"Thanks; I will not forget. However did you find out?"

"It is too long to tell, and I must return these papers to De Ganache."

So saying, he went off.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE CHURCH UNDER THE GROUND

The wicket gate near the riding-school was used almost exclusively by the servants of the palace, to whom it gave access to that maze of nameless streets, dingy, tumble-down houses, and squalid shops that was known as the Magasins. Here it was that the waiting-woman and the lackey stole forth to meet their lovers. Through this filtered all the backstairs' gossip of the Louvre, and more besides, for the small shopkeepers of the Magasins upheld a reputation as evil as the place in which they plied their trade.

At the mouth of one of these streets, only a few yards away from the wicket, was a small eating-house. It was here that I repaired at sunset, and calling for a basin of lentil soup sat me down at a rough table near the door, which commanded a view of the gate. It had rained that afternoon, a summer shower that passed as quickly as it came, but the eaves were still dripping, and the water was trickling in glistening lines down the walls and bubbling in the gutters. There were three other clients in the house besides myself. One contented himself, as I had, with some lentil soup, and the other two, sitting near a great spit, impatiently watched a leg of kid they had brought with them for their supper being turned thereon by a small dog, now and then exchanging a word or so with the bare-armed hostess who was supervising the process. Whilst this was going on my fellow-companion with the lentil soup kept casting envious glances at the spit, sniffing the savoury odour of the roasting meat as he slowly ate pieces of black bread sopped in the thick soup.

The wicket was open, for until compline ingress and egress was free; nevertheless, there was a sentry on duty, an arquebusier, who paced slowly up and down whistling the "Rappel d'Aunis," stopping only to exchange some barrack-room badinage with every serving-wench who, as she went out or came in, found a moment or so to spare for him. It was a lax enough watch, and it was clear that guard duty at the wicket was not so dull a matter as one might have imagined.

One of these passing affairs was rather longer and more interesting than usual, and he of the lentil soup was chuckling to himself over it, when we heard the clattering of horses at a trot coming up the road lying between us and the gate. The girl uttered a little cry and fled down the walk towards the Louvre, whilst the sentry drew himself up stiffly.

In another minute a party of about half a dozen horsemen filed up, a spare horse with them, and judge of my surprise and fear when I saw it was Simon himself who led them. As the sentry saluted the Vidame he rode close up to the man, and, bending down from the saddle, said something in a quick, low voice, but it was too far off for me to hear. The sentry saluted again, and began a steady pacing backwards and forwards; whilst Simon, dismounting three of his men, had the horses taken towards the riding-school, he remaining at the gate on foot with his three followers.

"An arrest!" exclaimed my unknown companion, and the words brought the two others from their kid, which they were just sitting down to demolish, to the door, where they were joined by the landlady and the turnspit dog.

The worst suspicions crowded upon me, and from where I sat I watched Simon anxiously, for all depended on his object in being here. He took no notice of the little group observing him, however, but, drawing his men up against the wall, leaned against a buttress, moodily pulling at his long moustache.

"We are going to see pretty things," said the hostess; "that tall crookback is the Vidame d'Orrain himself, and 'twas just the same way last year that he took poor Monsieur de Mailly."

For about ten minutes we waited impatiently, but with no result, and so the owners of the kid went back to their repast, and the man with the lentil soup called for another basin. The suspense, however, was not to be for long. Presently a man came down the walk towards the wicket, coming slowly, keeping as much as possible in the shadow of the trees, now and again stopping and looking around him as though he feared being followed. Finally, as he neared the gate, he put a bold face on the matter, and with an air of unconcern stepped towards the sentry. His hat was pulled over his eyes; but there was no mistaking De Ganache, and I watched with breathless interest. As he came up the arquebusier began to whistle his eternal "Rappel d'Aunis" once more, and the figures near the wall closed in around the buttress. In five paces De Ganache had passed the sentry and was at the gate. In another step he freed the wicket, and came face to face with the Vidame. De Ganache started, retreated a half pace, and then, recovering himself, said with affected gaiety:

"Well met, Orrain! I——" And then he stopped as he met the Vidame's sombre look and saw drawn swords on either side of him.

"Is this a jest or an outrage? What does this mean, monsieur?" And, hand to his sword, he faced Simon, who answered coldly:

"It means, monsieur, that you are my prisoner. Your sword, in the King's name!"

"I! Arrested! It is impossible! What foolery is this?"

But the Vidame simply held out a paper. "You may read this if you doubt."

Almost mechanically De Ganache took the paper and ran his eyes over it. As he did so his fingers seemed to lose power, for the paper slipped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. The Vidame picked it up, and said again:

"Your sword, monsieur!" And then, with a bitter scorn in his voice: "A traitor's game is a losing game, Monsieur le Vicomte, and the King knows you at last."

What the words meant I was to find out later, but they took all heart from De Ganache. He put his hand to his head as one dazed, and then, dropping it again, unbuckled his sword, and handed it to the Vidame without a word. There was a sharp whistle. The horses came up. De Ganache, who seemed utterly broken, was mounted on the spare horse. The troopers surrounded him, and then came the quick order:

"The Chatelet!" And they were gone.

"Harnibleu!" exclaimed the hostess, "that was not how Monsieur de Mailly allowed himself to be taken. He swore like the Constable, and fought right across the road, up to this very door, and might have escaped had he not tripped up. As for that hare there—pouf!" And with an expressive shrug of her shoulders and a snap of her fingers she went back to her spit.

I sat still, wondering, but with a great relief in my heart. There was a little talk, as will be when things of this kind occur, and then matters settled down. A few more customers came in. The twilight began to fall, and then, all at once, I saw two figures at the gate. They were mademoiselle and De Lorgnac. In a moment I had joined them, and together we went on towards the river face.

At the corner of the Rue St. Thomas, De Lorgnac bade us farewell, but as he left us I took the opportunity to whisper to him the news of De Ganache's arrest.

"Then put wings to your business," he said, and pressing my hand went off, and mademoiselle and I were alone. Silently she took the arm I offered, and we hastened towards the river.

It was the fall of the evening, and the moon, almost in its full, had already arisen, dividing the sky with the last lights of sunset. We had turned to the left on reaching the river, our faces towards the Chatelet, whose square grey walls frowned over the Pont au Change. Here and there the cloud edges still flamed in gold, that slowly faded to a fleecy silver-white before the moonlight. To our left was the long row of gabled houses, some of them seven storeys or more in height, that stretched, a jagged outline of pointed roofs and overhanging turrets, to the Rue St. Denis, there to be split up in the labyrinth of streets between St. Denis, St. Martin, and the purlieus of the Marais and the Temple. Above the houses peered the square tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie, and in the weird half light the river droned along to our right. A grey, creeping mist was slowly covering the faubourgs and the Ile de la Cite. Through this, as it quivered onwards, one saw a limitless sea of roofs; and sharp and clear, for they were still in light, stood out the lofty campaniles of Ste. Chapelle and St. Severin. But what caught the eye and arrested the glance was that which rose from the very heart of the great city; for there, looming vast and immense, the stately pile of Notre Dame brooded over Paris.

Mademoiselle shivered on my arm. "Oh, monsieur, these streets, these houses, this immense city, they oppress me like a very spirit of evil!"

"Courage!" I answered. "In two hours we will have left the spirit of evil behind."

And she sighed to herself as we pressed forward. We had passed the Vallee de Misere and the Gloriette, and had now come to the fish market. It was here, amidst the raucous cries of buyers and sellers, that the crowd forced us to stop for a little. I drew my companion into the shadow of a booth, and as I did so I heard a fragment of talk between two men a little to one side of us.

"You think it will be successful?"

"Not one will escape. They are like rats in a trap."

The speaker laughed, and I would have sworn I knew the voice.

Mademoiselle had heard too, and her eyes were shining like stars.

"Do you hear that?" she whispered quickly. "Quick! Let us hasten!"

I held her back for a little, until the two had passed before us. As the light from the booth fell on them I saw that I was right—the last speaker was Camus, but the other man I knew not.

"Now, across!" I said, as the two were lost in the crowd, and with that I hurried mademoiselle to the other side of the road.

"Monsieur," she said, "these men were talking of us, of my people, I mean—I feel sure of it—and we are too late."

"Not yet!" And I tried to reassure her, but my heart was full of misgiving. In its wonderful way her woman's instinct had warned her, and I, knowing what I did know, feared the worst despite all my assurances to her to the contrary.

It was night when we reached the Rue des Mathurins, for the way was long. Narrow and dark, the street wound before us. On one side the upper storeys of the houses were white with moonlight; but the opposite side was in shadow, and all around us was a velvet darkness, except where, here and there, a lamp, hanging to a rope slung across the street, cast a feeble and uncertain glow. Some dim figures moved before us, and occasionally we heard a footfall behind. That was all.

We had come to the fifth door on our right. It lay in the black darkness, faced by the huge blank wall of the Mathurins, and not a ray gleamed from any of the windows. All was silent as the grave.

"This is the place," I said, and we stopped.

"Are you sure?" whispered mademoiselle. "It looks deserted; perhaps they have been warned."

But, even as she spoke, we heard faint voices singing. The sound seemed to rise from beneath our feet, and muffled and far distant rose the sweet, solemn chant of the Huguenot hymn: "When Israel went forth from Egypt."

