CHAPTER XV
ROQUEFORT EXACTS A PROMISE
I opened my eyes to find Fronsac bending over me. He had torn the clothing from my breast and had one hand above my heart.
“It still beats!” he said. “Thank God, it still beats! We must get him to your father’s surgeon, Valérie.”
To the surgeon! I had been hurt, then? And in an instant I remembered—the rope had been cut—I had fallen. Was I dying? The thought sent a shock through me.
“Come, Fronsac,” I said. “What is it? How badly am I hurt?”
He replied with a cry of joy.
“Splendid! I feared that you were dead, my friend! Now let us see what bones are broken. Can you move yourself?”
For answer I sat upright, then got unsteadily to my feet. They looked at me as at one risen from the dead.
“But where is Roquefort?” I asked suddenly. “He has not escaped?”
Fronsac pointed to a dark mass which lay just at the cliff-foot.
“He is there,” he said. “He is far past escape. He was still bound to the rope when it broke. You fell upon him, which may explain your good fortune. But we thought you dead!”
“The rope did not break,” I said, “it was cut. They blew down the door with a charge of powder.”
“But you are quite sure you have no bones broken?” asked Fronsac anxiously.
I stretched my arms and felt myself all over.
“Quite sure,” I said at last. “Nothing worse than a few bruises. But let us look at him.”
We brought him out from the shadow of the cliff, unbound his hands, and laid him on his back. Blood was oozing from nose and mouth, but his heart still fluttered faintly.
“We must get him to M. le Comte,” I said, “before he dies. Come,” and I caught him by the shoulders.
Fronsac took him by the legs, and we set off through the night, Mademoiselle following. The moon was just clear of the horizon and the night was warm and still. We had reached the ground just outside the wall of Marleon, and we left the town to the right, proceeding straight towards the hill where I had seen the camp. At the end of ten minutes I caught the gleam of the camp-fires. But they seemed a long way off, and more than once we were compelled to lay our heavy burden down and take a moment’s rest. At last a sentry stopped us.
“We must see M. le Comte at once,” I said. “This is his daughter. You will see the need of haste.”
He peered into our faces, his eyes large with astonishment.
“I will take you to him, Monsieur,” he said, and set off through the camp.
We had not far to go. At the end of a moment I saw M. le Comte’s standard floating above a tent before which blazed a great torch. At the tent door a man was sitting, his head on his hand, the image of despair. Mademoiselle saw him also, and, with a little cry, sprang to him and threw her arms about his neck. He looked up with a great start.
“Valérie, is it you?” he cried. “Here, safe in my arms. God! what a miracle!”
He strained her to him as she lay sobbing on his breast. Then he looked up and saw us standing there.
“Fronsac!” he cried. “Marsan! Why, this is a deliverance! And who have you there?” he added, looking at our burden.
“This is M. le Duc de Roquefort,” answered Fronsac.
“Roquefort!” and M. le Comte was on his feet, the picture of bewilderment. He put his daughter gently from him, came to us, and bent over the unconscious man. “He is wounded?” he asked. “Bring him hither, then,” and he held back the curtain of the tent. “Lay him there,” he said, and we placed our burden on the couch.
M. le Comte looked at us again—at his daughter—at Fronsac—at me—at Roquefort, lying there with bloody lips.
“It is a dream,” he said. “It is not to be believed—that two men should break their way out of that castle yonder and bring Roquefort with them. It is a dream!”
But Mademoiselle had her arms again about his neck.
“Is that a dream?” she cried, and kissed him full upon the lips. Then she fell back with a little, frightened cry. “What is it?” she asked. “What has happened? Your face!”
He looked at her with terrible eyes, and then at me.
“A wound,” he answered hoarsely. “But ’tis healing now.”
Yes, it was healing. I could see the drawn, puckered, white edges. A bandage hid the rest—but I could guess what it was like—what it would be always like! And I had been the cause of it!
I think he read my thought, for he held out his hand to me.
“M. de Marsan,” he said quite gently, “you have proved it was not you who were the traitor, but d’Aurilly. I have yet to deal with him.”
“I have already dealt with him, M. le Comte,” and I smiled into his eyes, with a great lightening of the heart that he had forgiven me.
