And the giant went slowly off, regretting in his heart what might have been.

In the meantime we found ourselves on a landing before an open door, disclosing a room brightly lit. There was a glimpse too of a table laid for supper, and near the table stood a tall woman, with black hair that hung to her waist, with bare rounded arms and painted cheeks, and a face that was beautiful still, though she had come to be what she was.

She was holding a cup of red wine in her hand, but stopped in the act of lifting it to her lips as she caught sight of us, and setting down the wine untasted advanced, saying:

"Enter, I pray you. La Marmotte bids you welcome."

"I thank you, madame," I replied bowing, with many misgivings in my heart, and inwardly cursing the folly that had made me yield and enter this house. But who is there who does not make mistakes?—and I for one have never set claim to be infallible. I was wrong, and I admit it—that is enough.

And so we went in, and for the first time there was light enough to see mademoiselle's face, and as I looked there came to me a sting of regret for the days that would never return. It was as if some devil had flashed before me a mirror in which the past was reflected; and, believe me, when one has lived and regretted it is not necessary to be in love for such a lightning flash of bitter memory to come to a man when he sees beside him the purity of innocence.

And so it was too with La Marmotte, who had turned to us with a light laugh, and lighter words to her lips; but laugh and words died away as she met the girl's look, and—I could read her like an open page—awakened memory took the woman back to the time when she herself was as the girl before her. And so, because there were yet undefiled wells of good in her soul, there came upon her an unwonted timidity, and it was with a respectful hesitation that she pressed upon us seats and refreshment. But even as she did so her eyes met mine with a half-imploring, half-defiant glance. She felt that I knew, though I thanked her for her courtesy as if she were a princess of the land.

Mademoiselle sank weariedly into a chair; whilst La Marmotte, with all the silent notes in her heart touched in some undefinable way, hovered over her, fearing to approach her, and yet feeling as if she must.

For me, I remained standing, softly rubbing my wounded arm, over which I had drawn my cloak, and looking around me here, there, and everywhere, for I knew we were in a trap, and trapped by my own folly. As I looked I saw something white showing beneath the cushions of a settle, and taking the cup of wine that La Marmotte handed to me I moved thereto, and, sitting down, looked more closely. It was a white mask. Softly drawing it forth, and, unobserved, slipping it into the pocket of my cloak, I saw in doing so that it was stained with fresh blood, and then I knew we were in the house of death.

At this moment Torquato Trotto appeared at the door with suave apologies, and stepping forward, rubbing his hands together, he said: "I regret to have appeared so discourteous; I trust that monsieur and madame will remain here for to-night."

"I am afraid, Signer Torquato Trotto, that is impossible."

"Per Bacco! You know me!" exclaimed the Italian in slight surprise.

"The name of Torquato Trotto is known in France," I said, and the brow of the man darkened.

"Perhaps I too can return the compliment, monsieur. You are——"

"Bertrand Broussel, bourgeois, of the Rue des Lavandieres, Paris," I interrupted, and I caught a strange expression of disappointment in mademoiselle's eyes. "Hum!" I thought, "does the furrier's niece take me for a prince of the blood in disguise?"

La Marmotte, however, cut in at this juncture, for she saw the storm in the air, and I again said that we would go on at once, if Messire Trotto would of his kindness provide us with a guide; if not, we would go without one.

And Trotto answered blandly:

"Impossible! My lieutenant is away with my men, and I have no one here who knows the way. I am totally ignorant myself, or I would willingly help you. Besides, to go now would be madness. The road is infested by robbers—faith of a gentleman!"

"That is indeed true! I have just escaped them—thanks to the bravery of this gentleman here," exclaimed mademoiselle.

"Madame, you are lucky to have escaped; but you must tell us of your adventures as we sup," and he moved towards the table.

In the meantime Pierrebon, looking well to the right and left, led the horses towards the stables. Every shadow in the winding walk, every recess in the over-grown privet, hid a secret enemy to him. He avoided passing near the ruined summer-house for fear of the ambush that might be within, and then, finding the hedges close in upon the road, boldly took his beasts along the neglected parterres until at last he reached the stables. Here, near the open door he saw Malsain, tall and thin, but muscular and strong as whipcord, sitting down by the light of a guttering candle to a meagre repast of bread and cheese, washed down with water—for Malsain never touched wine.

"An evil-looking man," Pierrebon thought, as he glanced at Malsain sitting on a stool; and evil-looking indeed he was, with his hawk's face, thin cruel slit of a mouth, and one wicked eye that glowed with the same sombre fire as the fuse of his arquebus, which leaned against the wall behind him. And then from the man himself Pierrebon glanced at the hermit's fare before him. "St. Siege!" he groaned, "bread and cheese and cold water—with a dagger-thrust to follow for digestion, perhaps."

But now Malsain heard him, his hand went out silently to the arquebus, and he turned a yellow, threatening face towards the visitor.

"Hola!" exclaimed Pierrebon. "It is I. I have brought monsieur's horses for a feed and a rest."

"Ho! it is you." And Malsain, putting down his arquebus, returned to his cheese again as he added: "There are two stalls vacant there, and you will find oats in that barrel." He had not, of course, it will be understood, received Trotto's message as yet.

Pierrebon entered without further ceremony. There were already three horses in the stables; but, as Malsain had said, there were still two stalls vacant, and here he put the nags. Whilst attending to them, however, he kept glancing uneasily at the supper before Malsain, which was diminishing at a frightful rate, for the thin man ate like a cormorant. At last, unable to endure this more, he stopped rubbing down the brown hackney, and, stepping up to the table, took a seat on a stool opposite Malsain. Then, drawing his dagger, he helped himself without further ceremony to some cheese and bread, and glanced somewhat ruefully into the jug of water.

"Diable!" grumbled Malsain, "you are eating my supper."

"Well," and Pierrebon looked at him, "am I not your guest, as my master is your master's?"

Malsain said nothing, but scowled across the table at Pierrebon; and the latter, who was as alert as a weasel when it came to the push, went on: "But, compere, they feed you thinly here—and no wine!"

"I eat to my taste, and drink to my taste," growled Malsain; but Pierrebon, not heeding his ill temper, continued:

"Now, with my master there is always a bottle of Rochecorbon, and a cut from a pasty, not to mention a crown-piece here and a crown-piece there; and I wager that in the house yonder there is something more than acid cheese and dry bread for hunger, or spring water for thirst."

"Be silent, fool! Take what you can get, or leave it," said Malsain sullenly, his hand slipping down to his side; but Pierrebon laughed cheerily as he cut another slice of cheese, his two blue Burgundian eyes steadily fixed on Malsain's sallow face, and as they looked at each other there came a heavy footfall outside, and Piero called out in his deep voice:

"Malsain! Here! A word with you!"

Malsain rose slowly, and went outside, and Pierrebon, following him with his glance, saw Piero's huge figure in the moonlight, and a chill came upon him.

"By St. Hugo! 'tis the ogre himself! And they consult together!" he murmured, wishing himself a hundred miles away, and he watched the twain moving off into the shadow, straining his ears to catch a word if possible, but at first he could hear nothing. Thus a minute or so passed, whilst the evil pair outside stood in the shadow of a copper beech whispering together. If Pierrebon could but hear a word to guide him! He dared not attempt to approach them, but was forced to stay where he was. At last he caught something. Malsain laughed out like a hyena: "I would slit their throats for fifty, and throw the Vidame into that——" But Piero roughly bade him lower his voice, and the whispering continued.

Pierrebon heard no more. That there was danger in the air he knew. He had not forgotten my warning pressure on his arm as we entered the gates of Le Jaquemart, and now his worst fears were confirmed. For a moment his heart sank, but for a moment only, for as he looked around him his eyes fell on the arquebus, where it leaned against the wall. The fuse was still alight. There was no time to hesitate. Malsain was already returning; and if it were to be war Pierrebon thought he might as well begin, and strike the first blow. Quick as thought he arose, and taking up the arquebus moved off near the horses, and he was blowing on the match to hearten the fire when Malsain stepped in.

"Blood of a Jew! what are you doing with the arquebus, fool? Put it down this instant, or I slit your throat." And Malsain, his poniard in his hand, stood near the table, glaring savagely at Pierrebon.

"Pardon!" said Pierrebon. "I was but looking at it. 'Tis a noble weapon. And one well suited to a soldier's hand."

"It could kill too, I wager," said Pierrebon, laughing, as he raised the weapon, and pointed it at Malsain, who went back the step he had taken, saying, with an oath,

"It is loaded, fool! Put it down at once."

"Hein! it is loaded. It would kill, then, if I fired—eh?" And then, with a sudden change of voice and manner: "Ah, bandit! move a step, utter the slightest cry, and you are a dead man! Throw down your poniard!"

Malsain looked at the barrel of the arquebus. It was steady as a rock, and behind the little black muzzle the match burned bravely; whilst behind the match was a red face with two blue eyes that looked as if they meant what their owner said. Malsain let his dagger drop with a clash.

Pierrebon then advanced a couple of paces nearer, still holding the arquebus at Malsain's breast.

"Now, my friend! Take that bridle from the peg at your hand and fasten your ankles together. What!—you hesitate?"

Malsain hissed something between his teeth, and snatched the bridle from the peg.

"Go on! A running knot—lap it well round, and finish off! There! That is right! You are no novice, I see, mon vieux!"

Malsain made no answer, but stood bolt upright before Pierrebon, his face grey, his one eye bloodshot, his lips livid. It is true that he had tied himself as loosely as possible, but still he was terribly crippled; and from his soul he regretted that he had not made a rush at Pierrebon, and chanced his fortune; but now this was hopeless.