"They are there!" And mademoiselle's fingers tightened on my arm.

For answer I was about to step up to the door when hurrying feet came towards us. I pulled mademoiselle back into the deepest shadow, and as I did so two dark figures appeared, and halted before the door. Like us, all unknowing we were so near, they stopped too, listening to the hymn, and after a little one of the two began to sing.

"Hush!" said the other; but the singer answered fiercely:

"I care not, nor do I fear to give my testimony to the Lord."

But now the hymn ended, and the two went to the door. This was my chance, and so, with mademoiselle on my arm, I boldly stepped up and joined them. They turned on us as we came; but I allayed their fears.

"Messieurs, we have come as you have. See! There is a lady with me."

"Then you are well come," answered one, and with that he tapped softly at the door. A shutter opened, and a voice asked:

"Why come ye?"

"For the faith," was the reply.

"Enter, then!" With these words the door swung back, and one by one we passed in, I being the last. The door was immediately closed and barred after us, and we found ourselves in the presence of a small, pale-faced man, who peered at us with blinking eyes. The two strangers went on at once, after a word of greeting; but, throwing back her hood, mademoiselle placed her hand on the arm of the little man, saying:

"Ferrieres, do you not know me?"

His dim eyes searched her through the dim light, and an exclamation broke from him.

"Mademoiselle! You! There will be many a glad face to-night. Almost all of us are here."

"Hush!" she said. "I have come to warn you. There is danger at hand. The edicts are to be enforced again, and at once."

He looked at her, and shook his head.

"Nay, mademoiselle; we have the King's word."

"Tell him, then!" and she turned to me. "Monsieur, this is the Sieur de Ferrieres, who has known me from childhood, and who refuses to believe me—tell him what I say is true!"

I did so in ten words; but the King's word was the King's word to him, and the fool was blind in his folly.

"Then take us to others who will hear," burst out mademoiselle; "in an hour it may be too late; it may be too late even now."

"Surely," he replied, "I will take you to the meeting-place, for you are of the flock, and the Lord is with us to-night; but you are mistaken, that I know."

Mademoiselle glanced at me in despair as we followed him across the hall, and down a stair that led to an underground passage. Along this we went, and, our guide gently pushing open a door, we saw before us a large room filled with people of both sexes. All were on their knees, absorbed in prayer. At the upper end of the room was a raised platform, and on this was a single figure, also kneeling, the face covered by the hands.

A whispered "Stay here!" to me, and mademoiselle stepped forward, gliding softly past the bowed figures to the right and left of her until she came to the edge of the platform; and there, unable to interrupt that silent prayer, she too knelt. So for a space, until at last the pastor rose, and stood surveying the worshippers. For a moment my glance rested curiously on the thin, ascetic face, full of lofty resolve, and then with a rush memory came back to me, and I stood as if lightning-struck. As he looked around my mind went back with a leap to the days gone by, to that hideous morning when my hot hand had struck a death-blow at my friend. It could not be he? And yet! I stared and stared. Yes; it was Godefroy de la Mothe, the friend of my youth, whom I had thought I had slain. There was never a doubt of it! And there, as I stood, the mercy of God came to me, and the weight of a great sin was lifted from my soul. For moments that seemed years all was a dream, and there was a haze before my eyes. Through this I saw mademoiselle arise and face the preacher; but I could not hear her words, though I saw that she spoke quickly and eagerly. And as she spoke there were whisperings and strange glancings amongst the people, and they pressed forward to listen too, but La Mothe lifted his hand.

"Brethren," he said in deep, sonorous accents, "we have believed the word of a prince, and the tyrant has lied to us. The edicts are renewed. But, brethren, He lives that delivered His people from Egypt. He lives that defended His Church against Caesars, kings, and profligate princes. His shield is over us, before whose footstool we kneel. Fear not, and be brave! And now, friends, we must part; but, ere we part—some of us, perhaps, never to meet again—let us pray."

He knelt once more, and the people with him, and there was a deep silence, broken at last by La Mothe's solemn voice as he began to pray aloud. And as he prayed there came to us from without the muffled tramp of feet, and the murmuring of many voices rising and falling like the swell of the sea, whilst now and again a tongue, shriller and more high-pitched than those of its fellows, would ring out a sharp, menacing bark. Still La Mothe went on unmoved, though uneasy looks were beginning to be exchanged; but at last he too stopped, for the murmurs had swelled to one long roar of savage fury, and the words of the mob reached us distinctly.

"To the fire with them! Death to the Christaudins!"

There was an instant of scared, blanched silence, and then a girl burst into hysterical sobbing, and her voice broke the tension. In a moment all was confusion and terror unspeakable, through which I forced my way to mademoiselle's side. Men shouted and raved, women screamed and prayed. Some flew to the doors, others, again, huddled together like sheep; and from outside rose higher and higher the dreadful voice of the mob, mad with blood lust, and ever above all rang out the harsh clang of the tocsin of the Mathurins.

I looked at mademoiselle; her face was white and her eyes were shining, but she held herself bravely. I drew my sword as La Mothe, the old soldier spirit awake within him, called out in a loud voice:

"The women in the centre, gentlemen! Draw swords, and make for the door, else we die here like rats."

His voice rang out clear and strong. The few who retained their heads seconded him well, and in less time that I take to tell this we had ringed in the women, and stood around them with drawn swords.

La Mothe was near the door, his spare figure erect, his look high. He alone carried no arms. I was a few feet from him, with Diane by my side.

In this formation we left the meeting-room, and reached the hall, where the huge iron-studded door was already yielding to the battering from outside.

"Throw open the door," La Mothe called out. Someone, I think it was Ferrieres, stepped forward and undid the bar, springing back quickly as the door flew open; and for an instant we heard a hoarse roar, and by the light of many torches, and a huge fire lit in the street, saw a countless swarm of cruel faces. Out we rushed, striking to the right and left, splitting them before us as a plank is split by a wedge. So impetuous was the sally that the crowd gave way on all hands. But our success was only for a moment. They rallied, and surged back, savage, furious, thirsting for blood. I shall never forget that night: the tall, dark houses, the flare-lit street, and that devoted few, around whom the howling mob raged like the sea about some desolate isle.

Still we pushed them back, for they seemed to have no leaders; but now one appeared, a man mounted on a tall white horse, and we began to feel the difference.

"Down with them," he called out; "down with the devil's brood." And the light of a torch falling on his face I saw it was Simon. His words gave courage to the mob. He himself led them on, and then there was fierce, desperate work. We were fighting for our lives—and men fight hard then—and so we beat them off once more, though one or two had fallen, and there was scarcely one of us who was not wounded somewhere. But they had only gone back to breathe, and came on again in such numbers that those in front could not go back if they would, and I began to think the end was not far. This time they divided us into two, and I found myself in a little group near the wall of the Mathurins, whilst the crowd closed over the rest. Diane was still safe, but there was death all around us, and my heart sank, not for myself but for her whom I loved.

"Leave me, Orrain," she gasped. "Save yourself!"

And for answer I drew her closer to me, and fought as I had never fought before.

The place had become a shambles, though here and there were little knots of Christaudins fighting for their lives. Again and again I strove to cut a way through, but it was impossible. For a moment, however, we found a breathing space. For one little moment the mob gave way and left us, and it was then that I saw Ferrieres. He had become detached from us, and was alone. Simon was near him, and with a face white with terror he seized my brother's stirrup and begged for mercy. I saw the cruel hand go up; there was a flash of steel, and Ferrieres fell, his grey hairs dabbled in blood, and the white horse trampled over him as Simon turned towards us. The light of fifty torches was on us, and he knew us at once. With a cry like that of an animal he pointed at us.

"There! Those two. A hundred—nay, two hundred gold crowns to him who takes them. On! on!"

And he strove to reach us; but even he, mounted as he was, found the press too great.

But his words were heard, and they came on howling, a ring of snarling faces, of hearts more pitiless than wolves'. Twice they rushed in and twice they fell back, and my sword was red to the hilt. They wavered for a moment, and then came on a third time. One man went down, but someone sprang to my sword arm and pulled me forward. I tripped over something, and came to my knees, and as I did so the mob went over me like a wave, and I heard Diane's voice and its shrill note of agony. God knows how I managed it, but I rose to my feet once more—the very thickness of the press perhaps saved me then—but I could see nothing of Diane.

"Diane," I called out, "I am here—here!"

And they laughed at me, and one raising a poniard made a sudden, swift thrust, that would have found my heart, but that a shining blade came between us, and the ruffian fell with a horrid cry. The next moment I heard De Lorgnac's voice. He seemed to have dropped from the clouds.

"Behind me! Your back to the wall till you get breath." And his tall figure faced the crowd; and then I saw what the best sword in France could do, and even I shuddered. They backed before him in a crescent, snarling, growling, and cursing, but never an one dared to come within reach of that long red blade.

Where was Diane? Dizzy and faint I leaned against the wall behind me, my eyes searching here, there, and everywhere. But she was gone; and I cursed my arm that had failed me in my need.

