Cadets of Gascony: Two stories of old France

The vesper bell of a near-by priory waked me out of my thoughts. I remembered with a start that the business which had brought me to Montauban was as yet undone, and I hastened my steps towards the hotel of the Comte de Cadillac, which stood, as I very well knew, on the right bank of the Tarn, as one approaches it from the south along the Rue du Midi. It was not till then that the increasing cold of evening drew my attention to the fact that I no longer had my cloak about me, and I remembered that I had not thought to pick it up again as I passed the place where I had dropped it, so absorbed had I been in my companion. I reflected with satisfaction that I had chosen an old one in which to make this journey, not only that I might be the less an object of notice, but also because I did not know to what vicissitude of weather I might be subjected ere I was back again beside the fire at Marsan.

Night had settled upon the town before I reached the Rue du Midi and turned up towards the river, but I did not slacken my pace until I saw gleaming before me the great torches which at night-time always flamed on either side the wide gate to the Hotel de Cadillac. Far in the distance, beyond the high-arched bridge which spans the river, I could catch the glitter of light about the great château of my master’s friend and ally, M. le Comte de Toulouse; and away, on either side, the warm lights of the town; but I paused for only a glance at them as I turned towards the gate before me. There was the usual crowd of lacqueys and men-at-arms loitering about it, and I made my way through them without hinderance, across the inner court, and up the steps to the great doorway. Here a sentry stopped me.

“I wish to see M. le Comte,” I said. “I have an urgent message for him from Marsan.”

The fellow looked me over for a moment, plainly little impressed by my appearance.

“Very well, Monsieur,” he said at last. “Come with me.”

Midway of the hall a group had gathered about a man who was talking excitedly, and from the faces of his listeners I judged it to be no ordinary bit of gossip he was imparting. I caught a few words as we made a way through the crowd.

“It is most curious,” the speaker was saying. “No one can imagine how it occurred.”

“What is it?” I asked my guide when once we were past the crowd. “What has happened?”

But he merely shook his head, as though it were not his business nor mine, and kept on without replying. I promised myself that I would some day repay him twice over for his insolence. The blood is warm at twenty!

He turned to the right through an open doorway and stopped before a man who was walking soberly up and down, his chin in his hand, his brows knitted.

“M. d’Aurilly,” he said, “here is a youngster who says he has a message for M. le Comte.”

My cheeks flushed at his tone, and I bit my lips to keep back the retort which would have burst from them.

D’Aurilly stopped abruptly in his walk and looked at me.

“That will do, Briquet,” he said to the sentry after a moment, and stood looking at me until the sound of his footsteps died away down the corridor. I could see that he was searching me through and through, and no whit abashed, for I come of as good blood as any in Gascony, I gave him look for look.

“So you have a message?” he asked at last.

“Yes, Monsieur,” I answered, and as I looked into his face I saw that his eyes glittered under half-closed lids, that his nose arched like an eagle’s beak, and that the thick moustachio could not wholly conceal the cruel lines of the mouth. Verily, I thought, there seem to be few pleasant people in the household of M. le Comte de Cadillac.

“And where is this message from?” he continued.

“From Marsan, Monsieur.”

“And you are?”

“Paul de Marsan, Monsieur.”

He looked at me yet a moment, his eyes glittering behind their veil of lashes like snakes in ambush.

“Very well,” he said abruptly. “Give me this message. I will deliver it to M. le Comte.”

And he held out his hand.

“Impossible, Monsieur,” I answered. “I was instructed to deliver it only to M. le Comte himself.”

Again he paused to look me up and down, and I saw the hot color of the south leap to his cheeks.

“Perhaps you do not know that I am the Vicomte d’Aurilly,” he sneered at last.

“I heard the sentry call you so, Monsieur,” I answered, bowing. I did not add that I thought it strange he should be in the household and seemingly so near the person of M. le Comte—for his estates lay far south on the border of the Pyrenees, and had always been reckoned more Spanish than French.

“Come,” he cried roughly, “enough of this play! Give me the message. M. le Comte is ill and will see no one.”

“Then I will wait till he is well again, Monsieur,” I said, as calmly as I could, and made for the door, head in air.

But his voice arrested me.

“Stop, you fool!” he cried.

I turned upon him, all my blood in my face.

“That is not the way one gentleman addresses another, Monsieur,” I said between my teeth. “I must ask Monsieur to apologize.”

“Apologize!” he cried, purple with rage. “Upon my word, these Gascon paupers are insufferable!”

But I could bear no more—no Marsan could endure an insult such as that—and I sprang upon him and struck him full in the mouth with my open hand. He had his poniard out in an instant and lunged at me,—which I thought a cowardly thing,—but I stepped back out of harm’s reach and whipped out my sword before he could strike a second time. He paused when he saw my point at his breast.

“Now,” I said, “perhaps Monsieur will draw and fight like a gentleman, not like a blackguard.”

I thought he would choke with rage. And at that instant an inner door opened and a man stepped through. He stopped in amazement as he saw our attitude.

“What is this, d’Aurilly?” he demanded sternly. “A duel—and in M. le Comte’s ante-chamber? Surely you know his need of quiet!”

D’Aurilly turned to the newcomer, his face working with passion.

“I was pressed beyond endurance, M. Letourge,” he said. “Look at this,” and he pointed to the mark of my hand still on his face.

“A blow!” and Letourge looked at me wrathfully. “Who are you, Monsieur, that you dare strike the Vicomte d’Aurilly?”

But my blood was up and my eyes were full on his. In my heart I knew that his eyes were honest eyes and his face an honest face, albeit a stern one.

“A gentleman whom he had insulted, Monsieur,” I answered proudly. “We of Marsan permit that from no man.”

