hat was Vigo's way. The toughest snarl untangled at his touch. He had more sense and fewer airs than any other, he saw at once that I was in earnest; and Constant's voluble protests were as so much wind. The title does not make the man. Though Constant was Master of the Household and Vigo only Equery, yet Vigo ruled every corner of the establishment and every man in it, save only Monsieur, who ruled him.
He said no word to me as we climbed the broad stair; neither reproved me for the fracas nor questioned me about my coming. He would not pry into Monsieur's business; and, save as I concerned Monsieur, he had no interest in me whatsoever. He led the way straight into an antechamber, where a page sprang up to bar our passage.
"No one may enter, M. Vigo, not even you. M. le Duc has ordered it. Why, Félix! You in Paris!"
"I enter," said Vigo; and, sweeping Marcel aside, he knocked loudly.
"I came last night," I found time to say under my breath to my old comrade before the door was opened.
The handsome secretary whom I had taken for the count stood in the doorway looking askance at us. He knew me at once and wondered.
"You cannot enter, Vigo. M. le Duc is occupied."
He made to shut the door, but Vigo's foot was over the sill.
"Natheless, I must enter," he answered unabashed and pushed his way into the room.
"Then you must answer for it," returned the secretary, with a scowl that sat ill on his delicate face.
"You shall answer for it if it turns out a mare's nest," said Vigo, in a low, meaning voice to me. But I hardly heard him. I passed him and Lucas, and flew down the long room to Monsieur.
M. le Duc was seated before a table heaped with papers. He had been watching the scene at the door in surprise and anger. He looked at me with a sharp frown, while the deer-hound at his feet rose on its haunches growling.
"Roland!" I said. The dog sprang up and came to me.
"Félix Broux!" Monsieur exclaimed, with his quick, warm smile—a smile no man in France could match for radiance.
I had no thought of kneeling, of making obeisance, of waiting permission to speak.
"Monsieur," I cried, half choked, "there is a plot—a vile plot to murder you!"
"Where? At St. Quentin?"
"No, Monsieur. Here in Paris. In the streets to-night, when you go to the king."
Monsieur sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword. Lucas turned white. Vigo swore. Monsieur cried:
"How, in God's name, know you that?"
"You have been betrayed, Monsieur. Your plan is known. You leave the house to-night, near a quarter of eleven, to go in secret to the king. You leave by the little door in the alley—"
"Diable!" breathed Vigo.
"They set on you on your way—three of them—to run you through before you can draw."
"But, ventre bleu! Monsieur is not alone."
"No; he walks between you and M. Lucas."
Not one of them spoke. They stared at me as if I were something uncanny. I, a raw country boy, disclosing a perfect knowledge of their most intimate plans!
"How know you this?" Monsieur demanded of me. But he was not looking at me. His keen glance went first to Lucas, then to Vigo, the two men who had shared his confidence. The secretary cried out:
"You cannot think, Monsieur, that I betrayed you?"
Vigo said nothing. His steady eyes never left Monsieur's face.
"No," answered Monsieur to Lucas, "I cannot think it." And to Vigo he said: "I shall accuse you when I accuse myself. But—none knew this thing save our three selves." And his gaze went back to Lucas.
"It is not likely to be he," I said, impelled to be just to him though I did not like him, "for they meant to kill him as well."
Lucas started, then instantly recovered himself.
"A comprehensive plot, Monsieur," he said, with a smile.
"Then who was it?" cried Monsieur to me. "You know. Speak."
"There is a spy in the house—an eavesdropper," I said, and then paused.
"Aye?" said Monsieur. "Who?"
Now the answer to this was easy, yet I flinched before it; for I knew well enough what Monsieur would do. He feared no man, and waited on no man's advice. And if he was a good lover, he was a good hater. He would not inform the governor, and await the tardy course of justice, that would probably accomplish—nothing. Nor would he consider the troubled times and the danger of his position, and ignore the affair, as many would have deemed best. He would not stop to think what the Sixteen might have to say to it. No; he would call out his guards and slay the plotters in the Rue Coupejarrets like the wolves they were. It was right he should, but—I owed my life to Yeux-gris.
"His name, man, his name!" Monsieur was crying.
"Monsieur," I returned, flushing hot, "Monsieur—"
"Do you know his name?"
"Yes, Monsieur, I know his name, but—"
Monsieur looked at me in surprise and frowning, impatience. Quickly Lucas struck in:
"Monsieur, I have grave doubts of the boy's honesty."