Simon was still some distance away, striving to reach me, and our eyes met. It was enough for me. I sprang at him, past De Lorgnac; and the mob gave, only to wedge me in and bear me backwards, for at this moment there rose a cry:

"The archers! The guards! Fly! Fly!"

Ay! They had come at last! When it was too late, with Martines, the lieutenant of the Chatelet, at their head. They drove the mob before them, striking them down, riding them over, and surrounded the few of us who were left.

In my confusion, as I strove to reach Simon, the hand of some fallen wretch clutched me by the ankle, and I stumbled forward. In a trice I was down, and seized; and struggling desperately, but in vain, was dragged into safety, but a prisoner.

The mob driven off, though not defeated yet, came on again, refusing to be balked of their prey; but disciplined strength was too much for them, and once more they gave way, howling around the few prisoners, whom they were only kept from tearing in pieces by the guards.

By the flare of the torches I saw Martines and Simon riding side by side talking eagerly. Suddenly the latter reined in, sprang from his horse, and lifted something in his arms. It was a woman's figure, limp and lifeless. He placed her on the saddle before him, and mounted again, whilst the mob hooted and jeered, and as the light fell on the white face I saw it was Diane.

Martines leaned forward and looked at her, with pity in his glance; but Simon laughed out:

"Corbleu, monsieur! this is the worst Christaudin of them all."

The words roused me to madness, and with a mighty effort I shook myself free and sprang forward, but the butt of a lance brought me down, and once more I was seized.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE RING

Late that evening Le Brusquet sat alone in his room in the Louvre, my ring on the table before him. On leaving me that afternoon near the Ladies' Terrace his first thought had been, according to his promise, to return the letters we found to De Ganache; but he was not to be seen. Le Brusquet had sought the tennis courts, haunted the apartments of La Valentinois, and lounged about the lawns where the ladies and gallants of the Court played at grelot of an evening; but in vain. Finally, he mounted his mule, and ambled off to the great square house behind the Bourgogne, where Antony of Vendome lodged with his train. Here he made certain he would find De Ganache, who followed the prince; but he was once more disappointed. So, giving up the quest for the present, he supped alone at Crabeau's, in the Rue des Fosses St. Germain. Then he returned to the Louvre, and sat down to think, as much of his own affairs as of mine. So far as he himself was concerned he felt he had fallen from the favour of the King. This had happened before; but now for the first time he seemed to have no wish to re-establish himself, and a longing came over him to see his little pepper-box of a tower in the Quercy, and to be once more the Sieur de Besme instead of the King of Folly.

"Eh bien, Pompon!" he said, addressing the ape, "the kingdom of fools is too wide a realm for one man to rule. I shall abdicate, I think. What say you? The Roman went back to his plough; Besme will return to his pears."

The ape simply blinked at him from his seat on the table, and, carrying out his humour, Le Brusquet continued:

"You do not approve—eh? What, then, is left for me?" But as he spoke his eyes fell on the ring, and bending over it he continued:

"Yes; this is where I have failed—save for this I should be off to-morrow—but to go with failure behind me——"

He stopped, for someone knocked at his door, and to Le Brusquet's "Enter!" De Lorgnac stepped in. His face was pale and grave, his boots and clothes splashed with mud, and there were red spots on the whiteness of his ruffles.

For one moment Le Brusquet stared at his friend, and then sprang up.

"What has happened?" he cried.

"Everything—and for the worst. They are taken."

"Taken! You mean——"

"I mean Mademoiselle de Paradis and Orrain, and others besides. La Valentinois was too quick, and struck at once."

Le Brusquet swore under his breath, and Lorgnac went on:

"It happened in this way. On leaving Orrain this evening he told me that De Ganache had been arrested."

"De Ganache arrested too!"

"Yes; at sundown near the wicket gate. The full significance of the news did not strike me at first, for there were other reasons, which we know, that might have led to his arrest. On my return to the Louvre, however, I heard sufficient to tell me that La Valentinois and her party meant to act without delay."

"And never a word came to my ears, and I thought them sharp."

Lorgnac took no notice of the interruption, but continued:

"On learning this I hastened after Orrain, hoping to be in time to overtake him and save our friends; but it was not to be." And then he went on to tell him what is already known. When he had done Le Brusquet said nothing, but remained in a moody silence, staring in front of him, and De Lorgnac turned from him to the window and looked out upon the night. After a little he turned again, and putting his hand on Le Brusquet's shoulder, said:

"It looks, old friend, as if we were beaten."

Le Brusquet's eyes flashed. "Not yet! This is the last game I play, and it is not checkmate yet. Where have they taken Orrain?"

"The Chatelet."

"And mademoiselle?"

"I know not. I know not if she is alive or dead."

Le Brusquet groaned. "That is the worst tale of all. Orrain, I think, we can save."

"How so?"

For answer Le Brusquet held up my ring. "With this talisman!" And slipping it on his finger he continued: "It is not for nothing that I studied law at the College of Cambrai. As first prince of the blood, Vendome can claim Orrain from the Chatelet. If he has any gratitude he will do so."

"I never thought of that. I saw the prisoners taken to the Chatelet. There were two, Orrain and La Mothe, who is as well known to be of the prince's household as Vendome himself is known to be a heretic."

"Yes; a heretic too great to be touched. But he must pay his debts. I am going at once to see Vendome. Stay here if you like. You know where to find the wine. No, Pompon, not to-night!" And pushing back the ape, who had made ready to follow him, he went off.

It was gay that night in the salon of La Valentinois. The Queen had gone to St. Germain-en-Laye, where the royal children were, and all those who could had flocked to the apartments of the favourite, to pay their court to the crescent moon. The King had retired earlier than usual, for he meant to hunt on the morrow; but his absence only made the revelry more unrestrained. The card-tables were full, and at one of them sat Diane herself, playing with Caraffa against Vendome and the Marshal St. Andre, and surrounded by a crowd who watched the play and staked amongst themselves upon the game. Immediately behind her stood De Mouchy, in the ermine and red of his office, and ever and again a whispered word passed between the twain.

There was a pile of gold before Vendome, who was playing recklessly but with wonderful fortune. His face was flushed and his speech thick, for the goblet on the small service-table at his elbow was ever being filled, and emptied as fast as refilled. Nevertheless, he won each time, though he seemed to fling his cards down on the table without a look or thought.

"The gods are with me," he exclaimed loudly as he pulled off a coup, made utterly by hazard, and drew the stakes towards him.

Diane laughed gaily, but the red fox Caraffa was a bad loser.

"Monseigneur," he said with a snarl, "there is a proverb about luck at cards."

"I know," was the swift and unexpected reply. "Mistrust thy fortune when the knave and the Church are together." And Vendome pointed to the card the Legate had just played.

There was a titter all around; but Diane's white arm was stretched forth, and she tapped Vendome with her fan.

"Fie, Monseigneur! Your wit is too cruel. His Eminence but referred to the old saw: lucky at cards, unlucky in love."

The prince gallantly kissed her jewelled hand. "Madame, that is true, for until I met you I never knew how unlucky I was."

La Valentinois did not note the glance in Vendome's eye, and, vain as a peacock, blushed as she alone could blush. But a murmured word from De Mouchy caught her ear, and leaning back in her chair, her face half turned towards De Mouchy, and her fan outspread between herself and the prince, she asked in a quick whisper:

"Is it over?"

"Yes! He has come."

As De Mouchy spoke the crowd parted, and the Vidame appeared, and bowed before Diane.

"It was impossible to come sooner, madame; I had a little affair, and it was necessary to change my attire."

"A successful affair, I trust, Monsieur le Vidame."

Simon was about to answer, but a high-pitched voice broke in: "More successful than even the Vidame's great feat of arms in the forest of Fontevrault." And Le Brusquet made his way through the press, and stood behind the prince's chair.

Diane rose from her seat, and Simon glared at Le Brusquet, whilst a dozen voices called out:

"What was that, Le Brusquet? We have not heard."

"That is owing to Monsieur le Vidame's modesty; but this feat eclipses all the others of which he is the hero. This evening the Vidame broke up the heretic church in the Mathurins; nearly all the accursed brood were slain, women as well as men; but there are still enough prisoners to give us a rare bonfire by Saturday. Is it not so, monsieur?" And Le Brusquet turned to the Vidame.

"Is this true, Le Brusquet?" It was Vendome who asked. He too had risen, and his voice was trembling with anger.

"Assuredly, Monseigneur! Ask the Vidame! It was a great stroke. Amongst others they have taken La Mothe the Christaudin——" He stopped, for the prince broke in furiously upon his speech.

"This is foul treachery! The edicts are suspended! The King's word is given!"

"And is recalled. The edicts were re-enforced to-day. It is strange, Monseigneur, that you, as the First Prince of the Blood, did not know this!"

It was impossible to mistake the insult in this speech and in Simon's manner as he made it. For a moment it was as if Vendome's hot temper would have made him forget his rank. He raised his hand as though he would have struck the Vidame; but those around Simon hustled him aside, and it was in a scene of confusion that Monseigneur turned to Diane.

"I understand all this now," he said, pointing to the card-table, covered with the scattered cards and gold, "and I know to whom I owe this. Think not, madame, to fool me longer; but remember that all the rivers in France will not quench the fires you have lit to-day."