“Dealt with him?”
“With these hands,” I answered. “It was he who planned the whole affair. Roquefort had arranged for him to marry Mademoiselle. The wedding was to take place to-morrow.”
I could see Fronsac’s face turn purple.
“The hound!” he said between his teeth. “The hound!”
“I knew that he was dead,” said Mademoiselle. “Roquefort told me. But I did not know, Monsieur, that it was to you I was indebted for this deliverance. It is a great debt we owe you.”
“It was nothing,” I protested. “It was a joy to my heart to pull him down.”
“Tell us,” said M. le Comte simply.
So, as briefly as might be, I told them the story of what had happened in the torture-chamber.
At the end M. le Comte held out his hand to me again.
“You are a man, M. de Marsan,” he said warmly. “I count myself fortunate to have found a liege so gallant. I shall remember it.”
“But he has not told you all, M. le Comte!” cried Fronsac. “It was he who planned the escape—I was but a follower, a looker-on. I had despaired a dozen times, but he always found a way. It was magnificent!”
“No, no,” I protested again, and stopped. M. le Comte was looking at me and laughing.
“M. de Marsan,” he said, “I will spare your blushes. Only permit me to say that I shall not soon forget the man who hath returned me my daughter, whom I had despaired of rescuing—who hath delivered mine enemy into my hands.”
“But, indeed, M. le Comte,” I said earnestly, “it was not I conceived the plan. I could have done nothing of myself,” and I told him the story of the message. “This friend of yours in Roquefort’s household is no ordinary man,” I added.
“No, he is no ordinary man,” assented M. le Comte. “It is not often one secures an agent at once so fearless and so full of resource. ’Tis a strange story, but not mine to tell,” and he fell a moment silent. “Still,” he continued warmly, “you will at least permit me to give you credit with the execution. I have myself found many times that it is easy to lay a plan. But often I have not succeeded so well in carrying it out.”
He turned to where Roquefort lay on the couch. I fancied that I could already discern the death-damp on his brow.
“He must have attention,” said M. le Comte, and, raising the curtain, he despatched a sentry for his surgeon. The surgeon was soon there, and bent over Roquefort with grave face. He wiped the blood from his lips, raised his head, and examined with deft fingers the wound Fronsac’s musket had inflicted, then, tearing away his clothing, put his ear against his chest. He listened a moment so, then stood erect again.
“’Tis as I feared, M. le Comte,” he said. “The wound in the head is nothing—a glance blow that tore the scalp and produced a slight palsy; but his chest is crushed; he bleeds within. I have seen men so who have fallen beneath their horses, but I have never yet seen one get well again.”
“And how long will he live?”
The surgeon shook his head.
“An hour—a day—perhaps two days. One cannot tell. Let us try to bring him back to consciousness.”
He bathed face and temples with cold water and forced a glass of wine between his teeth. The dying man groaned—coughed feebly—opened his eyes and saw us.
For a moment he lay without moving, his eyes travelling from face to face. Then they rested on M. le Comte, and a bitter smile curved his lips.
“So—you have won!” he whispered.
“Yes—I have won!” but there was more of pity than triumph in M. le Comte’s voice.
Roquefort’s eyes rested on him an instant in puzzled inquiry. He did not understand this change of tone. Then his eyes travelled to the surgeon’s face.
“Am I done?” he asked. “Is this the end?”
The surgeon bent his head.
“Shall I summon a priest, M. le Duc?” he asked.
Roquefort’s eyes grew bright with sudden resolution. “A priest? Yes! At once!”
But there was no fear of death in his face—he seemed elate, almost joyful. I could not understand it. His countenance had taken on a certain dignity it had before been stranger to—the lines of cruelty and harshness were wiped away—he was almost handsome, and his eyes were bright with purpose.
He coughed again, and a spatter of blood came to his lips. The surgeon wiped it away and gave him again of the wine to drink. We could see how it brought warm life back to him.
“M. le Comte,” he said, when he could speak again, “I have a favor to ask of you. I am sure you can be a generous enemy—even to me, since I am dying.”
“Ask on, M. le Duc,” said the other, in a softened voice. “What is it?”