"Doubts!" cried Monsieur, with a sudden laugh. "It is not a case for doubts. The boy states facts."
He seated himself in his chair, his face growing stern again. The little action seemed to make him no longer merely my questioner, but my judge.
"Now, Félix Broux, let us get to the bottom of this."
"Monsieur," I began, struggling to put the case clearly, "I learned of the plot by accident. I did not guess for a long time it was you who were the victim. When I found out that, I came straight here to you. Monsieur, there are four men in the plot, and one of them has stood my friend."
"And my assassin!"
"He is a black-hearted villain!" I acknowledged. "For he swore no harm was meant to you. He swore it was only a private grudge against M. Lucas. But when one of them let out the truth I came straight to you."
"That is likely true," said Vigo, "for he was ready to kill the men who barred his way."
"You were in a plot to kill my secretary!"
"Ah, Monsieur!" I cried.
"You—Félix Broux!"
I curled with shame.
"M. Lucas had struck me," I muttered; "I thought the fight was fair enough. And they threatened my life."
Monsieur's contemptuous eyes shrivelled me as flame shrivels a leaf.
"You—a Broux of St. Quentin!"
Lucas, who had watched me close all the while, as they all three did, said now:
"I believe he is a cheat, Monsieur. There is no plot. He has learned of your plan through the eavesdropper he speaks of and thinks to make credit out of a trumped-up tale of murder."
"No," answered Monsieur. "You may think that, Lucas, for he is a stranger to you. But I know him. He was a fool sometimes, but he was never dishonest. You used to be fond of me, Félix. What has happened to make you consort with my enemies?"
"Ah, Monsieur, I love you. I have always loved you," I cried. "I am not lying now, nor cheating you. There is a plot. I learned it and came straight to you, though I was under oath not to betray them."
"Then, in Heaven's name, Félix," burst out Vigo, "which side are you on?"
Monsieur began to laugh.
"That is what I should like to know. For, by St. Quentin, I can make nothing of it."
"Monsieur," insisted Lucas, "whatever he was once, I believe him a trickster now."
Monsieur bent his keen eyes on me.
"No; he is plainly in earnest. Therefore with patience I look to get some sense out of this snarl of a story. Something is there we have not yet fathomed."
"Will Monsieur let me speak?"
"I have done naught but urge you to do so for some time past," he answered dryly.
"Monsieur, you know my father would not let me leave St. Quentin with you, three months back. But at length he said I should come, and I reached Paris last night and, since it was late, lodged at an inn. This morning I came to your gate, but the guard would not let me enter. I was so mad to see you, Monsieur, that when you drove out I sprang up on your coach-step—"
"Ah," said Monsieur, a new light breaking in upon him, "that was you, Félix? I did not know you; I was thinking of other matters. And Lucas took you for a miscreant. Now I am sorry."
If I had been a noble he could not have spoken franker apology. But at once he was stern again. "And because my secretary took you in all good faith for a possible assassin and struck you to save me, you turn traitor and take part in a plot to set on him and kill him! I had believed that of some hired lackey, not of a Broux."
"Monsieur, I was wrong—a thousand times wrong. I knew that as soon as I had sworn. And when I found it was you they meant, I came to you, oath or no oath."
"There spoke the Broux!" cried Monsieur with his brilliant smile. "Now you are Félix. Who are my would-be murderers?"
We had come round in a circle to the place where we had stuck before, and here we stuck again.
"Monsieur, I would tell you all before you could count ten—tell you their names, their whereabouts, everything—were it not for one man who stood my friend."
The duke's eyes flashed.
"You call him that—my assassin!"
"He is an assassin," I was forced to answer; "even Monsieur's assassin—and a perjurer. But—but, Monsieur, he saved my life from the other, at the risk of his own. How can I pay him back by betraying him?"
"According to your own account, he betrayed you."
"Aye, he lied to me," I said brokenly. "Yet Monsieur, if it were your own case and one had saved your life, were he the scum of the gutter, would you send him to his death?"
"To whom do you owe your first duty?"
"Monsieur, to you."
"Then speak."
But I could not do it. Though I knew Yeux-gris for a villain, yet he had saved my life.
"Monsieur, I cannot."
The duke cried out:
"This to me!"