Then calling to De Mouy, Albain, and others of his gentlemen he bowed coldly to La Valentinois, and left the room amidst a dead silence.

When he had gone a babel of tongues broke forth, and there were loud and angry cries for Le Brusquet, whose "fool's prank," as they called it, had caused this storm. Le Brusquet, however, was not to be seen. He had stolen in, thrown his apple of discord, and stolen forth again like a ghost. None knew or understood better than he the wayward character of Vendome, and that never was the prince capable of acting with decision unless his self-love were hurt. So he had made his plan, and acted, and now stood in the shadow of a pillar in the courtyard waiting for the prince. He had not long to wait, for Vendome came storming out, almost on his heels, and called for his horse. There were quite a hundred or more gentlemen in his train, and as the horses were being brought up Le Brusquet stepped to the side of Vendome and held up his signet.

"Monseigneur," he said, "here is something of yours that has come back to you."

The prince almost snatched it from him, and glanced at it by the light of the flambeaux. One look, and he turned to Le Brusquet.

"He too!"

"Monseigneur! In the Chatelet, where La Mothe is. Forget not your rights, Monseigneur!"

"I am not likely to! Here! A spare horse for Le Brusquet!" And he sprang into his saddle.

Someone brought up a nag, Le Brusquet mounted, and the word being given for the Chatelet they went out at a trot, the prince riding in front between De Mouy and Albain, his hat pulled over his eyes, and in silence.

Whilst all this was happening it fared ill enough with me. Though felled by the blow on my head I was not stunned, only so dazed that my recapture was an easy matter. This time no risks were taken, and with my hands tied behind me by means of a long scarf, the other end of which was looped round the high pommel of a trooper's saddle, I was perforce compelled to accompany my captors as best I could, bleeding and dizzy from my hurt.

At length we arrived at the Chatelet, followed to the very gates by the mob. As my blurred vision saw through the moonlight those sombre walls, citadel and prison at once, my heart sank. Hope was left behind in those fearful oubliettes, whose sinister names carried utter despair with them. There was the Grieche, the Barbary, the Chausse d'Hypocras, where the prisoners, ankle deep in water, were neither able to stand upright nor to sit; the Fosse, down which one was lowered by a rope, and the hideous Fin d'Aise in which no man retained his sanity. So it had come to this! And in sullen despair I stood amongst the guards, awaiting Martines' pleasure. At first it seemed as if I were the only prisoner; but any doubts on that point were soon set at rest, for another unfortunate was dragged up and placed beside me. I felt rather than saw it was La Mothe—but, unlike myself, he was not bound—and then I heard Martines ask:

"Are these the only two prisoners?"

"Monsieur!" answered a subordinate officer.

The lieutenant of the Chatelet was not an unkindly man, and muttering something about "hangman's work" he came up and surveyed us by the light of the torches. Then he ordered my hands to be freed, and drawing his subaltern aside gave him some commands in a low tone, and went off.

As Martines turned away this person directed us to follow him, and, surrounded by guards, we entered a vaulted passage, and after descending and ascending many stairs found ourselves before a studded door, so low that even a short man would have had to stoop his shoulders to enter therein. A gaoler fumbled with the rusty lock, which for a space resisted all his efforts; but at last it yielded, and the door was pushed open, clanging harshly as it swung back. Beyond lay a hideous dungeon, into which we were thrust, the officer following us with a couple of guards, one of whom carried a lantern. The light discovered a long and narrow prison, the ooze dripping from the walls, and the floor slippery with slime. A single slit in the wall, no wider than three fingers of a man's hand and about a foot in length, let in light and air. For the rest, a stone bench and a jug full of foul water completed the furniture of this terrible chamber. Faint and dizzy, I made towards the bench, and sat thereon in the shadow as the officer said:

"I must ask you to share this lodging for to-night. It is known as the Palace," he added, with a grin, and then pulling out his tablets he turned to La Mothe.

"Your name, monsieur."

"Godefrey de la Mothe, chaplain to Monseigneur the Duke of Bourbon Vendome."

"And yours?"

From my seat in the shadow I answered: "Bertrand d'Orrain."

La Mothe started and half faced me, but held himself in, and the officer, having made his note, turned his back upon us and withdrew, followed by his men. We heard the door shut, a drawing of bolts, a rattling of keys, and then came silence and darkness.

No!—not utter darkness; for through the narrow slit in the wall a ray of moonlight fell, lighting the figure of La Mothe where he stood, almost in the centre of the dungeon. He was looking towards me, his eyes expectant and shining; but I could not speak, and sat like a stone.

At length he made a step in my direction.

"Orrain," he said, "have we met at last?"

With an effort I rose and took his outstretched hands, and in that moment I knew that the past was bridged over and my sin forgiven.

For long we sat together on the stone bench, and La Mothe told me of his life. How, though all thought him mortally wounded, he had rallied at last, and, in thankfulness for his escape, resolved to devote the remainder of his days to God. The spirit of the age fell on his mind, keen and ecstatic at once. In every trivial event he saw the hand of the Almighty, but he saw too the corruption around him. It was for such as he that the light of the new faith shone with an alluring radiance, and soon there was no voice that spoke more loudly for the truth than that of Godefrey de la Mothe. A fatalist above all things, even now, when everything seemed lost, he did not despair.

"Nay," he said, "the hour has not come for us to die. God has not brought us together to perish." And the words carried hope with them, even amidst the darkness and lowering prison walls. Then he knelt down and prayed; but I could not, for my heart was raging within me.

At length he rose from his knees. "The Lord will hear and answer," he said simply; but I made no reply, sitting with my head between my hands, staring in front of me. So till the moon set; and I must have slept. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and started up. It was La Mothe.

"Hark!" he said. "Do you not hear?"

I listened. There was a distinct murmuring, the clattering of hoofs, the neigh of a horse, and then a cry, faint but distinct:

"Vendome! Vendome! Bourbon! Notre Dame!"

We sprang to our feet. "The Lord, who preserved His chosen from out of the land of bondage, hath heard my cry, and we are saved!" exclaimed La Mothe, and making our way to the door we listened. All was stillness once more, a stillness that seemed to last for hours, though it was but for a few minutes. At last we heard the tramp of many feet, louder and louder they grew, and then there was a rattling of chains, and our prison door fell open, letting in a stream of light. In the blaze in the doorway stood Vendome and Martines, and behind them a crowd of eager faces.

"These are the prisoners, Monseigneur!" said Martines.

"And I, Antony de Bourbon-Vendome, First Prince of the Blood Royal of France, stand here on my right and claim them. Gentlemen," and he turned to us, "you are free; follow me!"



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE ARM OF GOD

Four days had passed since that dreadful night in the Rue des Mathurins—days the memory of which can never be effaced whilst I live. No tidings were obtainable of mademoiselle, save that she was amongst the prisoners who were being tried in secret by De Mouchy, and all efforts to communicate with her had been in vain. This much, however, leaked out: that owing to the whispers that had got abroad—none knew how—the prisoners, with the exception of one or two, were not of importance; but this in itself made the matter worse for mademoiselle, and gave the mock court of justice—it could be called by no other name—every opportunity of veiling its real purpose. In this De Mouchy was managing the trial with great skill. The prisoners of no account—the scrivener's clerk, the poor shopkeeper, the small mercer—got the benefit of plea and quibble! God knows, I did not grudge them that! But each acquittal, pronounced loudly in the name of the King's mercy, with high-flown words about the love of the King for his people, led step by step to the real object for which the infamous triangle worked. Already the gossips were beginning to wag their tongues at the leniency shown. It was said in the cabarets and public places that the memory of the tailor of St. Antoine haunted the King, and that he and the Queen were, in secret, heretics. At the last acquittal the cruel mob of Paris had actually dared to parade the streets, with angry cries at being deprived of the hideous spectacle of an expiation. "Au feu, au feu! Death to the Christaudins!" I still seem to hear their voices.

And so the time was ripe for the law to claim its prey, for the shameless three to gather in their spoil, and for an evil, vindictive woman to accomplish her revenge. The King was at Fontainebleau, whither he had gone, accompanied by La Valentinois and the Court. The Queen was at St. Germain-en-Laye, and the Louvre—except for its guards—was deserted. On the morning of the fifth day, however, the Queen returned, and although she knew what had happened she summoned me before her to hear the story from my lips. I found her in her study with three or four of her ladies. Catherine looked pale and heavy-eyed, and there were hard lines about her mouth. It was said she had never smiled since the day of the masque. I for one am certain it was from that day her secretive nature took the dark and devious course that led her to be what she became; but now it was only the beginning.

I said what I had to say briefly, and when I was done the Queen looked up at me.

"Is this all?"

I bowed in silent response, and after a pause she continued:

"I know what you would ask. I have done my best. I have written to the King to pardon Mademoiselle de Paradis, as he forgave Madame de Rentigny. I wrote at once, four days ago." And then she flushed to her temples as she added: "Up to now there has been no answer. It is useless to go myself——"

Her voice almost broke, and I looked aside, only to meet Mademoiselle Davila's eyes. They were swimming with tears.