“One of your men will take this ring,” and he pulled a signet from his finger, “mount to the castle, and show it to the sentry at the outer gate. He will open without question. Your messenger will ask for Mlle. Claire de Brissac. He will tell her that I lie dying here and wish to see her. She will come, I know. Will you do so much for me, M. le Comte?”
“Aye, and more,” came the answer readily, and M. le Comte stooped and took the ring. “It shall be done. I give my word for it.”
Roquefort’s eyes blazed up with joy; then he lay back wearily upon his pillow. I felt a sudden fear spring to life in my heart. What could he want of Claire? I looked up to find M. le Comte’s eyes upon me.
“M. de Marsan,” he said, “are you too weary to perform this journey?”
Weary? No! Not when the journey led to Claire! When I should be alone with her, as I had dreamed, with only the stars for company and none to interfere!
“I shall be glad to go, M. le Comte,” I said, and took the ring.
“There is need of haste,” he added, glancing at the figure on the bed. “Do you wish a companion?”
“A companion? No, Monsieur. They might fire if they saw two men approaching. One they will not fear.”
“True,” he assented. “Hasten, then; we will await you here.”
I hurried out into the night, across the camp, and around the cliff to the road that mounted to the castle gate. The moon was higher now, and I could see the road stretching, a white ribbon, ahead of me. I knew that others, looking down, could see me mounting, and as I went I held my hands high above my head to prove my peaceful errand. So I was permitted to pass without challenge until I stood before the great gate.
“A message from M. le Duc de Roquefort!” I cried.
There was a moment’s pause, then I heard the rattle of bolts and a little postern opened.
“Enter!” said a gruff voice.
I stooped and stepped through. The gate was clanged shut behind me in an instant. A mob of men-at-arms crowded threateningly about me.
“M. le Duc is now in the camp of M. le Comte de Cadillac,” I began. “He sent this ring by me to prove that I am his messenger. He desires me to bring back to him the person of Mademoiselle Claire de Brissac.”
There was a little stir in their ranks.
“What doth it mean?” asked one at last. “What wants he of the girl?”
“I do not know,” I answered, and I could not wholly keep the bitterness from my voice. “He sent this ring that you might do his bidding without question.”
They nodded one to another, each placing his construction on the order. Doubtless they were all familiar with their master’s passion for her, and so could fashion their own conclusion. Some half dozen of them drew to a corner and talked together a moment in low tones. At last they came back to me.
“You shall have the girl, Monsieur,” said one, “but you must leave us the ring for warrant.”
I handed it over readily enough, and watched him as he hastened across the court and plunged into the dark doorway of the building beyond. The minutes dragged like hours. Would she come? What would she think?
A touch on the arm brought me out of my thoughts. I turned to find myself looking into the face of Roquefort’s surgeon—the one who had gazed down upon me on the rack. Again some fancied familiarity in his features struck me, and his voice, when he spoke, made me fairly start, so certain was I that I had heard it somewhere far from Marleon.
“A word with you, M. de Marsan,” he said, and drew me deeper into the shadow of the wall. “M. le Duc is injured, is he not?”
I glanced around to see that none could hear.
“These others must not know,” I began, “not yet.”
“They shall not know.”
There was something in his tone that drew my eyes to his face. I saw that it was set as with great suffering. Could it be that he so loved his master?
“M. le Duc is injured,” I said, “very badly,—so badly, I fear, he will not live.”
“But he still lives?” he demanded eagerly.
“Oh, yes, and will for a day—perhaps two days.”
He breathed a great sigh of relief.
“Thank you, M. de Marsan,” he said. “I think my place is with him. I shall soon follow you.”
He left me abruptly, and I stared after him until the darkness hid him. There was some mystery in his manner I could not penetrate. But I did not ponder it long, for two figures emerged from the doorway opposite and I saw that one was Claire.
She came straight to me.
“What is it, M. de Marsan?” she asked. “What has happened?”
“M. le Duc is injured,” I said, so low that the others could not hear. “He is very badly injured—dying, perhaps—and wishes to see you.”
“Dying!” she breathed, her face white with horror. “And he was so strong—so full of life! Oh, then I will go! Let us hasten, Monsieur!”
They threw back the postern and in a moment we were without—alone together.