But Letourge’s face had changed. He stood staring at me with starting eyes, as though not able to believe them. Then he pulled himself together and his face became like marble, lighted by two coals of fire.

“You are a bold man, Monsieur,” he said at last, in a voice that chilled me, “to set foot in this house. Methinks you will never leave it with your breath in your body.”

It was my turn to stare.

“Is M. le Comte de Cadillac a second Pharaoh,” I asked, “that he should slay his messengers? Had I known that, I had made less haste from Marsan in his service.”

Letourge had recovered his self-control, but I saw that his hands were trembling.

“From Marsan?” he repeated. “And when came you from Marsan?”

“An hour ago,” I answered.

“And you have a message?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“You lie!” he cried. “You must think our memories marvellous short! M. le Comte does not slay messengers, but he hangs spies. Do you not already feel the rope about your neck?”

I looked into his eyes and saw he was in earnest. What could the man mean? I realized that I had need to keep my wits about me.

“Monsieur,” I said, with what calmness I could muster, “you have used words to me which you will some day regret. I am Paul de Marsan and no spy. We of Marsan have been liege to Cadillac for two hundred years and have always aided them to fight their battles. I come to warn M. le Comte of a great danger which threatens him, but seem to have fallen into a nest of madmen.”

Letourge looked at me with working lips.

“Think not your tongue can save your head,” he sneered. “You have come to the end of the journey. Will you lay down your sword, or shall I call in a dozen lacqueys to take it from you?”

There was but one course for a gentleman to choose. I glanced desperately about the room. He and d’Aurilly stood between me and the door into the outer hall. There was only one other, the door through which he had entered.

“Monsieur,” I cried, “I shall not lay down my sword until my hand is powerless to hold it!”

With a cry of rage he sprang towards the hall to summon aid, while with one bound I was at the other door, and felt with joy that it yielded to my touch. As I slammed it shut behind me I saw that it had a bolt on the inner side, and shot it into place just as those without threw themselves against it. It could hold but a few moments at the most, and I cast my eyes about the room for some way of escape.

I saw that I was in a sleeping-room, the great, curtained bed occupying one side. A single candle burning on a table near it illumined the room but feebly, yet there was light enough to show me a window opposite the bed. I ran to it and threw back the shutter with a crash. The window was barred. I glanced again about the room. There was no other window—no other door but that by which I had entered, and which was already creaking under the blows rained upon it. I must die here, then, like a rat in a trap. Well, I would not die alone!

“What is this?” cried a voice from the bed. “Name of God! Did I not tell you, Gaspard, that I wanted quiet? Are you pulling the house down? Answer me, man!”

The curtains were jerked apart and a face appeared between them—a horrible face, swollen and bandaged. He listened a moment to the blows and cries without, then got unsteadily to his feet and took a sword from the chair at his bedside, cursing softly to himself the while. And as he turned his eyes fell upon me.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you here?”

A spark of hope sprang to life in my breast.

“I am Paul de Marsan,” I explained. “I have a message for M. le Comte de Cadillac.”

He sat down heavily upon a chair.

“Very well,” he said. “I am he. But that does not explain this cursed uproar.”

My hat was off and I was on my knee before him in an instant. Perhaps here I should get justice. The door was already splitting. I had need to speak quickly.

“M. le Comte,” I cried, “believe me, I am your faithful and devoted servant. I have journeyed fifty leagues to bring you a message of great moment to your house. Yet, when I came here and asked to see you that I might give you this message, I was called a spy, set upon, and threatened with the gibbet.”

“But why—why?” he asked.

“I do not know, Monsieur,” I answered.

He looked me for an instant in the eyes.

“M. de Marsan,” he said, “I believe you. Get behind my chair. I will protect you from these fools.”

It was time. Even as he spoke there came a mighty crash against the door, as of a heavy log hurled upon it, and it leaped from its hinges. The mob poured into the room, headed by d’Aurilly and Letourge. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, they did not see me standing there behind their master, then they were upon me with a yell of rage.

But M. le Comte was out of his chair, his sword advanced.

“One step more,” he cried, “and I strike! Letourge, d’Aurilly, you shall answer for this with your necks! Are you mad?”

The mob stopped on the instant. Plainly they knew that when their master struck, he struck home.

“He is a spy, Monsieur!” cried Letourge. “He hath come hither to assassinate you—to complete the work he began in the Rue Gogard!”

M. le Comte started round upon me, his eyes wild with passion. He snatched the candle from the table and thrust it near my face, his lips a-quiver. He held it a moment so, and then set it down again.

“Liar and traitor,” he said, in a voice shaking with rage, “what bravado brought you here I cannot guess, or what hope you could have had that once my hand was on you, you could escape my vengeance!”

I stood staring at him with open mouth. Had he too gone mad?

“Were it not for this wound which crazes me,” he went on after a moment, “I would have you hung this instant. But I myself am hungering to see you kick your life out at a rope’s end, so we will defer that pleasure till to-morrow. Take him, men!” he added, and stepped suddenly away from me.

They came on with a yell, and I had but time to slash open the face of the first one, when they had me down, and I thought for a moment would tear me limb from limb. But their master quieted them with the flat of his sword as he would have quieted a pack of hounds.

“To the lower dungeon with him!” he cried, and stood watching as they dragged me away, his hands to his face, his eyes dark with pain and rage. I would have spoken even then, and the words might have saved me, but that d’Aurilly clapped his hand upon my mouth, and with a curse bade me hold my tongue. Out into the hall they dragged me, using me more roughly now that they were from under their master’s eyes, and down a long flight of steps. At the stair-foot they paused a moment and I heard the rattle of bolts. A door was clanged back and I was pitched forward into the inky pit beyond.