It was now there arose an unusual bustle in the anteroom. The doors were thrown back, and in a loud voice the ushers announced the Duchess de Valentinois. For a moment Diane stood in the doorway, a little crowd behind her, and then, tall and stately, walked slowly up to the Queen and courtesied profoundly. Catherine remained frigidly still, as though oblivious of her presence, and amidst a dead silence Diane stood before the Queen, a faint smile playing on her lips, her eyelids drooped to cover the defiant fire of her glance. One might have counted ten as the two faced each other, and then Diane spoke:

"I have come, your Majesty, from the King."

Catherine's eyebrows arched, and a swift, lightning glance of hatred passed between the two. Then Diane's lids drooped again, and her soft, flute-like voice continued:

"The King kisses your Majesty's hands, and says there is much wind and rain at Fontainebleau, but that he has slain three boars and five stags."

"He has slain three boars and five stags," repeated the Queen in an even monotone, and turning to Madame de Montal, who stood behind her chair, she said bitterly: "Why does not somebody cry, 'God save the King!'?"

"All France cries that, your Majesty," said Diane. "And further, the King once again kisses your Majesty's hands, and has received your gracious letter in regard to Mademoiselle de Paradis." And now her voice hardened to steel, and she dropped the studied courtesy of her address. "That letter has been submitted to the council, and the King has decided to let the law take its course. God will not be insulted longer in this realm."

It is impossible to conceive the insolent malice that was thrown into La Valentinois' glance and voice, and the mockery of her bow, as she made this speech. And grey-haired Madame de Montal, gazing steadily at her, said:

"Madame, you speak to the Queen!"

"No, Montal," and Catherine rose, her face white as death, "you mistake; it is the Queen who speaks to me." And without so much as a glance in the direction of the Duchess she turned and left the apartment, followed by her ladies.

The favourite looked around her, a smile of triumph on her lips; but with the exception of myself the cabinet was empty, though a murmuring crowd filled the rooms without. It was then, and only then, she realised that the victory was not all hers, and felt the sting of the Parthian arrow shot by the Queen. Her cheeks burned red, and I saw the hand that held her fan tremble like a leaf in the wind. Then with an effort she recovered herself, and with another glance at me, full of superb disdain, swept from the room. As for me, my last hope had vanished, and I stood as in a dream, staring at the pattern on the carpet before me. How long I stood thus I do not know, but at last, from within the Queen's apartments, I heard someone weeping—heard even through the closed door and drawn curtains. It all but unmanned me; and then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looking up saw De Lorgnac.

"Orrain," he said, "come with me."

There was that in his eyes and voice which could not be mistaken.

"What has happened?" I asked hoarsely, though I well knew what he meant.

"Come," he said, "be brave! You are a man, and as a man I tell you, you need all your courage now. The Court is thrown open, and in an hour De Mouchy delivers his sentence. The harlot of France is by his side——" And he stopped, almost breaking down.

"Lorgnac, I am going there."

"It is useless. Le Brusquet is there. Come with me!"

But I turned on him fiercely. "I am going," I repeated, and, perhaps, he read what was in my heart, for he put his arm through mine.

"Come, then. I will come with you."

True and tried friend though he was I shook him off roughly, and hurried into the streets like a madman. How I reached the Hotel de Ville I cannot tell! I seemed to have made the passage in darkness; but at last I found myself there, pressing through the ever-increasing crowd that thronged the entrance to the trial chamber; and finally, passing the doors, I took my stand in the gallery reserved for spectators.

With burning eyes I looked upon the scene beneath me. Camus had just concluded his evidence, and was bowing to the court, a smile on his traitor's face as he listened to some words of compliment addressed to him by De Mouchy. Simon, the man I wanted, was nowhere to be seen, though my eyes, fierce with hatred, searched for him everywhere. But on a seat beside the judge was La Valentinois herself, radiantly beautiful, now fluttering her fan, now sniffing daintily at her vinaigrette, as she bent her frosty glance on the prisoners. One was old Ferrieres. Like a dying man, he leaned back in a chair that had been provided for him, for his wounds left him no strength to stand. His eyes were closed. He seemed to have fainted, and was oblivious of what was going on around him, whilst death had already set its seal upon his haggard and drawn face. Mademoiselle stood by his side, a hand resting on his chair. For one brief second our eyes met, and she smiled at me—a brave smile—and I bent my head in sorrow, for I could not look. It needed not the cry of the ushers in the court for silence. Every tongue was still. There was not a whisper, not a movement, for all felt that the supreme moment had arrived. De Mouchy bent over his papers. I heard them rustling; and then La Valentinois, leaning forward, said something to him in a low voice. There was a word to an usher, and once more the insupportable silence.

In a little we heard the steady tramp of feet. Nearer and nearer the sound came. A side door in the body of the court was opened, and a third prisoner was brought in and placed before the judge. Craning forward I looked. It was De Ganache; but how changed from the once brilliant cavalier. His figure was stooped and bent, his once dark hair was white, his face wrinkled as that of an old man, and in his shifty, unsettled glance glared the fires of madness. He did not seem to realise where he was, but began to laugh vacantly, but the laugh died away to a frozen look as his gaze fixed itself on La Valentinois.

"Diane," he cried in a terrible voice as he stretched his arms out towards her, "it was for your sake!"

But she, his destroyer, scarce glanced at him from her place on the judgment seat.

"He is quite mad!" And with a musical laugh she leaned back, and picking out a comfit from a little jewelled box began to nibble at it daintily as De Ganache's hands fell helplessly to his sides.

And now De Mouchy spoke. "Monsieur De Ganache, do you recognise the prisoners there?"

De Ganache followed his glance; a shiver went through him, and as he looked a red flush mounted to his forehead. Never had I seen a man look so before, and, thank God! never after. Unspeakable shame and hopeless despair were sealed upon his face. His lips grew livid, and twice the question was repeated ere he forced himself to answer.

"Yes."

I held my breath and listened. What did this mean? Ferrieres still lay back in his semi-trance, oblivious of all things; but mademoiselle moved forward and looked at De Ganache, ineffable pity in her eyes. And now came the next question.

"They are known to you as Christaudins?"

One glance at mademoiselle and De Ganache shrank back; but her voice rang out clear and sweet, for she, with all of us, mistook the reason of De Ganache's terrible emotion.

"Deny it not, De Ganache! Be not afraid."

But with a cry De Ganache put his hands to his face and turned aside. A woman began to sob amongst the spectators, and someone dropped a sword with an angry clash on the parquet. Once more the strident voices of the ushers arose, and after a little silence was restored.

De Mouchy was about to put yet another question when La Valentinois interposed.

"It is enough," she said; "I but wanted to confront them. Let him have his reward."

De Mouchy smiled, and bending forward addressed De Ganache.

"Gaston de Ganache, Vicomte de Ganache and Les Barres, you stand convicted a heretic and traitor, and for crimes such as yours the laws of God and man have but one punishment. But bearing in mind the services you have rendered by denouncing your fellow-conspirators and discovering their secrets to the King's most trusty servants, Simon, Vidame d'Orrain, and myself, the King at the intercession of Madame the Duchess de Valentinois has in his gracious mercy spared your life on condition that you quit France within four and twenty hours. Monsieur, you are free."

As these astonishing words fell from the judge's lips—words that branded De Ganache with unutterable infamy—the miserable man looked around him like an animal at bay; and then, a madness coming upon him, he broke out into peal after peal of harsh, mirthless laughter—laughter that seemed to come from the grave and beyond; and, laughing thus, they led him away. When he was gone De Mouchy pointed to Ferrieres as he said to a warder:

"Arouse him!"

They dragged the fainting man to his feet, and he stood limply between two gaolers; and then the judge asked:

"Prisoners, is there anything you would like to say?"

And mademoiselle answered for both, in a low but distinct voice:

"Nothing. We confess we are of the true faith, and we are willing to die for it. As to our having conspired against the King—we are innocent!"

And as she spoke some strange idea must have passed through the wandering brain of Ferrieres. Half in delirium, he looked about him, and with a supreme effort, standing free of the warders, he called out in a loud, fever-strung voice:

"Vive le Roi!"

It was one of those moments when the sympathy of a crowd can be caught by a word. Small and mean-looking as he was there was something so forlorn and hopeless in the gallant cry of the doomed man that all hearts were touched. A low, responsive murmur broke from the spectators, and then with one voice they too shouted:

"Vive le Roi!"

They heard it outside—the multitude who thronged the stairways, the courtyards, and the Place de Greve. And they too yelled with brazen lungs, and the roar of their voices came to us through the open windows, with the sunbeams that lit the shadows of the vast and gloomy hall. Never did subjects hail their king in a moment more sad.

Ferrieres had sunk back in a crumpled heap, and mademoiselle was leaning over him in womanly sympathy; but the guards thrust her aside, and held up the dying man once more to hear, if he could, his sentence. The tumult sank away, and once more there was silence. La Valentinois sat still, watching the prisoners behind her fan; and then De Mouchy, in a speech that was dignified and impressive even to me who knew the unheard-of guilt of the man, passed the last sentence of the law. The sin of the prisoners was amply proved. It was against the King, and, he bent his head, against the Church of God. The King had already shown his mercy—all men had seen and felt it—but the wrath of God had shown itself in the disasters that had smitten the land, and France must be purged clean of the sin of heresy. As for the judge, the laws, and, in chief, the Edict of Compiegne, gave him no power to mitigate the punishment of wretches so guilty as these who stood now before him. And so Diane, Demoiselle de Paradis, and Jean, Sieur de Ferrieres, were condemned to be drawn two days hence on hurdles to the Place Maubert, there to suffer the greater torture and the less, and there to have their bodies consumed by fire, as Almighty God would hereafter consume their souls.