Worse, however, was to come, and it came at once.

"Now," said Pierrebon, "fasten your wrist to your ankle—your left wrist."

"It is impossible," said Malsain thickly.

"Then I shall blow your brains out when I have counted three. One!"

Malsain looked about him with his red eye, and shuffled uneasily.

"Two!"

Malsain swore again, a nameless oath.

"Th——"

Malsain stooped down with the rapidity of lightning, and began fumbling with the yard or so of trailing rein.

He tried to deceive Pierrebon; but the candle gave enough light to see, and Pierrebon was sharp. There was no help for it, and at last it was done, badly done, but enough to utterly cripple Malsain. The final order now came:

"Now lie down on your face."

This was difficult; but there are circumstances under which men do all but impossible things, and Malsain performed the feat.

After this the worthy Pierrebon took a more active part in the binding of Malsain. Still holding the arquebus in one hand he unhitched another bridle from its peg. Then, placing the arquebus at his feet, he drew his dagger and approached Malsain, upon whom he sat, and with a gentle prick or so reminded him it was unsafe to struggle or cry. He fastened up his free arm, and finished off the work in an artistic manner. When it was over Malsain was like a trussed fowl. Pierrebon stepped back, and surveyed his work with the satisfaction of one who knows that he has done well.

"Ah, I had forgotten!" he exclaimed. Then he pulled from his pocket a 'kerchief. A touch at Malsain's throat with his poniard was hint enough. Malsain opened his mouth, and the handkerchief, rolled into a ball, was thrust inside.

Pierrebon fumbled once more in his pocket, and produced some stout twine. He gave a little grunt of satisfaction as he lashed it around Malsain's jaws, and felt at last that victory was his.

"It is complete—eh, mon vieux?"

And so saying he dragged Malsain with no tender hand across the pavement of the stable. There was a black, vicious-looking cob in one of the stalls. Pierrebon flung his victim on the straw near the beast. "I should lie still," he said in warning; "the horse might kick."

Then he saddled up again, calmly selecting a third horse from the stable, from a stall where he saw some ladies' saddlery.

"This will do for mademoiselle," he muttered as he glanced around him with satisfaction; "all is ready here. And now for the ogre." Taking up the arquebus he looked at the priming, and made his way cautiously to the house.



CHAPTER IX

THE WHITE MASK

It is necessary to hark back a little now to the moment when Torquato Trotto, having given his instructions to Piero, went into the house. The stairway was empty, for both I and my charge were with La Marmotte, and the Italian ran upstairs with a footfall as light as that of a cat. On reaching the landing he stopped for a second, glanced around him, with the same feline caution that marked all his movements, and then, creeping forward on tiptoe, went along a corridor leading to a wing of the house.

At the extreme end of this gallery was a door, at which Trotto knocked softly. From within a strident voice said: "Come in!" Then followed an exclamation of pain, and a free oath.

Trotto smiled, shrugged his shoulders, as only an Italian can, pushed open the door, and entered the chamber. The spear-shaped flames of two tall candles but half lit the room, making a circle of wavering light. Beyond all was in uncertain gloom, through which one could dimly see the old tapestry and massive furniture of bygone years.

Where the light was brightest was an easy-chair, and there sat Simon of Orrain, with his bandaged right arm resting on a cushion, placed on a low table drawn close to him. As Trotto entered he looked up with a snarl.

"What is it? Did I not say I was to be left alone? Curse this arm!"

"Ah, excellency," and Trotto glanced at the throbbing arm, "you should have waited for Aramon's return, or taken us with you." But Simon broke in: "I tell you, Trotto, the plan was perfect, and if it had not been for the accident of that villain's coming our bird would have been here by this. Even when he came, if La Crotte had but stood his ground—but there! Give me some of that wine. My blood is red hot, and my throat on fire with the pain of this wound!"

Torquato Trotto filled a cup from a flagon that lay on the table near the Vidame. Simon took it from him with his left hand, drained it, and flung it from him, so that it struck the wainscoting of the wall, and fell with a crash on the floor.

"La Crotte shall hang for this," he went on savagely. "The cur! the coward!"

"You will make your wound worse, excellency. Be calm! There is time for things to mend."

"Time! When the whole affair has been bungled—and by you."

"By me, excellency?"

"Yes; if you had given me Piero and Malsain instead of those serving-wenches Billot and La Crotte."

Torquato lifted a deprecating hand. "They did well before, excellency; and Billot could not have done better, for he is dead, you say. And as for La Crotte——"

"He shall hang—hang to the first tree."

"As your excellency pleases. He has, however, to be caught first. But in the meantime I have intruded on you because I think we can yet save the game."

"Ugh!"

"Your excellency, I have a plan; and I think we win the odd trick."

"Well, what is your brilliant idea?"

Trotto coughed. "But the risk, excellency, is greatly increased now that this man is mixed up in the affair."

Simon straightened himself in his chair and looked at the captain.

"I suppose you want more money. Well, what is your plan?"

"With your excellency's permission I will keep that to myself, for a plan is a plan when one head holds it. But if I were to place your prize in your hands by tomorrow morning?"

"Impossible!"

"But I say it is possible."

"Then five hundred crowns the day you reach Paris."

Trotto shook his head. "It could be done for a thousand, excellency—for certain."

Simon's eyes seemed to sink back deeper into their hollow sockets, and his face became paler, if possible.

"A thousand devils! Impossible! It's a fortune!"

"Your excellency is playing for a fortune; and this time we win—faith of a gentleman! Make it a thousand crowns, and your bonny bird is yours with the dawn, and I will myself perform the wedding ceremony if you like."

"You?"

"Yes, excellency," and Trotto put his hand to the crown of his head. "My hair has grown, but, you will remember, I am none the less a priest for all that."

There was another silence. Simon knitted his brow, as if in thought. Then he cursed again at his wounded arm, and spoke:

"It is an exorbitant sum; but I agree on one condition."

"And that is?"

"If you fail you get nothing; you have sucked enough from me already."

"As your excellency pleases." And then, bending for an instant over the wounded arm: "He must have been a rare swordsman to have beaten you."

Simon writhed in his chair. "Beaten me! I had the dog at my mercy, but was not quick enough in the last parry."

"Ah, excellency, 'tis always that little delay that causes accidents like this." And Trotto made a gesture towards the wounded arm; but Simon snarled at him:

"Don't touch it, fool! Ugh! how it stings! There is one consolation, however—that he must be squirming himself with pain now."

"Eh! Then you touched him?"

"Twice, Trotto, twice!"

"Ah! that accounts for his wearing his cloak so tightly over his left shoulder."

Simon started: "Wearing his cloak so tightly! Have you seen him?"

Torquato nodded, and the Vidame went on impatiently: "Are you dreaming, or am I? You have not been out of the house."

"But, excellency, benighted travellers might seek the house for rest and a guide to the ford of the Mable." At these words a red flush came over Simon's face, and he half rose from his chair.

"Here, here!" he exclaimed, his voice almost cracking with excitement—"here!—in Le Jaquemart! My sword, Trotto—quick!" And he shivered with pain as he attempted to stand; but Torquato made him sit back, and when he had succeeded told him what is already known.

"And so," he concluded, "Malsain has by this time disposed of the lackey, and La Marmotte is keeping the other birds amused until my return. When it is all settled," and Trotto laughed, "your excellency may make ready for the wedding, and La Marmotte will make a rare bridesmaid." With these words he bowed, and went to the door, but stopped at Simon's voice.

"Trotto!"

"Excellency!"

"Be sure, and fail not!"

"With a wounded man? Be happy, excellency! 'Twill be all over by midnight. I will have it done before Aramon returns, to save sharing the crowns. Good-night."

"Trotto!"

The captain put his head back through the door, and Simon said:

"Call me when 'tis over. I would see the carrion ere we put it away."

Trotto nodded, and closing the door left Simon of Orrain, full of stinging pains in his body and burning evil thoughts in his soul, and returning to us led the way to the supper-table. There, whilst we sat, mademoiselle told them of her peril, and how she was rescued, and as she concluded Trotto set down the cup of wine he was tasting, and turning to me, said:

"I congratulate you, monsieur. I trust, however, that your wounds do not hurt you?"

"Wounds!" exclaimed mademoiselle. "You are hurt, and you have said never a word! Why did you not tell me? You must have them seen to at once." And she rose from her seat. La Marmotte following her example, and Trotto added his voice to hers, and was thanked with a look.

"It is nothing. There is some mistake. I have but a scratch that will keep till the morning."

"But I insist," said mademoiselle. And Trotto put in with his soft voice: "Mademoiselle, I am something of a leech, and will see to monsieur's hurt at once." And then with a look at La Marmotte: "Perhaps mademoiselle would like to repose until my men return. I expect them every moment, and we could then arrange for your safe passage."

And just at this moment, through the open window that looked out upon the balcony, there came a scrambling noise, and the ivy outside shook and rustled, as though a heavy body were forcing its way through it. Trotto gave a quick glance over his shoulder, stepped out of the window, on to the balcony, and looked around him, whilst I took the opportunity to urge on mademoiselle to go and rest. I did so with the object of having Trotto alone for a little with me, and to test the situation. As I spoke La Marmotte looked at me with warning in her eyes, and her lips, which had paled under their paint, moved as if she were about to form some words, but could not speak. Ere matters could proceed further, however, Trotto came in, with a laugh. "There is nothing there," he said. "It must have been a cat; the wild cats here grow to enormous size." And then taking up a candlestick he continued: "I will myself see mademoiselle to her apartment." But La Marmotte spoke now.