There was a silence. I stood with hanging head, the picture of a shame-faced knave. Shame so filled me that I could not look up to meet Monsieur's sentence. But when I had remembered the good hater in Monsieur, I should have remembered, too, the good lover. Monsieur had been fond of me at St. Quentin. As I waited for the lightning to strike, he said with utmost gentleness:
"Félix, let me understand you. In what manner did this man save your life?"
Now that was like my lord. Though a hot man, he loved fairness and ever strove to do the just thing, and his patience was the finer that it was not his nature. His leniency fired me with a sudden hope.
"Monsieur, there are four of them in the plot. But one cannot be as vile as the others, since he saved my life. Monsieur, if I tell you, will you let that one go?"
"I shall do as I see fit," he answered, all the duke. "Félix, will you speak?"
"If Monsieur will promise to let him go—"
"Insolence, sirrah! I do not bargain with my servants."
His words were like whips. I flinched before his proud anger, and for the second time stood with hanging head awaiting his sentence. And again he did what I could not guess. He cried out:
"Félix, you are blind, besotted, mad. You know not what you do. I am in constant danger. The city is filled with my enemies. The Leagues hate me and are ever plotting mischief against me. Every day their mistrust and hatred grow. I did a bold thing in coming to Paris, but I had a great end to serve—to pave a way into the capital for the Catholic king and bring the land to peace. For that, I live in hourly jeopardy, and risk my life to-night on foot in the streets. If I am killed, more than my life is lost. The Church may lose the king, and this dear France of ours be harried to a desert in the civil wars!"
I had braced myself to bear Monsieur's anger, but this unlooked-for appeal pierced me through and through. All the love and loyalty in me—and I had much, though it may not have seemed so—rose in answer to Monsieur's call. I fell on my knees before him, choked with sobs.
Monsieur's hand lay on my head as he said quietly:
"Now, Félix, speak."
I answered huskily:
"Would Monsieur have me turn Judas?"
"Judas betrayed his master."
It was my last stand. My last redoubt had fallen. I raised my head to tell him all.
Maybe it was the tears in my eyes, but as I lifted them to M. le Duc, I saw—not him, but Yeux-gris—Yeux-gris looking at me with warm good will, as he had looked when he was saving me from Gervais. I saw him, I say, plain before my eyes. The next instant there was nothing but Monsieur's face of rising impatience.
I rose to my feet, and said:
"Kill me, Monsieur; I cannot tell."
"Nom de dieu!" he shouted, springing up.
I shut my eyes and waited. Had he slain me then and there it were no more than my deserts.
"Monsieur," said Vigo, immovably, "shall I go for the boot?"
I opened my eyes then. Monsieur stood quite still, his brow knotted, his hands clenched as if to keep them off me.
"Monsieur," I said, "send for the boot, the thumbscrew, whatever you please. I deserve it, and I will bear it. Monsieur, it is not that I will not tell. It is something stronger than I. I cannot."
He burst into an angry laugh.
"Say you are possessed of a devil, and I will believe it. My faith! though you are a low-born lad and I Duke of St. Quentin, I seem to be getting the worst of it."
"There is the boot, Monsieur."
Monsieur laughed again, no less angrily.
"That does not help me, my good Vigo. I cannot torture a Broux."
"There Monsieur is wrong. The lad has been disloyal and insolent, if he is a Broux."
"Granted, Vigo," said M. le Duc. But he did not add, "Fetch the boot."
Vigo went on with steady persistence. "He has not been loyal to Monsieur and his interests in refusing to tell what he knows. And if he goes counter to Monsieur's interests he is a traitor, Broux or no Broux. He has no claim to be treated as other than an enemy. These are serious times. Monsieur does not well to play with his dangers. The boy must tell what he knows. Am I to go for the boot, Monsieur?"
M. le Duc was silent for a moment, while the hot flush that had sprung to his face died away. Then he answered Vigo:
"Nevertheless, it is owing to Félix that I shall not walk out to meet my death to-night."
The secretary had stood silent for a long time, fingering nervously the papers on the table. I had forgotten his presence, when now he stepped forward and said:
"If I might be permitted a suggestion, Monsieur—"
Monsieur silenced him with a sharp gesture.
"Félix Broux," he said to me, "you have been following a bad plan. No man can run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. You are either my loyal servant or my enemy, one thing or the other. Now I am loath to hurt you. You have seen how I am loath to hurt you. I give you one more chance to be honest. Go and think it over. If in half an hour you have decided that you are my true man, well and good. If not, by St. Quentin, we will see what a flogging can do!"
