel framed, however I turned myself, a cruel, sneering face. One behind me cried ‘Old Clothes,’ and when I turned the other hearth whispered the taunt. It added a thousandfold to my embarrassment that there was in all a certain orderliness, so that while no one moved, and none, while I looked at them, raised their voices, I seemed the more singled out, and placed as a butt in the midst.

One face amid the pyramid of countenances which hid the farther fireplace so burned itself into my recollection in that miserable moment, that I never thereafter forgot it; a small, delicate woman’s face, belonging to a young girl who stood boldly in front of her companions. It was a face full of pride, and, as I saw it then, of scorn—scorn that scarcely deigned to laugh; while the girl’s graceful figure, slight and maidenly, yet perfectly proportioned, seemed instinct with the same feeling of contemptuous amusement.

The play, which seemed long enough to me, might have lasted longer, seeing that no one there had pity on me, had I not, in my desperation, espied a door at the farther end of the room, and concluded, seeing no other, that it was the door of the king’s bedchamber. The mortification I was suffering was so great that I did not hesitate, but advanced with boldness towards it. On the instant there was a lull in the laughter round me, and half a dozen voices called on me to stop.

‘I have come to see the king,’ I answered, turning on them fiercely, for I was by this time in no mood for browbeating, ‘and I will see him!’

‘He is out hunting,’ cried all with one accord; and they signed imperiously to me to go back the way I had come.

But having the king’s appointment safe in my pouch, I thought I had good reason to disbelieve them; and taking advantage of their surprise—for they had not expected so bold a step on my part—I was at the door before they could prevent me. I heard Mathurine, the fool, who had sprung to her feet, cry ‘Pardieu! he will take the Kingdom of Heaven by force!’ and those were the last words I heard; for, as I lifted the latch—there was no one on guard there—a sudden swift silence fell upon the room behind me.

I pushed the door gently open and went in. There were two men sitting in one of the windows, who turned and looked angrily towards me. For the rest the room was empty. The king’s walking-shoes lay by his chair, and beside them the boot-hooks and jack. A dog before the fire got up slowly and growled, and one of the men, rising from the trunk on which he had been sitting, came towards me and asked me, with every sign of irritation, what I wanted there, and who had given me leave to enter.

I was beginning to explain, with some diffidence the stillness of the room sobering me—that I wished to see the king, when he who had advanced took me up sharply with, ‘The king? the king? He is not here, man. He is hunting at St. Valery. Did they not tell you so outside?’

I thought I recognised the speaker, than whom I have seldom seen a man more grave and thoughtful for his years, which were something less than mine, more striking in presence, or more soberly dressed. And being desirous to evade his question, I asked him if I had not the honour to address M. du Plessis Mornay; for that wise and courtly statesman, now a pillar of Henry’s counsels, it was.

‘The same, sir,’ he replied, abruptly, and without taking his eyes from me. ‘I am Mornay. What of that?’

‘I am M. de Marsac,’ I explained. And there I stopped, supposing that, as he was in the king’s confidence, this would make my errand clear to him.

But I was disappointed. ‘Well, sir?’ he said, and waited impatiently.

So cold a reception, following such treatment as I had suffered outside, would have sufficed to have dashed my spirits utterly had I not felt the king’s letter in my pocket. Being pretty confident, however, that a single glance at this would alter M. du Mornay’s bearing for the better, I hastened, looking on it as a kind of talisman, to draw it out and present it to him.

He took it, and looked at it, and opened it, but with so cold and immovable an aspect as made my heart sink more than all that had gone before. ‘What is amiss?’ I cried, unable to keep silence. ‘’Tis from the king, sir.’

‘A king in motley!’ he answered, his lip curling.

The sense of his words did not at once strike home to me, and I murmured, in great disorder, that the king had sent for me.

‘The king knows nothing of it,’ was his blunt answer, bluntly given. And he thrust the paper back into my hands. ‘It is a trick,’ he continued, speaking with the same abruptness, ‘for which you have doubtless to thank some of those idle young rascals without. You had sent an application to the king, I suppose? Just so. No doubt they got hold of it, and this is the result. They ought to be whipped.’

It was not possible for me to doubt any longer that what he said was true. I saw in a moment all my hopes vanish, all my plans flung to the winds; and in the first shock of the discovery I could neither find voice to answer him nor strength to withdraw. In a kind of vision I seemed to see my own lean, haggard face looking at me as in a glass, and, reading despair in my eyes, could have pitied myself.

My disorder was so great that M. du Mornay observed it. Looking more closely at me, he two or three times muttered my name, and at last said, ‘M. de Marsac? Ha! I remember. You were in the affair of Brouage, were you not?’

I nodded my head in token of assent, being unable at the moment to speak, and so shaken that perforce I leaned against the wall, my head sunk on my breast. The memory of my age, my forty years, and my poverty, pressed hard upon me, filling me with despair and bitterness. I could have wept, but no tears came.

M. du Mornay, averting his eyes from me, took two or three short, impatient turns up and down the chamber when he addressed me again his tone was full of respect, mingled with such petulance as one brave man might feel, seeing another so hard pressed. ‘M. de Marsac,’ he said, ‘you have my sympathy. It is a shame that men who have served the cause should be reduced to such straits. Were it, possible for me, to increase my own train at present, I should consider it an honour to have you with me. But I am hard put to it myself, and so are we all, and the King of Navarre not least among us. He has lived for a month upon a wood which M. de Rosny has cut down. I will mention your name to him, but I should be cruel rather than kind were I not to warn you that nothing can come of it.’

With that he offered me his hand, and, cheered as much by this mark of consideration as by the kindness of his expressions, I rallied my spirits. True, I wanted comfort more substantial, but it was not to be had. I thanked him therefore as becomingly as I could, and seeing there was no help for it, took my leave of him, and slowly and sorrowfully withdrew from the room.

Alas! to escape I had to face the outside world, for which his kind words were an ill preparation. I had to run the gauntlet of the antechamber. The moment I appeared, or rather the moment the door closed behind me, I was hailed with a shout of derision. While one cried, ‘Way! way for the gentleman who has seen the king!’ another hailed me uproariously as Governor of Guyenne, and a third requested a commission in my regiment.

I heard these taunts with a heart full almost to bursting. It seemed to me an unworthy thing that, merely by reason of my poverty, I should be derided by youths who had still all their battles before them; but to stop or reproach them would only, as I well knew, make matters worse, and, moreover, I was so sore stricken that I had little spirit left even to speak. Accordingly, I made my way through them with what speed I might, my head bent, and my countenance heavy with shame and depression. In this way—I wonder there were not among them some generous enough to pity me—I had nearly gained the door, and was beginning to breathe, when I found my path stopped by that particular young lady of the Court whom I have described above. Something had for the moment diverted her attention from me, and it required a word from her companions to apprise her of my near neighbourhood. She turned then, as one taken by surprise, and finding me so close to her that my feet all but touched her gown, she stepped quickly aside, and with a glance as cruel as her act, drew her skirts away from contact with me.

The insult stung me, I know not why, more than all the gibes which were being flung at me from every side, and moved by a sudden impulse I stopped, and in the bitterness of my heart spoke to her. ‘Mademoiselle,’ I said, bowing low—for, as I have stated, she was small, and more like a fairy than a woman, though her face expressed both pride and self-will—‘Mademoiselle,’ I said sternly, ‘such as I am, I have fought for France! Some day you may learn that there are viler things in the world—and have to bear them—than a poor gentleman!’

The words were scarcely out of my mouth before I repented of them, for Mathurine, the fool, who was at my elbow, was quick to turn them into ridicule. Raising her hands above our heads, as in act to bless us, she cried out that Monsieur, having gained so rich an office, desired a bride to grace it; and this, bringing down upon us a coarse shout of laughter and some coarser gibes, I saw the young girl’s face flush hotly.

The next moment a voice in the crowd cried roughly ‘Out upon his wedding suit!’ and with that a sweetmeat struck me in the face. Another and another followed, covering me with flour and comfits. This was the last straw. For a moment, forgetting where I was, I turned upon them, red and furious, every hair in my moustachios bristling. The next, the full sense of my impotence and of the folly of resentment prevailed with me, and, dropping my head upon my breast, I rushed from the room.

I believe that the younger among them followed me, and that the cry of ‘Old Clothes!’ pursued me even to the door of my lodgings in the Rue de la Coutellerie. But in the misery of the moment, and my strong desire to be within doors and alone, I barely noticed this, and am not certain whether it was so or not.

I have already referred to the danger with which the alliance between Henry the Third and the League menaced us, an alliance whereof the news, it was said, had blanched the King of Navarre’s moustache in a single night. Notwithstanding this, the Court had never shown itself more frolicsome or more free from care than at the time of which I am speaking; even the lack of money seemed for the moment forgotten. One amusement followed another, and though, without doubt, something was doing under the surface for the wiser of his foes held our prince in particular dread when he seemed most deeply sunk in pleasure—to the outward eye St. Jean d’Angely appeared to be given over to enjoyment from one end to the other.

The stir and bustle of the Court reached me even in my garret, and contributed to make that Christmas, which fell on a Sunday, a trial almost beyond sufferance. All day long the rattle of hoofs on the pavement, and the laughter of riders bent on diversion, came up to me, making the hard stool seem harder, the bare walls more bare, and increasing a hundredfold the solitary gloom in which I sat. For as sunshine deepens the shadows which fall athwart it, and no silence is like that which follows the explosion of a mine, so sadness and poverty are never more intolerable than when hope and wealth rub elbows with them.

True, the great sermon which M. d’Amours preached in the market-house on the morning of Christmas-day cheered me, as it cheered all the more sober spirits. I was present myself, sitting in an obscure corner of the building, and heard the famous prediction, which was so soon to be fulfilled. ‘Sire,’ said the preacher, turning to the King of Navarre, and referring, with the boldness that ever characterised that great man and noble Christian, to the attempt, then being made to exclude the prince from the succession—‘Sire, what God at your birth gave you man cannot take away. A little while, a little patience, and you shall cause us to preach beyond the Loire! With you for our Joshua we shall cross the Jordan, and in the Promised Land the Church shall be set up.’

Words so brave, and so well adapted to encourage the Huguenots in the crisis through which their affairs were then passing, charmed all hearers; save indeed, those—and they were few—who, being devoted to the Vicomte de Turenne, disliked, though they could not controvert, this public acknowledgment of the King of Navarre, as the Huguenot leader. The pleasure of those present was evinced in a hundred ways, and to such an extent that even I returned to my chamber soothed and exalted, and found, in dreaming of the speedy triumph of the cause, some compensation for my own ill-fortune.

As the day wore on, however, and the evening brought no change, but presented to me the same dreary prospect with which morning had made me familiar, I confess without shame that my heart sank once more, particularly as I saw that I should be forced in a day or two to sell either my remaining horse or some part of my equipment as essential; a step which I could not contemplate without feelings of the utmost despair. In this state of mind I was adding up by the light of a solitary candle the few coins I had left, when I heard footsteps ascending the stairs. I made them out to be the steps of two persons, and was still lost in conjectures who they might be, when a hand knocked gently at my door.

Fearing another trick, I did not at once open, the more so there was something stealthy and insinuating in the knock. Thereupon my visitors held a whispered consultation; then they knocked again. I asked loudly who was there, but to this they did not choose to give any answer, while I, on my part, determined not to open until they did. The door was strong, and I smiled grimly at the thought that this time they would have their trouble for their pains.

To my surprise, however, they did not desist, and go away, as I expected, but continued to knock at intervals and whisper much between times. More than once they called me softly by name and bade me open, but as they steadily refrained from saying who they were, I sat still. Occasionally I heard them laugh, but under their breath as it were; and persuaded by this that they were bent on a frolic, I might have persisted in my silence until midnight, which was not more than two hours off, had not a slight sound, as of a rat gnawing behind the wainscot, drawn my attention to the door. Raising my candle and shading my eyes I espied something small and bright protruding beneath it, and sprang up, thinking they were about to prise it in. To my surprise, however, I could discover, on taking the candle to the threshold, nothing more threatening than a couple of gold livres, which had been thrust through the crevice between the door and the floor.

My astonishment may be conceived. I stood for full a minute staring at the coins, the candle in my hand. Then, reflecting that the young sparks at the Court would be very unlikely to spend such a sum on a jest, I hesitated no longer, but putting down the candle, drew the bolt of the door, purposing to confer with my visitors outside. In this, however, I was disappointed, for the moment the door was open they pushed forcibly past me and, entering the room pell-mell, bade me by signs to close the door again.

I did so suspiciously, and without averting my eyes from my visitors. Great were my embarrassment and confusion, therefore, when, the door being shut, they dropped their cloaks one after the other, and I saw before me M. du Mornay and the well-known figure of the King of Navarre.

They seemed so much diverted, looking at one another and laughing, that for a moment I thought some chance resemblance deceived me, and that here were my jokers again. Hence while a man might count ten I stood staring; and the king was the first to speak. ‘We have made no mistake, Du Mornay, have we?’ he said, casting a laughing glance at me.

‘No, sire,’ Du Mornay answered. ‘This is the Sieur de Marsac, the gentleman whom I mentioned to you.’

I hastened, confused, wondering, and with a hundred apologies, to pay my respects to the king. He speedily cut me short, however, saying, with an air of much kindness, ‘Of Marsac, in Brittany, I think, sir?’

‘The same, sire,’

‘Then you are of the family of Bonne?’

‘I am the last survivor of that family, sire,’ I answered respectfully.

‘It has played its part,’ he rejoined, and therewith he took his seat on my stool with an easy grace which charmed me. ‘Your motto is “BONNE FOI,” is it not? And Marsac, if I remember rightly, is not far from Rennes, on the Vilaine?’

I answered that it was, adding, with a full heart, that it grieved me to be compelled to receive so great a prince in so poor a lodging.

‘Well, I confess,’ Du Mornay struck in, looking carelessly round him, ‘you have a queer taste, M. de Marsac, in the arrangement of your furniture. You—’

‘Mornay!’ the king cried sharply.

‘Sire?’

‘Chut! your elbow is in the candle. Beware of it!’

But I well understood him. If my heart had been full before, it overflowed now. Poverty is not so shameful as the shifts to which it drives men. I had been compelled some days before, in order to make as good a show as possible—since it is the undoubted duty of a gentleman to hide his nakedness from impertinent eyes, and especially from the eyes of the canaille, who are wont to judge from externals—to remove such of my furniture and equipage as remained to that side of the room, which was visible from without when the door was open. This left the farther side of the room vacant and bare. To anyone within doors the artifice was, of course, apparent, and I am bound to say that M. de Mornay’s words brought the blood to my brow.

I rejoiced, however a moment later that he had uttered them; for without them I might never have known, or known so early, the kindness of heart and singular quickness of apprehension which ever distinguished the king, my master. So, in my heart, I began to call him from that hour.

The King of Navarre was at this time thirty-five years old, his hair brown, his complexion ruddy, his moustache, on one side at least, beginning to turn grey. His features, which Nature had cast in a harsh and imperious mould, were relieved by a constant sparkle and animation such as I have never seen in any other man, but in him became ever more conspicuous in gloomy and perilous times. Inured to danger from his earliest youth, he had come to enjoy it as others a festival, hailing its advent with a reckless gaiety which astonished even brave men, and led others to think him the least prudent of mankind. Yet such he was not: nay, he was the opposite of this. Never did Marshal of France make more careful dispositions for a battle—albeit once in it he bore himself like any captain of horse—nor ever did Du Mornay himself sit down to a conference with a more accurate knowledge of affairs. His prodigious wit and the affability of his manners, while they endeared him to his servants, again and again blinded his adversaries; who, thinking that so much brilliance could arise only from a shallow nature, found when it was too late that they had been outwitted by him whom they contemptuously styled the Prince of Bearn, a man a hundredfold more astute than themselves, and master alike of pen and sword.

Much of this, which all the world now knows, I learned afterwards. At the moment I could think of little save the king’s kindness; to which he added by insisting that I should sit on the bed while we talked. ‘You wonder, M. de Marsac,’ he said, ‘what brings me here, and why I have come to you instead of sending for you? Still more, perhaps, why I have come to you at night and with such precautions? I will tell you. But first, that my coming may not fill you with false hopes, let me say frankly, that though I may relieve your present necessities, whether you fall into the plan I am going to mention, or not, I cannot take you into my service; wherein, indeed, every post is doubly filled. Du Mornay mentioned your name to me, but in fairness to others I had to answer that I could do nothing.’

I am bound to confess that this strange exordium dashed hopes which had already risen to a high pitch. Recovering myself as quickly as possible, however, I murmured that the honour of a visit from the King of Navarre was sufficient happiness for me.

‘Nay, but that honour I must take from you’ he replied, smiling; ‘though I see that you would make an excellent courtier—far better than Du Mornay here, who never in his life made so pretty a speech. For I must lay my commands on you to keep this visit a secret, M. de Marsac. Should but the slightest whisper of it get abroad, your usefulness, as far as I am concerned, would be gone, and gone for good!’

So remarkable a statement filled me with wonder I could scarcely disguise. It was with difficulty I found words to assure the king that his commands should be faithfully obeyed.

‘Of that I am sure,’ he answered with the utmost kindness. ‘Where I not, and sure, too, from what I am told of your gallantry when my cousin took Brouage, that you are a man of deeds rather than words, I should not be here with the proposition I am going to lay before you. It is this. I can give you no hope of public employment, M. de Marsac, but I can offer you an adventure if adventures be to your taste—as dangerous and as thankless as any Amadis ever undertook.’

‘As thankless, sire?’ I stammered, doubting if I had heard aright, the expression was so strange.

‘As thankless,’ he answered, his keen eyes seeming to read my soul. ‘I am frank with you, you see, sir,’ he continued, carelessly. ‘I can suggest this adventure—it is for the good of the State—I can do no more. The King of Navarre cannot appear in it, nor can he protect you. Succeed or fail in it, you stead alone. The only promise I make is, that if it ever be safe for me to acknowledge the act, I will reward the doer.’

He paused, and for a few moments I stared at him in sheer amazement. What did he mean? Were he and the other real figures, or was I dreaming?

‘Do you understand?’ he asked at length, with a touch of impatience.

‘Yes, sire, I think I do,’ I murmured, very certain in truth and reality that I did not.

‘What do you say, then—yes or no?’ he rejoined. ‘Will you undertake the adventure, or would you hear more before you make up your mind?’

I hesitated. Had I been a younger man by ten years I should doubtless have cried assent there and then, having been all my life ready enough to embark on such enterprises as offered a chance of distinction. But something in the strangeness of the king’s preface, although I had it in my heart to die for him, gave me check, and I answered, with an air of great humility, ‘You will think me but a poor courtier now, sire, yet he is a fool who jumps into a ditch without measuring the depth. I would fain, if I may say it without disrespect, hear all that you can tell me.’

‘Then I fear,’ he answered quickly, ‘if you would have more light on the matter, my friend, you must get another candle.’

I started, he spoke so abruptly; but perceiving that the candle had indeed burned down to the socket, I rose, with many apologies, and fetched another from the cupboard. It did not occur to me at the moment, though it did later, that the king had purposely sought this opportunity of consulting with his companion. I merely remarked, when I returned to my place on the bed, that they were sitting a little nearer one another, and that the king eyed me before he spoke—though he still swung one foot carelessly in the air with close attention.

‘I speak to you, of course, sir,’ he presently went on, ‘in confidence, believing you to be an honourable as well as a brave man. That which I wish you to do is briefly, and in a word, to carry off a lady. Nay,’ he added quickly, with a laughing grimace, ‘have no fear! She is no sweetheart of mine, nor should I go to my grave friend here did I need assistance of that kind. Henry of Bourbon, I pray God, will always be able to free his own lady-love. This is a State affair, and a matter of quite another character, though we cannot at present entrust you with the meaning of it.’

I bowed in silence, feeling somewhat chilled and perplexed, as who would not, having such an invitation before him? I had anticipated an affair with men only—a secret assault or a petard expedition. But seeing the bareness of my room, and the honour the king was doing me, I felt I had no choice, and I answered, ‘That being the case, sire, I am wholly at your service.’

‘That is well,’ he, answered briskly, though methought he looked at Du Mornay reproachfully, as doubting his commendation of me. ‘But will you say the same,’ he continued, removing his eyes to me, and speaking slowly, as though he would try me, ‘when I tell you that the lady to be carried off is the ward of the Vicomte de Turenne, whose arm is well-nigh as long as my own, and who would fain make it longer; who never travels, as he told me yesterday, with less than fifty gentlemen, and has a thousand arquebusiers in his pay? Is the adventure still to your liking, M. de Marsac, now that you know that?’

‘It is more to my liking, sire,’ I answered stoutly.

‘Understand this too,’ he rejoined. ‘It is essential that this lady, who is at present confined in the Vicomte’s house at Chize, should be released; but it is equally essential that there should be no breach between the Vicomte and myself. Therefore the affair must be the work of an independent man, who has never been in my service, nor in any way connected with me. If captured, you pay the penalty without recourse to me.’

‘I fully understand, sire,’ I answered.

‘Ventre Saint Gris!’ he cried, breaking into a low laugh. I swear the man is more afraid of the lady than he is of the Vicomte! That is not the way of most of our Court.’

Du Mornay, who had been sitting nursing his knee in silence, pursed up his lips, though it was easy to see that he was well content with the king’s approbation. He now intervened. ‘With your permission, sire,’ he said, ‘I will let this gentleman know the details.’

‘Do, my friend,’ the king answered. ‘And be short, for if we are here much longer I shall be missed, and in a twinkling the Court will have found me a new mistress.’

He spoke in jest and with a laugh, but I saw Du Mornay start at the words, as though they were little to his liking; and I learned afterwards that the Court was really much exercised at this time with the question who would be the next favourite, the king’s passion for the Countess de la Guiche being evidently on the wane, and that which he presently evinced for Madame de Guercheville being as yet a matter of conjecture.

Du Mornay took no overt notice of the king’s words, however, but proceeded to give me my directions. ‘Chize, which you know by name,’ he said, ‘is six leagues from here. Mademoiselle de la Vire is confined in the north-west room, on the first-floor, overlooking the park. More I cannot tell you, except that her woman’s name is Fanchette, and that she is to be trusted. The house is well guarded, and you will need four or five men, There are plenty of cut-throats to be hired, only see, M. de Marsac, that they are such as you can manage, and that Mademoiselle takes no hurt among them. Have horses in waiting, and the moment; you have released the lady ride north with her as fast as her strength will permit. Indeed, you must not spare her, if Turenne be on your heels. You should be across the Loire in sixty hours after leaving Chize.’

‘Across the Loire?’ I exclaimed in astonishment.

‘Yes, sir, across the Loire,’ he replied, with some sternness. ‘Your task, be good enough to understand, is to convoy Mademoiselle de la Vire with all speed to Blois. There, attracting as little notice as may be, you will inquire for the Baron de Rosny at the Bleeding Heart, in the Rue de St. Denys. He will take charge of the lady, or direct you how to dispose of her, and your task will then be accomplished. You follow me?’

‘Perfectly,’ I answered, speaking in my turn with some dryness. ‘But Mademoiselle I understand is young. What if she will not accompany me, a stranger, entering her room at night, and by the window?’

‘That has been thought of’ was the answer. He turned to the King of Navarre, who, after a moment’s search, produced a small object from his pouch. This he gave to his companion, and the latter transferred it to me. I took it with curiosity. It was the half of a gold carolus, the broken edge of the coin being rough and jagged. ‘Show that to Mademoiselle, my friend,’ Du Mornay continued, ‘and she will accompany you. She has the other half.’

‘But be careful,’ Henry added eagerly, ‘to make no mention, even to her, of the King of Navarre. You mark me, M. de Marsac! If you have at any time occasion to speak of me, you may have the honour of calling me YOUR FRIEND, and referring to me always in the same manner.’

This he said with so gracious an air that I was charmed, and thought myself happy indeed to be addressed in this wise by a prince whose name was already so glorious. Nor was my satisfaction diminished when his companion drew out a bag containing, as he told me, three hundred crowns in gold, and placed it in my hands, bidding me defray therefrom the cost of the journey. ‘Be careful, however,’ he added earnestly, ‘to avoid, in hiring your men, any appearance of wealth, lest the adventure seem to be suggested by some outside person; instead of being dictated by the desperate state of your own fortunes. Promise rather than give, so far as that will avail. And for what you must give, let each livre seem to be the last in your pouch.’

Henry nodded assent. ‘Excellent advice!’ he muttered, rising and drawing on his cloak, ‘such as you ever give me, Mornay, and I as seldom take—more’s the pity! But, after all, of little avail without this.’ He lifted my sword from the table as he spoke, and weighed it in his hand. ‘A pretty tool,’ he continued, turning suddenly and looking me very closely in the face. ‘A very pretty tool. Were I in your place, M. de Marsac, I would see that it hung loose in the scabbard. Ay, and more, man, use it!’ he added, sinking his voice and sticking out his chin, while his grey eyes, looking ever closer into mine, seemed to grow cold and hard as steel. ‘Use it to the last, for if you fall into Turenne’s hands, God help you! I cannot!’

‘If I am taken, sire,’ I answered, trembling, but not with fear, ‘my fate be on my own head.’

I saw the king’s eyes soften, at that, and his face change so swiftly that I scarce knew him for the same man. He let the weapon drop with a clash on the table. ‘Ventre Saint Gris!’ he exclaimed with a strange thrill of yearning in his tone. ‘I swear by God, I would I were in your shoes, sir. To strike a blow or two with no care what came of it. To take the road with a good horse and a good sword, and see what fortune would send. To be rid of all this statecraft and protocolling, and never to issue another declaration in this world, but just to be for once a Gentleman of France, with all to win and nothing to lose save the love of my lady! Ah! Mornay, would it not be sweet to leave all this fret and fume, and ride away to the green woods by Coarraze?’

‘Certainly, if you prefer them to the Louvre, sire,’ Du Mornay answered drily; while I stood, silent and amazed, before this strange man, who could so suddenly change from grave to gay, and one moment spoke so sagely, and the next like any wild lad in his teens. ‘Certainly,’ he answered, ‘if that be your choice, sire; and if you think that even there the Duke of Guise will leave you in peace. Turenne, I am sure, will be glad to hear of your decision. Doubtless he will be elected Protector of the Churches. Nay, sire, for shame!’ Du Mornay continued almost with sternness. ‘Would you leave France, which at odd times I have heard you say you loved, to shift for herself? Would you deprive her of the only man who does love her for her own sake?’

‘Well, well, but she is such a fickle sweetheart, my friend,’ the king answered, laughing, the side glance of his eye on me. ‘Never was one so coy or so hard to clip! And, besides, has not the Pope divorced us?’

‘The Pope! A fig for the Pope!’ Du Mornay rejoined with impatient heat. ‘What has he to do with France? An impertinent meddler, and an Italian to boot! I would he and all the brood of them were sunk a hundred fathoms deep in the sea. But, meantime, I would send him a text to digest.’

‘EXEMPLUM?’ said the king.

‘Whom God has joined together let no man put asunder.’

‘Amen! quoth Henry softly. ‘And France is a fair and comely bride.’

After that he kept such a silence, falling as it seemed to me into a brown study, that he went away without so much as bidding me farewell, or being conscious, as far as I could tell, of my presence. Du Mornay exchanged a few words with me, to assure himself that I understood what I had to do, and then, with many kind expressions, which I did not fail to treasure up and con over in the times that were coming, hastened downstairs after his master.

My joy when I found myself alone may be conceived. Yet was it no ecstasy, but a sober exhilaration; such as stirred my pulses indeed, and bade me once more face the world with a firm eye and an assured brow, but was far from holding out before me a troubadour’s palace or any dazzling prospect. The longer I dwelt on the interview, the more clearly I saw the truth. As the glamour which Henry’s presence and singular kindness had cast over me began to lose some of its power, I recognised more and more surely why he had come to me. It was not out of any special favour for one whom he knew by report only, if at all by name; but because he had need of a man poor, and therefore reckless, middle-aged (of which comes discretion), obscure—therefore a safe instrument; to crown all, a gentleman, seeing that both a secret and a women were in question.

Withal I wondered too. Looking from the bag of money on the table to the broken coin in my hand, I scarcely knew which to admire more: the confidence which entrusted the one to a man broken and beggared, or the courage of the gentlewoman who should accompany me on the faith of the other.

As was natural, I meditated deeply and far into the night on the difficulties of the task, entrusted to me. I saw that it fell into two parts: the release of the lady, and her safe conduct to Blois, a distance of sixty leagues. The release I thought it probable I could effect single-handed, or with one companion only; but in the troubled condition of the country at this time, more particularly on both sides of the Loire, I scarcely saw how I could ensure a lady’s safety on the road northwards unless I had with me at least five swords.

To get these together at a few hours’ notice promised to be no easy task; although the presence of the Court of Navarre had filled St. Jean with a crowd of adventurers. Yet the king’s command was urgent, and at some sacrifice, even at some risk, must be obeyed. Pressed by these considerations, I could think of no better man to begin with than Fresnoy.

His character was bad, and he had long forfeited such claim as he had ever possessed—I believe it was a misty one, on the distaff side—to gentility. But the same cause which had rendered me destitute I mean the death of the prince of Conde—had stripped him to the last rag; and this, perhaps, inclining me to serve him, I was the more quick to see his merits. I knew him already for a hardy, reckless man, very capable of striking a shrewd blow. I gave him credit for being trusty, as long as his duty jumped with his interest.

Accordingly, as soon as it was light, having fed and groomed the Cid, which was always the first employment of my day, I set out in search of Fresnoy, and was presently lucky enough to find him taking his morning draught outside the ‘Three Pigeons,’ a little inn not far from the north gate. It was more than a fortnight since I had set eyes on him, and the lapse of time had worked so great a change for the worse in him that, forgetting my own shabbiness, I looked at him askance, as doubting the wisdom of enlisting one who bore so plainly the marks of poverty and dissipation. His great face—he was a large man—had suffered recent ill-usage, and was swollen and discoloured, one eye being as good as closed. He was unshaven, his hair was ill-kempt, his doublet unfastened at the throat, and torn and stained besides. Despite the cold—for the morning was sharp and frosty, though free from wind—there were half a dozen packmen drinking and squabbling before the inn, while the beasts they drove quenched their thirst at the trough. But these men seemed with one accord to leave him in possession of the bench at which he sat; nor did I wonder much at this when I saw the morose and savage glance which he shot at me as I approached. Whether he read my first impressions in my face, or for some other reason felt distaste for my company, I could not determine. But, undeterred by his behaviour, I sat down beside him and called for wine.

He nodded sulkily in answer to my greeting, and cast a half-shamed, half-angry look at me out of the corners of his eyes. ‘You need not look at me as though I were a dog,’ he muttered presently. ‘You are not so very spruce yourself, my friend. But I suppose you have grown proud since you got that fat appointment at Court!’ And he laughed out loud, so that I confess I was in two minds whether I should not force the jest down his ugly throat.

However I restrained myself, though my cheeks burned. ‘You have heard about it, then,’ I said, striving to speak indifferently.

‘Who has not?’ he said, laughing with his lips, though his eyes were far from merry. ‘The Sieur de Marsac’s appointment! Ha! ha! Why, man—’

‘Enough of it now!’ I exclaimed. And I dare say I writhed on my seat. ‘As far as I am concerned the jest is a stale one, sir, and does not amuse me.’

‘But it amuses me,’ he rejoined with a grin.

‘Let it be, nevertheless,’ I said; and I think he read a warning in my eyes. ‘I have come to speak to you upon another matter.’

He did not refuse to listen, but threw one leg over the other, and looking up at the inn-sign began to whistle in a rude, offensive manner. Still, having an object in view, I controlled myself and continued. ‘It is this, my friend: money is not very plentiful at present with either of us.’

Before I could say any more he turned on me savagely, and with a loud oath thrust his bloated face, flushed with passion, close to mine. ‘Now look here, M. de Marsac!’ he cried violently, ‘once for all, it is no good! I have not got the money, and I cannot pay it. I said a fortnight ago, when you lent it, that you should have it this week. Well,’ slapping his hand on the bench, I have not got it, and it is no good beginning upon me. You cannot have it, and that is flat!’

‘Damn the money!’ I cried.

‘What?’ he exclaimed, scarcely believing his ears.

‘Let the money be!’ I repeated fiercely. ‘Do you hear? I have not come about it, I am here to offer you work—good, well-paid work—if you will enlist with me and play me fair, Fresnoy.’

‘Play fair!’ he cried with an oath.

‘There, there,’ I said, ‘I am willing to let bygones be bygones if you are. The point is, that I have an adventure on hand, and, wanting help, can pay you for it.’

He looked at me cunningly, His eye travelling over each rent and darn in my doublet. ‘I will help you fast enough,’ he said at last. ‘But I should like to see the money first.’

‘You shall,’ I answered.

‘Then I am with you, my friend. Count on me till death!’ he cried, rising and laying his hand in mine with a boisterous frankness which did not deceive me into trusting him far. ‘And now, whose is the affair, and what is it?’

‘The affair is mine,’ I said coldly. ‘It is to carry off a lady.’

He whistled and looked me over again, an impudent leer in his eyes. ‘A lady?’ he exclaimed. ‘Umph! I could understand a young spark going in for such—but that’s your affair. Who is it?’

‘That is my affair, too,’ I answered coolly, disgusted by the man’s venality and meanness, and fully persuaded that I must trust him no farther than the length of my sword. ‘All I want you to do, M. Fresnoy,’ I continued stiffly, ‘is to place yourself at my disposal and under my orders for ten days. I will find you a horse and pay you—the enterprise is a hazardous one, and I take that into account—two gold crowns a day, and ten more if we succeed in reaching a place of safety.’

‘Such a place as—’

‘Never mind that,’ I replied. ‘The question is, do you accept?’

He looked down sullenly, and I could see he was greatly angered by my determination to keep the matter to myself. ‘Am I to know no more than that?’ he asked, digging the point of his scabbard again and again into the ground.

‘No more,’ I answered firmly. ‘I am bent on a desperate attempt to mend my fortunes before they fall as low as yours; and that is as much as I mean to tell living man. If you are loth to risk your life with your eyes shut, say so, and I will go to someone else.’

But he was not in a position, as I well knew, to refuse such an offer, and presently he accepted it with a fresh semblance of heartiness. I told him I should want four troopers to escort us, and these he offered to procure, saying that he knew just the knaves to suit me. I bade him hire two only, however, being too wise, to put myself altogether in his hands; and then, having given him money to buy himself a horse—I made it a term that the men should bring their own—and named a rendezvous for the first hour after noon, I parted from him and went rather sadly away.

For I began to see that the king had not underrated the dangers of an enterprise on which none but desperate men and such as were down in the world could be expected to embark. Seeing this, and also a thing which followed clearly from it—that I should have as much to fear from my own company as from the enemy—I looked forward with little hope to a journey during every day and every hour of which I must bear a growing weight of fear and responsibility.

It was too late to turn back, however, and I went about my preparations, if with little cheerfulness, at least with steadfast purpose. I had my sword ground and my pistols put in order by the cutler over whom I lodged, and who performed this last office for me with the same goodwill which had characterised, all his dealings with me. I sought out and hired a couple of stout fellows whom I believed to be indifferently honest, but who possessed the advantage of having horses; and besides bought two led horses myself for mademoiselle and her woman. Such other equipments as were absolutely necessary I purchased, reducing my stock of money in this way to two hundred and ten crowns. How to dispose of this sum so that it might be safe and yet at my command was a question which greatly exercised me. In the end I had recourse to my friend the cutler, who suggested hiding a hundred crowns of it in my cap, and deftly contrived a place for the purpose. This, the cap being lined with steel, was a matter of no great difficulty. A second hundred I sewed up in the stuffing of my saddle, placing the remainder in my pouch for present necessities.

A small rain was falling in the streets when, a little after noon, I started with my two knaves behind me and made for the north gate. So many were moving this way and the other that we passed unnoticed, and might have done so had we numbered six swords instead of three. When we reached the rendezvous, a mile beyond the gate, we found Fresnoy already there, taking shelter in the lee of a big holly-tree. He had four horsemen with him, and on our appearance rode forward to meet us, crying heartily, ‘Welcome, M. le Capitaine!’

‘Welcome, certainly,’ I answered, pulling the Cid up sharply, and holding off from him. ‘But who are these, M. Fresnoy?’ and I pointed with my riding-cane to his four companions.

He tried to pass the matter off with a laugh. ‘Oh! these?’ he said. ‘That is soon explained. The Evangelists would not be divided, so I brought them all—Matthew Mark, Luke, and John—thinking it likely you might fail to secure your men. And I will warrant them for four as gallant boys as you will ever find behind you!’

They were certainly four as arrant ruffians as I had ever seen before me, and I saw I must not hesitate. ‘Two or none, M. Fresnoy,’ I said firmly. ‘I gave you a commission for two, and two I will take—Matthew and Mark, or Luke and John, as you please.’

‘’Tis a pity to break the party,’ said he, scowling.

‘If that be all,’ I retorted, ‘one of my men is called John. And we will dub the other Luke, if that will mend the matter.’

‘The Prince of Conde,’ he muttered sullenly, ‘employed these men.’

‘The Prince of Conde employed some queer people sometimes, M. Fresnoy,’ I answered, looking him straight between the eyes, ‘as we all must. A truce to this, if you please. We will take Matthew and Mark. The other two be good enough to dismiss.’

He seemed to waver for a moment, as if he had a mind to disobey, but in the end, thinking better of it, he bade the men return; and as I complimented each of them with a piece of silver, they went off, after some swearing, in tolerably good humour. Thereon Fresnoy was for taking the road at once, but having no mind to be followed, I gave the word to wait until the two were out of sight.

I think, as we sat our horses in the rain, the holly-bush not being large enough to shelter us all, we were as sorry a band as ever set out to rescue a lady; nor was it without pain that I looked round and saw myself reduced to command such people. There was scarcely one whole unpatched garment among us, and three of my squires had but a spur apiece. To make up for this deficiency we mustered two black eyes, Fresnoy’s included, and a broken nose. Matthew’s nag lacked a tail, and, more remarkable still, its rider, as I presently discovered, was stone-deaf; while Mark’s sword was innocent of a scabbard, and his bridle was plain rope. One thing, indeed, I observed with pleasure. The two men who had come with me looked askance at the two who had come with Fresnoy, and these returned the stare with interest. On this division and on the length of my sword I based all my hopes of safety and of something more. On it I was about to stake, not my own life only—which was no great thing, seeing what my prospects were—but the life and honour of a woman, young, helpless, and as yet unknown to me.

Weighed down as I was by these considerations, I had to bear the additional burden of hiding my fears and suspicions under a cheerful demeanour. I made a short speech to my following, who one and all responded by swearing to stand by me to the death. I then gave the word, and we started, Fresnoy and I leading the way, Luke and John with the led horses following, and the other two bringing up the rear.

The rain continuing to fall and the country in this part being dreary and monotonous, even in fair weather, I felt my spirits sink still lower as the day advanced. The responsibility I was going to incur assumed more serious proportions each time I scanned my following; while Fresnoy, plying me with perpetual questions respecting my plans, was as uneasy a companion as my worst enemy could have wished me.

‘Come!’ he grumbled presently, when we had covered four leagues or so, ‘you have not told me yet, sieur, where we stay to-night. You are travelling so slowly that—’

‘I am saving the horses,’ I answered shortly. ‘We shall do a long day to-morrow.’

‘Yours looks fit for a week of days,’ he sneered, with an evil look at my Sardinian, which was, indeed, in better case than its master. ‘It is sleek enough, any way!’

‘It is as good as it looks,’ I answered, a little nettled by his tone.

‘There is a better here,’ he responded.

‘I don’t see it,’ I said. I had already eyed the nags all round, and assured myself that, ugly and blemished as they were, they were up to their work. But I had discerned no special merit among them. I looked them over again now, and came to the same conclusion—that, except the led horses, which I had chosen with some care, there was nothing among them to vie with the Cid, either in speed or looks. I told Fresnoy so.

‘Would you like to try?’ he said tauntingly.

I laughed, adding, ‘If you think I am going to tire our horses by racing them, with such work as we have before us, you are mistaken, Fresnoy. I am not a boy, you know.’

‘There need be no question of racing,’ he answered more quietly. ‘You have only to get on that rat-tailed bay of Matthew’s to feel its paces and say I am right.’

I looked at the bay, a bald-faced, fiddle-headed horse, and saw that, with no signs of breeding, it was still a big-boned animal with good shoulders and powerful hips. I thought it possible Fresnoy might be right, and if so, and the bay’s manners were tolerable, it might do for mademoiselle better than the horse I had chosen. At any rate, if we had a fast horse among us, it was well to know the fact, so bidding Matthew change with me, and be careful of the Cid, I mounted the bay, and soon discovered that its paces were easy and promised speed, while its manners seemed as good as even a timid rider could desire.

Our road at the time lay across a flat desolate heath, dotted here and there with, thorn-bushes; the track being broken and stony, extended more than a score of yards in width, through travellers straying to this side and that to escape the worst places. Fresnoy and I, in making the change, had fallen slightly behind the other three, and were riding abreast of Matthew on the Cid.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘was I not right?’

‘In part,’ I answered. ‘The horse is better than its looks.’

‘Like many others,’ he rejoined, a spark of resentment in his tone—‘men as well as horses, M. de Marsac. But What do you say? Shall we canter on a little and overtake the others?’

Thinking it well to do so, I assented readily, and we started together. We had ridden, however, no more than a hundred yards, and I was only beginning to extend the bay, when Fresnoy, slightly drawing rein, turned in his saddle and looked back. The next moment he cried, ‘Hallo! what is this? Those fellows are not following us, are they?’

I turned sharply to look. At that moment, without falter or warning, the bay horse went down under me as if shot dead, throwing me half a dozen yards over its head; and that so suddenly that I had no time to raise my arms, but, falling heavily on my head and shoulder, lost consciousness.

I have had many falls, but no other to vie with that in utter unexpectedness. When I recovered my senses I found myself leaning, giddy and sick, against the bole of an old thorn-tree. Fresnoy and Matthew supported me on either side, and asked me how I found myself; while the other three men, their forms black against the stormy evening sky, sat their horses a few paces in front of me. I was too much dazed at first to see more, and this only in a mechanical fashion; but gradually, my brain grew clearer, and I advanced from wondering who the strangers round me were to recognising them, and finally to remembering what had happened to me.

‘Is the horse hurt?’ I muttered as soon as I could speak.

‘Not a whit,’ Fresnoy answered, chuckling, or I was much mistaken. ‘I am afraid you came off the worse of the two, captain.’

He exchanged a look with the men on horseback as he spoke, and in a dull fashion I fancied I saw them smile. One even laughed, and another turned in his saddle as if to hide his face. I had a vague general sense that there was some joke on foot in which I had no part. But I was too much shaken at the moment to be curious, and gratefully accepted the offer of one, of the men to fetch me a little water. While he was away the rest stood round me, the same look of ill-concealed drollery on their faces. Fresnoy alone talked, speaking volubly of the accident, pouring out expressions of sympathy and cursing the road, the horse, and the wintry light until the water came; when, much refreshed by the draught, I managed to climb to the Cid’s saddle and plod slowly onwards with them.

‘A bad beginning,’ Fresnoy said presently, stealing a sly glance at me as we jogged along side by side, Chize half a league before us, and darkness not far off.

By this time, however, I was myself again, save for a little humming is the head, and, shrugging my shoulders, I told him so. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ I added. ‘Not that it was a pleasant fall, or that I wish to have such another.’

‘No, I should think not,’ he answered. His face was turned from me, but I fancied I heard him snigger.

Something, which may have been a vague suspicion, led me a moment later to put my hand into my pouch. Then I understood. I understood too well. The sharp surprise of the discovery was such that involuntarily I drove my spurs into the Cid, and the horse sprang forward.

‘What is the matter?’ Fresnoy asked.

‘The matter?’ I echoed, my hand still at my belt, feeling—feeling hopelessly.

‘Yes, what is it?’ he asked, a brazen smile on his rascally face.

I looked at him, my brow as red as fire. ‘Oh! nothing—nothing,’ I said. ‘Let us trot on.’

In truth I had discovered that, taking advantage of my helplessness, the scoundrels had robbed me, while I lay insensible, of every gold crown in my purse! Nor was this all, or the worst, for I saw at once that in doing so they had effected something which was a thousandfold more ominous and formidable—established against me that secret understanding which it was my especial aim to prevent, and on the absence of which I had been counting. Nay, I saw that for my very life I had only my friend the cutler and my own prudence to thank, seeing that these rogues would certainly have murdered me without scruple had they succeeded in finding the bulk of my money. Baffled in this, while still persuaded that I had other resources, they had stopped short of that villany—or this memoir had never been written. They had kindly permitted me to live until a more favourable opportunity of enriching themselves at my expense should put them in possession of my last crown!

Though I was sufficiently master of myself to refrain from complaints which I felt must be useless, and from menaces which it has never been my habit to utter unless I had also the power to put them into execution, it must not be imagined that I did not, as I rode on by Fresnoy’s side, feel my position acutely or see how absurd a figure I cut in my dual character of leader and dupe. Indeed, the reflection that, being in this perilous position, I was about to stake another’s safety as well as my own, made me feel the need of a few minutes’ thought so urgent that I determined to gain them, even at the risk of leaving my men at liberty to plot further mischief. Coming almost immediately afterwards within sight, of the turrets of the Chateau of Chize, I told Fresnoy that we should lie the night at the village; and bade him take the men on and secure quarters at the inn. Attacked instantly by suspicion and curiosity, he demurred stoutly to leaving me, and might have persisted in his refusal had I not pulled up, and clearly shown him that I would have my own way in this case or come to an open breach. He shrank, as I expected, from the latter alternative, and, bidding me a sullen adieu, trotted on with his troop. I waited until they were out of sight, and then, turning the Cid’s head, crossed a small brook which divided the road from the chase, and choosing a ride which seemed to pierce the wood in the direction of the Chateau, proceeded down it, keeping a sharp look-out on either hand.

It was then, my thoughts turning to the lady who was now so near, and who, noble, rich, and a stranger, seemed, as I approached her, not the least formidable of the embarrassments before me—it was then that I made a discovery which sent a cold shiver through my frame, and in a moment swept all memory of my paltry ten crowns from my head. Ten crowns! Alas! I had lost that which was worth all my crowns put together—the broken coin which the King of Navarre had entrusted to me, and which formed my sole credential, my only means of persuading Mademoiselle de la Vire that I came from him. I had put it in my pouch, and of course, though the loss of it only came home to my mind now, it had disappeared with the rest.

I drew rein and sat for some time motionless, the image of despair. The wind which stirred the naked boughs overhead, and whirled the dead leaves in volleys past my feet, and died away at last among the whispering bracken, met nowhere with wretchedness greater, I believe, than was mine at that moment.

My first desperate impulse on discovering the magnitude of my loss was to ride after the knaves and demand the token at the sword’s point. The certainty, however, of finding them united, and the difficulty of saying which of the five possessed what I wanted, led me to reject this plan as I grew cooler; and since I did not dream, even in this dilemma, of abandoning the expedition the only alternative seemed to be to act as if I still had the broken coin, and essay what a frank explanation might effect when the time came.