"Mademoiselle comes to my room. There is none other ready."

The captain bowed and smiled. "I will light you there then," he said, and led the way to the door. As they went out La Marmotte, who was last, dropped her handkerchief, and stooping to recover it made a warning gesture to me; but I stared vacantly to my front.

As soon, however, as the door closed behind them, and I heard their footsteps along the gallery, I pulled out the white mask, and lifting the cover of a dish placed the mask within the dish and put back the cover. Then drawing my sword I laid it between my knees, and, resuming my seat, poured out some wine, and awaited Messire Torquato Trotto's return. It was a fortunate thing that the wild cats of Fontevrault were so large and heavy; and it was equally fortunate that Messire Trotto, ex-priest, and now bandit or freelance, was aware of the fact, else, perhaps, he might have examined the ledge that projected below the parapet, and seen there an animal which, though large and heavy, was of a different kind to the grey, striped prowlers of the forest. He would, in fact, have seen Pierrebon, who after vainly trying to get at Piero unobserved had determined to warn me, and succeeded with much difficulty in making his way thus far.

Through the screen of the ivy Pierrebon watched us in the room, and when I was alone he was about to step in at once, when he saw my actions, and guessed that I too was on the alert.

"Good!" he thought, "he knows too. I had better wait here till I am wanted. Ah! that is just the place!" Rising slowly, he climbed over the parapet, and, with his arquebus ready, leaned up against the wall, so that by moving his head slightly forward he could see into the room.

The night was warm and clear. A light breeze stirred the ivy, and shook the leaves of the old lime, by whose aid Pierrebon had made his ascent. Within I sat at the table, my cloak unclasped, now sipping my wine, now gently touching with my finger the dark patch on my sleeve near my shoulder. Without, Pierrebon stood on guard in the black shadow. Down below, Piero began to sing, as only men of his country can, and the deep bass voice, with all its liquid Italian words, pealed melodiously into the night.

I listened, murmuring to myself: "Strange! Here is one who can sing of his Alban hills and his Margarita one moment and cut a throat the next. But here they come!"

For Trotto's voice had stopped the singer, and then I heard them coming upstairs. The heavy step of Piero halted, however, in the passage, and Trotto entered alone, rubbing his hands together as usual, his white teeth shining between their setting of red lip and short black moustache and beard. Of a truth Messire Torquato was a handsome man if an evil one. He came in with a set smile on his face. "The ladies are safely at rest, and——"

"And we can while away the time with this wine, some more supper, and a little talk."

"But your wounds, monsieur! They must be attended to. I have told Piero to bring up some salve and bandages."

"Bah!" I laughed, "let them keep. My wound, not wounds, is but a scratch, and hurts far less than the one that lost you that forefinger." And I pointed to his left hand, which wanted a forefinger.

The captain's eyes flashed, and he dropped his hand to his side, though he said, calmly enough:

"I got that at Volterra. I was there with the Caraffa."

"And I with Enghien. You see, we were comrades-in-arms without knowing it. 'Tis a pity we never met. We must fight our battles over again. Come, let us drink to the old days!"

"With all my heart," was the reply. "A moment; and I will tell Piero to wait." And he stepped to the door.

"Tell him to go to the devil," I said, and Trotto laughed, and after a word or so exchanged with Piero he closed the door and came back to his seat. "I have sent Piero off," he said, and pouring out a bumper for each of us he raised his cup, saying: "Pledge me this toast, monsieur. Long life to the bride and bridegroom!"

"Long life to the happy pair!" I clinked my cup with his, and drank, my mind working like a clock to find out what was meant, my eyes never moving from Trotto's face.

"Now," I said, "it is my turn. The wine, messire captain. And here is my toast: Confusion to the enemies of Bertrand Broussel!"

There was, perhaps, some want of heartiness in the captain's voice as he echoed the words but none in his manner of drinking, though he too began to look, as if seeking for a hidden meaning in my words, and his hand left his cup and dropped quietly to his side; but still I kept my eyes on his, as I said:

"That wine of yours is a rare cordial, captain; it makes me ravenous. Do you remember how we starved before Volterra?" And I filled my cup again.

"Yes—well."

"We were not birds of paradise exactly, and yet we had to live on air sometimes—and a thin enough diet it was. You will never guess what I had for supper once—try!"

"I am bad at guessing, monsieur."

"A mask."

"A mask!"

"Yes. It was not bad with a little olive oil and vinegar; but the very thought makes me hungry. What have you in that dish beside you?"

"Something better than a crape mask, I assure you." And Trotto put aside the cover, only to let it fall with a little crash as he stared at the white thing, and glanced up to meet my eyes, and hear my gibe.

"A little surprise I prepared for you—a delicate attention."

Trotto knew he was discovered. He began to breathe quickly, and his hand once more went down.

"Divide it, captain," I mocked; "there is just enough for two—ah!" And I caught his wrist as he made a sudden stab at me, and pulled him half over the table, springing backwards to my feet as I did so. In his confusion he pushed the table over, and fell sideways on the floor, dragging with him the tablecloth and the supper.

He was at my mercy. It needed but a thrust, and his life was ended; but I gave him his chance.

"Get up, and take your sword!"

Trotto rose, his face white, his lips bleeding, and snatching his sword from its sheath thrust at me, with a strange smile on his face. He had lied when he said Piero was gone. All unknown to me Piero had remained, and opening the door stood at my back, his knife in his hand. I saw not the death behind me, and stiff as I was from my wound my attention was fully taken up by Trotto, who was no mean artist, and fought like a cat at bay. But Pierrebon saw, and raised his arquebus. The bravo behind me was about to strike, when there was a flash, a loud report, and he rolled over a huge, limp, and lifeless mass. At the shot Trotto had sprung back with a gasp to the corner of the room, and crouched there like a rat, staring through the smoke at us, for Pierrebon had run to my side.

"Keep the door, Pierrebon," I said, and I stepped forward; but the Italian was done.

"I yield," he said; "I have lost." And he lowered his sword; but between us there could be no parley.

"Put up your sword—put it up, or I run you through as you are!"

And because there was no help for it, save to fight, Trotto did so, but his hand shook, and his courage was gone. He made a little show of resistance; but it was nothing, and at the third or fourth pass he thrust too high. He was late in the recovery, and I ran him through the side.

"Jesus!" he screamed, "I am dead!"

Then he fell forward on his face, his fingers working convulsively.

"He is dead too!" said Pierrebon as he stooped over the body.

"Not yet," I said, and then for the first time I saw the huge figure of Piero lying stark, the knife still in his clutch, and I saw too what I owed Pierrebon, and wrung the honest fellow's hand.

"Come!" I said. "Now for mademoiselle, and we shall be off. There are others who will attend to these."

"A moment, monsieur! The arquebus is not loaded, and this, perhaps, will be more useful." So saying Pierrebon stooped and picked up Trotto's sword. As he did so he noticed the keys at the Italian's girdle.

"And this too," he added, as with a touch of the sharp sword he cut the light leather strap, and taking the keys followed me out into the gallery.



CHAPTER X

THE BITER BITTEN

When Torquato Trotto lifted the candle to guide mademoiselle and La Marmotte from the supper-room he was confident in the success of his plan, and already heard the jingle of Simon's crown-pieces in his ears. Perhaps it was the certainty that the birds were caged that made him a trifle careless, and so there was something in his air and in the glance he cast back upon his companions, whilst leading them through the gallery, that filled mademoiselle with a sudden fear, and, but for her pride, she would have run back to my side. So she nerved herself, and went on to La Marmotte's room, though it was with a quaking heart. At the door Torquato stopped, expressed a civil hope that mademoiselle would be comfortable, and, bowing politely to her as she passed in, handed the candle to La Marmotte, and was about to return when he felt his arm seized. It was La Marmotte, and she looked into his face with eager, searching eyes as she asked: "What does this mean?—more treachery?"

There was a bitter note in her voice, and the Italian looked at her steadily. "She grows old," his thoughts ran on, "old, and exacting; I must end this." Then, because there was other business on hand, he restrained himself, and answered calmly:

"I mean no harm to her, I assure you."

With this he tried to disengage himself; but La Marmotte was not satisfied. She felt he was lying. Then, too, all the vague feelings of the past that had somehow been aroused in her that night were awake and groping in her poor heart, and, perhaps, with these emotions there was jealousy—who knows?

Time had been in the gay days in Paris when La Marmotte could have counted her lovers by the score. At last fate had thrown her across the path of the Italian, and she, although knowing him evil, loved him none the less, and followed his uncertain fortune like a faithful dog; but years were going, and beauty was fading, and her heart was fearful lest she should be cast adrift.

"Trotto," she said, and her voice was husky, "I—I do not like this. Let them go."

Torquato Trotto cursed under his breath; but time was short, and he could not afford to waste it. He bent down and kissed the woman's hand.

"Carissima! have no fear. And now let me go and see to our guest's wounds." With this he freed himself, and went back.

La Marmotte stood for a pace watching the dim figure as it slipped through the gloom of the corridor, the candle in her hand casting its light on her red lips, her white neck and arms, and on the silken black hair that hung to her waist. Then with a half-stifled sigh she followed mademoiselle, and stepped into the room. It was empty. La Marmotte's heart almost stood still, and the candlestick she held all but fell from her trembling hand, as the poor wretch thought of the wrath that would overtake her if her charge escaped. But it was impossible! It could not be! And La Marmotte made another step forward, and as she looked she saw a white-robed figure kneeling at a prie-dieu, half concealed by the valence of the bed.

