CHAPTER XII
A MESSAGE FROM WITHOUT
I lay for some hours in my cell, dazed by this new misfortune, nursing my aching muscles and smarting fingers. I had, it is true, saved Mademoiselle Valérie from the most immediate danger which threatened her, but only to hurl her into an abyss more frightful. For Roquefort had said that he would soon select another man to wed her,—one of his followers, no doubt; base-born, vulgar, low, more odious even than d’Aurilly,—so that in the end she must fare worse than ever. For a moment I found it in my heart to regret that I had killed d’Aurilly, then the memory of his great villainies came back to me and the regret passed. Earth were well rid of him!
After a time Drouet brought my dinner, and inquired with pretended solicitude about my injuries. I told him they were not worth speaking of, though my fingers were very sore from the dagger-cut and my muscles still ached abominably. He saw I was in no mood for talk and soon left me to myself.
I had no relish for the food, and went to the window in the faint hope that I might see some promise of assault in M. le Comte’s camp below, but the hope died as I looked down at it. The force was still there, indeed, but the men were sprawled here and there in little groups and the horses were grazing along the slope. He had not taken possession of the town, preferring, doubtless, to levy upon the inhabitants for supplies and leave them the possession of their houses. Besides, in the town there was danger of surprise or betrayal. Yonder on the hill-top there was none.
But I could guess how M. le Comte was eating his heart out gazing at this fortress on a cliff and wondering what had befallen his daughter.
It is not an easy thing for a man who has ordered life ever as he pleased to sit down quietly and accept defeat. Yet had he ten times the men, success had been far off as ever.
I was about to turn away when I heard a little rustling on the wall outside the window, and saw that it was caused by a piece of paper dangling at the end of a string. It was jerked vigorously back and forth. In a second I understood. Some one on the parapet, just over me, was trying to attract my attention. Plainly, the paper was for me. I strained my arm through the window and at last managed to grasp it. With fast-beating heart I drew it in and took it from the string, which was jerked away as soon as I released it. Then I unfolded the paper and read. The note ran:
“Monsieur, I have learned of your demeanor at the question and am grateful, for I am he who brought the warning to Marsan. While it is true you do not know my name, I am sure, nevertheless, that you might have pointed me out had you wished to do so. To-night I think I can aid you, and also the others. At six o’clock Drouet will bring you your supper. Detain him in talk until the guards are changed, which will be perhaps ten minutes. Then put him for a moment off his guard, seize his poniard, and kill him. This will require courage and address, which I am certain you possess. There is a sentry in the corridor, but you need not fear him, as I will see that he does not trouble you. In the cell below yours M. de Fronsac is quartered. Drouet will have the key to the door somewhere about him, since he delivers M. de Fronsac’s supper before coming up to you. He will doubtless have also the other keys to the tower.
“At seven o’clock Mademoiselle de Cadillac will come out for her usual evening walk upon the parapet, which she is permitted to take alone. There is, however, a sentry at either end of the parapet. These you will have to silence.
“After she has joined you, descend at once to the bottom of the east tower—the one in which you are. A flight of steps runs down into the rock. Descend these. At the bottom you will find a small door, heavily barred. You will see this opens on the face of the cliff, and if you look attentively, you will discern little steps scratched in the rock. By means of a rope to steady one’s self, these steps may be descended. The rope is kept always lying by the door. The great difficulty will be to get the door open. Only Roquefort himself has the keys, and you will have to break it down. This will be no easy task, but the sentry’s musket may prove of service. As the watches are changed at six o’clock your escape will probably not be discovered until midnight, so that you will have six hours in which to work. Much may be accomplished in that time. If you succeed, commend me to M. le Comte.”
You can conceive with what joy I read this message, with its plan of escape so admirably mapped out. At first glance it seemed quite easy, but as I considered it various difficulties appeared. However, I am not one who borrows trouble, and I put these doubts behind me. For, after all, here was hope in place of black despair—hope—and then, of a sudden, I saw that it was not hope at all—at least, not for me. We might escape,—we three,—but what of Claire? Would I not be deserting her to the mercy of this monster who knew no mercy? Well, we should see. At the worst, I could seek out this devil, sword in hand, and cut him down ere he could summon aid. I could see the others safely down the cliff and then turn back upon my errand. That would mean death for me also—but if there were no other way, it would at least save Claire from the insult of his caresses.