And then, amidst an awed hush, the blasphemer who sat upon the judgment seat made a sign to the guards to remove the prisoners, and, bending down, began slowly to gather up his papers.

As the terrible words fell from De Mouchy's lips I was for the moment overcome, and the immense hall seemed to swim before me, so that I had to support myself by holding to the railings of the gallery.

La Valentinois had risen, and was leaning forward looking hard at Diane, as if expecting some cry, some appeal for mercy; but at the last words of De Mouchy mademoiselle had bent her head in silent prayer, and then her calm, pure eyes met those of the wicked woman before her, and rested on her for a moment with a grave pity in them, as she said in a clear voice:

"Madame, God has already taken one of us beyond your reach." And she pointed to Ferrieres. "As for me, His mercy will come to me too, I pray; and may He forgive you as I, who am to die, forgive you now."

It was truth she spoke. A hand more powerful than aught earthly had rescued Ferrieres, and he was dead. He had passed as he stood there, held by the warders, and the lifeless figure, with its glazed eyes staring into the unknown, was only kept from falling by the supporting hands around it. Even De Mouchy paled; and La Valentinois, who had striven to meet mademoiselle's look with her cruel laugh, shrank back and covered her face with her hand. And now the guards closed around their prisoners, the living and the dead, and they passed from my sight.

In a moment the tension was relaxed, and a hundred voices were raised at once, discussing the sentence, the news of which had already gone forth; and outside the multitude began to hoot and groan and cheer.

A man seized me by the cloak. "A just sentence, was it not, monsieur?" he asked. And then went on: "A pity the old fox died; but it will be a good expiation, almost as good as that of Clinet and De Luns—cujus regio, ejus religio," he babbled on, airing his Latin; but I drove the fool from me with a curse, and wonder to this day if he ever knew how near he was to death.

La Valentinois had arisen, and, followed by De Mouchy and half a dozen others, was making her way to the exit, all parting before her as though she were the Queen. Now was my chance. Simon had escaped me for to-day; but De Mouchy—he at least was within my reach—and with my hand to my poniard I pressed down the steps of the gallery, but near the door was hemmed in by the crowd. Try as I would it was impossible to get through, and a barrier was put up, which made matters hopeless. There as I stood in impotent rage I saw over the heads of the crowd La Valentinois entering her coach. She was followed by De Mouchy. The guards closed around. There was a cheer, and they were gone. It was then that a cold hand touched my wrist, and a voice whispered in my ear:

"There are two days yet; do nothing rash!"

I turned swiftly, and saw Le Brusquet at my elbow, and behind him the tall figure of De Lorgnac; unknown to me he had followed me here.

"Come with us!" he said; and I made no answer, but did as I was bidden, and placing me between them we went back together to the Louvre. Once in Le Brusquet's apartments the reaction set in, and flinging myself in a chair I covered my face with my hands—for the first time in my life I had broken down utterly.

After a while I somewhat recovered myself. Lorgnac was standing with his back to me, looking out of the window, and Le Brusquet was by my side, a glass of cordial in his hand.

"Drink this," he said. "Remember there are two days yet; and God's arm is long."

Mechanically I drank, and as I held the glass in my hand Le Brusquet removed his cloak. In doing this something dropped, and stooping he picked it up. It was a packet of letters, tied with a red ribbon. With a glance of contempt at it he flung it on the table in front of De Lorgnac, who had joined us, saying as he did so:

"There are De Ganache's letters. I had almost forgotten them."

The packet had fallen on the table, almost under De Lorgnac's eyes. Half unconsciously he let his glance rest upon it, and then a strange expression came into his face, and holding up the letters, he asked Le Brusquet, with apparent unconcern:

"You have not looked at the writing, have you?"

"Not I! I dare swear 'tis some woman. Nothing else would be tied with red ribbon and scented with musk. Throw the thing away. It is too thick with memories of that traitor. My God! I did not think earth held so foul a villain."

But Lorgnac took no notice of his last words, only the hand holding the packet began to shake a little as he said slowly:

"As it happens, I know the writing well. It is a woman's hand———"

Both Le Brusquet and I turned on him, the same thought in our hearts.

"She!" I said, and half rising from my seat; but with an exclamation Le Brusquet snatched the packet from De Lorgnac's hand. In a moment the letters were opened, and he was reading them with feverish haste. There were four letters in all, and when he had done he looked at us, and there was the light of hope in his eyes.

"Speak, man!" And I gripped him by the arm. "I cannot bear this longer!"

"It is God's providence," he said solemnly as he grasped my hand. "Orrain, take heart! We win! Read these—and you too, Lorgnac! When you have read we must to the Queen at once."



CHAPTER XXIX

LA VALENTINOIS AND I

Monsieur de Crequy, his back to the light, stood in the embrasure of a window, deeply engaged in examining his features in a small hand-glass which he held daintily before him. The survey seemed to please monsieur, for he showed his teeth in a simper of satisfaction, and began to curl his black moustache between the forefinger and thumb of his disengaged hand. So engrossed was he that he never observed me coming up to him, and it was not until I was at his elbow that he suddenly realised my presence.

"Morbleu!" and he hastily slipped the glass in his pocket, "wherever did you spring from?"

"Not through the window, I assure you. I but came in the ordinary way. Madame, I suppose, is within?" And I pointed to a closed door in front of us.

Crequy nodded. "Yes; reposing after the fatigues of the day, and will have none but a Chevalier of the Order to guard the entrance to her bower. What a day it has been! I suppose you know it will be on Saturday?"

I could have struck the coxcomb; but held myself in, and asked to see La Valentinois, adding that my affair was of vital import. At this Crequy began to hum and haw, and I had to humour him, telling him that madame would give him but small thanks for denying me, as my business concerned what was to happen on Saturday.

"That is a different matter," he said. "I will see." And he tapped at the door. There was no answer; thereupon Crequy gently opened the door and stepped in. He came out again almost immediately.

"As I said, madame is reposing; but I have told the Syrian. Would you like to wait here?"

"Perhaps I had better get my business over as soon as possible, and save the Syrian the trouble of coming to the outer door," I said. At which Crequy shrugged his shoulders, and pointing to the door with a mock bow bade me enter.

I did as I was bidden, and found myself in a long and narrow room. The ceiling, painted to represent the sky lit up by the crescent moon, was supported by eight arabesque pillars, four on either hand. Around the bases of the pillars, and scattered here and there over the rich carpet, were seats made of huge soft cushions, covered with matchless embroidery. Near one of these luxurious seats was a low carved table upon which lay an open volume of Ronsard's poems, and close by it, thrown carelessly on the carpet, was a lute with a cluster of streaming ribbons, and a black and white satin sling attached to it. Behind this stood a carved ebony prie-dieu, and above the crucifix that surmounted it hung a shield surrounded by a wreath of flowers, and bearing upon it a tree springing out of a tomb, with the legend: "Left alone—I live in thee," upon a scroll beneath. This was the strange manner in which Diane de Poitiers kept the memory of her dead husband green—for she ever posed as the inconsolable widow, carrying her husband's soul about with her, packed in straw, like her Venetian crystal goblets and eastern pottery. In the centre of the room, upon a veined marble pedestal, stood, in strange incongruity, a replica of the great bronze of Goujou, that faced her chateau of Anet. In this Diane was represented nude, reclining upon a stag, a bow in her hand, and surrounded by dogs.

Owing to the heat of the day the windows were open; but the curtains of pale blue silk, with silver crescents gleaming on them, were drawn to keep out the afternoon glare; and the subdued, opal-tinted light fell softly on this bower of luxury, which was, however, likely to prove the den of a tigress to me.

The room was empty when I entered, and after looking around me I picked up the volume of Ronsard. It was open at his ode to La Valentinois:

"Seray-je seul, vivant en France de vostre age, Sans chanter vostre nom, si criant et si puissant? Diray-je point l'honneur de vostre beau croissant? Feray-je point pour vous quelque immortel ouvrage?"

So far I read, and then flung the book with its fulsome verses down on the cushions. As I did this, I heard a little burst of laughter, followed by the harsh, chuckling scream of a parrot, and then a voice:

"Here! Vert-Vert! Here! To my shoulder!"

I stepped back behind a pillar, the curtains covering a door leading into an inner apartment were set aside, and La Valentinois entered, bearing on her left shoulder a large green parrot, whose plumage she caressed with her right hand. She was clad in a loose robe of some soft, clinging material that shimmered like cloth of gold. It was fastened at her throat by a jewelled star, and a golden zone clasped her waist. Her abundant hair hung loose in black, curling masses, and her little feet were thrust into gemmed and embroidered slippers. Madame had apparently come forth in some haste I could see.

"Orrain," she said, her face half turned from me, for she was looking at her bird, "whatever brings you here? Is it anything from Sire Grosse-Tete?" And then an exclamation broke from her, and she stopped short, for she saw me.