"It is her," murmured La Marmotte with a sudden relief; and then she almost spoke the words aloud, "she prays." And after a moment of hesitation, she crept up softly, step by step, and stood behind mademoiselle, a tumult of strange thoughts in her soul. La Marmotte quivered from head to foot. Near her was a small table. With a shaking hand she placed the light thereon, and made yet another step forward.

Prayer! Years had passed since she had prayed. It was years since she had learned to laugh at the soul's communion with its God; to laugh, and yet to know, in her heart of hearts, that she lied to herself. After all, life had gone gaily with her. She was as a sleep-walker in some garden of dreamland until this girl had come, and with her coming startled her into wakefulness. And, standing there, La Marmotte was for the moment innocent and pure in heart. "I will pray too," she thought. What she was going to say, what she was going to ask from her Creator, never struck her. All that she felt in her impulsive and emotional heart was an overpowering desire to pray. She half sank on her knees, and then sprang up, flushed and trembling, for at the moment mademoiselle arose, and, turning, saw her.

"Mademoiselle was praying?" stammered the woman.

"Yes, madame. I was thanking God for our escape, and for the friends He has given us here."

La Marmotte thought of Simon lurking in his chamber. She thought of Torquato Trotto, and she shivered at the thought. Mademoiselle came up to her, and placing a hand on her shoulder, said: "I will never forget the kindness I have had here."

It was too much for La Marmotte. She shrank from the gentle touch.

"Don't," she said; "I am not worthy."

But mademoiselle simply leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and the caress broke the woman down.

Falling on her knees she sobbed out: "Forgive! forgive! Mademoiselle, there is danger here! They are going to kill here! Go back to monsieur, and leave this place whilst there is time. Better trust to the mercy of the forest wolves than the mercy of Le Jaquemart."

"Is this true?"

"True as I kneel before you." And, springing to her feet, La Marmotte went on: "But there is no time to waste; come—come at once. A—h!" For the loud report of the arquebus, and Pierrebon's angry shout, rang out; then followed the rasping of swords, and the two stood speechless, staring at each other.

But mademoiselle was brave, and she came to herself.

"Oh! they are killing him." And she flew to the door, but La Marmotte clung to her. "Not that way! There is dreadful work there! Here!—come here with me!"

So saying she strove to drag mademoiselle back; but the latter, with a strength surprising in one so slight, freed herself, and slipping past La Marmotte made for the corridor. Down this she ran, almost brushing against a figure crouching behind the arras—a figure skulking there like the evil thing it was. It was Simon, who had heard the shot too, and overcome by his fierce impatience had come forth from his chamber, poniard in hand. As the girl passed he made a half movement towards her, like the spider about to pounce upon his prey. But La Marmotte was following, and he drew back, and watched the two figures speeding down the gallery, and then they halted suddenly, for the clashing ceased, and there was the thud of a heavy body falling. Through the partly-open door of the supper-room a banner of light fell crosswise on the corridor, throwing into relief the figures of the two women standing side by side with blanched faces, and for the moment there was an awful stillness.

"Well thrust, Trotto!" shouted Simon from his lurking-place, too sure of the issue, and then he started back with a sickening chill.

He had heard my voice as I stepped out and called to mademoiselle. And she, who was but an arm's length away, sprang forward.

"Here! here! Oh! what has happened?"

"It has happened that we have come into the house of murder," I replied; and then, my eyes falling on La Marmotte, I said, as I pointed to the room within: "He needs all your care; go to him."

La Marmotte shrank back at my look and tone, and then cried out: "I am innocent—I swear it."

"Go to him!" I said; and turning to mademoiselle: "Come! we have not a moment to lose."

And so we went out, leaving La Marmotte staring after us, for she made no movement. And, standing there, a cold hand grasped her wrist, and a voice hissed in her ear:

"Fool! there is a dagger at your girdle. Could you not have driven it through his heart?"

But La Marmotte only looked at the Vidame foolishly, and from the far distance there came through the night the sound of a horn.

"It is Aramon returning," exclaimed Simon; "we have them yet." And leaving La Marmotte where she stood he followed on our footsteps, his dagger in his unwounded hand.

On he went, with uncertain, wavering footsteps, and fury in his heart. He meant to kill if he could. It was in Simon's mind to make a sudden, desperate attack. An unexpected stroke from his poniard might free him from me, and his prize might yet be his. As for the varlet—Simon gave Pierrebon not a thought. But as he went on his wounded arm began to sting and bleed afresh. A faintness came upon him, and, overcome by the pain and loss of blood, he sank down all dizzy behind the high privet, a cold sweat on his forehead. In impotent fury he struck his dagger to the hilt in the soft turf at his side, and, still holding the haft, leaned forward and peered through the hedge. Then as he crouched he heard quick voices, and then three mounted figures rode across the parterres to the gate. Again the sound of the horn rang out, and Simon heard Pierrebon's voice.

"The other wasps come back, monsieur! Hasten! Let us be off!"

"But not before I have struck a blow," answered Simon, as, heartened by the sound of the horn, he gathered himself together and made for the gate, only to see us pass through it ere he had gone ten paces.

He reached the gate somehow, and stared into the night. We were gone. We had turned to the right in the direction of the river, and were already hidden from view by the woods.

Twice Simon heard the beat of hoofs as the horses dashed over the hard ground, and after that all was still.

"If Aramon would but come!" he groaned; and then, through the moonlit haze on the left, where the moorland stretched long and brown, came the sound of hoarse voices, and a loud laugh, and upon this a line of about half-a-dozen horsemen appeared riding slowly towards the house.

"Aramon! Aramon! Here! To me!"

At his call they put spurs to their beasts, and were soon beside him—an evil-looking set of knaves, mounted on horses foam-flecked and weary with hard going. Simon gave them no time for speech, but shouted:

"After them! After them! Else they escape!"

"After whom, monseigneur?" asked he who appeared to be their leader as he went on: "We have chased the air all day; are we to ride after phantoms by night?"

"Fool! It is Mademoiselle de Paradis and her lover. He has wounded me, and killed Trotto and Piero and Malsain, and escaped with her ten minutes ago. They cannot have gone far, and the river must stop them. After them!" And, panting with excitement, he ceased.

From the height of his saddle Aramon looked down on Simon, and whistled low to himself.

"So monseigneur is wounded, which is bad for you, monseigneur; and Piero is dead, which is good; and Malsain is dead, which is bad, for he was my own man; and the captain Trotto is dead, which is good again—for me, monseigneur."

"Fool! Will you waste time? Every moment is precious."

"Softly, monseigneur! There is plenty of time for me. Trotto is dead, you say, and I sit here in my saddle captain of the wolves of Fontevrault; and," he continued with a chuckle, "with a new king comes a new policy, as you are aware, monseigneur."

"What do you mean?" asked Simon, with an uneasy note in his voice.

"I mean, monseigneur, that of late you have not played fair with us. I mean that a sword that can slay as the one you describe is not one to be meddled with by weary men; and I mean that I, Aramon, being captain of these brave fellows now, intend to be my own captain for the future. Is it not so, my wolves?"

There were gruff murmurs of assent, and Simon drew back a space. It was not, however, from fear—Simon of Orrain never suffered from the poltroon fever; he but drew back to strike hard, and to sell his life dearly. They ringed him in—his own men who had turned against him—and he stood with his back to the gate. He did not flinch, and meant to fight, hopeless as it was, for all around him were white, shining swords, that needed but a word from Aramon to be red with his blood. But the new captain did not want this.

"Bah!" he said, "throw down your dagger, monseigneur. We want not your life. For the present you will be the guest of Aramon—that is, until you have paid me, and these gentlemen here, two thousand gold Henris—fat gold Henris—for all our trouble. Come!—throw down the dagger! Put a good face on it!"



CHAPTER XI

THE ROAD TO POITIERS

We reined up on the edge of a shelving bank, and the Mable swirled before us. Beyond the alders on the opposite shore, but about a mile higher upstream, lay Richelieu. Late though it was there were many lights still burning, and now and then a fitful flare, that made the houses stand out redly for a moment, led me to think that the place was occupied by troops or marauders; and if so, the result would in either case be the same for the town, or for ourselves if we ventured thither. It must be remembered that the King's Writ was waste-paper here. All that was ill was loose in the land, and though Montpensier from the north and Montluc from the south struck with heavy hands, the Christaudins—or Huguenots, as they called them—held all the country from the chalks of Chatellerault to Saumur, and from Fontenaye to Thouars and La Mothe St. Heraye.

Craning forward from the saddle I looked in the direction of the town, muttering to myself: "It may be out of the frying-pan into the fire." And as I did so mademoiselle exclaimed:

"Monsieur, why do we stay? That is Richelieu; and they follow us. Cross, cross!"

I made no answer; but Pierrebon dismounted, and placed his ear to the ground.

"No one follows," he said after a little, rising to his feet; "they have had enough, these accursed bandits." And with this he mounted once more.

"But why stay? See! there is the house of the Bailiff of Muisson—that tall one where the lights are burning at the windows."

"The Bailiff keeps late hours, mademoiselle." And even as I spoke a bright flame suddenly flashed out, a ruddy light lit the walls, and the distant shouting of many voices came to our ears.

"See!" I went on, "they are cooking a late supper with the doors. They will make breakfast with the rafters."

"What is happening? Oh! what an awful night this is!"

"What is happening, mademoiselle, I cannot tell; but it seems we have only escaped a great danger to meet with another. Richelieu is full of armed men. Who they are we do not know. At any rate, for your sake if for nothing else, we will risk no more. We will cross, and make for Razines. There we will wait for daylight. Come!"

Leaning forward I took her horse by the bridle and we entered the stream.

