"Oh, if it is a question of something to play with!" M. Etienne laughed.

D'Auvray was provided with toys, and M. Etienne linked arms with me, the soldier out of ear-shot behind us. He followed till we were in the Rue St. Denis, when, waving his hand in farewell, he turned his steps with the pious consciousness of duty done. Only I looked back to see it; monsieur had forgotten his existence.

"I am not proud; I don't mind being marched through the streets by a musketeer," M. Etienne explained as we started; "but I can't talk before him. Tell me, Felix, the story, if you would have me live."

And I told him, till we almost ran blindly into the tower of the St. Denis gate.

We learned of the warder that M. de St. Quentin had recently passed out, but that nothing had been seen of his equery. No steeds were here for us.

"Well, then, we'll go have a glass. But if Vigo doesn't come soon, by my faith, I'll walk to St. Denis!"

But that promised glass was never drunk, nor were we to set out at once for St. Denis; for in the door of the wine-shop we met Lucas.

I had dismissed him from thought, as something out of the reckoning, dead and done with, powerless as yesterday's broken sword. I thought him gone out of our lives when he went out of prison—gone forever, like last year's snow. And here within the hour we encountered him, a naked sword in his hand, a smile on his lips. He said, in the flower of his easy insolence:

"Tuesday I told you our hour would come. It is here."

"At your service," quoth my lord.

"Then it needs not to slap your face?"

"You insult me safely, Lucas. You have but one life. That is forfeit, be you courteous."

"You think so?"

"I know it."

Lucas held out the bare sword, hilt toward us.

"Monsieur had a box for weapon yesterday, but as I prefer to fight in the established way, I ventured to provide him with a sword."

"Thoughtful of you, Lucas. Is this the make of sword you elect to be killed with?"

He was bending the blade to try its temper. Lucas unsheathed his own.

"M. de Mar may have his choice."

M. de Mar professed himself satisfied with the blade given him.

"Have you summoned your seconds, Lucas?"

Lucas raised his eyebrows.

"Is that necessary? I thought we might settle our affairs without delay. I confess myself impatient."

"Your sentiments for once are mine."

"It is understood you bring your spaniel with you. He will watch that I do not spring on you before you are ready," Lucas said, with a fine sneer.

"And who is to watch me?"

"Oh, monsieur's chivalry is notorious. Precautions are unnecessary. It is your privilege, monsieur, to appoint the happy spot."

"The spot is near at hand. Where you slew Pontou is the fitting place for you to die."

"It is fitting for you to die in your own house," Lucas amended.

Without further parley we turned into the Rue des Innocents, on our way to that of the Coupejarrets.

Now, I had been on the watch from the first instant for foul play. I had suspected something wrong with the sword, but my lord, who knew, had accepted it. Then, when Lucas proposed no seconds, I had felt sure of a trap. But his inviting my presence at the place of our choice smelt like honesty.

M. Etienne remarked casually to me:

"Faith, there'll soon be as many ghosts in the house as you thought you saw there—Grammont, Pontou, and now Lucas. What ails you, lad? Footsteps on your grave?"

But it was not thoughts of my grave caused the shudder, but of his. For of the three men of the lightning-flash, the third was not Lucas, but M. Etienne. What if the vision were, after all, the thing I had at first believed it—a portent? An appearance not of those who had died by steel, but of those who must. One, two, and now the third.

Next moment I almost laughed out in relief. It was not Pontou I had seen, but Louis Martin. And he was living. The vision was no omen, but a mere happening. Was I a babe to shiver so?

And yet Martin, if not dead, was like to die. He was in duress as a Leaguer spy, to await King Henry's will. All who entered this house lay under a curse. We should none of us pass out again, save to our tombs.

We entered the well-remembered little passage, the well-remembered court, where shards of glass still strewed the pavement. Some one—the gendarmes, I fancy, when they took away Pontou—had put a heavy padlock on the door Lucas and Grammont left swinging.

"We go in by your postern, Felix," my master said. "M. Lucas, I confess I prefer that you go first."

Lucas put his back to the wall.

"Why go farther, M. le Comte?"

"Do you long for interruption'?"

"We were not noticed coming in. The street was quiet."

He crossed the court abruptly and went down the alley to look into the street.

"Not a soul in sight," he said, coming back. "I think we shall not be interrupted. Still, it is wise to use every care. We will fight, if you like, in the house."

