CHAPTER VIII
CLÉMENCE DE SÉGUY
August had scorched the chestnut leaves and September withered them into golden scrolls, and still Luc de Clapiers remained idle, but with a burning heart, in the quiet home at Aix.
On a certain afternoon, when he was alone in his chamber writing, the need for action, the thirst for fame blazed up through his sweet, vain resignation beyond his power to restrain. The glory that he had set himself to achieve had always been the glory of arms, and the realization that this path was for ever closed to him came upon him again suddenly as if he had but just been told that he no longer belonged to the régiment du roi. He laid down his pen: he had been writing an Elegy on the young de Caumont, for whom he had often, during the war, written discourses on glory, and as he praised the young soldier he had praised also d’Espagnac—the two, so young, so beautiful, so brave, so pure, became one in his mind, and with them there mingled the vision of another. He felt that he was lamenting a third—his own youth, his own hopes that had been buried in the snows of Bohemia. He had written of Hippolyte de Seytres, “He was born ardent,” and it was true of himself. During these months of idleness the fire of this ardour had increased in his heart until it was unbearable. He sat quite still, with his hands clasped before him, gazing at the thinning chestnut leaves and the blue sky behind them that was spreading in all directions through a pile of loose clouds. His serene face flushed with resolution. In that moment he felt a scorn of himself that he had ever permitted poverty and ill-health to hinder him in his designs on fortune. He was of a noble birth that brought obligations, of gifts that brought obligations also; he was young, laborious, serious, passionately desirous of serving his country; and he was French, born at this most glorious period of liberty of thought, splendour of achievement in every sphere. He must, he could do something.
Of Paris and the great world there he knew only what he had heard and read—the outside of it, glittering, young and hopeful, a court led by a king whom France adored and Luc pictured as one like himself—ardent, avid of glory, and with every opportunity to his hand—and another court, no less powerful, of intellect and genius, led by M. de Voltaire, a name that blazed in Europe. Luc had received a scant education, and his long military preoccupation had given him small leisure for study. He could scarcely spell out Latin, and he had not read many books; but those he knew, —Corneille, Racine, Molière, Pascal, La Fontaine, Boileau—he both loved and absorbed. They were as so many torches to light his way.
M. de Voltaire himself he had always regarded with deep respect and admiration. The daring atheist, the brilliant son of the people, the caressed of kings and flattered of women, the greatest man of letters of the age, the most decried and abused of human beings had no more fervent disciple than the quiet young aristocrat who had watched his splendour from afar. Luc thought of him now, and the tumult in his heart rose higher.
“Shall I give up everything my soul urges me to because I had to leave the army?” he murmured. “Must I live and die in Aix?”
But what was open to him? There was only one career worth comparing with the military—that of diplomacy. He had studied law and history; he felt capable of serving France by his pen as well as by his sword. This thought of politics had come to him before; to-day it came and would not be dismissed.
He rose impulsively and went to the shelf where his books stood; he picked them up, one after another, and laid them down without opening any of them.
An unnameable excitement had possession of him; an inner ecstasy made his limbs tremble. He felt that the whole world was too confined for his spirit; he felt that he grasped a sudden certainty that he would and must attain glory.
He returned to his table, composing himself by a strong effort of will, and wrote to M. de Biron, his former Colonel, asking his help in his design of entering the diplomatic service.
When this was written and sealed his old calmness returned. He left his room, gave the letter to a servant, and went into the garden.
The sky was one flushing dome of golden blue, glowing in the west with the first hues of sunset. The leaves of the trees, the grasses, the flowers, and herbs were all quivering in a low, warm breeze. The old Marquis was seated on a stone bench by the carp pond, with his dogs beside him; he was watching the water, stained a turquoise blue from the sky and across which the blunt-faced carp floated, sparkling in their scarlet, orange, and black scales.
Luc came up to the basin. His father smiled at him, but did not speak. The young man was silent also; he was thinking, by some whimsical connexion of ideas, of Carola Koklinska in her gay trappings as he looked at the vivid fish.
He thought of her quiet ways, of her splendid clothes, of her great strength. He, not she, had fallen ill after their ghastly march to Eger. On his recovery he had been told that she had gone on with the army to Paris.
She left a letter for him, in which she begged him to see her if he could in Paris. She gave her sister’s name, which meant nothing to Luc, but was well known in the capital, and said she was always to be found at that lady’s hotel.
Luc had never written to her. She had become a curiously faint memory, blotted with darkness and snow and horror, yet gleaming vividly in her scarlet and gold through the Bohemian night.
The Marquis spoke and broke his thoughts. “You are very silent, Luc.”
The young man looked up instantly from the water.
“Monseigneur,” he said, “I have resolved to enter politics.”
His father flushed with surprise and pride. “I did not think you would be long idle, Luc,” he answered affectionately; “but you have set yourself a difficult career,” he added simply. “I have, as you know, no influence at Court.”
“I have written to M. de Biron; he will give me introductions at least. When I hear from him I will go to Paris.”
He spoke quietly, but in his eyes was a leaping light.
The old Marquis, both touched and pleased, rose and fondly laid his hand on his shoulder.
“You are a true de Clapiers,” he said, then sighed a little, thinking of the blue and silver uniform lying folded away in the chest in his son’s room.