"Courage!" said Pierrebon, who rode at her right; "courage, mademoiselle! It is not deep."

And she laughed, for she was not afraid, though the water bubbled and hissed around us, and once or twice the horses staggered and swayed, as though they would have fallen. Finally we made the passage, and reached the opposite shore. Once there I led them at a trot along the white, dusty track. We were in the angle formed by the Mable and the Veude, and here, where Poitou slopes towards the sea, the country still retains, with a roughness like unto that of Auvergne, all the freshness of La Marche. Far south was a dreary plain, but around us the land billowed into low hillocks, that stood over long stretches of stunted forest.

We rode in silence, except when now and again I spoke a word of warning in regard to the state of the road, or to regulate the pace. I began to wonder how long mademoiselle would hold out; and my doubts were soon set at rest. It was whilst crossing the almost dry bed of one of the small streams, spreading like veins over the country, that she suddenly reined up.

"I cannot go farther," she said faintly; and calling a halt I looked around me. A little distance from the track, which wound before us amongst the glistening stones, lay a dark grove of trees. I pointed at them.

"We will rest there, mademoiselle. 'Tis barely fifty paces; bear up till then!" And dismounting I walked by the side of her horse.

Short as the distance was I was in doubt if she would hold out, and as I glanced at her I saw even by the moonlight how white and drawn was her face, and then she began to sway in her seat. Calling to Pierrebon to take the reins of her horse I tried to hold her in the saddle, but, feeling her slipping, I put my unhurt arm around her and lifted her to the ground. For a little space she stood as one dazed, leaning against me with closed eyes, and then with an effort recovered herself and drew back.

"I am able to walk, monsieur—I—how far is it?"

"Only a step now." And, still supporting her, I led her onward until we reached the trees.

"We are here, mademoiselle." And taking her into the shade of a huge walnut-tree I flung my cloak on the grass, and made her sit thereon, whilst we hedged her around with saddlery. It was done as quickly as we could, and the tired girl leaned back against the saddles utterly wearied and exhausted. I stood watching her for a little, and then with a whispered word to Pierrebon about the horses stepped aside. I could do no more; but my heart was heavy within me, for I feared the result of exposure for her.

A few yards off a withered tree stood apart, an outcast from its fellows. The thought struck me as I went up to it, and tapped the decayed trunk with my fingers: "You and I, my friend—we have seen our past, and are out of the pale now." With this I sat down on one of the huge roots, that coiled like monstrous serpents at my feet, and leaning my head against the tree prepared to wait for the dawn.

My arm, where Simon's sword had touched me, now began to remind me that it needed attention. A low whistle brought Pierrebon to my side, and the injury was looked to by such light as the moon gave. Fortunately it was but a slight flesh wound, and an improvised bandage soon gave relief. So, resting it in a sling out of my scarf, I leaned back once more, and bade Pierrebon go and sleep.

For an hour or more I sat thus, watching and thinking. At last, rising slowly, I cautiously stepped up to mademoiselle and looked. She was asleep; but so still did she lie, so pale and white did she look, that I thought for a terrible moment that she was dead, and bent over her, placing my hand close to her lips to feel if she breathed. She moved uneasily as I did so, and I came back to my tree and to my thoughts. Finally, as the moon was sinking, I too slept, and as I slept I dreamed. I saw myself once more riding towards Orrain, and not alone, for mademoiselle was by my side. As we rode out of the pine-woods the Chateau stood before us. There was the square keep, with its pepper-box towers, and bartizans overhanging the moat. There were the grey ramparts tapestried in ivy, and the terraced gardens, where the peacocks sunned themselves. All around us were happy faces, and joyous voices welcoming us home—the home to which I had so long been dead; and it was mine now, and more besides—and then—I awoke with a start and looked around me. It was all so real.

"Tush!" I exclaimed, "have I slipped back into the days of enchantment and the fay Melusine?" And rising I saw it was touching dawn, for the east was red, and the morning star, Maguelonne—the shepherd's star, as we call it in our hills—was burning bright. Mademoiselle and Pierrebon were still asleep, and it was too early yet to awaken them. It would be time enough when the sun rose, and in the meanwhile I began to reflect upon the best means of bestowing mademoiselle in safety. Razines was so near to Richelieu that if the latter were occupied by marauders they would hardly have left the little hamlet alone, unless, indeed, they were Huguenots who were in Richelieu. In which event Razines, which was known to be touched with the new heresy, would probably be unharmed. This, however, did not make things any the better for us. I made up my mind that the best course would be to take mademoiselle on with me to Poitiers, and there hand her over to some responsible person until her friends could be told of her. The very thought of this, however, jarred on me somehow, and I caught myself building castles in Spain again. "Come," I said to myself, "at your age, mon ami, you should know better than to go off dreaming at the sight of a pretty face and the sound of a sweet voice." And then I laughed aloud at the thought that I knew but half her name—that at any rate would be remedied soon. So, rising, for it was time now, I softly awoke Pierrebon and mademoiselle, and in a short while we were once more on our way through the low hills that stretched through Lencloitre.

It was necessary at all hazards that we should get some food, as well for the horses as ourselves, and when we had gone a little way we saw Razines lying to our left. Here I halted, and, moving my party into cover behind some trees, I explained the position, and begged mademoiselle to remain with Pierrebon, whilst I went forward to the village to see how matters stood, adding that, if I did not return within a short time, her best course would be to go on to Poitiers with Pierrebon, and place herself in a convent there until she could write to her friends.

"Monsieur," she answered, her colour rising, "you have risked enough for me already. I will not permit you to do this. If you go to Razines I go too."

I was delighted with her courage; but though I pressed her hard to do what I asked she was firm in her resolve. In this matter, however, I had no intention of yielding, and we might have been there half the day had we not seen coming up the road a couple of villagers with some cattle.

"We can at least inquire from them," I suggested, and she laughed.

"At the first sight of you, monsieur, they will be off. Let me go!" And suiting action to words she rode out towards the peasants. There was truth in her words, for as she rode out of the trees one of the yokels fled at once, but the other, seeing it was a woman, held his ground. A moment after they were in converse, and I saw a broad grin on the man's face. Then mademoiselle beckoned to us, and we came forth. On our appearance the peasant seemed inclined to follow his friend's example; but we somehow managed to reassure him, and gathered that, except for a small party of harmless travellers who were at the Green Man, Razines was empty.

"You are luckier than they are at Richelieu, my friend," I said.

"Then Richelieu is taken?"

"Apparently so."

"Hola! for Monsieur de Ganache!" And he flung his cap in the air. "Ha, monsieur, the Vicomte passed here but yesterday evening, with sixty lances at his back, to hang the Guidon. Has he done so?"

"I know not," I answered; and turning to mademoiselle, said: "We have had a lucky escape."

"Indeed! How, monsieur?"

"Because M. de Ganache is known to be one of the fiercest of the Huguenot leaders, and spares nothing."

"We have to thank those who made him so, monsieur; and at any rate he has spared Razines."

I looked at her in surprise. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were hot, and I could scarce forbear a smile at the thought that it was a little rebel I had in my charge, and turning the talk, said:

"We may go on to the Green Man in safety, I think." And, bidding Pierrebon give the yokel a coin, we pressed forwards. It was not, however, without another careful scrutiny that I led the way into the village, where we were soon within the doors of the inn. It was a poor place, but host and hostess were kindly; and did the best they could. In the public room was the party of travellers whom the peasant had mentioned. They consisted of a gentleman and his wife, whose dress and air betokened them people of rank, whilst a little apart, at the lower end of the room, were one or two others—their servants. The glitter of a sapphire ring on the stranger's hand attracted my attention, and it was as if he noticed the casual glance I cast at it, for he turned his hand so as to hide the ring. This set me observing him more narrowly, and though it was years since I had seen him I was certain it was the Cardinal of Chatillon. It was Odet de Coligny himself, not a doubt of it, and the lady was the noble woman who had sacrificed so much for his sake. He had married her—prince of the Church though he was—and had openly thrown in his lot with those of the New Faith.

They in their turn looked at us with interest as we entered, and on seeing mademoiselle the lady looked as if she knew her, and seemed as if she were about to speak, but Chatillon said something in a low voice which restrained her. On the other hand, mademoiselle seemed flurried, and kept her face averted. I could not but think they knew each other; but it was no time to ask questions, so I said nothing, but quietly set about arranging for our comforts. Mademoiselle retired to her room at once, the landlady fussing after her, and after having assisted Pierrebon to see to the horses I myself went to rest. I must have slept for a good four hours, and on awakening found it was high noon. Down I came, and entering the public room of the inn found it empty. I went on towards the stables, where Pierrebon was still asleep near the horses. There was no sign of mademoiselle, and thinking she was still resting I let Pierrebon alone, and returning into the inn sat near a window, awaiting my charge's appearance. Had I been alone I would have pressed on to Poitiers, and reached it by nightfall; but as it was it would be better to wait till well on in the afternoon, when mademoiselle, being refreshed, would no doubt be able to travel. We should halt at Miribeau for the night, and make Poitiers the next day. So I let some time go past, and then, feeling dull, called to the host, and invited him to share a bottle of wine with me. He came, as it seemed, somewhat unwillingly; but soon we were in talk, and, for something to say, I inquired about the other travellers. Here his embarrassment increased, and he stammered out that they had gone on to Richelieu about two hours ago; and then, as if taking a sudden resolution, fumbled in his pocket, and drew forth a letter, which he handed to me, saying: "For you, monsieur."