"You!" she said. "I thought it was the Vidame d'Orrain."

"A mistake, madame, in announcing me, perhaps, which I regard as the most fortunate in my life." And I bowed before her.

So bad, so worthless was this woman, that she utterly mistook my speech.

"True! Leila said Monsieur d'Orrain—but I thought it was your brother."

I made no answer, and she glanced at me, the colour rising to her cheeks, and a smile on her lips, as she went on:

"'Tis a thousand pities, Monsieur le Chevalier, that you have taken the wrong side; and by rights I should strike that gong there and call my guards, for you are dangerous, they say; but," and she sank languorously down in the cushions, her pet now on her wrist, "'tis a warm day, and I feel bored. Do I not, Vert-Vert? Perhaps monsieur here will amuse me." And she stroked the feathers of the bird, and bending down kissed it.

"Madame," I began; but she glanced up, and stayed me with a laugh.

"What a voice! As severe as my dear De Mouchy's when he delivers a judgment; but, Chevalier, Leila, my Syrian maid, always tells me 'tis easier to sit than to stand, and there is room on these cushions—come!" And stretching out a shapely white arm she let it rest on the amber-hued silk of the cushions by her side.

As I gazed on the temptress lying at my feet the thought came to me to slay her in her sin; and perhaps she saw the sombre light in my eyes, and read my heart, for she drew her arm back swiftly, and half rose; but mastering myself I gave her her chance.

"Madame, I have come to beg your mercy——"

"You!" And she sank back again on her cushions.

"Yes, madame! I have come to ask for a life."

"Not yours, surely? It never was Orrain's way." And she smiled.

"Ay; it is my life ten times over, as well as another's; but you know whom I mean, madame! She is innocent, and a word from you will save her."

"Oh, monsieur, you overrate my power! And this is not amusing. It is too hot to talk of such things."

"Madame, be merciful! Spare her! She never harmed you."

"What!" And tossing the bird from her she rose to her feet, lithe as a pantheress. So perfectly was she formed that one did not realise how tall she was until she came near; and she was close enough to me now, her eyes flashing with a hundred evil, angry lights.

"She never harmed me? Never hurt me? She! That white-faced provincial, with her airs of virtue, who tried to shame me in public! Look you, I hate that woman! Do you hear? I hate her—hate her! If by the lifting of my little finger I could save her, do you think I would? Never! Let her die! And she shall die, as Philippine de Lune did——"

"Madame!"

"And you!" she burst in, "insolent that you are!—you! who have dared to come here! Think you that you will go free?"

"Enough, madame! I no longer appeal to your pity."

She had half turned from me, and made a step towards the gong as if to strike it, but faced back like lightning, womanlike determined to have the last word.

"Mon Dieu! but this surpasses all."

"Not in the least! I begged for your mercy at first; now I bring to you the Queen's commands."

She almost gasped, and then laughed out loudly. "The Queen's commands—the commands of Madame Grosse-Tete to me! Ha! ha! ha! I took you for an insolent fool; but you are mad, monsieur, mad!"

For answer I held out to her one of her letters to De Ganache.

"The Queen desires you to see this, madame. It is your own writing to a man you have killed, body and soul—and there are many others like this—so it would be useless to destroy it. Read it!"

She stared at me for an instant in blank amaze, and then snatched the paper from me, her face white, her hands trembling. One glance at it, and she burst out:

"This is a forgery! A base forgery!" And then I laughed, for there would now be no mercy shown towards this she-wolf.

"There is no forgery there! And there are other proofs. What think you that your Syrian go-between will say when put to the question? What of your glovemaker Camus, and the house in the Rue des Lavandieres? Madame, you are alone here but for a half score of your archers and that fool Crequy. Think you that with such proofs in her hand the Queen would hesitate even to arrest you?"

"Arrest me!" she stammered.

"Yes! There are charges enough. What think you that the King—Monsieur Grosse-Tete as you call him—will say when he sees these letters, and hears of the triangle, and learns that all France, and all Europe, will know his shame, and of the infamous grant you cajoled him into giving you?"

She shivered and looked around her as I went on coldly:

"Call your guards if you will; but I swear to you that if you do within the hour you will fall so low that the very women of the Marais and the Temple would pity you!"

"My God!" And with a shudder she put her hands to her face, and the letter fluttered down to the carpet. Stooping, I picked it up, and continued: "The Queen, however, is more merciful than you, and even you have your uses, madame, so that her Majesty will overlook your crimes, upon a condition." And I stopped.

For a space she stood in silence, her head bowed, and her face covered. At last she slowly put down her hands, and looked at me. Such a look!

"What is your condition?"

"It is not mine. I begged for your pity, and you denied me. This is the mercy of the Queen to you—the mercy of the woman you have wronged."

"Enough of that! What are the terms? Am I to be kept here waiting for ever?"

"Simply that Mademoiselle de Paradis is restored to the Queen unhurt, and fully pardoned, within twenty-four hours."

She bit her under lip till her white teeth left a vivid mark on it as I spoke, and then with an outbreak of wolfish fury:

"I will not! I will not!" And she stamped her foot. "She shall die—whatever happens—do you hear?"

"Perfectly! And in half an hour, I promise you, you will be arrested, and the story of your shame known to all. Do you think women like you have an empire that lasts for ever? You should take a lesson from the past, madame. Once the King's eyes are opened, and they will be in twelve hours, you will stand alone. But you have made your choice, and I will take your answer to the Queen."

With that I bowed, and made for the door. Ere I had gone half the length of the room, however, she called me back.

"Stay!"

I turned slowly, and faced her once more.

"Is it any use? You have answered me."

"No; I have not." Her voice was half strangled, and there were tears of anger and mortification in her eyes. "No; I have not," she repeated; and then gasped out: "I will do what you wish; but I want those letters back."

"That rests with the Queen. She makes no terms with you, and in that you must throw yourself on her pity."

With a low cry she suddenly flung herself down on the cushions, biting at them in impotent fury with her strong white teeth and tearing at the embroidery with her fingers. It was the fury of despair. It was the senseless rage of an animal, and I stood and watched, feeling that a desperate game was won, and almost pitying her, murderess, and worse, though she was.

After a while she looked up at me, her face haggard, her eyes livid.

"Have you no pity?" she moaned. "Are you made of steel?"

"Come, madame! I await your answer, and time presses."

She gave me a deadly glance, and rose slowly, clasping and unclasping he hands convulsively. At last she said:

"Very well. You shall have the pardon."

"In that case, madame, I am to say that your papers will be returned to you."

"Enough!" And with another burst of anger: "And now go—begone!"

"A moment!" And stepping towards the gong I struck it lightly with the hammer. Almost on the stroke the door opened, and Crequy appeared, his eyes staring with astonishment as he glanced from the one to the other of us.

"Monsieur de Crequy," I said, "madame has received ill news, and it is necessary for her to see the King at once. Madame will start for Fontainebleau in an hour—that will suit you, madame?" And I turned to La Valentinois.

"Yes."

"You will kindly make the necessary arrangements at once, monsieur—and the Queen's guards will supply the escort. Monsieur de Lorgnac and I accompany madame."

And with that I left them, Crequy staring after me in open-mouthed amaze.



CHAPTER XXX

FONTAINEBLEAU

"Where are we? Will this road never end?"

The voice of La Valentinois cut sharply into the warm, moonlit night; and De Lorgnac, who was standing near the window of the coach, answered:

"We are at the end of the plain of La Brie, madame, and have stopped to change your horses and breathe ours."

From over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of a beautiful, sullen face, and La Valentinois sank back again amongst her cushions, where we left her to her thoughts—such thoughts they must have been!

It was the first time she had spoken since we left the Louvre, whilst all the bells of Paris were chiming vespers. She had uttered never a word of protest, even when her Syrian was prevented from accompanying her, with the meaning order: "By the Queen's command!" and through the hours, as the coach, drawn by four horses at a gallop, jolted and swung over the weary road, she lay back, still as a stone, her eyes closed as if she slept.

Now and again as I rode by her window I had glanced into the coach; but never was there any change in her position, and it was only when we halted at the post-house that her pent-up fury broke out into an angry question, to relapse at once into an air of frozen indifference.

The escort had dismounted, and stood with their horses in two dark groups in the front and in the rear of the coach. There was hurry and stir in the post-house at the unexpected coming of the great Duchess; and De Lorgnac and I, having given our horses to a trooper to hold, paced slowly together to and fro, now and again exchanging a word.

Suddenly, almost in answer to the thoughts that moved me, he stopped, and putting a hand to my shoulder, said:

"Look you, Orrain! The game is not yet won. She has a last card."

"I feel that. It is what I think."

"If she plays on the King's madness for her she may win all, unless——" And he put down his hand, and hesitated.

"Unless what?"

"The gossip is true that the King bitterly regrets the infamous grant he made to her, and would give his right hand to escape from his word."

"Le Brusquet is certain of it. He was there when the grant was made, if you remember."

"In that case there is but one course open to her, and she will take it. She will, as if of her own accord, surrender the grant, after getting the pardon of Mademoiselle de Paradis. Thus, though balked at present, she will retain her hold on the King, and wait for another day."

"I care not what she does so long as mademoiselle is saved."