After some wretched, very wretched, moments of debate, I resolved to adopt this course; and, for the present, thinking I might gain some knowledge of the surroundings while the light lasted, I pushed cautiously forward through the trees and came in less than five minutes within sight of a corner of the chateau, which I found to be a modern building of the time of Henry II., raised, like the houses of that time, for pleasure rather than defence, and decorated with many handsome casements and tourelles. Despite this, it wore, as I saw it, a grey and desolate air, due in part to the loneliness of the situation and the lateness of the hour; and in part, I think, to the smallness of the household maintained, for no one was visible on the terrace or at the windows. The rain dripped from the trees, which on two sides pressed so closely on the house as almost to darken the rooms, and everything I saw encouraged me to hope that mademoiselle’s wishes would second my entreaties, and incline her to lend a ready ear to my story.

The appearance of the house, indeed, was a strong inducement to me to proceed, for it was impossible to believe that a young lady, a kinswoman of the gay and vivacious Turenne, and already introduced to the pleasures of the Court, would elect of her own free will to spend the winter in so dreary a solitude.

Taking advantage of the last moments of daylight, I rode cautiously round the house, and, keeping in the shadow of the trees, had no difficulty in discovering at the north-east corner the balcony of which I had been told. It was semi-circular in shape, with a stone balustrade, and hung some fifteen feet above a terraced walk which ran below it, and was separated from the chase by a low sunk fence.

I was surprised to observe that, notwithstanding the rain and the coldness of the evening, the window which gave upon this balcony was open. Nor was this all. Luck was in store for me at last. I had not gazed at the window more than a minute, calculating its height and other particulars, when, to my great joy, a female figure, closely hooded, stepped out and stood looking up at the sky. I was too far off to be able to discern by that uncertain light whether this was Mademoiselle de la Vire or her woman; but the attitude was so clearly one of dejection and despondency, that I felt sure it was either one or the other. Determined not to let the opportunity slip, I dismounted hastily and, leaving the Cid loose, advanced on foot until I stood within half-a-dozen paces of the window.

At that point the watcher became aware of me. She started back, but did not withdraw. Still peering down at me, she called softly to some one inside the chamber, and immediately a second figure, taller and stouter, appeared. I had already doffed my cap, and I now, in a low voice, begged to know if I had the honour of speaking to Mademoiselle de la Vire. In the growing darkness it was impossible to distinguish faces.

‘Hush!’ the stouter figure muttered in a tone of warning. ‘Speak lower. Who are you, and what do you here?’

‘I am here,’ I answered respectfully, ‘commissioned by a friend of the lady I have named, to convey her to a place of safety.’

‘Mon dieu!’ was the sharp answer. ‘Now? It is impossible.’

‘No,’ I murmured, ‘not now, but to-night. The moon rises at half-past two. My horses need rest and food. At three I will be below this window with the means of escape, if mademoiselle choose to use them.’

I felt that they were staring at me through the dusk, as though they would read my breast. ‘Your name, sir?’ the shorter figure murmured at last, after a pause which was full of suspense and excitement.

‘I do not think my name of much import at present, Mademoiselle,’ I answered, reluctant to proclaim myself a stranger. ‘When—’

‘Your name, your name, sir!’ she repeated imperiously, and I heard her little heel rap upon the stone floor of the balcony.

‘Gaston de Marsac,’ I answered unwillingly.

They both started, and cried out together. ‘Impossible!’ the last speaker exclaimed, amazement and anger in her tone, ‘This is a jest, sir. This—’

What more she would have said I was left to guess, for at that moment her attendant I had no doubt now which was mademoiselle and which Fanchette—suddenly laid her hand on her mistress’s mouth and pointed to the room behind them. A second’s suspense, and with a wanting gesture the two turned and disappeared through the window.

I lost no time in regaining the shelter of the trees; and concluding, though I was far from satisfied with the interview, that I could do nothing more now, but might rather, by loitering in the neighbourhood, awaken suspicion, I remounted and made for the highway and the village, where I found my men in noisy occupation of the inn, a poor place, with unglazed windows, and a fire in the middle of the earthen floor. My first care was to stable the Cid in a shed at the back, where I provided for its wants as far as I could with the aid of a half-naked boy, who seemed to be in hiding there.

This done, I returned to the front of the house, having pretty well made up my mind how I would set about the task before me. As I passed one of the windows, which was partially closed by a rude curtain made of old sacks, I stopped to look in. Fresnoy and his four rascals were seated on blocks of wood round the hearth, talking loudly and fiercely, and ruffling it as if the fire and the room were their own. A pedlar, seated on his goods in one corner, was eyeing them with evident fear and suspicion; in another corner two children had taken refuge under a donkey, which some fowls had chosen as a roosting-pole. The innkeeper, a sturdy fellow, with a great club in his fist, sat moodily at the foot of a ladder which led to the loft above, while a slatternly woman, who was going to and fro getting supper, seemed in equal terror of her guests and her good man.

Confirmed by what I saw, and assured that the villains were ripe for any mischief, and, if not checked, would speedily be beyond my control, I noisily flung the door open and entered. Fresnoy looked up with a sneer as I did so, and one of the men laughed. The others became silent; but no one moved or greeted me. Without a moment’s hesitation I stepped to the nearest fellow and, with a sturdy kick, sent his log from under him. ‘Rise, you rascal, when I enter!’ I cried, giving vent to the anger I had long felt. ‘And you, too!’ and with a second kick I sent his neighbour’s stool flying also, and administered a couple of cuts with my riding-cane across the man’s shoulders. ‘Have you no manners, sirrah? Across with you, and leave this side to your betters.’

The two rose, snarling and feeling for their weapons, and for a moment stood facing me, looking now at me and now askance at Fresnoy. But as he gave no sign, and their comrades only laughed, the men’s courage failed them at the pinch, and with a very poor grace they sneaked over to the other side of the fire and sat there, scowling.

I seated myself beside their leader. ‘This gentleman and I will eat here,’ I cried to the man at the foot of the ladder. ‘Bid your wife lay for us, and of the best you have; and do you give those knaves their provender where the smell of their greasy jackets will not come between us and our victuals.’

The man came forward, glad enough, as I saw, to discover any one in authority, and very civilly began to draw wine and place a board for us, while his wife filled our platters from the black pot which hung over the fire. Fresnoy’s face meanwhile wore the amused smile of one who comprehended my motives, but felt sufficiently sure of his position and influence with his followers to be indifferent to my proceedings. I presently showed him, however, that I had not yet done with him. Our table was laid in obedience to my orders at such a distance from the men that they could not overhear our talk, and by-and-by I leant over to him.

‘M. Fresnoy,’ I said, ‘you are in danger of forgetting one thing, I fancy, which it behoves you to remember.’

‘What?’ he muttered, scarcely deigning to look up at me.

‘That you have to do with Gaston de Marsac,’ I answered quietly. ‘I am making, as I told you this morning, a last attempt to recruit my fortunes, and I will let no man—no man, do you understand, M. Fresnoy?—thwart me and go harmless.’

‘Who wishes to thwart you?’ he asked impudently.

‘You,’ I answered unmoved, helping myself, as I spoke, from the roll of black bread which lay beside me. ‘You robbed me this afternoon; I passed it over. You encouraged those men to be insolent; I passed it over. But let me tell you this. If you fail me to-night, on the honour of a gentleman, M. Fresnoy, I will run you through as I would spit a lark.’

‘Will you? But two can play at that game,’ he cried, rising nimbly from his stool. ‘Still better six! Don’t you think, M. de Marsac, you had better have waited—?’

‘I think you had better hear one word more,’ I answered coolly, keeping my seat, ‘before you appeal to your fellows there.’

‘Well,’ he said, still standing, ‘what is it?’

‘Nay,’ I replied, after once more pointing to his stool in vain, ‘if you prefer to take my orders standing, well and good.’

‘Your orders?’ he shrieked, growing suddenly excited.

‘Yes, my orders!’ I retorted, rising as suddenly to my feet and hitching forward my sword. ‘My orders, sir,’ I repeated fiercely, ‘or, if you dispute my right to command as well as to pay this party, let us decide the question here and now—you and I, foot to foot, M. Fresnoy.’

The quarrel flashed up so suddenly, though I had been preparing it all along, that no one moved. The woman indeed, fell back to her children, but the rest looked on open-mouthed. Had they stirred, or had a moment’s hurly-burly heated his blood, I doubt not Fresnoy would have taken up my challenge, for he did not lack hardihood. But as it was, face to face with me in the silence, his courage failed him. He paused, glowering at me uncertainly, and did not speak.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘don’t you think that if I pay I ought to give orders, sir?’

‘Who wishes to oppose your orders?’ he muttered, drinking off a bumper, and sitting down with an air of impudent bravado, assumed to hide his discomfiture.

‘If you don’t, no one else does,’ I answered. So that is settled. Landlord, some more wine.’

He was very sulky with me for a while, fingering his glass in silence and scowling at the table. He had enough gentility to feel the humiliation to which he had exposed himself, and a sufficiency of wit to understand that that moment’s hesitation had cost him the allegiance of his fellow-ruffians. I hastened, therefore, to set him at his ease by explaining my plans for the night, and presently succeeded beyond my hopes; for when he heard who the lady was whom I proposed to carry off, and that she was lying that evening at the Chateau de Chize, his surprise swept away the last trace of resentment. He stared at me, as at a maniac.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you know what you are doing, Sieur?’

‘I think so,’ I answered.

‘Do you know to whom the chateau belongs?’

‘To the Vicomte de Turenne.’

‘And that Mademoiselle de la Vire is his relation?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he exclaimed again. And he looked at me open-mouthed.

‘What is the matter?’ I asked, though I had an uneasy consciousness that I knew—that I knew very well.

‘Man, he will crush you as I crush this hat!’ he answered in great excitement. ‘As easily. Who do you think will protect you from him in a private quarrel of this kind? Navarre? France? our good man? Not one of them. You had better steal the king’s crown jewels—he is weak; or Guise’s last plot—he is generous at times, or Navarre’s last sweetheart—he is as easy as an old shoe. You had better have to do with all these together, I tell you, than touch Turenne’s ewe-lambs, unless your aim be to be broken on the wheel! Mon Dieu, yes!’

‘I am much obliged to you for your advice,’ I said stiffly, ‘but the die is cast. My mind is made up. On the other hand, if you are afraid, M. Fresnoy—’

‘I am afraid; very much afraid,’ he answered frankly.

‘Still your name need not be brought into the matter,’ I replied, ‘I will take the responsibility. I will let them know my name here at the inn, where, doubtless, inquiries will be made.’

‘To be sure, that is something,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘Well, it is an ugly business, but I am in for it. You want me to go with you a little after two, do you? and the others to be in the saddle at three? Is that it?’

I assented, pleased to find him so far acquiescent; and in this way, talking the details over more than once, we settled our course, arranging to fly by way of Poitiers and Tours. Of course I did not tell him why I selected Blois as our refuge, nor what was my purpose there; though he pressed me more than once on the point, and grew thoughtful and somewhat gloomy when I continually evaded it. A little after eight we retired to the loft to sleep; our men remaining below round the fire and snoring so merrily as almost to shake the crazy old building. The host was charged to sit up and call us as soon as the moon rose, but, as it turned out, I might as well have taken this office on myself, for between excitement and distrust I slept little, and was wide awake when I heard his step on the ladder and knew it was time to rise.

I was up in a moment, and Fresnoy was little behind me; so that, losing no time in talk, we were mounted and on the road, each with a spare horse at his knee, before the moon was well above the trees. Once in the Chase we found it necessary to proceed on foot, but, the distance being short, we presently emerged without misadventure and stood opposite to the chateau, the upper part of which shone cold and white in the moon’s rays.

There was something so solemn in the aspect of the place, the night being fine and the sky without a cloud, that I stood for a minute awed and impressed, the sense of the responsibility I was here to accept strong upon me. In that short space of time all the dangers before me, as well the common risks of the road as the vengeance of Turenne and the turbulence of my own men, presented themselves to my mind, and made a last appeal to me to turn back from an enterprise so foolhardy. The blood in a man’s veins runs low and slow at that hour, and mine was chilled by lack of sleep and the wintry air. It needed the remembrance of my solitary condition, of my past spent in straits and failure, of the grey hairs which swept my cheek, of the sword which I had long used honourably, if with little profit to myself; it needed the thought of all these things to restore me to courage and myself.

I judged at a later period that my companion was affected in somewhat the same way; for, as I stooped to press home the pegs which I had brought to tether the horses, he laid his hand on my arm. Glancing up to see what he wanted, I was struck by the wild look in his face (which the moonlight invested with a peculiar mottled pallor), and particularly in his eyes, which glittered like a madman’s. He tried to speak, but seemed to find a difficulty in doing so; and I had to question him roughly before he found his tongue. When he did speak, it was only to implore me in an odd, excited manner to give up the expedition and return.

‘What, now?’ I said, surprised. ‘Now we are here, Fresnoy?’

‘Ay, give it up!’ he cried, shaking me almost fiercely by the arm. ‘Give it up, man! It will end badly, I tell you! In God’s name, give it up, and go home before worse comes of it.’

‘Whatever comes of it,’ I answered coldly, shaking his grasp from my arm, and wondering much at this sudden fit of cowardice, ‘I go on. You, M. Fresnoy, may do as you please!’

He started and drew back from me; but he did not reply, nor did he speak again. When I presently went off to fetch a ladder, of the position of which I had made a note during the afternoon, he accompanied me, and followed me back in the same dull silence to the walk below the balcony. I had looked more than once and eagerly at mademoiselle’s window without any light or movement in that quarter rewarding my vigilance; but, undeterred by this, which might mean either that my plot was known, or that Mademoiselle de la Vire distrusted me, I set the ladder softly against the balcony, which was in deep shadow, and paused only to give Fresnoy his last instructions. These were simply to stand on guard at the foot of the ladder and defend it in case of surprise; so that, whatever happened inside the chateau, my retreat by the window might not be cut off.

Then I went cautiously up the ladder, and, with my sheathed sword in my left hand, stepped over the balustrade. Taking one pace forward, with fingers outstretched, I felt the leaded panes of the window and tapped softly.

As softly the casement gave way, and I followed it. A hand which I could see but not feel was laid on mine. All was darkness in the room, and before me, but the hand guided me two paces forward, then by a sudden pressure bade me stand. I heard the sound of a curtain being drawn behind me, and the next moment the cover of a rushlight was removed, and a feeble but sufficient light filled the chamber.

I comprehended that the drawing of that curtain over the window had cut off my retreat as effectually as if a door had been closed behind me. But distrust and suspicion gave way the next moment to the natural embarrassment of the man who finds himself in a false position and knows he can escape from it only by an awkward explanation.

The room in which I found myself was long, narrow, and low in the ceiling; and being hung with some dark stuff which swallowed up the light, terminated funereally at the farther end in the still deeper gloom of an alcove. Two or three huge chests, one bearing the remnants of a meal, stood against the walls. The middle of the floor was covered with a strip of coarse matting, on which a small table, a chair and foot-rest, and a couple of stools had place, with some smaller articles which lay scattered round a pair of half-filled saddle-bags. The slighter and smaller of the two figures I had seen stood beside the table, wearing a mask and riding cloak; and by her silent manner of gazing at me, as well as by a cold, disdainful bearing, which neither her mask nor cloak could hide, did more to chill and discomfit me than even my own knowledge that I had lost the pass-key which should have admitted me to her confidence.

The stouter figure of the afternoon turned out to be a red-cheeked, sturdy woman of thirty, with bright black eyes and a manner which lost nothing of its fierce impatience when she came a little later to address me. All my ideas of Fanchette were upset by the appearance of this woman, who, rustic in her speech and ways, seemed more like a duenna, than the waiting-maid of a court beauty, and better fitted to guard a wayward damsel than to aid her in such an escapade as we had in hand.

She stood slightly behind her mistress, her coarse red hand resting on the back of the chair from which mademoiselle had apparently risen on my entrance. For a few seconds, which seemed minutes to me, we stood gazing at one another in silence, mademoiselle acknowledging my bow by a slight movement of the head. Then, seeing that they waited for me to speak, I did so.

‘Mademoiselle de la Vire?’ I murmured doubtfully.

She bent her head again; that was all.

I strove to speak with confidence. ‘You will pardon me, mademoiselle,’ I said, ‘if I seem to be abrupt, but time is everything. The horses are standing within a hundred yards of the house, and all the preparations for your flight are made. If we leave now, we can do so without opposition. The delay even of an hour may lead to discovery.’

For answer she laughed behind her mask-laughed coldly and ironically. ‘You go too fast, sir,’ she said, her low clear voice matching the laugh and rousing a feeling almost of anger in my heart. ‘I do not know you; or, rather, I know nothing of you which should entitle you to interfere in my affairs. You are too quick to presume, sir. You say you come from a friend. From whom?’

‘From one whom I am proud to call by that title,’ I answered with what patience I might.

‘His name!’

I answered firmly that I could not give it. And I eyed her steadily as I did so.

This for the moment seemed to baffle and confuse her, but after a pause she continued: ‘Where do you propose to take me, sir?’

‘To Blois; to the lodging of a friend of my friend.’

‘You speak bravely,’ she replied with a faint sneer. ‘You have made some great friends lately it seems! But you bring me some letter, no doubt; at least some sign, some token, some warranty, that you are the person you pretend to be, M. de Marsac?’

‘The truth is, Mademoiselle,’ I stammered, ‘I must explain. I should tell you—’

‘Nay, sir,’ she cried impetuously, ‘there is no need of telling. If you have what I say, show it me! It is you who lose time. Let us have no more words!’

I had used very few words, and, God knows, was not in the mind to use many; but, being in the wrong, I had no answer to make except the truth, and that humbly. ‘I had such a token as you mention, mademoiselle,’ I said, ‘no farther back than this afternoon, in the shape of half a gold coin, entrusted to me by my friend. But, to my shame I say it, it was stolen from me a few hours back.’

‘Stolen from you!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes, mademoiselle; and for that reason I cannot show it,’ I answered.

‘You cannot show it? And you dare to come to me without it!’ she cried, speaking with a vehemence which fairly startled me, prepared as I was for reproaches. You come to me! You!’ she continued. And with that, scarcely stopping to take breath, she loaded me with abuse; calling me impertinent, a meddler, and a hundred other things, which I now blush to recall, and displaying in all a passion which even in her attendant would have surprised me, but in one so slight and seemingly delicate, overwhelmed and confounded me. In fault as I was, I could not understand the peculiar bitterness she displayed, or the contemptuous force of her language, and I stared at her in silent wonder until, of her own accord, she supplied the key to her feelings. In a fresh outburst of rage she snatched off her mask, and to my astonishment I saw before me the young maid of honour whom I had encountered in the King of Navarre’s antechamber, and whom I had been so unfortunate as to expose to the raillery of Mathurine.

‘Who has paid you, sir,’ she continued, clenching her small hands and speaking with tears of anger in her eyes, ‘to make me the laughing-stock of the Court? It was bad enough when I thought you the proper agent of those to whom I have a right to look for aid! It was bad enough when I thought myself forced, through their inconsiderate choice, to decide between an odious imprisonment and the ridicule to which your intervention must expose me! But that you should have dared, of your own notion, to follow me, you, the butt of the Court—’

‘Mademoiselle!’ I cried.

‘A needy, out-at-elbows adventurer!’ she persisted, triumphing in her cruelty. ‘It exceeds all bearing! It is not to be suffered! It—’

‘Nay, mademoiselle; you SHALL hear me!’ I cried, with a sternness which at last stopped her. ‘Granted I am poor, I am still a gentleman; yes, mademoiselle,’ I continued, firmly, ‘a gentleman, and the last of a family which has spoken with yours on equal terms. And I claim to be heard. I swear that when I came here to-night I believed you to be a perfect stranger! I was unaware that I had ever seen you, unaware that I had ever met you before.’

‘Then why did you come?’ she said viciously.

‘I was engaged to come by those whom you have mentioned, and there, and there only am I in fault. They entrusted to me a token which I have lost. For that I crave your pardon.’

‘You have need to,’ she answered bitterly, yet with a changed countenance, or I was mistaken, ‘if your story be true, sir.’

‘Ay, that you have!’ the woman beside her echoed.

‘Hoity toity, indeed! Here is a fuss about nothing. You call yourself a gentleman, and wear such a doublet as—’

‘Peace, Fanchette,’ mademoiselle said imperiously. And then for a moment she stood silent, eyeing me intently, her lips trembling with excitement and two red spots burning in her cheeks. It was clear from her dress and other things that she had made up her mind to fly had the token been forthcoming; and seeing this, and knowing how unwilling a young girl is to forgo her own way, I still had some hopes that she might not persevere in her distrust and refusal. And so it turned out.

Her manner had changed to one of quiet scorn when she next spoke. ‘You defend yourself skilfully, sir,’ she said, drumming with her fingers on the table and eyeing me steadfastly. ‘But can you give me any reason for the person you name making choice of such a messenger?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, boldly. ‘That he may not be suspected of conniving at your escape.’

‘Oh!’ she cried, with a spark of her former passion. ‘Then it is to be put about that Mademoiselle de la Vire had fled from Chize with M. de Marsac, is it? I thought that!’

‘Through the assistance of M. de Marsac,’ I retorted, correcting her coldly. ‘It is for you, mademoiselle,’ I continued, ‘to weigh that disadvantage against the unpleasantness of remaining here. It only remains for me to ask you to decide quickly. Time presses, and I have stayed here too long already.’

The words had barely passed my lips when they received unwelcome confirmation in the shape of a distant sound—the noisy closing of a door, which, clanging through the house at such an hour—I judged it to be after three o’clock—could scarcely mean anything but mischief. This noise was followed immediately, even while we stood listening with raised fingers, by other sounds—a muffled cry, and the tramp of heavy footsteps in a distant passage. Mademoiselle looked at me, and I at her woman. ‘The door!’ I muttered. ‘Is it locked?’

‘And bolted!’ Fanchette answered; ‘and a great chest set against it. Let them ramp; they will do no harm for a bit.’

‘Then you have still time, mademoiselle,’ I whispered, retreating a step and laying my hand on the curtain before the window. Perhaps I affected greater coolness than I felt. ‘It is not too late. If you choose to remain, well and good. I cannot help it. If, on the other hand, you decide to trust yourself to me, I swear, on the honour of a gentleman, to be worthy of the trust—to serve you truly and protect you to the last! I can say no more.’

She trembled, looking from me to the door, on which some one had just begun to knock loudly. That seemed to decide her. Her lips apart, her eyes full of excitement, she turned hastily to Fanchette.

‘Ay, go if you like,’ the woman answered doggedly, reading the meaning of her look. ‘There cannot be a greater villain than the one we know of. But once started, heaven help us, for if he overtakes us we’ll pay dearly for it!’

The girl did not speak herself, but it was enough. The noise at the door increased each second, and began to be mingled with angry appeals to Fanchette to open, and with threats in case she delayed. I cut the matter short by snatching up one of the saddle-bags—the other we left behind—and flung back the curtain which covered the window. At the same time the woman dashed out the light—a timely precaution—and throwing open the casement I stepped on to the balcony, the others following me closely.

The moon had risen high, and flooding with light the small open space about the house enabled me to see clearly all round the foot of the ladder, to my surprise Fresnoy was not at his post, nor was he to be seen anywhere; but as, at the moment I observed this, an outcry away to my left, at the rear of the chateau, came to my ears, and announced that the danger was no longer confined to the interior of the house, I concluded that he had gone that way to intercept the attack. Without more, therefore, I began to descend as quickly as I could, my sword under one arm and the bag under the other.

I was half-way down, and mademoiselle was already stepping on to the ladder to follow, when I heard footsteps below, and saw him run up, his sword in his hand.

‘Quick, Fresnoy!’ I cried. ‘To the horses and unfasten them! quick!’

I slid down the rest of the way, thinking he had gone to do my bidding. But my feet were scarcely on the ground when a tremendous blow in the side sent me staggering three paces from the ladder. The attack was so sudden, so unexpected, that but for the sight of Fresnoy’s scowling face, wild with rage, at my shoulder, and the sound of his fierce breathing as he strove to release his sword, which had passed through my saddle-bag, I might never have known who struck the blow, or how narrow had been my escape.

Fortunately the knowledge did come to me in time, and before he freed his blade; and it nerved my hand. To draw my-blade at such close quarters was impossible, but, dropping the bag which had saved my life, I dashed my hilt twice in his face with such violence that he fell backwards and lay on the turf, a dark stain growing and spreading on his upturned face.

It was scarcely done before the women reached the foot of the ladder and stood beside me. ‘Quick!’ I cried to them, ‘or they will be upon us.’ Seizing mademoiselle’s hand, just as half-a-dozen men came running round the corner of the house, I jumped with her down the haha, and, urging her to her utmost speed, dashed across the open ground which lay between us and the belt of trees. Once in the shelter of the latter, where our movements were hidden from view, I had still to free the horses and mount mademoiselle and her woman, and this in haste. But my companions’ admirable coolness and presence of mind, and the objection which our pursuers, who did not know our numbers, felt to leaving the open ground, enabled us to do all with, comparative ease. I sprang on the Cid (it has always been my habit to teach my horse to stand for me, nor do I know any accomplishment more serviceable at a pinch), and giving Fresnoy’s grey a cut over the flanks which despatched it ahead, led the way down the ride by which I had gained the chateau in the afternoon. I knew it to be level and clear of trees, and the fact that we chose it might throw our pursuers off the track for a time, by leading them to think we had taken the south road instead of that through the village.

We gained the road without let or hindrance, whence a sharp burst in the moonlight soon brought us to the village. Through this we swept on to the inn, almost running over the four evangelists, whom we found standing at the door ready for the saddle. I bade them, in a quick peremptory tone, to get to horse, and was overjoyed to see them obey without demur or word of Fresnoy. In another minute, with a great clatter of hoofs, we sprang clear of the hamlet, and were well on the road to Melle, with Poitiers some thirteen leagues before us. I looked back, and thought I discerned lights moving in the direction of the chateau; but the dawn was still two hours off, and the moonlight left me in doubt whether these were real or the creatures of my own fearful fancy.

I remember, three years before this time, on the occasion of the famous retreat from Angers—when the Prince of Conde had involved his army beyond the Loire, and saw himself, in the impossibility of recrossing the river, compelled to take ship for England, leaving every one to shift for himself—I well remember on that occasion riding, alone and pistol in hand, through more than thirty miles of the enemy’s country without drawing rein. But my anxieties were then confined to the four shoes of my horse. The dangers to which I was exposed at every ford and cross road were such as are inseparable from a campaign, and breed in generous hearts only a fierce pleasure, rarely to be otherwise enjoyed. And though I then rode warily, and where I could not carry terror, had all to fear myself, there was nothing secret or underhand in my business.

It was very different now. During the first few hours of our flight from Chize I experienced a painful excitement, an alarm, a feverish anxiety to get forward, which was new to me; which oppressed my spirits to the very ground; which led me to take every sound borne to us on the wind for the sound of pursuit, transforming the clang of a hammer on the anvil into the ring of swords, and the voices of my own men into those of the pursuers. It was in vain mademoiselle rode with a free hand, and leaping such obstacles as lay in our way, gave promise of courage and endurance beyond my expectations. I could think of nothing but the three long day’s before us, with twenty-four hours to every day, and each hour fraught with a hundred chances of disaster and ruin.

In fact, the longer I considered our position—and as we pounded along, now splashing through a founderous hollow, now stumbling as we wound over a stony shoulder, I had ample time to reflect upon it—the greater seemed the difficulties before us. The loss of Fresnoy, while it freed me from some embarrassment, meant also the loss of a good sword, and we had mustered only too few before. The country which lay between us and the Loire, being the borderland between our party and the League, had been laid desolate so often as to be abandoned to pillage and disorder of every kind. The peasants had flocked into the towns. Their places had been taken by bands of robbers and deserters from both parties, who haunted the ruined villages about Poitiers, and preyed upon all who dared to pass. To add to our perils, the royal army under the Duke of Nevers was reported to be moving slowly southward, not very far to the left of our road; while a Huguenot expedition against Niort was also in progress within a few leagues of us.

With four staunch and trustworthy comrades at my back, I might have faced even this situation with a smile and a light heart; but the knowledge that my four knaves might mutiny at any moment, or, worse still, rid themselves of me and all restraint by a single treacherous blow such as Fresnoy had aimed at me, filled me with an ever-present dread; which it taxed my utmost energies to hide from them, and which I strove in vain to conceal from mademoiselle’s keener vision.

Whether it was this had an effect upon her, giving her a meaner opinion of me than that which I had for a while hoped she entertained, or that she began, now it was too late, to regret her flight and resent my part in it, I scarcely know; but from daybreak onwards she assumed an attitude of cold suspicion towards me, which was only less unpleasant than the scornful distance of her manner when she deigned, which was seldom, to address me.

Not once did she allow me to forget that I was in her eyes a needy adventurer, paid by her friends to escort her to a place of safety, but without any claim to the smallest privilege of intimacy or equality. When I would have adjusted her saddle, she bade her woman come and hold up her skirt, that my hands might not touch its hem even by accident. And when I would have brought wine to her at Melle, where we stayed for twenty minutes, she called Fanchette to hand it to her. She rode for the most part in her mask; and with her woman. One good effect only her pride and reserve had; they impressed our men with a strong sense of her importance, and the danger to which any interference with her might expose them.

The two men whom Fresnoy had enlisted I directed to ride a score of paces in advance. Luke and John I placed in the rear. In this manner I thought to keep them somewhat apart. For myself, I proposed to ride abreast of mademoiselle, but she made it so clear that my neighbourhood displeased her that I fell back, leaving her to ride with Fanchette; and contented myself with plodding at their heels, and striving to attach the later evangelists to my interests.

We were so fortunate, despite my fears, as to find the road nearly deserted—as, alas, was much of the country on either side—and to meet none but small parties travelling along it; who were glad enough, seeing the villainous looks of our outriders, to give us a wide berth, and be quit of us for the fright. We skirted Lusignan, shunning the streets, but passing near enough for me to point out to mademoiselle the site of the famous tower built, according to tradition, by the fairy Melusina, and rased thirteen years back by the Leaguers. She received my information so frigidly, however, that I offered no more, but fell back shrugging my shoulders, and rode in silence, until, some two hours after noon, the city of Poitiers came into sight, lying within its circle of walls and towers on a low hill in the middle of a country clothed in summer with rich vineyards, but now brown and bare and cheerless to the eye.

Fanchette turned and asked me abruptly if that were Poitiers.

I answered that it was, but added that for certain reasons I proposed not to halt, but to lie at a village a league beyond the city, where there was a tolerable inn.

‘We shall do very well here,’ the woman answered rudely. ‘Any way, my lady will go no farther. She is tired and cold, and wet besides, and has gone far enough.’

‘Still,’ I answered, nettled by the woman’s familiarity, ‘I think mademoiselle will change her mind when she hears my reasons for going farther.’

‘Mademoiselle does not wish to hear them, sir,’ the lady replied herself, and very sharply.

‘Nevertheless, I think you had better hear them,’ I persisted, turning to her respectfully. ‘You see, mademoiselle—’

‘I see only one thing, sir,’ she exclaimed, snatching off her mask and displaying a countenance beautiful indeed, but flushed for the moment with anger and impatience, ‘that, whatever betides, I stay at Poitiers to-night.’

‘If it would content you to rest an hour?’ I suggested gently.

‘It will not content me!’ she rejoined with spirit. ‘And let me tell you, sir,’ she went on impetuously, ‘once for all, that you take too much upon yourself. You are here to escort me, and to give orders to these ragamuffins, for they are nothing better, with whom you have thought fit to disgrace our company; but not to give orders to me or to control my movements. Confine yourself for the future, sir, to your duties, if you please.’

‘I desire only to obey you,’ I answered, suppressing the angry feelings which rose in my breast, and speaking as coolly as lay in my power. ‘But, as the first of my duties is to provide for your safety, I am determined to omit nothing which can conduce to that end. You have not considered that, if a party in pursuit of us reaches Poitiers to-night, search will be made for us in the city, and we shall be taken. If, on the other hand, we are known to have passed through, the hunt may go no farther; certainly will go no farther to-night. Therefore we must not, mademoiselle,’ I added firmly, ‘lie in Poitiers to-night.’

‘Sir,’ she exclaimed, looking at me, her face crimson with wonder and indignation, ‘do you dare to—?’

‘I dare do my duty, mademoiselle,’ I answered, plucking up a spirit, though my heart was sore. ‘I am a man old enough to be your father, and with little to lose, or I had not been here. I care nothing what you think or what you say of me, provided I can do what I have undertaken to do and place you safely in the hands of your friends. But enough, mademoiselle, we are at the gate. If you will permit me, I will ride through the streets beside you. We shall so attract less attention.’

Without waiting for a permission which she was very unlikely to give, I pushed my horse forward, and took my place beside her, signing to Fanchette to fall back. The maid obeyed, speechless with indignation; while mademoiselle flashed a scathing glance at me and looked round in helpless anger, as though it was in her mind to appeal against me even to the passers-by. But she thought better of it, and contenting herself with muttering the word ‘Impertinent’ put on her mask with fingers which trembled, I fancy, not a little.

A small rain was falling and the afternoon was well advanced when we entered the town, but I noticed that, notwithstanding this, the streets presented a busy and animated appearance, being full of knots of people engaged in earnest talk. A bell was tolling somewhere, and near the cathedral a crowd of no little size was standing, listening to a man who seemed to be rending a placard or manifesto attached to the wall. In another place a soldier, wearing the crimson colours of the League, but splashed and stained as with recent travel, was holding forth to a breathless circle who seemed to hang upon his lips. A neighbouring corner sheltered a handful of priests who whispered together with gloomy faces. Many stared at us as we passed, and some would have spoken; but I rode steadily on, inviting no converse. Nevertheless at the north gate I got a rare fright; for, though it wanted a full half-hour of sunset, the porter was in the act of closing it. Seeing us, he waited grumbling until we came up, and then muttered, in answer to my remonstrance, something about queer times and wilful people having their way. I took little notice of what he said, however, being anxious only to get through the gate and leave as few traces of our passage as might be.

As soon as we were outside the town I fell back, permitting Fanchette to take my place. For another league, a long and dreary one, we plodded on in silence, horses and men alike jaded and sullen, and the women scarcely able to keep their saddles for fatigue. At last, much to my relief, seeing that I began to fear I had taxed mademoiselle’s strength too far, the long low buildings of the inn at which I proposed to stay came in sight, at the crossing of the road and river. The place looked blank and cheerless, for the dusk was thickening; but as we trailed one by one into the courtyard a stream of firelight burst on us from doors and windows, and a dozen sounds of life and comfort greeted our ears.

Noticing that mademoiselle was benumbed and cramped with long sitting, I would have helped her to dismount; but she fiercely rejected my aid, and I had to content myself with requesting the landlord to assign the best accommodation he had to the lady and her attendant, and secure as much privacy for them as possible. The man assented very civilly and said all should be done; but I noticed that his eyes wandered while I talked, and that he seemed to have something on his mind. When he returned, after disposing of them, it came out.

‘Did you ever happen to see him, sir?’ he asked with a sigh; yet was there a smug air of pleasure mingled with his melancholy.

‘See whom?’ I answered, staring at him, for neither of us had mentioned any one.

‘The Duke, sir.’

I stared again between wonder and suspicion. ‘The Duke of Nevers is not in this part, is he?’ I said slowly. ‘I heard he was on the Brittany border, away to the westward.’

‘Mon Dieu!’ my host exclaimed, raising his hands in astonishment. ‘You have not heard, sir?’

‘I have heard nothing,’ I answered impatiently.

‘You have not heard, sir, that the most puissant and illustrious lord the Duke of Guise is dead?’

‘M. de Guise dead? It is not true!’ I cried astonished.

He nodded, however, several times with an air of great importance, and seemed as if he would have gone on to give me some particulars. But, remembering, as I fancied, that he spoke in the hearing of half-a-dozen guests who sat about the great fire behind me, and had both eyes and ears open, he contented himself with shifting his towel to his other arm and adding only, ‘Yes, sir, dead as any nail. The news came through here yesterday, and made a pretty stir. It happened at Blois the day but one before Christmas, if all be true.’

I was thunderstruck. This was news which might change the face of France. ‘How did it happen?’ I asked.

My host covered his mouth with his hand and coughed, and, privily twitching my sleeve, gave me to understand with some shamefacedness that he could not say more in public. I was about to make some excuse to retire with him, when a harsh voice, addressed apparently to me, caused me to turn sharply. I found at my elbow a tall thin-faced monk in the habit of the Jacobin order. He had risen from his seat beside the fire, and seemed to be labouring under great excitement.

‘Who asked how it happened?’ he cried, rolling his eyes in a kind of frenzy, while still observant, or I was much mistaken, of his listeners. Is there a man in France to whom the tale has not been told? Is there?’

‘I will answer for one,’ I replied, regarding him with little favour. ‘I have heard nothing.’

‘Then you shall! Listen!’ he exclaimed, raising his right hand and brandishing it as though he denounced a person then present. ‘Hear my accusation, made in the name of Mother Church and the saints against the arch hypocrite, the perjurer and assassin sitting in high places! He shall be Anathema Maranatha, for he has shed the blood of the holy and the pure, the chosen of Heaven! He shall go down to the pit, and that soon. The blood that he has shed shall be required of him, and that before he is one year older.’

‘Tut-tut. All that sounds very fine, good father,’ I said, waxing impatient, and a little scornful; for I saw that he was one of those wandering and often crazy monks in whom the League found their most useful emissaries. ‘But I should profit more by your gentle words, if I knew whom you were cursing.’

‘The man of blood!’ he cried; ‘through whom the last but not the least of God’s saints and martyrs entered into glory on the Friday before Christmas.’

Moved by such profanity, and judging him, notwithstanding the extravagance of his words and gestures, to be less mad than he seemed, and at least as much knave as fool, I bade him sternly have done with his cursing, and proceed to his story if he had one.

He glowered at me for a moment, as though he were minded to launch his spiritual weapons at my head; but as I returned his glare with an unmoved eye—and my four rascals, who were as impatient as myself to learn the news, and had scarce more reverence for a shaven crown, began to murmur—he thought better of it, and cooling as suddenly as he had flamed up, lost no more time in satisfying our curiosity.

It would ill become me, however, to set down the extravagant and often blasphemous harangue in which, styling M. de Guise the martyr of God, he told the story now so familiar—the story of that dark wintry morning at Blois, when the king’s messenger, knocking early at the duke’s door, bade him hurry, for the king wanted him. The story is trite enough now. When I heard it first in the inn on the Clain, it was all new and all marvellous.

The monk, too, telling the story as if he had seen the events with his own eyes, omitted nothing which might impress his hearers. He told us how the duke received warning after warning, and answered in the very antechamber, ‘He dare not!’ How his blood, mysteriously advised of coming dissolution, grew chill, and his eye, wounded at Chateau Thierry, began to run, so that he had to send for the handkerchief he had forgotten to bring. He told us, even, how the duke drew his assassins up and down the chamber, how he cried for mercy, and how he died at last at the foot of the king’s bed, and how the king, who had never dared to face him living, came and spurned him dead!

There were pale faces round the fire when he ceased, and bent brows and lips hard pressed together. Then he stood and cursed the King of France—cursing him openly by the name of Henry of Valois, a thing I had never looked to hear in France—though no one said ‘Amen,’ and all glanced over their shoulders, and our host pattered from the room as if he had seen a ghost, it seemed to be no man’s duty to gainsay him.

For myself, I was full of thoughts which it would have been unsafe to utter in that company or so near the Loire. I looked back sixteen years. Who but Henry of Guise had spurned the corpse of Coligny? And who but Henry of Valois had backed him in the act? Who but Henry of Guise had drenched Paris with blood, and who but Henry of Valois had ridden by his side? One 23rd of the month—a day never to be erased from France’s annals—had purchased for him a term of greatness. A second 23rd saw him, pay the price—saw his ashes cast secretly and by night no man knows where!

Moved by such thoughts, and observing that the priest was going the round of the company collecting money for masses for the duke’s soul, to which object I could neither give with a good conscience nor refuse without exciting suspicion, I slipped out; and finding a man of decent appearance talking with the landlord in a small room beside the kitchen, I called for a flask of the best wine, and by means of that introduction obtained my supper in their company.

The stranger was a Norman horsedealer, returning home, after disposing of his string. He seemed to be in a large way of business, and being of a bluff, independent spirit, as many of those Norman townsmen are, was inclined at first to treat me with more familiarity than respect; the fact of my nag, for which he would have chaffered, excelling my coat in quality, leading him to set me down as a steward or intendant. The pursuit of his trade, however, had brought him into connection with all classes of men and he quickly perceived his mistake; and as he knew the provinces between the Seine and Loire to perfection, and made it part of his business to foresee the chances of peace and war, I obtained a great amount of information from him, and indeed conceived no little liking for him. He believed that the assassination of M. de Guise would alienate so much of France from the king that his majesty would have little left save the towns on the Loire, and some other places lying within easy reach of his court at Blois.

‘But,’ I said, ‘things seem quiet now. Here, for instance.’

‘It is the calm before the storm,’ he answered. ‘There is a monk in there. Have you heard him?’

I nodded.

‘He is only one among a hundred—a thousand,’ the horsedealer continued, looking at me and nodding with meaning. He was a brown-haired man with shrewd grey eyes, such as many Normans have. ‘They will get their way too, you will see,’ he went on. ‘Well, horses will go up, so I have no cause to grumble; but, if I were on my way to Blois with women or gear of that kind, I should not choose this time for picking posies on the road. I should see the inside of the gates as soon as possible.’

I thought there was much in what he said; and when he went on to maintain that the king would find himself between the hammer and the anvil—between the League holding all the north and the Huguenots holding all the south—and must needs in time come to terms with the latter seeing that the former would rest content with nothing short of his deposition, I began to agree with him that we should shortly see great changes and very stirring times.

‘Still if they depose the king,’ I said, ‘the King of Navarre must succeed him. He is the heir of France.’

‘Bah!’ my companion replied somewhat contemptuously. ‘The League will see to that. He goes with the other.’

‘Then the kings are in one cry, and you are right,’ I said with conviction. ‘They must unite.’

‘So they will. It is only a question of time,’ he said.

In the morning, having only one man with him, and, as I guessed, a considerable sum of money, he volunteered to join our party as far as Blois. I assented gladly, and he did so, this addition to our numbers ridding me at once of the greater part of my fears. I did not expect any opposition on the part of mademoiselle, who would gain in consequence as well as in safety. Nor did she offer any. She was content, I think, to welcome any addition to our party which would save her from the necessity of riding in the company of my old cloak.

Travelling by way of Chatelherault and Tours, we reached the neighbourhood of Blois a little after noon on the third day without misadventure or any intimation of pursuit. The Norman proved himself a cheerful companion on the road, as I already knew him to be a man of sense and shrewdness while his presence rendered the task of keeping my men in order an easy one. I began to consider the adventure as practically achieved; and regarding Mademoiselle de la Vire as already in effect transferred to the care of M. de Rosny, I ventured to turn my thoughts to the development of my own plans and the choice of a haven in which I might rest secure from the vengeance of M. de Turenne.

For the moment I had evaded his pursuit, and, assisted by the confusion caused everywhere by the death of Guise had succeeded in thwarting his plans and affronting his authority with seeming ease. But I knew too much of his power and had heard too many instances of his fierce temper and resolute will to presume on short impunity or to expect the future with anything but diffidence and dismay.

The exclamations of my companions on coming within sight of Blois aroused me from these reflections. I joined them, and fully shared their emotion as I gazed on the stately towers which had witnessed so many royal festivities, and, alas! one royal tragedy; which had sheltered Louis the Well-beloved and Francis the Great, and rung with the laughter of Diana of Poitiers and the second Henry. The play of fancy wreathed the sombre building with a hundred memories grave and gay. But, though the rich plain of the Loire still swelled upward as of old in gentle homage at the feet of the gallant town, the shadow of crime seemed to darken all, and dim even the glories of the royal standard which hung idly in the air.

We had heard so many reports of the fear and suspicion which reigned in the city and of the strict supervision which was exercised over all who entered—the king dreading a repetition of the day of the Barricades—that we halted at a little inn a mile short of the gate and broke up our company. I parted from my Norman friend with mutual expressions of esteem, and from my own men, whom I had paid off in the morning, complimenting each of them with a handsome present, with a feeling of relief equally sincere. I hoped—but the hope was not fated to be gratified—that I might never see the knaves again.

It wanted less than an hour of sunset when I rode up to the gate, a few paces in front of mademoiselle and her woman; as if I had really been the intendant for whom the horse-dealer had mistaken me. We found the guardhouse lined with soldiers, who scanned us very narrowly as we approached, and whose stern features and ordered weapons showed that they were not there for mere effect. The fact, however, that we came from Tours, a city still in the king’s hands, served to allay suspicion, and we passed without accident.

Once in the streets, and riding in single file between the houses, to the windows of which the townsfolk seemed to be attracted by the slightest commotion, so full of terror was the air, I experienced a moment of huge relief. This was Blois—Blois at last. We were within a few score yards of the Bleeding Heart. In a few minutes I should receive a quittance, and be free to think only of myself.

Nor was my pleasure much lessened by the fact that I was so soon to part from Mademoiselle de la Vire. Frankly, I was far from liking her. Exposure to the air of a court had spoiled, it seemed to me, whatever graces of disposition the young lady had ever possessed. She still maintained, and had maintained throughout the journey, the cold and suspicious attitude assumed at starting; nor had she ever expressed the least solicitude on my behalf, or the slightest sense that we were incurring danger in her service. She had not scrupled constantly to prefer her whims to the common advantage, and even safety; while her sense of self-importance had come to be so great, that she seemed to hold herself exempt from the duty of thanking any human creature. I could not deny that she was beautiful—indeed, I often thought, when watching her, of the day when I had seen her in the King of Navarre’s antechamber in all the glory of her charms. But I felt none the less that I could turn my back on her—leaving her in safety—without regret; and be thankful that her path would never again cross mine.

With such thoughts in my breast I turned the corner of the Rue de St. Denys and came at once upon the Bleeding Heart, a small but decent-looking hostelry situate near the end of the street and opposite a church. A bluff grey-haired man, who was standing in the doorway, came forward as we halted, and looking curiously at mademoiselle asked what I lacked; adding civilly that the house was full and they had no sleeping room, the late events having drawn a great assemblage to Blois.

‘I want only an address,’ I answered, leaning from the saddle and speaking in a low voice that I might not be overheard by the passers-by. ‘The Baron de Rosny is in Blois, is he not?’

The man started at the name of the Huguenot leader, and looked round him nervously. But, seeing that no one was very near us, he answered: ‘He was, sir; but he left town a week ago and more. ‘There have been strange doings here, and M. de Rosny thought that the climate suited him ill.’

He said this with so much meaning, as well as concern that he should not be overheard, that, though I was taken aback and bitterly disappointed, I succeeded in restraining all exclamations and even show of feeling. After a pause of dismay, I asked whither M. de Rosny had gone.

‘To Rosny,’ was the answer.

‘And Rosny?’

‘Is beyond Chartres, pretty well all the way to Mantes,’ the man answered, stroking my horse’s neck. ‘Say thirty leagues.’

I turned my horse, and hurriedly communicated what he said to mademoiselle, who was waiting a few paces away. Unwelcome to me, the news was still less welcome to her. Her chagrin and indignation knew no bounds. For a moment words failed her, but her flashing eyes said more than her tongue as she cried to me: ‘Well, sir, and what now? Is this the end of your fine promises? Where is your Rosny, if all be not a lying invention of your own?’

Feeling that she had some excuse I suppressed my choler, and humbly repeating that Rosny was at his house, two days farther on, and that I could see nothing for it but to go to him, I asked the landlord where we could find a lodging for the night.