VIII
Charles-André-Étienne-Marie.
npleased, but unprotesting, Vigo led me out into the anteroom. Those men who judged by the outside of things and, knowing Vigo's iron ways, said that he ruled Monsieur, were wrong.
The big equery gave me over to the charge of Marcel and returned to the inner room. Hardly had the door closed behind him when the page burst out:
"What is it? What is the coil? What have you done, Félix?"
Now you can guess I was too sick-hearted for chatter. I had defied and disobeyed my liege lord; I could never hope for pardon or any man's respect. They threatened me with flogging; well, let them flog. They could not make my back any sorer than my conscience was. For I had not the satisfaction in my trouble of thinking that I had done right. Monsieur's danger should have been my first consideration. What was Yeux-gris, perjured scoundrel, in comparison with M. le Duc? And yet I knew that at the end of the half-hour I should not tell; at the end of the flogging I should not tell. I had warned Monsieur; that I would have done had it been the breaking of a thousand oaths. But give up Yeux-gris? Not if they tore me limb from limb!
"What is it all about?" cried Marcel, again. "You look as glum as a Jesuit in Lent. What is the matter with you, Félix?"
"I have cooked my goose," I said gloomily.
"What have you done?"
"Nothing that I can speak about. But I am out of Monsieur's books."
"What was old Vigo after when he took you in to Monsieur? I never saw anything so bold. When Monsieur says he is not to be disturbed he means it."
I had nothing to tell him, and was silent.
"What is it? Can't you tell an old chum?"
"No; it is Monsieur's private business."
"Well, you are grumpy!" he cried out pettishly. "You must be out of grace." He seemed to decide that nothing was to be made out of me just now on this tack, and with unabated persistence tried another.
"Is it true, Félix, what one of the men said just now, that you tried to speak with Monsieur this morning when he drove out?"
"Yes. But Monsieur did not recognize me."
"Like enough," Marcel answered. "He has a way of late of falling into these absent fits. Monsieur is not the man he was."
"He does look older," I said, "and worn. I trow the risk he is running—"
"Pshaw!" cried Marcel, with scorn. "Is Monsieur a man to mind risks? No; it is M. le Comte."
I started like a guilty thing, remembering what Yeux-gris had told me and I, wrapped in my petty troubles, had forgotten. Monsieur had lost his only son. And I had chosen this time to defy him!
"How long ago was it?" I asked in a hushed voice.
"Since M. le Comte left us? It will be three weeks next Friday."
"How did he die?"
"Die?" echoed Marcel. "You crazy fellow, he is not dead!"
It was my turn to stare.
"Then where is he?"
"It would be money in my pouch if I knew. What made you think him dead, Félix?"
"A man told me so."
"Pardieu!" he cried in some excitement. "When? Who was it?"
"To-day. I do not know the man's name."
"It seems you know very little. Pardieu! I do not believe M. le Comte is dead. What else did your man say?"
"Nothing. He only said the Comte de Mar was dead."
"Pshaw! I don't believe it. You believe everything you hear because you are just from the country. No; if M. le Comte were dead we should hear of it. Oh, certainly, we should hear."
"But where is he, then? You say he is lost."
"Aye. He has not been seen or heard of since the day they had the quarrel."
"Who quarrelled?"
"Why, he and Monsieur," answered Marcel, in a lower voice, pointing to the door of the inner room. "M. le Comte has been his own master too long to take kindly to a hand over him; that is the whole of it. He has a quick temper. So has Monsieur."
But I thought of Monsieur's wonderful patience, and I cried:
"Shame!"
"What now?"
"To speak like that of Monsieur."
"Enfin, it is true. He is none the worse for that. But I suppose if Monsieur had a cloven hoof one must not mention it."
"One would get his head broken."
"Oh, you Broux!" he cried out. "I have not seen you for half a year. I had forgotten that with you the St. Quentins rank with the saints."
"You—you are a hired servant. You come to Monsieur as you might come to anybody. With the Broux it is different," I retorted angrily. Yet I could not but know in my heart that any hired servant might have served Monsieur better than I. My boasted loyalty—what was it but lip-service? I said more humbly: "Pshaw! it is no great matter. Tell me about the quarrel."
"And so I will, if you're civil. In the first place, there was the question of M. le Comte's marriage."
"What! is he married?"
