CHAPTER III
THE MUTILATED HAND
"Monsieur Paul?" cried the handsome widow of Monsieur Boisjoli, stepping from behind the pastry counter.
"Yes, Mignon, it is I," said the Chevalier; "that is, what remains of me."
"What happiness to see you again!" she exclaimed. She turned to a waiter. "Charlot, bring Monsieur le Chevalier the pheasant pie, the ragout of hare, and a bottle of chambertin from the bin of '36."
"Sorceress!" laughed the Chevalier; "you have sounded the very soul of me. Thanks, Mignon, thanks! Next to love, what is more to a man than a full stomach? Ah, you should have seen me when I came in! And devil take this nose of mine; not even steam and water have thawed the frost from it." He chucked her under the chin and smiled comically, all of which made manifest that the relations existing between the hostess of the Candlestick and her principal tenant were of the most cordial and Platonic character.
"And you have just returned from Rome? Ah, what a terrible ride!"
"Abominable, Mignon."
"And I see you hungry!" She sighed, and her black eyes grew moist and tender. Madame Boisjoli was only thirty-two. She was young.
"But alive, Mignon, alive; don't forget that."
"You have had adventures?" eagerly; for she was a woman who loved the recital of exploits. Monsieur Boisjoli had fallen as a soldier at Charenton.
"Adventures? Oh, as they go," slapping his rapier and his pockets which had recently been very empty.
"You have been wounded?"
"Only in the pockets, dear, and in the tender quick of comfort. And will you have Charlot hasten that pie? I can smell it from afar, and my mouth waters."
"This moment, Monsieur;" and she flew away to the kitchens.
The Chevalier took this temporary absence as an opportunity to look about him. Only one table was occupied. This occupant was a priest who was gravely dining off black bread and milk served in a wooden bowl. But for the extreme pallor of his skin, which doubtless had its origin in the constant mortification of the flesh, he would have been a singularly handsome man. His features were elegantly designed, but it was evident that melancholy had recast them in a serious mold. His face was clean-shaven, and his hair clipped, close to the skull. There was something eminently noble in the loftiness of the forehead, and at the same time there was something subtly cruel in the turn of the nether lip, as though the spirit and the flesh were constantly at war. He was young, possibly not older than the Chevalier, who was thirty.
The priest, as if feeling the Chevalier's scrutiny, raised his eyes. As their glances met, casually in the way of gratifying a natural curiosity, both men experienced a mental disturbance which was at once strange and annoying. Those large, penetrating grey eyes; each seemed to be looking into his own as in a mirror.
The Chevalier was first to disembarrass himself. "A tolerably shrewd night, Monsieur," he said with a friendly gesture.
"It is the frost in the air, my son," the priest responded in a mellow barytone. "May Saint Ignatius listen kindly to the poor. Ah, this gulf you call Paris, I like it not."
"You are but recently arrived?" asked the Chevalier politely.
"I came two days ago. I leave for Rouen this night."
"What! you travel at night, and leave a cheery tavern like this?" All at once the crinkle of a chill ran across the Chevalier's shoulders. The thumb, the forefinger and the second of the priest's left hand were twisted, reddened stumps.
"Yes, at night; and the wind will be rough, beyond the hills. But I have suffered worse discomforts;" and to this statement the priest added a sour smile. He had seen the shudder. He dropped the maimed hand below the level of the table.
"You ride, however?" suggested the Chevalier.
"A Spanish mule, the gift of Father Vincent."
"Her Majesty's confessor?"
"Yes."
"You are a Jesuit?"
"I have the happiness to serve God in that order. I have just presented my respects to her Majesty and Cardinal Mazarin. I am come from America, my son, to see his Eminence in regard to the raising of funds for some new missions we have in mind; but I have been indifferently successful, due possibly to my lack of eloquence and to the fact that my superior, Father Chaumonot, was unable to accompany me to Paris. I shall meet him in Rouen."
"And so you are from that country of which I have heard so much of late—that France across the sea?" The Chevalier's tones expressed genuine interest. He could now account for the presence of the mutilated hand. Here was a man who had seen strange adventures in a strange land. "New France!" musingly.
"Yes, my son; and I am all eagerness to return."
The Chevalier laughed pleasantly. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but I confess that it excites my amusement to be called 'son' by one who can not be older than myself."
"It is a habit I acquired with the savages. And yet, I have known men of fifty to be young," said the Jesuit, his brows sinking. "I have known men of thirty to be old. Youth never leaves us till we have suffered. I am old, very old." He was addressing some inner thought rather than the Chevalier.