‘Indeed, sir, that is more than I can say,’ he answered, looking curiously at us, and thinking, I doubt not, that with my shabby cloak and fine horse, and mademoiselle’s mask and spattered riding-coat, we were an odd couple. ‘There is not an inn which is not full to the garrets—nay, and the stables; and, what is more, people are chary of taking strangers in. These are strange times. They say,’ be continued in a lower tone, ‘that the old queen is dying up there, and will not last the night.’

I nodded. ‘We must go somewhere’ I said.

‘I would help you if I could,’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders. ‘But there it is! Blois is full from the tiles to the cellars.’

My horse shivered under me, and mademoiselle, whose patience was gone, cried harshly to me to do something. ‘We cannot spend the night in the streets,’ she said fiercely.

I saw that she was worn out and scarcely mistress of herself. The light was falling, and with it some rain. The reek of the kennels and the close air from the houses seemed to stifle us. The bell at the church behind us was jangling out vespers. A few people, attracted by the sight of our horses standing before the inn, had gathered round and were watching us.

Something I saw must be done, and done quickly. In despair, and seeing no other resort, I broached a proposal of which I had not hitherto even dreamed. ‘Mademoiselle,’ I said bluntly, ‘I must take you to my mother’s.’

‘To your mother’s, sir?’ she cried, rousing herself. Her voice rang with haughty surprise.

‘Yes,’ I replied brusquely; ‘since, as you say, we cannot spend the night in the streets, and I do not know where else I can dispose of you. From the last advices I had I believe her to have followed the court hither. My friend,’ I continued, turning to the landlord, ‘do you know by name a Madame de Bonne, who should be in Blois?’

‘A Madame de Bonne!’ he muttered, reflecting. ‘I have heard the name lately. Wait a moment.’ Disappearing into the house, he returned almost immediately, followed by a lanky pale-faced youth wearing a tattered black soutane. ‘Yes,’ he said nodding, ‘there is a worthy lady of that name lodging in the next street, I am told. As it happens, this young man lives in the same house, and will guide you, if you like.’

I assented, and, thanking him for his information, turned my horse and requested the youth to lead the way. We had scarcely passed the corner of the street, however, and entered one somewhat more narrow and less frequented, when mademoiselle, who was riding behind me, stopped and called to me. I drew rein, and, turning, asked what it was.

‘I am not coming,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly, but whether with alarm or anger I could not determine. ‘I know nothing of you, and I—I demand to be taken to M. de Rosny.’

‘If you cry that name aloud in the streets of Blois, mademoiselle,’ I retorted, ‘you are like enough to be taken whither you will not care to go! As for M. de Rosny, I have told you that he is not here. He has gone to his seat at Mantes.’

‘Then take me to him!’

‘At this hour of the night?’ I said drily. ‘It is two days’ journey from here.’

‘Then I will go to an inn,’ she replied sullenly.

‘You have heard that there is no room in the inns’ I rejoined with what patience I could. ‘And to go from inn to inn at this hour might lead us into trouble. I can assure you that I am as much taken aback by M. de Rosny’s absence as you are. For the present, we are close to my mother’s lodging, and—’

‘I know nothing of your mother!’ she exclaimed passionately, her voice raised. ‘You have enticed me hither by false pretences, sir, and I will endure it no longer. I will—’

‘What you will do, I do not know then, mademoiselle,’ I replied, quite at my wits’ end; for what with the rain and the darkness, the unknown streets—in which our tarrying might at any moment collect a crowd—and this stubborn girl’s opposition, I knew not whither to turn. ‘For my part I can suggest nothing else. It does not become me to speak of my mother,’ I continued, ‘or I might say that even Mademoiselle de la Vire need not be ashamed to accept the hospitality of Madame de Bonne. Nor are my mother’s circumstances,’ I added proudly, ‘though narrow, so mean as to deprive her of the privileges of her birth.’

My last words appeared to make some impression upon my companion. She turned and spoke to her woman, who replied in a low voice, tossing her head the while and glaring at me in speechless indignation. Had there been anything else for it, they would doubtless have flouted my offer still; but apparently Fanchette could suggest nothing, and presently mademoiselle, with a sullen air, bade me lead on.

Taking this for permission, the lanky youth in the black soutane, who had remained at my bridle throughout the discussion, now listening and now staring, nodded and resumed his way; and I followed. After proceeding a little more than fifty yards he stopped before a mean-looking doorway, flanked by grated windows, and fronted by a lofty wall which I took to be the back of some nobleman’s garden. The street at this point was unlighted, and little better than an alley; nor was the appearance of the house, which was narrow and ill-looking, though lofty, calculated, as far as I could make it out is the darkness, to allay mademoiselle’s suspicions. Knowing, however, that people of position are often obliged in towns to lodge in poor houses, I thought nothing of this, and only strove to get mademoiselle dismounted as quickly as possible. The lad groped about and found two rings beside the door, and to these I tied up the horses. Then, bidding him lead the way, and begging mademoiselle to follow, I plunged into the darkness of the passage and felt my way to the foot of the staircase, which was entirely unlighted, and smelled close and unpleasant.

‘Which floor?’ I asked my guide.

‘The fourth,’ he answered quietly.

‘Morbleu!’ I muttered, as I began to ascend, my hand on the wall. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

For I was perplexed. The revenues of Marsac, though small, should have kept my mother, whom I had last seen in Paris before the Nemours edict, in tolerable comfort—such modest comfort, at any rate, as could scarcely be looked for in such a house as this—obscure, ill-tended, unlighted. To my perplexity was added, before I reached the top of the stairs, disquietude—disquietude on her account as well as on mademoiselle’s. I felt that something was wrong, and would have given much to recall the invitation I had pressed on the latter.

What the young lady thought herself I could pretty well guess, as I listened to her hurried breathing at my shoulder. With every step I expected her to refuse to go farther. But, having once made up her mind, she followed me stubbornly, though the darkness was such that involuntarily I loosened my dagger, and prepared to defend myself should this turn out to be a trap.

We reached the top, however, without accident. Our guide knocked softly at a door and immediately opened it without waiting for an answer. A feeble light shone out on the stair-head, and bending my head, for the lintel was low, I stepped into the room.

I advanced two paces and stood looking about me in angry bewilderment. The bareness of extreme poverty marked everything on which my eyes rested. A cracked earthenware lamp smoked and sputtered on a stool in the middle of the rotting floor. An old black cloak nailed to the wall, and flapping to and fro in the draught like some dead gallowsbird, hung in front of the unglazed window. A jar in a corner caught the drippings from a hole in the roof. An iron pot and a second stool—the latter casting a long shadow across the floor—stood beside the handful of wood ashes, which smouldered on the hearth. And that was all the furniture I saw, except a bed which filled the farther end of the long narrow room, and was curtained off so as to form a kind of miserable alcove.

A glance sufficed to show me all this, and that the room was empty, or apparently empty. Yet I looked again and again, stupefied. At last finding my voice, I turned to the young man who had brought us hither, and with a fierce oath demanded of him what he meant.

He shrank back behind the open door, and yet; answered with a kind of sullen surprise that I had asked for Madame de Bonne’s, and this was it.

‘Madame de Bonne’s!’ I muttered. ‘This Madame de Bonne’s!’

He nodded.

‘Of course it is! And you know it!’ mademoiselle hissed in my ear, her voice, as she interposed, hoarse with passion. ‘Don’t think that you can deceive us any longer. We know all! This,’ she continued, looking round, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes ablaze with scorn, ‘is your mother’s, is it! Your mother who has followed the court hither—whose means are narrow, but not so small as to deprive her of the privileges of her rank! This is your mother’s hospitality, is it? You are a cheat, sir! and a detected cheat! Let us begone! Let me go, sir, I say!’

Twice I had tried to stop the current of her words; but in vain. Now with anger which surpassed hers a hundredfold—for who, being a man, would hear himself misnamed before his mother?—I succeeded, ‘Silence, mademoiselle!’ I cried, my grasp on her wrist. ‘Silence, I say! This is my mother!’

And running forward to the bed, I fell on my knees beside it. A feeble hand had half withdrawn the curtain, and through the gap my mother’s stricken face looked out, a great fear stamped upon it.

For some minutes I forgot mademoiselle in paying those assiduous attentions to my mother which her state and my duty demanded; and which I offered the more anxiously that I recognised, with a sinking heart, the changes which age and illness had made in her since my last visit. The shock of mademoiselle’s words had thrown her into a syncope, from which she did not recover for some time; and then rather through the assistance of our strange guide, who seemed well aware what to do, than through my efforts. Anxious as I was to learn what had reduced her to such straits and such a place, this was not the time to satisfy my curiosity, and I prepared myself instead for the task of effacing the painful impression which mademoiselle’s words had made on her mind.

On first coming to herself she did not remember them, but, content to find me by her side—for there is something so alchemic in a mother’s love that I doubt not my presence changed her garret to a palace—she spent herself in feeble caresses and broken words. Presently, however, her eye falling on mademoiselle and her maid, who remained standing by the hearth, looking darkly at us from time to time, she recalled, first the shock which had prostrated her, and then its cause, and raising herself on her elbow, looked about her wildly. ‘Gaston!’ she cried, clutching my hand with her thin fingers, ‘what was it I heard? It was of you someone spoke—a woman! She called you—or did I dream it?—a cheat! You!’

‘Madame, madame,’ I said, striving to speak carelessly, though the sight; of her grey hair, straggling and dishevelled, moved me strangely, ‘was it; likely? Would anyone dare to use such expressions of me is your presence? You must indeed have dreamed it!’

The words, however, returning more and more vividly to her mind, she looked at me very pitifully, and in great agitation laid her arm on my neck, as though she would shelter me with the puny strength which just enabled her to rise in bed. ‘But someone,’ she muttered, her eyes on the strangers, ‘said it, Gaston? I heard it. What did it mean?’

‘What you heard, madame,’ I answered, with an attempt at gaiety, though the tears stood in my eyes, ‘was, doubtless, mademoiselle here scolding our guide from Tours, who demanded three times the proper POURBOIRE. The impudent rascal deserved all that was said to him, I assure you.’

‘Was that it?’ she murmured doubtfully.

‘That must have been what you heard, madame,’ I answered, as if I felt no doubt.

She fell back with a sigh of relief, and a little colour came into her wan face. But her eyes still dwelt curiously, and with apprehension, on mademoiselle, who stood looking sullenly into the fire; and seeing this my heart misgave me sorely that I had done a foolish thing in bringing the girl there. I foresaw a hundred questions which would be asked, and a hundred complications which must ensue, and felt already the blush of shame mounting to my cheek.

‘Who is that?’ my mother asked softly. ‘I am ill. She must excuse me.’ She pointed with her fragile finger to my companions.

I rose, and still keeping her hand in mine, turned so as to face the hearth. ‘This, madame,’ I answered formally, ‘is Mademoiselle—, but her name I will commit to you later, and in private. Suffice it to say that she is a lady of rank, who has been committed to my charge by a high personage.’

‘A high personage?’ my mother repeated gently, glancing at me with a smile of gratification.

‘One of the highest,’ I said, ‘Such a charge being a great honour to me, I felt that I could not better execute it madame, since we must lie in Blois one night, than by requesting your hospitality on her behalf.’

I dared mademoiselle as I spoke—I dared her with my eye to contradict or interrupt me. For answer, she looked at me once, inclining her head a little, and gazing at us from under her long eyelashes. Then she turned back to the fire, and her foot resumed its angry tapping on the floor.

‘I regret that I cannot receive her better,’ my mother answered feebly. ‘I have had losses of late. I—but I will speak of that at another time. Mademoiselle doubtless knows,’ she continued with dignity, ‘you and your position in the south too well to think ill of the momentary straits to which she finds me reduced.’

I saw mademoiselle start, and I writhed under the glance of covert scorn, of amazed indignation, which she shot at me. But my mother gently patting my hand, I answered patiently, ‘Mademoiselle will think only what is kind, madame—of that I am assured. And lodgings are scarce to-night in Blois.’

‘But tell me of yourself, Gaston,’ my mother cried eagerly; and I had not the heart, with her touch on my hand, her eyes on my face, to tear myself away, much as I dreaded what was coming, and longed to end the scene. ‘Tell me of yourself. You are still in favour with the king of—I will not name him here?’

‘Still, madame,’ I answered, looking steadily at mademoiselle, though my face burned.

‘You are still—he consults you, Gaston?’

‘Still, madame.’

My mother heaved a happy sigh, and sank lower in the bed. ‘And your employments?’ she murmured, her voice trembling with gratification. ‘They have not been reduced? You still retain them, Gaston?’

‘Still, madame,’ I answered, the perspiration standing on my brow, my shame almost more than I could bear.

‘Twelve thousand livres a year, I think?’

‘The same, madame.’

‘And your establishment? How many do you keep now? Your valet, of course? And lackeys—how many at present?’ She glanced, with an eye of pride, while she waited for my answer, first at the two silent figures by the fire, then at the poverty-stricken room; as if the sight of its bareness heightened for her the joy of my prosperity.

She had no suspicion of my trouble, my misery, or that the last question almost filled the cup too full. Hitherto all had been easy, but this seemed to choke me. I stammered and lost my voice. Mademoiselle, her head bowed, was gazing into the fire. Fanchette was staring at me, her black eyes round as saucers, her mouth half-open. ‘Well, madame,’ I muttered at length, ‘to tell you the truth, at present, you must understand, I have been forced to—’

‘What, Gaston?’ Madame de Bonne half rose in bed. Her voice was sharp with disappointment and apprehension; the grasp of her fingers on my hand grew closer.

I could not resist that appeal. I flung away the last rag of shame. ‘To reduce my establishment somewhat,’ I answered, looking a miserable defiance at mademoiselle’s averted figure. She had called me a liar and a cheat—here in the room! I must stand before her a liar and a cheat confessed. ‘I keep but three lackeys now, madame.’

Still it is creditable,’ my mother muttered thoughtfully, her eyes shining. ‘Your dress, however, Gaston—only my eyes are weak—seems to me—’

‘Tut, tut! It is but a disguise,’ I answered quickly.

‘I might have known that,’ she rejoined, sinking back with a smile and a sigh of content. ‘But when I first saw you I was almost afraid that something had happened to you. And I have been uneasy lately,’ she went on, releasing my hand, and beginning to play with the coverlet, as though the remembrance troubled her. ‘There was a man here a while ago—a friend of Simon Fleix there—who had been south to Pau and Nerac, and he said there was no M. de Marsac about the Court.’

‘He probably knew less of the Court than the wine-tavern,’ I answered with a ghastly smile.

‘That was just what I told him,’ my mother responded quickly and eagerly. ‘I warrant you I sent him away ill-satisfied.’

‘Of course,’ I said; ‘there will always be people of that kind. But now, if you will permit me, madame, I will make such arrangements for mademoiselle as are necessary.’

Begging her accordingly to lie down and compose herself—for even so short a conversation, following on the excitement of our arrival, had exhausted her to a painful degree—I took the youth, who had just returned from stabling our horses, a little aside, and learning that he lodged in a smaller chamber on the farther side of the landing, secured it for the use of mademoiselle and her woman. In spite of a certain excitability which marked him at times, he seemed to be a quick, ready fellow, and he willingly undertook to go out, late as it was, and procure some provisions and a few other things which were sadly needed, as well for my mother’s comfort as for our own. I directed Fanchette to aid him in the preparation of the other chamber, and thus for a while I was left alone with mademoiselle. She had taken one of the stools, and sat cowering over the fire, the hood of her cloak drawn about her head; in such a manner that even when she looked at me, which she did from time to time, I saw little more than her eyes, bright with contemptuous anger.

‘So, sir,’ she presently began, speaking in a low voice, and turning slightly towards me, ‘you practise lying even here?’

I felt so strongly the futility of denial or explanation that I shrugged my shoulders and remained silent under the sneer. Two more days—two more days would take us to Rosny, and my task would be done, and Mademoiselle and I would part for good and all. What would it matter then what she thought of me? What did it matter now?

For the first time in our intercourse my silence seemed to disconcert and displease her. ‘Have you nothing to say for yourself?’ she muttered sharply, crushing a fragment of charcoal under her foot, and stooping to peer at the ashes. ‘Have you not another lie in your quiver, M. de Marsac?’ De Marsac!’ And she repeated the title, with a scornful laugh, as if she put no faith in my claim to it.

But I would answer nothing—nothing; and we remained silent until Fanchette, coming in to say that the chamber was ready, held the light for her mistress to pass out. I told the woman to come back and fetch mademoiselle’s supper, and then, being left alone with my mother, who had fallen asleep, with a smile on her thin, worn face, I began to wonder what had happened to reduce her to such dire poverty.

I feared to agitate her by referring to it; but later in the evening, when her curtains were drawn and Simon Fleix and I were left together, eyeing one another across the embers like dogs of different breeds—with a certain strangeness and suspicion—my thoughts recurred to the question; and determining first to learn something about my companion, whose pale, eager face and tattered, black dress gave him a certain individuality, I asked him whether he had come from Paris with Madame de Bonne.

He nodded without speaking.

I asked him if he had known her long.

‘Twelve months,’ he answered. ‘I lodged on the fifth, madame on the second, floor of the same house in Paris.’

I leaned forward and plucked the hem of his black robe. ‘What is this?’ I said, with a little contempt. ‘You are not a priest, man.’

‘No,’ he answered, fingering the stuff himself, and gazing at me in a curious, vacant fashion. ‘I am a student of the Sorbonne.’

I drew off from him with a muttered oath, wondering—while I looked at him with suspicious eyes—how he came to be here, and particularly how he came to be in attendance on my mother, who had been educated from childhood in the Religion, and had professed it in private all her life. I could think of no one who, in old days, would have been less welcome in her house than a Sorbonnist, and began to fancy that here should lie the secret of her miserable condition.

‘You don’t like, the Sorbonne?’ he said, reading my thoughts; which were, indeed, plain enough.

‘No more than I love the devil!’ I said bluntly.

He leaned forward and, stretching out a thin, nervous hand, laid it on my knee. ‘What if they are right, though?’ he muttered, his voice hoarse. ‘What if they are right, M. de Marsac?’

‘Who right?’ I asked roughly, drawing back afresh.

‘The Sorbonne.’ he repeated, his face red with excitement, his eyes peering uncannily into mine. ‘Don’t you see,’ he continued, pinching my knee in his earnestness, and thrusting his face nearer and nearer to mine, ‘it all turns on that? It all turns on that—salvation or damnation! Are they right? Are you right? You say yes to this, no to that, you white-coats; and you say it lightly, but are you right? Are you right? Mon Dieu!’ he continued, drawing back abruptly and clawing the air with impatience, ‘I have read, read, read! I have listened to sermons, theses, disputations, and I know nothing. I know no more than when I began.’

He sprang up and began to pace the floor, while I gazed at him with a feeling of pity. A very learned person once told me that the troubles of these times bred four kinds of men, who were much to be compassionated: fanatics on the one side or the other, who lost sight of all else in the intensity of their faith; men who, like Simon Fleix, sought desperately after something to believe, and found it not; and lastly, scoffers, who, believing in nothing, looked on all religion as a mockery.

He presently stopped walking—in his utmost excitement I remarked that he never forgot my mother, but trod more lightly when he drew near the alcove—and spoke again. ‘You are a Huguenot?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘So is she,’ he rejoined, pointing towards the bed. ‘But do you feel no doubts?’

‘None,’ I said quietly.

‘Nor does she.’ he answered again, stopping opposite me. You made up your mind—how?’

‘I was born in the Religion,’ I said.

‘And you have never questioned it?’

‘Never.’

‘Nor thought much about it?’

‘Not a great deal,’ I answered.

‘Saint Gris!’ he exclaimed in a low tone. ‘And do you never think of hell-fire—of the worm which dieth not, and the fire which shall not be quenched? Do you never think of that, M. de Marsac?’

‘No, my friend, never!’ I answered, rising impatiently; for at that hour, and in that silent, gloomy room I found his conversation dispiriting. ‘I believe what I was taught to believe, and I strive to hurt no one but the enemy. I think little; and if I were you I would think less. I would do something, man—fight, play, work, anything but think! I leave that to clerks.’

‘I am a clerk,’ he answered.

‘A poor one, it seems,’ I retorted, with a little scorn in my tone. ‘Leave it, man. Work! Fight! Do something!’

‘Fight?’ he said, as if the idea were a novel one. ‘Fight? But there, I might be killed; and then hell-fire, you see!’

‘Zounds, man!’ I cried, out of patience with a folly which, to tell the truth, the lamp burning low, and the rain pattering on the roof, made the skin of my back feel cold and creepy. ‘Enough of this! Keep your doubts and your fire to yourself! And answer me,’ I continued, sternly. ‘How came Madame de Bonne so poor? How did she come down to this place?’

He sat down on his stool, the excitement dying quickly out of his face. ‘She gave away all her money,’ he said slowly and reluctantly. It may be imagined that this answer surprised me. ‘Gave it away?’ I exclaimed. ‘To whom? And when?’

He moved uneasily on his seat and avoided my eye, his altered manner filling me with suspicions which the insight I had just obtained into his character did not altogether preclude. At last he said, ‘I had nothing to do with it, if you mean that; nothing. On the contrary, I have done all I could to make it up to her. I followed her here. I swear that is so, M. de Marsac.’

‘You have not told me yet to whom she gave it,’ I said sternly.

‘She gave it,’ he muttered, ‘to a priest.’

‘To what priest?’

‘I do not know his name. He is a Jacobin.’

‘And why?’ I asked, gazing incredulously at the student. ‘Why did she give it to him? Come, come! have a care. Let me have none of your Sorbonne inventions!’

He hesitated a moment, looking at me timidly, and then seemed to make up his mind to tell me. ‘He found out—it was when we lived in Paris, you understand, last June—that she was a Huguenot. It was about the time they burned the Foucards, and he frightened her with that, and made her pay him money, a little at first, and then more and more, to keep her secret. When the king came to Blois she followed his Majesty, thinking to be safer here; but the priest came too, and got more money, and more, until he left her—this.’

‘This!’ I said. And I set my teeth together.

Simon Fleix nodded.

I looked round the wretched garret to which my mother had been reduced, and pictured the days and hours of fear and suspense through which she had lived; through which she must have lived, with that caitiff’s threat hanging over her grey head! I thought of her birth and her humiliation; of her frail form and patient, undying love for me; and solemnly, and before heaven, I swore that night to punish the man. My anger was too great for words, and for tears I was too old. I asked Simon Fleix no more questions, save when the priest might be looked for again—which he could not tell me—and whether he would know him again—to which he answered, ‘Yes.’ But, wrapping myself in my cloak, I lay down by the fire and pondered long and sadly.

So, while I had been pinching there, my mother had been starving here. She had deceived me, and I her. The lamp flickered, throwing uncertain shadows as the draught tossed the strange window-curtain to and fro. The leakage from the roof fell drop by drop, and now and again the wind shook the crazy building, as though it would lift it up bodily and carry it away.

Desiring to start as early as possible, that we might reach Rosny on the second evening, I roused Simon Fleix before it was light, and learning from him where the horses were stabled, went out to attend to them; preferring to do this myself, that I might have an opportunity of seeking out a tailor, and providing myself with clothes better suited to my rank than those to which I had been reduced of late. I found that I still had ninety crowns left of the sum which the King of Navarre had given me, and twelve of these I laid out on a doublet of black cloth with russet points and ribands, a dark cloak lined with the same sober colour, and a new cap and feather. The tradesman would fain have provided me with a new scabbard also, seeing my old one was worn-out at the heel; but this I declined, having a fancy to go with my point bare until I should have punished the scoundrel who had made my mother’s failing days a misery to her; a business which, the King of Navarre’s once done, I promised myself to pursue with energy and at all costs.

The choice of my clothes, and a few alterations which it was necessary to make in them, detained me some time, so that it was later than I could have wished when I turned my face towards the house again, bent on getting my party to horse as speedily as possible. The morning, I remember, was bright, frosty, and cold; the kennels were dry, the streets comparatively clean. Here and there a ray of early sunshine, darting between the overhanging eaves, gave promise of glorious travelling-weather. But the faces, I remarked in my walk, did not reflect the surrounding cheerfulness. Moody looks met me everywhere and on every side; and while courier after courier galloped by me bound for the castle, the townsfolk stood aloof is doorways listless and inactive, or, gathering in groups in corners, talked what I took to be treason under the breath. The queen-mother still lived, but Orleans had revolted, and Sens and Mans, Chartres and Melun. Rouen was said to be wavering, Lyons in arms, while Paris had deposed her king, and cursed him daily from a hundred altars. En fin, the great rebellion which followed the death of Guise, and lasted so many years, was already in progress; so that on this first day of the new year the king’s writ scarce ran farther than he could see, peering anxiously out from the towers above my head.

Reaching the house, I climbed the long staircase hastily, abusing its darkness and foulness, and planning as I went how my mother might most easily and quickly be moved to a better lodging. Gaining the top of the last flight, I saw that mademoiselle’s door on the left of the landing was open, and concluding from this that she was up, and ready to start, I entered my mother’s room with a brisk step and spirits reinforced by the crisp morning air.

But on the threshold I stopped, and stood silent and amazed. At first I thought the room was empty. Then, at a second glance, I saw the student. He was on his knees beside the bed in the alcove, from which the curtain had been partially dragged away. The curtain before the window had been torn down also, and the cold light of day, pouring in on the unsightly bareness of the room, struck a chill to my heart. A stool lay overturned by the fire, and above it a grey cat, which I had not hitherto noticed, crouched on a beam and eyed me with stealthy fierceness. Mademoiselle was not to be seen, nor was Fanchette, and Simon Fleix did not hear me. He was doing something at the bed—for my mother it seemed.

‘What is it, man?’ I cried softly, advancing on tiptoe to the bedside. ‘Where are the others?’

The student looked round and saw me. His face was pale and gloomy. His eyes burned, and yet there were tears in them, and on his cheeks. He did not speak, but the chilliness, the bareness, the emptiness of the room spoke for him, and my heart sank.

I took him by the shoulders. ‘Find your tongue, man!’ I said angrily. ‘Where are they?’

He rose from his knees and stood staring at me. ‘They are gone!’ he said stupidly.

‘Gone?’ I exclaimed. ‘Impossible! When? Whither?’

‘Half an hour ago. Whither—I do not know.’

Confounded and amazed, I glared at him between fear and rage. ‘You do not know?’ I cried. ‘They are gone, and you do not know?’

He turned suddenly on me and gripped my arm. ‘No, I do not know! I do not know!’ he cried, with a complete change of manner and in a tone of fierce excitement. ‘Only, may the fiend go with them! But I do know this. I know this, M. de Marsac, with whom they went, these friends of yours! A fop came, a dolt, a fine spark, and gave them fine words and fine speeches and a gold token, and, hey presto! they went, and forgot you!’

‘What!’ I cried, beginning to understand, and snatching fiercely at the one clue in his speech. ‘A gold token? They have been decoyed away then! There is no time to be lost. I must follow.’

‘No, for that is not all!’ he replied, interrupting me sternly, while his grasp on my arm grew tighter and his eyes flashed as they looked into mine. ‘You have not heard all. They have gone with one who called you an impostor, and a thief, and a beggar, and that to your mother’s face—and killed her! Killed her as surely as if he had taken a sword to her, M. de Marsac! Will you, after that, leave her for them?’

He spoke plainly. And yet, God forgive me, it was some time before I understood him: before I took in the meaning of his words, or could transfer my thoughts from the absent to my mother lying on the bed before me. When I did do so, and turned to her, and saw her still face and thin hair straggling over the coarse pillow, then, indeed, the sight overcame me. I thought no more of others—for I thought her dead; and with a great and bitter cry I fell on my knees beside her and hid my face. What, after all, was this headstrong girl to me? What were even kings and king’s commissions to me beside her—beside the one human being who loved me still, the one being of my blood and name left, the one ever-patient, ever-constant heart which for years had beaten only for me? For a while, for a few moments, I was worthy of her; for I forgot all others.

Simon Fleix roused me at last from my stupor, making me understand that she was not dead, but in a deep swoon, the result of the shock she had undergone. A leech, for whom he had despatched a neighbour, came in as I rose, and taking my place, presently restored her to consciousness. But her extreme feebleness warned me not to hope for more than a temporary recovery; nor had I sat by her long before I discerned that this last blow, following on so many fears and privations, had reached a vital part, and that she was even now dying.

She lay for a while with her hand in mine and her eyes closed, but about noon, the student, contriving to give her some broth, she revived, and, recognising me, lay for more than an hour gazing at me with unspeakable content and satisfaction. At the end of that time, and when I thought she was past speaking, she signed to me to bend over her, and whispered something, which at first I could not catch. Presently I made it out to be, ‘She is gone—The girl you brought?’

Much troubled, I answered yes, begging her not to think about the matter. I need not have feared, however, for when she spoke again she did so without emotion, and rather as one seeing clearly something before her.

‘When you find her, Gaston,’ she murmured, ‘do not be angry with her. It was not her fault. She—he deceived her. See!’

I followed the direction rather of her eyes than her hand, and found beneath the pillow a length of gold chain. ‘She left that?’ I murmured, a strange tumult of emotions in my breast.

‘She laid it there,’ my mother whispered. ‘And she would have stopped him saying what he did’—a shudder ran through my mother’s frame at the remembrance of the man’s words, though her eyes still gazed into mine with faith and confidence—‘she would have stopped him, but she could not, Gaston. And then he hurried her away.’

‘He showed her a token, madame, did he not?’ I could not for my life repress the question, so much seemed to turn on the point.

‘A bit of gold,’ my mother whispered, smiling faintly. ‘Now let me sleep.’ And, clinging always to my hand, she closed her eyes.

The student came back soon afterwards with some comforts for which I had despatched him, and we sat by her until the evening fell, and far into the night. It was a relief to me to learn from the leech that she had been ailing for some time, and that in any case the end must have come soon. She suffered no pain and felt no fears, but meeting my eyes whenever she opened her own, or came out of the drowsiness which possessed her, thanked God, I think, and was content. As for me, I remember that room became, for the time, the world. Its stillness swallowed up all the tumults which filled the cities of France, and its one interest the coming and going of a feeble breath—eclipsed the ambitions and hopes of a lifetime.

Before it grew light Simon Fleix stole out to attend to the horses. When he returned he came to me and whispered in my ear that he had something to tell me; and my mother lying in a quiet sleep at the time, I disengaged my hand, and, rising softly, went with him to the hearth.

Instead of speaking, he held his fist before me and suddenly unclosed the fingers. ‘Do you know it?’ he said, glancing at me abruptly.

I took what he held, and looking at it, nodded. It was a knot of velvet of a peculiar dark red colour, and had formed, as I knew the moment I set eyes on it, part of the fastening of mademoiselle’s mask. ‘Where did you find it?’ I muttered, supposing that he had picked it up on the stairs.

‘Look at it!’ he answered impatiently. ‘You have not looked.’

I turned it over, and then saw something which had escaped me at first—that the wider part of the velvet was disfigured by a fantastic stitching, done very roughly and rudely with a thread of white silk. The stitches formed letters, the letters words. With a start I read, ‘A MOI!’ and saw in a corner, in smaller stitches, the initials ‘C. d. l. V.’

I looked eagerly at the student. ‘Where did you find this?’ I said.

‘I picked it up in the street,’ he answered quietly, ‘not three hundred paces from here.’

I thought a moment. ‘In the gutter, or near the wall?’ I asked.

‘Near the wall, to be sure.’

‘Under a window?’

‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘You may be easy; I am not a fool. I marked the place, M. de Marsac, and shall not forget it.’

Even the sorrow and solicitude I felt on my mother’s behalf—feelings which had seemed a minute before to secure me against all other cares or anxieties whatever—were not proof against this discovery. For I found myself placed in a strait so cruel I must suffer either way. On the one hand, I could not leave my mother; I were a heartless ingrate to do that. On the other, I could not, without grievous pain, stand still and inactive while Mademoiselle de la Vire, whom I had sworn to protect, and who was now suffering through my laches and mischance, appealed to me for help. For I could not doubt that this was what the bow of velvet meant; still less that it was intended for me, since few save myself would be likely to recognise it, and she would naturally expect me to make some attempt at pursuit.

And I could not think little of the sign. Remembering mademoiselle’s proud and fearless spirit, and the light in which she had always regarded me, I augured the worst from it. I felt assured that no imaginary danger and no emergency save the last would have induced her to stoop so low; and this consideration, taken with the fear I felt that she had fallen into the hands of Fresnoy, whom I believed to be the person who had robbed me of the gold coin, filled me with a horrible doubt which way my duty lay. I was pulled, as it were, both ways. I felt my honour engaged both to go and to stay, and while my hand went to my hilt, and my feet trembled to be gone, my eyes sought my mother, and my ears listened for her gentle breathing.

Perplexed and distracted, I looked at the student, and he at me. ‘You saw the man who took her away,’ I muttered. Hitherto, in my absorption on my mother’s account, I had put few questions, and let the matter pass as though it moved me little and concerned me less. ‘What was he like? Was he a big, bloated man, Simon, with his head bandaged, or perhaps a wound on his face?’

‘The gentleman who went away with mademoiselle, do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes, gentleman if you like!’

‘Not at all,’ the student answered. ‘He was a tall young gallant, very gaily dressed, dark-haired, and with a rich complexion, I heard him tell her that he came from a friend of hers too high to be named in public or in Blois. He added that he brought a token from him; and when mademoiselle mentioned you—she had just entered madame’s room with her woman when he appeared—’

‘He had watched me out, of course.’

‘Just so. Well, when she mentioned you, he swore you were an adventurer, and a beggarly impostor, and what not, and bade her say whether she thought it likely that her friend would have entrusted such a mission to such a man.’

‘And then she went with him?’

The student nodded.

‘Readily? Of her own free-will?’

‘Certainly,’ he answered. ‘It seemed so to me. She tried to prevent him speaking before your mother, but that was all.’

On the impulse of the moment I took a step towards the door; recollecting my position, I turned back with a groan. Almost beside myself, and longing for any vent for my feelings, I caught the lad by the shoulder, where he stood on the hearth, and shook him to and fro.

‘Tell me, man, what am I to do?’ I said between my teeth. ‘Speak! think! invent something!’

But he shook his head.

I let him go with a muttered oath, and sat down on a stool by the bed and took my head between my hands. At that very moment, however, relief came—came from an unexpected quarter. The door opened and the leech entered. He was a skilful man, and, though much employed about the Court, a Huguenot—a fact which had emboldened Simon Fleix to apply to him through the landlord of the ‘Bleeding Heart,’ the secret rendezvous of the Religion in Blois. When he had made his examination he was for leaving, being a grave and silent man, and full of business, but at the door I stopped him.

‘Well, sir?’ I said in a low tone, my hand on his cloak.

‘She has rallied, and may live three days,’ he answered quietly. ‘Four, it may be, and as many more as God wills.’

Pressing two crowns into his hand, I begged him to call daily, which he promised to do; and then he went. My mother was still dozing peacefully, and I turned to Simon Fleix, my doubts resolved and my mind made up.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘and answer me shortly. We cannot both leave; that is certain. Yet I must go, and at once, to the place where you found the velvet knot. Do you describe the spot exactly, so that I may find it, and make no mistake.’

He nodded, and after a moment’s reflection answered,

‘You know the Rue St. Denys, M. de Marsac? Well, go down it, keeping the “Bleeding Heart” on your left. Take the second turning on the same side after passing the inn. The third house from the corner, on the left again, consists of a gateway leading to the Hospital of the Holy Cross. Above the gateway are two windows in the lower story, and above them two more. The knot lay below the first window you come to. Do you understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘It is something to be a clerk, Simon.’

He looked at me thoughtfully, but added nothing; and I was busy tightening my sword-hilt, and disposing my cloak about the lower part of my face. When I had arranged this to my satisfaction, I took out and counted over the sum of thirty-five crowns, which I gave to him, impressing on him the necessity of staying beside my mother should I not return; for though I proposed to reconnoitre only, and learn if possible whether mademoiselle was still in Blois, the future was uncertain, and whereas I was known to my enemies, they were strangers to me.

Having enjoined this duty upon him, I bade my mother a silent farewell, and, leaving the room, went slowly down the stairs, the picture of her worn and patient face going with me, and seeming, I remember, to hallow the purpose I had in my mind.

The clocks were striking the hour before noon as I stepped from the doorway, and, standing a moment in the lane, looked this way and that for any sign of espionage. I could detect none, however. The lane was deserted; and feeling assured that any attempt to mislead my opponents, who probably knew Blois better than I did, must fail, I made none, but deliberately took my way towards the ‘Bleeding Heart,’ in the Rue St. Denys. The streets presented the same appearance of gloomy suspense which I had noticed on the previous day. The same groups stood about in the same corners, the same suspicious glances met me in common with all other strangers who showed themselves; the same listless inaction characterised the townsfolk, the same anxious hurry those who came and went with news. I saw that even here, under the walls of the palace, the bonds of law and order were strained almost to bursting, and judged that if there ever was a time in France when right counted for little, and the strong hand for much, it was this. Such a state of things was not unfavourable to my present design, and caring little for suspicious looks, I went resolutely on my way.

I had no difficulty in finding the gateway of which Simon had spoken, or in identifying the window beneath which he had picked up the velvet knot. An alley opening almost opposite, I took advantage of this to examine the house at my leisure, and remarked at once, that whereas the lower window was guarded only by strong shutters, now open, that in the story above was heavily barred. Naturally I concentrated my attention on the latter. The house, an old building of stone, seemed sufficiently reputable, nor could I discern anything about it which would have aroused my distrust had the knot been found elsewhere. It bore the arms of a religious brotherhood, and had probably at one time formed the principal entrance to the hospital, which still stood behind it, but it had now come, as I judged, to be used as a dwelling of the better class. Whether the two floors were separately inhabited or not I failed to decide.

After watching it for some time without seeing anyone pass in or out, or anything occurring to enlighten me one way or the other, I resolved to venture in, the street being quiet and the house giving no sign of being strongly garrisoned. The entrance lay under the archway, through a door on the right side. I judged from what I saw that the porter was probably absent, busying himself with his gossips in matters of State.

And this proved to be the case, for when I had made the passage of the street with success, and slipped quietly in through the half-open door, I found only his staff and charcoal-pan there to represent him. A single look satisfied me on that point; forthwith, without hesitation, I turned to the stairs and began to mount, assured that if I would effect anything single-handed I must trust to audacity and surprise rather than to caution or forethought.

The staircase was poorly lighted by loopholes looking towards the rear, but it was clean and well-kept. Silence, broken only by the sound of my footsteps, prevailed throughout the house, and all seemed so regular and decent and orderly that the higher I rose the lower fell my hopes of success. Still, I held resolutely on until I reached the second floor and stood before a closed door. The moment had come to put all to the touch. I listened for a few seconds but hearing nothing, cautiously lifted the latch. Somewhat to my surprise the door yielded to my hand, and I entered.

A high settle stood inside, interrupting my view of the room, which seemed to be spacious and full of rich stuffs and furniture, but low in the roof, and somewhat dimly lighted by two windows rather wide than high. The warm glow of a fire shone on the woodwork of the ceiling, and as I softly closed the door a log on the hearth gave way, with a crackling of sparks, which pleasantly broke the luxurious silence. The next moment a low, sweet voice asked, ‘Alphonse, is that you?’

I walked round the settle and came face to face with a beautiful woman reclining on a couch. On hearing the door open she had raised herself on her elbow. Now, seeing a stranger before her, she sprang up with a low cry, and stood gazing at me, her face expressing both astonishment and anger. She was of middling height, her features regular though somewhat childlike, her complexion singularly fair. A profusion of golden hair hung in disorder about her neck, and matched the deep blue of her eyes, wherein it seemed to me, there lurked more spirit and fire than the general cast of her features led one to expect.

After a moment’s silence, during which she scanned me from head to foot with great haughtiness—and I her with curiosity and wonder—she spoke. ‘Sir!’ she said slowly, ‘to what am I to attribute this—visit?’

For the moment I was so taken aback by her appearance and extraordinary beauty, as well as by the absence of any sign of those I sought, that I could not gather my thoughts to reply, but stood looking vaguely at her. I had expected, when I entered the room, something so different from this!

‘Well, sir?’ she said again, speaking sharply, and tapping her foot on the floor.

‘This visit, madame?’ I stammered.

‘Call it intrusion, sir, if you please!’ she cried imperiously. ‘Only explain it, or begone.’

‘I crave leave to do both, madame,’ I answered, collecting myself by an effort. ‘I ascended these stairs and opened your door in error—that is the simple fact—hoping to find a friend of mine here. I was mistaken, it seems, and it only remains for me to withdraw, offering at the same time the humblest apologies,’ And as I spoke I bowed low and prepared to retire.

‘One moment, sir!’ she said quickly, and in an altered tone. ‘You are, perhaps, a friend of M. de Bruhl—of my husband. In that case, if you desire to leave any message I will—I shall be glad to deliver it.’

She looked so charming that, despite the tumult of my feelings, I could not but regard her with admiration. ‘Alas! madame, I cannot plead that excuse,’ I answered. ‘I regret that I have not the honour of his acquaintance.’

She eyed me with some surprise. ‘Yet still, sir,’ she answered, smiling a little, and toying with a gold brooch which clasped her habit, ‘you must have had some ground, some reason, for supposing you would find a friend here?’

‘True, madame,’ I answered, ‘but I was mistaken.’

I saw her colour suddenly. With a smile and a faint twinkle of the eye she said, ‘It is not possible, sir, I suppose—you have not come here, I mean, out of any reason connected with a—a knot of velvet, for instance?’

I started, and involuntarily advanced a step towards her. ‘A knot of velvet!’ I exclaimed, with emotion. ‘Mon Dieu! Then I was not mistaken! I have come to the right house, and you—you know something of this! Madame,’ I continued impulsively, ‘that knot of velvet? Tell me what it means, I implore you!’

She seemed alarmed by my violence, retreating a step or two, and looking at me haughtily, yet with a kind of shame-facedness. ‘Believe me, it means nothing,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I beg you to understand that, sir. It was a foolish jest.’

‘A jest?’ I said. ‘It fell from this window.’

‘It was a jest, sir,’ she answered stubbornly. But I could see that, with all her pride, she was alarmed; her face was troubled, and there were tears in her eyes. And this rendered me under the circumstances only the more persistent.

‘I have the velvet here, madame,’ I said. ‘You must tell me more about it.’

She looked at me with a weightier impulse of anger than she had yet exhibited. ‘I do not think you know to whom you are speaking,’ she said, breathing fast. ‘Leave the room, sir, and at once! I have told you it was a jest. If you are a gentleman you will believe me, and go.’ And she pointed to the door.

But I held my ground, with an obstinate determination to pierce the mystery. ‘I am a gentleman, madame,’ I said, ‘and yet I must know more. Until I know more I cannot go.’

‘Oh, this is insufferable!’ she cried, looking round as if for a way of escape; but I was between her and the only door. ‘This is unbearable! The knot was never intended for you, sir. And what is more, if M. de Bruhl comes and finds you here, you will repent it bitterly.’

I saw that she was at least as much concerned on her own account as on mine, and thought myself justified under the circumstances in taking advantage of her fears. I deliberately laid my cap on the table which stood beside me. ‘I will go madame,’ I said, looking at her fixedly, ‘when I know all that you know about this knot I hold, and not before. If you are unwilling to tell me, I must wait for M. de Bruhl, and ask him.’

She cried out ‘Insolent!’ and looked at me as if in her rage and dismay she would gladly have killed me; being, I could see, a passionate woman. But I held my ground, and after a moment she spoke. ‘What do you want to know?’ she said, frowning darkly.

‘This knot—how did it come to lie in the street below your window? I want to know that first.’

‘I dropped it,’ she answered sullenly.

‘Why?’ I said.

‘Because—’ And then she stopped and looked at me, and then again looked down, her face crimson. ‘Because, if you must know,’ she continued hurriedly, tracing a pattern on the table with her finger, ‘I saw it bore the words “A MOI.” I have been married only two months, and I thought my husband might find it—and bring it to me. It was a silly fancy.’

‘But where did you get it?’ I asked, and I stared at her in growing wonder and perplexity. For the more questions I put, the further, it seemed to me, I strayed from my object.

‘I picked it up in the Ruelle d’Arcy,’ she answered, tapping her foot on the floor resentfully. ‘It was the silly thing put it into my head to—to do what I did. And now, have you any more questions, sir?’

‘One only,’ I said, seeing it all clearly enough. ‘Will you tell me, please, exactly where you found it?’

‘I have told you. In the Ruelle d’Arcy, ten paces from the Rue de Valois. Now, sir, will you go?’

‘One word, madame. Did—’

But she cried, ‘Go, sir, go! go!’ so violently, that after making one more attempt to express my thanks, I thought it better to obey her. I had learned all she knew; I had solved the puzzle. But, solving it, I found myself no nearer to the end I had in view, no nearer to mademoiselle. I closed the door with a silent bow, and began to descend the stairs, my mind full of anxious doubts and calculations. The velvet knot was the only clue I possessed, but was I right; in placing any dependence on it? I knew now that, wherever it had originally lain, it had been removed once. If once, why not twice? why not three times?

I had not gone down half a dozen steps before I heard a man enter the staircase from the street, and begin to ascend. It struck me at once that this might be M. de Bruhl; and I realised that I had not left madame’s apartment a moment too soon. The last thing I desired, having so much on my hands, was to embroil myself with a stranger, and accordingly I quickened my pace, hoping to meet him so near the foot of the stairs as to leave him in doubt whether I had been visiting the upper or lower part of the house. The staircase was dark, however, and being familiar with it, he had the advantage over me. He came leaping up two steps at a time, and turning the angle abruptly, surprised me before I was clear of the upper flight.

On seeing me, he stopped short and stared; thinking at first, I fancy, that he ought to recognise me. When he did not, he stood back a pace. ‘Umph!’ he said. ‘Have you been—have you any message for me, sir?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I have not.’

He frowned. ‘I am M. de Bruhl,’ he said.

‘Indeed?’ I muttered, not knowing what else to say.

‘You have been—’

‘Up your stairs, sir? Yes. In error,’ I answered bluntly.

He gave a kind of grunt at that, and stood aside, incredulous and dissatisfied, yet uncertain how to proceed. I met his black looks with a steady countenance, and passed by him, becoming aware, however, as I went on down the stairs that he had turned and was looking after me. He was a tall, handsome man, dark, and somewhat ruddy of complexion, and was dressed in the extreme of Court fashion, in a suit of myrtle-green trimmed with sable. He carried also a cloak lined with the same on his arm. Beyond looking back when I reached the street, to see that he did not follow me, I thought no more of him. But we were to meet again, and often. Nay, had I then known all that was to be known I would have gone back and—But of that in another place.

The Rue de Valois, to which a tradesman, who was peering cautiously out of his shop, directed me, proved to be one of the main streets of the city, narrow and dirty, and darkened by overhanging eaves and signboards, but full of noise and bustle. One end of it opened on the PARVIS of the Cathedral; the other and quieter end appeared to abut on the west gate of the town. Feeling the importance of avoiding notice in the neighbourhood of the house I sought, I strolled into the open space in front of the Cathedral, and accosting two men who stood talking there, learned that the Ruelle d’Arcy was the third lane on the right of the Rue de Valois, and some little distance along it. Armed with this information I left them, and with my head bent down, and my cloak drawn about the lower part of my face, as if I felt the east wind, I proceeded down the street until I reached the opening of the lane. Without looking up I turned briskly into it.