He opened with his knife the fastened shutter, and leaped lightly in. Monsieur followed. I, the last, was for closing the shutter, but he stopped me.

"No; leave it wide. I have no fancy for a walk in pitch-darkness with M. Lucas."

"Do we fight here?" Lucas asked, facing us in the wide, square hall. "We can let in more light."

"You seem anxious, my friend, to call attention to your whereabouts. As I am host, I designate the fighting-ground. Up-stairs, if you please."

"I suppose you insist on my walking first," Lucas sneered.

"I request it, monsieur."

"With all the willingness in the world," his rogue-ship answered, setting foot straightway on the stair and mounting steadily, never turning to see how near we followed, or what we did with our hands. His trust made me ashamed of our lack of it. I almost believed we did him injustice. Yet at heart I could not bring myself to credit him with any fair dealing.

We went up one flight, up two. We had left behind us the twilight of the lower story, had not reached dawn again at the top. We walked in blackness. Suddenly I halted.

"Monsieur!"

"What?"

"I heard a noise."

"Of course you did. The place is full of rats."

"It was no rat. It was footsteps."

We all three held still.

"There, monsieur. Don't you hear?"

"Nothing, Felix; your teeth are chattering. Cross yourself and come on."

But I could not stand it.

"I'll go back and see, monsieur."

"No," Lucas said, striding back from the foot of the next flight. "I will go."

We saw a glint in the gloom, monsieur's bared sword.

"You will go neither one of you. Hush! If we show ourselves, there'll be no duel to-day."

We kept still, all three leaning over the banister, peering down to where the white tiles picked themselves out of the floor of the hall far beneath. We could see them better than we could see one another. All was silent. Not so much as a rustle came up from below. Suddenly Lucas made a step or two, as if to pass us. M. Etienne wheeled about, raising his sword toward the spot where from his footfalls we supposed Lucas to be.

"You show an eagerness to get away from me, M. de Lorraine."

"Not in the least, M. de Mar. This alarm is but Felix's poltroonery, yet it prompts me to go down and close the shutter."

"On the contrary, you will go up with me. Felix will close the shutter."

They confronted each other, vague shapes in the darkness, each with drawn sword. Then Lucas raised his in salute.

"As you will; so be some one sees to it."

"Go, Felix."

Lucas first, they mounted the last flight of stairs, and their footsteps passed along the corridor to the room at the back. I, as I was ordered, set my face down the stairs.

They might mock me as they liked, but I could not get it out of my head that I had heard steps below. Cautiously, with a thumping heart, I stole from stair to stair, pausing at the bottom of the flight. I heard plainly the sound of moving above me, and of voices; but below not a whisper, not a creak. It must have been my silly fears. Resolved to choke them, I planted my feet boldly on the next flight, and descended humming, to prove my ease, the rollicky tune of Peyrot's catch. Suddenly, from not three feet off, came the soft singing:

Mirth, my love, and Folly dear—

My knees knocked together, and the breath fluttered in my throat. It seemed the darkness itself had given tongue. Then came a low laugh and the muttered words:

"Here we are, M. de Lorraine. Are you ready?"

There was a stir of feet on the landing before me, behind the voice. The house, then, was full of Lucas's cutthroats, the first of them Peyrot. In the height of my terror, I remembered that M. Etienne's life, too, depended on my wits, and I kept them. I whispered, for whispering voices are hard to tell apart:

"Not yet. The two of them are up there. Keep quiet, and I'll send the boy down. When you've finished him, come up."

"As you say, monsieur. It is your job."

I turned, scarce able to believe my luck, and, not daring to run, walked up-stairs again. Prick my ears as I might, I heard no movement after me. Actually, I had fooled Peyrot. I had gone down to meet my death, and a tune had saved me.

When I reached the uppermost landing, I rushed along the passage and into the room, flinging the door shut, locking and bolting it.

They had not begun to fight, but had busied themselves clearing the space of all obstacles. The table was pushed against the wall in the corner by the door; the chairs were heaped one on another at the end of the room. Both shutters were wide open. M. Etienne, bareheaded, in his shirt, stood at guard. Lucas was kneeling on the floor, picking up with scrupulous care some bits of a broken plate. He sprang to his feet at sight of me.

"What is it?" cried M. Etienne.

"Cutthroats. They'll be here in a minute."

Even as I spoke, I heard tramping on the stairs below. My slam of the door had warned them that something was wrong.

"Was that your delay?" M. Etienne shouted, springing at his foe.

"I play to win!" Lucas answered, smiling.

The blades met; the men circled about and about. Lucas, though he preferred to murder, knew how to duel.

We were doomed. With monsieur's sword for only weapon, we could never hope to pass the gang. In another minute they would be here to batter the door down and end us. Our consolation lay in killing Lucas first. Yet as I watched, I feared that M. Etienne, in the brief moments that remained to him, could not conquer him, so shrewd and strong was Lucas's fence. Must the scoundrel win? I started forward to play Pontou's trick. Lucas sought to murder us. Why not we him?

One flash from my lord's eyes, and I retreated in despair. For I knew that did I touch Lucas, M. Etienne would let fall his sword, let Lucas kill him. And the bravos were on the last flight.

Was there no escape? There were three doors in the room. One led to the passage, one to the closet, the third—I dashed through to find myself in a large empty chamber, a door wide open giving on the passage. Through it I could see the dusky figures of four men running up the stairs.

I was across the room like an arrow, and got the door shut and bolted before they could reach the landing. The next moment some one flung against it. It stood firm. Delaying only a moment to shake it, three of the four I could hear run to the farther door, whence issued the noise of the swords.

I, inside the wall, ran back too. The combat still raged. Neither, that I could see, had gained the least advantage. Outside, the murderers dashed themselves upon the door.

I dragged at the heavy table, and, with a strength that amazed myself, pushed and pulled it before the door. It would make the panels a little firmer.

Was there no escape? None? I ran once more into the second chamber. Its shutters were closed; I threw them open. There was no other door to the room, no hiding-place. There was a chimney, but spanned a foot above the fireplace by two iron bars. The thinnest sweep that ever wielded broom could not have squeezed between them.

In despair, I ran to the window again. Top of the house as it was, I thought I would sooner leap than be stabbed to death. I stuck my head out. It was the same window where I had stood when Grammont seized me. There, not ten feet away, eight at the most, but a little above me, was the casement of my garret in the Amour de Dieu. Would it be possible to jump and catch the sill? If I did, I could scarce pull myself in.

I looked below me. There swung the sign of the Amour de Dieu. And there beside it stood a homespun figure surely known to me. There was no mistaking that bald pate. I yelled at the top of my lungs:

"Maitre Jacques!"

He looked up, gaping at this voice out of the sky, but, despite his amazement, I saw that he knew me.

"Maitre Jacques! We're being murdered! We can't get out! Help us for the love of Christ! Bring a plank, a rope, to the window there!"

For an instant he stood confounded. Then he vanished into the inn.

I waited, on fire. Still from the next room sounded the clash of steel. White shirt and black doublet passed the door in turn, unflagging, ungaining.

Suddenly came a new noise from the passage, of trampling and rending, blows and oaths. My first thought was that they were fighting out there, that rescuers had come. Then, as I listened, I learned better. Despairing of kicking down the door, they were tearing out a piece of stair-rail for a battering-ram. It would not long stand against that.

I ran back to the window. No Jacques appeared. We were lost, lost!

Hark, from the next room a cry, a fall! Well, were it Lucas's victory, he might kill me as well as another. I walked into the back room. But it was Lucas who lay prone.

"Come, come!" I cried, clutching monsieur's wrist. But he would not till with Lucas's own misericorde he had given him coup de grace.

Crash! Crash! The upper panel shivered in twain. A great splinter six inches wide, hanging from the top, blocked the opening. A hand came through to wrench it away.

M. Etienne, across the room at a leap, drove his knife through the hand, nailing it to the wood. On the instant he recognized its owner.

"Good morning, Peyrot. We've recovered the packet."

Not waiting for further amenities, I seized my lord and dashed him into the front room, only a faint hope to lead me, but the oaths of the bravos a good spur. And, St. Quentin be thanked, there in the garret window were Jacques and his tapsters, pushing a ladder to us.

"Go, monsieur! There are four behind us. Go!"

"You first!"

But I, who had snatched up his sword as he stabbed Lucas, ran back to guard the door. He had the sense to see there was no good arguing. Crying, "Quick after me, Felix!" he crawled out on the ladder.

Peyrot was released. Another blow from the ram, and the door fell to finders. They leaped in over the table like a freshet over a dam. I darted to the window. M. Etienne was in the garret, helping hold the ladder for me. I flung myself upon it all too eagerly. Like a lath it snapped.



XXXI

"The very pattern of a king."

The next world appeared to be strangely like this. I found myself lying on a straw bed in a little low attic, my head resting comfortably on some one's shoulder, while some one else poured wine down my gullet. Presently I discovered that Maitre Jacques's was the ministering hand, M. Etienne's the shoulder. After all, this was not heaven, but still Paris.

I had no desire to speak so long as the flow of old Jacques's best Burgundy continued; but when he saw my eyes wide open, he stopped, and I said, my voice, to my surprise, very faint and quavery:

"What happened?"

"Dear, brave lad! You fainted!"

My lord's voice was as unsteady as mine.

"But the ladder?" I murmured.

"The ladder broke. But you had hold beyond the break. You hung on till we seized you. And then you swooned."

"What a baby!" I said, getting to my feet. "But the men, monsieur? Peyrot?"

"I think we've seen the last of those worthies. They took to their heels when you escaped them."

"But, monsieur, they've gone to inform! You'll be taken for killing Lucas."

"I doubt it. Themselves smell too strong of blood to dare bruit the matter. Natheless, if you can walk now, we'll make good time to the gate."

But for all his haste, he would not start till I had had some bread and soup down in the kitchen.

"We must take good care of you, boy Felix," he said. "For where the St. Quentins would be without you, I tremble to think."

I set out a new man. In three steps, it seemed to me, we had reached the city gate, to find the way blocked by a company of twenty or thirty horse, the St. Quentin uniform flaunting gay in the sun. The nearest trooper set up a shout at sight of us, when Vigo, coming out suddenly from behind a nag, took M. le Comte in his big embrace. He released him immediately, looking immensely startled at his own demonstration.

M. Etienne laughed out at him.

"Be more careful, I beg you, Vigo! You will make me imagine myself of some importance."

"I thought you swallowed up," Vigo growled. "You had been here—I couldn't get a trace of you."

"I was killing Lucas."

"Sacre! He's dead?"

"Dead."

"That's the best morning's work ever you did, M. Etienne."

"Have you horse for us, Vigo?"

"Of course. Some of the men will walk. I suppose we're leaving Paris to buy you out of the Bastille?"

"Not worth it, eh, Vigo?"

"Yes," said Vigo, gravely—"yes, M. Etienne. You are worth it."

Vigo's troop was but slow-moving, as some of the horses carried double, some were loaded with chattels. M. Etienne and I, on the duke's blood-chargers, soon left the cavalcade behind us. Before I knew it, we were halted at the outpost of the camp. My lord gave his name.

"To be sure!" cried the sentry. "We've orders about you. You dine with the king, M. de Mar."

"Mordieu! I do?"

"You do. Orders are to take you to him out of hand. Captain!"

The officer lounged out of the tavern door.

"Captain, M. de Mar."

"Oh, aye!" cried the captain, coming forward with brisk interest. "M. de Mar, you're the child of luck. You dine with the king."

"I am the child of bewilderment, captain."

"And you've not too much time to recover from it, M. le Comte. You are to go straight to the king."

"I may go to M. de St. Quentin's lodgings first?"

"No, monsieur; straight to the king."

"What! in my shirt?"

"I can't help it, monsieur," the captain laughed. "I suppose the king did not guess you were coming in your shirt. Anyway, his order was to fetch you direct. And direct you go. But never care. Our king's no stickler for toggery. He's known what it is himself to lack for a coat."

"I might wash my face, then."

"Certainly. No harm in that."

So M. Etienne went into the tournebride and washed his face. And that was all the toilet he made for audience with the greatest king in the world.

"You'll ride to Monsieur's," he commanded me, when the captain answered:

"No; he goes with you, monsieur, if he's the boy Choux, Troux, whatever it is."

"Broux—Felix Broux!" I cried, a-quiver.

"That's it. You go to the king, too. Another luck-child."

I thought so indeed. We followed the sentry through the town in a waking dream, content to let him do with us as he would. He did the talking, explained to the grandees in the king's hall our names and errand. One of them led us up the stairs and knocked at a closed door.

"Enter!"

It was Henry's own voice. I pinched monsieur's hand to tell him. Our guide opened the door a crack.

"M. de Mar, Sire, and his servant."

"Good, La Force. Let them enter."

M. La Force fairly pushed us over the sill, so abashed were we, and shut the door upon us.

The king was alone. But before this simple gentleman in the rusty black, M. Etienne caught his breath as he had not done before a court in full pomp. He had seen courts, but he had never seen the first soldier of Europe. He advanced three steps into the room, and forgot to kneel, forgot to lower his gaze in the presence, but merely stared wide-eyed at majesty, as majesty stared at him. Thus they stood surveying each other from top to toe in the frankest curiosity, till at length the king spoke:

"M. de Mar, you look less like a carpet-knight than I expected."

M. Etienne came to himself, to kneel at once.

"Sire, I blush for my looks. But your zealous soldiers would not let me from their clutches. I am just come from killing Paul de Lorraine."

"What! the spy Lucas?"

"Himself. And when I left the spot by way of the window in some haste, I was not expecting this honour, Sire."

"Nor do I think you deserve it, ventre-saint-gris!" the king cried. "Though you come hatless and coat-less to-day, you have been a long time on the road, M. de Mar."

"Aye, Sire."

"You might as well have stayed away as come at this hour. Marry, all's over! Go hang yourself, my breathless follower! We have fought all our great battles, and you were not there!"

Scarlet under the lash, M. Etienne, kneeling, bent his eyes on the ground. He was silent, but as the king spoke not, he felt it incumbent to stammer something:

"That is my life's misfortune, Sire."

"Misfortune, sirrah? Misfortune you call it? Let me hear you say fault."

"I dare not, Sire," M. Etienne murmured. "It was of course your Majesty's fault. We cannot serve heretics, we St. Quentins."

"Ventre-saint-gris! You think well of yourself, young Mar."

"I must, Sire, when your Majesty invites me to dinner."

The king burst into laughter, and his temper, which I believe was all a play, vanished to the winds.

"Pardieu! you're a glib fellow, Mar. But I didn't invite you to dinner for your own sake, little as you can imagine it. So you would have joined my flag four years ago, had I not been a stinking heretic?"

"Aye, Sire, I needs must have. Therefore am I everlastingly beholden to your Majesty for remaining so long a Huguenot."

"How now, cockerel?"

M. Etienne faltered a moment. He was not burdened by shyness, but before the king's sharp glance he underwent a cold terror lest he had been too free with his tongue. However, there was naught to do but go on.

"Sire, had I fought under your banner like a man, at Dieppe and Arques and Ivry, M. de Mayenne had never dreamed of marrying his ward to me. I had never known her."

"The loveliest demoiselle I ever saw!" the king cried. "I shall marry her to one of my staunchest supporters."



The smile was washed from M. Etienne's lips. He turned as white as linen. In one moment his youth seemed to go from him. The king, unnoting, picked a parchment off the table.

"To one of my bravest captains. Here's his commission, my lad."

M. Etienne stared up from the writing into the king's laughing face.

"I, Sire? I?"

"You, Mar, you. You are my staunch supporter, perhaps?"

"Your horse-boy, an you ask it, Sire!"

He pressed his lips to the king's hand, great, helpless tears dripping down upon it.

"If I ever desert you, I am a dog, Sire! But the fighting is not all done. I will capture you a flag yet."

"Perhaps. I much fear me there's life in Mayenne still."

M. Etienne, not venturing to rise, yet lifted beseeching eyes to the king's.

"What! you want to get away from me, ventre-saint-gris!"

My lord, who wanted precisely that, had no choice but to protest that nothing was farther from his thoughts.

"Stuff!" the king exclaimed. "You're in a sweat to be gone, you unmannerly churl! You, a raw, untried boy, are invited to dine with the king, and your one itch is to escape the tedium!"

"Sire—"

"Peace! You are guilty, sirrah. Take your punishment!"

He darted across the room, and throwing open an inner door, called gently, "Mademoiselle!"

"Yes, Sire," she answered, coming to the threshold.

The peasant lass was gone forever. The great lady, regal in satins, stood before us. She bent on the king a little, eager, questioning glance; then she caught sight of her lover. Faith, had the sun gone out, the room would have been brilliant with the light of her face.

M. Etienne sprang up and toward her. And she, pushing by the king as if he had been the door-post, went to him. They stood before each other, neither touching nor speaking, but only looking one at the other like two blind folk by a heavenly miracle restored to sight.

"How now, children? Am I not a model monarch? Do you swear by me forever? Do you vouch me the very pattern of a king?"

Answer he got none. They heard nothing, knew nothing, but each other. The slighted king chuckled and, beckoning me, withdrew to his cabinet.

So here an end. For if Henry of France leave them, you and I may not stay.

THE END