I read the message through a second time, and found myself wondering—who was this traitor in Roquefort’s household? No ordinary man, certainly, and one who kept his secret well. I knew so little of Roquefort’s followers—and I had caught but a glimpse of the messenger’s face. Well, M. le Comte would reward him.
Those hours of waiting were the longest I have ever known. I was eager to strike in the first flush of confidence,—that is ever my way, for I grow timid, sometimes, on second thought,—but now I must worry through three mortal hours. Worry through them I did, somehow—but it was with quivering nerves I heard Drouet at last throw the bolts. As the door opened, I caught a glimpse of the sentry in the corridor. Drouet set my platter on the floor.
“There’s your supper,” he said.
“And the last that I shall eat here,” I added laughingly. “Will you not be sorry to bid me adieu?”
“Bid you adieu?” he asked. “How is that?”
“I am to be released to-morrow morning,” I explained, “so soon as M. le Duc and Mademoiselle de Brissac are married. He has given his word.”
“So he is to have her at last, is he?” grinned Drouet. “Well, my faith, he has waited long enough. Had I been he, I would have had her months ago, and without troubling for a priest’s blessing. That is the safest way, for he may weary of her—he may in time see some one younger, fresher,” and he leered at me in a way that sent the blood to my face.
“He has pursued her long, then?” I asked, with what indifference I could muster.
“Long! Since the day she came last spring from the Sacred Heart at Toulouse, where the good sisters were caring for her. He had no sooner set eyes on her than he was mad for her. At first we all thought we should have a new Duchesse within a month, for M. le Duc is not the man for a girl just out of a convent to resist; but some one whispered into her ear the story of the first Duchesse, and perhaps some other tales besides. What would not M. le Duc do to the tale-bearer could he discover him! The first Duchesse is dead—dead,” and he laughed a mocking laugh. “There was a story! She was found one morning at the cliff-foot here, broken to pieces! She had flung herself over, perhaps. There were those who said that M. le Duc had wearied of her, as he will weary of this one—that the fall was not wholly an accident. However that may have been, the girl refused to look at him after she had heard the story. She was just from the convent, you see—her conscience was yet warm. M. le Duc swore he would have her. Her indifference only inflamed him the more. Really, before this, I thought he would use the strong arm.”
“But her uncle,” I questioned. “What of him?”
“Brissac? Pouf!” and Drouet grimaced contemptuously. “A man of water fit only for intrigue, where one talks in parables. He fears M. le Duc as he fears the devil; and he also fears this girl, who has a will of her own, despite her baby face. So he stepped discreetly to one side and permitted them to fight it out. Well, M. le Duc will have his hands full. I do not envy him. I prefer a wench whom I need not fear will stab me while I sleep.”
“Yes,” I assented. My hands were trembling as I realized that the moment had arrived. I marked how his poniard hung—there would be need of quickness, for he was a great, heavy fellow, much stronger, doubtless, than I.
“I must go,” he said at last. “I will drink your health at the wedding.”
He got slowly to his feet and stepped towards the door. As he passed me, I strained forward, plucked out his poniard and drove it deep into his thigh. I might have struck higher, but at the last instant my heart failed me. I saw his startled eyes staring down at me, then he fell with a crash.
“Help!” he yelled. “This way!”
But I was upon him, the poniard at his throat.
“Drouet,” I said between my teeth, “I spared you an instant since—I might easily have killed you. I swear I will kill you yet if you utter another sound.”
He chuckled grimly as he looked towards the door.
“Many thanks, M. de Marsan,” he said, “but I think I have already uttered enough to spoil your game.”
For an instant I found myself looking over my shoulder with anxious eyes—then I remembered.
“There is no one there, Drouet,” I said triumphantly, rejoiced that it was my turn. “The sentry has been attended to.”