"The horses are ready, messieurs." It was Pierrebon, whom I had ordered to accompany me, who broke in upon our talk, and five minutes later we were once more upon our way, the still figure within the coach immovable and silent as ever.

All through the night we rode, and at last, when the moon sank and the darkness that precedes the dawn came, we clattered through the narrow streets of Bois-le-Roi, and entered the forest of Fontainebleau.

In a moment the clear, cloudless sky, in which a stray star or so yet lingered, as if awaiting the day, vanished from our view, and we plunged into an endless avenue of mighty trees, the overarching branches forming an arcade above us. As we swept into the shadow the lamps of the coach threw the gnarled trunks into fantastic shapes, that seemed to live and move. It was as if we raced between two rows of grisly phantoms, things of air, that vainly reached forth long, writhing arms to stay us, only to sink back and dissolve into the gloom as we sped past.

After a while we came upon more open ground, now and again passing the fires of a beater's camp, and then, on rounding a turn, we saw rising before us the vast irregular outlines of the Chateau. Ten minutes later the coach swung through the gates, and, white with foam and dust, the horses were pulled up before the Horseshoe Stair. It was not yet dawn; but lights were glittering everywhere, and the Chateau was already astir, for the King never spared himself, or others, at the chase. Indeed, that and a tourney were the only two things which ever moved his dull spirit to action. Our coming was a complete surprise; but the broad steps of the stairway were already crowded, and soon a murmuring, curious throng had gathered about the coach.

I myself opened the door, and as I offered La Valentinois my arm to assist her to alight I said in a low voice:

"We cannot give you much time, madame. It must be before the King starts."

Her eyes flashed defiantly, but she made no answer, and, declining my proffered aid, stepped out lightly. She stood for a moment on the lowest step of the stair, a tall, hooded figure, the lights of the torches playing on her, and all bowing respectfully; and then De Lorgnac called out in a loud voice:

"Madame would see his Majesty the King!"

Almost on his words a lean shadow came running down the steps towards us. By the lights of the torches flickering through the grey of the morning I saw it was Simon of Orrain himself. La Valentinois saw him too, and stood motionless until he came up to her. Simon's eyes blazed with a hundred unasked questions, but he merely said:

"His Majesty has just heard of your return, madame, and is overjoyed. It will be a great hunt to-day. Permit me!" And then he caught sight of me, and started back, his half-outstretched arm falling to his side, his lips curled back in a snarl.

"You keep madame waiting, Monsieur le Vidame," I said, "and her business is of vital import."

He was about to answer when La Valentinois placed her hand on his arm, and muttering something under his breath, Simon turned and led her up the stairway, all bowing as though she were the Queen. Whilst the two went up, they began to talk in low, hurried tones, and twice Simon looked back at me, the hate of a devil in his glance. Most of those present followed them; but there still remained many who crowded around us buzzing with questions; but we put them aside, saying we were weary, and needed rest.

As the red dawn came I found myself seated on a wooden bench near my horse's stable wondering, fearing, and hoping. The escort had been dismissed by De Lorgnac, with orders to return to Paris under M. de Tolendal, as soon as the horses were rested, and De Lorgnac himself had gone off somewhere. So two hours must have passed, and it seemed to me that the movement in the courtyards and in the Chateau grew less and less. Presently half a dozen huntsmen, leading their hounds, passed close to me, talking in loud and aggrieved tones.

"Mille diables!" exclaimed one. "To think it is all off!"

"Never have I known the like!" said another.

"What has happened, my friends?" I asked; and the first speaker replied:

"The hunt is put off, monsieur. Put off, after we had marked down the largest and fiercest boar in France! As high as that!" And he held his palm out almost on a level with his breast.

"Ay; and as grey as my beard," put in another, a little, shrivelled old man. "He has the devil on his side, that boar. Five times has he escaped. Three of my best hounds has he slain. For a whole week have I tracked him through the Dormoir, and now that we have him safe in his lair in the Gorges d'Apremont—the King does not hunt! He has the devil on his side, I say!"

"Way! Way for Monsieur le Vidame's horse!" called out a strident voice, and a groom came up, leading a big white horse ready saddled. The huntsmen moved aside, and the groom led the horse towards the Chateau; but ere he had gone ten steps Simon himself appeared hastening towards him.

Simon was still in his hunting suit of close-fitting dark green, a short cloak thrown over his shoulder, and long boots that reached to his thighs. His sword was slung scabbardless to his side, and he wore a baret on his head, with a single cock's feather in it, underneath which his pale face looked like that of a corpse.

As he came forward hastily towards his horse, his shoulders bent, and his wolf's eyes fixed before him, there was that in his air which was ominous of danger, and, springing to my feet, I drew my sword and stepped towards him. He saw me too, and came up like a truculent dog. We both reached the horse almost at the same time, and I fully expected him to draw on me at once; but stopping, he said:

"You seem to forget, brother, that the edict applies to Fontainebleau as well as the Louvre."

"Not in the least; but one is allowed to kill vermin in the forest."

He glanced at me in speechless, blue-lipped rage. Twice his hand sought the hilt of his sword, and twice he drew it back. But that I knew him utterly fearless I might have thought his heart had failed him as he stood before me, the veins swollen on his forehead, and his fingers twitching convulsively. At last he found voice, and, laughing harshly, said:

"Not now; give me twenty-four hours, brother, and then as you wish, or, rather, whether you wish or not."

"So be it," I answered, and he laughed again, bitter, mirthless laughter, and reached out for the reins of his horse; but ere he mounted he turned once more on me, another gust of anger shaking his frame.

"Look you! You think you have beaten me because you have beaten that black-eyed strumpet who bewitches the King. I tell you I hold her in the hollow of my hand, and she cannot buy from me what she has bought from you. As for you, you have stood in my way long enough; never again shall it be. Fool! think you I cannot read your soul? Think you I will let you win the prize I should have won? I promise you that, in these twenty-four hours, which will make you long for death—I, Simon of Orrain, swear it!"

With this he swung round, and, springing into the saddle, went off at a gallop, leaving me staring after him, wondering what devilry lay behind his words. I watched him till he rounded the elbow of the wood that lay without the gates, and then, sheathing my sword, went slowly towards the Horseshoe Stair.

Under other circumstances I should have looked with wonder and admiration on the magnificent pile that the splendour of the late King had erected on the old-time fortress of Louis VII, but, as it was, I paced up and down the Cour du Cheval Blanc, gazing at the wide stairway and the silent walls, every minute that passed seeming an hour to me in my impatience. At last I saw a figure at the head of the Horseshoe. It was De Lorgnac, and he beckoned to me. In a moment I was by his side.

"Have you heard anything?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"She has had three hours." And I pointed to the sun.

"You must give her time. It will be sufficient if we hear by noon."

Then I told him of Simon and his strange departure, and whilst we spoke together Carnavalet, one of the chamberlains, appeared, and walked leisurely up to us.

"Messieurs," he said, "you are wanted. Have the goodness to follow me."

The Galerie de Cerfs, into which Carnavalet took us, was all that remained in the modern Chateau of the old hunting-lodge and fortress of the Kings of France, and, despite the trophies of the chase and tapestries that hung to its walls, it still retained the grim and forbidding aspect of the past.

It was used as an ante-room, not only to the King's apartments but to the council chamber, and was crowded when we entered. Placing us near a pillar Carnavalet bade us wait until he returned, and threading his way through the press passed through a door at the extreme end of the gallery that led to the private apartments of the King.

Many and curious were the glances cast at us as we stood there, dust-begrimed and travel-stained; and a number of those whom we had put off in the early morning swarmed round us again with their endless questions, which we were hard pressed to parry.

Almost beside us was another door, opening into the council chamber, and interest seemed to be divided between us and what was passing there. It was clear that something of importance was in the air, for secretaries came out and went in with quick, rapid steps, and bundles of documents under their arms, and every now and again a messenger would hurry forth, and we could hear the clattering of his horse's hoofs as he galloped away.

De Lorges, the captain of the Archer Guard, joined us just as one of the express riders hurried past.

"I wager a hundred pistoles against a flask of Joue that means an end of the Spanish peace," he said, with a laugh, and rubbing his hands together. "I am sick of these rusting times. They say that Coligny has attacked Douai already. Ah! here he comes!"

He turned as he spoke towards the entrance of the gallery, and at once the subdued hum of voices stilled to silence, and the crowd of gaily clad courtiers parted, making way with low bows for someone who had just entered. For a second I thought it was the King himself; but a look showed me not the King but the stern figure of the Constable of France.

Montmorenci walked up the gallery, glancing to the right and left of him from under his bushy white brows, now and then returning a salutation. He was in complete mail, all except his helmet, which was borne by a page behind him, and his sinister appearance accorded well with his terrible fame. He was of middle height, with broad and prominent shoulders, and hair as white as snow. His face, tanned to a dark brown by constant exposure, was stern, and yet sad, with fierce, bloodshot eyes set far back in his head, and the grimness of his countenance was enhanced by the two projecting teeth which stuck out from his lower jaw like a boar's tusks.

He came forward slowly, bearing himself with princely dignity, and when he got near to us he stopped, and addressing Lorgnac, whom he knew, inquired: