CHAPTER XIX
D’ANCENIS TELLS THE STORY
I lay for some time without stirring, looking fixedly at the window in front of me and wondering in a vague way what had happened. I could see the sun shining brightly on some shrubbery outside the window. The view was stopped by a wall, and a dull and monotonous roar, which I recognized as belonging to the city, was in my ears. I perceived I was in bed. A white, narrow bed. I turned my head slowly and gazed about the room. It was small and plainly furnished, but seemed clean and comfortable. The thought forced its way into my mind that I had never before been in this room. How, then, did I get there?
I closed my eyes again, and for a long time my brain refused to grapple with the problem. It seemed as though coming back from a country full of mist, and clouds of the mist still clung to it. Finally, with supreme effort of will, I opened my eyes again, and again looked through the window and about the room. This time I could think more clearly. No, I had never been here before, and the question repeated itself, How, then, did I get here?
And still I could get no farther than the question. I heard a door open, and some one tiptoed to the bedside. I found myself looking up into a sweet, colorless face. It was surrounded by a black wimple, and I remembered dimly that I had seen nuns wearing such. The eyes looked down for a moment into mine and were then withdrawn. As I still lay staring at the ceiling, another face appeared before me. It was the face of a man whom I did not know. Or, wait a moment, I had seen it before somewhere, but my brain seemed to recoil at the effort at recollection.
“He is doing nicely,” I heard a voice say. “He will soon be quite well. The danger was that he would never regain consciousness.”
Again the face was withdrawn, and I felt an arm under my head lifting me up. A cup was pressed to my lips.
“Drink,” said a voice, the man’s voice, “it will do you good.”
I drank obediently, almost mechanically. Then I was lowered again, and the arm was removed. A great heaviness oppressed my eyelids. I did not struggle against it, but yielded to it gladly and drifted away into the land of mist.
When I opened my eyes again the sun was still shining without the window; nothing in the room was changed. But my head seemed quite clear and I could think without weariness. What was this room in which I found myself? I looked around and examined it attentively. A small room, twelve feet square, perhaps, the bed, two chairs, a small table, and a stove in one corner the only furniture. There were a number of bottles and glasses on the table. I raised my hand to my head, surprised at the effort it cost me, and was astonished to find a bandage about my forehead. What had happened? Had I been injured?
And in a flash it all came back to me,—the arrest, the ride through the night, the encounter with Cartouche, the flash of pistols and then darkness. I must have been wounded in the head. But the regent,—was he safe? Richelieu,—where was he? A thousand questions surged into my brain at once. I raised myself upon my elbow and cried aloud. The door opened in a moment, and a woman entered, the same woman whose face I had already seen bending over me.
“Monsieur is awake, then,” she said, smiling at me kindly, but forcing me gently back upon my pillow. “Monsieur is better.”
“Yes, yes, I am better,” I answered. “But what has happened? Where am I? The regent, Richelieu, Madame du Maine——”
She laid her hand upon my lips.
“Have patience,” she said. “I will call the doctor.”
She left the room while I still lay overwhelmed by my thoughts. She was soon back, and with her was the man who had accompanied her once before, and this time I recognized him as Levau, the surgeon who had bound up my shoulder at the Café Procope.
“Good-morning, M. de Brancas,” he cried, in a jovial voice, as he came to my bedside. “I see you are doing famously and will soon be on your feet again. How do you feel?”
“I feel no pain,” I answered, “but am very weak.”
“No pain in the head, eh? Well, that is good. Come, now, let me see the wound,” and he untied the bandage from about my temples, held up my head and apparently examined a wound at the back. “Upon my word,” he said, after a moment, replacing the bandage, “I have never seen anything prettier. Ah, monsieur, it is pure blood that tells, and you are an ideal patient. Why, that stab you received in the shoulder the other day has left nothing but a scar, and in a week from now this little scratch will have ceased to trouble you.”
“But what is it?” I asked, scarcely able to restrain my impatience while this examination was in progress. “I was shot, I know that; but how did I get here, and where am I and what has been done with my friends?”
“One question at a time, M. de Brancas,” and Levau stood smiling down at me. “You were brought back to Paris from the place on the roadside where the bullet which struck you in the head laid you. This is the Hotel Dieu, and you have to thank the nursing of Sister Angelica here that you are alive to-day. The bullet did not enter the skull, but simply stunned you,—a glance blow. It looked for a time, however, as though you were never going to open your eyes again. You had also a bullet in your shoulder, but that was a mere nothing.”
“How long have I been here, then?” I asked.
“Six days, monsieur,” and Levau still smiled.
“Six days!” I gasped. “But tell me, monsieur, what has become of Richelieu, of Madame du Maine, and of all the others.”
“Now there, M. de Brancas, you are getting beyond me,” and Levau waved his hands deprecatingly. “I do not meddle with politics. When you ask me concerning your injury I have my answers ready on my lips, but when you go into politics I am all at sea. But wait a moment,” he added, kindly; “I think I can bring you some one who has inquired after you every day and who can answer all these questions,” and he left the room. In a moment he returned, bringing with him a man, who rushed towards my bed, his face alight with pleasure.
“D’Ancenis!” I cried.
“Yes, de Brancas, it is I,” and the marquis took my hand with the heartiest of clasps. “I cannot tell how pleased I am to hear that you will soon be well again. I had just come to inquire after you when Levau was summoned by the nurse, and I was imagining the most horrible things when he returned with the news that you are so much better.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” I answered, more moved than I cared to show by his evident concern. “But tell me, where are my friends?”
D’Ancenis glanced questioningly at Levau.
The latter nodded encouragingly.
“Tell him, monsieur,” he said. “It will do him no harm to talk, and worry might retard his recovery, although the effects of the injury are almost passed. You will excuse me, gentlemen,” and, followed by the nurse, he left the room.
“Very well, then,” said d’Ancenis, drawing a chair to the bedside and again taking my hand. “Proceed with your questions, de Brancas.”
“First,” I said, after a moment’s pause to enable me to marshal my thoughts in some kind of order, “is the regent safe?”
“Quite safe,” and d’Ancenis smiled more than ever. “That night ride of yours, my friend, did not deserve to be otherwise than successful. I have heard the regent tell the story a dozen times. He and his party heard first the rapid beat of horses’ hoofs. They paused to listen, when from the wood in front of them came a rider, clinging to his horse’s neck and fired a pistol into the air. There was a volley of shots behind him and he was seen to reel and almost fall. He caught himself by a supreme effort, clung to the saddle until ten paces from the regent, cried to him to save himself, and dropped senseless from his horse and rolled to the side of the road. It was over in a moment, the scoundrels who had shot him remaining concealed in the shelter of the trees. The regent, suspecting some treachery, immediately drew his pistols, as did the gentlemen with him, and retreated until some distance from the wood, so that surprise was impossible. Then a courier from Paris, who had reached him a few moments before, was sent back half a league to St. Cloud for re-enforcements. As soon as these arrived the wood was entered, but no one was found. The regent examined the body by the road, and at once recognized you, my friend. He knew not what to make of it, but ordered you picked up and brought back to Paris. There he heard from the commandant of the Versailles gate how you had got through. A little later, he learned from me how you had escaped from the hall and of the efforts made by Madame du Maine to stop you, for she was not so circumspect in this affair as is usual with her, and betrayed herself completely. The regent can put two and two together as well as any man, and he was not long in arriving at a conclusion. This conclusion became a certainty when a confession was secured from one of Cartouche’s rogues, who attempted to re-enter Paris the next morning and was captured. He told all of the details of the ambuscade, and how Cartouche himself, with his companions, was to have attacked the regent should he get past the wood alive. Cartouche has left Paris and is across the frontier by this time. Really, de Brancas,” and d’Ancenis paused a moment to look at me, “you are a devil of a fellow. This was quite in line with your escape from the Bastille.”
“And Richelieu?” I asked.
“Is still in prison, and likely to remain there for some time to come, to say no worse. His offence is nothing less than treason, monsieur, and the regent has sworn to have his head.”
I groaned aloud.
“’Tis what I feared,” I said. “I must get up,” and I raised myself on one elbow.
“Gently, gently, de Brancas,” and d’Ancenis pushed me back again, nor did I resist him greatly, for I was weaker than I had thought. “Do you think one man, already half dead, would be able to liberate Richelieu? You propose to take the Bastille by storm, I suppose, single-handed and alone. I should not be surprised to see you undertake such an exploit.”
I remained for a moment silent.
“Tell me the rest,” I said, finally. “Madame du Maine, Cellamare, Mlle. de Launay,—what has happened to them?”
“Cellamare was conducted out of Paris and started for Spain under a strong escort the morning after his arrest,” answered d’Ancenis. “He protested, of course, but it was of no use. The papers which were found in his possession exposed all the details of the plot, which was marvellously well arranged, and which almost makes one admire the duchess. Madame du Maine submitted very quietly until she found she was to be taken to the citadel of Dijon, when she fought like a tigress, but it was to no avail, and she was safely lodged in the dungeon, vowing a hundred kinds of vengeance against her jailers. Mlle. de Launay wished to accompany her mistress, but the regent was afraid to allow those two women to remain together, so mademoiselle was given a cell in the Bastille, as were all the other prisoners arrested at the Tuileries. We found Polignac lying senseless on the floor, and he was quite hysterical for a time, protesting his innocence. De Mesmes did the same, but both were silenced when they were confronted by their own statements of their share in the conspiracy. The Duc du Maine was also arrested.”
“The Duc du Maine?” I cried; “but he knew nothing about it. I have never even seen him.”
“I can well believe it,” and d’Ancenis smiled. “I was deputed to arrest him, and I found him very harmlessly engaged in looking over his collection of snuffboxes at Sceaux. He was astounded when I gave him an intimation of what the duchess had been doing, and was very indignant that she had caused him to be sent to prison. He was taken to the Château de Dourleans, stopping at every shrine along the road to pray, for he was firmly convinced that the regent was going to have him killed. The regent has little cause to love him, and will doubtless try to make a case against him.”
“But he cannot succeed,” I said, confidently. “There will be a hundred persons ready to testify in the duke’s behalf.”
“That is all the news,” concluded d’Ancenis. “Paris has been talking of it for a week and the topic is not yet exhausted. Shall I tell you, my friend, of what they talk most? It is of your ride, and there are fifty pretty women ready to worship you. There has been one in particular who has made it a point to inquire of me every day how you are getting on.”
“And who is she?” I asked, with leaping heart.
D’Ancenis looked down at me quizzically.
“’Tis more serious than I had thought,” he said, laughing. “There will be many to envy you your good fortune, de Brancas.”
“But her name?” I asked again.
“What, man,” cried my tormentor, gayly, “would you have me be indiscreet? No, no. You must find out the name for yourself. Ask the lady of whom you are thinking and see what she says.”
I caught at his hand, but he eluded me, and laughed merrily as he looked back from the door.
“Get well quickly, my friend,” he said. “Do not keep her waiting,” and he was gone.
But I did not for a moment question the reply my heart had given me, and when Levau looked in on me again a short time later, he found me looking so contented that he laughed with pleasure.
“In faith, monsieur,” he cried, “I begin to believe that Captain d’Ancenis is a better physician than I. What magic did he use?”
I merely smiled.
“When can I get out of this?” I asked.
“Oh, we will see about that,” he answered, his professional air back upon him in an instant. “Three or four days will tell the story.”
“Three or four days? Nonsense!” I exclaimed. “Why, I am strong enough to get out of bed this moment,” and I started as if to rise.
“Patience, patience, monsieur,” and Levau held me back. “Suppose I say to-morrow, provided that you pass a good night and are as much stronger in the morning as I expect you to be?”
“Agreed. And now cannot I have something to eat? I am marvellously hungry.”
“As much as you like,” cried Levau, heartily, and he hurried away to send my supper to me. I did it ample justice and enjoyed it greatly, then lay for a long time thinking over all that d’Ancenis had told me, but more particularly of Louise, and finally dropped asleep.