"Oh, by no means. Monsieur wouldn't have it. You see, Félix," Marcel said in a tone deep with importance, "we're Navarre's men now."
"Of course," said I.
"I suppose you would say 'of course' just like that to Mayenne himself. You greenhorn! It is as much as our lives are worth to side openly with Navarre. The League may attack us any day."
"I know," I said uneasily. Every chance word Marcel spoke seemed to dye my guilt the deeper. "But what has this to do with M. le Comte's marriage?" I asked him.
"Why, he was more than half a Leaguer. Perhaps he is one now. Some say he and Monsieur were at daggers drawn about politics; but I warrant it was about Mlle. de Montluc. They call her the Rose of Lorraine. She's the Duke of Mayenne's own cousin and housemate. And we're king's men, so of course it was no match for Monsieur's son. They say Mayenne himself favoured the marriage, but our duke wouldn't hear of it. However, the backbone of the trouble was M. de Grammont."
"And who may he be?"
"He's a cousin of the house. He and M. le Comte are as thick as thieves. Before we came to Paris they lodged together. So when M. le Comte came here he brought M. de Grammont. Dare I speak ill of Monsieur's cousin, Félix? For I would say, at the risk of a broken head, that he is a sour-faced churl. You cannot deny it. You never saw him."
"No, nor M. le Comte, either."
"Why, you have seen M. le Comte!"
"Never. The only time he came to St. Quentin I was laid up in bed with a strained leg. I missed the chase. Don't you remember?"
"Why, you are right; that was the time you fell out of the buttery window when you were stealing tarts, and Margot got after you with the broomstick. I remember very well."
He was for calling up all our old pranks at the château, but it was little joy to me to think on those fortunate days when I was Monsieur's favourite. I said:
"Nay, Marcel, you were telling me of M. le Comte and the quarrel."
"Oh, as for that, it is easy told. You see M. le Comte and this Grammont took no interest in Monsieur's affairs, and they had very little to say to him, and he to them. They had plenty of friends in Paris, Leaguers or not, and they used to go about amusing themselves. But at last M. de Grammont had such a run of bad luck at the tables that he not only emptied his own pockets but M. le Comte's as well. I will say for M. le Comte that he would share his last sou with any one who asked."
"And so would any St. Quentin."
"Oh, you are always piping up for the St. Quentins."
"He should have no need in this house."
We jumped up to find Vigo standing behind us.
"What have you been saying of Monsieur?"
"Nothing, M. Vigo," stammered the page. "I only said M. le Comte—"
"You are not to discuss M. le Comte. Do you hear?"
"Yes, M. Vigo."
"Then obey. And you, Félix, I shall have a little interview with you shortly."
"As you will, M. Vigo," I said hopelessly.
He went off down the corridor, and Marcel turned angrily on me.
"Mon dieu, Félix, you have got me into a nice scrape with your eternal chanting of the praises of Monsieur. Like as not I shall get a beating for it. Vigo never forgets."
"I am sorry," I said. "We should not have been talking of it."
"No, we should not. Come over here where we can watch both doors, and I'll tell you the rest before the old lynx gets back."
We sat down close together, and he proceeded in a low tone to disobey Vigo.
"Enfin, as I said, the two young gentlemen were quite sans le sou, for things had come to a point where M. le Duc looked pretty black at any application for funds—he has other uses for his gold, you see. One day Monsieur was expecting some one to whom he was to pay a thousand pistoles, and to have the money handy he put it in a secret drawer in his cabinet in the room yonder. The man arrives and is taken to Monsieur's private room. Monsieur gives him his orders and goes to the cabinet for his pistoles. No pistoles there!"
Marcel paused dramatically. "And what then?" I asked.
"Well, it appears he had once shown M. le Comte the trick of the drawer, so he sent for him—not to accuse him, mind you. For M. le Comte is wild enough, yet Monsieur did not think he would steal pistoles, nor would he, I will stake my oath. No, Monsieur merely asked him if he had ever shown any one the drawer, and M. le Comte answered, 'Only Grammont.'"
And how have you learned all this?"
"Oh, one hears."
"One does, with one's ears to the keyhole."
"It behooves you, Félix, to be civil to your better!"
I made pretence of looking about me.
"Where is he?"
"He sits here. I am page to the Duke of St. Quentin. And you?"
"Touché!" I admitted bitterly enough. Little Marcel, my junior, my unquestioning follower in the old days, was now indeed my better, quite in a position to patronize.