"Well, I am thirty, myself," said the Chevalier with assumed lightness. "I am neither young nor old. I stand on the threshold. I can not say that I have suffered since I have known only physical discomforts. But to call me 'son' …"
"Well, then," replied the priest, smiling, "since the disparity in years is so small as to destroy the dignity of the term, I shall call you my brother. All men are brothers; it is the Word."
"That is true." How familiar this priest's eyes were! "But some are rich and some are poor; beggars and thieves and cutthroats; nobly and basely born."
The Jesuit gazed thoughtfully into his bowl. "Yes, some are nobly and some are basely born. I have often contemplated what a terrible thing it must be to possess a delicate, sensitive soul and a body disowned; to long for the glories of the world from behind the bar sinister, an object of scorn, contumely and forgetfulness; to be cut away from the love of women and the affection of men, the two strongest of human ties; to dream what might and should have been; to be proved guilty of a crime we did not commit; to be laughed at, to beg futilely, always subject to that mental conflict between love and hate, charity and envy. Yes; I can think of nothing which stabs so deeply as the finger of ridicule, unmerited. I am not referring to the children of kings, but to the forgotten by the lesser nobility."
His voice had risen steadily, losing its music but gaining a thrilling intenseness. Strange words for a priest, thought the Chevalier, who had spoken with irony aforethought. Glories of the world, the love of women; did not all priests forswear these? Perhaps his eyes expressed his thought, for he noted a faint color on the priest's checks.
"I am speaking as a moral physician, Monsieur," continued the priest, his composure recovered; "one who seeks to observe all spiritual diseases in order to apply a remedy."
"And is there a remedy for a case such as you have described?" asked the Chevalier, half mockingly.
"Yes; God gives us a remedy even for such an ill."
"And what might the remedy be?"
"Death."
"What is your religious name, Monsieur?" asked the Chevalier, strangely subdued.
"I am Father Jacques, protégé of the kindly Chaumonot. But I am known to my brothers and friends as Brother Jacques. And you, Monsieur, are doubtless connected with the court."
"Yes. I am known as the Chevalier du Cévennes, under De Guitaut, in her Majesty's Guards."
"Cévennes?" the priest repeated, ruminating. "Why, that is the name of a mountain range in the South."
"So it is. I was born in that region, and it pleased me to bear Cévennes as a name of war. I possess a title, but I do not assume it; I simply draw its revenues." The Chevalier scowled at his buckles, as if some disagreeable thought had come to him.
The priest remarked the change in the soldier's voice; it had grown harsh and repellent. "Monsieur, I proceed from Rouen to Rochelle; are you familiar with that city?"
"Rochelle? Oh, indifferently."
The Jesuit plucked at his lips for a space, as if hesitant to break the silence. "Have you ever heard of the Marquis de Périgny?"
The Chevalier whirled about. "The Marquis de Périgny? Ah, yes; I have heard of that gentleman. Why do you ask?"
"It is said that while he is a bad Catholic, he is generous in his charities. Father Chaumonot and I intend to apply to him for assistance. Mazarin has not been very liberal. Ah, how little they dream of the length and breadth and riches of this France across the sea! Monsieur le Marquis is rich?"
"Rich; but a bad Catholic truly." The Chevalier laughed without merriment. "The marquis and charity? Why not oil and water? They mix equally well."
"You do not seem quite friendly toward the Marquis?" suggested Brother Jacques.
"No; I am not particularly fond of Monsieur le Marquis," patting the pommel of his sword.
"Monsieur le Marquis has wronged you?" asked the priest, a fire leaping into his eyes.
"It is a private affair, Monsieur," coldly.
"Pardon me!" Brother Jacques made a gesture of humility. He rolled the bread crumbs into a ball which he dropped into the bowl. Presently he pushed aside the bowl and rose, his long black cassock falling to his ankles. He drew his rosary through his belt and put on his shovel-shaped hat.
Again the Chevalier's attention was drawn toward the mutilated hand.
"The pastimes of savages, Monsieur," Brother Jacques said grimly, holding out his hand for inspection: "the torture of the pipe, which I stood but poorly. Well, my brother, I am outward bound, and Rouen is far away. The night is beautiful, for the wind will drive away the snow-clouds and the stars will shine brightly. Peace be with you."
"I wish you well, Monsieur," returned the Chevalier politely.
Then Brother Jacques left the Candlestick, mounted his mule, and rode away, caring as little as the Chevalier whether or not their paths should cross again.
"Monsieur le Marquis!" murmured the Chevalier, staring at the empty bowl. "So the marquis, my father, gives to the Church? That is droll. Now, why does the marquis give to the Church? He has me there. Bah! and this priest's eyes. Ah!" as he saw Madame Boisjoli returning, followed by Charlot who carried the smoking supper; "here is something that promises well."
"Brother Jacques is gone?" said madame, her eyes roving.
"Yes." The Chevalier sat down at a table.
"Monsieur Paul?" timidly.
"Well, Mignon?" smiling. Mignon was certainly good to look at.
"Did you notice Brother Jacques's eyes?"
"Do you mean to say that you, too, observed them?" with a shade of annoyance. Vanity compelled him to resent this absurd likeness.
"Immediately. It was so strange. And what a handsome priest!" slyly.
"Shall I call him back, Mignon?" laughing.
Madame exhibited a rounded shoulder.
"Bah with them all, Mignon, priests, cardinals, and journeys." And half an hour later, having demolished all madame had set before him, besides sharing the excellent chambertin, the Chevalier felt the man made whole again. The warmth of the wine turned the edge of his sterner thoughts; and at ten minutes to eight he went forth, a brave and gallant man, handsome and gaily attired, his eyes glowing with anticipating love, blissfully unconscious of the extraordinary things which were to fall to his lot from this night onward.
The distance from the Candlestick was too short for the need of a horse, so the Chevalier walked, lightly humming an old chanson of the reign of Louis XIII, among whose royal pastimes was that of shaving his courtiers:
"Alas, my poor barber,
What is it makes you sad?"
"It is the grand king Louis,
Thirteenth of that name."
He swung into the Rue Dauphin and mounted the Pont Neuf, glancing idly below at the ferrymen whose torches threw on the black bosom of the Seine long wavering threads of phantom fire. The snow-clouds had passed over, and the stars were shining; the wind was falling. The quays were white; the Louvre seemed but a vast pile of ghostly stones. The hands of the clock in the quaint water-tower La Samaritaine pointed at five to eight. Oddly enough there came to the Chevalier a transitory picture of a young Jesuit priest, winding through the bleak hills on the way to Rouen. The glories of the world, the love of women? What romance lay smoldering beneath that black cassock? What secret grief? What sin? Brother Jacques? The name signified nothing. Like all courtiers of his time, the Chevalier entertained the belief that when a handsome youth took the orders it was in the effort to bury some grief rather than to assist in the alleviation of the sorrows of mankind.
He walked on, skirting the Louvre and presently entering the courtyard of the Palais Royal. The number of flambeaux, carriages and calèches indicated to him that Mazarin was giving a party. He lifted his cloak from his shoulders, shook it, and threw it over his arm, and ascended the broad staircase, his heart beating swiftly. Would he see her? Would she be in the gallery? Would this night dispel the mystery? At the first landing he ran almost into Captain de Guitaut, who was descending.
"Cévennes?" cried the captain, frankly astounded.
"And freshly from Rome, my Captain. His Eminence is giving a party?"
"Are you weary of life, Monsieur?" asked the captain. "What are you doing here? I had supposed you to be a man of sense, and on the way to Spain. And my word of honor, you stick your head down the lion's mouth! Follow your nose, follow your nose; it is none of my affair." And the gruff old captain passed on down the stairs.
The Chevalier stared after him in bewilderment. Spain? … Weary of life? What had happened?
"Monsieur du Cévennes?" cried a thin voice at his elbow.
The Chevalier turned and beheld Bernouin, the cardinal's valet.
"Ah!" said the Chevalier. Here was a man to explain the captain's riddle. "Will you announce to his Eminence that I have returned from Rome, and also explain why you are looking at me with such bulging eyes? Am I a ghost?" The Chevalier, being rich, was one of the few who were never overawed by the grandeur of Mazarin's valet. "What is the matter?"
"Matter?" repeated the valet. "Matter? Nothing, Monsieur, nothing!" quickly. "I will this instant announce your return to monseigneur."
"One would think that I had been trying to run away," mused the Chevalier, following the valet.
Meanwhile a lackey dressed in no particular livery entered the Hôtel of the Silver Candlestick and inquired for Monsieur Breton, lackey to Monsieur le Chevalier du Cévennes. He was directed to the floor above. On hearing a knock, Breton hastily closed the book he was reading and went to the door. The hallway was so dark that he could distinguish no feature of his caller.
"Monsieur Breton?" the strange lackey inquired,
"Are you seeking me?" Breton asked diplomatically.
"I was directed to deliver this to you. It is for your master," and the stranger placed a bundle in Breton's hands. Immediately he turned and disappeared down the stairs. Evidently he desired not to be questioned.
Breton surveyed the bundle doubtfully, turned it this way and that. On opening it he was greatly surprised to find his master's celebrated grey cloak. He examined it. It was soiled and rent in several places. Breton hung it up in the closet, shaking his head.
"This is very irregular," he muttered. "Monsieur de Saumaise would never have returned it in this condition; besides, Hector would have been the messenger. What will Monsieur Paul say when he sees it?"
And, knowing that he had no cause to worry, and having not the slightest warning that his master's liberty was in danger, Breton reseated himself by the candles and continued his indulgence in stolen sweets; that is to say, he renewed the adventures of that remarkable offspring of Gargantua.
CHAPTER IV
AN AENEAS FOR AN ACHATES
In the grand gallery of the Palais Royal stood a mahogany table, the bellying legs of which, decorated with Venetian-wrought gold, sparkled and glittered in the light of the flames that rose and fell in the gaping chimney-place. Around this table were seated four persons of note: the aging Maréchal de Villeroi, Madame de Motteville of imperishable memoirs, Anne of Austria, and Cardinal Mazarin. The Italian, having won a pile of golden louis from the soldier, was smiling amiably and building yellow pyramids, forgetful for the time being of his gouty foot which dozed on a cushion under the table. This astute politician was still a handsome man, but the Fronde and the turbulent nobility had left their imprint. There were many lines wrinkling the circle of his eyes, and the brilliant color on his cheeks was the effect of rouge and fever.
The queen gazed covetously at Mazarin's winnings. She was growing fat, and the three long curls on each side of her face in no wise diminished its width; but her throat was still firm and white, and her hands, saving their plumpness, were yet the envy of many a beautiful woman. Anne of Austria was now devoted to three things; her prayers, her hands, and her plays.
As for the other two, Madame de Motteville looked hungry and politely bored, while the old maréchal scowled at his cards.
Near-by, on a pile of cushions, sat Philippe d'Orléans, the king's brother. He was cutting horses from three-colored prints and was sailing them up the chimney. At the left of the fireplace, the dark locks of the girl mingling with the golden curls of the boy, both poring over a hook filled with war-like pictures, the one interested by the martial spirit native to his blood, the other by the desire to please, sat the boy Louis and Mademoiselle de Mancini, Mazarin's niece. From time to time the cardinal permitted his gaze to wander in their direction, and there was fatherly affection in his smile. Mazarin liked to call these gatherings "family parties."
The center of the gallery presented an animated scene. The beautiful Madame de Turenne, whose husband was the maréchal-general of the armies of France, then engaged in war against Spain, under whose banners the great Condé was meeting with a long series of defeats, the Comtesse de Soissons, the Abbé de la Rivre, Madame de Brigy, the Duc and Duchesse de Montausier,—all were laughing and exchanging badinage with the Duc de Gramont, who was playing execrably on Mademoiselle de Longueville's guitar. Surrounding were the younger courtiers and ladies, who also were enjoying the affair. There are few things which amuse young people as much as the sight of an elderly, dignified man making a clown of himself.
"Oh, Monsieur le Duc," cried Mademoiselle de Longueville, springing from the window-seat from which position she had been staring at the flambeaux below, "if you fought as badly as you play, you would never have gained the baton."
"Mademoiselle, each has its time and place, the battle and the madrigal, Homer and Voiture, and besides, I never play when I fight;" and De Gramont continued his thrumming.
Just outside the pale of this merry circle the Duc de Beaufort leaned over the chair of Madame de Montbazon, and carried on a conversation in low tones. The duchess exhibited at intervals a fine set of teeth. In the old days when the literary salons of the Hôtel de Rambouillet were at zenith, the Duchesse de Montbazon was known to be at once the handsomest and most ignorant woman in France. But none denied that she possessed a natural wit or the ability successfully to intrigue; and many were the grand sieurs who had knelt at her feet. But now, like Anne of Austria, she was devoting her time to prayers and to the preservation of what beauty remained.
"So De Brissac is dead?" said Beaufort seriously. "Ah well, we all must die. I hope he has straightened up his affairs and that his papers fall into worthy hands." The prince glanced covertly toward Mazarin. "But it was all his own fault. The idea of a man of sixty marrying a girl of seventeen, fresh from convent, and a beauty, too, they say. He deserved it."
"Beaufort, few persons deserve violent deaths," replied the duchess; and with a perceptible frown she added: "And are you aware that Madame de Brissac, of whom you speak so lightly, is my own daughter?"
Beaufort started back from the chair. "Word of honor, I had forgotten! But it was so long ago, and no one seems to have heard of her. Your daughter! Why was she never presented at court?"
"She was presented three years ago, informally. I wished it so. Monsieur, we women love to hold a surprise in reserve. When we are no longer attractive, a daughter more or less does not matter."
"Truly I had forgotten. Eh well, we can not remember everything, especially when one spends five years in Vincennes," with another furtive glance at Mazarin. "But why De Brissac? If this daughter has half the beauty you had in your youth …"
Madame frowned.
"Half the beauty you still possess …"
Madame laughed. "Take care, or it will be said that Beaufort is become a wit."
Beaufort went on serenely—"there had been many a princeling."
Madame contemplated the rosy horn on the tips of her fingers. "Monsieur le Comte was rich."
"Admitted."
"His title was old."
"Again admitted. And all very well had he been only half as old as his title, this son-in-law of yours. Your son-in-law! It reads like one of Marguerite's tender tales. The daughter is three times younger than the husband who is old enough to be the father of his wife's mother. I must tell Scarron; he will make me laugh in retelling it."
Madame's lips formed for a spiteful utterance, but what she said was: "Prison life has aged you."
"Aged me, Madame?" reproachfully. "I grow old? Never. I have found the elixir of life."
"You will give me the recipe?" softening.
"You already possess it."
"I? Pray, explain."
"We who have the faculty of learning, without the use of books, of refusing to take life seriously, of forgetting injuries,—we never grow old. We simply die."
A third person would have enjoyed this blundering, unconscious irony which in no wise disturbed madame.
"The recipe is this," continued Beaufort: "enjoy the hours as they come; borrow not in advance, but spend the hour you have; shake the past from the shoulders like a worn-out cloak; laugh at and with your enemies; and be sure you have enemies, or life's without salt."
Madame gazed dreamily at the picture-lined walls. She smiled, recalling some happy souvenir. Presently she asked: "And who is this Chevalier du Cévennes?"
"A capital soldier, a gay fellow, rich and extravagant. I do not know him intimately, but I should like to. I knew his father well. The Marquis de Périgny was …"
"The Marquis de Périgny!" interrupted the duchess, half rising from her seat. "Do you mean to tell me that the Chevalier du Cévennes is the son of the Marquis de Périgny?" For a moment her mind was confused; so many recollections awoke to life at the mention of this name. "The Marquis de Périgny!"
Beaufort smiled. "Yes. Do you not recall the gay and brilliant marquis of fifteen years ago?"
Madame colored. "You said that the past should be shaken from the shoulders like a worn-out cloak."
"True. Ah, but that mad marquis!" reminiscently. "What a man he must have been in his youth! A fatalist, for I have seen him walk into the enemy's fire, laughing. Handsome? Too handsome. Courage? He was always fighting; he was a lion. How we youngsters applauded him! He told Richelieu to his face that he would be delighted to have him visit Périgny and dance the saraband before his peasant girls. He was always breaking the edicts, and but for the king he would have spent most of his time in the Bastille. He hasn't been to court in ten years."
"And is this son handsome?"
"Handsome and rich, with the valor of a Crillon. The daughter of a Montbazon would never look at a clod. … Monks of Touraine!" he ejaculated. "I remember now. I have seen her. Madame, I compliment you."
"Beaufort, believe me when I say that my daughter and the Chevalier du Cévennes have never met face to face. I am in a position to know. Since presentation Gabrielle has not been to court, unless it has been without my knowledge. Certainly the motive must have been robbery."
"Nothing of the sort. Nothing was missing from the Hôtel de Brissac. The Chevalier is rich."
"The Chevalier? I tell you that the association is impossible. In the first place … It is of no matter," biting her lips. "I know."
"Ventre Saint Gris! as my grandfather used to say, there is but one grey cloak lined with purple satin, but one square velvet collar, a fashion which the Chevalier invented himself. Three persons saw and recognized the cloak. If the Chevalier returns, it is the Bastille and forgetfulness. Mazarin is becoming as strict as those pot-hat Puritans yonder in England. He might possibly overlook a duel in the open; but to enter a man's house by the window … What more is there to be said? And all this recalls what my father used to say. De Brissac and the Marquis de Périgny were deadly enemies. It seems that De Brissac had one love affair; Madame la Marquise while she was a Savoy princess. She loved the marquis, and he married her because De Brissac wanted her. But De Brissac evidently never had his revenge."
Madame felt that she could no longer sustain the conversation. In her own mind she was positive that her daughter and the son of her old flame had never met. A man does not fall in love with a woman after he refuses to look at her; and the Chevalier had refused to look at Gabrielle. Why? Her mind was not subtile enough to pierce the veil.
A lackey approached Beaufort.
"I was directed to give this note to your Highness." The lackey bowed profoundly and retired.
Beaufort opened the note, scanned the lines, and grew deadly pale. What he read was this: "Monsieur le Comte's private papers are missing, taken by his assailant, who entered the hôtel for that purpose. Be careful." The note was unsigned.
At this moment Bernouin approached Mazarin and whispered something in his ear.
"Impossible!" cried the cardinal.
"It is true, nevertheless," replied the valet. "He is in the anteroom."
"The fellow is a fool! Does he think to brazen it out? I shall make an example of him. De Meilleraye, take my cards, and if you lose more than ten louis! … Ladies, an affair of state," and Mazarin rose and limped into the adjoining cabinet. "Bring him into this room," he said to the valet. He then stationed two gentlemen of the musketeers behind his chair, sat down and waited, a grimace of pain twisting his lips.
Meanwhile the Chevalier entered the gallery, following Bernouin. His face wore a puzzled, troubled expression. All this ado somewhat confused him.
"He is handsome," said Madame de Montbazon; "handsomer than ever his father was."
"He is more than handsome," said Beaufort, whose astonishment was genuine; "he is brave. What the devil brings him here into the wolf's maw?"
"His innocence. You see I was correct;" and madame's face grew placid again. So satisfied was she that she did not notice Beaufort's pallor nor the fever which burned in his brilliant eyes.
When the Chevalier was ushered into Mazarin's presence he was in great perturbation. Diane had not met him in the gallery as she had fairly promised, and the young page who had played Mercury to their intrigue stared him coolly in the face when questioned, and went about his affairs cavalierly. What did it mean? He scarce saw Mazarin or the serious faces of the musketeers. With no small effort he succeeded in finding his voice.
"Monseigneur, I have the honor to report to you the success of my mission. His Holiness directed me to give you this message." He choked; he could utter no more.
Mazarin read wrongly these signs of agitation. He took the missive and laid it aside. He drummed with his fingers, a sign that he was contemplating something disagreeable.
"Monsieur, when did you arrive?" he asked.
"At six this evening, Monseigneur," answered the Chevalier listlessly … He had entered Paris with joy in his heart, but now everything seemed to be going wrong.
"Take care, Monsieur," said Mazarin, lifting a warning finger. "You arrived yesterday, secretly."
"I? Why, Monseigneur, this is the twentieth of February, the evening we agreed upon. I slept last night at the Pineapple in Fontainebleau. I repeat to you, I arrived scarce two hours ago." It was now for the first time that he noted the seriousness of the faces confronting him.
"And I repeat that you arrived last night."
"Monseigneur, that is telling me that I lie!"
"Then tell the truth." Mazarin did not particularly relish the Chevalier's haughtiness. "You were in Paris last night."
"Monseigneur, I am a gentleman. While I lack many virtues, I do not lack courage and truthfulness. When I say that I slept in Fontainebleau, I say so truthfully. Your Eminence will tell me the cause of this peculiar interrogatory. There is an accusation pending." There was no fear in the Chevalier's face, but there was pride and courage and something bordering closely on contempt.
"Very well, then," replied Mazarin icily. "You were in Paris last night. You had an appointment at the Hôtel de Brissac. You entered by a window. Being surprised by the aged Brissac, you killed him."
The musketeers, who knew the Chevalier's courage, exchanged glances of surprise and disbelief. As for the accused, he stepped back, horrified.
"Monseigneur, one or the other of us is mad! I pray God that it be myself; for it can not be possible that the first minister in France would accuse of such a crime a gentleman who not only possesses courage but pride."
"Weigh your words, Monsieur le Chevalier," warned the cardinal. The Chevalier's tone was not pleasing to his cardinal's ear.
"You ask me to weigh my words, Monseigneur?—to weigh my words?" with a gesture which caused the musketeers to draw closer to Mazarin, "Oh, I am calm, gentlemen; I am calm!" He threw his hat to the floor, drew his sword and tossed it beside the hat, and folding his arms he said, his voice full of sudden wrath—wrath, against the ironical turn of fortune which had changed his cup of wine into salt:—"Now, Monseigneur, I demand of you that privilege which belongs to and is inseparable from my house: the right to face my accusers."
"I warn you, Monsieur," said Mazarin, "I like not this manner you assume. There were witnesses, and trustworthy ones. Yon may rely upon that."
"Trustworthy? That is not possible. I did not know De Brissac. I have never exchanged a word with him."
"It is not advanced that you knew Monsieur le Comte. But there was madame, who, it is said, was at one time affianced to you." Mazarin was a keen physiognomist; and as he read the utter bewilderment written on the Chevalier's face, his own grew somewhat puzzled.
"Monseigneur, as our Lady is witness, I have never, to my knowledge, set eyes upon Madame de Brissac, though it is true that at one time it was my father's wish that I should wed Mademoiselle de Montbazon."
"Monsieur, when a man wears such fashionable clothes as you wear, he naturally fixes the memory, becomes conspicuous. Do not forget the grey cloak, Monsieur le Chevalier."
"The grey cloak?" The Chevalier's face brightened. "Why, Monseigneur, the grey cloak …" He stopped. Victor de Saumaise, his friend, his comrade in arms, Victor the gay and careless, who was without any influence save that which his cheeriness and honesty and wit gave him! Victor the poet, the fashionable Villon, with his ballade, his rondeau, his triolet, his chant-royal!—Victor, who had put his own breast before his at Lens! The Chevalier regained his composure, he saw his way clearly, and said quietly: "I have not worn my grey cloak since the king's party at Louvre. I can only repeat that I was not in Paris last night. I slept at the Pineapple at Fontainebleau. Having no money, I pawned my ring for a night's lodging. If you will send some gentleman to make inquiries, the truth of my statement will be verified." There was now no wrath in the Chevalier's voice; but there was a quality of resignation in it which struck the acute ear of the cardinal and caused him to raise his penciled brows.
"Monsieur, you are hiding something," he said quickly, even shrewdly.
"I?"
"You, Monsieur. I believe that you slept in Fontainebleau. But who wore your grey cloak?"
"I can not say truthfully because I do not know."
"Take care!"
"I do not know who wore my cloak."
"A while back you said something about truth. You are not telling it now. I will know who killed De Brissac, an honored and respected gentleman, whatever his political opinions may have been in the past. It was an encounter under questionable circumstances. The edict reads that whosoever shall be found guilty of killing in a personal quarrel shall be subject to imprisonment or death. The name of the man who wore your cloak, or I shall hold you culpable and punish you in his stead."
The Chevalier stooped and recovered his hat, but he did not touch the sword.
"It is impossible for me to tell you, Monseigneur. I do not know. The cloak may have been stolen and worn by some one I never saw."
"To whom did you lend the cloak?"
"To tell that might bring another innocent man under a cloud. Besides, I have been absent thirty days; that is a long time to remember so trivial a thing."
"Which is to say that you refuse to tell me?" not without some admiration.
"It is," quietly.
"Your exoneration for the name, Chevalier. The alternative is your resignation from the Guards and your exile."
Exile from Paris was death to the courtier; but the Chevalier was more than a courtier, he was a soldier. "I refuse to tell you, Monseigneur. It is unfair of you to ask me."
"So be it. For the sake of your father, the marquis,—and I have often wondered why you never assume your lawful title,—for the sake of your father, then, who is still remembered kindly by her Majesty, I shall not send you to the Bastille as was my original intention. Your exile shall be in the sum of five years. You are to remain in France. If you rebel and draw your sword against your country, confiscation and death. You are also prohibited from offering your services to France against any nation she may be at war with. If within these five years you set foot inside of Paris, the Bastille, with an additional three years."
"Monseigneur, that is severe punishment for a man whose only crime is the possession of a grey cloak."
"Death of my life! I am not punishing you; I am punishing the man who killed De Brissac. Come, come, Monsieur le Comte," in a kindly tone; "do not be a fool, do not throw away a brilliant career for the sake of a friendship. I who know tell you that it is not worth while. Friendship, I have learned, is but a guise for self-interest."
The Chevalier, having nothing to say, bowed.
"Go, then, to your estates." Mazarin was angry. "Mark me, I shall find this friend of yours, but I shall not remit one hour of your punishment. Messieurs," turning to the musketeers, "conduct Monsieur le Chevalier to his lodgings and remain with him till dawn, when you will show him the road to Orléans. And remember, he must see no one." Then Mazarin went back to the gallery and resumed his game. "What! De Meilleraye, you have won only three louis? Give me the cards; and tell his Grace of Gramont that I am weary of his discords."
"Monsieur le Chevalier," said one of the musketeers, waking the Chevalier from his stupor, "pardon us a disagreeable duty."