I felt like a new man the next morning. Save for a little soreness at the back of my head and in my shoulder, and a slight weakness in my legs when I tried to walk, I was as well as ever. My clothing was brought me, and I walked around the room leaning on Levau’s arm. He seemed indefatigable in his attentions, and after ten minutes of this exercise he pronounced himself satisfied with my condition. Breakfast never tasted better than did that one, which Levau ate with me, and as soon as I had swallowed it I was anxious to depart, for Richelieu’s danger weighed heavily upon me, and I knew not how soon the regent might take action. Cartouche’s flight from Paris had cut off all hope of a rescue at the last moment, even had the scoundrel been inclined to aid me, which was now exceeding doubtful, and whatever was to be done must be done by me alone.
After a little demur Levau consented to my departure, provided I would take his carriage and not attempt to walk. I agreed, of course, and was surprised when he prepared to accompany me.
“Is it that I am under arrest?” I asked, an explanation for his extreme attentiveness coming to me suddenly.
“Not at all, monsieur,” he answered, readily. “It is only that I have sworn you shall recover and that my reputation is at stake. I am not going to take any chance of failure.”
“I hope that some day I shall be able to repay you for your kindness, monsieur,” I said, moved by the evident sincerity of the man. “At present I am not able to do so, nor to more than thank the nurse to whom you say I owe my life.”
“Think no more of it, M. de Brancas, I pray you,” he protested, with his familiar gesture. “Let there be no talk of payment. Indeed, I have already been more than paid by the persons who have taken an interest in your case.”
“And who were they, monsieur?” I asked, with some surprise.
But he merely waved his hand again and led me down to the coach, which was waiting. The drive across Paris, the fresh air of the morning, and the sight of the busy city were to me like a tonic, and I felt my strength returning with every moment. Levau looked at me with evident satisfaction.
“You will do,” he said. “With that color in your cheeks I have no longer any fear for the result.”
We soon reached the Hotel de Richelieu, and the joy of Jacques, who ran down the steps to welcome me, was touching to see. He would have had me carried into the house, but I would have none of it, and insisted on walking in myself. Levau left me at the door, admonishing me to rest as much as possible for a day or two, and to summon him if there were any unfavorable symptoms. Jacques led the way to the room on the first floor where I had so often dined. He arranged a chair for me, brought me a glass of wine, set a stool under my feet, and would have kissed my hand had I permitted it.
“There, there, Jacques,” I protested, as he asked me for the hundredth time if there was anything else he could do for me. “I am not going to die, my good friend. In a day or two I shall be well as ever and then we will see what can be done for Richelieu.”
“I knew you would say that, monsieur!” he cried. “I have heard of your wonderful exploit of the other evening. Who in Paris has not heard of it? Nothing seems to stop you, monsieur, when once you get started.”
I thought to myself that the walls of the Bastille were likely to stop me very effectually, but I did not want to damp his confidence, so I merely smiled, and after a time he left me alone while he went to give orders for dinner.
An hour passed, during which he looked in upon me once or twice, and I was dozing before the fire when I heard the door open again. Supposing it to be Jacques I did not turn, but in an instant I was startled by a hand upon my shoulder.
“Richelieu!” I cried, springing from my chair, my weakness vanishing as if by magic, and I caught his hand. “But what miracle is this? Have you escaped, man, and in broad daylight? You must not remain here. Come, a horse, and in an hour you will be safe.”
“Ah, do not fear, de Brancas!” he exclaimed, bitterly, dropping into a chair as though utterly weary. “I am quite safe. I have no need to leave Paris.”
I gazed at him a moment in amazement. Never had I seen that pleasant face so wretched. His hair was disordered, his eyes bloodshot, his clothing disarranged.
“What is it?” I asked, with a sudden fear at my heart. “What has happened?”
“You do not know, then?” and he turned his eyes wearily towards me.
“On my honor, no.”
“It was the regent who released me,” and he paused as one pauses at the brink of a chasm which must be crossed.
“The regent?” I was too astonished to say more.
“Yes, the regent. But he had his price. It was not out of kindness of heart. It was because he knew that it was worse than death. Do you know what his price was, de Brancas? I will tell you. His price was his daughter. To save me Charlotte has agreed to marry the Duc de Modena. The marriage takes place to-morrow morning at the Palais Royal, and she sets out at once for Italy.”