"Continue, if you please, Marcel. Yet, in passing, I should like to ask you how much you heard our talk in there just now."
"Nothing," he answered candidly. "When they are so far down the room one cannot hear a word. In the affair of the pistoles they stood near the cabinet at this end. One could not help but hear. As for listening at keyholes, I scorn it."
"Yes, it is well to scorn it. People have an unpleasant trick of opening doors so suddenly."
He laughed cheerfully.
"Old Vigo caught us, certes. Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes, then Monsieur put on his proud look and said, if it was a case of no one but his son and his cousin, he preferred to drop the matter. But M. le Comte got out of him what the trouble was and went off for Grammont, red as fire. The two together came back to Monsieur and denied up and down that either of them knew aught of his pistoles, or had told of the secret to any one. They say it was easy to see that Monsieur did not believe Grammont, but he did not give him the lie, and the matter came near dropping there, for M. le Duc would not accuse a kinsman. But then Lucas gave a new turn to the affair."
"How long has Lucas been here, Marcel? Who is he?"
"Oh, he's a rascal of a Huguenot. Monsieur picked him up at Mantes, just before we came to the city. And if he spies on Monsieur's enemies as well as he does on this household, he must be a useful man. He has that long nose of his in everything, let me tell you. Of course he was present when Monsieur missed the pistoles. So then, quite on his own account, without any orders, he took two of the men and searched M. de Grammont's room. And in a locked chest of his which they forced open they found five hundred of the pistoles in the very box Monsieur had kept them in."
"And then?"
Marcel made a fine gesture.
"And then, pardieu! the storm broke. M. de Grammont raved like a madman. He said Lucas was the thief and had put half the sum in his chest to divert suspicion. He said it was a plot to ruin him contrived between Monsieur and his henchman, Lucas. It is true enough, certes, that Monsieur never liked him. He threatened Monsieur's life and Lucas's. He challenged Monsieur, and Monsieur declined to cross swords with a thief. He challenged Lucas, and Lucas took the cue from Monsieur. I was not there—on either side of the door. What I tell you has leaked out bit by bit from Lucas, for Monsieur keeps his mouth shut. The upshot of the matter was that Grammont goes at Lucas with a knife, and Monsieur has the guards pitch my gentleman into the street. Then M. le Comte swore a big oath that he would go with Grammont. Monsieur told him if he went in such company it would be forever. M. le Comte swore he would never come back under his father's roof if M. le Duc crawled to him on his knees to beg him."
"Ah!" I cried; "and then?"
"Marry, that's all. M. le Comte went straight out of this gate, without horse or squire. And we have not heard a word of either of them since."
He paused, and when I made no comment, said, a trifle aggrieved:
"Eh bien, you take it calmly, but you would not had you been here. It was an altogether lively affair. It wouldn't surprise me a whit if some day Monsieur should be attacked as he drives out. He's not one to forget an injury, this M. Gervais de Grammont."
At the name, intelligence flashed over me, sudden and clear as last night's lightning-gleam. Yet this thing I seemed to see was so hideous, so horrible, that my mind recoiled from it.
"Marcel," I stammered, shuddering, "Marcel—"
"Mordieu! what ails you? Is some one walking on your grave?"
"Marcel, how is M. le Comte named?"
"The Comte de Mar? Oh, do you mean his names in baptism? Charles-André-Étienne-Marie. They call him Étienne. Why do you ask? What is it?"
It was a certainty, then. Yet I could not bring myself to believe this horrible thing.
"I have never seen him. How does he look?"
"Oh, not at all like Monsieur. He has fair hair and gray eyes—que diable!"
For I had flung open Monsieur's door and dashed in.
IX
The honour of St. Quentin.
onsieur was seated at his table, talking in a low tone and hurriedly to Lucas. They started and stared as I broke in upon them, and then Monsieur cried out to me:
"Ah, Félix! You have come to your senses."
"I will tell Monsieur all, the whole story."
He tested my honesty with a glance, then looked beyond me at Marcel, standing agape in the doorway.
"Leave us, Marcel. Go down-stairs. Leave that door open, and shut the door into the corridor."
Marcel obeyed. Monsieur turned to me with a smile.
"Now, Félix."
I had hardly been able to hold my words back while Marcel was disposed of.