“Attended to!” he muttered, and looked again towards the door and then at me with distended eyes. “It is a plot, then!”
“A plot—yes,” I nodded. “But to business. You will turn over on your face, if you please.”
He hesitated, and I compelled his obedience with a prod of the poniard. He turned over slowly, with many groans.
“Now cross your hands behind you.”
The hands came back reluctantly.
I snatched his belt from about his waist and in a moment had the hands secure. I pulled on the belt until the blood seemed ready to burst from his finger-tips, for I could take no chances. A strip from his leathern jerkin served as a thong for his feet. I rolled him over.
“You see how much easier it would be for me to kill you than to take all this trouble,” I remarked. “But I am merciful—I am no butcher. However, I wish to be quite safe, so I shall be compelled to gag you.”
I tore another wide strip from his jerkin and stuffed his mouth full of the straw that had formed my pallet. It was not over clean, but was infinitely better than death. I bound the strip close over it and stood for a moment looking down at him.
“Ah,” I said, remembering suddenly my instructions, “you have some keys somewhere about you. Let us see.”
I knelt beside him, and in a moment had the keys—a great ring of them. As I arose I saw that he was making a frightful effort to speak.
“What is it,” I asked, “the wound?”
He nodded violently.
I knelt again and looked at it. It was bleeding slightly, but did not seem of a serious nature.
“I will fix that for you,” I said, and I bound a rag about it to stop the bleeding. “Now you are all right.”
I realized that I was spending too much time over Drouet, and I hurried to the door and opened it. In the half-light I saw the sentry lying against the wall. As I dragged him into the cell I shuddered to see that his skull had been crushed by a single blow from behind. Evidently my ally did not share my tender nerves.
I placed him against the wall opposite Drouet, who stared at him with distended eyes, plainly understanding nothing of the mystery of his death.
“That would have been your fate,” I said, “had any but I dealt with you. I wish you a pleasant night, Monsieur,” and I left the cell, bolting the door behind me. Certainly it would take Roquefort some little time to get it open again and learn Drouet’s story.
The corridor was very dark, but I groped my way to the spot where the sentry had fallen, picked up his musket, and made my way down to the floor below. There I found a torch burning, doubtless for the sentry’s use. In a moment I was fumbling at the door of the cell there. Half a dozen keys I tried, and at last the lock turned. I threw the door open with feverish haste. Within, I saw a figure lying on a pallet in one corner.
“Fronsac!” I called. “Fronsac!”
He sprang towards me with a cry of amazement.
“Is it you, Marsan? We are going to escape then?”
“We are going to try,” I answered, as I returned the warm pressure of his hands. “Come, Monsieur, there is not a moment to lose.”
“But Valérie?” he questioned, holding back. “I do not understand. What of her?”
“It is to her we go,” I said. “We will take her with us.”
His face lighted with a sudden joy.
“Ah, in that case,” and he motioned me forward.
I did not wait a second bidding, for I knew that seven o’clock, the hour of her promenade, could not be far distant. I thrust into his hands the sentry’s musket, caught up the torch, and led the way down the stair—two flights more there were, and then a door. I tried it. It was locked.
For a moment my heart sank. Then I bethought myself of Drouet’s keys. I tried them, one after another—joy!—the bolt yielded! I opened the door cautiously, for fear some one might be without. I could hear Fronsac chafing on the step behind me, but this was no time for haste. Evening had come in earnest and the court upon which the door opened was so dark that I could perceive no one. I listened for a moment, but heard no sound save a stave of a drinking-song shouted afar off.
“Come,” I said, “it seems safe. And we have always a place of refuge in this tower, an we reach it in time to bolt the door behind us.”
“But Valérie,” whispered Fronsac, “where is she?”
“I was told that at seven she would walk upon the parapet,” I answered, and by a single impulse we raised our eyes to the heights above us.
I confess I started at what I saw there—Mademoiselle Valérie, outlined against the red sky of the sunset, poised like a bird about to fly, gazing down at us. And at her side another figure—Roquefort.