Luc divined the thought, the regret.
“I shall still serve France, Monseigneur,” he said.
“But I have no interest in Paris,” repeated the old noble half sadly, “and I believe no one can succeed at Court without powerful friends. And we—we are rather remote from the great world, here at Aix.”
Luc was not daunted by these words. Paris was to him a dream city ruled by a dream king; there was nothing concrete in all the pictures he formed of it. He knew he had ardour and talent and devotion to offer, and he did not believe that these things were ever refused.
“If M. de Biron can give me no help I shall write to M. Amelot,” he said quietly, naming the Minister for Foreign Affairs—“or to His Majesty himself.”
For a nature that was reserved, almost timid, in all personal matters this was an extraordinary resolution, and one that would not have occurred to many men. The Marquis noted it with some amaze, but made no comment. In these few months since Luc’s return from Bohemia his father had learnt to recognize and respect something remarkable and unfathomable in the character of his son.
The sunlight was fading with a sad rapidity. Luc left the garden to return to the house; he entered the dining-room by the open windows. A soft shadow was over everything, making the objects in the chamber almost indistinguishable, but on the table showed the white square of a letter. He picked it up and took it to the light of the pale length of the window; it was heavily sealed with an elaborate and foreign coat of arms and addressed to—
“Monseigneur
Monseigneur le Capitaine le Marquis de Vauvenargues”
He opened it with inevitable curiosity, for the hand was unknown to him; but as he broke the thick wax a strong Oriental perfume told him the writer. It was from the Countess Koklinska. She wrote briefly and with an air of serene friendliness, as might be used by one writing from the Court to the country. She hoped that the Marquis was recovered from his fatigues, and hoped she might see him in Paris. She had heard that he had left the army, and asked abruptly on the last line of her letter, “What is the next step in your career?”
At first Luc flushed as if she had said something insolent to his face, then his blood stirred in answer to the challenge, and he was, if anything, pleased by this reminder from one who, more than either his father, his mother, or Joseph, understood his temper and his ambitions. She had some right to ask; there was the true spirit of heroism in her. She had been as a flame amid the horrors of the retreat from Prague—a flame to light and warm—and had shown him that a woman could tread the heights, as he conceived them. He recalled, with a great tenderness, her poor, starved face bending over the sad death-bed of Georges d’Espagnac, and he was grateful to her for the last line, which showed that she also remembered.
And she hoped to see him in Paris. Paris! The word flashed with untold possibilities; it dazzled with the name of King Louis and M. de Voltaire. Luc was spurred by the desire to mount this moment and ride to Paris, where the world’s thought, the world’s energy, the world’s intellect were stored.
He crushed the letter into his pocket and began pacing up and down the dark, old-fashioned room, where his father and Joseph would be content to eat every meal until they died, but which to him was fast becoming a prison, compared to which the steppes of Bohemia were preferable and seemed, indeed, enviable liberty.
Here he could not mention the name of the arch heretic and infidel, Voltaire; here he must still go to the church and listen to a service that he felt outworn; here the new philosophy, the great dawn of new ideas, new glories were unknown; and the soul of Luc was turning to these things as the sunflower to the sun. He did not move when the candles were brought in and placed on the mantelpiece and sideboard in exactly the position in which they had stood for the last century, but remained by the window looking out on to the evening.
The golden beech was veiled by the dusk; the gaudy autumn flowers were unseen; the shapes of bushes and trees stood dark against a translucent sky; a strong scent of herbs came and faded on the sweet air.
In that moment Luc felt that life was endless, glorious, and triumphant to those who had in their hearts this gift of energy, this spur to achievement. He bowed his head in a kind of tumult of thanksgiving, and such an agitation of joy filled his bosom that he had to support himself against the tall window frame. The sound of the opening door sounded, to his ecstatic mood, sharp as a pistol crack; yet in reality the door was both opened and closed softly. Beyond the candlelight stood a girl in a much-frilled rose-coloured muslin gown, holding in her hand a bunch of drooping wild pinks.
She wore a chip straw hat tied under the chin with gold ribbons and a white lace shawl over her shoulders.
When she saw Luc she laughed prettily and advanced to the table; her extreme fairness seemed the greater by contrast with the shining dark mahogany.
“Of course you do not recall me,” she said, in a delicate and pleasing voice. “I am Clémence de Séguy, who saw you leave to join your regiment nine years ago—when she was in the convent school.”
Luc made an effort to place and remember her; his instinctive courtesy helped him, though his thoughts had been strangely scattered by her sudden appearance.
“I remember no one like you, Mademoiselle,” he said, “in all Provence; but your name is known to me as that of one of my father’s friends.”
She laughed as if pleased.
“Tell me about the war,” she answered.
As he looked at her he seemed to see the powerful face, slender figure, and gorgeous garments of the Countess Carola standing beside her in absolute contrast. The two could not have been more different; the reality before Luc’s eyes was not so strong as the inner vision. He put his hand to the fragrant letter in his pocket.
The Marquis entered and presented him with pretty ceremony. As Luc kissed the girl’s fingers he thought of another hand that he would soon salute in Paris—Paris.