When I had gone ten paces past the turning, however, I stopped and, gazing about me, began to take in my surroundings as fast as I could. The lane, which seemed little frequented, was eight or nine feet wide, unpaved, and full of ruts. The high blank wall of a garden rose on one side of it, on the other the still higher wall of a house; and both were completely devoid of windows, a feature which I recognised with the utmost dismay. For it completely upset all my calculations. In vain I measured with my eye the ten paces I had come; in vain I looked up, looked this way and that. I was nonplussed. No window opened on the lane at that point, nor, indeed, throughout its length. For it was bounded to the end, as far as I could see, by dead-walls as of gardens.

Recognising, with a sinking heart, what this meant, I saw in a moment that all the hopes I had raised on Simon Fleix’s discovery were baseless. Mademoiselle had dropped the velvet bow, no doubt, but not from a window. It was still a clue, but one so slight and vague as to be virtually useless, proving only that she was in trouble and in need of help; perhaps that she had passed through this lane on her way from one place of confinement to another.

Thoroughly baffled and dispirited, I leant for awhile against the wall, brooding over the ill-luck which seemed to attend me in this, as in so many previous adventures. Nor was the low voice of conscience, suggesting that such failures arose from mismanagement rather than from ill-luck, slow to make itself heard. I reflected that if I had not allowed myself to be robbed of the gold token, mademoiselle would have trusted me; that if I had not brought her to so poor an abode as my mother’s, she would not have been cajoled into following a stranger; finally, that if I had remained with her, and sent Simon to attend to the horses in my place, no stranger would have gained access to her.

But it has never been my way to accept defeat at the first offer, and though I felt these self-reproaches to be well deserved, a moment’s reflection persuaded me that in the singular and especial providence which had brought the velvet knot safe to my hands I ought to find encouragement. Had Madame de Bruhl not picked it up it would have continued to lie in this by-path, through which neither I nor Simon Fleix would have been likely to pass. Again, had madame not dropped it in her turn, we should have sought in vain for any, even the slightest, clue to Mademoiselle de la Vire’s fate or position.

Cheered afresh by this thought, I determined to walk to the end of the lane; and forthwith did so, looking sharply about me as I went, but meeting no one. The bare upper branches of a tree rose here and there above the walls, which were pierced at intervals by low, strong doors. These doors I carefully examined, but without making any discovery; all were securely fastened, and many seemed to have been rarely opened. Emerging at last and without result on the inner side of the city ramparts, I turned, and moodily retraced my steps through the lane, proceeding more slowly as I drew near to the Rue de Valois. This time, being a little farther from the street, I made a discovery.

The corner house, which had its front on the Rue Valois, presented, as I have said, a dead, windowless wall to the lane; but from my present standpoint I could see the upper part of the back of this house—that part of the back, I mean, which rose above the lower garden-wall that abutted on it—and in this there were several windows. The whole of two and a part of a third were within the range of my eyes; and suddenly in one of these I discovered something which made my heart beat high with hope and expectation. The window in question was heavily grated; that which I saw was tied to one of the bars. It was a small knot of some white stuff—linen apparently—and it seemed a trifle to the eye; but it was looped, as far as I could see from a distance, after the same fashion as the scrap of velvet I had in my pouch.

The conclusion was obvious, at the same time that it inspired me with the liveliest admiration of mademoiselle’s wit and resources. She was confined in that room; the odds were that she was behind those bars. A bow dropped thence would fall, the wind being favourable, into the lane, not ten, but twenty paces from the street. I ought to have been prepared for a slight inaccuracy in a woman’s estimate of distance.

It may be imagined with what eagerness I now scanned the house, with what minuteness I sought for a weak place. The longer I looked, however, the less comfort I derived from my inspection. I saw before me a gloomy stronghold of brick, four-square, and built in the old Italian manner, with battlements at the top, and a small machicolation, little more than a string-course, above each story; this serving at once to lessen the monotony of the dead-walls, and to add to the frowning weight of the upper part. The windows were few and small, and the house looked damp and mouldy; lichens clotted the bricks, and moss filled the string-courses. A low door opening from the lane into the garden naturally attracted my attention; but it proved to be of abnormal strength, and bolted both at the top and bottom.

Assured that nothing could be done on that side, and being unwilling to remain longer in the neighbourhood, lest I should attract attention, I returned to the street, and twice walked past the front of the house, seeing all I could with as little appearance of seeing anything as I could compass. The front retreated somewhat from the line of the street, and was flanked on the farther side by stables. Only one chimney smoked, and that sparely. Three steps led up to imposing double doors, which stood half open, and afforded a glimpse of a spacious hall and a state staircase. Two men, apparently servants, lounged on the steps, eating chestnuts, and jesting with one another; and above the door were three shields blazoned in colours. I saw with satisfaction, as I passed the second time, that the middle coat was that of Turenne impaling one which I could not read—which thoroughly satisfied me that the bow of velvet had not lied; so that, without more ado, I turned homewards, formulating my plans as I went.

I found all as I had left it; and my mother still lying in a half-conscious state, I was spared the pain of making excuses for past absence, or explaining that which I designed. I communicated the plan I had formed to Simon Fleix, who saw no difficulty in procuring a respectable person to stay with Madame de Bonne. But for some time he would come no farther into the business. He listened, his mouth open and his eyes glittering, to my plan until I came to his share in it; and then he fell into a violent fit of trembling.

‘You want me to fight, monsieur,’ he cried reproachfully, shaking all over like one in the palsy. ‘You said so the other night. You want to get me killed! That’s it.’

‘Nonsense!’ I answered sharply. ‘I want you to hold the horses!’

He looked at me wildly, with a kind of resentment in his face, and yet as if he were fascinated.

‘You will drag me into it!’ he persisted. ‘You will!’

‘I won’t,’ I said.

‘You will! You will! And the end I know. I shall have no chance. I am a clerk, and not bred to fighting. You want to be the death of me!’ he cried excitedly.

‘I don’t want you to fight,’ I answered with some contempt. ‘I would rather that you kept out of it for my mother’s sake. I only want you to stay in the lane and hold the horses. You will run little more risk than you do sitting by the hearth here.’

And in the end I persuaded him to do what I wished; though still, whenever he thought of what was in front of him, he fell a-trembling again, and many times during the afternoon got up and walked to and fro between the window and the hearth, his face working and his hands clenched like those of a man in a fever. I put this down at first to sheer chicken-heartedness, and thought it augured ill for my enterprise; but presently remarking that he made no attempt to draw back, and that though the sweat stood on his brow he set about such preparations as were necessary—remembering also how long and kindly, and without pay or guerdon, he had served my mother, I began to see that here was something phenomenal; a man strange and beyond the ordinary, of whom it was impossible to predicate what he would do when he came to be tried.

For myself, I passed the afternoon in a state almost of apathy. I thought it my duty to make this attempt to free mademoiselle, and to make it at once, since it was impossible to say what harm might come of delay, were she in such hands as Fresnoy’s; but I had so little hope of success that I regarded the enterprise as desperate. The certain loss of my mother, however, and the low ebb of my fortunes, with the ever-present sense of failure, contributed to render me indifferent to risks; and even when we were on our way, through by-streets known to Simon, to the farther end of the Ruelle d’Arcy, and the red and frosty sunset shone in our faces, and gilded for a moment the dull eaves and grey towers above us, I felt no softening. Whatever the end, there was but one in the world whom I should regret, or who would regret me; and she hung, herself, on the verge of eternity.

So that I was able to give Simon Fleix his last directions with as much coolness as I ever felt in my life. I stationed him with the three horses in the lane—which seemed as quiet and little frequented as in the morning—near the end of it, and about a hundred paces or more from the house.

‘Turn their heads towards the ramparts,’ I said, wheeling them round myself, ‘and then they will be ready to start. They are all quiet enough. You can let the Cid loose. And now listen to me, Simon,’ I continued. ‘Wait here until you see me return, or until you see you are going to be attacked. In the first case, stay for me, of course; in the second, save yourself as you please. Lastly, if neither event occurs before half-past five—you will hear the convent-bell yonder ring at the half-hour—begone, and take the horses; they are yours, And one word more,’ I added hurriedly. ‘If you can only get away with one horse, Simon, take the Cid. It is worth more than most men, and will not fail you at a pinch.’

As I turned away, I gave him one look to see if he understood. It was not without hesitation that after that look I left him. The lad’s face was flushed, he was breathing hard, his eyes seemed to be almost starting from his head. He sat his horse shaking in every limb, and had all the air of a man in a fit. I expected him to call me back; but he did not, and reflecting that I must trust him, or give up the attempt, I went up the lane with my sword under my arm, and my cloak loose on my shoulders. I met a man driving a donkey laden with faggots. I saw no one else. It was already dusk between the walls, though light enough in the open country; but that was in my favour, my only regret; being that as the town gates closed shortly after half-past five, I could not defer my attempt until a still later hour.

Pausing in the shadow of the house while a man might count ten, I impressed on my memory the position of the particular window which bore the knot; then I passed quickly into the street, which was still full of movement, and for a second, feeling myself safe from observation in the crowd, I stood looking at the front of the house. The door was shut. My heart sank when I saw this, for I had looked to find it still open.

The feeling, however, that I could not wait, though time might present more than one opportunity, spurred me on. What I could do I must do now, at once. The sense that this was so being heavy upon me, I saw nothing for it but to use the knocker and gain admission, by fraud if I could, and if not, by force. Accordingly I stepped briskly across the kennel, and made for the entrance.

When I was within two paces of the steps, however, someone abruptly threw the door open and stepped out. The man did not notice me, and I stood quickly aside, hoping that at the last minute my chance had come. Two men, who had apparently attended this first person downstairs, stood respectfully behind him, holding lights. He paused a moment on the steps to adjust his cloak, and with more than a little surprise I recognised my acquaintance of the morning, M. de Bruhl.

I had scarcely time to identify him before he walked down the steps swinging his cane, brushed carelessly past me, and was gone. The two men looked after him awhile, shading their lights from the wind, and one saying something, the other laughed coarsely. The next moment they threw the door to and went, as I saw by the passage of their light, into the room on the left of the hall.

Now was my time. I could have hoped for, prayed for, expected no better fortune than this. The door had rebounded slightly from the jamb, and stood open an inch or more. In a second I pushed it from me gently, slid into the hall, and closed it behind me.

The door of the room on the left was wide open, and the light which shone through the doorway—otherwise the hall was dark—as well as the voices of the two men I had seen, warned me to be careful. I stood, scarcely daring to breathe, and looked about me. There was no matting on the floor, no fire on the hearth. The hall felt cold, damp, and uninhabited. The state staircase rose in front of me, and presently bifurcating, formed a gallery round the place. I looked up, and up, and far above me, in the dim heights of the second floor, I espied a faint light—perhaps, the reflection of a light.

A movement in the room on my left warned me that I had no time to lose, if I meant to act. At any minute one of the men might come out and discover me. With the utmost care I started on my journey. I stole across the stone floor of the hall easily and quietly enough, but I found the real difficulty begin when I came to the stairs. They were of wood, and creaked and groaned under me to such an extent that, with each step I trod, I expected the men to take the alarm. Fortunately all went well until I passed the first corner—I chose, of course, the left-hand flight—then a board jumped under my foot with a crack which sounded in the empty hall, and to my excited ears, as loud as a pistol-shot. I was in two minds whether I should not on the instant make a rush for it, but happily I stood still. One of the men came out and listened, and I heard the other ask, with an oath, what it was. I leant against the wall, holding my breath.

‘Only that wench in one of her tantrums!’ the man who had come out answered, applying an epithet to her which I will not set down, but which I carried to his account in the event of our coming face to face presently. ‘She is quiet now. She may hammer and hammer, but—’

The rest I lost, as he passed through the doorway and went back to his place by the fire. But in one way his words were of advantage to me. I concluded that I need not be so very cautious now, seeing that they would set down anything they heard to the same cause; and I sped on more quickly, I had just gained the second floor landing when a loud noise below—the opening of the street door and the heavy tread of feet in the hall—brought me to a temporary standstill. I looked cautiously over the balustrade, and saw two men go across to the room on the left. One of them spoke as he entered, chiding the other knaves, I fancied, for leaving the door unbarred; and the tone, though not the words, echoing sullenly up the staircase, struck a familiar chord in my memory. The voice was Fresnoy’s!

The certainty, which this sound gave me, that I was in the right house, and that it held also the villain to whom I owed all my misfortunes—for who but Fresnoy could have furnished the broken coin which had deceived mademoiselle?—had a singularly inspiriting effect upon me. I felt every muscle in my body grow on the instant; hard as steel, my eyes more keen, my ears sharper—all my senses more apt and vigorous. I stole off like a cat from the balustrade, over which I had been looking, and without a second’s delay began the search for mademoiselle’s room; reflecting that though the garrison now amounted to four, I had no need to despair. If I could release the prisoners without noise—which would be easy were the key in the lock—we might hope to pass through the hall by a tour de force of one kind or another. And a church-clock at this moment striking Five, and reminding me that we had only half an hour in which to do all and reach the horses, I was the more inclined to risk something.

The light which I had seen from below hung in a flat-bottomed lantern just beyond the head of the stairs, and outside the entrance to one of two passages which appeared to lead to the back part of the house. Suspecting that M. de Bruhl’s business had lain with mademoiselle, I guessed that the light had been placed for his convenience. With this clue and the position of the window to guide me, I fixed on a door on the right of this passage, and scarcely four paces from the head of the stairs. Before I made any sign, however, I knelt down and ascertained that there was a light in the room, and also that the key was not in the lock.

So far satisfied, I scratched on the door with my finger-nails, at first softly, then with greater force, and presently I heard someone in the room rise. I felt sure that the person whoever it was had taken the alarm and was listening, and putting my lips to the keyhole I whispered mademoiselle’s name.

A footstep crossed the room sharply, and I heard muttering just within the door. I thought I detected two voices. But I was impatient, and, getting no answer, whispered in the same manner as before, ‘Mademoiselle de la Vire, are you there?’

Still no answer. The muttering, too, had stopped, and all was still—in the room, and in the silent house. I tried again. ‘It is I, Gaston de Marsac,’ I said. ‘Do you hear? I am come to release you.’ I spoke as loudly as I dared, but most of the sound seemed to come back on me and wander in suspicious murmurings down the staircase.

This time, however, an exclamation of surprise rewarded me, and a voice, which I recognised at once as mademoiselle’s, answered softly:

‘What is it? Who is there?’

‘Gaston de Marsac,’ I answered. ‘Do you need my help?’

The very brevity of her reply; the joyful sob which accompanied it, and which I detected even through the door; the wild cry of thankfulness—almost an oath—of her companion—all these assured me at once that I was welcome—welcome as I had never been before—and, so assuring me, braced me to the height of any occasion which might befall.

‘Can you open the door? I muttered. All the time I was on my knees, my attention divided between the inside of the room and the stray sounds which now and then came up to me from the hall below. ‘Have you the key?’

‘No; we are locked in,’ mademoiselle answered.

I expected this. ‘If the door is bolted inside,’ I whispered, ‘unfasten it, if you please!’

They answered that it was not, so bidding them stand back a little from it, I rose and set my shoulder against it. I hoped to be able to burst it in with only one crash, which by itself, a single sound, might not alarm the men downstairs. But my weight made no impression upon the lock, and the opposite wall being too far distant to allow me to get any purchase for my feet, I presently desisted. The closeness of the door to the jambs warned me that an attempt to prise it open would be equally futile; and for a moment I stood gazing in perplexity at the solid planks, which bid fair to baffle me to the end.

The position was, indeed, one of great difficulty, nor can I now think of any way out of it better or other than that which I adopted. Against the wall near the head of the stairs I had noticed, as I came up, a stout wooden stool. I stole out and fetched this, and setting it against the opposite wall, endeavoured in this way to get sufficient purchase for my feet. The lock still held; but, as I threw my whole weight on the door, the panel against which I leaned gave way and broke inwards with a loud, crashing sound, which echoed through the empty house, and might almost have been beard in the street outside.

It reached the ears, at any rate, of the men sitting below, and I heard them troop noisily out and stand in the hall, now talking loudly, and now listening. A minute of breathless suspense followed—it seemed a long minute; and then, to my relief, they tramped back again, and I was free to return to my task. Another thrust, directed a little lower, would, I hoped, do the business; but to make this the more certain I knelt down and secured the stool firmly against the wall. As I rose after settling it, something else, without sound or warning, rose also, taking me completely by surprise—a man’s head above the top stair, which, as it happened, faced me. His eyes met mine, and I knew I was discovered.

He turned and bundled downstairs again with a scared face, going so quickly that I could not have caught him if I would, or had had the wit to try. Of silence there was so longer need. In a few seconds the alarm would be raised. I had small time for thought. Laying myself bodily against the door, I heaved and pressed with all my strength; but whether I was careless in my haste, or the cause was other, the lock did not give. Instead the stool slipped, and I fell with a crash on the floor at the very moment the alarm reached the men below.

I remember that the crash of my unlucky fall seemed to release all the prisoned noises of the house. A faint scream within the room was but a prelude, lost the next moment in the roar of dismay, the clatter of weapons, and volley of oaths and cries and curses which, rolling up from below, echoed hollowly about me, as the startled knaves rushed to their weapons, and charged across the flags and up the staircase. I had space for one desperate effort. Picking myself up, I seized the stool by two of its legs and dashed it twice against the door, driving in the panel I had before splintered. But that was all. The lock held, and I had no time for a third blow. The men were already halfway up the stairs. In a breath almost they would be upon me. I flung down the useless stool and snatched up my sword, which lay unsheathed beside me. So far the matter had gone against us, but it was time for a change of weapons now, and the end was not yet. I sprang to the head of the stairs and stood there, my arm by my side and my point resting on the floor, in such an attitude of preparedness as I could compass at the moment.

For I had not been in the house all this time, as may well be supposed, without deciding what I would do in case of surprise, and exactly where I could best stand on the defensive. The flat bottom of the lamp which hung outside the passage threw a deep shadow on the spot immediately below it, while the light fell brightly on the steps beyond. Standing in the shadow I could reach the edge of the stairs with my point, and swing the blade freely, without fear of the balustrade; and here I posted myself with a certain grim satisfaction as Fresnoy, with his three comrades behind him, came bounding up the last flight.

They were four to one, but I laughed to see how, not abruptly, but shamefacedly and by degrees, they came to a stand halfway up the flight, and looked at me, measuring the steps and the advantage which the light shining in their eyes gave me. Fresnoy’s ugly face was rendered uglier by a great strip of plaister which marked the place where the hilt of my sword had struck him in our last encounter at Chize; and this and the hatred he bore to me gave a peculiar malevolence to his look. The deaf man Matthew, whose savage stolidity had more than once excited my anger on our journey, came next to him, the two strangers whom I had seen in the hall bringing up the rear. Of the four, these last seemed the most anxious to come to blows, and had Fresnoy not barred the way with his hand we should have crossed swords without parley.

‘Halt, will you!’ he cried, with an oath, thrusting one of them back. And then to me he said, ‘So, so, my friend! It is you, is it?’

I looked at him in silence, with a scorn which knew no bounds, and did not so much as honour him by raising my sword, though I watched him heedfully.

‘What are you doing here? he continued, with an attempt at bluster.

Still I would not answer him, or move, but stood looking down at him. After a moment of this, he grew restive, his temper being churlish and impatient at the best. Besides, I think he retained just so much of a gentleman’s feelings as enabled him to understand my contempt and smart under it. He moved a step upward, his brow dark with passion.

‘You beggarly son of a scarecrow!’ he broke out on a sudden, adding a string of foul imprecations, ‘will you speak, or are you going to wait to be spitted where you stand? If we once begin, my bantam, we shall not stop until we have done your business! If you have anything to say, say it, and—’ But I omit the rest of his speech, which was foul beyond the ordinary.

Still I did not move or speak, but looked at him unwavering, though it pained me to think the women heard. He made a last attempt.’ Come, old friend,’ he said, swallowing his anger again, or pretending to do so, and speaking with a vile bonhomie which I knew to be treacherous, ‘if we come to blows we shall give you no quarter. But one chance you shall have, for the sake of old days when we followed Conde. Go! Take the chance, and go. We will let you pass, and that broken door shall be the worst of it. That is more,’ he added with a curse, ‘than I would do for any other man in your place, M. de Marsac.’

A sudden movement and a low exclamation in the room behind me showed that his words were heard there; and these sounds being followed immediately by a noise as of riving wood, mingled with the quick breathing of someone hard at work, I judged that the women were striving with the door—enlarging the opening it might be. I dared not look round, however, to see what progress they made, nor did I answer Fresnoy, save by the same silent contempt, but stood watching the men before me with the eye of a fencer about to engage. And I know nothing more keen, more vigilant, more steadfast than that.

It was well I did, for without signal or warning the group wavered a moment, as though retreating, and the next instant precipitated itself upon me. Fortunately, only two could engage me at once, and Fresnoy, I noticed, was not of the two who dashed forward up the steps. One of the strangers forced himself to the front, and, taking the lead, pressed me briskly, Matthew seconding him in appearance, while really watching for an opportunity of running in and stabbing me at close quarters, a manoeuvre I was not slow to detect.

That first bout lasted half a minute only. A fierce exultant joy ran through me as the steel rang and grated, and I found that I had not mistaken the strength of wrist or position. The men were mine. They hampered one another on the stairs, and fought in fetters, being unable to advance or retreat, to lunge with freedom, or give back without fear. I apprehended greater danger from Matthew than from my actual opponent, and presently, watching my opportunity, disarmed the latter by a strong parade, and sweeping Matthew’s sword aside by the same movement, slashed him across the forehead; then, drawing back a step, gave my first opponent the point. He fell in a heap on the floor, as good as dead, and Matthew, dropping his sword, staggered backwards and downwards into Fresnoy’s arms.

‘Bonne Foi! France et Bonne Foi!’ It seemed to me that I bad not spoken, that I had plied steel in grimmest silence; and yet the cry still rang and echoed in the roof as I lowered my point, and stood looking grimly down at them. Fresnoy’s face was disfigured with rage and chagrin. They were now but two to one, for Matthew, though his wound was slight, was disabled by the blood which ran down into his eyes and blinded him. ‘France et Bonne Foi!’

‘Bonne Foi and good sword!’ cried a voice behind me. And looking swiftly round, I saw mademoiselle’s face thrust through the hole in the door. Her eyes sparkled with a fierce light, her lips were red beyond the ordinary, and her hair, loosened and thrown into disorder by her exertions, fell in thick masses about her white cheeks, and gave her the aspect of a war-witch, such as they tell of in my country of Brittany. ‘Good sword!’ she cried again, and clapped her hands.

‘But better board, mademoiselle!’ I answered gaily. Like most of the men of my province, I am commonly melancholic, but I have the habit of growing witty at such times as these. ‘Now, M. Fresnoy,’ I continued, ‘I am waiting your convenience. Must I put on my cloak to keep myself warm?’

He answered by a curse, and stood looking at me irresolutely. ‘If you will come down,’ he said.

‘Send your man away and I will come,’ I answered briskly. ‘There is space on the landing, and a moderate light. But I must be quick. Mademoiselle and I are due elsewhere, and we are late already.’

Still he hesitated. Still he looked at the man lying at his feet—who had stretched himself out and passed, quietly enough, a minute before—and stood dubious, the most pitiable picture of cowardice and malice—he being ordinarily a stout man—I ever saw. I called him poltroon and white-feather, and was considering whether I had not better go down to him, seeing that our time must be up, and Simon would be quitting his post, when a cry behind me caused me to turn, and I saw that mademoiselle was no longer looking through the opening in the door.

Alarmed on her behalf, as I reflected that there might be other doors to the room, and the men have other accomplices in the house, I sprang to the door to see, but had basely time to send a single glance round-the interior—which showed me only that the room was still occupied—before Fresnoy, taking advantage of my movement and of my back being turned, dashed up the stairs, with his comrade at his heels, and succeeded in pinning me into the narrow passage where I stood.

I had scarcely time, indeed, to turn and put myself on guard before he thrust at me. Nor was that all. The superiority in position no longer lay with me. I found myself fighting between walls close to the opening in the door, through which the light fell athwart my eyes, baffling and perplexing me. Fresnoy was not slow to see the aid this gave him, and pressed me hard and desperately; so that we played for a full minute at close quarters, thrusting and parrying, neither of us having room to use the edge, or time to utter word or prayer.

At this game we were so evenly matched that for a time the end was hard to tell. Presently, however, there came a change. My opponent’s habit of wild living suited ill with a prolonged bout, and as his strength and breath failed and he began to give ground I discerned I had only to wear him out to have him at my mercy. He felt this himself, and even by that light I saw the sweat spring in great drops to his forehead, saw the terror grow in his eyes. Already I was counting him a dead man and the victory mine, when something hashed behind his blade, and his comrade’s poniard, whizzing past his shoulder, struck me fairly on the chin, staggering me and hurling me back dizzy and half-stunned, uncertain what had happened to me.

Sped an inch lower it, would have done its work and finished mine. Even as it was, my hand going up as I reeled back gave Fresnoy an opening, of which he was not slow to avail himself. He sprang forward, lunging at me furiously, and would have run me through there and then, and ended the matter, bad not his foot, as he advanced, caught in the stool, which still lay against the wall. He stumbled, his point missed my hip by a hair’s breadth, and he himself fell all his length on the floor, his rapier breaking off short at the hilt.

His one remaining backer stayed to cast a look at him, and that was all. The man fled, and I chased him as far as the head of the stairs; where I left him, assured by the speed and agility he displayed in clearing flight after flight that I had nothing to fear from him. Fresnoy lay, apparently stunned, and completely at my mercy. I stood an instant looking down at him, in two minds whether I should not run him through. But the memory of old days, when he had played his part in more honourable fashion and shown a coarse good-fellowship in the field, held my hand; and flinging a curse at him, I turned in anxious haste to the door, the centre of all this bloodshed and commotion. The light still shone through the breach in the panel, but for some minutes—since Fresnoy’s rush up the stairs, indeed—I had heard no sound from this quarter. Now, looking in with apprehensions which grew with the continuing silence, I learned the reason. The room was empty!

Such a disappointment in the moment of triumph was hard to bear. I saw myself, after all done and won, on the point of being again outwitted, distanced, it might be fooled. In frantic haste and excitement I snatched up the stool beside me, and, dashing it twice against the lock, forced it at last to yield. The door swung open, and I rushed into the room, which, abandoned by those who had so lately occupied it, presented nothing to detain me. I cast a single glance round, saw that it was squalid, low-roofed, unfurnished, a mere prison; then swiftly crossing the floor, I made for a door at the farther end, which my eye had marked from the first. A candle stood flaring and guttering on a stool, and as I passed I took it up.

Somewhat to my surprise the door yielded to my touch. In trembling haste—for what might not befall the women while I fumbled with doors or wandered in passages?—I flung it wide, and passing through it, found myself at the head of a narrow, mean staircase, leading, doubtless, to the servants’ offices. At this, and seeing no hindrance before me, I took heart of grace, reflecting that mademoiselle might have escaped from the house this way. Though it would now be too late to quit the city, I might still overtake her, and all end well. Accordingly I hurried down the stairs, shading my candle as I went from a cold draught of air which met me, and grew stronger as I descended; until reaching the bottom at last, I came abruptly upon an open door, and an old, wrinkled, shrivelled woman.

The hag screamed at sight of me, and crouched down on the floor; and doubtless, with my drawn sword, and the blood dripping from my chin and staining all the front of my doublet, I looked fierce and uncanny enough. But I felt it was no time for sensibility—I was panting to be away—and I demanded of her sternly where they were. She seemed to have lost her voice—through fear, perhaps—and for answer only stared at me stupidly; but on my handling my weapon with some readiness she so far recovered her senses as to utter two loud screams, one after the other, and point to the door beside her. I doubted her; and yet I thought in her terror she must be telling the truth, the more as I saw no other door. In any case I must risk it, so, setting the candle down on the step beside her, I passed out.

For a moment the darkness was so intense that I felt my way with my sword before me, in absolute ignorance where I was or on what my foot might next rest. I was at the mercy of anyone who chanced to be lying in wait for me; and I shivered as the cold damp wind struck my cheek and stirred my hair. But by-and-by, when I had taken two or three steps, my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, and I made, out the naked boughs of trees between myself and the sky, and guessed that I was in a garden. My left hand, touching a shrub, confirmed me in this belief, and in another moment I distinguished something like the outline of a path stretching away before me. Following it rapidly—as rapidly as I dared—I came to a corner, as it seemed to me, turned it blindly, and stopped short, peeping into a curtain of solid blackness which barred my path, and overhead mingled confusedly with the dark shapes of trees. But this, too, after a brief hesitation, I made out to be a wall. Advancing to it with outstretched hands, I felt the woodwork of a door, and, groping about, lit presently on a loop of cord. I pulled at this, the door yielded, and I went out.

I found myself in a narrow, dark lane, and looking up and down discovered, what I might have guessed before, that it, was the Ruelle d’Arcy. But mademoiselle? Fanchette? Simon? Where were they? No one was to be seen, Tormented by doubts, I lifted up my voice and called on them in turn; first on mademoiselle, then on Simon Fleix. In vain; I got no answer. High up above me I saw, as I stood back a little, lights moving in the house I had left; and the suspicion that, after all, the enemy had foiled me grew upon me. Somehow they had decoyed mademoiselle to another part of the house, and then the old woman had misled me!

I turned fiercely to the door, which I had left ajar, resolved to re-enter by the way I had come, and have an explanation whether or no. To my surprise—for I had not moved six paces from the door nor heard the slightest sound—I found it not; only closed but bolted—bolted both at top and bottom, as I discovered on trying it.

I fell on that to kicking it furiously, desperately; partly in a tempest of rage and chagrin, partly in the hope that I might frighten the old woman, if it was she who had closed it, into opening it again. In vain, of course; and presently I saw this and desisted, and, still in a whirl of haste and excitement, set off running towards the place where I had left Simon Fleix and the horses. It was fully six o’clock as I judged; but some faint hope that I might find him there with mademoiselle and her woman still lingered in my mind. I reached the end of the lane, I ran to the very foot; of the ramparts, I looked right and left. In vain. The place was dark, silent, deserted.

I called ‘Simon! Simon! Simon Fleix!’ but my only answer was the soughing of the wind in the eaves, and the slow tones of the convent-bell striking Six.

There are some things, not shameful in themselves, which it shames one to remember, and among these I count the succeeding hurry and perturbation of that night: the vain search, without hope or clue, to which passion impelled me, and the stubborn persistence with which I rushed frantically from place to place long after the soberness of reason would have had me desist. There was not, it seems to me, looking back now, one street or alley, lane or court, in Blois which I did not visit again and again in my frantic wanderings; not a beggar skulking on foot that night whom I did not hunt down and question; not a wretched woman sleeping in arch or doorway whom I did not see and scrutinise. I returned to my mother’s lodging again and again, always fruitlessly. I rushed to the stables and rushed away again, or stood and listened in the dark, empty stalls, wondering what had happened, and torturing myself with suggestions of this or that. And everywhere, not only at the North-gate, where I interrogated the porters and found that no party resembling that which I sought had passed out, but on the PARVIS of the Cathedral, where a guard was drawn up, and in the common streets, where I burst in on one group and another with my queries, I ran the risk of suspicion and arrest, and all that might follow thereon.

It was strange indeed that I escaped arrest. The wound in my chin still bled at intervals, staining my doublet; and as I was without my cloak, which I had left in the house in the Rue Valois, I had nothing to cover my disordered dress. I was keenly, fiercely anxious. Stray passers meeting me in the glare of a torch, or seeing me hurry by the great braziers which burned where four streets met, looked askance at me and gave me the wall; while men in authority cried to me to stay and answer their questions. I ran from the one and the other with the same savage impatience, disregarding everything in the feverish anxiety which spurred me on and impelled me to a hundred imprudences, such as at my age I should have blushed to commit. Much of this feeling was due, no doubt, to the glimpse I had had of mademoiselle, and the fiery words she had spoken; more, I fancy, to chagrin and anger at the manner in which the cup of success had been dashed at the last moment from my lips.

For four hours I wandered through the streets, now hot with purpose, now seeking aimlessly. It was ten o’clock when at length I gave up the search, and, worn out both in body and mind, climbed the stairs at my mother’s lodgings and entered her room. An old woman sat by the fire, crooning softly to herself, while she stirred something in a black pot. My mother lay in the same heavy, deep sleep in which I had left her. I sat down opposite the nurse (who cried out at my appearance) and asked her dully for some food. When I had eaten it, sitting in a kind of stupor the while, the result partly of my late exertions, and partly of the silence which prevailed round me, I bade the woman call me if any change took place; and then going heavily across to the garret Simon had occupied, I lay down on his pallet, and fell into a sound, dreamless sleep.

The next day and the next night I spent beside my mother, watching the life ebb fast away, and thinking with grave sorrow of her past and my future. It pained me beyond measure to see her die thus, in a garret, without proper attendance or any but bare comforts; the existence which had once been bright and prosperous ending in penury and gloom, such as my mother’s love and hope and self-sacrifice little deserved. Her state grieved me sharply on my own account too, seeing that I had formed none of those familiar relations which men of my age have commonly formed, and which console them for the loss of parents and forbears; Nature so ordering it, as I have taken note, that men look forward rather than backward, and find in the ties they form with the future full compensation for the parting strands behind them. I was alone, poverty-stricken, and in middle life, seeing nothing before me except danger and hardship, and these unrelieved by hope or affection. This last adventure, too, despite all my efforts, had sunk me deeper in the mire; by increasing my enemies and alienating from me some to whom I might have turned at the worst. In one other respect also it had added to my troubles not a little; for the image of mademoiselle wandering alone and unguarded through the streets, or vainly calling on me for help, persisted in thrusting itself on my imagination when I least wanted it, and came even between my mother’s patient face and me.

I was sitting beside Madame de Bonne a little after sunset on the second day, the woman who attended her being absent on an errand, when I remarked that the lamp, which had been recently lit, and stood on a stool in the middle of the room, was burning low and needed snuffing. I went to it softly, and while stooping over it, trying to improve the light, heard a slow, heavy step ascending the stairs. The house was quiet, and the sound attracted my full attention. I raised myself and stood listening, hoping that this might be the doctor, who had not been that day.

The footsteps passed the landing below, but at the first stair of the next flight the person, whoever it was, stumbled, and made a considerable noise. At that, or it might be a moment later, the step still ascending, I heard a sudden rustling behind me, and, turning quickly with a start, saw my mother sitting up in bed. Her eyes were open, and she seemed fully conscious; which she had not been for days, nor indeed since the last conversation I have recorded. But her face, though it was now sensible, was pinched and white, and so drawn with mortal fear that I believed her dying, and sprang to her, unable to construe otherwise the pitiful look in her straining eyes.

‘Madame,’ I said, hastily passing my arm round her, and speaking with as much encouragement as I could infuse into my voice, ‘take comfort. I am here. Your son.’

‘Hush!’ she muttered in answer, laying her feeble hand on my wrist and continuing to look, not at me, but at the door. ‘Listen, Gaston! Don’t you hear? There it is again. Again!’

For a moment I thought her mind still wandered, and I shivered, having no fondness for hearing such things. Then I saw she was listening intently to the sound which had attracted my notice. The step had reached the landing by this time. The visitor, whoever it was, paused there a moment, being in darkness, and uncertain, perhaps, of the position of the door; but in a little while I heard him move forward again, my mother’s fragile form, clasped as it was in my embrace, quivering with each step he took, as though his weight stirred the house. He tapped at the door.

I had thought, while I listened and wondered, of more than one whom this might be: the leech, Simon Fleix, Madame Bruhl, Fresnoy even. But as the tap came, and I felt my mother tremble in my arms, enlightenment came with it, and I pondered no more, I knew as well as if she hail spoken and told me. There could be only one man whose presence had such power to terrify her, only one whose mere step, sounding through the veil, could drag her back to consciousness and fear! And that was the man who had beggared her, who had traded so long on her terrors.

I moved a little, intending to cross the floor softly, that when he opened the door he might find me face to face with him; but she detected the movement, and, love giving her strength, she clung to my wrist so fiercely that I had not the heart, knowing how slender was her hold on life and how near the brink she stood, to break from her. I constrained myself to stand still, though every muscle grew tense as a drawn bowstring, and I felt the strong rage rising in my throat and choking me as I waited for him to enter.

A log on the hearth gave way with a dull sound startling in the silence. The man tapped again, and getting no answer, for neither of us spoke, pushed the door slowly open, uttering before he showed himself the words, ‘Dieu vous benisse!’ in a voice so low and smooth I shuddered at the sound. The next moment he came in and saw me, and, starting, stood at gaze, his head thrust slightly forward, his shoulders bent, his hand still on the latch, amazement and frowning spite in turn distorting his lean face. He had looked to find a weak, defenceless woman, whom he could torture and rob at his will; he saw instead a strong man armed, whose righteous anger he must have been blind indeed had he failed to read.

Strangest thing of all, we had met before! I knew him at once—he me. He was the same Jacobin monk whom I had seen at the inn on the Claine, and who had told me the news of Guise’s death!

I uttered an exclamation of surprise on making this discovery, and my mother, freed suddenly, as it seemed, from the spell of fear, which had given her unnatural strength, sank back on the bed. Her grasp relaxed, and her breath came and went with so loud a rattle that I removed my gaze from him, and bent over her, full of concern and solicitude. Our eyes met. She tried to speak, and at last gasped, ‘Not now, Gaston! Let him—let him—’

Her lips framed the word ‘go,’ but she could not give it sound. I understood, however, and in impotent wrath I waved my hand to him to begone. When I looked up he had already obeyed me. He had seized the first opportunity to escape. The door was closed, the lamp burned steadily, and we were alone.

I gave her a little Armagnac, which stood beside the bed for such an occasion, and she revived, and presently opened her eyes. But I saw at once a great change in her. The look of fear had passed altogether from her face, and one of sorrow, yet content, had taken its place. She laid her hand in mine, and looked up at me, being too weak, as I thought, to speak. But by-and-by, when the strong spirit had done its work, she signed to me to lower my head to her mouth.

‘The King of Navarre,’ she murmured-you are sure, Gaston—he will retain you is your—employments?’

Her pleading eyes were so close to mine, I felt no scruples such as some might have felt, seeing her so near death; but I answered firmly and cheerfully, ‘Madame, I am assured of it. There is no prince in Europe so trustworthy or so good to his servants.’

She sighed with infinite content, and blessed him in a feeble whisper. ‘And if you live,’ she went on, ‘you will rebuild the old house, Gaston. The walls are sound yet. And the oak in the hall was not burned. There is a chest of linen at Gil’s, and a chest with your father’s gold lace—but that is pledged,’ she added dreamily. ‘I forgot.’

‘Madame,’ I answered solemnly, ‘it shall be done—it shall be done as you wish, if the power lie with me.’

She lay for some time after that murmuring prayers, her head supported on my shoulder. I longed impatiently for the nurse to return, that I might despatch her for the leech; not that I thought anything could be done, but for my own comfort and greater satisfaction afterwards, and that my mother might not die without some fitting attendance. The house remained quiet, however, with that impressive quietness which sobers the heart at such times, and I could not do this. And about six o’clock my mother opened her eyes again.

‘This is not Marsac,’ she murmured abruptly, her eyes roving from the ceiling to the wall at the foot of the bed.

No, Madame,’ I answered, leaning over her, ‘you are in Blois. But I am here—Gaston, your son.’

She looked at me, a faint smile of pleasure stealing over her pinched face. ‘Twelve thousand livres a year,’ she whispered, rather to herself than to me, ‘and an establishment, reduced a little, yet creditable, very creditable.’ For a moment she seemed to be dying in my arms, but again opened her eyes quickly and looked me in the face. ‘Gaston?’ she said, suddenly and strangely. ‘Who said Gaston? He is with the King—I have blessed him; and his days shall be long in the land!’ Then, raising herself in my arms with a last effort of strength, she cried loudly, ‘Way there! Way for my son, the Sieur de Marsac!’

They were her last words. When I laid her down on the bed a moment later, she was dead, and I was alone.

Madame de Bonne, my mother, was seventy at the time of her death, having survived my father eighteen years. She was Marie de Loche de Loheac, third daughter of Raoul, Sieur de Loheac, on the Vilaine, and by her great-grandmother, a daughter of Jean de Laval, was descended from the ducal family of Rohan, a relationship which in after-times, and under greatly altered circumstances, Henry Duke of Rohan condescended to acknowledge, honouring me with his friendship on more occasions than one. Her death, which I have here recorded, took place on the fourth of January, the Queen-Mother of France, Catherine de Medicis, dying a little after noon on the following day.

In Blois, as in every other town, even Paris itself, the Huguenots possessed at this time a powerful organisation; and with the aid of the surgeon, who showed me much respect in my bereavement, and exercised in my behalf all the influence which skilful and honest; men of his craft invariably possess, I was able to arrange for my mother’s burial in a private ground about a league beyond the walls and near the village of Chaverny. At the time of her death I had only thirty crowns in gold remaining, Simon Fleix, to whose fate I could obtain no clue, having carried off thirty-five with the horses. The whole of this residue, however, with the exception of a handsome gratuity to the nurse and a trifle spent on my clothes, I expended on the funeral, desiring that no stain should rest on my mother’s birth or my affection. Accordingly, though the ceremony was of necessity private, and indeed secret, and the mourners were few, it lacked nothing, I think, of the decency and propriety which my mother loved; and which she preferred, I have often heard her say, to the vulgar show that is equally at the command of the noble and the farmer of taxes.

Until she was laid in her quiet resting-place I stood in constant fear of some interruption on the part either of Bruhl, whose connection with Fresnoy and the abduction I did not doubt, or of the Jacobin monk. But none came; and nothing happening to enlighten me as to the fate of Mademoiselle de la Vire, I saw my duty clear before me. I disposed of the furniture of my mother’s room, and indeed of everything which was saleable, and raised in this way enough money to buy myself a new cloak—without which I could not travel in the wintry weather—and to hire a horse. Sorry as the animal was, the dealer required security, and I had none to offer. It was only at the last moment, I bethought me of the fragment of gold chain which mademoiselle had left behind her, and which, as well as my mother’s rings and vinaigrette, I had kept back from the sale. This I was forced to lodge with him. Having thus, with some pain and more humiliation, provided means for the journey, I lost not an hour in beginning it. On the eighth of January I set oat for Rosny, to carry the news of my ill-success and of mademoiselle’s position whither I had looked a week before to carry herself.

I looked to make the journey to Rosny in two days. But the heaviness of the roads and the sorry condition of my hackney hindered me so greatly that I lay the second night at Dreux, and, hearing the way was still worse between that place and my destination, began to think that I should be fortunate if I reached Rosny by the following noon. The country in this part seemed devoted to the League, the feeling increasing in violence as I approached the Seine. I heard nothing save abuse of the King of France and praise of the Guise princes, and had much ado, keeping a still tongue and riding modestly, to pass without molestation or inquiry.

Drawing near to Rosny, on the third morning, through a low marshy country covered with woods and alive with game of all kinds, I began to occupy myself with thoughts of the reception I was likely to encounter; which, I conjectured, would be none of the most pleasant. The daring and vigour of the Baron de Rosny, who had at this time the reputation of being in all parts of France at once, and the familiar terms on which he was known to live with the King of Navarre, gave me small reason to hope that he would listen with indulgence to such a tale as I had to tell. The nearer I came to the hour of telling it, indeed, the more improbable seemed some of its parts, and the more glaring my own carelessness in losing the token, and in letting mademoiselle out of my sight in such a place as Blois. I saw this so clearly now, and more clearly as the morning advanced, that I do not know that I ever anticipated anything with more fear than this explanation; which it yet seemed my duty to offer with all reasonable speed. The morning was warm, I remember; cloudy, yet not dark; the air near at hand full of moisture and very clear, with a circle of mist rising some way off, and filling the woods with blue distances. The road was deep and foundrous, and as I was obliged to leave it from time to time in order to pass the worst places, I presently began to fear that I had strayed into a by-road. After advancing some distance, in doubt whether I should persevere or turn back, I was glad to see before me a small house placed at the junction of several woodland paths. From the bush which hung over the door, and a water-trough which stood beside it, I judged the place to be an inn; and determining to get my horse fed before I went farther, I rode up to the door and rapped on it with my riding-switch.

The position of the house was so remote that I was surprised to see three or four heads thrust immediately out of a window. For a moment I thought I should have done better to have passed by; but the landlord coming out very civilly, and leading the way to a shed beside the house, I reflected that I had little to lose, and followed him. I found, as I expected, four horses tied up in the shed, the bits hanging round their necks and their girths loosed; while my surprise was not lessened by the arrival, before I had fastened up my own horse, of a sixth rider, who, seeing us by the shed, rode up to us, and saluted me as he dismounted.

He was a tall, strong man in the prime of youth, wearing a plain, almost mean suit of dust-coloured leather, and carrying no weapons except a hunting-knife, which hung in a sheath at his girdle. He rode a powerful silver-roan horse, and was splashed to the top of his high untanned boots, as if he had come by the worst of paths, if by any.

He cast a shrewd glance at the landlord as he led his horse into the shed; and I judged from his brown complexion and quick eyes that he had seen much weather and lived an out-of-door life.

He watched me somewhat curiously while I mixed the fodder for my horse; and when I went into the house and sat down in the first room I came to, to eat a little bread-and-cheese which I had in my pouch, he joined me almost immediately. Apparently he could not stomach my poor fare, however, for after watching me for a time in silence, switching his boot with his whip the while, he called the landlord, and asked him, in a masterful way, what fresh meat he had, and particularly if he had any lean collops, or a fowl.

The fellow answered that there was nothing. His honour could have some Lisieux cheese, he added, or some stewed lentils.

‘His honour does not want cheese,’ the stranger answered peevishly, ‘nor lentil porridge. And what is this I smell, my friend?’ he continued, beginning suddenly to sniff with vigour. ‘I swear I smell cooking.’

‘It is the hind-quarter of a buck, which is cooking for the four gentlemen of the Robe; with a collop or two to follow,’ the landlord explained; and humbly excused himself on the ground that the gentlemen had strictly engaged it for their own eating.

‘What? A whole quarter! AND a collop or two to follow!’ the stranger retorted, smacking his lips. ‘Who are they?’

‘Two advocates and their clerks from the Parliament of Paris. They have been viewing a boundary near here, and are returning this afternoon,’ the landlord answered.

‘No reason why they should cause a famine!’ ejaculated the stranger with energy. ‘Go to them and say a gentleman, who has ridden far, and fasted since seven this morning, requests permission to sit at their table. A quarter of venison and a collop or two among four!’ he continued, in a tone of extreme disgust, ‘It is intolerable! And advocates! Why, at that rate, the King of France should eat a whole buck, and rise hungry! Don’t you agree with me, sir?’ he continued, turning on me and putting the question abruptly.

He was so comically and yet so seriously angry, and looked so closely at me as he spoke, that I hastened to say I agreed with him perfectly.

‘Yet you eat cheese, sir!’ he retorted irritably.

I saw that, not withstanding the simplicity of his dress, he was a gentleman, and so, forbearing to take offence, I told him plainly that my purse being light I travelled rather as I could than as I would.

‘Is it so?’ he answered hastily. ‘Had I known that, I would have joined you in the cheese! After all, I would rather fast with a gentleman, than feast with a churl. But it is too late now. Seeing you mix the fodder, I thought your pockets were full.’

‘The nag is tired, and has done its best,’ I answered.

He looked at me curiously, and as though he would say more. But the landlord returning at that moment, he turned to him instead.

‘Well!’ he said briskly. ‘Is it all right?’

‘I am sorry, your honour,’ the man answered, reluctantly, and with a very downcast air, ‘but the gentlemen beg to be excused.’

‘Zounds!’ cried my companion roundly. ‘They do, do they?’

‘They say they have no more, sir,’ the landlord continued, faltering, ‘than enough for themselves and a little dog they have with them.’

A shout of laughter which issued at that moment from the other room seemed to show that the quartette were making merry over my companion’s request. I saw his cheek redden, and looked for an explosion of anger on his part; but instead he stood a moment in thought in the middle of the floor, and then, much to the innkeeper’s relief, pushed a stool towards me, and called for a bottle of the best wine. He pleasantly begged leave to eat a little of my cheese, which he said looked better than the Lisieux, and, filling my glass with wine, fell to as merrily as if he had never heard of the party in the other room.

I was more than a little surprised, I remember; for I had taken him to be a passionate man, and not one to sit down under an affront. Still I said nothing, and we conversed very well together. I noticed, however, that he stopped speaking more than once, as though to listen; but conceiving that he was merely reverting to the party in the other room, who grew each moment more uproarious, I said nothing, and was completely taken by surprise when he rose on a sudden, and, going to the open window, leaned out, shading his eyes with his hand.

‘What is it?’ I said, preparing to follow him.

He answered by a quiet chuckle. ‘You shall see,’ he added the next instant.

I rose, and going to the window looked out over his shoulder. Three men were approaching the inn on horseback. The first, a great burly, dark-complexioned man with fierce black eyes and a feathered cap, had pistols in his holsters and a short sword by his side. The other two, with the air of servants, were stout fellows, wearing green doublets and leather breeches. All three rode good horses, while a footman led two hounds after them in a leash. On seeing us they cantered forward, the leader waving his bonnet.

‘Halt, there!’ cried my companion, lifting up his voice when they were within a stone’s throw of us. ‘Maignan!’

‘My lord?’ answered he of the feather, pulling up on the instant.

‘You will find six horses in the shed there,’ the stranger cried in a voice of command. ‘Turn out the four to the left as you go in. Give each a cut, and send it about its business!’

The man wheeled his horse before the words were well uttered, and crying obsequiously ‘that it was done,’ flung his reins to one of the other riders and disappeared in the shed, as if the order given him were the most commonplace one in the world.

The party in the other room, however, by whom all could be heard, were not slow to take the alarm. They broke into a shout of remonstrance, and one of their number, leaping from the window, asked with a very fierce air what the devil we meant. The others thrust out their faces, swollen and flushed with the wine they had drunk, and with many oaths backed up his question. Not feeling myself called upon to interfere, I prepared to see something diverting.

My companion, whose coolness surprised me, had all the air of being as little concerned as myself. He even persisted for a time in ignoring the angry lawyer, and, turning a deaf ear to all the threats and abuse with which the others assailed him, continued to look calmly at the prospect. Seeing this, and that nothing could move him, the man who had jumped through the window, and who seemed the most enterprising of the party, left us at last and ran towards the stalls. The aspect of the two serving-men, however, who rode up grinning, and made as if they would ride him down, determined him to return; which he did, pale with fury, as the last of the four horses clattered out, and after a puzzled look round trotted off at its leisure into the forest.

On this, the man grew more violent, as I have remarked frightened men do; so that at last the stranger condescended to notice him.

‘My good sir,’ he said coolly, looking at him through the window as if he had not seen him before, ‘you annoy me. What is the matter?’

The fellow retorted with a vast amount of bluster, asking what the devil we meant by turning out his horses.

‘Only to give you and the gentlemen with you a little exercise,’ my companion answered, with grim humour, and in a severe tone strange in one so young—‘than which nothing is more wholesome after a full meal. That, and a lesson in good manners. Maignan,’ he continued, raising his voice, ‘if this person has anything more to say, answer him. He is nearer your degree than mine.’

And leaving the man to slink away like a whipped dog—for the mean are ever the first to cringe—my friend turned from the window. Meeting my eyes as he went back to his seat, he laughed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’

‘That the ass in the lion’s skin is very well till it meets the lion,’ I answered.

He laughed again, and seemed pleased, as I doubt not he was. ‘Pooh, pooh!’ he said. ‘It passed the time, and I think I am quits with my gentlemen now. But I must be riding. Possibly our roads may lie for a while in the same direction, sir?’ And he looked at me irresolutely.

I answered cautiously that I was going to the town of Rosny.

‘You are not from Paris?’ he continued, still looking at me.

‘No,’ I answered. ‘I am from the south.’

‘From Blois, perhaps?’

I nodded.

‘Ah!’ he said, making no comment, which somewhat surprised me, all men at this time desiring news, and looking to Blois for it. ‘I am riding towards Rosny also. Let us be going.’

But I noticed that as we got to horse, the man he called Maignan holding his stirrup with much formality, he turned and looked at me more than once with an expression in his eye which I could not interpret; so that, being in an enemy’s country, where curiosity was a thing to be deprecated, I began to feel somewhat uneasy. However, as he presently gave way to a fit of laughter, and seemed to be digesting his late diversion at the inn, I thought no more of it, finding him excellent company and a man of surprising information.

Notwithstanding this my spirits began to flag as I approached Rosny; and as on such occasions nothing is more trying than the well-meant rallying of a companion ignorant of our trouble, I felt rather relief than regret when he drew rein at four cross-roads a mile or so short of the town, and, announcing that here our paths separated, took a civil leave of me, and went his way with his servants.

I dismounted at an inn at the extremity of the town, and, stopping only to arrange my dress and drink a cup of wine, asked the way to the Chateau, which was situate, I learned, no more than a third of a mile away. I went thither on foot by way of an avenue of trees leading up to a drawbridge and gateway. The former was down, but the gates were closed, and all the formalities of a fortress in time of war were observed on my admission, though the garrison appeared to consist only of two or three serving-men and as many foresters. I had leisure after sending in my name to observe that the house was old and partly ruinous, but of great strength, covered in places with ivy, and closely surrounded by woods. A staid-looking page came presently to me, and led me up a narrow staircase to a parlour lighted by two windows, looking, one into the courtyard, the other towards the town. There a tall man was waiting to receive me, who rose on my entrance and came forward. Judge of my surprise when I recognised my acquaintance of the afternoon! ‘M. de Rosny?’ I exclaimed, standing still and looking at him in confusion.

‘The same, sir,’ he answered, with a quiet smile. ‘You come from the King of Navarre, I believe? and on an errand to me. You may speak openly. The king has no secrets from me.’

There was something in the gravity of his demeanour as he waited for me to speak: which strongly impressed me; notwithstanding that he was ten years younger than myself, and I had seen him so lately in a lighter mood. I felt that his reputation had not belied him—that here was a great man; and reflecting with despair on the inadequacy of the tale I had to tell him, I paused to consider in what terms I should begin. He soon put an end to this, however. ‘Come, sir,’ he said with impatience. ‘I have told you that you may speak out. You should have been here four days ago, as I take it. Now you are here, where is the lady?’

‘Mademoiselle de la Vire?’ I stammered, rather to gain time than with any other object.

‘Tut, tut!’ he rejoined, frowning. ‘Is there any other lady in the question? Come, sir, speak out. Where have you left her? This is no affair of gallantry,’ he continued, the harshness of his demeanour disagreeably surprising me, ‘that you need beat about the bush. The king entrusted to you a lady, who, I have no hesitation in telling you now, was in possession of certain State secrets. It is known that she escaped safely from Chize and arrived safely at Blois. Where is she?’

‘I would to Heaven I knew, sir!’ I exclaimed in despair, feeling the painfulness of my position increased a hundred fold by his manner. ‘I wish to God I did.’

‘What is this?’ he cried in a raised voice. ‘You do not know where she is? You jest, M. de Marsac.’

‘It were a sorry jest,’ I answered, summoning up a rueful smile. And on that, plunging desperately into the story which I have here set down, I narrated the difficulties under which I had raised my escort, the manner in which I came to be robbed of the gold token, how mademoiselle was trepanned, the lucky chance by which I found her again, and the final disappointment. He listened, but listened throughout with no word of sympathy—rather with impatience, which grew at last into derisive incredulity. When I had done he asked me bluntly what I called myself.

Scarcely understanding what he meant, I repeated my name.

He answered, rudely and flatly, that it was impossible. I do not believe it, sir!’ he repeated, his brow dark. ‘You are not the man. You bring neither the lady nor the token, nor anything else by which I can test your story. Nay, sir, do not scowl at me,’ he continued sharply. ‘I am the mouthpiece of the King of Navarre, to whom this matter is of the highest importance. I cannot believe that the man whom he would choose would act so. This house you prate of in Blois, for instance, and the room with the two doors? What were you doing while mademoiselle was being removed?’

‘I was engaged with the men of the house,’ I answered, striving to swallow the anger which all but choked me. ‘I did what I could. Had the door given way, all would have been well.’

He looked at me darkly. ‘That is fine talking!’ he said with a sneer. Then he dropped his eyes and seemed for a time to fall into a brown study, while I stood before him, confounded by this new view of the case, furious, yet not knowing how to vent my fury, cut to the heart by his insults, yet without hope or prospect of redress.

‘Come’ he said harshly, after two or three minutes of gloomy reflection on his part and burning humiliation on mine, ‘is there anyone here who can identify you, or in any other way confirm your story, sir? Until I know how the matter stands I can do nothing.’

I shook my head in sullen shame. I might protest against his brutality and this judgment of me, but to what purpose while he sheltered himself behind his master?

‘Stay!’ he said presently, with an abrupt gesture of remembrance. ‘I had nearly forgotten. I have some here who have been lately at the King of Navarre’s Court at St. Jean d’Angely. If you still maintain that you are the M. de Marsac to whom this commission was entrusted, you will doubtless have no objection to seeing them?’

On this I felt myself placed in a most cruel dilemma if I refused to submit my case to the proposed ordeal, I stood an impostor confessed. If I consented to see these strangers, it was probable they would not recognise me, and possible that they might deny me in terms calculated to make my position even worse, if that might be. I hesitated but, Rosny standing inexorable before me awaiting an answer, I finally consented.

‘Good!’ he said curtly. ‘This way, if you please. They are here. The latch is tricky. Nay, sir, it is my house.’

Obeying the stern motion of his hand, I passed before him into the next room, feeling myself more humiliated than I can tell by this reference to strangers. For a moment I could see no one. The day was waning, the room I entered was long and narrow, and illuminated only by a glowing fire. Besides I was myself, perhaps, in some embarrassment. I believed that my conductor had made a mistake, or that his guests had departed, and I turned towards him to ask for an explanation. He merely pointed onwards, however, and I advanced; whereupon a young and handsome lady, who had been seated in the shadow of the great fireplace, rose suddenly, as if startled, and stood looking at me, the glow of the burning wood falling on one side of her face and turning her hair to gold.

‘Well!’ M. de Rosny said, in a voice which sounded a little odd in my ears. ‘You do not know madame, I think?’

I saw that she was a complete stranger to me, and bowed to her without speaking. The lady saluted me in turn ceremoniously and in silence.

‘Is there no one else here who should know you?’ M. de Rosny continued, in a tone almost of persiflage, and with the same change in his voice which had struck me before; but now it was more marked. ‘If not, M. de Marsac, I am afraid—But first look round, look round, sir; I would not judge any man hastily.’

He laid his hand on my shoulder as he finished in a manner so familiar and so utterly at variance with his former bearing that I doubted if I heard or felt aright. Yet I looked mechanically at the lady, and seeing that her eyes glistened in the firelight, and that she gazed at me very kindly, I wondered still more; falling, indeed, into a very confusion of amazement. This was not lessened but augmented a hundredfold when, turning in obedience to the pressure of de Rosny’s hand, I saw beside me, as if she had risen from the floor, another lady—no other than Mademoiselle de la Vire herself! She had that moment stepped out of the shadow of the great fireplace, which had hitherto hidden her, and stood before me curtseying prettily, with the same look on her face and in her eyes which madame’s wore.

‘Mademoiselle!’ I muttered, unable to take my eyes from her.

‘Mais oui, monsieur, mademoiselle,’ she answered, curtseying lower, with the air of a child rather than a woman.

‘Here?’ I stammered, my mouth open, my eyes staring.

‘Here, sir—thanks to the valour of a brave man,’ she answered, speaking in a voice so low I scarcely heard her. And then, dropping her eyes, she stepped back into the shadow, as if either she had said too much already, or doubted her composure were she to say more. She was so radiantly dressed, she looked in the firelight more like a fairy than a woman, being of small and delicate proportions; and she seemed in my eyes so different a person, particularly in respect of the softened expression of her features, from the Mademoiselle de la Vire whom I had known and seen plunged in sloughs and bent to the saddle with fatigue, that I doubted still if I had seen aright, and was as far from enlightenment as before.

It was M. de Rosny himself who relieved me from the embarrassment I was suffering. He embraced me in the most kind and obliging manner, and this more than once; begging me to pardon the deception he had practised upon me, and to which he had been impelled partly by the odd nature of our introduction at the inn, and partly by his desire to enhance the joyful surprise he had in store for me. ‘Come,’ he said presently, drawing me to the window, ‘let me show you some more of your old friends.’

I looked out, and saw below me in the courtyard my three horses drawn up in a row, the Cid being bestridden by Simon Fleix, who, seeing me, waved a triumphant greeting. A groom stood at the head of each horse, and on either side was a man with a torch. My companion laughed gleefully. ‘It was Maignan’s arrangement,’ he said. ‘He has a quaint taste in such things.’

After greeting Simon Fleix a hundred times, I turned back into the room, and, my heart overflowing with gratitude and wonder, I begged M. de Rosny to acquaint me with the details of mademoiselle’s escape.

‘It was the most simple thing in the world,’ he said, taking me by the hand and leading me back to the hearth. ‘While you were engaged with the rascals, the old woman who daily brought mademoiselle’s food grew alarmed at the uproar, and came into the room to learn what it was. Mademoiselle, unable to help you, and uncertain of your success, thought the opportunity too good to be lost. She forced the old woman to show her and her maid the way out through the garden. This done, they ran down a lane, as I understand, and came immediately upon the lad with the horses, who recognised them and helped them to mount. They waited some minutes for you, and then rode off.’

‘But I inquired at the gate,’ I said.

‘At which gate?’ inquired M. de Rosny, smiling.

‘The North-gate, of course,’ I answered.

‘Just so,’ he rejoined with a nod. ‘But they went out through the West-gate and made a circuit. He is a strange lad, that of yours below there. He has a head on his shoulder, M. de Marsac. Well, two leagues outside the town they halted, scarcely knowing how to proceed. By good fortune, however, a horse-dealer of my acquaintance was at the inn. He knew Mademoiselle de la Vire, and, hearing whither she was bound, brought her hither without let or hindrance.’

‘Was he a Norman?’ I asked,

M. de Rosny nodded, smiling at me shrewdly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he told me much about you. And now let me introduce you to my wife, Madame de Rosny.’

He led me up to the lady who had risen at my entrance, and who now welcomed me as kindly as she had before looked on me, paying me many pleasant compliments. I gazed at her with interest, having heard much of her beauty and of the strange manner in which M. de Rosny, being enamoured of two young ladies, and chancing upon both while lodging in different apartments at an inn, had decided which he should visit and make his wife. He appeared to read what was in my mind, for as I bowed before her, thanking her for the obliging things which she had uttered, and which for ever bound me to her service, he gaily pinched her ear, and said, ‘When you want a good wife, M. de Marsac, be sure you turn to the right.’

He spoke in jest, and having his own case only in his mind. But I, looking mechanically in the direction he indicated, saw mademoiselle standing a pace or two to my right in the shadow of the great chimney-piece. I know not whether she frowned more or blushed more; but this for certain, that she answered my look with one of sharp displeasure, and, turning her back on me, swept quickly from the room, with no trace in her bearing of that late tenderness and gratitude which I had remarked.

The morning brought only fresh proofs of the kindness which M. de Rosny had conceived for me. Awaking early I found on a stool beside my clothes, a purse of gold containing a hundred crowns; and a youth presently entering to ask me if I lacked anything, I had at first some difficulty in recognising Simon Fleix, so sprucely was the lad dressed, in a mode resembling Maignan’s. I looked at the student more than once before I addressed him by his name; and was as much surprised by the strange change I observed in him for it was not confined to his clothes—as by anything which had happened since I entered the house. I rubbed my eyes, and asked him what he had done with his soutane. ‘Burned it, M. de Marsac,’ he answered briefly.

I saw that he had burned much, metaphorically speaking, besides his soutane. He was less pale, less lank, less wobegone than formerly, and went more briskly. He had lost the air of crack-brained disorder which had distinguished him, and was smart, sedate, and stooped less. Only the odd sparkle remained in his eyes, and bore witness to the same nervous, eager spirit within.

‘What are you going to do, then, Simon?’ I asked, noting these changes curiously.

‘I am a soldier,’ he answered, ‘and follow M. de Marsac.’

I laughed. ‘You have chosen a poor service, I am afraid,’ I said, beginning to rise; ‘and one, too, Simon, in which it is possible you may be killed. I thought that would not suit you,’ I continued, to see what he would say. But he answered nothing, and I looked at him in great surprise. ‘You have made up your mind, then, at last?’ I said.

‘Perfectly,’ he answered.

‘And solved all your doubts?’

‘I have no doubts.’

‘You are a Huguenot?’

‘That is the only true and pure religion,’ he replied gravely. And with apparent sincerity and devotion he repeated Beza’s Confession of Faith.

This filled me with profound astonishment, but I said no more at the time, though I had my doubts. I waited until I was alone with M. de Rosny, and then I unbosomed myself on the matter; expressing my surprise at the suddenness of the conversion, and at such a man, as I had found the student to be, stating his views so firmly and steadfastly, and with so little excitement. Observing that M. de Rosny smiled but answered nothing, I explained myself farther.

‘I am surprised,’ I said, ‘because I have always heard it maintained that clerkly men, becoming lost in the mazes of theology, seldom find any sure footing; that not one in a hundred returns to his old faith, or finds grace to accept a new one. I am speaking only of such, of course, as I believe this lad to be—eager, excitable brains, learning much, and without judgment to digest what they learn.’

‘Of such I also believe it to be true,’ M. de Rosny answered, still smiling. ‘But even on them a little influence, applied at the right moment, has much effect, M. de Marsac.’

‘I allow that,’ I said. ‘But my mother, of whom I have spoken to you, saw much of this youth. His fidelity to her was beyond praise. Yet her faith, though grounded on a rock, had no weight with him.’

M. de Rosny shook his head, still smiling.

‘It is not our mothers who convert us,’ he said.

‘What!’ I cried, my eyes opened. ‘Do you mean—do you mean that Mademoiselle has done this?’

‘I fancy so,’ he answered, nodding. ‘I think my lady cast her spell over him by the way. The lad left Blois with her, if what you say be true, without faith in the world. He came to my hands two days later the stoutest of Huguenots. It is not hard to read this riddle.’

‘Such, conversions are seldom lasting,’ I said.

He looked at me queerly; and, the smile still hovering about his lips, answered ‘Tush, man! Why so serious? Theodore Beza himself could not look dryer. The lad is in earnest, and there is no harm done.’

And, Heaven knows, I was in no mood to suspect harm; nor inclined just then to look at the dark side of things. It may be conceived how delightful it was to me to be received as an equal and honoured guest by a man, even then famous, and now so grown in reputation as to overshadow all Frenchmen save his master; how pleasant to enjoy the comforts and amiabilities of home, from which I had been long estranged; to pour my mother’s story into Madame’s ears and find comfort in her sympathy; to feel myself, en fin, once more a gentleman with an acknowledged place in the world. Our days we spent in hunting, or excursions of some kind, our evenings in long conversations, which impressed me with an ever-growing respect for my lord’s powers.

For there seemed to be no end either to his knowledge of France, or to the plans for its development, which even then filled his brain, and have since turned wildernesses into fruitful lands, and squalid towns into great cities. Grave and formal, he could yet unbend; the most sagacious of counsellors, he was a soldier also, and loved the seclusion in which we lived the more that it was not devoid of danger; the neighbouring towns being devoted to the League, and the general disorder alone making it possible for him to lie unsuspected in his own house.

One thing only rendered my ease and comfort imperfect, and that was the attitude which Mademoiselle de la Vire assumed towards me. Of her gratitude in the first blush of the thing I felt no doubt, for not only had she thanked me very prettily, though with reserve, on the evening of my arrival, but the warmth of M. de Rosny’s kindness left me no choice, save to believe that she had given him an exaggerated idea of my merits and services. I asked no more than this. Such good offices left me nothing to expect or desire; my age and ill-fortune placing me at so great a disadvantage that, far from dreaming of friendship or intimacy with her, I did not even assume the equality in our daily intercourse to which my birth, taken by itself, entitled me. Knowing that I must appear in her eyes old, poor, and ill-dressed, and satisfied, with having asserted my conduct and honour, I was careful not to trespass on her gratitude; and while forward in such courtesies as could not weary her, I avoided with equal care every appearance of pursuing her, or inflicting my company upon her. I addressed her formally and upon formal topics only, such, I mean, as we shared with the rest of our company; and I reminded myself often that though we now met in the same house and at the same table, she was still the Mademoiselle de la Vire who had borne herself so loftily in the King of Navarre’s ante-chamber. This I did, not out of pique or wounded pride, which I no more, God knows, harboured against her than against a bird; but that I might not in my new prosperity forget the light in which such a woman, young, spoiled, and beautiful, must still regard me.

Keeping to this inoffensive posture, I was the more hurt when I found her gratitude fade with the hour. After the first two days, during which I remarked that she was very silent, seldom speaking to me or looking at me, she resumed much of her old air of disdain. For that I cared little; but she presently went farther, and began to rake up the incidents which had happened at St. Jean d’Angely, and in which I had taken part. She continually adverted to my poverty while there, to the odd figure I had cut, and the many jests her friends had made at my expense. She seemed to take a pleasure positively savage in these, gibing at me sometimes so bitterly as to shame and pain me, and bring the colour to Madame de Rosny’s cheeks.

To the time we had spent together, on the other hand, she never or rarely referred. One afternoon, however, a week after my arrival at Rosny, I found her sitting alone in the parlour. I had not known she was there, and I was for withdrawing at once with a bow and a muttered apology. But she stopped me with an angry gesture. ‘I do not bite,’ she said, rising from her stool and meeting my eyes, a red spot in each cheek. ‘Why do you look at me like that? Do you know, M. de Marsac, that I have no patience with you.’ And she stamped her foot on the floor.

‘But, mademoiselle,’ I stammered humbly, wondering what in the world she meant, ‘what have I done?’

‘Done?’ she repeated angrily. ‘Done? It is not what you have done, it is what you are. I have no patience with you. Why are you so dull, sir? Why are you so dowdy? Why do you go about with your doublet awry, and your hair lank? Why do you speak to Maignan as if he were a gentleman? Why do you look always solemn and polite, and as if all the world were a preche? Why? Why? Why, I say?’

She stopped from sheer lack of breath, leaving me as much astonished as ever in my life. She looked so beautiful in her fury and fierceness too, that I could only stare at her and wonder dumbly what it all meant.

‘Well!’ she cried impatiently, after bearing this as long as she could, ‘have you not a word to say for yourself? Have you no tongue? Have you no will of your own at all, M. de Marsac?’

‘But, mademoiselle,’ I began, trying to explain.

‘Chut!’ she exclaimed, cutting me short before I could get farther, as the way of women is. And then she added, in a changed tone, and very abruptly, ‘You have a velvet knot of mine, sir. Give it me.’

‘It is in my room,’ I answered, astonished beyond measure at this sudden change of subject, and equally sudden demand.

‘Then fetch it, sir, if you please,’ she replied, her eyes flashing afresh. ‘Fetch it. Fetch it, I say! It has served its turn, and I prefer to have it. Who knows but that some day you may be showing it for a love-knot?’

‘Mademoiselle!’ I cried, hotly. And I think that for the moment I was as angry as she was.

‘Still, I prefer to have it,’ she answered sullenly, casting down her eyes.

I was so much enraged, I went without a word and fetched it, and, bringing it to her where she stood, in the same place, put it into her hands. When she saw it some recollection, I fancy, of the day when she had traced the cry for help on it, came to her in her anger; for she took it from me with all her bearing altered. She trembled, and held it for a moment in her hands, as if she did not know what to do with it. She was thinking, doubtless, of the house in Blois and the peril she had run there; and, being for my part quite willing that she should think and feel how badly she had acted, I stood looking at her, sparing her no whit of my glance.

‘The gold chain you left on my mother’s pillow,’ I said coldly, seeing she continued silent, ‘I cannot return to you at once, for I have pledged it. But I will do so as soon as I can.’

‘You have pledged it?’ she muttered, with her eyes averted.

‘Yes, mademoiselle, to procure a horse to bring me here,’ I replied drily. ‘However, it, shall be redeemed. In return, there is something I too would ask.’

‘What?’ she murmured, recovering herself with all effort, and looking at me with something of her old pride and defiance.

‘The broken coin you have,’ I said. ‘The token, I mean. It is of no use to you, for your enemies hold the other half. It might be of service to me.’

‘How?’ she asked curtly.

‘Because some day I may find its fellow, mademoiselle,’

‘And then?’ she cried. She looked at me, her lips parted, her eyes flashing. ‘What then, when you have found its fellow, M. de Marsac?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘Bah!’ she exclaimed, clenching her little hand, and stamping her foot on the floor in a passion I could not understand. ‘That is you! That is M. de Marsac all over. You say nothing, and men think nothing of you. You go with your hat in your hand, and they tread on you. They speak, and you are silent! Why, if I could use a sword as you can, I would keep silence before no man, nor let any man save the King of France cock his hat in my presence! But you! There! go, leave me. Here is your coin. Take it and go. Send me that lad of yours to keep me awake. At any rate he has brains, he is young, he is a man, he has a soul, he can feel—if he were anything but a clerk.’

She waved me off in such a wind of passion as might have amused me in another, but in her smacked so strongly of ingratitude as to pain me not a little. I went, however, and sent Simon to her; though I liked the errand very ill, and no better when I saw the lad’s face light up at the mention of her name. But apparently she had not recovered her temper when he reached her, for he fared no better than I had done; coming away presently with the air of a whipped dog, as I saw from the yew-tree walk where I was strolling.

Still, after that she made it a habit to talk to him more and more; and, Monsieur and Madame de Rosny being much taken up with one another, there was no one to check her fancy or speak a word of advice. Knowing her pride, I had no fears for her; but it grieved me to think that the lad’s head should be turned. A dozen times I made up my mind to speak to her on his behalf; but for one thing it was not my business, and for another I soon discovered that she was aware of my displeasure, and valued it not a jot. For venturing one morning, when she was in a pleasant humour, to hint that she treated those beneath her too inhumanly, and with an unkindness as little becoming noble blood as familiarity, she asked me scornfully if I did not think she treated Simon Fleix well enough. To which I had nothing to answer.

I might here remark on the system of secret intelligence by means of which M. de Rosny, even in this remote place, received news of all that was passing in France. But it is common fame. There was no coming or going of messengers, which would quickly have aroused suspicion in the neighbouring town, nor was it possible even for me to say exactly by what channels news came. But come it did, and at all hours of the day. In this way we heard of the danger of La Ganache and of the effort contemplated by the King of Navarre for its relief. M. de Rosny not only communicated these matters to me without reserve, but engaged my affections by farther proofs of confidence such as might well have flattered a man of greater importance.

I have said that, as a rule, there was no coming or going of messengers. But one evening, returning from the chase with one of the keepers, who had prayed my assistance in hunting down a crippled doe, I was surprised to find a strange horse, which had evidently been ridden hard and far, standing smoking in the yard. Inquiring whose it was, I learned that a man believed by the grooms to be from Blois had just arrived and was closeted with the baron. An event so far out of the ordinary course of things naturally aroused my wonder; but desiring to avoid any appearance of curiosity, which, if indulged, is apt to become the most vulgar of vices, I refrained from entering the house, and repaired instead to the yew-walk. I had scarcely, however, heated my blood, a little chilled with riding, before the page came to me to fetch me to his master.

I found M. de Rosny striding up and down his room, his manner so disordered and his face disfigured by so much grief and horror that I started on seeing him. My heart sinking in a moment, I did not need to look at Madame, who sat weeping silently in a chair, to assure myself that something dreadful had happened. The light was failing, and a lamp had been brought into the room. M. de Rosny pointed abruptly to a small piece of paper which lay on the table beside it, and, obeying his gesture, I took this up and read its contents, which consisted of less than a score of words.

‘He is ill and like to die,’ the message ran, ‘twenty leagues south of La Ganache. Come at all costs. P. M.

‘Who?’ I said stupidly—stupidly, for already I began to understand. Who is ill and like to die?’

M. de Rosny turned to me, and I saw that the tears were trickling unbidden down his cheeks. ‘There is but one HE for me,’ he cried. ‘May God spare that one! May He spare him to France, which needs him, to the Church, which hangs on him, and to me, who love him! Let him not fall in the hour of fruition. O Lord, let him not fall!’ And he sank on to a stool, and remained in that posture with his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaken with grief.

‘Come, sir,’ I said, after a pause sacred to sorrow and dismay; ‘let me remind you that while there is life there is hope.’

‘Hope?’

‘Yes, M. de Rosny, hope,’ I replied more cheerfully. ‘He has work to do. He is elected, called, and chosen; the Joshua of his people, as M. d’Amours rightly called him. God will not take him yet. You shall see him and be embraced by him, as has happened a hundred times. Remember, sir, the King of Navarre is strong, hardy, and young, and no doubt in good hands.’

‘Mornay’s,’ M. de Rosny cried, looking up with contempt in his eye.

Yet from that moment he rallied, spurred, I think, by the thought that the King of Navarre’s recovery depended under God on M. de Mornay; whom he was ever inclined to regard as his rival. He began to make instant preparations for departure from Rosny, and bade me do so also, telling me, somewhat curtly and without explanation, that he had need of me. The danger of so speedy a return to the South, where the full weight of the Vicomte de Turenne’s vengeance awaited me, occurred to me strongly; and I ventured, though with a little shame, to mention it. But M. de Rosny, after gazing at me a moment in apparent doubt, put the objection aside with a degree of peevishness unusual in him, and continued to press on his arrangements as earnestly as though they did not include separation from a wife equally loving and beloved.

Having few things to look to myself, I was at leisure, when the hour of departure came, to observe both the courage with which Madame de Rosny supported her sorrow, ‘for the sake of France,’ and the unwonted tenderness which Mademoiselle de la Vire, lifted for once above herself, lavished on her. I seemed to stand—happily in one light, and yet the feeling was fraught with pain—outside their familiar relations; yet, having made my adieux as short and formal as possible, that I might not encroach on other and more sacred ones, I found at the last moment something in waiting for me. I was surprised as I rode under the gateway a little ahead of the others, by something small and light falling on the saddle-bow before me. Catching it before it could slide to the ground, I saw, with infinite astonishment, that I held in my hand a tiny velvet bow.

To look up at the window of the parlour, which I have said was over the archway, was my first impulse. I did so, and met mademoiselle’s eyes for a second, and a second only. The next moment she was gone. M. de Rosny clattered through the gate at my heels, the servants behind him. And we were on the road.

For a while we were but a melancholy party. The incident I have last related which seemed to admit of more explanations than one—left me in a state of the greatest perplexity; and this prevailed with me for a time, and was only dissipated at length by my seeing my own face, as it were, in a glass. For, chancing presently to look behind me, I observed that Simon Fleix was riding, notwithstanding his fine hat and feather and his new sword, in a posture and with an air of dejection difficult to exaggerate; whereon the reflection that master and man had the same object in their minds—nay, the thought that possibly he bore in his bosom a like token to that which lay warm in mine—occurring to me, I roused myself as from some degrading dream, and, shaking up the Cid, cantered forward to join Rosny, who, in no cheerful mood himself, was riding steadily forward, wrapped to his eyes in his cloak.

The news of the King of Navarre’s illness had fallen on him, indeed, in the midst of his sanguine scheming with the force of a thunderbolt. He saw himself in danger of losing at once the master he loved and the brilliant future to which he looked forward; and amid the imminent crash of his hopes and the destruction of the system in which he lived, he had scarcely time to regret the wife he was leaving at Rosny or the quiet from which he was so suddenly called. His heart was in the South, at La Ganache, by Henry’s couch. His main idea was to get there quickly at all risks. The name of the King of Navarre’s physician was constantly on his lips. ‘Dortoman is a good man. If anyone call save him, Dortoman will,’ was his perpetual cry. And whenever he met anyone who had the least appearance of bearing news, he would have me stop and interrogate him, and by no means let the traveller go until he had given us the last rumour from Blois—the channel through which all the news from the South reached us.

An incident which occurred at the inn that evening cheered him somewhat; the most powerful minds being prone, I have observed, to snatch at omens in times of uncertainty. An elderly man, of strange appearance, and dressed in an affected and bizarre fashion, was seated at table when we arrived. Though I entered first in my assumed capacity of leader of the party, he let me pass before him without comment, but rose and solemnly saluted M. de Rosny, albeit the latter walked behind me and was much more plainly dressed. Rosny returned his greeting and would have passed on; but the stranger, interposing with a still lower bow, invited him to take his seat, which was near the fire and sheltered from the draught, at the same time making as if he would himself remove to another place.

‘Nay,’ said my companion, surprised by such an excess of courtesy, ‘I do not see why I should take your place, sir.’

‘Not mine only,’ the old man rejoined, looking at him with a particularity and speaking with an emphasis which attracted our attention, ‘but those of many others, who I can assure you will very shortly yield them up to you, whether they will or not.’

M. de Rosny shrugged his shoulders and passed on, affecting to suppose the old man wandered. But privately he thought much of his words, and more when he learned that he was an astrologer from Paris, who had the name, at any rate in this country, of having studied under Nostradamus. And whether he drew fresh hopes from this, or turned his attention more particularly as we approached Blois to present matters, certainly he grew more cheerful, and began again to discuss the future, as though assured of his master’s recovery.

‘You have never been to the King’s Court?’ he said presently, following up, as I judged, a train of thought in his own mind. ‘At Blois, I mean.’

‘No; nor do I feel anxious to visit it,’ I answered. ‘To tell you the truth, M. le Baron,’ I continued with some warmth, ‘the sooner me are beyond Blois, the better I shall be pleased. I think we run some risk there, and, besides, I do not fancy a shambles. I do not think I could see the king without thinking of the Bartholomew, nor his chamber without thinking of Guise.’

‘Tut, tut!’ he said, ‘you have killed a man before now.’

‘Many,’ I answered.

‘Do they trouble you?’

‘No, but they were killed in fair fight,’ I replied, ‘That makes a difference.’

‘To you,’ he said drily. ‘But you are not the King of France, you see. Should you ever come across him,’ he continued, flicking his horse’s ears, a faint smile on his lips, ‘I will give you a hint. Talk to him of the battles at Jarnac and Moncontour, and praise your Conde’s father! As Conde lost the fight and, he won it, the compliment comes home to him. The more hopelessly a man has lost his powers, my friend, the more fondly he regards them, and the more highly he prizes the victories he call no longer gain.’

‘Ugh!’ I muttered.

‘Of the two parties at Court,’ Rosny continued, calmly overlooking my ill-humour, ‘trust D’Aumont and Biron and the French clique. They are true to France at any rate. But whomsoever you see consort with the two Retzs—the King of Spain’s jackals as men name them—avoid him for a Spaniard and a traitor.’

‘But the Retzs are Italians,’ I objected peevishly.

‘The same thing,’ he answered curtly. ‘They cry, “Vive le Roi!” but privately they are for the League, or for Spain, or for whatever may most hurt us; who are better Frenchmen than themselves, and whose leader will some day, if God spare his life, be King of France.’

‘Well, the less I have to do with the one or the other of them, save at the sword’s point, the better I shall be pleased,’ I rejoined.

On that he looked at me with a queer smile; as was his way when he had more in his mind than appeared. And this, and something special in the tone of his conversation, as well, perhaps, as my own doubts about my future and his intentions regarding me, gave me an uneasy feeling; which lasted through the day, and left me only when more immediate peril presently rose to threaten us.

It happened in this way. We had reached the outskirts of Blois, and were just approaching the gate, hoping to pass through it without attracting attention, when two travellers rode slowly out of a lane, the mouth of which we were passing. They eyed us closely as they reined in to let us go by; and M. de Rosny, who was riding with his horse’s head at my stirrup, whispered me to press on. Before I could comply, however, the strangers cantered by us, and turning in the saddle when abreast of us looked us in the face. A moment later one of them cried loudly, ‘It is he!’ and both pulled their horses across the road, and waited for us to come up.

Aware that if M. de Rosny were discovered he would be happy if he escaped with imprisonment, the king being too jealous of his Catholic reputation to venture to protect a Huguenot, however illustrious, I saw that the situation was desperate; for, though we were five to two, the neighbourhood of the city—the gate being scarcely a bow-shot off—rendered flight or resistance equally hopeless. I could think of nothing for it save to put a bold face on the matter, and, M. de Rosny doing the same, we advanced in the most innocent way possible.

‘Halt, there!’ cried one of the strangers sharply. ‘And let me tell you, sir, you are known.’

‘What if I am?’ I answered impatiently, still pressing on. ‘Are you highwaymen, that you stop the way?’

The speaker on the other side looked at me keenly, but in a moment retorted, ‘Enough trifling, sir! Who YOU are I do not know. But the person riding at your rein is M. de Rosny. Him I do know, and I warn him to stop.’

I thought the game was lost, but to my surprise my companion answered at once and almost in the same words I had used. ‘Well, sir, and what of that?’ he said.

‘What of that?’ the stranger exclaimed, spurring his horse so as still to bar the way. ‘Why, only this, that you must be a madman to show yourself on this side of the Loire.’

‘It is long since I have seen the other,’ was my companion’s unmoved answer.

‘You are M. de Rosny? You do not deny it?’ the man cried in astonishment.

‘Certainly I do not deny it,’ M. de Rosny answered bluntly. ‘And more, the day has been, sir,’ he continued with sudden fire, ‘when few at his Majesty’s Court would have dared to chop words with Solomon de Bethune, much less to stop him on the highway within a mile of the palace. But times are changed with me, sir, and it would seem with others also, if true men rallying to his Majesty in his need are to be challenged by every passer on the road.’

‘What! Are you Solomon de Bethune?’ the man cried incredulously. Incredulously, but his countenance fell, and his voice was full of chagrin and disappointment,

‘Who else, sir?’ M. de Rosny replied haughtily. ‘I am, and, as far as I know, I have as much right on this side of the Loire as any other man.’

‘A thousand pardons.’

‘If you are not satisfied—’

‘Nay, M. de Rosny, I am perfectly satisfied.’

The stranger repented this with a very crestfallen air, adding, ‘A thousand pardons’; and fell to making other apologies, doffing his hat with great respect. ‘I took you, if you will pardon me saying so, for your Huguenot brother, M. Maximilian,’ he explained. ‘The saying goes that he is at Rosny.’

‘I can answer for that being false,’ M. de Rosny answered peremptorily, ‘for I have just come from there, and I will answer for it he is not within ten leagues of the place. And now, sir, as we desire to enter before the gates shut, perhaps you will excuse us.’ With which he bowed, and I bowed, and they bowed, and we separated. They gave us the road, which M. de Rosny took with a great air, and we trotted to the gate, and passed through it without misadventure.

The first street we entered was a wide one, and my companion took advantage of this to ride up abreast of me. ‘That is the kind of adventure our little prince is fond of,’ he muttered. ‘But for my part, M. de Marsac, the sweat is running down my forehead. I have played the trick more than once before, for my brother and I are as like as two peas. And yet it would have gone ill with us if the fool had been one of his friends.’

‘All’s well that ends well,’ I answered in a low voice, thinking it an ill time for compliments. As it was, the remark was unfortunate, for M. de Rosny was still in the act of reining back when Maignan called out to us to say we were being followed.

I looked behind, but could see nothing except gloom and rain and overhanging eaves and a few figures cowering in doorways. The servants, however, continued to maintain that it was so, and we held, without actually stopping, a council of war. If detected, we were caught in a trap, without hope of escape; and for the moment I am sure M. do Rosny regretted that he had chosen this route by Blois—that he had thrust himself, in his haste and his desire to take with him the latest news, into a snare so patent. The castle—huge, dark, and grim—loomed before us at the end of the street in which we were, and, chilled as I was myself by the sight, I could imagine how much more appalling it must appear to him, the chosen counsellor of his master, and the steadfast opponent of all which it represented.

Our consultation came to nothing, for no better course suggested itself than to go as we had intended to the lodging commonly used by my companion. We did so, looking behind us often, and saying more than once that Maignan must be mistaken. As soon as we had dismounted, however, and gone in, he showed us from the window a man loitering near; and this confirmation of our alarm sending us to our expedients again, while Maignan remained watching in a room without a light, I suggested that I might pass myself off, though ten years older, for my companion.

‘Alas!’ he said, drumming with his fingers on the table ‘there are too many here who know me to make that possible. I thank you all the same.’

‘Could you escape on foot? Or pass the wall anywhere, or slip through the gates early?’ I suggested.

‘They might tell us at the Bleeding Heart,’ he answered. But I doubt it. I was a fool, sir, to put my neck into Mendoza’s halter, and that is a fact. But here is Maignan. What is it, man?’ he continued eagerly.

‘The watcher is gone, my lord,’ the equerry answered.

‘And has left no one?’

‘No one that I can see.’

We both went into the next room and looked from the windows. The man was certainly not where we had seen him before. But the rain was falling heavily, the eaves were dripping, the street was a dark cavern with only here and there a spark of light, and the fellow might be lurking elsewhere. Maignan, being questioned, however, believed he had gone off of set purpose.

‘Which may be read half a dozen ways,’ I remarked.

‘At any rate, we are fasting,’ M. de Rosny answered. Give me a full man in a fight. Let us sit down and eat. It is no good jumping in the dark, or meeting troubles half way.’

We were not through our meal, however, Simon Fleix waiting on us with a pale face, when Maignan came in again from the dark room. ‘My lord,’ he said quietly, ‘three men have appeared. Two of them remain twenty paces away. The third has come to the door.’ As he spoke we heard a cautious summons below, Maignan was for going down, but his master bade him stand. Let the woman of the house go,’ he said.

I remarked and long remembered M. de Rosny’s SANG-FROID on this occasion. His pistols he had already laid on a chair beside him throwing his cloak over them; and now, while we waited, listening in breathless silence, I saw him hand a large slice of bread-and-meat to his equerry, who, standing behind his chair, began eating it with the same coolness. Simon Fleix, on the other hand, stood gazing at the door, trembling in every limb, and with so much of excitement and surprise in his attitude that I took the precaution of bidding him, in a low voice, do nothing without orders. At the same moment it occurred to me to extinguish two of the four candles which had been lighted; and I did so, M. de Rosny nodding assent, just as the muttered conversation which was being carried on below ceased, and a man’s tread sounded on the stairs.

It was followed immediately by a knock on the outside of our door. Obeying my companion’s look, I cried, ‘Enter!’

A slender man of middle height, booted and wrapped up, with his face almost entirely hidden by a fold of his cloak, came in quickly, and closing the door behind him, advanced towards the table. ‘Which is M. de Rosny?’ he said.

Rosny had carefully turned his face from the light, but at the sound of the other’s voice he sprang up with a cry of relief. He was about to speak, when the newcomer, raising his hand peremptorily, continued, ‘No names, I beg. Yours, I suppose, is known here. Mine is not, nor do I desire it should be. I want speech of you, that is all.’

‘I am greatly honoured,’ M. de Rosny replied, gazing at him eagerly. ‘Yet, who told you I was here?’

‘I saw you pass under a lamp in the street,’ the stranger answered. ‘I knew your horse first, and you afterwards, and bade a groom follow you. Believe me,’ he added, with a gesture of the hand, ‘you have nothing to fear from me.’

‘I accept the assurance in the spirit in which it is offered,’ my companion answered with a graceful bow, ‘and think myself fortunate in being recognised’—he paused a moment and then continued—‘by a Frenchman and a man of honour.’

The stranger shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your pardon, then,’ he said, ‘if I seem abrupt. My time is short. I want to do the best with it I can. Will you favour me?’

I was for withdrawing, but M. de Rosny ordered Maignan to place lights in the next room, and, apologising to me very graciously, retired thither with the stranger, leaving me relieved indeed by these peaceful appearances, but full of wonder and conjectures who this might be, and what the visit portended. At one moment I was inclined to identify the stranger with M. de Rosny’s brother; at another with the English ambassador; and then, again, a wild idea that he might be M. de Bruhl occurred to me. The two remained together about a quarter of an hour and then came out, the stranger leading the way, and saluting me politely as he passed through the room. At the door he turned to say, ‘At nine o’clock, then?’

‘At nine o’clock,’ M. de Rosny replied, holding the door open. ‘You will excuse me if I do not descend, Marquis?’

‘Yes, go back, my friend,’ the stranger answered. And, lighted by Maignan, whose face on such occasions could assume the most stolid air in the world, he disappeared down the stairs, and I heard him go out.

M. de Rosny turned to me, his eyes sparkling with joy, his face and mien full of animation. ‘The King of Navarre is better,’ he said. ‘He is said to be out of danger. What do you think of that, my friend?’

‘That is the best news I have heard for many a day,’ I answered. And I hastened to add, that France and the Religion had reason to thank God for His mercy.

‘Amen to that,’ my patron replied reverently. ‘But that is not all—that is not all.’ And he began to walk up and down the room humming the 118th Psalm a little above his breath—

  La voici l’heureuse journee
  Que Dieu a faite a plein desir;
  Par nous soit joie demenee,
  Et prenons en elle plaisir.

He continued, indeed, to walk up and down the floor so long, and with so joyful a countenance and demeanour, that I ventured, at last to remind him of my presence, which he had clearly forgotten. ‘Ha! to be sure,’ he said, stopping short and looking at me with the utmost good-humour. ‘What time is it? Seven. Then until nine o’clock, my friend, I crave your indulgence. En fin, until that time I must keep counsel. Come, I am hungry still. Let us sit down, and this time I hope we may not be interrupted. Simon, set us on a fresh bottle. Ha! ha! VIVENT LE ROI ET LE ROI DE NAVARRE!’ And again he fell to humming the same psalm—

  O Dieu eternel, je te prie,
  Je te prie, ton roi maintiens:
  O Dieu, je te prie et reprie,
  Sauve ton roi et l’entretiens!

doing so with a light in his eyes and a joyous emphasis, which impressed me the more in a man ordinarily so calm and self-contained. I saw that something had occurred to gratify him beyond measure, and, believing his statement that this was not the good news from La Ganache only, I waited with the utmost interest and anxiety for the hour of nine, which had no sooner struck than our former visitor appeared with the same air of mystery and disguise which had attended him before.

M. de Rosny, who had risen on hearing his step and had taken up his cloak, paused with it half on and half off, to cry anxiously, ‘All is well, is it not?’

‘Perfectly,’ the stranger replied, with a nod.

‘And my friend?’

Yes, on condition that you answer for his discretion and fidelity.’ And the stranger glanced involuntarily at me who stood uncertain whether to hold my ground or retire.

‘Good,’ M. de Rosny cried. Then he turned to me with a mingled air of dignity and kindness, and continued: ‘This is the gentleman. M. de Marsac, I am honoured with permission to present you to the Marquis de Rambouillet, whose interest and protection I beg you to deserve, for he is a true Frenchman and a patriot whom I respect.’