The other musketeer restored the Chevalier's rapier.
"Proceed, Messieurs," said the Chevalier, picking up his hat and thrusting his sword into its scabbard; "I dare say this moment is distasteful to us all."
The musketeers conducted him through the secret staircase to the court below. The Duc de Beaufort, who had been waiting, came forward.
"Stand back, Messieurs," said the prince; "I have a word to say to Monsieur le Chevalier."
Mazarin's word was much, but the soldier loved his Beaufort. The two musketeers withdrew a dozen paces.
"Monsieur," said the duke lowly, "that paper, and my word as a gentleman, you shall go free."
"Paper? I do not understand your Highness."
"Come, come, Monsieur," said the duke impatiently; "it is your liberty. Besides, I am willing to pay well."
"Your Highness," coldly, "you are talking over my head. I do not understand a word you say."
Beaufort stared into the Chevalier's face. "Why did you enter De Brissac's … ?"
"I have explained all that to monseigneur, the cardinal. Is everybody mad in Paris?" with a burst of anger. "I arrive in Paris at six this evening, and straightway I am accused of having killed a man I have seen scarce a half dozen times in my life. And now your Highness talks of papers! I know nothing about papers. Ask Mazarin, Monsieur. Mazarin knows that I was not in Paris yesterday."
"What!" incredulously.
"Messieurs," called the Chevalier. The musketeers returned. "Tell his Highness for me that monseigneur acquits me of all connection with the De Brissac affair, and that I am being punished and exiled because I happen to possess a grey cloak."
"It is true, your Highness."
"Whom are you shielding?" demanded the prince with an oath. He was alarmed.
"Since I refused to tell his Eminence it is not probable that I shall tell your Highness."
Beaufort left in a rage. The prince's lackey spent a most uncomfortable hour that night when his Highness, son of Monsieur le Duc de Vendôme, retired.
The Chevalier espied a yellow calèche, Mademoiselle de Longueville herself in the act of entering it. Mademoiselle was the only person he knew to be in the confidence of Diane.
"Messieurs, will you permit me to speak to Mademoiselle de Longueville?" he asked.
"Do you think that monsieur can see mademoiselle?" said one to the other, humorously.
"It is too dark for him to see her. His Eminence said nothing about Monsieur le Chevalier speaking to any one he could not see."
"Thanks, Messieurs, thanks!" And the Chevalier hastened to the calèche. "Mademoiselle …"
"Monsieur," she interrupted, "I have a message for you. A certain lady whom we both know requests me to say that she forbids you further to address her. Her reasons … Well, she gives none. As for me, Monsieur, I believe you to be a gentleman and a man of honor who is above exile and calumny."
"God bless you, Mademoiselle. Tell her for me that whatever her indictments are, I am innocent; and that we do not love when we do not trust."
She gave him a curious glance. "You have not yet discovered who she is?"
"No, Mademoiselle. Will you tell me?"
"She is … No; to tell you would be wrong and it would do you no good. Forget her, Chevalier. I should." And she drew the curtain and ordered her lackeys to drive on.
"It is snowing," said the Chevalier, irrelevantly, when the musketeers rejoined him.
"So it is, so it is," one replied. "Put on your hat, Monsieur, or my word for it, you will catch a devil of a chill."
The Chevalier put on his hat. "Five years … his Eminence said five years?"
"Yes, Monsieur. But what are five years to a man like yourself? You have youth and money, and the little Rochellaises are pretty. My word! the time will pass quickly enough. Come; we will go to your lodging. Did his Eminence say anything about wine, Georges?" to his companion.
"Nothing prohibitory. I once heard him say 'Bonum vinum laetificat cor hominis.'"
"What does that mean?"
"Good wine rejoices the heart of man. Let us watch for the dawn with the Chevalier, who is a man in all things. Monsieur, whoever your friend may be, I hope he is not without gratitude."
"Yes, yes! Let's off to the Chevalier's. The Candlestick has some fine burgundy. It is cold and wine warms the heart."
The Chevalier burst into a despairing laugh, "Wine! That is the word, my comrades. On to the Candlestick!" he cried in a high voice. He caught the musketeers by the arms and dragged them toward the gate. "Wine rejoices the heart of man: and one forgets. Let Mazarin take away my liberty; praise be to Bacchus, he can not take away my thirst! And oh! I shall be thirsty these five long years. On to the Candlestick! I know a mellow vintage; and we three shall put the candle out to-night."
And the three of them made off for the Candlestick.