CHAPTER IX
THE HERETIC
The answer from M. de Biron contained flat discouragement. In his words seemed to lurk a smile at the simplicity of Luc: there were no places at Court or even in obscure corners of France that were not already allotted, long before they were vacant, to those who were friends of pensioners of the Court favourites and the Ministers.
It was absurd to hope that anyone with no recommendation above his talents could obtain even a clerk’s place in the Government, added M. de Biron, and he advised Luc to spare himself the fatigue and humiliation of further applications, and suggested that he should abandon ideas that were certain to end in disappointment.
The letter was meant kindly, but it brought a flush of anger to Luc’s cheek; then he laughed, and with the laugh his old serenity returned. M. de Biron should not block his way; there were other channels. He did not show the letter to his father, but merely told him that his former Colonel could be no help.
The Marquis said nothing, but a few days later produced, with much pride, a letter from M. de Caumont to M. de Richelieu, Governor of Languedoc, asking for his interest for Luc, who was touched and moved by his father’s thought.
Yet he was not altogether pleased. He had heard enough of M. de Richelieu from Hippolyte, M. de Caumont’s son, who had never spoken of him with anything but dislike, and he knew the Governor’s reputation as the most famous man of fashion of the moment and a hard persecutor of the Protestants in Languedoc.
But he could refuse neither his own father’s interest nor the help of his dead friend’s father, and M. de Richelieu was a great gentleman who could raise anyone where he would. It happened also that he was now at Avignon, where he seldom enough made his residence, and Luc’s direct enthusiasm resolved him to go there and present his letter himself. His father was for sending it by messenger, and his mother wished to detain him in Aix. He suspected her of tender little schemes with regard to himself and Mademoiselle de Séguy, who had, with such innocent coquetry, been sent in upon him that August evening, when, as it happened, he had first made the resolve to enter politics. He overruled this gentle opposition and left Aix in late September with one servant and a good roan horse. Though his soul was serious it was young. The freedom of the peaceful open country, the freshness of the autumn air, the sight of the fields of grain—these simple things affected his spirits to the height of exaltation. He felt his old health return; he was as light-hearted as if he had never seen Bohemia.
But as they rode farther into Languedoc the surroundings changed: the ground was neglected, the cottages mere huts, the peasantry silent and ragged, the cattle poor and scarce. Luc, noticing this, fell into a kind of gravity.
They took the journey easily. On the second day, when within easy distance of Avignon, they stopped at a humble inn on the high road shaded by a dusty grove of poplar trees.
Luc found two other travellers in the parlour. At the first glance he was interested in them; he had a passion for studying character, and could never observe strangers indifferently. He crossed to the window, which looked on to a herb garden, and seated himself on the chintz-covered window-seat and delicately watched the two, who were engaged in eating omelette and salad at a round table near the fire-place. One was a priest and a conspicuously handsome man, but without attraction, for his dark face was hard and immobile and his eyes, though very brilliant, expressionless; he wore the black robes of a canon, which hung gracefully on his spare, powerful figure.
His companion was, as Luc knew at once, a foreigner; what else he might be was not so easy to decide. His age might be between thirty and forty. He was tall, well-made, and well-featured, with a rich olive complexion and quickly moving brown eyes. He wore his own hair hanging about his face, and there was more than a little of the eccentric in his dress, which was of the brightest green silk lined with black.
From the hard quality of his French, something vivid, self-confident, gay, and yet indifferent in his manner and person, Luc believed he was Italian.
He, on his part, was not long in noticing the slim young gentleman in the window-seat, and, leaning back in his chair, he called out an invitation to wine. Something in his cordial tone, his attitude, his smile of gleaming, excellent teeth showed Luc that he was a fellow of no breeding.
Without hesitation he civilly declined and left the room. As he closed the door he heard the foreigner laugh good-naturedly and say something to the priest in Italian marked by a beautiful Roman accent.
Luc had his own meal outside on one of the little tables under the dusty vines, and before the middle of the afternoon rode on again, meaning to reach Avignon before the night.
Towards evening they came to a miserable village, whose inhabitants seemed in a considerable state of excitement: a great number of women were talking and shrieking round the fountain in the market-place, and three priests argued outside the porch of the poor little church.
The Marquis acknowledged their humble salutes, and was glad to be rid of them and out in the open country again.
He had not long cleared the houses, however, before he overtook a procession, which was evidently the cause of the commotion. It consisted of four soldiers, a serjeant, and a prisoner, followed by a crowd of peasants, mostly men and boys.
Luc’s hazel eyes flashed quickly to the prisoner, who walked between the two foremost soldiers. She was a young peasant girl, finely made and not more than eighteen years of age. Her blue skirt and red bodice were worn, faded, and patched, her feet and arms bare; round her coarse, sun-dried hair was a soiled white handkerchief. Her face, though pale under the tincture of the weather, was composed and serene, even though the crowd was assailing her with hideous names, with horrible accusations, with handfuls of dirt and stones.
Her hands were tied behind her, and if her walk fell slowly the soldiers urged her on with the points of their bayonets.
The Marquis reined up his horse to allow them to pass. He supposed they were going to set her in the stocks for witchcraft or scolding; that look on her face he supposed must be stupidity. The whole spectacle roused in him sad distaste.