"Monsieur, I knew not, myself, the names of those men. Now I have found out. They—"
My eyes met the secretary's fixed excitedly upon me and the words died on my tongue. Even in my rage I had the grace to know that this was no story to tell Monsieur before another.
"I will tell Monsieur alone."
"You may speak before M. Lucas," he rejoined impatiently.
"No," I persisted. "I must tell Monsieur alone."
He saw in my face that I had strong reasons for asking it, and said to the secretary:
"You may go, Lucas."
Lucas protested.
"M. le Duc will be wiser not to see him alone. He is not to be trusted. Perchance, Monsieur, this demand covers an attack on your life."
The warning nettled my lord. He answered curtly:
"You may go."
"Monsieur—"
"Go!"
Lucas passed out, giving me, as he went, a look of hatred that startled me. But I did not pay it much heed.
"Well!" exclaimed Monsieur.
But by this time I had bethought myself what a story it was I had to tell a father of his son. I could not blurt it out in two words. I stood silent, not knowing how to start.
"Félix! Beware how much longer you abuse my patience!"
"Monsieur," I began, "the spy in the house is named Martin."
"Ah!" cried Monsieur. "So it is Louis Martin. How he knew—But go on. The others—"
"I lay the night in the Rue Coupejarrets, not far from the St. Denis gate," I said, still beating about the bush, "at the sign of the Amour de Dieu. Opposite is a closed house, shuttered with iron from garret to cellar. You can enter from a court behind. It is here that they plot."
Monsieur's brows drew together, as if he were trying to recall something half remembered, half forgotten.
"But the men," he cried, "the men!"
"They are three. One a low fellow named Pontou."
"Pontou? The name is nothing to me. The others?" He was leaning forward eagerly. I knew of what he was thinking—the quickest way to reach the Rue Coupejarrets.
"There are two others, Monsieur," I said slowly. "Young men—noble."
I looked at him. But no light whatever had broken in upon him.
"Their names, lad!"
Then, seeing him unsuspecting, the fury in my heart surged up and covered every other feeling. I burst out:
"Gervais de Grammont and the Comte de Mar."
He looked me in the face, and he knew I was telling the truth. Unexpected as it was, hideous as it was, yet he knew I was telling the truth.
I had seen cowards turn pale, but never the colour washed from a brave man's face. The sight made my fingers itch to strangle that gray-eyed cheat.
With a cry Monsieur sprang toward me.
"You lie, you cur!"
"No, Monsieur," I gasped; "it is the truth."
He let me go then, and laid his hand on the collar of the dog, who had sprung to his aid. But Monsieur had got a hurt from which the dumb beast's loyalty could not defend him. He stood with bowed head, a man stricken to the heart's core. Full of wrath as I was, the tears came to my eyes for Monsieur.
He recovered himself.
"It is some damnable mistake! You have been tricked!"
My rage blazed up again.
"No! They tricked me once. Not again! Not this time. I knew not who they were till now, when I talked with Marcel. The two things fitted."
"Then it is your guess! You dare to say—"
"No, I know!" I interrupted rudely, too excited to remember respect. "Shall I tell what these men were like? I had never seen M. le Comte nor M. de Grammont before. One was broad-shouldered and heavy, with a black beard and a black scowl, whom the other called Gervais. The younger was called Étienne, tall and slender, with gray eyes and fair hair. And like Monsieur!" I cried, suddenly aware of it. "Mordieu, how he is like, though he is light! In face, in voice, in manner! He speaks like Monsieur. He has Monsieur's laugh. I was blind not to see it. I believe that was why I loved him so much."
"It was he whom you would not betray?"
"Aye. That was before I knew."
Thinking of the trust I had given him, my wrath boiled up again. Monsieur took me by the shoulder and looked at me as if he would look through me to the naked soul.
"How do I know that you are not lying?"
"Monsieur does know it."
"Yes," he answered after a moment. "Alas! yes, I know it."
He stood looking at me, with the dreariest face I ever saw—the face of a man whose son has sought to murder him. Looking back on it now, I wonder that I ever went to Monsieur with that story. I wonder why I did not bury the shame and disgrace of it in my own heart, at whatever cost keep it from Monsieur. But the thought never entered my head then. I was so full of black rage against Yeux-gris—him most of all, because he had won me so—that I could feel nothing else. I knew that I pitied Monsieur, yet I hardly felt it.
"Tell me everything—how you met them—all. Else I shall not believe a word of your devilish rigmarole," Monsieur cried out.