M. de Rambouillet saluted me politely. ‘Of a Brittany family, I think?’ he said.

I assented; and he replied with something complimentary. But afterwards he continued to look at me in silence with a keenness and curiosity I did not understand. At last, when M. de Rosny’s impatience had reached a high pitch, the marquis seemed impelled to add something. ‘You quite understand M. de Rosny?’ he said. ‘Without saying anything disparaging of M. de Marsac, who is, no doubt, a man of honour’—and he bowed to me very low—‘this is a delicate matter, and you will introduce no one into it, I am sure, whom you cannot trust as yourself.’

‘Precisely,’ M. de Rosny replied, speaking drily, yet with a grand air which fully matched his companion’s. ‘I am prepared to trust this gentleman not only with my life but with my honour.’

‘Nothing more remains to be said then,’ the marquis rejoined, bowing to me again. ‘I am glad to have been the occasion of a declaration so flattering to you, sir.’

I returned his salute in silence, and obeying M. de Rosny’s muttered direction put on, my cloak and sword. M. de Rosny took up his pistols.

‘You will have no need of those,’ the Marquis said with a high glance.

‘Where we are going, no,’ my companion answered, calmly continuing to dispose them about him. ‘But the streets are dark and not too safe.’

M. de Rambouillet laughed. ‘That is the worst of you Huguenots,’ he said. ‘You never know when to lay suspicion aside.’

A hundred retorts sprang to my lips. I thought of the Bartholomew, of the French fury of Antwerp, of half a dozen things which make my blood boil to this day. But M. de Rosny’s answer was the finest of all. ‘That is true, I am afraid,’ he said quietly. ‘On the other hand, you Catholics—take the late M. de Guise for instance—have the habit of erring on the other side, I think, and sometimes trust too far.’

The marquis, without making any answer to this home-thrust, led the way out, and we followed, being joined at the door of the house by a couple of armed lackeys, who fell in behind us. We went on foot. The night was dark, and the prospect out of doors was not cheering. The streets were wet and dirty, and notwithstanding all our care we fell continually into pitfalls or over unseen obstacles. Crossing the PARVIS of the cathedral, which I remembered, we plunged in silence into an obscure street near the river, and so narrow that the decrepit houses shut out almost all view of the sky. The gloom of our surroundings, no less than my ignorance of the errand on which we were bound, filled me with anxiety and foreboding. My companions keeping strict silence, however, and taking every precaution to avoid being recognised, I had no choice but to do likewise.

I could think, and no more. I felt myself borne along by an irresistible current, whither and for what purpose I could not tell; an experience to an extent strange at my age the influence of the night and the weather. Twice we stood aside to let a party of roisterers go by, and the excessive care M. de Rambouillet evinced on these occasions to avoid recognition did not tend to reassure me or make me think more lightly of the unknown business on which I was bound.

Reaching at last an open space, our leader bade us in a low voice be careful and follow him closely. We did so and crossed in this way and in single file a narrow plank or wooden bridge; but whether water ran below or a dry ditch only, I could not determine. My mind was taken up at the moment with the discovery which I had just made, that the dark building, looming huge and black before us with a single light twinkling here and there at great heights, was the Castle of Blois.

All the distaste and misliking I had expressed earlier in the day for the Court of Blois recurred with fresh force in the darkness and gloom; and though, booted and travel-stained as we were, I did not conceive it likely that we should be obtruded on the circle about the king, I felt none the less an oppressive desire to be through with our adventure, and away from the ill-omened precincts in which I found myself. The darkness prevented me seeing the faces of my companions; but on M. de Rosny, who was not quite free himself, I think, from the influences of the time and place, twitching my sleeve to enforce vigilance, I noted that the lackeys had ceased to follow us, and that we three were beginning to ascend a rough staircase cut in the rock. I gathered, though the darkness limited my view behind as well as in front to a few twinkling lights, that we were mounting the scarp from the moat; to the side wall of the castle; and I was not surprised when the marquis muttered to us to stop, and knocked softly on the wood of a door.

M. de Rosny might have spared the touch he had laid on my sleeve, for by this time I was fully and painfully sensible of the critical position in which we stood, and was very little likely to commit an indiscretion. I trusted he had not done so already! No doubt—it flashed across me while we waited—he had taken care to safeguard himself. But how often, I reflected, had all safeguards been set aside and all precautions eluded by those to whom he was committing himself! Guise had thought himself secure in this very building, which we were about to enter. Coligny had received the most absolute of safe-conducts from those to whom we were apparently bound. The end in either case had been the same—the confidence of the one proving of no more avail than the wisdom of the other. What if the King of France thought to make his peace with his Catholic subjects—offended by the murder of Guise—by a second murder of one as obnoxious to them as he was precious to their arch-enemy in the South? Rosny was sagacious indeed; but then I reflected with sudden misgiving that he was young, ambitious, and bold.

The opening of the door interrupted without putting an end to this train of apprehension. A faint light shone out; so feebly as to illumine little more than the stairs at our feet. The marquis entered at once, M. de Rosny followed, I brought up the rear; and the door was closed by a man who stood behind it. We found ourselves crowded together at the foot of a very narrow staircase, which the doorkeeper—a stolid pikeman in a grey uniform, with a small lanthorn swinging from the crosspiece of his halberd—signed to us to ascend. I said a word to him, but he only stared in answer, and M. de Rambouillet, looking back and seeing what I was about, called to me that it was useless, as the man was a Swiss and spoke no French.

This did not tend to reassure me; any more than did the chill roughness of the wall which my hand touched as I groped upwards, or the smell of bats which invaded my nostrils and suggested that the staircase was little used and belonged to a part of the castle fitted for dark and secret doings.

We stumbled in the blackness up the steps, passing one door and then a second before M. de Rambouillet whispered to us to stand, and knocked gently at a third.

The secrecy, the darkness, and above all the strange arrangements made to receive us, filled me with the wildest conjectures. But when the door opened and we passed one by one into a bare, unfurnished, draughty gallery, immediately, as I judged, under the tiles, the reality agreed with no one of my anticipations. The place was a mere garret, without a hearth, without a single stool. Three windows, of which one was roughly glazed, while the others were filled with oiled paper, were set in one wall; the others displaying the stones and mortar without disguise or ornament. Beside the door through which we had entered stood a silent figure in the grey uniform I had seen below, his lanthorn on the floor at his feet. A second door at the farther end of the gallery, which was full twenty paces long, was guarded in like manner. A couple of lanthorns stood in the middle of the floor, and that was all.

Inside the door, M. de Rambouillet with his finger on his lip stopped us, and we stood a little group of three a pace in front of the sentry, and with the empty room before us. I looked at M. de Rosny, but he was looking at Rambouillet. The marquis had his back towards me, the sentry was gazing into vacancy; so that baffled in my attempt to learn anything from the looks of the other actors in the scene, I fell back on my ears. The rain dripped outside and the moaning wind rattled the casements; but mingled with these melancholy sounds—which gained force, as such things always do, from the circumstances in which we were placed and our own silence—I fancied I caught the distant hum of voices and music and laughter. And that, I know not why, brought M. de Guise again to my mind.

The story of his death, as I had heard it from that accursed monk in the inn on the Claine, rose up in all its freshness, with all its details. I started when M. de Rambouillet coughed. I shivered when Rosny shifted his feet. The silence grew oppressive. Only the stolid men in grey seemed unmoved, unexpectant; so that I remember wondering whether it was their nightly duty to keep guard over an empty garret, the floor strewn with scraps of mortar and ends of tiles.

The interruption, when it came at last, came suddenly. The sentry at the farther end of the gallery started and fell back a pace. Instantly the door beside him opened and a man came in, and closing it quickly behind him, advanced up the room with an air of dignity, which even his strange appearance and attire could not wholly destroy.

He was of good stature and bearing, about forty years old as I judged, his wear a dress of violet velvet with black points cut in the extreme of the fashion. He carried a sword but no ruff, and had a cup and ball of ivory—a strange toy much in vogue among the idle—suspended from his wrist by a ribbon. He was lean and somewhat narrow, but so far I found little fault with him. It was only when my eye reached his face, and saw it rouged like a woman’s and surmounted by a little turban, that a feeling of scarcely understood disgust seized me, and I said to myself, ‘This is the stuff of which kings’ minions are made!’

To my surprise, however, M. de Rambouillet went to meet him with the utmost respect, sweeping the dirty floor with his bonnet, and bowing to the very ground. The newcomer acknowledged his salute with negligent kindness. Remarking pleasantly ‘You have brought a friend, I think?’ he looked towards us with a smile.

‘Yes, sire, he is here,’ the marquis answered, stepping aside a little. And with the word I understood that this was no minion, but the king himself: Henry, the Third of the name, and the last of the great House of Valois, which had ruled France by the grace of God for two centuries and a half! I stared at him, and stared at him, scarcely believing what I saw. For the first time in my life I was in the presence of the king!

Meanwhile M. de Rosny, to whom he was, of course, no marvel, had gone forward and knelt on one knee. The king raised him graciously, and with an action which, viewed apart from his woman’s face and silly turban, seemed royal and fitting. ‘This is good of you, Rosny,’ he said. ‘But it is only what I expected of you.’

‘Sire,’ my companion answered, ‘your Majesty has no more devoted servant than myself, unless it be the king my master.’

‘By my faith,’ Henry answered with energy—‘and if I am not a good churchman, whatever those rascally Parisians say, I am nothing—by my faith, I think I believe you!’

‘If your Majesty would believe me in that and in some other things also,’ M. de Rosny answered, ‘it would be very well for France.’ Though he spoke courteously, he threw so much weight and independence into his words that I thought of the old proverb, ‘A good master, a bold servant.’

‘Well, that is what we are here to see,’ the king replied. ‘But one tells me one thing,’ he went on fretfully, ‘and one another, and which am I to believe?’

‘I know nothing of others, sire,’ Rosny answered with the same spirit. ‘But my master has every claim to be believed. His interest in the royalty of France is second only to your Majesty’s. He is also a king and a kinsman, and it erks him to see rebels beard you, as has happened of late.’

‘Ay, but the chief of them?’ Henry exclaimed, giving way to sudden excitement and stamping furiously on the floor. ‘He will trouble me no more. Has my brother heard of THAT? Tell me, sir, has that news reached him?’

‘He has heard it, sire.’

‘And he approved? He approved, of course?’

‘Beyond doubt the man was a traitor,’ M. de Rosny answered delicately. ‘His life was forfeit, sire. Who can question it?’

‘And he has paid the forfeit,’ the king rejoined, looking down at the floor and immediately falling into a moodiness as sudden as his excitement. His lips moved. He muttered something inaudible, and began to play absently with his cup and ball, his mind occupied apparently with a gloomy retrospect. ‘M. de Guise, M. de Guise,’ he murmured at last, with a sneer and an accent of hate which told of old humiliations long remembered. ‘Well, damn him, he is dead now. He is dead. But being dead he yet troubles us. Is not that the verse, father? Ha!’ with a start, ‘I was forgetting. But that is the worst wrong he has done me,’ he continued, looking up and growing excited again. ‘He has cut me off from Mother Church. There is hardly a priest comes near me now, and presently they will excommunicate me. And, as I hope for salvation, the Church has no more faithful son than me.’

I believe he was on the point, forgetting M. de Rosny’s presence there and his errand, of giving way to unmanly tears, when M. de Rambouillet, as if by accident, let the heel of his scabbard fall heavily on the floor. The king started, and passing his hand once or twice across his brow, seemed to recover himself. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘no doubt we shall find a way out of our difficulties.’

‘If your Majesty,’ Rosny answered respectfully, ‘would accept the aid my master proffers, I venture to think that they would vanish the quicker.’

‘You think so,’ Henry rejoined. ‘Well, give me your shoulder. Let us walk a little.’ And, signing to Rambouillet to leave him, he began to walk up and down with M. de Rosny, talking familiarly with him in an undertone.

Only such scraps of the conversation as fell from them when they turned at my end of the gallery now reached me. Patching these together, however, I managed to understand somewhat. At one turn I heard the king say, ‘But then Turenne offers—’ At the next, ‘Trust him? Well, I do not know why I should not. He promises—’ Then ‘A Republic, Rosny? That his plan? Pooh! he dare not. He could not. France is a kingdom by the ordinance of God in my family.’

I gathered from these and other chance words, which I have since forgotten, that M. de Rosny was pressing the king to accept the help of the King of Navarre, and warning him against the insidious offers of the Vicomte de Turenne. The mention of a Republic, however, seemed to excite his Majesty’s wrath rather against Rosny for presuming to refer to such a thing than against Turenne, to whom he refused to credit it. He paused near my end of the promenade.

‘Prove it!’ he said angrily. ‘But can you prove it? Can you prove it? Mind you, I will take no hearsay evidence, sir. Now, there is Turenne’s agent here—you did not know, I dare say, that he had an agent here?’

‘You refer, sire, to M. de Bruhl,’ Rosny answered, without hesitation. ‘I know him, sire.’

‘I think you are the devil,’ Henry answered, looking curiously at him. ‘You seem to know most things. But mind you, my friend, he speaks me fairly, and I will not take this on hearsay even from your master. Though,’ he added after pausing a moment, ‘I love him.’

‘And he, your Majesty. He desires only to prove it.’

‘Yes, I know, I know,’ the king answered fretfully. ‘I believes he does. I believe he does wish me well. But there will be a devil of an outcry among my people. And Turenne gives fair words too. And I do not know,’ he continued, fidgeting with his cup and ball, ‘that it might not suit me better to agree with him, you see.’

I saw M. de Rosny draw himself up. ‘Dare I speak openly to you, sire,’ he said, with less respect and more energy than he had hitherto used. ‘As I should to my master?’

‘Ay, say what you like,’ Henry answered. But he spoke sullenly, and it seemed to me that he looked less pleasantly at his companion.

‘Then I will venture to utter what is in your Majesty’s mind,’ my patron answered steadfastly. ‘You fear, sire, lest, having accepted my master’s offer and conquered your enemies, you should not be easily rid of him.’

Henry looked relieved. ‘Do you call that diplomacy?’ he said with a smile. ‘However, what if it be so? What do you say to it? Methinks I have heard an idle tale about a horse which would hunt a stag; and for the purpose set a man upon its back.’

‘This I say, sire, first,’ Rosny answered very earnestly. ‘That the King of Navarre is popular only with one-third of the kingdom, and is only powerful when united with you. Secondly, sire, it is his interest to support the royal power, to which he is heir. And, thirdly, it must be more to your Majesty’s honour to accept help from a near kinsman than from an ordinary subject, and one who, I still maintain, sire, has no good designs in his mind.’

‘The proof’ Henry said sharply. ‘Give me that!’

‘I can give it in a week from this day.’

‘It must be no idle tale, mind you,’ the king continued suspiciously.

‘You shall have Turenne’s designs, sire, from one who had them from his own mouth.’

The king looked startled, but after a pause turned and resumed his walk. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you do that, I on my part—’

The rest I lost, for the two passing to the farther end of the gallery, came to a standstill there, balking my curiosity and Rambouillet’s also. The marquis, indeed, began to betray his impatience, and the great clock immediately over our heads presently striking the half-hour after ten, he started and made as if he would have approached the king. He checked the impulse, however, but still continued to fidget uneasily, losing his reserve by-and-by so far as to whisper to me that his Majesty would be missed.

I had been, up to this point, a silent and inactive spectator of a scene which appealed to my keenest interests and aroused my most ardent curiosity. Surprise following surprise, I had begun to doubt my own identity; so little had I expected to find myself first in the presence of the Most Christian King—and that under circumstances as strange and bizarre as could well be imagined—and then an authorised witness at a negotiation upon which the future of all the great land of France stretching for so many hundred leagues on every side of us, depended. I say I could scarcely believe in my own identity; or that I was the same Gaston de Marsac who had slunk, shabby and out-at-elbows, about St. Jean d’Angely. I tasted the first sweetness of secret power, which men say is the sweetest of all and the last relinquished; and, the hum of distant voices and laughter still reaching me at intervals, I began to understand why we had been admitted with, so much precaution, and to comprehend the gratification of M. de Rosny when the promise of this interview first presented to him the hope of effecting so much for his master and for France.

Now I was to be drawn into the whirlpool itself. I was still travelling back over the different stages of the adventure which had brought me to this point, when I was rudely awakened by M. de Rosny calling my name in a raised voice. Seeing, somewhat late, that he was beckoning to me to approach, I went forward in a confused and hasty fashion; kneeling before the king as I had seen him kneel, and then rising to give ear to his Majesty’s commands. Albeit, having expected nothing less than to be called upon, I was not in the clearest mood to receive them. Nor was my bearing such as I could have wished it to be.

M. de Rosny tells me that you desire a commission at Court, sir,’ the king said quickly.

‘I, sire?’ I stammered, scarcely able to believe my ears. I was so completely taken aback that I could say no more, and I stopped there with my mouth open.

‘There are few things I can deny M. de Rosny,’ Henry continued, speaking very rapidly, ‘and I am told that you are a gentleman of birth and ability. Out of kindness to him, therefore, I grant you a commission to raise twenty men for my service. Rambouillet,’ he continued, raising his voice slightly, ‘you will introduce this gentleman to me publicly to-morrow, that; I may carry into effect my intention on his behalf. You may go now, sir. No thanks. And M. de Rosny,’ he added, turning to my companion and speaking with energy, ‘have a care for my sake that you are not recognised as you go. Rambouillet must contrive something to enable you to leave without peril. I should be desolated if anything happened to you, my friend, for I could not protect you. I give you my word if Mendoza or Retz found you in Blois I could not save you from them unless you recanted.’

‘I will not trouble either your Majesty or my conscience,’ M. de Rosny replied, bowing low, ‘if my wits can help me.’

‘Well, the saints keep you,’ the king answered piously, going towards the door by which he had entered; ‘for your master and I have both need of you. Rambouillet, take care of him as you love me. And come early in the morning to my closet and tell me how it has fared with him.’

We all stood bowing while he withdrew, and only turned to retire when the door closed behind him. Burning with indignation and chagrin as I was at finding myself disposed of in the way I have described, and pitchforked, whether I would or no, into a service I neither fancied nor desired, I still managed for the present to restrain myself; and, permitting my companions to precede me, followed in silence, listening sullenly to their jubilations. The marquis seemed scarcely less pleased than M. de Rosny; and as the latter evinced a strong desire to lessen any jealousy the former might feel, and a generous inclination to attribute to him a full share of the credit gained, I remained the only person dissatisfied with the evening’s events. We retired from the chateau with the same precautions which had marked our entrance, and parting with M. de Rambouillet at the door of our lodging—not without many protestations of esteem on his part and of gratitude on that of M. de Rosny—mounted to the first-floor in single file and in silence, which I was determined not to be the first to break.

Doubtless M. de Rosny knew my thoughts, for, speedily dismissing Maignan and Simon, who were in waiting, he turned to me without preface. ‘Come, my friend,’ he said, laying his hand on my shoulder and looking me in the face in a way which all but disarmed me at once, ‘do not let us misunderstand one another. You think you have cause to be angry with me. I cannot suffer that, for the King of Navarre had never greater need of your services than now.’

‘You have played me an unworthy trick, sir,’ I answered, thinking he would cozen me with fair speeches.

‘Tut, tut!’ he replied. ‘You do not understand.’

‘I understand well enough,’ I answered, with bitterness, ‘that, having done the King of Navarre’s work, he would now be rid of me.’

‘Have I not told you,’ M. de Rosny replied, betraying for the first time some irritation, ‘that he has greater need of your services than ever? Come, man, be reasonable, or, better still, listen to me.’ And turning from me, he began to walk up and down the room, his hands behind him. ‘the King of France—I want to make it as clear to you as possible—’ he said, ‘cannot make head against the League without help, and, willy-nilly, must look for it to the Huguenots whom he has so long persecuted. The King of Navarre, their acknowledged leader, has offered that help; and so, to spite my master, and prevent a combination so happy for France, has M. de Turenne, who would fain raise the faction he commands to eminence, and knows well how to make his profit out of the dissensions of his country. Are you clear so far, sir?’

I assented. I was becoming absorbed in spite of myself.

‘Very well,’ he resumed. ‘This evening—never did anything fall out more happily than Rambouillet’s meeting with me—he is a good man!—I have brought the king to this: that if proof of the selfish nature of Turenne’s designs be laid before him he will hesitate no longer. That proof exists. A fortnight ago it was here; but it is not here now.’

‘That is unlucky!’ I exclaimed. I was so much interested in his story, as well as flattered by the confidence he was placing in me, that my ill-humour vanished. I went and stood with my shoulder against the mantelpiece, and he, passing to and fro between me and the light, continued his tale.

‘A word about this proof,’ he said. ‘It came into the King of Navarre’s hands before its full value was known to us, for that only accrued to it on M. de Guise’s death. A month ago it—this piece of evidence I mean—was at Chize. A fortnight or so ago it was here in Blois. It is now, ‘M. de Marsac,’ he continued, facing me suddenly as he came opposite me, ‘in my house at Rosny.’

I started. ‘You mean Mademoiselle de la Vire?’ I cried.

‘I mean Mademoiselle de la Vire!’ he answered, ‘who, some month or two ago, overheard M. de Turenne’s plans, and contrived to communicate with the King of Navarre. Before the latter could arrange a private interview, however, M. de Turenne got wind of her dangerous knowledge, and swept her off to Chize. The rest you know, M. de Marsac, if any man knows it.’

‘But what will you do?’ I asked. ‘She is at Rosny.’

‘Maignan, whom I trust implicitly, as far as his lights go, will start to fetch her to-morrow. At the same hour I start southwards. You, M. de Marsac, will remain here as my agent, to watch over my interests, to receive Mademoiselle on her arrival, to secure for her a secret interview with the king, to guard her while she remains here. Do you understand?’

Did I understand? I could not find words in which to thank him. My remorse and gratitude, my sense of the wrong I had done him, and of the honour he was doing me, were such that I stood mute before him as I had stood before the king. ‘You accept, then?’ he said, smiling. ‘You do not deem the adventure beneath you, my friend?’

‘I deserve your confidence so little, sir,’ I answered, stricken to the ground, ‘that I beg you to speak, while I listen. By attending exactly to your instructions I may prove worthy of the trust reposed in me. And only so.’

He embraced me again and again, with a kindness which moved me almost to tears. ‘You are a man after my own heart,’ he said, ‘and if God wills I will make your fortune. Now listen, my friend. To-morrow at Court, as a stranger and a man introduced by Rambouillet, you will be the cynosure of all eyes. Bear yourself bravely. Pay court to the women, but attach yourself to no one in particular. Keep aloof from Retz and the Spanish faction, but beware especially of Bruhl. He alone will have your secret, and may suspect your design. Mademoiselle should be here in a week; while she is with you, and until she has seen the king, trust no one, suspect everyone, fear all things. Consider the battle won only when the king says, “I am satisfied.”’

Much more he told me, which served its purpose and has been forgotten. Finally he honoured me by bidding me share his pallet with him, that we might talk without restraint, and that if anything occurred to him in the night he might communicate it to me.

‘But will not Bruhl denounce me as a Huguenot?’ I asked him.

‘He will not dare to do so,’ M. de Rosny answered, ‘both as a Huguenot himself, and as his master’s representative; and, further, because it would displease the king. No, but whatever secret harm one man can do another, that you have to fear. Maignan, when he returns with mademoiselle, will leave two men with you; until they come I should borrow a couple of stout fellows from Rambouillet. Do not go out alone after dark, and beware of doorways, especially your own.’

A little later, when I thought him asleep, I heard him chuckle; and rising on my elbow I asked him what it was. ‘Oh, it is your affair,’ he answered, still laughing silently, so that I felt the mattress shake under him. ‘I don’t envy you one part of your task, my friend.’

‘What is that?’ I said suspiciously.

‘Mademoiselle,’ he answered, stifling with difficulty a burst of laughter. And after that he would not say another word, bad, good, or indifferent, though I felt the bed shake more than once, and knew that he was digesting his pleasantry.

M. de Rosny had risen from my side and started on his journey when I opened my eyes in the morning, and awoke to the memory of the task which had been so strangely imposed upon me; and which might, according as the events of the next fortnight shaped themselves, raise me to high position or put an end to my career. He had not forgotten to leave a souvenir behind him, for I found beside my pillow a handsome silver-mounted pistol, bearing the letter ‘R.’ and a coronet; nor had I more than discovered this instance of his kindness before Simon Fleix came in to tell me that M. de Rosny had left two hundred crowns in his hands for me.

‘Any message with it?’ I asked the lad.

‘Only that; he had taken a keepsake in exchange,’ Simon answered, opening the window as he spoke.

In some wonder I began to search, but I could not discover that anything was missing until I came to put on my doublet, when I found that the knot of ribbon which mademoiselle had flung to me at my departure from Rosny was gone from the inside of the breast, where I had pinned it for safety with a long thorn. The discovery that M. de Rosny had taken this was displeasing to me on more than one account. In the first place, whether mademoiselle had merely wished to plague me (as was most probable) or not, I was loth to lose it, my day for ladies’ favours being past and gone; in the second, I misdoubted the motive which had led him to purloin it, and tormented myself with thinking of the different constructions he might put upon it, and the disparaging view of my trust worthiness which it might lead him to take. I blamed myself much for my carelessness in leaving it where a chance eye might rest upon it; and more when, questioning Simon further, I learned that M. de Rosny had added, while mounting at the door, ‘Tell your master, safe bind, safe find; and a careless lover makes a loose mistress.’

I felt my cheek burn in a manner unbecoming my years while Simon with some touch of malice repeated this; and I made a vow on the spot, which I kept until I was tempted to break it, to have no more to do with such trifles. Meanwhile, I had to make the best of it; and brisking up, and bidding Simon, who seemed depressed by the baron’s departure, brisk up also, I set about my preparations for making such a figure at Court as became me: procuring a black velvet suit, and a cap and feather to match; item, a jewelled clasp to secure the feather; with a yard or two of lace and two changes of fine linen.

Simon had grown sleek at Rosny, and losing something of the wildness which had marked him, presented in the dress M. de Rosny had given him a very creditable appearance; being also, I fancy, the only equerry in Blois who could write. A groom I engaged on the recommendation of M. de Rambouillet’s master of the horse; and I gave out also that I required a couple of valets. It needed only an hour under the barber’s hands and a set of new trappings for the Cid to enable me to make a fair show, such as might be taken to indicate a man of ten or twelve thousand livres a year.

In this way I expended a hundred and fifteen crowns reflecting that this was a large sum, and that I must keep some money for play, I was glad to learn that in the crowded state of the city even men with high rank were putting up with poor lodging; I determined, therefore, to combine economy with a scheme which I had in my head by taking the rooms in which my mother died, with one room below them. This I did, hiring such furniture as I needed, which was not a great deal. To Simon Fleix, whose assistance in these matters was invaluable, I passed on much of M. de Rosny’s advice, bidding him ruffle it with the best in his station, and inciting him to labour for my advancement by promising to make his fortune whenever my own should be assured. I hoped, indeed, to derive no little advantage from the quickness of wit; which had attracted M. de Rosny’s attention; although I did not fail to take into account at the same time that the lad was wayward and fitful, prone at one time to depression, and at another to giddiness, and equally uncertain in either mood.

M. de Rambouillet being unable to attend the LEVEE, had appointed me to wait upon him at six in the evening; at which hour I presented myself at his lodgings, attended by Simon Fleix. I found him in the midst of half a dozen gentlemen whose habit it was to attend him upon all public occasions; and these gallants, greeting me with the same curious and suspicious glances which I have seen hounds bestow on a strange dog introduced into their kennel, I was speedily made to feel that it is one thing to have business at Court, and another to be well received there.

M. de Rambouillet, somewhat to my surprise, did nothing to remove this impression. On all ordinary occasions a man of stiff and haughty bearing, and thoroughly disliking, though he could not prevent, the intrusion of a third party into a transaction which promised an infinity of credit, he received me so coldly and with so much reserve as for the moment to dash my spirits and throw me back on myself.

During the journey to the castle, however, which we performed on foot, attended by half a dozen armed servants bearing torches, I had time to recall M. de Rosny’s advice, and to bethink me of the intimacy which that great man had permitted me; with so much effect in the way of heartening me, that as we crossed the courtyard of the castle I advanced myself, not without some murmuring on the part of others, to Rambouillet’s elbow, considering that as I was attached to him by the king’s command, this was my proper place. I had no desire to quarrel, however, and persisted for some time in disregarding the nudges and muttered words which were exchanged round me, and even the efforts which were made as we mounted the stairs to oust me from my position. But a young gentleman, who showed himself very forward in these attempts, presently stumbling against me, I found it necessary to look at him.

‘Sir,’ he said, in a small and lisping voice, ‘you trod on my toe.’

Though I had not done so, I begged his pardon very politely. But as his only acknowledgment of this courtesy consisted in an attempt to get his knee in front of mine—we were mounting very slowly, the stairs being cumbered with a multitude of servants, who stood on either hand—I did tread on his toe, with a force and directness which made him cry out.

‘What is the matter?’ Rambouillet asked, looking back hastily.

‘Nothing, M. le Marquis,’ I answered, pressing on steadfastly.

‘Sir,’ my young friend said again, in the same lisping voice, ‘you trod on my toe.’

‘I believe I did, sir,’ I answered.

‘You have not yet apologised,’ he murmured gently in my ear.

‘Nay, there you are wrong,’ I rejoined bluntly, ‘for it is always my habit to apologise first and tread afterwards.’

He smiled as at a pleasant joke; and I am bound to say that his bearing was so admirable that if he had been my son I could have hugged him. ‘Good!’ he answered. ‘No doubt your sword is as sharp as your wits, sir. I see,’ he continued, glancing naively at my old scabbard—he was himself the very gem of a courtier, a slender youth with a pink-and-white complexion, a dark line for a moustache, and a pearl-drop in his ear—‘it is longing to be out. Perhaps you will take a turn in the tennis-court to-morrow?’

‘With pleasure, sir,’ I answered, ‘if you have a father, or your elder brother is grown up.’

What answer he would have made to this gibe I do not know, for at that moment we reached the door of the ante-chamber; and this being narrow, and a sentry in the grey uniform of the Swiss Guard compelling all to enter in single file, my young friend was forced to fall back, leaving me free to enter alone, and admire at my leisure a scene at once brilliant and sombre.

The Court being in mourning for the Queen-mother, black predominated in the dresses of those present, and set off very finely the gleaming jewels and gemmed sword-hilts which were worn by the more important personages. The room was spacious and lofty, hung with arras, and lit by candles burning in silver sconces; it rang as we entered with the shrill screaming of a parrot, which was being teased by a group occupying the farther of the two hearths. Near them play was going on at one table, and primero at a second. In a corner were three or four ladies, in a circle about a red-faced, plebeian-looking man, who was playing at forfeits with one of their number; while the middle of the room seemed dominated by a middle-sized man with a peculiarly inflamed and passionate countenance, who, seated on a table, was inveighing against someone or something in the most violent terms, his language being interlarded with all kinds of strange and forcible oaths. Two or three gentlemen, who had the air of being his followers, stood about him, listening between submission and embarrassment; while beside the nearer fireplace, but at some distance from him, lounged a nobleman, very richly dressed, and wearing on his breast the Cross of the Holy Ghost; who seemed to be the object of his invective, but affecting to ignore it was engaged in conversation with a companion. A bystander muttering that Crillon had been drinking, I discovered with immense surprise that the declaimer on the table was that famous soldier; and I was still looking at him in wonder—for I had been accustomed all my life to associate courage with modesty—when, the door of the chamber suddenly opening, a general movement in that direction took place. Crillon, disregarding all precedency, sprang from his table and hurried first to the threshold. The Baron de Biron, on the other hand—for the gentleman by the fire was no other—waited, in apparent ignorance of the slight which was being put upon him, until M. de Rambouillet came up; then he went forward with him. Keeping close to my patron’s elbow, I entered the chamber immediately behind him.

Crillon had already seized upon the king, and, when we entered, was stating his grievance is a voice not much lower than that which he had used outside. M. de Biron, seeing this, parted from the marquis, and, going aside with his former companion, sat down on a trunk against the wall; while Rambouillet, followed by myself and three or four gentlemen of his train, advanced to the king, who was standing near the alcove. His Majesty seeing him, and thankful, I think, for the excuse, waved Crillon off. ‘Tut, tut! You told me all that this morning,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘And here is Rambouillet, who has, I hope, something fresh to tell. Let him speak to me. Sanctus! Don’t look at me as if you would run me through, man. Go and quarrel with someone of your own size.’

Crillon at this retired grumbling, and Henry, who had just risen from primero with the Duke of Nevers, nodded to Rambouillet. ‘Well, my friend, anything fresh?’ he cried. He was more at his ease and looked more cheerful than at our former interview; yet still care and suspicion lurked about his peevish mouth, and in the hollows under his gloomy eyes. ‘A new guest, a new face, or a new game—which have you brought?’

‘In a sense, sire, a new face,’ the marquis answered, bowing, and standing somewhat aside that I might have place.

‘Well, I cannot say much for the pretty baggage,’ quoth the king quickly. And amid a general titter he extended his hand to me. ‘I’ll be sworn, though,’ he continued, as I rose from my knee, ‘that you want something, my friend?’

‘Nay, sire,’ I answered, holding up my head boldly—for Crillon’s behaviour had been a further lesson to me—‘I have, by your leave, the advantage. For your Majesty has supplied me with a new jest. I see many new faces round me, and I have need only of a new game. If your Majesty would be pleased to grant me—’

‘There! Said I not so?’ cried the king, raising his hand with a laugh. ‘He does want something. But he seems not undeserving. What does he pray, Rambouillet?’

‘A small command,’ M. de Rambouillet answered, readily playing his part. ‘And your Majesty would oblige me if you could grant the Sieur de Marsac’s petition. I will answer for it he is a man of experience.’

‘Chut! A small command?’ Henry ejaculated, sitting down suddenly in apparent ill-humour. ‘It is what everyone wants—when they do not want big ones. Still, I suppose,’ he continued, taking up a comfit-box, which lay beside him, and opening it, ‘if you do not get what you want for him you will sulk like the rest, my friend.’

‘Your Majesty has never had cause to complain of me,’ quoth the Marquis, forgetting his role, or too proud to play it.

‘Tut, tut, tut, tut! Take it, and trouble me no more,’ the king rejoined. ‘Will pay for twenty men do for him? Very well then. There, M. de Marsac,’ he continued, nodding at me and yawning, ‘your request is granted. You will find some other pretty baggages over there. Go to them. And now, Rambouillet,’ he went on, resuming his spirits as he turned to matters of more importance, ‘here is a new sweetmeat Zamet has sent me. I have made Zizi sick with it. Will you try it? It is flavoured with white mulberries.’

Thus dismissed, I fell back; and stood for a moment, at a loss whither to turn, in the absence of either friends or acquaintances. His Majesty, it is true, had bidden me go to certain pretty baggages, meaning, apparently, five ladies who were seated at the farther end of the room, diverting themselves with as many cavaliers; but the compactness of this party, the beauty of the ladies, and the merry peals of laughter which proceeded from them, telling of a wit and vivacity beyond the ordinary, sapped the resolution which had borne me well hitherto. I felt that to attack such a phalanx, even with a king’s good will, was beyond the daring of a Crillon, and I looked round to see whether I could not amuse myself in some more modest fashion.

The material was not lacking. Crillon, still mouthing out his anger, strode up and down in front of the trunk on which M. de Biron was seated; but the latter was, or affected to be, asleep. ‘Crillon is for ever going into rages now,’ a courtier beside me whispered.

‘Yes,’ his fellow answered, with a shrug of the shoulder; ‘it is a pity there is no one to tame him. But he has such a long reach, morbleu!’

‘It is not that so much as the fellow’s fury,’ the first speaker rejoined under his breath. ‘He fights like a mad thing; fencing is no use against him.’

The other nodded. For a moment the wild idea of winning renown by taming M. de Crillon occurred to me as I stood alone in the middle of the floor; but it had not more than passed through my brain when I felt my elbow touched, and turned to find the young gentleman whom I had encountered on the stairs standing by my side.

‘Sir,’ he lisped, in the same small voice, ‘I think you trod on my toe a while ago?’

I stared at him, wondering what he meant by this absurd repetition. ‘Well, sir,’ I answered drily, ‘and if I did?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, stroking his chin with his jewelled fingers, ‘pending our meeting to-morrow, you would allow me to consider it as a kind of introduction?’

‘If it please you,’ I answered, bowing stiffly, and wondering what he would be at.

‘Thank you,’ he answered. ‘It does please me, under the circumstances; for there is a lady here who desires a word with you. I took up her challenge. Will you follow me?’

He bowed, and turned in his languid fashion. I, turning too, saw, with secret dismay, that the five ladies, referred to above, were all now gazing at me, as expecting my approach; and this with such sportive glances as told only too certainly of some plot already in progress or some trick to be presently played me. Yet I could not see that I had any choice save to obey, and, following my leader with as much dignity as I could compass, I presently found myself bowing before the lady who sat nearest, and who seemed to be the leader of these nymphs.

‘Nay, sir,’ she said, eyeing me curiously, yet with a merry face, ‘I do not need you; I do not look so high!’

Turning in confusion to the next, I was surprised to see before me the lady whose lodging I had invaded in my search for Mademoiselle de la Vire—she, I mean, who, having picked up the velvet; knot, had dropped it so providentially where Simon Fleix found it. She looked at me blushing and laughing, and the young gentleman, who had done her errand, presenting me by name, she asked me, while the others listened, whether I had found my mistress.

Before I could answer, the lady to whom I had first addressed myself interposed. ‘Stop, sir!’ she cried. What is this—a tale, a jest, a game, or a forfeit?’

‘An adventure, madam,’ I answered, bowing low.

‘Of gallantry, I’ll be bound,’ she exclaimed. ‘Fie, Madame de Bruhl, and you but six months married!’

Madame de Bruhl protested, laughing, that she had no more to do with it than Mercury. ‘At the worst,’ she said, ‘I carried the POULETS! But I can assure you, duchess, this gentleman should be able to tell us a very fine story, if he would.’

The duchess and all the other ladies clapping their hands at this, and crying out that the story must and should be told, I found myself in a prodigious quandary; and one wherein my wits derived as little assistance as possible from the bright eyes and saucy looks which environed me. Moreover, the commotion attracting other listeners, I found my position, while I tried to extricate myself, growing each moment worse, so that I began to fear that as I had little imagination I should perforce have to tell the truth. The mere thought of this threw me into a cold perspiration, lest I should let slip something of consequence, and prove myself unworthy of the trust which M. de Rosny had reposed in me.

At the moment when, despairing of extricating myself, I was stooping over Madame de Bruhl begging her to assist me, I heard, amid the babel of laughter and raillery which surrounded me—certain of the courtiers having already formed hands in a circle and sworn I should not depart without satisfying the ladies—a voice which struck a chord in my memory. I turned to see who the speaker was, and encountered no other than M. de Bruhl himself; who, with a flushed and angry face, was listening to the explanation which a friend was pouring into his ear. Standing at the moment with my knee on Madame de Bruhl’s stool, and remembering very well the meeting on the stairs, I conceived in a flash that the man was jealous; but whether he had yet heard my name, or had any clew to link me with the person who had rescued Mademoiselle de la Vire from his clutches, I could not tell. Nevertheless his presence led my thoughts into a new channel. The determination to punish him began to take form in my mind, and very quickly I regained my composure. Still I was for giving him one chance. Accordingly I stooped once more to Madame de Bruhl’s ear, and begged her to spare me the embarrassment of telling my tale. But then, finding her pitiless, as I expected, and the rest of the company growing more and more insistent, I hardened my heart to go through with the fantastic notion which had occurred to me.

Indicating by a gesture that I was prepared to obey, and the duchess crying for a hearing, this was presently obtained, the sudden silence adding the king himself to my audience. ‘What is it?’ he asked, coming up effusively, with a lap-dog in his arms. ‘A new scandal, eh?’

‘No, sire, a new tale-teller,’ the duchess answered pertly. ‘If your Majesty will sit, we shall hear him the sooner.’

He pinched her ear and sat down in the chair which a page presented. ‘What! is it Rambouillet’s GRISON again?’ he said with some surprise. ‘Well, fire away, man. But who brought you forward as a Rabelais?’

There was a general cry of ‘Madame de Bruhl!’ whereat that lady shook her fair hair, about her face, and cried out for someone to bring her a mask.

‘Ha, I see!’ said the king drily, looking pointedly at M. de Bruhl, who was as black as thunder. ‘But go on, man.’

The king’s advent, by affording me a brief respite, had enabled me to collect my thoughts, and, disregarding the ribald interruptions, which at first were frequent, I began as follows: ‘I am no Rabelais, sire,’ I said, ‘but droll things happen to the most unlikely. Once upon a time it was the fortune of a certain swain, whom I will call Dromio, to arrive in a town not a hundred miles from Blois, having in his company a nymph of great beauty, who had been entrusted to his care by her parents. He had not more than lodged her in his apartments, however, before she was decoyed away by a trick, and borne off against her will by a young gallant, who had seen her and been smitten by her charms. Dromio, returning, and finding his mistress gone, gave way to the most poignant grief. He ran up and down the city, seeking her in every place, and filling all places with his lamentations; but for a time in vain, until chance led him to a certain street, where, in an almost incredible manner, he found a clew to her by discovering underfoot a knot of velvet, bearing Phyllida’s name wrought on it in delicate needlework, with the words, “A moi!”’

‘Sanctus!’ cried the king, amid a general murmur of surprise, ‘that is well devised! Proceed, sir. Go on like that, and we will make your twenty men twenty-five.’

‘Dromio,’ I continued, ‘at sight of this trifle experienced the most diverse emotions, for while he possessed in it a clew to his mistress’s fate, he had still to use it so as to discover the place whither she had been hurried. It occurred to him at last to begin his search with the house before which the knot had lain. Ascending accordingly to the second-floor, he found there a fair lady reclining on a couch, who started up in affright at his appearance. He hastened to reassure her, and to explain the purpose of his coming, and learned after a conversation with which I will not trouble your Majesty, though it was sufficiently diverting, that the lady had found the velvet knot in another part of the town, and had herself dropped it again in front of her own house.’

‘Pourquoi?’ the king asked, interrupting me.

‘The swain, sire,’ I answered, ‘was too much taken up with his own troubles to bear that in mind, even if he learned it. But this delicacy did not save him from misconception, for as he descended from the lady’s apartment he met her husband on the stairs.’

‘Good!’ the king exclaimed, rubbing his hands in glee. ‘The husband!’ And under cover of the gibe and the courtly laugh which followed it M. de Bruhl’s start of surprise passed unnoticed save by me.

‘The husband,’ I resumed, ‘seeing a stranger descending his staircase, was for stopping him and learning the reason of his presence; But Dromio, whose mind was with Phyllida, refused to stop, and, evading his questions, hurried to the part of the town where the lady had told him she found the velvet knot. Here, sire, at the corner of a lane running between garden-walls, he found a great house, barred and gloomy, and well adapted to the abductor’s purpose. Moreover, scanning it on every side, he presently discovered, tied about the bars of an upper window, a knot of white linen, the very counterpart of that velvet one which he bore in his breast. Thus he knew that the nymph was imprisoned in that room!’

‘I will make it twenty-five, as I am a good Churchman!’ his Majesty exclaimed, dropping the little dog he was nursing into the duchess’s lap, and taking out his comfit-box. ‘Rambouillet,’ he added languidly, ‘your friend is a treasure!’

I bowed my acknowledgments, and took occasion as I did so to step a pace aside, so as to command a view of Madame de Bruhl, as well as her husband. Hitherto madame, willing to be accounted a part in so pretty a romance, and ready enough also, unless I was mistaken, to cause her husband a little mild jealousy, had listened to the story with a certain sly demureness. But this I foresaw would not last long; and I felt something like compunction as the moment for striking the blow approached. But I had now no choice. ‘The best is yet to come, sire,’ I went on, ‘as I think you will acknowledge in a moment. Dromio, though he had discovered his mistress, was still in the depths of despair. He wandered round and round the house, seeking ingress and finding none, until at length, sunset approaching, and darkness redoubling his fears for the nymph, fortune took pity on him. As he stood in front of the house he saw the abductor come out, lighted by two servants. Judge of his surprise, sire,’ I continued, looking round and speaking slowly, to give full effect to my words, ‘when he recognised in him no other than the husband of the lady who, by picking up and again dropping the velvet knot, had contributed so much to the success of his search!’

‘Ha! these husbands!’ cried the king. And slapping his knee in an ecstasy at his own acuteness, he laughed in his seat till he rolled again. ‘These husbands! Did I not say so?’

The whole Court gave way to like applause, and clapped their hands as well, so that few save those who stood nearest took notice of Madame de Bruhl’s faint cry, and still fewer understood why she rose up suddenly from her stool and stood gazing at her husband with burning cheeks and clenched hands. She took no heed of me, much less of the laughing crowd round her, but looked only at him with her soul in her eyes. He, after uttering one hoarse curse, seemed to have no thought for any but me. To have the knowledge that his own wife had baulked him brought home to him in this mocking fashion, to find how little a thing had tripped him that day, to learn how blindly he had played into the hands of fate, above all to be exposed at once to his wife’s resentment and the ridicule of the Court—for he could not be sure that I should not the next moment disclose his name—all so wrought on him that for a moment I thought he would strike me in the presence.

His rage, indeed, did what I had not meant to do. For the king, catching sight of his face, and remembering that Madame de Bruhl had elicited the story, screamed suddenly, ‘Haro!’ and pointed ruthlessly at him with his finger. After that I had no need to speak, the story leaping from eye to eye, and every eye settling on Bruhl, who sought in vain to compose his features. Madame, who surpassed him, as women commonly do surpass men, in self-control, was the first to recover herself, and sitting down as quickly as she had risen, confronted alike her husband and her rivals with a pale smile.

For a moment curiosity and excitement kept all breathless, the eye alone busy. Then the king laughed mischievously. ‘Come, M. de Bruhl,’ he cried, ‘perhaps you will finish the tale for us?’ And he threw himself back in his chair, a sneer on his lips.

‘Or why not Madame de Bruhl?’ said the duchess, with her head on one side and her eyes glittering over her fan. ‘Madame would, I am sure, tell it so well.’

But madame only shook her head, smiling always that forced smile. For Bruhl himself, glaring from face to face like a bull about to charge, I have never seen a man more out of countenance, or more completely brought to bay. His discomposure, exposed as he was to the ridicule of all present, was such that the presence in which he stood scarcely hindered him from some violent attack; and his eyes, which had wandered from me at the king’s word, presently returning to me again, he so far forgot himself as to raise his hand furiously, uttering at the same time a savage oath.

The king cried out angrily, ‘Have a care, sir!’ But Bruhl only heeded this so far as to thrust aside those who stood round him and push his way hurriedly through the circle.

‘Arnidieu!’ cried the king, when he was gone. ‘This is fine conduct! I have half a mind to send after him and have him put where his hot blood would cool a little. Or—’

He stopped abruptly, his eyes resting on me. The relative positions of Bruhl and myself as the agents of Rosny and Turenne occurred to him for the first time, I think, and suggested the idea, perhaps, that I had laid a trap for him, and that he had fallen into it. At any rate his face grew darker and darker, and at last, ‘A nice kettle of fish this is you have prepared for us, sir!’ he muttered, gazing at me gloomily.

The sudden change in his humour took even courtiers by surprise. Faces a moment before broad with smiles grew long again. The less important personages looked uncomfortably at one another, and with one accord frowned on me. ‘If your Majesty would please to hear the end of the story at another time?’ I suggested humbly, beginning to wish with all my heart that I had never said a word.

‘Chut!’ he answered, rising, his face still betraying his perturbation, ‘Well, be it so. For the present you may go, sir. Duchess, give me Zizi, and come to my closet. I want you to see my puppies. Retz, my good friend, do you come too. I have something to say to you. Gentlemen, you need not wait. It is likely I shall be late.’

And, with the utmost abruptness, he broke up the circle.

Had I needed any reminder of the uncertainty of Court favour, or an instance whence I might learn the lesson of modesty, and so stand in less danger of presuming on my new and precarious prosperity, I had it in this episode, and in the demeanour of the company round me. On the circle breaking up in confusion, I found myself the centre of general regard, but regard of so dubious a character, the persons who would have been the first to compliment me had the king retired earlier, standing farthest aloof now, that I felt myself rather insulted than honoured by it. One or two, indeed, of the more cautious spirits did approach me; but it was with the air of men providing against a danger particularly remote, their half-hearted speeches serving only to fix them in my memory as belonging to a class, especially abhorrent to me—the class, I mean, of those who would run at once with the hare and the hounds.

I was rejoiced to find that on one person, and that the one whose disposition towards me was, next to the king’s, of first importance, this episode had produced a different impression, Feeling, as I made for the door, a touch on my arm, I turned to find M. de Rambouillet at my elbow, regarding me with a glance of mingled esteem and amusement; in fine, with a very different look from that which had been my welcome earlier in the evening. I was driven to suppose that he was too great a man, or too sure of his favour with the king, to be swayed by the petty motives which actuated the Court generally, for he laid his hand familiarly on my shoulder, and walked on beside me.

‘Well my friend,’ he said,’ you have distinguished yourself finely! I do not know that I ever remember a pretty woman making more stir in one evening. But if you are wise you will not go home alone to-night.’

‘I have my sword, M. le Marquis,’ I answered, somewhat proudly. ‘Which will avail you little against a knife in the back!’ he retorted drily. ‘What attendance have you?’

‘My equerry, Simon Fleix, is on the stairs.’

‘Good, so far, but not enough,’ he replied, as we reached the head of the staircase. ‘You had better come home with me now, and two or three of my fellows shall go on to your lodging with you. Do you know, my friend,’ he continued, looking at me keenly, ‘you are either a very clever or a very foolish man?’

I made answer modestly. ‘Neither the one, I fear, nor the other, I hope sir,’ I said.

‘Well, you have done a very pertinent thing,’ he replied, ‘for good or evil. You have let the enemy know what he has to expect, and he is not one, I warn you, to be despised. But whether you have been very wise or very foolish in declaring open war remains to be seen.’

‘A week will show,’ I answered.

He turned and looked at me. ‘You take it coolly,’ he said.

‘I have been knocking about the world for forty years, marquis,’ I rejoined.

He muttered something about Rosny having a good eye, and then stopped to adjust his cloak. We were by this time in the street. Making me go hand in hand with him, he requested the other gentlemen to draw their swords; and the servants being likewise armed and numbering half a score or more, with pikes and torches, we made up a very formidable party, and caused, I think, more alarm as we passed through the streets to Rambouillet’s lodging than we had any reason to feel. Not that we had it all to ourselves, for the attendance at Court that evening being large, and the circle breaking up as I have described more abruptly than usual, the vicinity of the castle was in a ferment, and the streets leading from it were alive with the lights and laughter of parties similar to our own.

At the door of the marquis’s lodging I prepared to take leave of him with many expressions of gratitude, but he would have me enter and sit down with him to a light refection, which it was his habit to take before retiring. Two of his gentlemen sat down with us, and a valet, who was in his confidence, waiting on us, we made very merry over the scene in the presence. I learned that M. de Bruhl was far from popular at Court; but being known to possess some kind of hold over the king, and enjoying besides a great reputation for recklessness and skill with the sword, he had played a high part for a length of time, and attached to himself, especially since the death of Guise, a considerable number of followers.

‘The truth is,’ one of the marquis’s gentlemen, who was a little heated with wine, observed, ‘there is nothing at this moment which a bold and unscrupulous man may not win in France!’

‘Nor a bold and Christian gentleman for France!’ replied M. de Rambouillet with, some asperity. ‘By the way,’ he continued, turning abruptly to the servant, ‘where is M. Francois?’

The valet answered that he had not returned with us from the castle. The Marquis expressed himself annoyed at this, and I gathered, firstly, that the missing man was his near kinsman, and, secondly, that he was also the young spark who had been so forward to quarrel with me earlier in the evening. Determining to refer the matter, should it become pressing, to Rambouillet for adjustment, I took leave of him, and attended by two of his servants, whom he kindly transferred to my service for the present, I started towards my lodging a little before midnight.

The moon had risen while we were at supper, and its light, which whitened the gables on one side of the street, diffused a glimmer below sufficient to enable us to avoid the kennel. Seeing this, I bade the men put out our torch. Frost had set in, and a keen wind was blowing, so that we were glad to hurry on at a good pace; and the streets being quite deserted at this late hour, or haunted only by those who had come to dread the town marshal, we met no one and saw no lights. I fell to thinking, for my part, of the evening I had spent searching Blois for Mademoiselle, and of the difference between then and now. Nor did I fail while on this track to retrace it still farther to the evening of our arrival at my mother’s; whence, as a source, such kindly and gentle thoughts welled up in my mind as were natural, and the unfailing affection of that gracious woman required. These, taking the place for the moment of the anxious calculations and stern purposes which had of late engrossed me, were only ousted by something which, happening under my eyes, brought me violently and abruptly to myself.

This was the sudden appearance of three men, who issued one by one from an alley a score of yards in front of us, and after pausing a second to look back the way they had come, flitted on in single file along the street, disappearing, as far as the darkness permitted me to judge, round a second corner. I by no means liked their appearance, and, as a scream and the clash of arms rang out next moment from the direction in which they had gone, I cried lustily to Simon Fleix to follow, and ran on, believing from the rascals’ movements that they were after no good, but that rather some honest man was like to be sore beset.

On reaching the lane down which they had plunged, however, I paused a moment, considering not so much its black-ness, which was intense, the eaves nearly meeting overhead, as the small chance I had of distinguishing between attackers and attacked. But Simon and the men overtaking me, and the sounds of a sharp tussle still continuing, I decided to venture, and plunged into the alley, my left arm well advanced, with the skirt of my cloak thrown over it, and my sword drawn back. I shouted as I ran, thinking that the knaves might desist on hearing me; and this was what happened, for as I arrived on the scene of action—the farther end of the alley—two men took to their heels, while of two who remained, one lay at length in the kennel, and another rose slowly from his knees.

‘You are just in time, sir,’ the latter said, breathing hard, but speaking with a preciseness which sounded familiar. ‘I am obliged to you, sir, whoever you are. The villains had got me down, and in a few minutes more would have made my mother childless. By the way, you have no light, have you?’ he continued, lisping like a woman.

One of M. de Rambouillet’s men, who had by this time come up, cried out that it was Monsieur Francois.

‘Yes, blockhead!’ the young gentleman answered with the utmost coolness. ‘But I asked for a light, not for my name.

‘I trust you are not hurt, sir?’ I said, putting up my sword.

‘Scratched only,’ he answered, betraying no surprise on learning who it was had come up so opportunely; as he no doubt did learn from my voice, for he continued with a bow, a slight price to pay for the knowledge that M. de Marsac is as forward on the field as on the stairs.’

I bowed my acknowledgments.

‘This fellow,’ I said, ‘is he much hurt?’

‘Tut, tut! I thought I had saved the marshal all trouble, M. Francois replied. ‘Is he not dead, Gil?’

The poor wretch made answer for himself, crying out piteously, and in a choking voice, for a priest to shrive him. At that moment Simon Fleix returned with our torch, which he had lighted at the nearest cross-streets, where there was a brazier, and we saw by this light that the man was coughing up blood, and might live perhaps half an hour.

‘Mordieu! That comes of thrusting too high!’ M. Francois muttered, regretfully. An inch lower, and there would have been none of this trouble! I suppose somebody must fetch one. Gil,’ he continued, ‘run, man, to the sacristy in the Rue St. Denys, and get a Father. Or—stay! Help to lift him under the lee of the wall there. The wind cuts like a knife here.’

The street being on the slope of the hill, the lower part of the house nearest us stood a few feet from the ground, on wooden piles, and the space underneath it, being enclosed at the back and sides, was used as a cart-house. The servants moved the dying man into this rude shelter, and I accompanied them, being unwilling to leave the young gentleman alone. Not wishing, however, to seem to interfere, I walked to the farther end, and sat down on the shaft of a cart, whence I idly admired the strange aspect of the group I had left, as the glare of the torch brought now one and now another into prominence, and sometimes shone on M. Francois’ jewelled fingers toying with his tiny moustache, and sometimes on the writhing features of the man at his feet.

On a sudden, and before Gil had started on his errand, I saw there was a priest among them. I had not seen him enter, nor had I any idea whence he came. My first impression was only that here was a priest, and that he was looking at me—not at the man craving his assistance on the floor, or at those who stood round him, but at me, who sat away in the shadow beyond the ring of light!

This was surprising; but a second glance explained it, for then I saw that he was the Jacobin monk who had haunted my mother’s dying hours. And, amazed as much at this strange RENCONTRE as at the man’s boldness, I sprang up and strode forwards, forgetting, in an impulse of righteous anger, the office he came to do. And this the more as his face, still turned to me, seemed instinct to my eyes with triumphant malice. As I moved towards him, however, with a fierce exclamation on my lips, he suddenly dropped his eyes and knelt. Immediately M. Francois cried ‘Hush!’ and the men turned to me with scandalised faces. I fell back. Yet even then, whispering on his knees by the dying man, the knave was thinking, I felt sure, of me, glorying at once in his immunity and the power it gave him to tantalise me without fear.

I determined, whatever the result, to intercept him when all was over; and on the man dying a few minutes later, I walked resolutely to the open side of the shed, thinking it likely he might try to slip away as mysteriously as he had come. He stood a moment speaking to M. Francois, however, and then, accompanied by him, advanced boldly to meet me, a lean smile on his face.

‘Father Antoine,’ M. d’Agen said politely,’ tells me that he knows you, M. de Marsac, and desires to speak to you, MAL-A-PROPOS as is the occasion.’

‘And I to him,’ I answered, trembling with rage, and only restraining by an effort the impulse which would have had me dash my hand in the priest’s pale, smirking face. ‘I have waited long for this moment,’ I continued, eyeing him steadily, as M. Francois withdrew out of hearing, ‘and had you tried to avoid me, I would have dragged you back, though all your tribe were here to protect you.’

His presence so maddened me that I scarcely knew what I said. I felt my breath come quickly, I felt the blood surge to my head, and it was with difficulty I restrained myself when he answered with well-affected sanctity, ‘Like mother, like son, I fear, sir. Huguenots both.’

I choked with rage. What!’ I said, ‘you dare to threaten me as you threatened my mother? Fool! know that only to-day for the purpose of discovering and punishing you I took the rooms in which my mother died.’

‘I know it,’ he answered quietly. And then in a second, as by magic, he altered his demeanour completely, raising his head and looking me in the face. ‘That, and so much besides, I know,’ he continued, giving me, to my astonishment, frown for frown, ‘that if you will listen to me for a moment, M. de Marsac, and listen quietly, I will convince you that the folly is not on my side.’

Amazed at his new manner, in which there was none of the madness that had marked him at our first meeting, but a strange air of authority, unlike anything I had associated with him before, I signed to him to proceed.

‘You think that I am in your power?’ he said, smiling.

‘I think,’ I retorted swiftly, ‘that, escaping me now, you will have at your heels henceforth a worse enemy than even your own sins.’

‘Just so,’ he answered, nodding. ‘Well, I am going to show you that the reverse is the case; and that you are as completely in my hands, to spare or to break, as this straw. In the first place, you are here in Blois, a Huguenot!’

‘Chut!’ I exclaimed contemptuously, affecting a confidence I was far from feeling. ‘A little while back that might have availed you. But we are in Blois, not Paris. It is not far to the Loire, and you have to deal with a man now, not with a woman. It is you who have cause to tremble, not I.’

‘You think to be protected,’ he answered with a sour smile, ‘even on this side of the Loire, I see. But one word to the Pope’s Legate, or to the Duke of Nevers, and you would see the inside of a dungeon, if not worse. For the king—’

‘King or no king!’ I answered, interrupting him with more assurance than I felt, seeing that I remembered only too well Henry’s remark that Rosny must not look to him for protection, ‘I fear you not a whit! And that reminds me. I have heard you talk treason—rank, black treason, priest, as ever sent man to rope, and I will give you up. By heaven I will!’ I cried, my rage increasing, as I discerned, more and more clearly, the dangerous hold he had over me. ‘You have threatened me! One word, and I will send you to the gallows!’

‘Sh!’ he answered, indicating M. Francois by, a gesture of the hand. ‘For your own sake, not mine. This is fine talking, but you have not yet heard all I know. Would you like to hear how you have spent the last month? Two days after Christmas, M. de Marsac, you left Chize with a young lady—I can give you her name, if you please. Four days afterwards you reached Blois, and took her to your mother’s lodging. Next morning she left you for M. de Bruhl. Two days later you tracked her to a house in the Ruelle d’Arcy, and freed her, but lost her in the moment of victory. Then you stayed in Blois until your mother’s death, going a day or two later to M. de Rosny’s house by Mantes, where mademoiselle still is. Yesterday you arrived in Blois with M. de Rosny; you went to his lodging; you—’

‘Proceed, I muttered, leaning forward. Under cover of my cloak I drew my dagger half-way from its sheath. ‘Proceed, sir, I pray,’ I repeated with dry lips.

‘You slept there,’ he continued, holding his ground, but shuddering slightly, either from cold or because he perceived my movement and read my design in my eyes.

‘This morning you remained here in attendance on M. de Rambouillet.’

For the moment I breathed freely again, perceiving that though he knew much, the one thing on which M. de Rosny’s design turned had escaped him. The secret interview with the king, which compromised alike Henry himself and M. de Rambouillet, had apparently passed unnoticed and unsuspected. With a sigh of intense relief I slid back the dagger, which I had fully made up my mind to use had he known all, and drew my cloak round me with a shrug of feigned indifference. I sweated to think what he did know, but our interview with the king having escaped him, I breathed again.

‘Well, sir,’ I said curtly, ‘I have listened. And now, what is the purpose of all this?’

‘My purpose?’ he answered, his eyes glittering. ‘To show you that you are in my power. You are the agent of M. de Rosny. I, the agent, however humble, of the Holy Catholic League. Of your movements I know all. What do you know of mine?’

‘Knowledge,’ I made grim answer, ‘is not everything, sir priest.’

‘It is more than it was,’ he said, smiling his thin-lipped smile. ‘It is going to be more than it is. And I know much—about you, M. de Marsac.’

‘You know too much!’ I retorted, feeling his covert threats close round me like the folds of some great serpent. ‘But you are imprudent, I think. Will you tell me what is to prevent me striking you through where you stand, and ridding myself at a blow of so much knowledge?’

‘The presence of three men, M. de Marsac,’ he answered lightly, waving his hand towards M. Francois and the others, ‘every one of whom would give you up to justice. You forget that you are north of the Loire, and that priests are not to be massacred here with impunity, as in your lawless south-country. However, enough. The night is cold, and M. d’Agen grows suspicious as well as impatient. We have, perhaps, spoken too long already. Permit me—he bowed and drew back a step—‘to resume this discussion to-morrow.’

Despite his politeness and the hollow civility with which he thus sought; to close the interview, the light of triumph which shone in his eyes, as the glare of the torch fell athwart them, no less than the assured tone of his voice, told me clearly that he knew his power. He seemed, indeed, transformed: no longer a slinking, peaceful clerk, preying on a woman’s fears, but a bold and crafty schemer, skilled and unscrupulous, possessed of hidden knowledge and hidden resources; the personification of evil intellect. For a moment, knowing all I knew, and particularly the responsibilities which lay before me, and the interests committed to my hands, I quailed, confessing myself unequal to him. I forgot the righteous vengeance I owed him; I cried out helplessly against the ill-fortune which had brought him across my path. I saw myself enmeshed and fettered beyond hope of escape, and by an effort only controlled the despair I felt.

‘To-morrow?’ I muttered hoarsely. ‘At what time?’

He shook his head with a cunning smile. ‘A thousand thanks, but I will settle that myself!’ he answered. ‘Au revoir!’ and uttering a word of leave-taking to M. Francois d’Agen, he blessed the two servants, and went out into the night.

When the last sound of his footsteps died away, I awoke as from an evil dream, and becoming conscious of the presence of M. Francois and the servants, recollected mechanically that I owed the former an apology for my discourtesy in keeping him standing in the cold. I began to offer it; but my distress and confusion of mind were such that in the middle of a set phrase I broke off, and stood looking fixedly at him, my trouble so plain that he asked me civilly if anything ailed me.

‘No,’ I answered, turning from him impatiently; ‘nothing, nothing, sir. Or tell me,’ I continued, with an abrupt change of mind, ‘who is that; who has just left us?’

‘Father Antoine, do you mean?’

‘Ay, Father Antoine, Father Judas, call him what you like,’ I rejoined bitterly.

‘Then if you leave the choice to me,’ M. Francois answered with grave politeness, ‘I would rather call him something more pleasant, M. de Marsac—James or John, let us say. For there is little said here which does not come back to him. If walls have ears, the walls of Blois are in his pay. But I thought you knew him,’ he continued. ‘He is secretary, confidant, chaplain, what you will, to Cardinal Retz, and one of those whom—in your ear—greater men court and more powerful men lean on. If I had to choose between them, I would rather cross M. de Crillon.’

‘I am obliged to you,’ I muttered, checked as much by his manner as his words.

‘Not at all,’ he answered more lightly. ‘Any information I have is at your disposal.’

However, I saw the imprudence of venturing farther, and hastened to take leave of him, persuading him to allow one of M. de Rambouillet’s servants to accompany him home. He said that he should call on me in the morning; and forcing myself to answer him in a suitable manner, I saw him depart one way, and myself, accompanied by Simon Fleix, went off another. My feet were frozen with long standing—I think the corpse we left was scarce colder—but my head was hot with feverish doubts and fears. The moon had sunk and the streets were dark. Our torch had burned out, and we had no light. But where my followers saw only blackness and vacancy, I saw an evil smile and a lean visage fraught with menace and exultation.

For the more closely I directed my mind to the position in which I stood, the graver it seemed. Pitted against Bruhl alone, amid strange surroundings and in an atmosphere of Court intrigue, I had thought my task sufficiently difficult and the disadvantages under which I laboured sufficiently serious before this interview. Conscious of a certain rustiness and a distaste for finesse, with resources so inferior to Bruhl’s that even M. de Rosny’s liberality had not done much to make up the difference, I had accepted the post offered me rather readily than sanguinely; with joy, seeing that it held out the hope of high reward, but with no certain expectation of success. Still, matched with a man of violent and headstrong character, I had seen no reason to despair; nor any why I might not arrange the secret meeting between the king and mademoiselle with safety, and conduct to its end an intrigue simple and unsuspected, and requiring for its execution rather courage and caution than address or experience.

Now, however, I found that Bruhl was not my only or my most dangerous antagonist. Another was in the field—or, to speak more correctly, was waiting outside the arena, ready to snatch the prize when we should have disabled one another, From a dream of Bruhl and myself as engaged in a competition for the king’s favour, wherein neither could expose the other nor appeal even in the last resort to the joint-enemies of his Majesty and ourselves, I awoke to a very different state of things; I awoke to find those enemies the masters of the situation, possessed of the clue to our plans, and permitting them only as long as they seemed to threaten no serious peril to themselves.

No discovery could be more mortifying or more fraught with terror. The perspiration stood on my brow as I recalled the warning which M. de Rosny had uttered against Cardinal Retz, or noted down the various points of knowledge which were in Father Antoine’s possession. He knew every event of the last month, with one exception, and could tell, I verily believed, how many crowns I had in my pouch. Conceding this, and the secret sources of information he must possess, what hope had I of keeping my future movements from him? Mademoiselle’s arrival would be known to him before she had well passed the gates; nor was it likely, or even possible, that I should again succeed in reaching the king’s presence untraced and unsuspected. En fin, I saw myself, equally with Bruhl, a puppet in this man’s hands, my goings out and my comings in watched and reported to him, his mercy the only bar between myself and destruction. At any moment I might be arrested as a Huguenot, the enterprise in which I was engaged ruined, and Mademoiselle de la Vire exposed to the violence of Bruhl or the equally dangerous intrigues of the League.

Under these circumstances I fancied sleep impossible; but habit and weariness are strong persuaders, and when I reached my lodging I slept long and soundly, as became a man who had looked danger in the face more than once. The morning light too brought an accession both of courage and hope. I reflected on the misery of my condition at St. Jean d’Angely, without friends or resources, and driven to herd with such a man as Fresnoy. And telling myself that the gold crowns which M. de Rosny had lavished upon me were not for nothing, nor the more precious friendship with which he had honoured me a gift that called for no return, I rose with new spirit and a countenance which threw Simon Fleix who had seen me lie down the picture of despair—into the utmost astonishment.

‘You have had good dreams,’ he said, eyeing me jealously and with a disturbed air.

‘I had a very evil one last night,’ I answered lightly, wondering a little why he looked at me so, and why he seemed to resent my return to hopefulness and courage. I might have followed this train of thought further with advantage, since I possessed a clue to his state of mind; but at that moment a summons at the door called him away to it, and he presently ushered in M. d’Agen, who, saluting me with punctilious politeness, had not said fifty words before he introduced the subject of his toe—no longer, however, in a hostile spirit, but as the happy medium which had led him to recognise the worth and sterling qualities—so he was pleased to say—of his preserver.

I was delighted to find him in this frame of mind, and told him frankly that the friendship with which his kinsman, M. de Rambouillet, honoured me would prevent me giving him satisfaction save in the last resort. He replied that the service I had done him was such as to render this immaterial, unless I had myself cause of offence; which I was forward to deny.

We were paying one another compliments after this fashion, while I regarded him with the interest which the middle-aged bestow on the young and gallant in whom they see their own youth and hopes mirrored, when the door was again opened, and after a moment’s pause admitted, equally, I think, to the disgust of M. Francois, and myself, the form of Father Antoine.

Seldom have two men more diverse stood, I believe, in a room together; seldom has any greater contrast been presented to a man’s eyes than that opened to mine on this occasion. On the one side the gay young spark, with his short cloak, his fine suit; of black-and-silver, his trim limbs and jewelled hilt and chased comfit-box; on the other, the tall, stooping monk, lean-jawed and bright-eyed, whose gown hung about him in coarse, ungainly folds. And M. Francois’ sentiment on first seeing the other was certainly dislike. Is spite of this, however, he bestowed a greeting on the new-comer which evidenced a secret awe, and in other ways showed so plain a desire to please, that I felt my fears of the priest return in force. I reflected that the talents which in such a garb could win the respect of M. Francois d’Agen—a brilliant star among the younger courtiers, and one of a class much given to thinking scorn of their fathers’ roughness—must be both great and formidable; and, so considering, I received the monk with a distant courtesy which I had once little thought to extend to him. I put aside for the moment the private grudge I bore him with so much justice, and remembered only the burden which lay on me in my contest with him.

I conjectured without difficulty that he chose to come at this time, when M. Francois was with me, out of a cunning regard to his own safety; and I was not surprised when M. Francois, beginning to make his adieux, Father Antoine begged him to wait below, adding that he had something of importance to communicate. He advanced his request in terms of politeness bordering on humility; but I could clearly see that, in assenting to it, M. d’Agen bowed to a will stronger than his own, and would, had he dared to follow his own bent, have given a very different answer. As it was he retired—nominally to give an order to his lackey—with a species of impatient self-restraint which it was not difficult to construe.

Left alone with me, and assured that we had no listeners, the monk was not slow in coming to the point.

‘You have thought over what I told you last night?’ he said brusquely, dropping in a moment the suave manner which he had maintained in M. Francois’s presence.

I replied coldly that I had.

‘And you understand the position?’ he continued quickly, looking at me from under his brows as he stood before me, with one clenched fist on the table. ‘Or shall I tell you more? Shall I tell you how poor and despised you were some weeks ago, M. de Marsac—you who now go in velvet, and have three men at your back? Or whose gold it is has brought you here, and made you, this? Chut! Do not let us trifle. You are here as the secret agent of the King of Navarre. It is my business to learn your plans and his intentions, and I propose to do so.’

‘Well?’ I said.

‘I am prepared to buy them,’ he answered; and his eyes sparkled as he spoke, with a greed which set me yet more on my guard.

‘For whom?’ I asked. Having made up my mind that I must use the same weapons as my adversary, I reflected that to express indignation, such as might become a young man new to the world, could, help me not a whit. ‘For whom?’ I repeated, seeing that he hesitated.

‘That is my business,’ he replied slowly.

‘You want to know too much and tell too little,’ I retorted, yawning.

‘And you are playing with me,’ he cried, looking at me suddenly, with so piercing a gaze and so dark a countenance that I checked a shudder with difficulty. ‘So much the worse for you, so much the worse for you!’ he continued fiercely. ‘I am here to buy the information you hold, but if you will not sell, there is another way. At an hour’s notice I can ruin your plans, and send you to a dungeon! You are like a fish caught in a net not yet drawn. It thrusts its nose this way and that, and touches the mesh, but is slow to take the alarm until the net is drawn—and then it is too late. So it is with you, and so it is,’ he added, falling into the ecstatic mood which marked him at times, and left me in doubt whether he were all knave or in part enthusiast, ‘with all those who set themselves against St. Peter and his Church!’

‘I have heard you say much the same of the King of France,’ I said derisively.

‘You trust in him?’ he retorted, his eyes gleaming. ‘You have been up there, and seen his crowded chamber, and counted his forty-five gentlemen and his grey-coated Swiss? I tell you the splendour you saw was a dream, and will vanish as a dream. The man’s strength and his glory shall go from him, and that soon. Have you no eyes to see that he is beside the question? There are but two powers in France—the Holy Union, which still prevails, and the accursed Huguenot; and between them is the battle.’

‘Now you are telling me more,’ I said.

He grew sober in a moment, looking at me with a vicious anger hard to describe.

‘Tut tut,’ he said, showing his yellow teeth, ‘the dead tell no tales. And for Henry of Valois, he so loves a monk that you might better accuse his mistress. But for you, I have only to cry “Ho! a Huguenot and a spy!” and though he loved you more than he loved Quelus or Maugiron, he dare not stretch out a finger to save you!’

I knew that he spoke the truth, and with difficulty maintained the air of indifference with which I had entered on the interview.

‘But what if I leave Blois?’ I ventured, merely to see what he would say.

He laughed. ‘You cannot,’ he answered. ‘The net is round you, M. de Marsac, and there are those at every gate who know you and have their instructions. I can destroy you, but I would fain have your information, and for that I will pay you five hundred crowns and let you go.’

‘To fall into the hands of the King of Navarre?’

‘He will disown you, in any case,’ he answered eagerly. ‘He had that in his mind, my friend, when he selected an agent so obscure. He will disown you. Ah, mon Dieu! had I been an hour quicker I had caught Rosny—Rosny himself!’

‘There is one thing lacking still,’ I replied. ‘How am I to be sure that, when I have told you what I know, you will pay me the money or let me go?’

‘I will swear to it!’ he answered earnestly, deceived into thinking I was about to surrender. ‘I will give you my oath, M. de Marsac!’

‘I would as soon have your shoe-lace!’ I exclaimed, the indignation I could not entirely repress finding vent in that phrase. ‘A Churchman’s vow is worth a candle—or a candle and a half, is it?’ I continued ironically. ‘I must have some security a great deal more substantial than that, father.’

‘What?’ he asked, looking at me gloomily.

Seeing an opening, I cudgelled my brains to think of any condition which, being fulfilled, might turn the table on him and place him in my power. But his position was so strong, or my wits so weak, that nothing occurred to me at the time, and I sat looking at, him, my mind gradually passing from the possibility of escape to the actual danger in which I stood, and which encompassed also Simon Fleix, and, in a degree, doubtless, M. de Rambouillet. In four or five days, too, Mademoiselle de la Vire would arrive. I wondered if I could send any warning to her; and then, again, I doubted the wisdom of interfering with M. de Rosny’s plans, the more as Maignan, who had gone to fetch mademoiselle, was of a kind to disregard any orders save his master’s.

‘Well!’ said the monk, impatiently recalling me to myself, ‘what security do you want?’

‘I am not quite sure at this moment,’ I made answer slowly. ‘I am in a difficult position. I must have some time to consider.’

‘And to rid yourself of me, if it be possible,’ he said with irony. ‘I quite understand. But I warn you that you are watched; and that wherever you go and whatever you do, eyes which are mine are upon you.’

‘I, too, understand,’ I said coolly.

He stood awhile uncertain, regarding me with mingled doubt and malevolence, tortured on the one hand by fear of losing the prize if he granted delay, on the other of failing as utterly if he exerted his power and did not succeed in subduing my resolution. I watched him, too, and gauging his eagerness and the value of the stake for which he was striving by the strength of his emotions, drew small comfort from the sight. More than once it had occurred to me, and now it occurred to me again, to extricate myself by a blow. But a natural reluctance to strike an unarmed man, however vile and knavish, and the belief that he had not trusted himself in my power without taking the fullest precautions, withheld me. When he grudgingly, and with many dark threats, proposed to wait three days—and not an hour more—for my answer, I accepted; for I saw no other alternative open. And on these terms, but not without some short discussion, we parted, and I heard his stealthy footstep go sneaking down the stairs.

If I were telling more than the truth, or had it in my mind to embellish my adventures, I could, doubtless, by the exercise of a little ingenuity make it appear that I owed my escape from Father Antoine’s meshes to my own craft; and tell, en fin, as pretty a story of plots and counterplots as M. de Brantome has ever woven. Having no desire, however, to magnify myself and, at this time of day, scarcely any reason, I am fain to confess that the reverse was the case; and that while no man ever did less to free himself than I did, my adversary retained his grasp to the end, and had surely, but for a strange interposition, effected my ruin. How relief came, and from what quarter, I might defy the most ingenious person, after reading my memoirs to this point, to say; and this not so much by reason of any subtle device, as because the hand of Providence was for once directly manifest.

The three days of grace which the priest had granted I passed in anxious but futile search for some means of escape, every plan I conceived dying stillborn, and not the least of my miseries lying in the fact that I could discern no better course than still to sit and think, and seemed doomed to perpetual inaction. M. de Rambouillet being a strict Catholic, though in all other respects a patriotic man, I knew better than to have recourse to him; and the priest’s influence over M. d’Agen I had myself witnessed. For similar reasons I rejected the idea of applying to the king; and this exhausting the list of those on whom I had any claim, I found myself thrown on my own resources, which seemed limited—my wits failing me at this pinch—to my sword and Simon Fleix.

Assured that I must break out of Blois if I would save not myself only, but others more precious because entrusted to my charge, I thought it no disgrace to appeal to Simon; describing in a lively fashion the danger which threatened us, and inciting the lad by every argument which I thought likely to have weight with him to devise some way of escape.

Now is the time, my friend,’ I said, ‘to show your wits, and prove that M. de Rosny, who said you had a cunning above the ordinary, was right. If your brain can ever save your head, now is the time! For I tell you plainly, if you cannot find some way to outmanoeuvre this villain before to-morrow, I am spent. You can judge for yourself what chance you will have of going free.’

I paused at that, waiting for him to make some suggestion. To my chagrin he remained silent, leaning his head on his hand, and studying the table with his eyes in a sullen fashion; so that I began to regret the condescension I had evinced in letting him be seated, and found it necessary to remind him that he had taken service with me, and must do my bidding.

‘Well,’ he said morosely, and without looking up, ‘I am ready to do it. But I do not like priests, and this one least of all. I know him, and I will not meddle with him.’

‘You will not meddle with him?’ I cried, almost beside myself with dismay.

‘No, I won’t,’ he replied, retaining his listless attitude. ‘I know him, and I am afraid of him. I am no match for him.’

‘Then M. de Rosny was wrong, was he?’ I said, giving way to my anger.

‘If it please you,’ he answered pertly.

This was too much for me. My riding-switch lay handy, and I snatched it up. Before he knew what I would be at, I fell upon him, and gave him such a sound wholesome drubbing as speedily brought him to his senses. When he cried for mercy—which he did not for a good space, being still possessed by the peevish devil which had ridden him ever since his departure from Rosny—I put it to him again whether M. de Rosny was not right. When he at last admitted this, but not till then, I threw the whip away and let him go, but did not cease to reproach him as he deserved.

‘Did you think,’ I said, ‘that I was going to be ruined because you would not use your lazy brains? That I was going to sit still, and let you sulk, while mademoiselle walked blindfold into the toils? Not at all, my friend!’

‘Mademoiselle!’ he exclaimed, looking at me with a sudden change of countenance, end ceasing to rub himself and scowl, as he had been doing. ‘She is not here, and is in no danger.’

‘She will be here to-morrow, or the next day,’ I said.

You did not tell me that!’ he replied, his eyes glittering. ‘Does Father Antoine know it?’

‘He will know it the moment she enters the town,’ I answered.

Noting the change which the introduction of mademoiselle’s name into the affair had wrought in him, I felt something like humiliation. But at the moment I had no choice; it was my business to use such instruments as came to my hand, and not, mademoiselle’s safety being at stake, to pick and choose too nicely. In a few minutes our positions were reversed. The lad had grown as hot as I cold, as keenly excited as I critical. When he presently came to a stand in front of me, I saw a strange likeness between his face and the priest’s; nor was I astonished when he presently made just such a proposal as I should have expected from Father Antoine himself.

‘There is only one thing for it,’ he muttered, trembling all over. ‘He must be got rid of!’

‘Fine talking!’ I said, contemptuously. ‘If he were a soldier he might be brought to it. But he is a priest, my friend, and does not fight.’

‘Fight? Who wants him to fight?’ the lad answered, his face dark, his hands moving restlessly. ‘It is the easier done. A blow in the back, and he will trouble us no more.’

‘Who is to strike it?’ I asked drily.

Simon trembled and hesitated; but presently, heaving a deep sigh, he said, ‘I will.’

‘It might not be difficult,’ I muttered, thinking it over.

‘It would be easy,’ he answered under his breath. His eyes shone, his lips were white, and his long dark hair hung wet over his forehead.

I reflected, and the longer I did so the more feasible seemed the suggestion. A single word, and I might sweep from my path the man whose existence threatened mine; who would not meet me fairly, but, working against me darkly and treacherously, deserved no better treatment at my hands than that which a detected spy receives. He had wronged my mother; he would fain destroy my friends!

And, doubtless, I shall be blamed by some and ridiculed by more for indulging in scruples at such a time. But I have all my life long been prejudiced against that form of underhand violence which I have heard old men contend came into fashion in our country in modern times, and which certainly seems to be alien from the French character. Without judging others too harshly, or saying that the poniard is never excusable—for then might some wrongs done to women and the helpless go without remedy—I have set my face against its use as unworthy of a soldier. At the time, moreover, of which I am now writing the extent to which our enemies had lately resorted to it tended to fix this feeling with peculiar firmness in my mind; and, but for the very desperate dilemma in which I stood at the moment—and not I alone—I do not think that I should have entertained Simon’s proposal for a minute.

As it was, I presently answered him in a way which left him in no doubt of my sentiments. ‘Simon, my friend,’ I said—and I remember I was a little moved—‘you have something still to learn, both as a soldier and a Huguenot. Neither the one nor the other strikes at the back.’

‘But if he will not fight?’ the lad retorted rebelliously. ‘What then?’

It was so clear that our adversary gained an unfair advantage in this way that I could not answer the question. I let it pass, therefore, and merely repeating my former injunction, bade Simon think out another way.

He promised reluctantly to do so, and, after spending some moments in thought, went out to learn whether the house was being watched.

When he returned, his countenance wore so new an expression that I saw at once that something had happened. He did not meet my eye, however, and did not explain, but made as if he would go out again, with something of confusion in his manner. Before finally disappearing, however, he seemed to change his mind once more; for, marching up to me where I stood eyeing him with the utmost astonishment, he stopped before me, and suddenly drawing out his hand, thrust something into mine.

‘What is it, man?’ I said mechanically.

‘Look!’ he answered rudely, breaking silence for the first time. ‘You should know. Why ask me? What have I to do with it?’

I looked then, and saw that he had given me a knot of velvet precisely similar is shape, size, and material to that well-remembered one which had aided me so opportunely in my search for mademoiselle. This differed from that a little in colour, but in nothing else, the fashion of the bow being the same, and one lappet hearing the initials ‘C. d. l. V.,’ while the other had the words, ‘A moi.’ I gazed at it in wonder. ‘But, Simon,’ I said, ‘what does it mean? Where did you get it?’

‘Where should I get it?’ he answered jealously. Then, seeming to recollect himself, he changed his tone. ‘A woman gave it to me in the street,’ he said.

I asked him what woman.

‘How should I know?’ he answered, his eyes gleaming with anger. ‘It was a woman in a mask.’

‘Was it Fanchette?’ I said sternly.

‘It might have been. I do not know,’ he responded.

I concluded at first that mademoiselle and her escort had arrived in the outskirts of the city, and that Maignan had justified his reputation for discretion by sending in to learn from me whether the way was clear before he entered. In this notion I was partly confirmed and partly shaken by the accompanying message; which Simon, from whom every scrap of information had to be dragged as blood from a stone, presently delivered.

‘You are to meet the sender half an hour after sunset to-morrow evening,’ he said, ‘on the Parvis at the north-east corner of the cathedral.’

‘To-morrow evening?’

‘Yes, when else?’ the lad answered ungraciously. ‘I said to-morrow evening.’

I thought this strange. I could understand why Maignan should prefer to keep his charge outside the walls until he heard from me, but not why he should postpone a meeting so long. The message, too, seemed unnecessarily meagre, and I began to think Simon was still withholding something.

‘Was that all?’ I asked him.

‘Yes, all,’ he answered, ‘except—’

‘Except what?’ I said sternly.

‘Except that the woman showed me the gold token Mademoiselle de la Vire used to carry,’ he answered reluctantly, ‘and said, if you wanted further assurance that would satisfy you.’

‘Did you see the coin?’ I cried eagerly.

‘To be sure,’ he answered.

‘Then, mon dieu!’ I retorted, ‘either you are deceiving me, or the woman you saw deceived you. For mademoiselle has not got the token! I have it here, in my possession! Now, do you still say you saw it, man?’

‘I saw one like it,’ he answered, trembling, his face damp. ‘That I will swear. And the woman told me what I have told you. And no more.’

‘Then it is clear,’ I answered, ‘that mademoiselle has nothing to do with this, and is doubtless many a league away. This is one of M. de Bruhl’s tricks. Fresnoy gave him the token he stole from me. And I told him the story of the velvet knot myself. This is a trap; and had I fallen into it, and gone to the Parvis to-morrow evening, I had never kept another assignation, my lad.’

Simon looked thoughtful. Presently he said, with a crestfallen air, ‘You were to go alone. The woman said that.’

Though I knew well why he had suppressed this item, I forbore to blame him. ‘What was the woman like?’ I said.

‘She had very much of Franchette’s figure,’ he answered. He could not go beyond that. Blinded by the idea that the woman was mademoiselle’s attendant, and no one else, he had taken little heed of her, and could not even say for certain that she was not a man in woman’s clothes.

I thought the matter over and discussed it with him; and was heartily minded to punish M. de Bruhl, if I could discover a way of turning his treacherous plot against himself. But the lack of any precise knowledge of his plans prevented me stirring in the matter; the more as I felt no certainty that I should be master of my actions when the time came.

Strange to say the discovery of this movement on the part of Bruhl, who had sedulously kept himself in the background since the scene in the king’s presence, far from increasing my anxieties, had the effect of administering a fillip to my spirits; which the cold and unyielding pressure of the Jacobin had reduced to a low point. Here was something I could understand, resist, and guard against. The feeling that I had once more to do with a man of like aims and passions with myself quickly restored me to the use of my faculties; as I have heard that a swordsman opposed to the powers of evil regains his vigour on finding himself engaged with a mortal foe. Though I knew that the hours of grace were fast running to a close, and that on the morrow the priest would call for an answer, I experienced that evening an unreasonable lightness and cheerfulness. I retired to rest with confidence, and slept in comfort, supported in part, perhaps, by the assurance that in that room where my mother died her persecutor could have no power to harm me.

Upon Simon Fleix, on the other hand, the discovery that Bruhl was moving, and that consequently peril threatened us from a new quarter, had a different effect. He fell into a state of extreme excitement, and spent the evening and a great part of the night in walking restlessly up and down the room, wrestling with the fears and anxieties which beset us, and now talking fast to himself, now biting his nails in an agony of impatience. In vain I adjured him not to meet troubles halfway; or, pointing to the pallet which he occupied at the foot of my couch, bade him, if he could not devise a way of escape, at least to let the matter rest until morning. He had no power to obey, but, tortured by the vivid anticipations which it was his nature to entertain, he continued to ramble to and fro in a fever of the nerves, and had no sooner lain down than be was up again. Remembering, however, how well he had borne himself on the night of mademoiselle’s escape from Blois, I refrained from calling him a coward; and contented myself instead with the reflection that nothing sits worse on a fighting-man than too much knowledge—except, perhaps, a lively imagination.

I thought it possible that mademoiselle might arrive next day before Father Antoine called to receive his answer. In this event I hoped to have the support of Maignan’s experience. But the party did not arrive. I had to rely on myself and my own resources, and, this being so, determined to refuse the priest’s offer, but in all other things to be guided by circumstances.

About noon he came, attended, as was his practice, by two friends, whom he left outside. He looked paler and more shadowy than before, I thought, his hands thinner, and his cheeks more transparent. I could draw no good augury, however, from these, signs of frailty, for the brightness of his eyes and the unusual elation of his manner told plainly of a spirit assured of the mastery. He entered the room with an air of confidence, and addressed me in a tone of patronage which left me in no doubt of his intentions; the frankness with which he now laid bare his plans going far to prove that already he considered me no better than his tool.

I did not at once undeceive him, but allowed him to proceed, and even to bring out the five hundred crowns which he had promised me, and the sight of which he doubtless supposed would clench the matter.

Seeing this he became still less reticent, and spoke so largely that I presently felt myself impelled to ask him if he would answer a question.

‘That is as may be, M. de Marsac,’ he answered lightly. ‘You may ask it.’

‘You hint at great schemes which you have in hand, father,’ I said. ‘You speak of France and Spain and Navarre, and kings and Leagues and cardinals! You talk of secret strings, and would have me believe that if I comply with your wishes I shall find you as powerful a patron as M. de Rosny. But—one moment, if you please,’ I continued hastily, seeing that he was about to interrupt me with such eager assurances as I had already heard; ‘tell me this. With so many irons in the fire, why did you interfere with one old gentlewoman—for the sake of a few crowns?’

‘I will tell you even that,’ he answered, his face flushing at my tone. ‘Have you ever heard of an elephant? Yes. Well, it has a trunk, you know, with which it can either drag an oak from the earth or lift a groat from the ground. It is so with me. But again you ask,’ he continued with an airy grimace, ‘why I wanted a few crowns. Enough that I did. There are going to be two things in the world, and two only, M. de Marsac: brains and money. The former I have, and had: the latter I needed—and took.’

‘Money and brains?’ I said, looking at him thoughtfully.

‘Yes,’ he answered, his eyes sparkling, his thin nostrils beginning to dilate. ‘Give me these two, and I will rule France!’

‘You will rule France?’ I exclaimed, amazed beyond measure by his audacity. ‘You, man?’

‘Yes, I,’ he answered, with abominable coolness. ‘I, priest, monk, Churchman, clerk. You look surprised, but mark you, sir, there is a change going on. Our time is coming, and yours is going. What hampers our lord the king and shuts him up in Blois, while rebellions stalk through France? Lack of men? No; but lack of money. Who can get the money for him—you the soldier, or I the clerk? A thousand times, I! Therefore, my time is coming, and before you die you will see a priest rule France.’

‘God forbid it should be you,’ I answered scornfully.

‘As you please,’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders, and assuming in a breath a mask of humility which sat as ill on his monstrous conceit as ever nun’s veil on a trooper. ‘Yet it may even be I; by the favour of the Holy Catholic Church, whose humble minister I am.’

I sprang up with a great oath at that, having no stomach for more of the strange transformations, in which this man delighted, and whereof the last had ever the air of being the most hateful. ‘You villain!’ I cried, twisting my moustaches, a habit I have when enraged. ‘And so you would make me a stepping-stone to your greatness. You would bribe me—a soldier and a gentleman. Go, before I do you a mischief. That is all I have to say to you. Go! You have your answer. I will tell you nothing—not a jot or a tittle. Begone from my room!’

He fell back a step in his surprise, and stood against the table biting his nails and scowling at me, fear and chagrin contending with half a dozen devils for the possession of his face. ‘So you have been deceiving me,’ he said slowly, and at last.

‘I have let you deceive yourself’ I answered, looking at him with scorn, but with little of the fear with which he had for a while inspired me. ‘Begone, and do your worst.’

‘You know what you are doing,’ he said. ‘I have that will hang you, M. de Marsac—or worse.’

‘Go!’ I cried.

‘You have thought of your friends,’ he continued mockingly.

‘Go!’ I said.

‘Of Mademoiselle de la Vire, if by any chance she fall into my hands? It will not be hanging for her. You remember the two Foucauds?’—and he laughed.

The vile threat, which I knew he had used to my mother, so worked upon me that I strode forward unable to control myself longer. In another moment I had certainly taken him by the throat and squeezed the life out of his miserable carcase, had not Providence in its goodness intervened to save me. The door, on which he had already laid his hand in terror, opened suddenly. It admitted Simon, who, closing it; behind him, stood looking from one to the other of us in nervous doubt; divided between that respect for the priest which a training at the Sorbonne had instilled into him, and the rage which despair arouses in the weakest.

His presence, while it checked me in my purpose, seemed to give Father Antoine courage, for the priest stood his ground, and even turned to me a second time, his face dark with spite and disappointment. ‘Good,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Destroy yourself if you will! I advise you to bar your door, for in an hour the guards will be here to fetch you to the question.’

Simon cried out at the threat, so that I turned and looked at the lad. His knees were shaking, his hair stood on end.

The priest saw his terror and his own opportunity. ‘Ay, in an hour,’ he continued slowly, looking at him with cruel eyes. ‘In an hour, lad! You must be fond of pain to court it, and out of humour with life to throw it away. Or stay,’ he continued abruptly, after considering Simon’s narrowly for a moment, and doubtless deducing from it a last hope, ‘I will be merciful. I will give you one more chance.’

‘And yourself?’ I said with a sneer.

‘As you please,’ he answered, declining to be diverted from the trembling lad, whom his gaze seemed to fascinate. ‘I will give you until half an hour after sunset this evening to reconsider the matter. If you make up your minds to accept my terms, meet me then. I leave to-night for Paris, and I will give you until the last moment. But,’ he continued grimly, ‘if you do not meet me, or, meeting me, remain obstinate—God do so to me, and more also, if you see the sun rise thrice.’

Some impulse, I know not what, seeing that I had no thought of accepting his terms or meeting him, led me to ask briefly, ‘Where?’

‘On the Parvis of the Cathedral,’ he answered after a moment’s calculation. ‘At the north-east corner, half an hour after sunset. It is a quiet spot.’

Simon uttered a stifled exclamation. And then for a moment there was silence in the room, while the lad breathed hard and irregularly, and I stood rooted to the spot, looking so long and so strangely at the priest that Father Antoine laid his hand again on the door and glanced uneasily behind him. Nor was he content until he had hit on, as he fancied, the cause of my strange regard.

‘Ha!’ he said, his thin lip curling in conceit at his astuteness, ‘I understand you think to kill me to-night? Let me tell you, this house is watched. If you leave here to meet me with any companion—unless it be M. d’Agen, whom I can trust, I shall be warned, and be gone before you reach the rendezvous. And gone, mind you,’ he added, with a grim smile, ‘to sign your death-warrant.’

He went out with that, closing the door behind him; and we heard his step go softly down the staircase. I gazed at Simon, and he at me, with all the astonishment and awe which it was natural we should feel in presence of so remarkable a coincidence.

For by a marvel the priest had named the same spot and the same time as the sender of the velvet knot!

‘He will go,’ Simon said, his face flushed and his voice trembling, ‘and they will go.’

‘And in the dark they will not know him,’ I muttered. ‘He is about my height. They will take him for me!’

‘And kill him!’ Simon cried hysterically. ‘They will kill him! He goes to his death, monsieur. It is the finger of God.’

It seemed so necessary to bring home the crime to Bruhl should the priest really perish in the trap laid for me, that I came near to falling into one of those mistakes to which men of action are prone. For my first impulse was to follow the priest to the Parvis, closely enough, if possible, to detect the assassins in the act, and with sufficient force, if I could muster it, to arrest them. The credit of dissuading me from this course lies with Simon, who pointed out its dangers in so convincing a manner that I was brought with little difficulty to relinquish it.

Instead, acting on his advice, I sent him to M. d’Agen’s lodging, to beg that young gentleman to call upon me before evening. After searching the lodging and other places in vain, Simon found M. d’Agen in the tennis-court at the Castle, and, inventing a crafty excuse, brought him to my lodging a full hour before the time.

My visitor was naturally surprised to find that I had nothing particular to say to him. I dared not tell him what occupied my thoughts, and for the rest invention failed me. But his gaiety and those pretty affectations on which he spent an infinity of pains, for the purpose, apparently, of hiding the sterling worth of a character deficient neither in courage nor backbone, were united to much good nature. Believing at last that I had sent for him in a fit of the vapours, he devoted himself to amusing me and abusing Bruhl—a very favourite pastime with him. And in this way he made out a call of two hours.

I had not long to wait for proof of Simon’s wisdom in taking this precaution. We thought it prudent to keep within doors after our guest’s departure, and so passed the night in ignorance whether anything had happened or not. But about seven next morning one of the Marquis’s servants, despatched by M. d’Agen, burst in upon us with the news—which was no news from the moment his hurried footstep sounded on the stairs that Father Antoine had been set upon and killed the previous evening!

I heard this confirmation of my hopes with grave thankfulness; Simon with so much emotion that when the messenger was gone he sat down on a stool and began to sob and tremble as if he had lost his mother, instead of a mortal foe. I took advantage of the occasion to read him a sermon on the end of crooked courses; nor could I myself recall without a shudder the man’s last words to me; or the lawless and evil designs in which he had rejoiced, while standing on the very brink of the pit which was to swallow up both him and them in everlasting darkness.

Naturally, the uppermost feeling in my mind was relief. I was free once more. In all probability the priest had kept his knowledge to himself, and without him his agents would be powerless. Simon, it is true, heard that the town was much excited by the event; and that many attributed it to the Huguenots. But we did not suffer ourselves to be depressed by this, nor had I any foreboding until the sound of a second hurried footstep mounting the stairs reached our ears.

I knew the step in a moment for M. d’Agen’s, and something ominous in its ring brought me to my feet before he opened the door. Significant as was his first hasty look round the room, he recovered at sight of me all his habitual SANG-FROID. He saluted me, and spoke coolly, though rapidly. But he panted, and I noticed in a moment that he had lost his lisp.

‘I am happy in finding you,’ he said, closing the door carefully behind him, ‘for I am the bearer of ill news, and there is not a moment to be lost. The king has signed an order for your instant consignment to prison, M. de Marsac, and, once there, it is difficult to say what may not happen.’

‘My consignment?’ I exclaimed. I may be pardoned if the news for a moment found me unprepared.

‘Yes,’ he replied quickly. ‘The king has signed it at the instance of Marshal Retz.’

‘But for what?’ I cried in amazement.

‘The murder of Father Antoine. You will pardon me,’ he continued urgently, ‘but this is no time for words. The Provost-Marshal is even now on his way to arrest you. Your only hope is to evade him, and gain an audience of the king. I have persuaded my uncle to go with you, and he is waiting at his lodgings. There is not a moment to be lost, however, if you would reach the king’s presence before you are arrested.’

‘But I am innocent!’ I cried.

‘I know it,’ M. d’Agen answered, ‘and can prove it. But if you cannot get speech of the king innocence will avail you nothing. You have powerful enemies. Come without more ado, M. de Marsac, I pray,’ he added.

His manner, even more than his words, impressed me with a sense of urgency; and postponing for a time my own judgment, I hurriedly thanked him for his friendly offices. Snatching up my sword, which lay on a chair, I buckled it on; for Simon’s fingers trembled so violently he could give me no help. This done I nodded to M. d’Agen to go first, and followed him from the room, Simon attending us of his own motion. It would be then about eleven o’clock in the forenoon.

My companion ran down the stairs without ceremony, and so quickly it was all I could do to keep up with him. At the outer door he signed me to stand, and darting himself into the street, he looked anxiously in the direction of the Rue St. Denys. Fortunately the coast was still clear, and he beckoned to me to follow him. I did so and starting to walk in the opposite direction as fast as we could, in less than a minute we had put a corner between us and the house.

Our hopes of escaping unseen, however, were promptly dashed. The house, I have said, stood in a quiet by-street, which was bounded on the farther side by a garden-wall buttressed at intervals. We had scarcely gone a dozen paces from my door when a man slipped from the shelter of one of these buttresses, and after a single glance at us, set off to run towards the Rue St. Denys.

M. d’Agen looked back and nodded. ‘There goes the news,’ he said. ‘They will try to cut us off, but I think we have the start of them.’

I made no reply, feeling that I had resigned myself entirely into his hands. But as we passed through the Rue de Valois, in part of which a market was held at this hour, attracting a considerable concourse of peasants and others, I fancied I detected signs of unusual bustle and excitement. It seemed unlikely that news of the priest’s murder should affect so many people and to such a degree, and I asked M. d’Agen what it meant.

‘There is a rumour abroad,’ he answered, without slackening speed, ‘that the king intends to move south to Tours at once.’

I muttered my surprise and satisfaction. ‘He will come to terms with the Huguenots then?’ I said.

‘It looks like it,’ M. d’Agen rejoined. ‘Retz’s party are in an ill-humour on that account, and will wreak it on you if they get a chance. On guard!’ he added abruptly. ‘Here are two of them!’

As he spoke we emerged from the crowd, and I saw, half a dozen paces in front; of us, and coming to meet us, a couple of Court gallants, attended by as many servants. They espied us at the same moment, and came across the street, which was tolerably wide at that part, with the evident intention of stopping us. Simultaneously, however, we crossed to take their side, and so met them face to face in the middle of the way.

‘M. d’Agen,’ the foremost exclaimed, speaking in a haughty tone, and with a dark side glance at me, ‘I am sorry to see you in such company! Doubtless you are not aware that this gentleman is the subject of an order which has even now been issued to the Provost-Marshal.’

‘And if so, sir? What of that?’ my companion lisped in his silkiest tone.

‘What of that?’ the other cried, frowning, and pushing slightly forward.

‘Precisely,’ M. d’Agen repeated, laying his hand on his hilt and declining to give back. ‘I am not aware that his Majesty has appointed you Provost-Marshal, or that you have any warrant, M. Villequier, empowering you to stop gentlemen in the public streets.’

M. Villequier reddened with anger. ‘You are young, M. d’Agen,’ he said, his voice quivering, ‘or I would make you pay dearly for that!’

‘My friend is not young,’ M. d’Agen retorted, bowing. ‘He is a gentleman of birth, M. Villequier; by repute, as I learned yesterday, one of the best swordsmen in France, and no Gascon. If you feel inclined to arrest him, do so, I pray. And I will have the honour of engaging your son.’

As we had all by this time our hands on our swords, there needed but a blow to bring about one of those street brawls which were more common then than now. A number of market-people, drawn to the spot by our raised voices, had gathered round, and were waiting eagerly to see what would happen. But Villeqier, as my companion perhaps knew, was a Gascon in heart as well as by birth, and seeing our determined aspects, thought better of it. Shrugging his shoulders with an affectation of disdain which imposed on no one, he signalled to his servants to go on, and himself stood aside.

‘I thank you for your polite offer,’ he said with an evil smile, ‘and will remember it. But as you say, sir, I am not the Provost-Marshal.’

Paying little heed to his words, we bowed, passed him, and hurried on. But the peril was not over. Not only had the RENCONTRE cost us some precious minutes, but the Gascon, after letting us proceed a little way, followed us. And word being passed by his servants, as we supposed, that one of us was the murderer of Father Antoine, the rumour spread through the crowd like wildfire, and in a few moments we found ourselves attended by a troop of CANAILLE who, hanging on our skirts, caused Simon Fleix no little apprehension. Notwithstanding the contempt which M. d’Agen, whose bearing throughout was admirable, expressed for them, we might have found it necessary to turn and teach them a lesson had we not reached M. de Rambouillet’s in the nick of time; where we found the door surrounded by half a dozen armed servants, at sight of whom our persecutors fell back with the cowardice which is usually found in that class.

If I had been tempted of late to think M. de Rambouillet fickle, I had no reason to complain now; whether his attitude was due to M. d’Agen’s representations, or to the reflection that without me the plans he had at heart must miscarry. I found him waiting within, attended by three gentlemen, all cloaked and ready for the road; while the air of purpose, which sat on his brow indicated that he thought the crisis no common one. Not a moment was lost, even in explanations. Waving me to the door again, and exchanging a few sentences with his nephew, he gave the word to start, and we issued from the house in a body. Doubtless the fact that those who sought to ruin me were his political enemies had some weight with him; for I saw his face harden as his eyes met those of M. de Villequier, who passed slowly before the door as we came out. The Gascon, however, was not the man to interfere with so large a party, and dropped back; while M. de Rambouillet, after exchanging a cold salute with him, led the way towards the Castle at a round pace. His nephew and I walked one on either side of him, and the others, to the number of ten or eleven, pressed on behind in a compact body, our cortege presenting so determined a front that the crowd, which had remained hanging about the door, fled every way. Even some peaceable folk who found themselves in our road took the precaution of slipping into doorways, or stood aside to give us the full width of the street.

I remarked—and I think it increased my anxiety—that our leader was dressed with more than usual care and richness, but, unlike his attendants, wore no arms. He took occasion, as we hurried along, to give me a word of advice. ‘M. de Marsac,’ he said, looking at me suddenly, ‘my nephew has given me to understand that you place yourself entirely in my hands.’

I replied that I asked for no better fortune, and, whatever the event, thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

‘Be pleased then to keep silence until I bid you speak,’ he replied sharply, for he was one of those whom a sudden stress sours and exacerbates. ‘And, above all, no violence without my orders. We are about to fight a battle, and a critical one, but it must be won with our heads. If we can we will keep you out of the Provost-Marshal’s hands.’

And if not? I remembered the threats Father Antoine had used, and in a moment I lost sight of the street with all its light and life and movement. I felt no longer the wholesome stinging of the wind. I tasted instead a fetid air, and saw round me a narrow cell and masked figures, and in particular a swarthy man is a leather apron leaning over a brazier, from which came lurid flames. And I was bound. I experienced that utter helplessness which is the last test of courage. The man came forward, and then—then, thank God! the vision passed away. An exclamation to which M. d’Agen gave vent, brought me back to the present, and to the blessed knowledge that the fight was not yet over.

We were within a score of paces, I found, of the Castle gates; but so were also a second party, who had just debouched from a side-street, and now hurried on, pace for pace, with us, with the evident intention of forestalling us, The race ended in both companies reaching the entrance at the same time, with the consequence of some jostling taking place amongst the servants. This must have led to blows but for the strenuous commands which M. de Rambouillet had laid upon his followers. I found myself in a moment confronted by a row of scowling faces, while a dozen threatening hands were stretched out towards me, and as many voices, among which I recognised Fresnoy’s, cried out tumultuously, ‘That is he! That is the one!’

An elderly man in a quaint dress stepped forward, a paper in his hand, and, backed as he was by half a dozen halberdiers, would in a moment have laid hands on me if M. de Rambouillet had not intervened with a negligent air of authority, which sat on him the more gracefully as he held nothing but a riding-switch in his hands. ‘Tut, tut! What is this?’ he said lightly. ‘I am not wont to have my people interfered with, M. Provost, without my leave. You know me, I suppose?’

‘Perfectly, M. le Marquis,’ the man answered with dogged respect; ‘but this is by the king’s special command.’

‘Very good,’ my patron answered, quietly eyeing the faces behind the Provost-Marshal, as if he were making a note of them; which caused some of the gentlemen manifest uneasiness. ‘That is soon seen, for we are even now about to seek speech with his Majesty.’

‘Not this gentleman,’ the Provost-Marshal answered firmly, raising his hand again. ‘I cannot let him pass.’

‘Yes, this gentleman too, by your leave,’ the Marquis retorted, lightly putting the hand aside with his cane.

‘Sir,’ said the other, retreating a step, and speaking with some heat, ‘this is no jest with all respect. I hold the king’s own order, and it may not be resisted.’

The nobleman tapped his silver comfit-box and smiled. ‘I shall be the last to resist it—if you have it,’ he said languidly.

‘You may read it for yourself,’ the Provost-Marshal answered, his patience exhausted.

M. de Rambouillet took the parchment with the ends of his fingers, glanced at it, and gave it back. ‘As I thought,’ he said, ‘a manifest forgery.’

‘A forgery!’ cried the other, crimson with indignation. ‘And I had it from the hands of the king’s own secretary!’ At this those behind murmured, some ‘shame,’ and some one thing and some another—all with an air so threatening that the Marquis’s gentlemen closed up behind him, and M. d’Agen laughed rudely.

But M. de Rambouillet remained unmoved. ‘You may have had it from whom you please, sir,’ he said. ‘It is a forgery, and I shall resist its execution. If you choose to await me here, I will give you my word to render this gentleman to you within an hour, should the order hold good. If you will not wait, I shall command my servants to clear the way, and if ill happen, then the responsibility will lie with you.’

He spoke in so resolute a manner it was not difficult to see that something more was at stake than the arrest of a single man. This was so; the real issue was whether the king, with whose instability it was difficult to cope, should fall back into the hands of his old advisers or not. My arrest was a move in the game intended as a counterblast to the victory which M. de Rambouillet had gained when he persuaded the king to move to Tours; a city in the neighbourhood of the Huguenots, and a place of arms whence union with them would be easy.

The Provost-Marshal could, no doubt, make a shrewd guess at these things. He knew that the order he had would be held valid or not according as one party or the other gained the mastery; and, seeing M. de Rambouillet’s resolute demeanour, he gave way. Rudely interrupted more than once by his attendants, among whom were some of Bruhl’s men, he muttered an ungracious assent to our proposal; on which, and without a moment’s delay, the Marquis took me by the arm and hurried me across the courtyard.

And so far, well. My heart began to rise. But, for the Marquis, as we mounted the staircase the anxiety he had dissembled while we faced the Provost-Marshal, broke out in angry mutterings; from which I gathered that the crisis was yet to come. I was not surprised, therefore, when an usher rose on our appearance in the antechamber, and, quickly crossing the floor, interposed between us and the door of the chamber, informing the Marquis with a low obeisance that his Majesty was engaged.

‘He will see me,’ M. de Rambouillet cried, looking haughtily round on the sneering pages and lounging courtiers, who grew civil under his eye.

‘I have particular orders, sir, to admit so one,’ the man answered.

‘Tut, tut, they do not apply to me,’ my companion retorted, nothing daunted. ‘I know the business on which the king is engaged, and I am here to assist him.’ And raising his hand he thrust the startled official aside, and hardily pushed the doors of the chamber open.

The king, surrounded by half a dozen persons, was in the act of putting on his riding-boots. On hearing us, he turned his head with a startled air, and dropped in his confusion one of the ivory cylinders he was using; while his aspect, and that of the persons who stood round him, reminded me irresistibly of a party of schoolboys detected in a fault.

He recovered himself, it is true, almost immediately; and turning his back to us? continued to talk to the persons round him on such trifling subjects as commonly engaged him. He carried on this conversation in a very free way, studiously ignoring our presence; but it was plain he remained aware of it, and even that he was uneasy under the cold and severe gaze which the Marquis, who seemed in nowise affrighted by his reception, bent upon him.

I, for my part, had no longer any confidence. Nay, I came near to regretting that I had persevered in an attempt so useless. The warrant which awaited me at the gates seemed less formidable than his Majesty’s growing displeasure; which I saw I was incurring by remaining where I was. It needed not the insolent glance of Marshal Retz, who lounged smiling by the king’s hand, or the laughter of a couple of pages who stood at the head of the chamber, to deprive me of my last hope; while some things which might have cheered me—the uneasiness of some about the king, and the disquietude which underlay Marshal Retz’s manner—escaped my notice altogether.

What I did see clearly was that the king’s embarrassment was fast changing to anger. The paint which reddened his cheeks prevented tiny alteration in his colour being visible, but his frown and the nervous manner in which he kept taking off and putting on his jewelled cap betrayed him. At length, signing to one of his companions to follow, he moved a little aside to a window, whence, after a few moments, the gentleman came to us.

‘M. de Rambouillet,’ he said, speaking coldly and formally, ‘his Majesty is displeased by this gentleman’s presence, and requires him to withdraw forthwith.’

‘His Majesty’s word is law,’ my patron answered, bowing low, and speaking in a clear voice audible throughout; the chamber, ‘but the matter which brings this gentleman here is of the utmost importance, and touches his Majesty’s person.’

M. de Retz laughed jeeringly. The other courtiers looked grave. The king shrugged his shoulders with a peevish gesture, but after a moment’s hesitation, during which he looked first at Retz and then at M. de Rambouillet, he signed to the Marquis to approach.

‘Why have you brought him here?’ he muttered sharply, looking askance at me. ‘He should have been bestowed according to my orders.’

‘He has information for your Majesty’s private ear,’ Rambouillet answered. And he looked so meaningly at the king that Henry, I think, remembered on a sudden his compact with Rosny, and my part in it; for he started with the air of a man suddenly awakened. ‘To prevent that information reaching you, sire,’ my patron continued, ‘his enemies have practised on your Majesty’s well-known sense of justice.’

‘Oh, but stay, stay!’ the king cried, hitching forward the scanty cloak he wore, which barely came down to his waist. ‘The man has killed a priest! He has killed a priest, man!’

He repeated with confidence, as if he had now got hold of the right argument.

That is not so, sire, craving your Majesty’s pardon, M. de Rambouillet; replied with the utmost coolness.

‘Tut! Tut! The evidence is clear,’ the king said peevishly.

‘As to that, sire,’ my companion rejoined, ‘if it is of the murder of Father Antoine he is accused, I say boldly that there is none.’

‘Then there you are mistaken!’ the king answered. ‘I heard it with my own ears this morning.’

‘Will you deign, sire, to tell me its nature?’ M. de Rambouillet persisted.

But on that Marshal Retz thought it necessary to intervene. ‘Need we turn his Majesty’s chamber into a court of justice?’ he said smoothly. Hitherto he had not spoken; trusting, perhaps, to the impression he had already made upon the king.

M. de Rambouillet took no notice of him.

‘But Bruhl,’ said the king, ‘you see, Bruhl says—’

‘Bruhl!’ my companion replied, with so much contempt that Henry started. ‘Surely your Majesty has not taken his word against this gentleman, of all people?’

Thus reminded, a second time, of the interests entrusted to me, and of the advantage which Bruhl would gain by my disappearance, the king looked first confused, and then angry. He vented his passion in one or two profane oaths, with the childish addition that we were all a set of traitors, and that he had no one whom he could trust. But my companion had touched the right chord at last; for when the king grew more composed, he waved aside Marshal Retz’s protestations, and sullenly bade Rambouillet say what he had to say.

‘The monk was killed, sire, about sunset,’ he answered. ‘Now my nephew, M. d’Agen, is without, and will tell your Majesty that he was with this gentleman at his lodgings from about an hour before sunset last evening until a full hour after. Consequently, M. de Marsac can hardly be the assassin, and M. le Marechal must look elsewhere if he wants vengeance.’

‘Justice, sir, not vengeance.’ Marshal Retz said with a dark glance. His keen Italian face hid his trouble well, but a little pulse of passion beating in his olive cheek betrayed the secret to those who knew him. He had a harder part to play than his opponent; for while Rambouillet’s hands were clean, Retz knew himself a traitor, and liable at any moment to discovery and punishment.

‘Let M. d’Agen be called,’ Henry said curtly.

‘And if your Majesty pleases,’ Retz added, ‘M. de Bruhl also, If you really intend, sire, that is, to reopen a matter which I thought had been settled.’

The king nodded obstinately, his face furrowed with ill-temper. He kept his shifty eyes, which seldom met those of the person he addressed, on the floor; and this accentuated the awkward stooping carriage which was natural to him. There were seven or eight dogs of exceeding smallness in the room, and while we waited for the persons who had been summoned, he kicked, now one and now another of the baskets which held them, as if he found in this some vent for his ill-humour.

The witnesses presently appeared, followed by several persons, among whom were the Dukes of Nevers and Mercoeur, who came to ride out with the king, and M. de Crillon; so that the chamber grew passably full. The two dukes nodded formally to the Marquis, as they passed him, but entered into a muttered conversation with Retz, who appeared to be urging them to press his cause. They seemed to decline, however, shrugging their short cloaks as if the matter were too insignificant. Crillon on his part cried audibly, and with an oath, to know what the matter was; and being informed, asked whether all this fuss was being made about a damned shaveling monk.

Henry, whose tenderness for the cowl was well known, darted an angry glance at him, but contented himself with saying sharply to M. d’Agen, ‘Now, sir, what do you know about the matter?’

‘One moment, sire,’ M. Rambouillet cried, interposing before Francois could answer. ‘Craving your Majesty’s pardon, you have heard M. de Bruhl’s account. May I, as a favour to myself, beg you, sire, to permit us also to hear it?’

‘What?’ Marshal Retz exclaimed angrily, ‘are we to be the judges, then, or his Majesty? Arnidieu!’ he continued hotly, ‘what, in the fiend’s name, have we to do with it? I protest ‘fore Heaven—’

‘Ay, sir, and what do you protest?’ my champion retorted, turning to him with stern disdain.

‘Silence!’ cried the king who had listened almost bewildered. ‘Silence! By God, gentlemen,’ he continued, his eye travelling round the circle with a sparkle of royal anger in it not unworthy of his crown, ‘you forget yourselves. I will have none of this quarrelling in my presence or out of it. I lost Quelus and Maugiron that way, and loss enough, and I will have none of it, I say! M. de Bruhl,’ he added, standing erect, and looking for the moment, with all his paint and frippery, a king, ‘M. de Bruhl, repeat your story.’

The feelings with which I listened to this controversy may be imagined. Devoured in turn by hope and fear as now one side and now the other seemed likely to prevail, I confronted at one moment the gloom of the dungeon, and at another tasted the air of freedom, which had never seemed so sweet before. Strong as these feelings were, however, they gave way to curiosity at this point; when I heard Bruhl called, and saw him come forward at the king’s command. Knowing this man to be himself guilty, I marvelled with what face he would present himself before all those eyes, and from what depths of impudence he could draw supplies in such an emergency.

I need not have troubled myself, however, for he was fully equal to the occasion. His high colour and piercing black eyes met the gaze of friend and foe alike without flinching. Dressed well and elegantly, he wore his raven hair curled in the mode, and looked alike gay, handsome, and imperturbable. If there was a suspicion of coarseness about his bulkier figure, as he stood beside M. d’Agen, who was the courtier perfect and point devise, it went to the scale of sincerity, seeing that men naturally associate truth with strength.

‘I know no more than this, sire,’ he said easily; ‘that, happening to cross the Parvis at the moment of the murder, I heard Father Antoine scream. He uttered four words only, in the tone of a man in mortal peril. They were’—and here the speaker looked for an instant at me—‘Ha! Marsac! A moi!’

‘Indeed!’ M. de Rambouillet said, after looking to the king for permission. ‘And that was all? You saw nothing?’

Bruhl shook his head. ‘It was too dark,’ he said.

‘And heard no more?’

‘No.’

‘Do I understand, then,’ the Marquis continued slowly, ‘that M. de Marsac is arrested because the priest—God rest his soul!—cried to him for help?’

‘For help?’ M. de Retz exclaimed fiercely.

‘For help?’ said the king, surprised. And at that the most; ludicrous change fell upon the faces of all. The king looked puzzled, the Duke of Nevers smiled, the Duke of Mercoeur laughed aloud. Crillon cried boisterously, ‘Good hit!’ and the majority, who wished no better than to divine the winning party, grinned broadly, whether they would or no.

To Marshal Retz, however, and Bruhl, that which to everyone else seemed an amusing retort had a totally different aspect; while the former turned yellow with chagrin and came near to choking, the latter looked as chapfallen and startled as if his guilt; had been that moment brought home to him. Assured by the tone of the monk’s voice—which must, indeed, have thundered in his ears—that my name was uttered in denunciation by one who thought me his assailant, he had chosen to tell the truth without reflecting that words, so plain to him, might; bear a different construction when repeated.

‘Certainly the words seem ambiguous,’ Henry muttered.

‘But it was Marsac killed him,’ Retz cried in a rage.

‘It is for some evidence of that we are waiting,’ my champion answered suavely.

The Marshal looked helplessly at Nevers and Mercoeur, who commonly took part with him; but apparently those noblemen had not been primed for this occasion. They merely shook their heads and smiled. In the momentary silence which followed, while all looked curiously at Bruhl, who could not conceal his mortification, M. d’Agen stepped forward.

‘If your Majesty will permit me,’ he said, a malicious simper crossing his handsome face—I had often remarked his extreme dislike for Bruhl without understanding it—‘I think I can furnish some evidence more to the point than that; to which M. de Bruhl has with so much fairness restricted himself.’ He then went on to state that he had had the honour of being in my company at the time of the murder; and he added, besides, so many details as to exculpate me to the satisfaction of any candid person.

The king nodded. ‘That settles the matter,’ he said, with a sigh of relief. ‘You think so, Mercoeur, do you not? Precisely. Villequier, see that the order respecting M. de Marsac is cancelled.’

M. de Retz could not control his wrath on hearing this direction given. ‘At this rate,’ he cried recklessly, ‘we shall have few priests left here! We have got a bad name at Blois, as it is!’

For a moment all in the circle held their breath, while the king’s eyes flashed fire at this daring allusion to the murder of the Duke de Guise, and his brother the Cardinal. But it was Henry’s misfortune to be ever indulgent in the wrong place, and severe when severity was either unjust or impolitic. He recovered himself with an effort, and revenged himself only by omitting to invite the Marshal, who was now trembling in his shoes, to join his riding-party.

The circle broke up amid some excitement. I stood on one side with M. d’Agen, while the king and his immediate following passed out, and, greatly embarrassed as I was by the civil congratulating of many who would have seen me hang with equal goodwill, I was sharp enough to see that something was brewing between Bruhl and Marshal Retz, who stood back conversing in low tones. I was not surprised, therefore, when the former made his way towards me through the press which filled the antechamber, and with a lowering brow requested a word with me.

‘Certainly,’ I said, watching him narrowly, for I knew him to be both treacherous and a bully. ‘Speak on, sir.’

‘You have balked me once and again,’ he rejoined, in a voice which shook a little, as did the fingers with which he stroked his waxed moustache. ‘There is no need of words between us. I, with one sword besides, will to-morrow at noon keep the bridge at Chaverny, a league from here. It is an open country. Possibly your pleasure may lead you to ride that way with a friend?’

‘You may depend upon me, sir,’ I answered, bowing low, and feeling thankful that the matter was at length to be brought to a fair and open arbitration. ‘I will be there—and in person. For my deputy last night,’ I added, searching his face with a steadfast eye, ‘seems to have been somewhat unlucky.’

Out of compliment, and to show my gratitude, I attended M. de Rambouillet home to his lodging, and found him as much pleased with himself, and consequently with me, as I was with him. For the time, indeed, I came near to loving him; and, certainly, he was a man of high and patriotic feeling, and of skill and conduct to match. But he lacked that touch of nature and that power of sympathising with others which gave to such men as M. de Rosny and the king, my master, their peculiar charm; though after what I have related of him in the last chapter it does not lie in my mouth to speak ill of him. And, indeed, he was a good man.

When I at last reached my lodging, I found a surprise awaiting me in the shape of a note which had just arrived no one knew how. If the manner of its delivery was mysterious, however, its contents were brief and sufficiently explicit; for it; ran thus: ‘SIR, BY MEETING ME THREE HOURS AFTER NOON IN THE SQUARE BEFORE THE HOUSE OF THE LITTLE SISTERS YOU WILL DO A SERVICE AT ONCE TO YOURSELF AND TO THE UNDERSIGNED, MARIE DE BRUHL.’

That was all, written in a feminine character, yet it was enough to perplex me. Simon, who had manifested the liveliest joy at my escape, would have had me treat it as I had treated the invitation to the Parvis of the Cathedral; ignore it altogether I mean. But I was of a different mind, and this for three reasons, among others: that the request was straightforward, the time early, and the place sufficiently public to be an unlikely theatre for violence, though well fitted for an interview to which the world at large was not invited. Then, too, the square lay little more than a bowshot from my lodging, though on the farther side of the Rue St. Denys.

Besides, I could conceive many grounds which Madame de Bruhl might have for seeing me; of which some touched me nearly. I disregarded Simon’s warnings, therefore, and repaired at the time appointed to the place—a clean, paved square a little off the Rue St. Denys, and entered from the latter by a narrow passage. It was a spot pleasantly convenient for meditation, but overlooked on one side by the House of the Little Sisters; in which, as I guessed afterwards, madame must have awaited me, for the square when I entered it was empty, yet in a moment, though no one came in from the street, she stood beside me. She wore a mask and long cloak. The beautiful hair and perfect complexion, which had filled me with so much admiration at our first meeting in her house, were hidden, but I saw enough of her figure and carriage to be sure that it was Madame de Bruhl and no other.

She began by addressing me in a tone of bitterness, for which I was not altogether unprepared.

‘Well, sir,’ she exclaimed, her voice trembling with anger, ‘you are satisfied, I hope, with your work?’

I expected this and had my answer ready. ‘I am not aware, Madame,’ I said, ‘that I have cause to reproach myself. But, however that may be, I trust you have summoned me for some better purpose than to chide me for another’s fault; though it was my voice which brought it to light.’

‘Why did you shame me publicly?’ she retorted, thrusting her handkerchief to her lips and withdrawing it again with a passionate gesture.

‘Madame,’ I answered patiently—I was full of pity for her, ‘consider for a moment the wrong your husband did me and how small and inadequate was the thing I did to him in return.’

‘To him!’ she ejaculated so fiercely that I started. ‘It was to me—to me you did it! What had I done that you should expose me to the ridicule of those who know no pity, and the anger of one as merciless? What had I done, sir?’

I shook my head sorrowfully. ‘So far, madame,’ I answered, ‘I allow I owe you reparation, and I will make it should it ever be in my power. Nay, I will say more,’ I continued, for the tone in which she spoke had wrung my heart. ‘In one point I strained the case against your husband. To the best of my belief he abducted the lady who was in my charge, not for the love of her, but for political reasons, and as the agent of another.’

She gasped. ‘What?’ she cried. ‘Say that again!’

As I complied she tore off her mask and gazed into my face with straining eyes and parted lips. I saw then how much she was changed, even in these few days—how pale and worn were her cheeks, how dark the circles round her eyes. ‘Will you swear to it?’ she said at last, speaking with uncontrollable eagerness, while she laid a hand which shook with excitement on my arm. Will you swear to it, sir?’

‘It is true,’ I answered steadfastly. I might have added that after the event her husband had so treated mademoiselle as to lead her to fear the worst. But I refrained, feeling that it was no part of my duty to come between husband and wife.

She clasped her hands, and for a moment looked passionately upwards, as though she were giving thanks to Heaven; while the flesh of health and loveliness which I had so much admired returned, and illumined her face in a wonderful manner. She seemed, in truth and for the moment, transformed. Her blue eyes filled with tears, her lips moved; nor have I ever seen anything bear so near a resemblance to those pictures of the Virgin Mary which Romans worship as madame did then.

The change, however, was as evanescent as it was admirable. In an instant she seemed to collapse. She struck her hands to her face and moaned, and I saw tears, which she vainly strove to restrain, dropping through her fingers. ‘Too late!’ she murmured, in a tone of anguish which wrung my heart. ‘Alas, you robbed me of one man, you give me back another. I know him now for what he is. If he did not love her then, he does now. It is too late!’

She seemed so much overcome that I assisted her to reach a bench which stood against the wall a few paces away; nor, I confess, was it without difficulty and much self-reproach that I limited myself to those prudent offices only which her state and my duty required. To console her on the subject of her husband was impossible; to ignore him, and so to console her, a task which neither my discretion nor my sense of honour, though sorely tried, permitted me to undertake.

She presently recovered and, putting on her mask again, said hurriedly that she had still a word to say to me. ‘You have treated me honestly,’ she continued, ‘and, though I have no cause to do anything but hate you, I say in return, look to yourself! You escaped last night—I know all, for it was my velvet knot—which I had made thinking to send it to you to procure this meeting—that he used as a lure. But he is not yet at the end of his resources. Look to yourself, therefore.’

I thought of the appointment I had made with him for the morrow, but I confined myself to thanking her, merely saying, as I bowed over the hand she resigned to me in token of farewell, ‘Madame, I am grateful. I am obliged to you both for your warning and your forgiveness.’

‘Bending her head coldly she drew away her hand. At that moment, as I lifted my eyes, I saw something which for an instant rooted me to the spot with astonishment. In the entrance of the passage which led to the Rue St. Denys two people were standing, watching us. The one was Simon Fleix, and the other, a masked woman, a trifle below the middle height, and clad in a riding-coat, was Mademoiselle de la Vire!

I knew her in a moment. But the relief I experienced on seeing her safe and in Blois was not unmixed with annoyance that Simon Fleix should have been so imprudent as to parade her unnecessarily in the street. I felt something of confusion also on my own account; for I could not tell how long she and her escort had been watching me. And these two feelings were augmented when, after turning to pay a final salute to Madame de Bruhl, I looked again towards the passage and discovered that mademoiselle and her squire were gone.

Impatient as I was, I would not seem to leave madame rudely or without feeling, after the consideration she had shown me in her own sorrow; and accordingly I waited uncovered until she disappeared within the ‘Little Sisters.’ Then I started eagerly towards my lodging, thinking I might yet overtake mademoiselle before she entered. I was destined to meet, however, with another though very pertinent hindrance. As I passed from the Rue St. Denys into the quiet of my street I heard a voice calling my name, and, looking back, saw M. de Rambouillet’s equerry, a man deep in his confidence, running after me. He brought a message from his master, which he begged me to consider of the first importance.

‘The Marquis would not trust it to writing, sir,’ he continued, drawing me aside into a corner where we were conveniently retired, ‘but he made me learn it by heart. “Tell M. de Marsac,” said he, “that that which he was left in Blois to do must be done quickly, or not at all. There is something afoot in the other camp, I am not sure what. But now is the time to knock in the nail. I know his zeal, and I depend upon him.”’

An hour before I should have listened to this message with serious doubts and misgivings. Now, acquainted with mademoiselle’s arrival, I returned M. de Rambouillet an answer in the same strain, and parting civilly from Bertram, who was a man I much esteemed, I hastened on to my lodgings, exulting in the thought that the hour and the woman were come at last, and that before the dawn of another day I might hope, all being well, to accomplish with honour to myself and advantage to others the commission which M. de Rosny had entrusted to me.

I must not deny that, mingled with this, was some excitement at the prospect of seeing mademoiselle again. I strove to conjure up before me as I mounted the stairs the exact expression of her face as I had last seen it bending from the window at Rosny; to the end that I might have some guide for my future conduct, and might be less likely to fall into the snare of a young girl’s coquetry. But I could come now, as then, to no satisfactory or safe conclusion, and only felt anew the vexation I had experienced on losing the velvet knot, which she had given me on that occasion.

I knocked at the door of the rooms which I had reserved for her, and which were on the floor below my own; but I got no answer. Supposing that Simon had taken her upstairs, I mounted quickly, not doubting I should find her there. Judge of my surprise and dismay when I found that room also empty, save for the lackey whom M. de Rambouillet had lent me!

‘Where are they?’ I asked the man, speaking sharply, and standing with my hand on the door.

‘The lady and her woman, sir?’ he answered, coming forward.

‘Yes, yes!’ I cried impatiently, a sudden fear at my heart.

She went out immediately after her arrival with Simon Fleix, sir, and has not yet returned,’ he answered.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before I heard several persons enter the passage below and begin to ascend the stairs. I did not; doubt that mademoiselle and the lad had come home another way and, been somehow detained; and I turned with a sigh of relief to receive them. But when the persons whose steps I had heard appeared, they proved to be only M. de Rosny’s equerry, stout, burly, and bright-eyed as ever, and two armed servants.

The moment the equerry’s foot touched the uppermost stair I advanced upon him. ‘Where is your mistress, man?’ I said. ‘Where is Mademoiselle de la Vire? Be quick, tell me what you have done with her.’

His face fell amazingly. ‘Where is she?’ he answered, faltering between surprise and alarm at my sudden onslaught. ‘Here, she should be. I left her here not an hour ago. Mon Dieu! Is she not here now?’

His alarm increased mine tenfold. ‘No!’ I retorted, ‘she is not! She is gone! And you—what business had you, in the fiend’s name, to leave her here, alone and unprotected? Tell me that!’

He leaned against the balustrade, making no attempt to defend himself, and seemed, in his sudden terror, anything but the bold, alert fellow who had ascended the stairs two minutes before. ‘I was a fool,’ he groaned. ‘I saw your man Simon here; and Fanchette, who is as good as a man, was with her mistress. And I went to stable the horses. I thought no evil. And now—My God!’ he added, suddenly straightening himself, while his face grew hard and grim, ‘I am undone! My master will never forgive me!’

‘Did you come straight here?’ I said, considering that, after all, he was no more in fault than I had been on a former occasion.

‘We went first to M. de Rosny’s lodging,’ he answered, ‘where we found your message telling us to come here. We came on without dismounting.’

‘Mademoiselle may have gone back, and be there,’ I said. ‘It is possible. Do you stay here and keep a good look-out, and I will go and see. Let one of your men come with me.’

He uttered a brief assent; being a man as ready to take as to give orders, and thankful now for any suggestion which held out a hope of mademoiselle’s safety. Followed by the servant he selected, I ran down the stairs, and in a moment was hurrying along the Rue St. Denys. The day was waning. The narrow streets and alleys were already dark, but the air of excitement which I had noticed in the morning still marked the townsfolk, of whom a great number were strolling abroad, or standing in doorways talking to their gossips. Feverishly anxious as I was, I remarked the gloom which dwelt on all faces; but as I set it down to the king’s approaching departure, and besides was intent on seeing that those we sought did not by any chance pass us in the crowd, I thought little of it. Five minutes’ walking brought us to M. de Rosny’s lodging. There I knocked at the door; impatiently, I confess, and with little hope of success. But, to my surprise, barely an instant elapsed before the door opened, and I saw before me Simon Fleix!

Discovering who it was, he cowered back, with a terrified face, and retreated to the wall with his arm raised.

‘You scoundrel!’ I exclaimed, restraining myself with difficulty. ‘Tell me this moment where Mademoiselle de la Vire is! Or, by Heaven, I shall forget what my mother owed to you, and do you a mischief!’

For an instant he glared at me viciously, with all his teeth exposed, as though he meant to refuse—and more. Then he thought better of it, and, raising his hand, pointed sulkily upwards.

‘Go before me and knock at the door,’ I said, tapping the hilt of my dagger with meaning.

Cowed by my manner, he obeyed, and led the way to the room in which M. de Rambouillet had surprised us on a former occasion. Here he stopped at the door and knocked gently; on which a sharp voice inside bade us enter. I raised the latch and did so, closing the door behind me.

Mademoiselle, still wearing her riding-coat, sat in a chair before the hearth, on which a newly kindled fire sputtered and smoked. She had her back to me, and did not turn on my entrance, but continued to toy in an absent manner with the strings of the mask which lay in her lap. Fanchette stood bolt upright behind her, with her elbows squared and her hands clasped; in such an attitude that I guessed the maid had been expressing her strong dissatisfaction with this latest whim of her mistress, and particularly with mademoiselle’s imprudence in wantonly exposing herself, with so inadequate a guard as Simon, in a place where she had already suffered so much. I was confirmed in this notion on seeing the woman’s harsh countenance clear at sight of me; though the churlish nod, which was all the greeting she bestowed on me, seemed to betoken anything but favour or good-will. She touched her mistress on the shoulder, however, and said, ‘M. de Marsac is here.’

Mademoiselle turned her head and looked at me languidly, without stirring in her chair or removing the foot she, was warming. ‘Good evening,’ she said.

The greeting seemed so brief and so commonplace, ignoring, as it did, both the pains and anxiety to which she had just put me and the great purpose for which we were here—to say nothing of that ambiguous parting which she must surely remember as well as I—that the words I had prepared died on my lips, and I looked at her in honest confusion. All her small face was pale except her lips. Her brow was dark, her eyes were hard as well as weary. And not words only failed me as I looked at her, but anger; having mounted the stairs hot foot to chide, I felt on a sudden—despite my new cloak and scabbard, my appointment, and the same I had made at Court—the same consciousness of age; and shabbiness and poverty which had possessed me in her presence from the beginning. I muttered, ‘Good evening, mademoiselle,’ and that was all I could say—I who had frightened the burly Maignan a few minutes before!

Seeing, I have no doubt, the effect she produced on me, she maintained for some time an embarrassing silence. At length she said, frigidly, ‘Perhaps M. de Marsac will sit, Fanchette. Place a chair for him. I am afraid, however, that after his successes at Court he may find our reception somewhat cold. But we are only from the country,’ she added, looking at me askance, with a gleam of anger in her eyes.

I thanked her huskily, saying that I would not sit, as I could not stay. ‘Simon Fleix,’ I continued, finding my voice with difficulty, ‘has, I am afraid, caused you some trouble by bringing you to this house instead of telling you that I had made preparation for you at my lodgings.’

‘It was not Simon Fleix’s fault,’ she replied curtly. ‘I prefer these rooms. They are more convenient.’

‘They are, perhaps, more convenient,’ I rejoined humbly, ‘But I have to think of safety, mademoiselle, as you know. At my house I have a competent guard, and can answer for your being unmolested.’

‘You can send your guard here,’ she said with a royal air.

‘But, mademoiselle—’

‘Is it not enough that I have said that I prefer these rooms?’ she replied sharply, dropping her mask on her lap and looking round at me in undisguised displeasure. ‘Are you deaf, sir? Let me tell you, I am in no mood for argument. I am tired with riding. I prefer these rooms, and that is enough!’

Nothing could exceed the determination with which she said these words, unless it were the malicious pleasure in thwarting my wishes which made itself seen through the veil of assumed indifference. I felt myself brought up with a vengeance, and in a manner the most provoking that could be conceived. But opposition so childish, so utterly wanton, by exciting my indignation, had presently the effect of banishing the peculiar bashfulness I felt in her presence, and recalling me to my duty.

‘Mademoiselle,’ I said firmly, looking at her with a fixed countenance, ‘pardon me if I speak plainly. This is no time for playing with straws. The men from whom you escaped once are as determined and more desperate now. By this time they probably know of your arrival. Do, then, as I ask, I pray and beseech you. Or this time I may lack the power, though never the will, to save you.’

Wholly ignoring my appeal, she looked into my face—for by this time I had advanced to her side—with a whimsical smile. ‘You are really much improved in manner since I last saw you,’ she said.

‘Mademoiselle!’ I replied, baffled and repelled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say,’ she answered, flippantly. ‘But it was to be expected.’

‘For shame!’ I cried, provoked almost beyond bearing by her ill-timed raillery, ‘will you never be serious until you have ruined us and yourself? I tell you this house is not safe for you! It is not safe for me! I cannot bring my men to it, for there is not room for them. If you have any spark of consideration, of gratitude, therefore—’

‘Gratitude!’ she exclaimed, swinging her mask slowly to and fro by a ribbon, while she looked up at me as though my excitement amused her. ‘Gratitude—‘tis a very pretty phrase, and means much; but it is for those who serve us faithfully, M. de Marsac, and not for others. You receive so many favours, I am told, and are so successful at Court, that I should not be justified in monopolising your services.’

‘But, mademoiselle—’ I said in a low tone. And there I stopped. I dared not proceed.

‘Well, sir,’ she answered, looking up at she after a moment’s silence, and ceasing on a sudden to play with her toy, ‘what is it?’

‘You spoke of favours,’ I continued, with an effort. ‘I never received but one from a lady. That was at Rosny, and from your hand.’

‘From my hand?’ she answered, with an air of cold surprise.

‘It was so, mademoiselle.’

‘You have fallen into some strange mistake, sir,’ she replied, rousing herself, and looking at me indifferently ‘I never gave you a favour.’

I bowed low. ‘If you say you did not, mademoiselle, that is enough,’ I answered.

‘Nay, but do not let me do you an injustice, M. de Marsac,’ she rejoined, speaking more quickly and in an altered tone. ‘If you can show me the favour I gave you, I shall, of course, be convinced. Seeing is believing, you know,’ she added, with a light nervous laugh, and a gesture of something like shyness.

If I had not sufficiently regretted my carelessness, and loss of the bow at the time, I did so now. I looked at her in silence, and saw her face, that had for a moment shown signs of feeling, almost of shame, grow slowly hard again.

‘Well, sir?’ she said impatiently. ‘The proof is easy.’

‘It was taken from me; I believe, by M. de Rosny,’ I answered lamely, wondering what ill-luck had led her to put the question and press it to this point.

‘It was taken from you!’ she exclaimed, rising and confronting me with the utmost suddenness, while her eyes flashed, and her little hand crumpled the mask beyond future usefulness. ‘It was taken from you, sir!’ she repeated, her voice and her whole frame trembling with anger and disdain. ‘Then I thank you, I prefer my version. Yours is impossible. For let me tell you, when Mademoiselle de la Vire does confer a favour, it will be on a man with the power and the wit—and the constancy, to keep it, even from M. de Rosny!’

Her scorn hurt, though it did not anger me. I felt it to be in a measure deserved, and raged against myself rather than against her. But aware through all of the supreme importance of placing her in safety, I subjected my immediate feelings to the exigencies of the moment and stooped to an argument which would, I thought, have weight though private pleading failed.

‘Putting myself aside, mademoiselle,’ I said, with more formality than I had yet used, ‘there is one consideration which must weigh with you. The king—’

‘The king!’ she cried, interrupting me violently, her face hot with passion and her whole person instinct with stubborn self-will. ‘I shall not see the king!’

‘You will not see the king?’ I repeated in amazement.

‘No, I will not!’ she answered, in a whirl of anger, scorn, and impetuosity. ‘There! I will not! I have been made a toy and a tool long enough, M. de Marsac,’ she continued, ‘and I will serve others’ ends no more. I have made up my mind. Do not talk to me; you will do no good, sir. I would to Heaven,’ she added bitterly, ‘I had stayed at Chize and never seen this place!’