CHAPTER VI
I TASTE OF ROQUEFORT’S TEMPER
“Again!” cried a rude voice, and some unseen power caught me up and thrust me under water. It was icy cold, and I felt dimly, without caring greatly, that I was suffocating. Then I was plucked forth again—ah, how sweet the good air was! I drew a long breath and opened my eyes.
The river was flowing at my feet. A sturdy knave supported me on either side and looked questioningly at a man who stood two paces off. It was they who had plunged me under water. Hot with rage, I tried to shake them off, but they held me as though I were a child.
“That is better!” cried the man. “He seems to have come to his senses. Stand him against that tree.”
They led me to the tree he pointed out and stood me up against it. I wiped the water from my eyes and looked about me again. This time I understood. I was a prisoner, and the man directing the affair was no doubt the Duc de Roquefort. He came close to me where I stood, still trembling with exhaustion.
“I suppose you see the desperate nature of your case,” he said coolly, his deep-set eyes glittering full into mine. He had a swarthy face, not uncomely, though lined with passion, and his eyes were like a basilisk’s. “You will see it still more clearly when I assure you that there is only one possible way for you to save your life—that is by answering truthfully my questions.”
He paused a moment as though to permit his words to sink deep into my consciousness. There was need that I should think quickly. I glanced towards the château and saw that the gates were closed and the tower manned. I looked at Roquefort’s troops, dismounted, lolling in the edge of the wood along the river, waiting his pleasure. One group, however, was still under arms, and my pulse leaped as I saw they were on guard with Fronsac and Mademoiselle in their midst. If by some lie I could hold Roquefort here for two hours or even less, M. le Comte might yet be in time for rescue. I felt my captor’s eyes on mine and turned away for fear he would read my thought.
“You understand?” he asked, after a moment.
I nodded.
“And you agree?”
“Proceed, Monsieur,” I said.
“You were with Cadillac?” he asked.
“At Montauban—yes, Monsieur.”
“Come, no lies. He is near by.”
“No nearer than Montauban, Monsieur.”
He glared at me for a moment, but my strength had come back to me, and this time I could meet his gaze without shrinking.
“Then what do you and Fronsac here?” he demanded.
“My friend carries a message to Madame,” I answered readily, glad to find an answer that was near the truth. “He chose me to ride hither with him.”
He looked at me yet a moment, then turned away and gazed towards the château, twisting his moustaches and muttering to himself.
“If I had proof—if I had proof—there would yet be time to capture the woman too and send this pretty place up in smoke!”
He turned again to me with those snake’s eyes of his agleam.
“Is this true?” he demanded between his teeth. “Tell me again, is this true? Think well before you answer. A lie will cost you such hours of agony as you have never dreamed of.”
“There is M. de Fronsac,” I suggested. “Ask him also.”
He laughed harshly.
“M. de Fronsac prefers to hold his tongue,” he said. “Think you I should otherwise have troubled to bring you back to life? Answer me. Is this true?”
“It is true,” I repeated.
“Very good. I am going to believe you. But if I find you have betrayed me——” A look finished the sentence, which, indeed, needed no other ending.
I did not flinch under his gaze. Could I but keep him there until M. le Comte laid hold of him, I need care little for his threats.
He hurried away from me and was soon preparing for the attack in a manner which bespoke his skill in warfare. Four men were sent across the valley to the heights beyond to watch the road by which Fronsac and I had come, and so guard against surprise. A hundred men were massed opposite the great gate of the château, and two parties of perhaps fifty passed out of sight behind either wing. A moment later an order came to the men who were guarding me, and I was led towards the group that stood about the other prisoners.
I saw Fronsac looking towards me with joyful face, and then he stooped and whispered a few words into the ear of Mademoiselle. What they were I could only guess, but she arose from the log on which she had been sitting and turned her bright face towards me. Then, for the first time, I caught the full power of her beauty, and as I looked I did not wonder that d’Aurilly should turn traitor or Fronsac risk his life for her, since in their hearts there was no other face like that which lived in mine.
“So you still live, Marsan!” cried my friend, as the group parted to let me through. “But I am glad!” and he came towards me, holding out his hands.
My heart warmed to him anew as I hastened forward to grasp them, but one of the guards stepped in between.
“No talking!” he said gruffly. “It is M. le Duc’s order.”
I felt my cheek crimson at his insolence, and for an instant my hands itched to be at his throat, but I caught Fronsac’s eyes fixed on me warningly, and realized that no good could come of violence. So we sat down with Roquefort’s man between us and watched the attack on the château with feelings I need not describe.
Events had gone forward there even in the few minutes my attention had been drawn away. The force at the main gate had armed themselves with a great log, and, even as we turned towards them, a pistol-shot gave the signal which put it in motion. At the same instant a great uproar arose behind the château, proving that the attack had begun there also. The men with the log moved slowly at first, but faster and faster as they gathered momentum. As they neared the gate a dozen muskets were fired from the walls, and some few of Roquefort’s men fell, but the forward rush did not pause nor waver. Plainly the garrison of the château was too small to make effective resistance, and my heart fell within me. What if I had done wrong in keeping Roquefort here? What if M. le Comte should, after all, arrive too late? You can guess the agony of the thought!
On and on swept the rush, and the log was hurled against the gate with a tremendous crash. In a moment it was caught up again like a wisp of straw, borne backward, and hurled forward. I saw a group of the assailants linger at the gate, then suddenly scurry away from it. There came a flash of flame, a roar, and a great cloud of smoke whirled skyward.
“A petard!” cried Fronsac. “They have fired a petard!”
As the smoke passed, we saw that one of the gates had been blown inward, but the other still hung by its bars. With a cheer, the assailants rushed forward. It was over then! I had lost M. le Comte his wife and his château! Now, indeed, would he have cause to hate me!
But of a sudden the four sentries burst out of the wood at the hill-crest like men possessed and scoured down into the valley. I saw Roquefort exchange a hurried word with them, give a quick order, then spur towards us, and as he neared us I marked how rage distorted his face and made it hideous.
“Bring up a dozen horses—the freshest!” he cried to the guard, and as the men hastened away he turned to me. “Monsieur,” he said in a voice that chilled me, “I warned you of your fate should you betray me, but it seems you did not heed the warning. You counted, perhaps, on a rescue. But you will never see Cadillac again,—oh, how I shall pay you for this!”
His eyes were glaring into mine, bloodshot, venomous, and I confess that at the bottom of my soul I feared him. Yet still I managed to achieve a smile.
“We shall see, M. le Duc,” I said.
He seemed choked with rage and answered only by an angry gesture of the arm which hastened up the horses. In a moment Fronsac and I were bound to two of them and Mademoiselle strapped to a pillion behind a brawny soldier. I was hot with rage at the roughness with which they treated her, and I saw Fronsac straining at his bonds, his face livid. But in a breath we were off, the three of us with our little escort, at first under the trees along the river, then up the slope beyond. As we reached the crest, I looked back and saw Roquefort marshalling his forces at the edge of the wood to cover our retreat, and beyond, along the road, I fancied I caught a glimpse of M. le Comte’s troops, but we were deep among the trees again before I could make sure.
Down the hill we went at a pace which, tied to the saddle as I was, seemed doubly foolhardy. Plainly our escort had their orders, and feared death less than the displeasure of their master. Evening was at hand, and under the great trees it was soon so dark that the man before me, leading my horse, seemed but a shadow. Yet they appeared well acquainted with the ground, and there was not a moment’s slackening of our speed.
At last we emerged from the forest into a rough road, and for a moment the brightness seemed almost that of noonday, so great was the contrast with the gloom of the woods. A wide and fertile plain lay before us, and away to the south I could see a range of mountains faintly outlined against the sky, and I knew they were the Pyrenees.
The road led us southward along a river, which I guessed was the Ariege. But though the land seemed fertile and promising, there were few houses—only a narrow peasant’s hut here and there, more squalid than any I had ever seen in our good Marsan country. So when, presently, there appeared ahead, standing just at the edge of the road, a building of more than usual size, I looked at it with no little interest. As we neared it, I saw standing before the door two horses with women’s equipage, and of a sudden the leader of our troop put his fingers to his mouth and blew a shrill blast.
Almost on the instant the door opened and two women came out, attended by a little, fat man, evidently the keeper of the house. They stood looking at us for a moment, then turned to mount their horses. There seemed something strangely familiar about one of the figures. As she stood, I could not see her face, for she wore a hood pulled over her head and a cloak wrapped about her to protect her from the cold—then, with a start, I recognized the cloak. It was mine—the one I had dropped in the hallway of the house in the Rue Gogard. And with fast-beating heart I knew that it was Claire who wore it!
Some exclamation must have escaped me, for the fellow at my right asked me roughly what the matter was. I did not answer, and we rode on in silence. In a moment we had pulled up before the house, and our leader rode ahead to exchange a word with the women. Then he came back again and ordered forward the horse on which Mademoiselle was mounted. She was unstrapped and assisted to alight, then led into the inn, doubtless for refreshment.
But I was not thinking of her, I was watching Claire—the poise of her figure, her superb grace in the saddle. Slowly she reined her horse around until she faced us, and I saw her examining the members of the troop. With feverish lips, I watched her eyes as they went from face to face—and in a moment I was looking straight into them, with the blood bounding to my temples.
For a breath she held me so, then turned her eyes away, slowly, indifferently, without a sign that she had known me!
And of a sudden I found myself shivering with cold, and remembered, for the first time that afternoon, that my clothing was still dripping with the water of the river.