I told him the whole shameful story, every word, from my lightning vision to my gossip with Marcel in the antechamber, he listening in hopeless silence. At length I finished. It seemed hours since he had spoken. At last he said, "Then it is true." The grayness of his face drew the cry from me:
"The villain! the black-hearted villain!"
"Take care, Félix, he is my son!"
I got hold of my cross and tore it off, breaking the chain.
"See, Monsieur. That is the cross on which he swore the plot was not against you. He swore it, and Gervais de Grammont laughed! I swore, too, never to betray them! Two perjuries!"
I flung the cross on the floor and stamped on it, splintering it.
"Profaner!" cried Monsieur.
"It is no sacrilege!" I retorted. "That is no holy thing since he has touched it. He has made it vile—scoundrel, assassin, parricide!"
Monsieur struck the words from my lips.
"It is true," I muttered.
"Were it ten times true, you have no right to say it."
"No, I have none," I answered, shamed. I might not speak ill of a St. Quentin, though he were the devil's own. But my rage came uppermost again.
"I can bring Monsieur to the house in twenty minutes. Vigo and a handful of men can take them prisoners before they suspect aught amiss. They are only three—he and Grammont and the lackey."
But Monsieur shook his head.
"I cannot do that."
"Why not, Monsieur?"
"Can I take my own son prisoner?"
"Monsieur need not go," said I, wondering. In his place I would have gone and killed Yeux-gris with my own hands. "Vigo and I and two more can do it. Vigo and I alone, if Monsieur would not shame him before the men." I guessed at what he was thinking.
"Not even you and Vigo," he answered. "Think you I would arrest my son like a common felon—shame him like that?"
"He has shamed himself!" I cried. I cared not whether I had a right to say it. "He has forgotten his honour."
"Aye. But I have remembered mine."
"Monsieur! Monsieur cannot mean to let him go scot-free?"
But his eyes told me that he did mean it.
"Then," I said in more and more amazement, "Monsieur forgives him?"
His face set sternly.
"No," he answered. "No, Félix. He has placed himself beyond my forgiveness."
"Then we will go there alone, we two, and kill him! Kill the three!"
He laughed. But not a man in France felt less mirthful.
"You would have me kill my son?"
"He would have killed you."
"That makes no difference."
I looked at him, groping after the thoughts that swayed him, and catching at them dimly. I knew them for the principles of a proud and honour-ruled man, but there was no room for them in my angry heart.
"Monsieur," I cried, "will you let three villains go unpunished for the sake of one?" It was what I had meant to do, awhile back, but the case was changed now.
"Of two: Gervais de Grammont is also of my blood."
"Monsieur would spare him as well—him, the ringleader!"
"He is my cousin."
"He forgets it."
"But I do not."
"Monsieur, will you have no vengeance?"
Monsieur looked at me.
"When you are a man, Félix Broux, you will know that there are other things in this world besides vengeance. You will know that some injuries cannot be avenged. You will know that a gentleman cannot use the same weapons that blackguards use to him."
"Ah, Monsieur!" I cried. "Monsieur is indeed a nobleman!" But I was furious with him for it.
He turned abruptly and paced down the room. The dog, which had been standing at his side, stayed still, looking from him to me with puzzled, troubled eyes. He knew quite well something was wrong, and vented his feelings in a long, dismal whine. Monsieur spoke to him; Roland bounded up to him and licked his hand. They walked up and down together, comforting each other.
"At least," I cried in desperation, "Monsieur has the spy."
He laughed. Only a man in utter despair could have laughed then as he did.
"Even the spy to wreak vengeance on consoles you somewhat, Félix? But does it seem to you fair that a tool should be punished when the leaders go free?"
"No," said I; "but it is the common way."
"That is a true word," he said, turning away again.
I waited till he faced me once more.
"Monsieur will not suffer the spy to go free?"
"No, Félix. He shall be punished lest he betray again."
He passed me in his dreary walk. Half a dozen times he passed by me, a broken-hearted man, striving to collect his courage to take up his life once more. But I thought he would never get over the blow. A husband may forget his wife's treachery, and a mother will forgive her child's, but a father can neither forget nor forgive the crime of the son who bears his name.
"Ah, Monsieur, you are noble, and I love you!" I cried from the depths of my heart, and knelt to kiss his hand.
Monsieur laid that kind hand on my shoulder.
"You shall serve me. Go now and send Vigo here. I must be looking to the country's business."