I tore open the cover, and read:

"MONSIEUR,—I owe you so much that I know not how to thank you or how to explain my leaving you as I do now. I feel sure you would like to know that I am going of my own free will, and with friends. Monsieur, we will meet again I know, and then, perhaps, I shall be in a position to show you that I can be grateful. DIANE."

I read to the end without a word, and glanced at my host. He saw and understood the question in my eyes.

"Mademoiselle gave it to me with her own hands. I—I could not prevent her leaving," he added, with fear in his voice. The poor wretch was almost overcome with terror at the thought that I might turn against him in my wrath.

"Thank you; that is enough." And crushing the letter in my hand I rose and walked out. I was hurt and indignant, but after a little I cooled down. After all, her proper place was with her friends. I had but helped her on her way, and there was an end of it. So I swallowed my ill-humour as best I could, and, to his astonishment, making the landlord of the inn a present of the horse we had taken at Le Jaquemart, Pierrebon and I went on our way.



CHAPTER XII

A WRITER OF COMMENTARIES

I rode sullenly on, my eyes between my horse's ears. Pierrebon, who loved to wag his tongue, once or twice tried to open a talk, but finding his efforts useless dropped away back. It was not possible to go fast, as the horses were worn, and had to be saved for the stretch of nearly six leagues that lay between us and Poitiers, which, however, I had made up my mind to reach ere the gates were closed for the night. Despite all our care we were delayed by Pierrebon's nag casting a shoe, and this meant a stop for nearly an hour at a small hamlet, the name of which I forget. At length matters were righted, and we continued our journey. The day was hot and overcast. Towards sunset the clouds increased, and ever and again the rumbling of thunder gave warning of an approaching storm. We were, however, near Poitiers by this, and could see the spires of the churches and the black mass of the city. I drew rein for a moment to look, and almost felt as if my task were done, when Pierrebon exclaimed:

"Allons, monsieur! it has come!"

And with a vengeance, too. First a few warm drops, then a blaze of lightning, a crash of thunder, and then rain in torrents. It became dark, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we could find our way. But at length we reached the Pont Joubert, and passing the Chapel of the Holy Virgin, raised in memory of the miraculous preservation of the city during the war of the hundred years, we entered Poitiers. It is true we had reached it, but it seemed as if our difficulties had only begun. What with the darkness and the wind blowing the rain straight in our faces, so that we could barely see, it would have been hard for us to have found our way anywhere, even if we knew the city, but neither Pierrebon nor I had been in Poitiers before. In the basement of the guard-tower flanking the gate lights were burning, and a group of soldiers were sitting at a table playing at dice, whilst a few stray travellers were huddled together at the entrance, waiting, perhaps, for the storm to pass, and continually peering out into the darkness from their shelter, if such it could be called. I made my way there, and had to shout twice ere I was heard, so great was the noise of the tempest. Finally the ancient of the gate came up, and I asked him for the nearest inn. He answered, civilly enough:

"'Tis but a little way, monsieur. Go straight down the Rue du Pigeon Blanc, past Ste. Radegonde, and the Filles de Notre Dame, there in the place St. Simplicien——"

"But I know nothing of Poitiers. How am I to find my way?"

To this he shrugged his shoulders and laughed; but at this juncture a boy stepped forth out of the group at the door and offered to guide us to the inn. This offer I accepted, and with a word of thanks to the ancient we went on—the last thing we heard being hoarse orders shouted out to close the gates. Our way was lit by continuous flashes of lightning, and by one of these, lasting longer than usual, I saw on a hill which overlooked the Church of Ste. Radegonde, her right hand outstretched as if invoking a blessing on the city, the colossal Virgin of Poitiers all shining with light—light that seemed to flame back from the statue against the storm. So impressive was it that Pierrebon crossed himself, and the boy sank on his knees in the water that hummed along the street with an "Ave, ave!"

The sight was one I have never forgotten, and has often given me subject for reflection, so that I am firmly convinced that even if a God did not exist the imagination of man would conjure one up for his worship.

It was lucky that we found a guide, for, short as the distance was, I doubt if we would have found our way that night to the hostel of the Elephant, for so the inn was called. Once there I gave the boy a coin, bidding him get something to eat, for he looked as though he needed it, and told him to wait, as I would require him shortly. I determined to halt there until the storm had subsided a little, and inquired where Montluc resided. He had but lately come, I was informed, and was for the present temporarily lodged in the priory of the Capuchins. So, taking the opportunity whilst I waited for the rain to diminish, I had some refreshment, and attended to my arm, which was still painful. I then made arrangements with the landlord for another horse, as nothing would have induced me to ride my own poor beast farther that night. This being settled, I waited for half an hour or so, when the storm somewhat abated, though the wind was still high, and there was a sharp drizzle. Then mounting the hired horse, and giving the boy a lantern I had borrowed, I bade him guide me to the priory of the Capuchins.

On we went, the wind and rain in our faces. By good luck the lantern held out, though its light was not much better than that of a glowworm. We picked our way through narrow streets swimming with water, past gutters babbling like mountain streams, and made a snail's progress through that infernal night. Now and again a broad sheet of lightning blazed athwart the darkness, showing the black and uneasy clouds overhead, and giving a momentary glimpse of tall, ghostly towers, of gabled roofs and pointed windows, and of houses that seemed to lean forward and form arcades, below which the crooked, glistening streets wound. As we were passing a large church—I found out later that it was St. Croix—the bells began to sound compline, and then from every steeple and spire in the city the chime was echoed, and borne across the night in strange sweetness by the storm. My little guide made his way bravely, and at length—it seemed an age—we reached the priory of the Capuchins. Lights were burning everywhere, and there was a huge log fire spluttering at the gate, which was still open. The arched passage beyond the gate, which led to the forecourt, was full of men, not hooded Capuchins, but men-at-arms, and it was easy to see that the priory had been turned into a camp. I explained that I bore despatches from Paris for M. de Montluc, and the words acted like magic. I was told to leave my horse to the boy, and was led along the galleries that bounded the cloisters of the forecourt. They were full of men, but all orderly and quiet, as may be imagined with Montluc at hand. At length we reached the hall, and there I was asked to wait until the General was informed of my arrival. All dripping and wet as I was, and unheeding the glances cast at me by those who were there, I sat down on a bench near the fireplace, in which, on account of the damp, a fire had been lit, and glowered into the flames, the blue smoke rising in little columns from my drenched clothes. No one spoke to me, nor did I address anyone, and I was struck by the extraordinary silence that was preserved. Men spoke in whispers, and even when a man-at-arms passed, his step was as light as that of a monk.

"Monsieur," said a voice, "will you have the goodness to follow me?"

I looked up, and saw an officer wearing the red and white sash of Randan's Light Horse, my old comrades, and the sight of the colours after so many years affected me to such a degree that at first I was unable to move, and the officer had to repeat his request. Then I arose, and followed him up what seemed an interminable stair. At last we halted before a door, and here to the knock we heard a sharp "Enter." Stepping in, I found myself before Montluc, and apologised for appearing in the drenched condition I was in. He took no notice of me, however, but kept walking up and down the cabinet like a tiger. He was in demi-mail, the collar of the Order at his neck, and as he paced the room with a halting step I observed with interest and respect the great soldier who in forty years of glorious service had but twice seen the Court. His defence of Siena was still ringing through Europe; but back upon that one saw the field of Pavia, the campaign in Naples, the defence of Marseilles, the siege of Perpignan, and the glorious campaign of Italy, which ended in the crown of Cerisolles, and where, but for him, the day was lost. I had served at Cerisolles myself; but though I had seen Montluc I had never known him. Years had, however, seemed to make no impression upon him; and, tall and lean, with long grey moustaches, and glittering, grey-green eyes, he looked like a fierce and starving cat as he restlessly limped to and fro.

At last he suddenly stopped, and, resting a hand on the hip broken at Chieri, asked me abruptly:

"I am told you have brought despatches from Paris?"

"Monsieur!" And taking out the packet I had been entrusted with I handed it to him.

He received it in silence, and sitting down at a table littered with papers examined the seals. Then drawing his poniard he was about to cut open the packet when he arrested himself, saying:

"I see it is from the Queen."

"Monsieur, it was given to me by her Majesty herself, and when you have read it I have a message for you."

"The Queen must trust you."

"She has in this case, monsieur."

He smiled grimly, and opened the packet. As he read his face assumed so malign and fierce an aspect that I had little difficulty in persuading myself of the truth of the stories of savage cruelty that I had heard of him. When he had finished he set down the paper, and asked calmly enough:

"Your message, monsieur?"

I told him, he taking it down word for word, and placing the paper carefully in a drawer, out of which he drew a parchment roll.

"You see this, monsieur? It is my patent as lieutenant of the South. After nearly forty years of service it was given to me. I have held it a month—and now—it is waste-paper." And with that he flung it into the drawer, which he shut with a clash.

"They have need of me in Italy again, they say; and when I am gone, mark my words, these psalm-singing Huguenots, these Chrysostoms, whom I have made skip like the hills in their own hymn, will be in Poitiers in a week." And he laughed harshly as he went on: "They fear I shall turn against them, and throw in my lot with these others—I—Blaise de Montluc! Tell them I am a soldier of my King, that I am but a poor gentleman of the South, who when his time is done will hang up his sword in his Chateau of Estillac, and die there, unless God answers his prayer and lets him die on the field."

I saw before me the sudden breaking of great hopes, and, as I then thought, the ruin of a great career, and stammered out: "Monsieur, you will soon be back."

