CHAPTER XIV
GREATER LOVE THAN MINE
I leaned against the wall of the little closet in which I was, and looked out through the half-opened door into the room. I saw that Mère Fouchon carried in her arms a leathern bag, which she placed upon the table with a sigh of relief at being rid of its weight.
“Come, make ready,” she said to the girl, “the wagon will be here in a moment. Did you give our friend the bottle?”
As she turned, she perceived that the door of my cell was open. She sprang to it, cast one look within and saw by the light of the lantern that it was empty.
“He is gone!” she screamed, and turned her glaring eyes and working face upon the girl. “You drab, it was with your help!”
Doubtless in that instant she saw her plans crumbling about her, she felt the meshes of the law tightening, at the end of the path loomed the black gibbet. This time she would not escape! Small wonder that the blood leaped to her eyes, as she stood there trembling, strangled by rage, unable to speak!
Then the bonds loosened and she sprung upon the girl like a cat upon its prey.
“Curse you!” she screamed. “You shall pay for it—you!” and she snatched a knife from the table.
In an instant, my strength and manhood came back to me, and I dashed open the door.
“You devil!” I said between my teeth. “You devil!” and I was upon her.
Even as I grasped her hair, she raised the knife and plunged it deep into the girl’s breast. I dragged back her head, dashed my fist into her face and threw her against the wall with all my strength. She struck with a dull crash, rebounded to the floor and lay there with closed eyes, the blood oozing from her nose and mouth, her red knife still in her hand.
“Pray heaven, I have killed you!” I said, and stooped and raised Ninon in my arms.
She opened her eyes and gazed at me with a smile of ineffable sweetness.
“It is better so,” she whispered. “I was not of your world, M. Pierre, and now I shall not have to live when you are gone.”
The hot tears were on my cheeks as I looked at her, and she raised her hand to my face with a gesture of tenderness inexpressible.
“Are those tears for me?” she asked. “Oh, how glad I am that you care enough to weep! I am not sorry to die. I had never dreamed that I should have the joy of dying in your arms like this, with your dear eyes looking down upon me. And you will soon dry your tears, M. Pierre, when you look upon another face more beautiful—oh, a thousand times more beautiful than mine.”
I opened my mouth, but could not speak. I felt her body stiffening in my arms.
“You told me,” she whispered, “that you loved her enough to die for her, M. Pierre. But I love you more than that—oh, so much more than that! I love you enough to give you to another, M. Pierre—to die that she may possess you.”
She gazed at me a moment longer, then her eyes slowly closed, her lips parted in a sigh that bore her spirit with it. I was sobbing wildly as I laid the little form reverently upon the pallet in one corner and turned to go. As I did so I fancied I saw Mère Fouchon move.
“So you are not dead,” I said, speaking aloud as though she could hear me. “Well, you shall not escape,” and catching her by the arm, I dragged her within the cell and shut the door. As I pushed it into place, I saw that by swinging back two slabs of stone, the door was masked, and the wall of the cellar was apparently unbroken. I trembled as I thought what my fate would have been had Mère Fouchon thrown those stones into place and gone away.
As I turned again into the outer room my eyes fell upon the bag which she had placed on the table. I opened it and was astonished to find it full of gold. I understood in a moment. It was the price Ribaut had paid for Nanette.
“Come,” I said, “I will take this with me. It will be proof of my story.”
I left the room and found myself at the foot of a flight of stairs which led to a hallway above. Following this, I came to a room which I recognized as that which I had entered sword in hand in pursuit of Mère Fouchon. As I stepped into it, I heard some one knocking at the outer door. I flung it open, and saw outside a man who shrank back in alarm as his eyes fell upon me. A cart was standing in the street.
“Ah, it is the driver,” I cried. “Come, my friend, you are to take me to the Palais Royal as quickly as possible.”
“I came for a woman, not for a madman!” he protested.
“I am no madman,” I said. “Come,” and I opened my bag and gave him a louis. “This will pay you for your trouble.”
“Where is the woman?” he asked.
“She no longer has need of you.”
He looked at me a moment with staring eyes.
“Monsieur,” he said at last, “a crime has been committed here.”
“I do not deny it,” I answered, “only it is not I who have committed it. Why, man, I want you to take me to M. d’Argenson at the Palais Royal. Do you think I should go there, if I had committed a crime?”
“To M. d’Argenson?” he repeated. “Ah, ah—that is different. Come, Monsieur, I will take you,” and he sprang into his cart. I was beside him ere the words were spoken.
“Make haste!” I cried, and leaned against the side of the cart, sick with apprehension. If I should be too late!
He whipped his horse into a run and we bumped rapidly along the street and across the river to the quays. Here the crowd delayed us and we could proceed but slowly. At last we reached a side-street and turned into it at a gallop. In a moment we had crossed the Rue St. Honoré and were at the Palais Royal. I sprang from the wagon and up the steps into the ante-chamber just as the clocks were striking eight. I ran straight to the man who stood at the inner door.
“Tell M. d’Argenson that M. le Moyne is here to make his report and that it is important,” I panted.
He stared at me a moment in amazement and then disappeared through the door. In an instant he was back.
“You are to enter, Monsieur,” he said, and closed the door behind me.
D’Argenson was seated at his table, and he gazed at me in astonishment.
“Good God, M. le Moyne,” he cried, “what has happened to you?”
Not until that moment did I realize the strangeness of my appearance—my hair matted with blood, my clothing torn and filthy, an iron belt around my waist from which dangled a chain a foot long, my doublet red with Ninon’s blood. I did not wonder that the carter had believed me a madman, or that he had scented a crime.
Briefly as possible I told my story, d’Argenson listening in silence to the end. As I finished, he struck a bell at his elbow. The usher entered instantly.
“My carriage at once,” he said, “and send two men to a house in the Rue du Chevet of which they will see the street door open. They will find an old woman lying in the inner portion of the cellar, and will lodge her at once in the conciergerie.”
The man bowed and withdrew. D’Argenson picked up the bag of money which I had placed on the table before him, and after a glance at its contents, threw it into a drawer, which he locked.
“The wedding, you say, is to take place at nine o’clock?” he asked.
“Yes, Monsieur, at the Church of St. Landry.”
“Ah, well, we shall be there,” and d’Argenson smiled, “and I fancy we shall have a little surprise for M. Ribaut and M. Briquet. I do not think that Mère Fouchon, or Mme. Basarge, will ever trouble you again, Monsieur. Her hour has struck.”