The rabble of peasantry, seeing that he was a gentleman, fell to silence till they were well past him, then broke out again into shouts and curses. The soldiers turned off the high road across a field that led to a long slope and a little thin wood.
The Marquis remained still, with his patient servant behind him, watching the little procession.
He noticed the girl stumble and saw one of the soldiers thrust at her so that she fell on to her knees. The crowd at once broke into laughter and pelted her with dirt.
Luc touched up his horse, crossed the field, and in a moment was among them. One of the guard had dragged the prisoner to her feet; she was being assailed by such horrid terms of abuse that he thought she must be some shameless thief or murderess. He spoke to the serjeant with quiet disgust, and his fine appearance, lofty manner, and long habit of command served to win the man’s respectful answer: he could not, he declared, keep the people off. As he spoke he threatened with his sword the nearest of the crowd, which had already scattered at the sight of the gentleman.
“The law,” said Luc, “is no matter for me to interfere with,” for he saw the fellow pulling a warrant from his pocket; “but I will use my whip on these should they further molest yonder wretch.”
He glanced at the prisoner, who stood for the moment isolated with her head bent. Her feet and the edge of her dress were covered with mud; her shoulders were bruised and her legs scratched and bleeding; her face, which was handsome, but of low type, was flooded with sudden colour and her wide lips twitched uncontrollably. The Marquis sickened to see her; he was turning back when she looked up straight into his face. Her eyes were large, far apart, and bloodshot, the lashes white with dust. As she gazed at Luc her disfigured, almost stupid-looking countenance was changed by a smile which was like a lady’s thanks for courtesy.
Then she bent her head again and began to walk on painfully. The soldiers closed round her, the serjeant fell in with a salute to the Marquis, and the crowd followed, but at some distance and in silence.
Luc watched them till they were over the hill and out of sight; he frowned in absorption and hardly troubled to notice two horsemen who had joined him and reined their horses near his. When he turned, indifferently, to look at them, he saw that they were the same remarkable couple that he had noticed at the inn.
The Italian saluted him instantly.
“Monsieur,” he said with some eagerness, “where has the woman gone?”
“Over the hill,” answered Luc shortly.
The Italian rubbed his hands together softly.
“Well, well,” he said under his breath.
“What has the creature done?” asked the Marquis of the priest. “And where have they brought her from?”
The priest named a village some leagues off, and the Italian remarked that they had seen the procession earlier in the day, and that the probable object of bringing her this distance was to terrorize the countryside.
“What is her crime?” demanded the Marquis haughtily. He disliked priests and foreigners in general and felt no reason to make an exception for these two.
The priest fixed on him eyes that were metallic and twinkling in their hardness; he made the sign of the cross and said, in a cultured, toneless voice—
“The cursèd woman was a heretic.”
The Italian seemed amused.
“M. de Richelieu is working hard to purify Languedoc,” he remarked.
“What was her punishment?” asked Luc.
“An easy one,” returned the priest—“she will be hanged.”
Luc turned his head towards the speaker.
“Because she is a heretic?” he asked slowly.
“What else?”
The angry blood stained the Marquis’s delicate face. He knew these things happened, but he had never before been brought close to them.
“You make me feel ashamed of my humanity,” he said.
“Are you a Protestant?” demanded the priest.
“No.”
“Perhaps you do not believe in the Gospels?” urged the other maliciously.
Luc gazed at him with a kindling scorn.
“Neither in Gospels, nor Christ, nor God,” he said sternly, “nor any of the symbols superstition uses—nor in anything you and your kind worship.”
The priest was taken aback for a moment and did not answer, but the Italian remarked cheerfully—
“A follower of M. de Voltaire.”
“A follower of no man,” returned Luc wearily. Some minutes passed while the three horsemen seemed to be waiting silently. Then Luc moved his horse away in the direction of the high road; he had seen the soldiers, without their prisoner, and the straggling crowd coming back over the crest of the hill.
The Italian cried after him—
“Are you for Avignon to-night, Monsieur?”
He answered without looking back. When he reached the main road again the dark clouds that had been lowering all day broke and a steady rain began to fall, hastening the short autumn twilight. After perhaps half a league the road branched. The Marquis turned to the left, but soon perceived that he had missed his way, for the dark was descending, and there was no sign of the walls of Avignon on all the wide, gloomy horizon.
The rain was steady, cold, and seemed not likely to cease. The only building in sight was a deserted farmhouse with the roof half gone and weeds and fallen masonry choking garden and yard.
Some of the lower rooms were, however, dry and sheltered, and in one of them Luc, his servant, and the two horses took refuge for the night.
CHAPTER X
THE MAGICIAN
The Marquis, roused by his servant, woke to see the man standing in misty moonlight by the square of window; with a languid distaste at being called from sleep Luc rose.
“Monsigneur,” said the servant in a low voice, “there are those two, the foreigner and the priest, and a third with them just gone into the barn.”
He pointed to a building close to the house, from the large doorway of which came a great blaze of light, strong and fitful, as if caused by a bonfire.
The reflection of it trembled over the rough floor of the room, and it was this that had aroused the servant to look from the window, when he had, he declared, seen three men carrying lanterns cross the yard and enter the barn; he swore to two being the Italian and the priest.
Luc considered; his curiosity was certainly roused and a sense of distrust also. The barn was so lonely, the two strangers so peculiar in appearance—and he recalled how the Italian had called after him, “Are you going to Avignon to-night?” as if he wished to be sure that he would be out of their way.
“What can it be?” he murmured to himself, and he thought of coining.
The light from the barn was increasing in intensity as he watched it, and presently began to take on an artificial red tinge that lit up windows and door with a lurid glow.
“I think they practise fireworks,” smiled Luc. He put on his hat, took up his sword, and quietly stepped out into the dreary farm-yard, followed by his servant.
The first objects that he beheld were three horses fastened to the stump of an elder tree: two, those ridden by the travellers he had met yesterday; the third, a black horse of great beauty. Keeping in the shadows of the house, and avoiding the long trails of flickering light, Luc and the servant gained the barn and crouched against the wall of it, endeavouring to find some aperture. Voices raised loudly and angrily came from within, among them the tones of the Italian speaking in his own language with great vehemence.
At length Luc found a considerable hole in the loose and rotting beams that composed the walls of the barn and, looking through, saw an extraordinary scene.
In the centre of the building stood an iron brazier, which held a large fire of vivid leaping flame; round this was drawn a chalk circle marked with various figures and symbols, and beyond that a ring of dead frogs and snakes.
Behind the brazier stood the Italian attired in a sweeping black robe and a scarlet skullcap; he held in one hand a long white wand and in the other a closed parchment-covered book.
Beside him stood the priest regarding him with an expression of impatience and vexation. The exceeding brightness of the flames threw over the features of both a glow of red, and gave even their dark garments something of the colour of blood.
A third man was facing these two. He was standing quite close to Luc; he had his hands behind his back, and wore a long tabinet riding-cloak; his slight figure, scarcely of the medium height, was of a remarkable grace; his hair was clubbed and unpowdered. Luc could only see his profile, which was sensitive, attractive, and high bred.
This last man was manifestly a noble, which caused Luc some surprise. He was gazing at him with curiosity when the priest suddenly moved and disclosed a fourth occupant of the barn. Luc gave a long shudder of horror and moved back from the hole.
It was the dead body of the heretic peasant woman, sitting upright in a rude chair with the rope still round her swollen throat and the harsh flare over her disfigured face, dropping jaw, and staring eyes.
“What is it, Monseigneur?” asked the servant eagerly.
“Have your pistols ready,” answered Luc in a stern whisper, “and get to some vantage where you can see what is going on within.”
The man obeyed, creeping away through the mingled moonlight and firelight until he found another notch in the wood of the wall.
Luc again looked into the barn. The priest had now thrown on some powder that filled the whole building with smoke, the Italian was shouting short sentences in an uncouth language, and the third man had sprung forward and was staring at the corpse through the soft film of the bluish smoke.
“She does not speak!” he cried. “She does not speak!”
The priest gave a furious exclamation and cast something dark and heavy into the flames, and the Italian tore a chain from his neck and flung it in the lap of the dead woman. A towering red and orange flame, that seemed as if it would set the roof on fire, suddenly shot up from the brazier, an unearthly and awful voice called out—
“Beware of she who comes from Bohemia!”
This was cut short by a passionate ejaculation; who it came from Luc could not tell. All three men seemed to run together; the brazier was overturned, and there was perfect darkness, broken by a shriek, a groan, several short cries of fury, and the rip of unsheathing swords. Luc ran round to the doorless opening that was the main entrance to the barn; as he reached it a man came rushing out with a weapon in his hand, bare in the moonlight. Luc seized him and flung the sword away. The servant had come up now and stood ready with his pistol.
“Explain yourself,” demanded the Marquis.
The other, completely taken by surprise, wrenched himself free, but made no attempt to escape.
“Are you the Devil?” he asked, with more eagerness than fear.
“No,” answered Luc in brief disgust.
Before he could say more the priest came out of the barn carrying a lantern.
“What is this foul mummery?” asked Luc sternly. “I shall speak to the Governor.”
Seeing his companion in the power of a stranger, the priest gave a cry and made as if he would fly into the night.
But the other turned on him fiercely.
“By God, you are wanted here!” he cried, and the priest came back instantly.
“This is a creditable affair for one of your cloth to be involved in,” said Luc.
The priest ignored the comment, but his companion remarked with a great degree of haughtiness—
“I suppose I have been disarmed by a gentleman?”
“Oh yes,” answered Luc quietly. “Take up your sword.”
The stranger turned and looked for it by the aid of the priest’s lantern.
“Where is the Italian?” asked Luc.
“Escaped,” returned the other carelessly, slipping his weapon into the scabbard.
“The rascal ran out by the back way,” added the priest.
“He hath left his horse,” remarked Luc, glancing at the three beasts.
“Being far too frightened to think of it,” was the answer, and the stranger, with a sudden show of pleasantness, came up to the Marquis and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Come, my dear fellow,” he said, “do not look so grave. We have been endeavouring to raise the Devil and have made a failure of it, that is all.”
“A stale game,” said Luc scornfully. “And you were profaning the dead, Monsieur.”
“A peasant! A heretic!” cried the other, with an instant return of haughtiness. “And who are you to call me to account?” At this the priest touched him on the arm, and he added in a quiet tone, “You are scarcely a spy, Monsieur.”
“No,” said Luc wearily. His anger had changed into mere disgust. “No—you know you were doing an illegal thing, a foolish thing, and a horrible thing; but I am no judge of your actions. I will forget you, Monsieur. Only I ask you to give that poor creature decent burial.”
He was turning away when the other caught him by the sleeve.
“Who are you?” he asked curiously. “I should like to know you. You speak like M. de Voltaire.”
Luc had instantly resolved not to give his name.
“I am a private citizen of Provence,” he answered, “and I have business in Avignon. The rain is over and I have had some rest, also I do not care to remain here, so I will now ride on to the town.”
He made a grave bow and was turning away when the other again detained him.
“You cannot ride to Avignon till it is light. Come with me—my name is Armand, Monsieur Armand—I do not ask yours.”
“And I have not yours,” answered Luc.
The other laughed.
“Armand for to-night—and I swear it is my christened name. There is supper in the house—I give you an invitation.”
The priest seemed impatient to be gone and annoyed at this conversation, but Luc, despite his distaste of the whole thing, was interested in the stranger, in his very shamelessness, in his peculiar, gentle address, in his mention of M. de Voltaire. He felt curious to see this man’s person, for they stood now in the shadow of the barn, and the priest kept his lantern turned carefully away.
“Monsieur,” answered Luc, “at present I should not know you again; if we go into the house I shall see your face.”
“I trust you,” answered M. Armand. He beckoned to the priest, and the three entered the farm and the room next to that where the Marquis had slept, and where his horse still stood. Luc found that it was in good repair and rudely furnished, as if frequently used.
A deal table occupied the middle, and when the lantern was set on this it showed several chairs, a cupboard, a plain couch with a coverlet, and a stout box or chest with brass locks. M. Armand ordered the priest to light candles; they were taken from the cupboard and placed on the table in iron holders. The room was now in bright light, and Luc and the stranger instantly looked at each other with calm curiosity.
The Marquis beheld a man still young, but not so young as he had at first believed, dressed in a dark grey riding-suit without ornament or jewel, wearing high boots and a plain sword with a basket shell.
His face, which was singularly attractive, was rather broad for its length and very finely shaped; it expressed wit, energy, and a great deal of humour. His eyes were dark brown, large, and powerful. His hair grew low on his brow, and was of a dull auburn, lacking in brightness and colour, but of great length and thickness.
Luc, quick at reading men, could not read this one; he only knew that there were great possibilities in that face, and that the whole personality was not one to be ignored. His wonder at the hideous ceremony in the barn increased.
The priest, with a heavy air of annoyance and displeasure, was unpacking a basket of provisions which stood on the table; Luc remembered seeing it behind his saddle the previous day.
There were a round of beef, a couple of loaves, a small cheese, and a large pie in an earthenware dish, besides three bottles of wine. M. Armand produced knives, forks, and plates from the cupboard, and invited Luc to join them; his air was one of careless good-nature.
But the Marquis could not eat; he ignored the priest, and addressed himself to M. Armand, who had seated himself on the corner of the table and was taking his supper with good appetite.
“You spoke of M. de Voltaire,” he said. “Do you know him?”
“Oh, every one in Paris knows him.”
“But you know him?” insisted Luc.
“Yes.”
“And yet you, by the aid of a Christian priest, seek to raise the Devil!” exclaimed the Marquis.
“I wanted to know something. The Devil should have entered into the heretic and answered my questions; but the fellow cheated. Faugh! Do not let us speak of it.”
Luc fixed his eyes on the handsome, pleasant face.
“What did you want to know?” he asked, with a smile.
“Something about a woman.” Monsieur Armand cut himself a slice of pie. “I had that rascal fetched from Venice on purpose. The whim cost me something.”
“I truly marvel at your folly,” said Luc calmly.
“Oh, there is a Devil,” returned the other, with a sideway glance, “and one might raise him, you know. But you have the fashionable tone of Paris.”
“I have never been there save for a day in passing,” answered Luc simply. “And I speak from conviction, not fashion.”
The priest, who had touched neither food nor wine, suddenly addressed Luc.
“Where is your servant, Monsieur?”
“In the next room—where should he be?” Luc turned from him coldly. “And now I will be on my way.”
He rose, and the priest made an instantaneous movement to guard the door.
“Take some supper,” said M. Armand. “And do not be in such a hurry.”
Luc glanced from one to the other.
“I will go on my way,” he said sternly. “Do you seek to detain me?”
M. Armand was eating his pie leisurely; he looked at the priest reflectively.
“You should have thought of the servant before,” he remarked.
“I have promised not to speak, and I can answer for my servant,” answered Luc, guessing his thoughts.
“Do you think I am afraid?” asked the other, languidly raising his bent brows. “We are not very likely to meet again,” he added.
“No,” assented the Marquis. “You interest me, though. I think your priest here would like to kill me. I wish you joy of your holy companion.”
“If I had my way, you would not leave here alive,” said the priest, in a low, calm voice. “You are an atheist and a blasphemer, and a menace to Holy Church.”
“And to your safety, Father,” smiled M. Armand. “But go, Monsieur. You are a noble.”
Luc bowed.
“I will see the heretic is buried,” added M. Armand, “though she would not speak. Adieu. I am sorry you would not have any supper.”
“Adieu,” returned Luc gravely. The priest moved from the door, and he stepped out; the last glimpse he had of M. Armand was the picture of him seated on the table finishing his pie.
On reaching the yard he found the priest had followed him, and was standing a few paces off watching his movements. He called his servant, and the man came round the corner of the farm leading the two horses.
“Where have you been this while?” demanded the priest.
The fellow answered respectfully that he had been making the animals ready.
Luc mounted and was turning out of the yard when the priest came to his stirrup.
“Swear to me on the Gospels, on the Cross, that you will be silent about what you have seen to-night,” he said, in a low voice.
“You heard my word,” answered Luc coldly. “And I have told you I believe in neither Cross nor Gospels. Stand away—your habit smells rank to me.”
The priest stepped softly back; the servant mounted, and the two rode away.
They had gone perhaps half a league before the Marquis recollected that he still did not know the road to Avignon; in his haste to be rid of his companions he had never thought of this.
Instantly checking his horse, he looked back at his servant.
The dawn was breaking, and the man’s face appeared of a strange pallor.
“We do not know the way,” said Luc.
“Any way, Monseigneur,” answered the servant, “as long as we do not go back.”
“What is the matter?” asked Luc sharply, for the fellow was plainly in a fright.
“Monseigneur, I did not mean to tell you. I thought we should both be murdered.”
“I thought that possible too,” replied the Marquis calmly. “Anything else?”
“Oh, Monseigneur—there was murder. I went back to the barn to fetch my hat. I had the little lantern—and I could not forbear looking in; and there was the foreigner lying dead from a sword-thrust.”
CHAPTER XI
M. DE RICHELIEU
Luc felt instantly that his servant spoke the truth, and saw instantly how he had been deceived. There was no back door to the barn; the young man, discovering he was being cheated, had run the poor foreigner through and left him there to die. The priest knew it, and hence his anxiety about the servant: he had dreaded the very thing that had occurred—namely, that the fellow should return to the barn and see the second corpse.
The Marquis’s first feeling was one of intense anger that a dissolute young noble had been able so to fool him; he had accepted the tale of the Italian’s escape like any child, and had sat down to bandy words with one who was fresh from a miserable, cowardly murder.
“Why did you not tell me before?” he asked.
“Monseigneur, I thought you might wish to return, and then we stood a good chance of being murdered.”
“Why?” demanded Luc sharply. “We were two to two, and one of them a priest.”
“But, Monseigneur, he was armed under his habit, and I saw evil intention in his face—and how could we tell how many more were in hiding? With respect, Monsieur le Marquis, they were dealing with the Devil.”
“Are you sure that the man was dead?” asked Luc.
“Monseigneur, perfectly sure. He lay in a strange attitude with one leg drawn up, and I crept into the barn and felt him, and he was cold with a hole in his chest and his fingers all cut where he had snatched at the sword—and with the dead frogs and snakes and that other corpse in the chair——”
The Marquis cut him short.
“You will be silent about this, Jean, until I give you leave to speak. I shall not go back—now, at least.”
Jean, only too thankful that his master was not returning to what he feared might be an outpost of hell, promised readily enough. They proceeded along the straight road, looking out for some habitation where they could ask their way.
Luc felt depressed, angry, and disgusted. He recalled the Italian’s healthy face, his callous laughter, then the hideous little scene in the barn with the horrid, foolish details of gross superstitions; lastly, the calm serenity and haughtiness of the young man whose careless manner had so deceived him; and the priest, in his mockery of a habit—Luc wondered that he had not made some attempt at a disguise. Evidently all of them had been pretty sure that they were not likely to be interrupted; yet Monsieur Armand, as he called himself, had not seemed very concerned, or even surprised, at being discovered.
Luc, riding along in the grey dawn, wearily followed out the consequences of this wretched episode.
They would burn or bury the body of the foreigner, who was not likely to be missed; they would probably burn the whole barn—who was to make inquiries?
M. de Richelieu did not keep such a strict policing of Languedoc that it was likely to come to his knowledge—well, the affair would be hushed up; and he, Luc, saw no good in soiling his lips by any mention of it, though he felt himself no longer bound by the promise he had made the young rake.
The Italian charlatan had perhaps not lived so as to look for a better end—let the whole thing be forgotten; Luc only hoped that he might meet neither priest nor patron again.
As the sun rose above the horizon they came upon some poor scattered farms where a peasant driving pigs put them on the road to Avignon, which town they reached about noon of a misty autumn day. Luc put up at a quiet inn, and, having ascertained that the Governor was in residence but would soon be leaving for Paris, he sent his servant at once with the introduction from the Marquis de Caumont and a letter from himself requesting an interview.
Jean dispatched on this business, the Marquis shifted his linen, breakfasted, and sat at the inn window overlooking the unfamiliar main street of beautiful Avignon.
His head ached, his limbs were full of lassitude, and the incident of the night hung unpleasantly before his mental vision. He tried to replace this picture with others: with that of Clémence de Séguy in her frilled rose-coloured muslin; with that of young d’Espagnac kneeling in the chapel of St. Wenceslas. As he drove his thoughts back to the Hradcany, he suddenly recalled that the voice last night which the Italian had feigned to issue from the poor heretic’s dead lips had said, “Beware of her who comes from Bohemia!” It was a coincidence curious and distasteful that the wretched magician’s last words should have been these; doubtless they referred to some intrigue of his patron, but to Luc they recalled the Countess Carola, and he did not care to think of her in any such connexion.
Her dark, gorgeous image, resolute among the snows, against the sombre, pure background of silver firs and frozen skies, came before him suddenly. He felt swiftly heartened as he pondered upon her; she was a vision of mingled fire and ice that passed the allurement of the senses and exquisitely attracted the spirit.
Luc shook off the depression of yesterday’s sordid adventure, and his dreams all rushed back to his heart. His modest confidence that something would come of his interview with the Governor occupied him anew; he even allowed himself to picture his father’s pleasure at his return with news of success.
Early in the afternoon Jean reappeared with a courteous note from M. de Richelieu’s secretary: His Highness was departing for Versailles to-morrow, but would M. le Marquis wait on him to-night at eight of the clock?
Luc sent the servant back with his answering thanks for the appointment, and went upstairs to unpack his finest suit; it was plain enough, and the work of a country tailor, but Luc attired himself gravely, with no thought for the fashion, and went out to find a barber to powder and dress his hair. When this was done, it was already dusk.
He could scarcely eat any dinner, and reluctantly admitted to himself that he was nervous. His natural reserve made him shrink from waiting on the great, and inherited pride made him shrink from asking a favour; neither had his long soldier’s training fitted him for dealing with a courtier like M. de Richelieu.
He felt he would be at a disadvantage with such a man, and the old powerful longing for the army, for the career on which he had set his heart, and to which he had devoted his best energies and earliest youth, assailed him; but he angrily controlled this weakness, and broke his thoughts by opening a little volume of Pascal he always carried in his pocket.
At the appointed time he rode up to the Governor’s residence and gave his name. He was at once ushered into a great painted antechamber with a domed ceiling and white walls covered with a confusion of cupids, wreaths of flowers, tambourines, flutes, masks, and garlands all very elegantly drawn and coloured.
In each panel of the wall hung an oval mirror which had above it a gilt sconce of perfumed wax candles; the chairs were of delicate ash-wood and Aubusson tapestry. On a low green marble-topped table by one of the windows was a portfolio of prints and a book bound in calf; the name of the author caught Luc’s eye—it was M. de Voltaire.
Luc was not insensible to the charm and elegance of the apartment; he was keenly sensitive to all beauty. The taste that he had never been able to cultivate was accurate; he knew that paintings, furniture, and every detail of the chamber were the most exquisite possible, and his spirit expanded in the atmosphere; he did not even notice that he was being kept waiting longer than was courteous.
Turning presently, thinking that he heard some one approach, Luc caught sight of himself nearly full length in one of the oval mirrors. He saw a slight, pale young man, with a serene and delicate face, thoughtful hazel eyes, and a clear complexion, precise grey curls, and a plain suit of violet cloth trimmed with silver, a rich lace cravat tied very carefully, a simple sword, and a black ribbon round his throat.
The strange surroundings made his own person appear strange; he looked at himself as he might have looked at a mere acquaintance, critically, yet almost disinterestedly.
He was still searching his own face when the folding-doors at the end of the room opened, and a black page wearing a scarlet tunic and turban silently motioned him to advance.
The Marquis followed him into the next room, and the beauty of the little apartment was such as he had never seen; it steeped his soul in sudden pleasurable languor. The page disappeared, and Luc looked about him eagerly.
The walls were of pale ash-wood, smooth and watered like satin; the carpet was of the same hue, but scattered with a design of dull pink roses; the chairs were gilt and violet velvet; and the window was hung with curtains of pale mauve and pink heavily fringed with gold, and looped so as to show the ivory satin lining. One entire side of the wall was covered by an exquisite piece of tapestry in a hundred melting hues, showing the legend of Europa and the Bull; on the pale carved wood mantelpiece stood a clock and candlesticks of rock crystal and enamel, and a fine china bowl of lilacs, camellias, tuberoses, and white syringa.
The whole was faintly lit by a silver and crystal lamp that hung by slender chains from the ceiling, which was covered by drawn grey silk.
A cabinet of beautiful workmanship inlaid with painted china plaques, a desk of marquetry and ormolu covered with rich articles, and an exquisite lute of ivory and ebony tied with jade green ribbons completed the furniture.
In one corner a white, violet, and gold brocade curtain was half drawn away from a low couch that stood in an alcove; as Luc glanced at this he saw with a start that a man was lying there, asleep or dozing, with his head turned towards the wall.
He wore a soft blue satin dressing-gown and a cravat of flimsy lace that hung in a cloud to the ground; his hair, which was curling and unpowdered, flowed over his bosom and shoulders; his breeches, waistcoat, and stockings were white; his feet thrust into gold slippers.
His whole figure was considerably in shadow, but by his even breathing he was certainly asleep.
Luc was first amused and then vexed; he made no doubt that this was the Governor.
“M. de Richelieu,” he said, in a firm voice. “Your Highness——”
The sleeper stirred lightly, raised his head, and sat up.
Luc was looking at the “Monsieur Armand” of last night’s sordid happenings.