He smiled, and then, as if pushing all aside from his mind: "This will at any rate make a chapter of my commentaries. I am writing them in the style of Caesar, whom I hope to surpass in this. At present, I have carried them as far as the sieges of Parma and La Mirandole by the armies of the Holy Father and the Emperor." With this he pointed at a pile of manuscript that lay on the table, as he added, with true Gascon conceit: "It is better that they who make history should write it rather than leave it to some scoundrel clerk, as I hear Vieilleville is doing."

He seemed to have forgotten his misfortune in the contemplation of his writing, and on my applauding his sentiment, he, looking at my arm, which was still in its sling, asked how I had hurt it. I told him briefly, and he listened in silence, until I gave him information of De Ganache and the Huguenots at Richelieu. Then he stopped me.

"Are you sure they were there last night?"

"Yes, and probably till late to-day."

"Then we will have most of them here as our guests, monsieur, in a couple of days at the latest. I want De Ganache badly, and would like much to finish with him ere they finish with me."

I thought of Diane, and in my heart sent up a prayer that, on this occasion at least, the Huguenots might escape Montluc's claws; and the General went on:

"I see, monsieur, the Queen has recommended you as one to be trusted entirely—and the Queen is not easily deceived. You are, she says, a citizen of Paris, and have borne arms—where?"

"In the Milanese, monsieur. I was at Cerisolles with Monsieur d'Enghien."

"Good! And after that?"

"I did not serve, monsieur."

We looked hard at each other, and a dry but not unkindly smile sat on his lips.

"Would you care to see Italy again?"

"If the Queen has no further need for me I am ready."

"We will leave it so, then. In the meantime, you may, perhaps, have a little commission to execute for me, or rather for the Queen. That will keep you employed until you finally decide. It may need using your sword. Does your wound trouble you?"

"It will be healed in less than a week."

"Well, go now and rest. You are being lodged here, of course?"

"I have secured a lodging at the Elephant, monsieur."

"Then to-morrow you must come here. I will see to that, for I like to lay hands on a man when I want him." And with this he struck a gong, and the officer who had brought me in appeared.

"Sarlaboux," said the General, "let Monsieur Broussel be conducted safely to his inn, and see that no harm befalls him."

I was about to take my leave when Montluc stopped me.

"A word!— That little story of yours in connection with your wound, monsieur, has interested me. I will give it a place in my commentaries." And he took up his pen as I retired, followed by Sarlaboux.

I may add that, many years after, it was my good fortune to see a copy of the old Marshal's commentaries, which had been made for his brother, Monseigneur the Bishop of Valence. By some strange chance, for he rarely forgot anything, he had omitted my story, nor was there any mention of the secret communication I made to him; and, perhaps, this was due to design. He was a great soldier and a great man, whose life may be summed up in the motto of his house: Deo duce, ferro comite.



CHAPTER XIII

THE TOUR DE L'OISEAU

"Thirty-three Henris, of which two are bad, these I have set aside—seven sols, and nine deniers, making in all thirty-one Henris, seven sols, and nine coppers of good money—and this is all, monsieur."

It was touching the afternoon, and I was going over the present state of my affairs with Pierrebon. I looked at the small heaps of coin he had sorted out carefully on the table before me, and then rising walked to my window and gazed out. The storm of last night had passed, and Poitiers lay before me, all wet and glistening in warm sunlight. I was not, however, interested in the landscape but in the hard fact that thirty-one Henris, in round figures, would not carry me far in what I had before me. After a minute or so I came back again, and looked at the money and then at Pierrebon. It was a hopeless sum.

"It is correct, monsieur," he said; "and, of course, we have the horses."

"I know that; but what I am thinking of is that it is not enough. In short, I know not how long it will be before I can communicate with Olden Hoorn at Antwerp; and more money is needed, for there is work before us, Pierrebon."

The honest fellow's eyes lit. "How many times have I not said the good days would come back, monsieur? All the years can never be famine years, and we will have our hotel in the Rue de Bourgogne again, and twenty gentlemen at our heels when we go to the Louvre; and if money is needed now, monsieur, we have it."

"Where? I do not see it." And I laughed.

For answer Pierrebon unclasped his belt. Then taking his poniard he ripped up an inch or so of leather on the inner side and took therefrom a piece of paper carefully folded. This he handed to me, saying:

"Open it carefully, monsieur."

I did so, and found I had in my hand a diamond of some value. I looked at it in astonishment, and then at Pierrebon. He read my glance, and began hastily:

"Do not refuse, monsieur, for it came to me from you, as all that I have has come. When we left Antwerp I had a hundred and fifty livres, amassed in your service. Thirty I brought away in cash, and with a hundred and twenty I purchased this stone from Olden Hoorn himself. It is worth a hundred, I dare say, and, as money is needed now, 'tis better to use our own than to go a-borrowing."

It was impossible to refuse this faithful friend, and the diamond was transferred to me. I may mention that I had declined all offers of money made to me by the Queen and Le Brusquet, for I had a mind to work out my way without any such obligation. It was, however, a different matter with Pierrebon, and when the time came he lost nothing by his fidelity.

Matters being so far arranged we left the Elephant and betook ourselves to the priory of the Capuchins, as M. de Montluc wished. On arrival there I found that the General had set forth at dawn, with a hundred lances and the Light Horse, and that two or three days might elapse ere he returned. He had, however, left particular instructions about me, and I found myself comfortably enough lodged. My first task was to make arrangements for Masses for the soul of the dead Olivet, and for the erection of a small cross to his memory in the Church of Ste. Radegonde. Thus having fulfilled my promise to mademoiselle I spent the next day or so in resting my arm, which grew rapidly better, and in replacing sundry articles of apparel both for Pierrebon and myself. All this made so considerable a gulf in the thirty-one Henris that I resolved to transmute the diamond into gold.

I consulted Sarlaboux, who, to his disgust, had been left behind in Poitiers. He looked at the diamond, and said he would buy it for a hundred and twenty livres; but protested, with oaths, that he had but ten crowns in the world, and would, therefore, not be able to pay me at once. This I could not agree to; and I was very nearly involved in a quarrel, as he thought that a slight was being put upon his parole. The affair, however, passed off. Finally, I decided on the advice of a new acquaintance of mine—a Capuchin named Grigolet—to seek the Jews' quarter, where at any rate I would receive gold and not promises to pay. This Capuchin, who was a jovial soul, obligingly said he would accompany me, as he himself had a little business there, in connection with the conversion of a young Jewess, whose eyes, he said in confidence, were brighter than any diamond. I accepted the holy man's aid, and we set forth, he showing me many places of interest on our way.

We left the priory by the western postern and went up the Rue des Trois Piliers. The three pillars, which give its name to the street, mark the boundary between the jurisdiction of the Chapter of St. Hilaire and the town of Poitiers. They are set in the city wall, a few yards apart, and the statue on the first pillar is that of the Emperor Gallienus. On reaching the head of the road we turned up a narrow alley, and found ourselves in the vast enclosure of the old arena—far larger than those of Nimes and Aries in that it was capable of seating fifty thousand persons, and was served for entrance or exit by a hundred and twenty-four vomitories. Through this immense and deserted ruin we passed, gaining the Rue d'Evreux by one of the entrances, in the archway of which an inn was built. Then, passing the Colleges of Ste. Marthe and Puygarreau, we took the Rue du Chat Rouge, and finally came before the ogive arch, which formed the entrance to the Rue de Penthievre, where the Jews were compelled to live and transact their business. A similar arch and gate shut in the other end of the street, and guards were at each gate. During the day these unfortunate people were allowed to go into the city at their own risk; but by nightfall, at the sound of the couvre feu, every one of them had to be within his street, under heavy pains and penalties, which were rigorously exacted.

On entering we found ourselves in a small and narrow street crowded with people in yellow and grey gaberdines. All around us were dark faces, bright black eyes, and hooked noses. Children swarmed, and lay about in the filth and ordure of the pavement. My companion drew forth a small flagon of scent, with which he liberally besprinkled both himself and me, and picking our way with care we found ourselves before the shop of Nathan the Jew. Here, whilst the Capuchin went farther on to see his Jewess, I haggled with Nathan for an hour or more over the price of the diamond, but could not persuade him to give more than fifteen livres. This was absurd, and I was about to turn away in disgust when the Capuchin returned. The bargaining was now taken up by a master, and the short of it was that we made our way out of the Jews' quarter with sixty-three livres in my purse. Three of these I gave Grigole for his good offices, and on approaching the Rue d'Evreux the holy man disappeared into an auberge, doubtless with a view to meditate on further arguments for the conversion of his Miriam, whilst I returned alone to the priory.

I was now fairly well supplied with money, but took the opportunity to write to my friend at Antwerp, bidding him send two hundred crowns of the sun for me to the care of Le Brusquet. This, with many misgivings, I entrusted to the King's post. It, however, arrived in safety, and I got my money.

After supper that evening, as I was returning to my chamber, I heard a commotion in the courtyard, and at first thought that Montluc had returned. On inquiry, however, I found that this was not so, but that certain prisoners of importance had been brought to the priory. I could not find out who they were, nor, indeed, did I try much, but took myself off.

So far things were going well with me, and I felt myself justified in the hope that the famine years were coming to an end. I saw the sentence of the Chambre Ardente against me cancelled, and began to see also fine castles in dreamland, and with all these I unconsciously began to associate Diane. I laughed at my folly, tried to set it aside; but back came the thought to me, in such a manner that I felt that every step I was about to take to win back my place was not for myself but for her sake. And the fear of his own unworthiness, which comes to every man who truly loves, came upon me, and with it the ghost of that duel of days long past.

There I had sinned, and sinned deeply, and it was poor consolation to tell myself that the man does not live whose life could stand sunshine on it. For me it was enough to know that I had committed a grievous wrong; it was for me to find out how to right it, or make compensation—empty regrets were useless.

Of that affair it may be as well to speak freely here. Amongst my friends in the red days was one who was to me as David to Jonathan. Godefrey de la Mothe was of an old family of the Tarantaise, and his career at college had been of exceptional brilliancy. Some years my senior, he had at first acquired great influence over me, an influence ever exercised for my good. This lasted until my return from the Italian campaign, when, seeing ruin staring me in the face, I had let everything go, and sought to drown my sorrows in dissipation. My friend strove to stay me; but, driven to madness, I repulsed all his kindness. One day we met near the Louvre, in such a manner that there was no avoiding him. He began to expostulate with me on my latest folly. I answered back hotly, and at last there were high words between us, and that was said by me for which there was but one remedy; and he fell, as is known. Since then I could only regret. But now there was punishment as well as regret. With the memory of this could I dare to think of Diane? There was only one answer, and with that answer I began to realise that what comes to all men had come to me, and that I loved. In his gibing way Le Brusquet had said that a man feels conscious of love in the same manner as he feels a sudden chill. The words came back to me, and I laughed sadly, for there was truth in them.

I own that the blue-devils took me to such an extent that I had thoughts of abandoning everything; but this soon passed, and I made up my mind to right things as far as man could, and leave the issue in the hands of God. I had been paying for my sins for so many years that the debt was almost quitted, and a stout heart would, perhaps, bring me to shore.

Nevertheless, I passed a white night, and rising early in the morning rode out of the city by the Porte de Rochereuil, returning about ten o'clock. On coming back I found that M. de Montluc had returned, and had desired to see me at once. I was about to dismount when Sarlaboux, who had recovered his temper, which he lost over the affair of the diamond, informed me that the General had gone on to the Tour de l'Oiseau, and I had better follow him there if I thought the matter of sufficient importance. This I did, and as soon as ever Pierrebon, whom I gave orders to accompany me, was ready we set forth, and Sarlaboux came with us. Whilst waiting for Pierrebon he told me that Montluc had utterly broken the Huguenot leader De Ganache near Richelieu, and taken him prisoner.

"Were any others taken?"

"Probably; and must be trying to hang as gracefully as walnuts now. Menorval tells me that the old fox of Chatillon got off, though with a singed tail."

I began to breathe more freely. If the Cardinal had escaped it was more than probable that mademoiselle was safe; but I resolved to make sure.

"There were no ladies taken, were there?"

Sarlaboux cocked his eye and looked at me. "Eh bien! My dear monsieur, are you finding it dull here? If so, I confess so do I. This is a city of the saints. Alas, no! There were no ladies taken, as far as I know; only De Ganache."

"Then it was he who arrived last night?"

"No; he was brought in by Montluc himself this morning, and it strikes me that he will never see the sun set. He has been taken to the Tour de l'Oiseau where Montluc has just gone, and which we had better reach as soon as possible if we wish to see things."

I had to be content with this, and Pierrebon being ready we started off at a smart canter. The news I had heard had set my heart going, and it was in no enviable frame of mind that I drew up at the entrance to the Tour de l'Oiseau. The full strength of the Light Horse, their red and white pennons fluttering in the air, were trooped around the tower, and it was evident that something was about to happen, for the faces of all were grave, and all eyes kept scanning the battlements. Giving my reins to Pierrebon I passed in with Sarlaboux, and running up the stairs reached the top of the tower. There we found Montluc standing, with half a dozen or so of his officers around him, and before him a young man, his head bare, and his hands bound behind him, stood facing Montluc. It was De Ganache.

We took our places silently in the group just as Montluc spoke, in a harsh, stern voice:

"M. de Ganache, your crimes are heavy, and you are about to pay for them. I bear no malice against you. I set aside my private wrongs, the plunder of my Chateau of Estillac, the burning of my woods, and the wanton destruction of my papers and manuscripts collected by me with immense care."

De Ganache laughed mockingly, and the blue veins stood out on Montluc's forehead. If the issue had not been so terrible there was room, in truth, for a smile, as he went on, with a gasp of rage:

"What I hold against you is that you have been taken armed—a rebel against your King and your God. I am going to make an example of you, and shall deal out to you the same mercy you showed to Champagnac, and——"

"Enough, monsieur!" said the prisoner; "let this talking end. If I have to die, let me die. I do not want a priest. I die in my faith, which is not yours. Let the matter end quickly, and be done with it."

A grim smile played on Montluc's lips as he leaned heavily on his sword.

"Well, be it so! I will not keep you. Supposing we say a leap."

"A leap?"

"Yes—from these battlements. If not, you will hang."

"Hang!—I!" And a flush came on the young noble's face.

"Precisely. Champagnac was hanged, if you remember, and it is the fate you reserved for me. You, however, have a choice."

For a moment there was a silence, and Montluc made a sign to the guards on either side of De Ganache to move away, and he was left free, except that his hands were fastened. With a half turn he looked over the battlements and gazed down from their dizzy height, and as he appeared at the embrasure there arose a hoarse cry from below. He drew back, and faced Montluc again.

"Is it to be like this?" he asked thickly, making a motion to indicate his tied hands.

"Yes; you will fall easier."

At this brutal answer De Ganache looked hopelessly around, as if imploring help. His fortitude seemed to give way, and he began to shiver in an uncontrollable manner. I could endure it no longer, and made a step forward; but, growling something that I did not catch, Sarlaboux seized me by the arm and drew me back. Just at this moment Montluc laughed a bitter, stinging laugh; and the wretched prisoner, swinging round, nerved himself to step again to the embrasure, and stopped there tottering. Again the shout rose from below, and Montluc rasped out:

"Come, De Ganache, two looks are enough!"

"I'll give you three to do it in, Monsieur de Montluc," I burst forth, and shaking Sarlaboux off stepped up to the General.

"You!" he snarled.

"Monsieur," I exclaimed, "this will cover you with shame! This is the act of a tiger, not a man. Forbear!—for the sake of your own fame, your own honour."

There was a low murmur behind me; even the stolid guards glanced at each other; but Montluc, after one swift, angry look at me, kept his head down, and made no answer, standing glowering at the hilt of his sword as one who did not hear.

It was De Ganache, however, who spoke. He had plucked up heart again after his weakness.

"There is at least one gentleman here! Let him alone, monsieur! Plead not! After all, death is but death." But I stayed him with uplifted hand, and went on: "Monsieur de Montluc, you will ever regret this. Will you soil your glory with this act of shame?"

Our eyes met, and the sombre fury in his look dropped before my gaze. I saw my advantage, and approaching closer to him urged him again, and to my joy he began to waver. Suddenly he turned from me, and walking to the battlements looked down himself, remaining there for a space amidst an absolute silence, broken but once by the uneasy clink of a spur.

So he stood, and we waited breathlessly, for all hung on a hair; and then as suddenly he turned to us, his face looking older and more wrinkled than ever.

"M. de Ganache," he said in a hard voice, "you are free. Guards, loose him!"

Without another word or look he stepped forward, and began to limp slowly down the winding stair.



CHAPTER XIV

MADEMOISELLE DE PARADIS

As the guards cut the cords that bound De Ganache's arms those who were on the tower crowded round to congratulate him; but he seemed dazed, and unable to realise his fortune. With an effort, however, he brought himself together, and silently took my hand. He could not speak, but I understood; and now Sarlaboux urged an immediate move, saying that the sooner De Ganache was away the better, as there was no knowing what might happen next. With this he led the way down, and we followed.

On coming forth from the tower we found that the troops were already moving away, though many of the officers remained behind, and came up to us, out of curiosity to learn what had happened. At first we could not see Montluc anywhere, but a voice called out: "There is the General!" And looking, we saw a lonely figure in the distance galloping by the Marais de St. Hilaire. Then he turned the angle of the great priory. There was a flash of his red plume, a glitter of sunlight on his corselet, and he was gone.

"If you take my advice, monsieur," I said to De Ganache, "you will be off at once. Here is a horse—and there is the open gate." And with this I placed the reins of my nag, which Pierrebon had brought up, in his hand. The enthusiasm of the moment caught all. Menorval of the Light Horse gave him a sword, someone else a hat, another a cloak. The colour came and went from De Ganache's sunburnt face as, stammering his thanks, he mounted. Then he put out his hand to me. "Monsieur," he said, "I can never forget; and De Ganache is ever your friend. Au revoir, gentlemen!" So, giving the reins to the horse, he galloped out of the gate, which was but a stonethrow distant. As he crossed the bridge he turned in the saddle and waved his hand in farewell, and then we lost him in the hollow ground beyond.

Mounting Pierrebon's horse I joined the others, and we rode back to the priory—Menorval swearing that I must be a magician, as never before had he known Montluc yield as he had done this morning.

As for me, though surprised at the result, my satisfaction was increased by the thought that in aiding De Ganache I had helped one who was a friend of mademoiselle. It was not this that had prompted me to intervene on his behalf. Had it been anyone else I should have acted as I had done. De Ganache was not clean-handed. He had shown little mercy to those who fell into his hands, and when face to face with death he had shown the white feather, though at the last he seemed to recover himself. Still, guilty though he may have been, his death would have been a crime, and it was something to think I had stood between Montluc and that terrible blood madness which at times possessed him.

On arrival at the Capuchins my first thought was to see Montluc at once, and although Sarlaboux and others tried to dissuade me I persisted in my design, and found myself once more before the door of his cabinet. On my entering he received me coldly, and, without making any reference to what had just happened, inquired my business as if he had totally forgotten his summons to me. I explained that I was there in obedience to his request to see me, and after a moment of thought he said: