CHAPTER XIII. THE HAND OF YVONNE
We did not long remain upon the field of battle. Indeed, if we lingered at all it was but so that Mademoiselle might bandage Michelot's wound. And whilst she did so, my stout henchman related to us how it had fared with him, and how, having taken the two ruffians separately, he had been wounded by the first, whom he repaid by splitting his skull, whereupon the second one had discharged his pistol without effect, then made off towards the road, whilst Michelot, remembering that I might need assistance, had let him go.
“There, good Michelot,” quoth Mademoiselle, completing her task, “I have done what little I can. And now, M. de Luynes, let us go.”
It was close upon seven o'clock, and night was at hand. Already the moon was showing her large, full face above the tree-tops by Chambord, and casting a silver streak athwart the stream. The plash of oars from the Marquis's boat was waxing indistinct despite the stillness, whilst by the eye the boat itself was no longer to be distinguished.
As I turned, my glance fell upon the bravo whom I had shot. He lay stiff and stark upon his back, his sightless eyes wide open and staring heavenwards, his face all blood-smeared and ghastly to behold.
Mademoiselle shuddered. “Let us go,” she repeated in a faint whisper; her eye had also fallen on that thing, and her voice was full of awe. She laid her hand upon my sleeve and 'neath the suasion of her touch I moved away.
To our surprise and joy we found St. Auban's coach where we had left it, with two saddled horses tethered close by. The others had doubtless been taken by the coachman and the bravo who had escaped Michelot, both of whom had fled. These animals we looked upon as the spoils of war, and accordingly when we set out in the coach,—Mademoiselle having desired me to ride beside her therein,—Michelot wielding the reins, it was with those two horses tethered behind.
“Monsieur de Luynes,” said my companion softly, “I fear that I have done you a great injustice. Indeed, I know not how to crave your forgiveness, how to thank you, or how to hide my shame at those words I spoke to you this afternoon at Canaples.”
“Not another word on that score, Mademoiselle!”
And to myself I thought of what recompense already had been mine. To me it had been given to have her lean trustingly upon me, my arm about her waist, whilst, sword in hand, I had fought for her. Dieu! Was that not something to have lived for?—aye, and to have died for, methought.
“I deserved, Monsieur,” she continued presently, “that you should have left me to my fate for all the odious things I uttered when you warned me of my peril,—for the manner in which I have treated you since your coming to Blois.”
“You have but treated me, Mademoiselle, in the only manner in which you could treat one so far beneath you, one who is utterly unworthy that you should bestow a single regret upon him.”
“You are strangely humble to-night, Monsieur. It is unwonted in you, and for once you wrong yourself. You have not said that I am forgiven.”
“I have naught to forgive.”
“Hélas! you have—indeed you have!”
“Eh, bien!” quoth I, with a return of my old tone of banter, “I forgive then.”
Thereafter we travelled on in silence for some little while, my heart full of joy at being so near to her, and the friendliness which she evinced for me, and my mind casting o'er my joyous heart a cloud of some indefinable evil presage.
“You are a brave man, M. de Luynes,” she murmured presently, “and I have been taught that brave men are ever honourable and true.”
“Had they who taught you that known Gaston de Luynes, they would have told you instead that it is possible for a vile man to have the one redeeming virtue of courage, even as it is possible for a liar to have a countenance that is sweet and innocent.”
“There speaks that humble mood you are affecting, and which sits upon you as my father's clothes might do. Nay, Monsieur, I shall believe in my first teaching, and be deaf to yours.”
Again there was a spell of silence. At last—“I have been thinking, Monsieur,” she said, “of that other occasion on which you rode with me. I remember that you said you had killed a man, and when I asked you why, you said that you had done it because he sought to kill you. Was that the truth?”
“Assuredly, Mademoiselle. We fought a duel, and it is customary in a duel for each to seek to kill the other.”
“But why was this duel fought?” she cried, with some petulance.
“I fear me, Mademoiselle, that I may not answer you,” I said, recalling the exact motives, and thinking how futile appeared the quarrel which Eugène de Canaples had sought with Andrea when viewed in the light of what had since befallen.
“Was the quarrel of your seeking?”
“In a measure it was, Mademoiselle.”
“In a measure!” she echoed. Then persisting, as women will—“Will you not tell me what this measure was?”
“Tenez, Mademoiselle,” I answered in despair; “I will tell you just so much as I may. Your brother had occasion to be opposed to certain projects that were being formed in Paris by persons high in power around a beardless boy. Himself of too small importance to dare wage war against those powerful ones who would have crushed him, your brother sought to gain his ends by sending a challenge to this boy. The lad was high-spirited and consented to meet M. de Canaples, by whom he would assuredly have been murdered—'t is the only word, Mademoiselle—had I not intervened as I did.”
She was silent for a moment. Then—“I believe you, Monsieur,” she said simply. “You fought, then, to shield another—but why?”
“For three reasons, Mademoiselle. Firstly, those persons high in power chose to think it my fault that the quarrel had arisen, and threatened to hang me if the duel took place and the boy were harmed. Secondly, I myself felt a kindness for the boy. Thirdly, because, whatever sins Heaven may record against me, it has at least ever been my way to side against men who, confident of their superiority, seek, with the cowardly courage of the strong, to harm the weak. It is, Mademoiselle, the courage of the man who knows no fear when he strikes a woman, yet who will shake with a palsy when another man but threatens him.”
“Why did you not tell me all this before?” she whispered, after a pause. And methought I caught a quaver in her voice.
I laughed for answer, and she read my laugh aright; presently she pursued her questions and asked me the name of the boy I had defended. But I evaded her, telling her that she must need no further details to believe me.
“It is not that, Monsieur! I do believe you; I do indeed, but—”
“Hark, Mademoiselle!” I cried suddenly, as the clatter of many hoofs sounded near at hand. “What is that?”
A shout rang out at that moment. “Halt! Who goes there?”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, drawing close up to me, and again the voice sounded, this time more sinister.
“Halt, I say—in the King's name!”
The coach came to a standstill, and through the window I beheld the shadowy forms of several mounted men, and the feeble glare of a lantern.
“Who travels in the carriage, knave?” came the voice again.
“Mademoiselle de Canaples,” answered Michelot; then, like a fool, he must needs add: “Have a care whom you knave, my master, if you would grow old.”
“Pardieu! let us behold this Mademoiselle de Canaples who owns so fearful a warrior for a coachman.”
The door was flung rudely open, and the man bearing the lantern—whose rays shone upon a uniform of the Cardinal's guards—confronted us.
With a chuckle he flashed the light in my face, then suddenly grew serious.
“Peste! Is it indeed you, M. de Luynes?” quoth he; adding, with stern politeness, “It grieves me to disturb you, but I have a warrant for your arrest.”
He was fumbling in his doublet as he spoke, and during the time I had leisure to scan his countenance, recognising, to my surprise, a young lieutenant of the guards who had but recently served with me, and with whom I had been on terms almost of friendship. His words, “I have a warrant for your arrest,” came like a bolt from the blue to enlighten me, and to remind me of what St. Auban had that morning told me, and which for the nonce I had all but forgotten.
Upon hearing those same words, Yvonne, methought, grew pale, and her eyes were bent upon me with a look of surprise and pity.
“Upon what charge am I arrested?” I enquired, with forced composure.
“My warrant mentions none, M. de Luynes. It is here.” And he thrust before me a paper, whose purport I could have read in its shape and seals. Idly my eye ran along the words:
“By these presents I charge and empower my lieutenant, Jean de Montrésor, to seize where'er he may be found, hold, and conduct to Paris the Sieur Gaston de Luynes—”
And so further, until the Cardinal's signature ended the legal verbiage.
“In the King's name, M. de Luynes,” said Montrésor, firmly yet deferentially, “your sword!”
It would have been madness to do aught but comply with his request, and so I surrendered my rapier, which he in his turn delivered to one of his followers. Next I stepped down from the coach and turned to take leave of Mademoiselle, whereupon Montrésor, thinking that peradventure matters were as they appeared to be between us, and, being a man of fine feelings, signed to his men to fall back, whilst he himself withdrew a few paces.
“Adieu, Mademoiselle!” I said simply. “I shall carry with me for consolation the memory that I have been of service to you, and I shall ever—during the little time that may be left me—be grateful to Heaven for the opportunity that it has afforded me of causing you—perchance without sufficient reason—to think better of me. Adieu, Mademoiselle! God guard you!”
It was too dark to see her face, but my heart bounded with joy to catch in her voice a quaver that argued, methought, regret for me.
“What does it mean, M. de Luynes? Why are they taking you?”
“Because I have displeased my Lord Cardinal, albeit, Mademoiselle, I swear to you that I have no cause for shame at the reasons for which I am being arrested.”
“My father is Monseigneur de Mazarin's friend,” she cried. “He is also yours. He shall exert for you what influence he possesses.”
“'T were useless, Mademoiselle. Besides, what does it signify? Again, adieu!”
She spoke no answering word, but silently held out her hand. Silently I took it in mine, and for a moment I hesitated, thinking of what I was—of what she was. At last, moved by some power that was greater than my will, I stooped and pressed those shapely fingers to my lips. Then I stepped suddenly back and closed the carriage door, oppressed by a feeling akin to that of having done an evil deed.
“Have I your permission to say a word to my servant, M. le Lieutenant?” I inquired.
He bowed assent, whereat, stepping close up to the horror-stricken Michelot—
“Drive straight to the Château de Canaples,” I said in a low voice. “Thereafter return to the Lys de France and there wait until you hear from me. Here, take my purse; there are some fifty pistoles in it.”
“Speak but the word, Monsieur,” he growled, “and I'll pistol a couple of these dogs.”
“Pah! You grow childish,” I laughed, “or can you not see that fellow's musket?”
“Pardieu! I'll risk his aim! I never yet saw one of these curs shoot straight.”
“No, no, obey me, Michelot. Think of Mademoiselle. Go! Adieu! If we should not meet again, mon brave,” I finished, as I seized his loyal hand, “what few things of mine are at the hostelry shall belong to you, as well as what may be left of this money. It is little enough payment, Michelot, for all your faithfulness—”
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” he cried.
“Diable!” I muttered, “we are becoming women! Be off, you knave! Adieu!”
The peremptoriness of my tone ended our leave-taking and caused him to grip his reins and bring down his whip. The coach moved on. A white face, on which the moonlight fell, glanced at me from the window, then to my staring eyes naught was left but the back of the retreating vehicle, with one of the two saddle-horses that had been tethered to it still ambling in its wake.
“M. de Montrésor,” I said, thrusting my bullet-pierced hat upon my head, “I am at your service.”
CHAPTER XIV. OF WHAT BEFELL AT REAUX.
At my captor's bidding I mounted the horse which they had untethered from the carriage, and we started off along the road which the coach itself had disappeared upon a moment before. But we travelled at a gentle trot, which, after that evening's furious riding, was welcome to me.
With bitterness I reflected as I rode that the very moment at which Mademoiselle de Canaples had brought herself to think better of me was like to prove the last we should spend together. Yet not altogether bitter was that reflection; for with it came also the consolation—whereof I had told her—that I had not been taken before she had had cause to change her mind concerning me.
That she should care for me was too preposterous an idea to be nourished, and, indeed, it was better—much better—that M. de Montrésor had come before I, grown sanguine as lovers will, had again earned her scorn by showing her what my heart contained. Much better was it that I should pass for ever out of her life—as, indeed, methought I was like to pass out of all life—whilst I could leave in her mind a kind remembrance and a grateful regret, free from the stain that a subsequent possible presumption of mine might have cast o'er it.
Then my thoughts shifted to Andrea. St. Auban would hear of my removal, and I cared not to think of what profit he might derive from it. To Yvonne also his presence must hereafter be a menace, and in that wherein tonight he had failed, he might, again, succeed. It was at this juncture of my reverie that M. de Montrésor's pleasant young voice aroused me.
“You appear downcast, M. de Luynes.”
“I, downcast!” I echoed, throwing back my head and laughing. “Nay. I was but thinking.
“Believe me, M. de Luynes,” he said kindly, “when I tell you that it grieves me to be charged with this matter. I have done my best to capture you. That was my duty. But I should have rejoiced had I failed with the consciousness of having done all in my power.”
“Thanks, Montrésor,” I murmured, and silence followed.
“I have been thinking, Monsieur,” he went on presently, “that possibly the absence of your sword causes you discomfort.”
“Eh? Discomfort? It does, most damnably!”
“Give me your parole d'honneur that you will attempt no escape, and not only shall your sword be returned to you, but you shall travel to Paris with all comfort and dignity.”
Now, so amazed was I that I paused to stare at the officer who was young enough to make such a proposal to a man of my reputation. He turned his face towards me, and in the moonlight I could make out his questioning glance.
“Eh, bien, Monsieur?”
“I am more than grateful to you, M. de Montrésor,” I replied, “and I freely give you my word of honour to seek no means of eluding you, nor to avail myself of any that may be presented to me.”
I said this loud enough for those behind to hear, so that no surprise was evinced when the lieutenant bade the man who bore my sword return it to me.
If he who may chance to read these simple pages shall have gathered aught of my character from their perusal, he will marvel, perchance, that I should give the lieutenant my parole, instead rather of watching for an opportunity to—at least—attempt an escape. Preeminent in my thoughts, however, stood at that moment the necessity to remove St. Auban, and methought that by acting as I did I saw a way by which, haply, I might accomplish this. What might thereafter befall me seemed of little moment.
“M. de Montrésor,” I said presently, “your kindness impels me to set a further tax upon your generosity.”
“That is, Monsieur?”
“Bid your men fall back a little, and I will tell you.”
He made a sign to his troopers, and when the distance between us had been sufficiently widened, I began:
“There is a man at present across the river, yonder, who has done me no little injury, and with whom I have a rendezvous at nine o'clock to-night at St. Sulpice des Reaux, where our swords are to determine the difference between us. I crave, Monsieur, your permission to keep that appointment.”
“Impossible!” he answered curtly.
I took a deep breath like a man who is about to jump an obstacle in his path.
“Why impossible, Monsieur?”
“Because you are a prisoner, and therefore no longer under obligation to keep appointments.”
“How would you feel, Montrésor, if, burning to be avenged upon a man who had done you irreparable wrong, you were arrested an hour before the time at which you were to meet this man, sword in hand, and your captor—whose leave you craved to keep the assignation—answered you with the word 'impossible'?”
“Yes, yes, Monsieur,” he replied impatiently. “But you forget my position. Let us suppose that I allow you to go to St. Sulpice des Reaux. What if you do not return?”
“You mistrust me?” I exclaimed, my hopes melting.
“You misapprehend me. I mean, what if you are killed?”
“I do not think that I shall be.”
“Ah! But what if you are? What shall I say to my Lord Cardinal?”
“Dame! That I am dead, and that he is saved the trouble of hanging me. The most he can want of me is my life. Let us suppose that you had come an hour later. You would have been forced to wait until after the encounter, and, did I fall, matters would be no different.”
The young man fell to thinking, but I, knowing that it is not well to let the young ponder overlong if you would bend them to your wishes, broke in upon his reflections—“See, Montrésor, yonder are the lights of Blois; by eight o'clock we shall be in the town. Come; grant me leave to cross the Loire, and by ten o'clock, or half-past at the latest, I shall return to sup with you or I shall be dead. I swear it.”
“Were I in your position,” he answered musingly, “I know how I would be treated, and, pardieu! come what may I shall deal with you accordingly. You may go to your assignation, M. de Luynes, and may God prosper you.”
And thus it came to pass that shortly after eight o'clock, albeit a prisoner, I rode into the courtyard of the Lys de France, and, alighting, I stepped across the threshold of the inn, and strode up to a table at which I had espied Michelot. He sat nursing a huge measure of wine, into the depths of which he was gazing pensively, with an expression so glum upon his weather-beaten countenance that it defies depicting. So deep was he in his meditations, that albeit I stood by the table surveying him for a full minute, he took no heed of me.
“Allons, Michelot!” I said at length. “Wake up.”
He started up with a cry of amazement; surprise chased away the grief that had been on his face, and a moment later joy unfeigned, and good to see, took the place of surprise.
“You have escaped, Monsieur!” he cried, and albeit caution made him utter the words beneath his breath, a shout seemed to lurk somewhere in the whisper.
Pressing his hand I sat down and briefly told him how matters stood, and how I came to be for the moment free. And when I had done I bade him, since his wound had not proved serious, to get his hat and cloak and go with me to find a boat.
He obeyed me, and a quarter of an hour after we had quitted the hostelry he was rowing me across the stream, whilst, wrapped in my cloak, I sat in the stern, thinking of Yvonne.
“Monsieur,” said Michelot, “observe how swift is the stream. If I were to let the boat drift we should be at Tours to-morrow, and from there it would be easy to defy pursuit. We have enough money to reach Spain. What say you, Monsieur?”
“Say, you rascal? Why, bend your back to the work and set me ashore by St. Sulpice in a quarter of an hour, or I'll forget that you have been my friend. Would you see me dishonoured?”
“Sooner than see you dead,” he grumbled as he resumed his task. Thereafter, whilst he rowed, Michelot entertained me with some quaint ideas touching that which fine gentlemen call honour, and to what sorry passes it was wont to bring them, concluding by thanking God that he was no gentleman and had no honour to lead him into mischief.
At last, however, our journey came to an end, and I sprang ashore some five hundred paces from the little chapel, and almost exactly opposite the Château de Canaples. I stood for a moment gazing across the water at the lighted windows of the château, wondering which of those eyes that looked out upon the night might be that of Yvonne's chamber.
Then, bidding Michelot await me, or follow did I not return in half an hour, I turned and moved away towards the chapel.
There is a clearing in front of the little white edifice—which rather than a temple is but a monument to the martyr who is said to have perished on that spot in the days before Clovis.
As I advanced into the centre of this open patch of ground, and stood clear of the black silhouettes of the trees, cast about me by the moon, two men appeared to detach themselves from the side wall of the chapel, and advanced to meet me.
Albeit they were wrapped in their cloaks—uptilted behind by their protruding scabbards—it was not difficult to tell the tall figure and stately bearing of St. Auban and the mincing gait of Vilmorin.
I doffed my hat in a grave salutation, which was courteously returned.
“I trust, Messieurs, that I have not kept you waiting?”
“I was on the point of expressing that very hope, Monsieur,” returned St. Auban. “We have but arrived. Do you come alone?”
“As you perceive.”
“Hum! M. le Vicomte, then, will act for both of us.”
I bowed in token of my satisfaction, and without more ado cast aside my cloak, pleased to see that the affair was to be conducted with decency and politeness, as such matters should ever be conducted, albeit impoliteness may have marked their origin.
The Marquis, having followed my example and divested himself of his cloak and hat, unsheathed his rapier and delivered it to Vilmorin, who came across with it to where I stood. When he was close to me I saw that he was deadly pale; his teeth chattered, and the hand that held the weapon shook as with a palsy.
“Mu—Monsieur,” he stammered, “will it please you to lend me your sword that I may mu-measure it?”
“What formalities!” I exclaimed with an amused smile, as I complied with his request. “I am afraid you have caught a chill, Vicomte. The night air is little suited to health so delicate.”
He answered me with a baleful glance, as silently he took my sword and set it—point to hilt—with St. Auban's. He appeared to have found some slight difference in the length, for he took two steps away from me, holding the weapons well in the light, where for a moment he surveyed them attentively. His hands shook so that the blades clattered one against the other the while. But, of a sudden, taking both rapiers by the hilt, he struck the blades together with a ringing clash, then flung them both behind him as far as he could contrive, leaving me thunderstruck with amazement, and marvelling whether fear had robbed him of his wits.
Not until I perceived that the trees around me appeared to spring into life did it occur to me that that clashing of blades was a signal, and that I was trapped. With the realisation of it I was upon Vilmorin in a bound, and with both hands I had caught the dog by the throat before he thought of flight. The violence of my onslaught bore him to the ground, and I, not to release my choking grip, went with him.
For a moment we lay together where we had fallen, his slender body twisting and writhing under me, his swelling face upturned and his protruding, horror-stricken eyes gazing into mine that were fierce and pitiless. Voices rang above me; someone stooped and strove to pluck me from my victim; then below the left shoulder I felt a sting of pain, first cold then hot, and I knew that I had been stabbed.
Again I felt the blade thrust in, lower down and driven deeper; then, as the knife was for the second time withdrawn, and my flesh sucked at the steel,—the pain of it sending a shudder through me,—the instinct of preservation overcame the sweet lust to strangle Vilmorin. I let him go and, staggering to my feet, I turned to face those murderers who struck a defenceless man behind.
Swords gleamed around me: one, two, three, four, five, six, I counted, and stood weak and dazed from loss of blood, gazing stupidly at the white blades. Had I but had my sword I should have laid about me, and gone down beneath their blows as befits a soldier. But the absence of that trusty friend left me limp and helpless—cowed for the first time since I had borne arms.
Of a sudden I became aware that St. Auban stood opposite to me, hand on hip, surveying me with a malicious leer. As our eyes met—“So, master meddler,” quoth he mockingly, “you crow less lustily than is your wont.”
“Hound!” I gasped, choking with rage, “if you are a man, if there be a spark of pride or honour left in your lying, cowardly soul, order your assassins to give me my sword, and, wounded though I be, I'll fight with you this duel that you lured me here to fight.”
He laughed harshly.
“I told you but this morning, Master de Luynes, that a St. Auban does not fight men of your stamp. You forced a rendezvous upon me; you shall reap the consequences.”
Despite the weakness arising from loss of blood, I sprang towards him, beside myself with fury. But ere I had covered half the distance that lay between us my arms were gripped from behind, and in my spent condition I was held there, powerless, at the Marquis's mercy. He came slowly forward until we were but some two feet apart. For a second he stood leering at me, then, raising his hand, he struck me—struck a man whose arms another held!—full upon the face. Passion for the moment lent me strength, and in that moment I had wrenched my right arm free and returned his blow with interest.
With an oath he got out a dagger that hung from his baldrick.
“Sang du Christ! Take that, you dog!” he snarled, burying the blade in my breast as he spoke.
“My God! You are murdering me!” I gasped.
“Have you discovered it? What penetration!” he retorted, and those about him laughed at his indecent jest!
He made a sign, and the man who had held me withdrew his hands. I staggered forward, deprived of his support, then a crashing blow took me across the head.
I swayed for an instant, and with arms upheld I clutched at the air, as if I sought, by hanging to it, to save myself from falling; then the moon appeared to go dark, a noise as of the sea beating upon its shore filled my ears, and I seemed to be falling—falling—falling.
A voice that buzzed and vibrated oddly, growing more distant at each word, reached me as I sank.
“Come,” it said. “Fling that carrion into the river.”
Then nothingness engulfed me.
CHAPTER XV. OF MY RESURRECTION
Even as the blow which had plunged me into senselessness had imparted to me the sinking sensation which I have feebly endeavoured to depict, so did the first dim ray of returning consciousness bring with it the feeling that I was again being buoyed upwards through the thick waters that had enveloped me, to their surface, where intelligence and wakefulness awaited.
And as I felt myself borne up and up in that effortless ascension, my senses awake and my reason still half-dormant, an exquisite sense of languor pervaded my whole being. Presently meseemed that the surface was gained at last, and an instinct impelled me to open my eyes upon the light, of which, through closed lids, I had become conscious.
I beheld a fair-sized room superbly furnished, and flooded with amber sunlight suggestive in itself of warmth and luxury, the vision of which heightened the delicious torpor that held me in thrall. The bed I lay upon was such, I told myself, as would not have disgraced a royal sleeper. It was upheld by great pillars of black oak, carved with a score of fantastic figures, and all around it, descending from the dome above, hung curtains of rich damask, drawn back at the side that looked upon the window. Near at hand stood a table laden with phials and such utensils as one sees by the bedside of the wealthy sick. All this I beheld in a languid, unreasoning fashion through my half-open lids, and albeit the luxury of the room and the fine linen of my bed told me that this was neither my Paris lodging in the Rue St. Antoine, nor yet my chamber at the hostelry of the Lys de France, still I taxed not my brain with any questions touching my whereabouts.
I closed my eyes, and I must have slept again: when next I opened them a burly figure stood in the deep bay of the latticed window, looking out through the leaded panes.
I recognised the stalwart frame of Michelot, and at last I asked myself where I might be. It did not seem to occur to me that I had but to call him to receive an answer to that question. Instead, I closed my eyes again, and essayed to think. But just then there came a gentle scratching at the door, and I could hear Michelot tiptoeing across the room; next he and the one he had admitted tiptoed back towards my bedside, and as they came I caught a whisper in a voice that seemed to drag me to full consciousness.
“How fares the poor invalid this morning?”
“The fever is gone, Mademoiselle, and he may wake at any moment; indeed, it is strange that he should sleep so long.”
“He will be the better for it when he does awaken. I will remain here while you rest, Michelot. My poor fellow, you are almost as worn with your vigils as he is with the fever.”
“Pooh! I am strong enough, Mademoiselle,” he answered. “I will get a mouthful of food and return, for I would be by when he wakes.”
Then their voices sank so low that as they withdrew I caught not what was said. The door closed softly and for a space there was silence, broken at last by a sigh above my head. With an answering sigh I opened wide my eyes and feasted them upon the lovely face of Yvonne de Canaples, as she bent over me with a look of tenderness and pity that at once recalled to me our parting when I was arrested.
But suddenly meeting the stare of my gaze, she drew back with a half-stifled cry, whose meaning my dull wits sought not to interpret, but methought I caught from her lips the words, “Thank God!”
“Where am I, Mademoiselle?” I inquired, and the faintness of my voice amazed me.
“You know me!” she exclaimed, as though the thing were a miracle. Then coming forward again, and setting her cool, sweet hand upon my forehead,
“Hush,” she murmured in the accents one might use to soothe a child. “You are at Canaples, among friends. Now sleep.”
“At Canaples!” I echoed. “How came I here? I am a prisoner, am I not?”
“A prisoner!” she exclaimed. “No, no, you are not a prisoner. You are among friends.”
“Did I then but dream that Montrésor arrested me yesterday on the road to Meung? Ah! I recollect! M. de Montrésor gave me leave on parole to go to Reaux.”
Then, like an avalanche, remembrance swept down upon me, and my memory drew a vivid picture of the happenings at St. Sulpice.
“My God!” I cried. “Am I not dead, then?” And I sought to struggle up into a sitting posture, but that gentle hand upon my forehead restrained and robbed me of all will that was not hers.
“Hush, Monsieur!” she said softly. “Lie still. By a miracle and the faithfulness of Michelot you live. Be thankful, be content, and sleep.”
“But my wounds, Mademoiselle?” I inquired feebly.
“They are healed.”
“Healed?” quoth I, and in my amazement my voice sounded louder than it had yet done since my awakening. “Healed! Three such wounds as I took last night, to say naught of a broken head, healed?”
“'T was not last night, Monsieur.”
“Not last night? Was it not last night that I went to Reaux?”
“It is nearly a month since that took place,” she answered with a smile. “For nearly a month have you lain unconscious upon that bed, with the angel of Death at your pillow. You have fought and won a silent battle. Now sleep, Monsieur, and ask no more questions until next you awaken, when Michelot shall tell you all that took place.”
She held a glass to my lips from which I drank gratefully, then, with the submissiveness of a babe, I obeyed her and slept.
As she had promised, it was Michelot who greeted me when next I opened my eyes, on the following day. There were tears in his eyes—eyes that had looked grim and unmoved upon the horrors of the battlefield.
From him I learned how, after they had flung me into the river, deeming me dead already, St. Auban and his men had made off. The swift stream swirled me along towards the spot where, in the boat, Michelot awaited my return all unconscious of what was taking place. He had heard the splash, and had suddenly stood up, on the point of going ashore, when my body rose within a few feet of him. He spoke of the agony of mind wherewith he had suddenly stretched forth and clutched me by my doublet, fearing that I was indeed dead. He had lifted me into the boat to find that my heart still beat and that the blood flowed from my wounds. These he had there and then bound up in the only rude fashion he was master of, and forthwith, thinking of Andrea and the Chevalier de Canaples, who were my friends, and of Mademoiselle, who was my debtor, also seeing that the château was the nearest place, he had rowed straight across to Canaples, and there I had lain during the four weeks that had elapsed, nursed by Mademoiselle, Andrea, and himself, and thus won back to life.
Ah, Dieu! How good it was to know that someone there was still who cared for worthless Gaston de Luynes a little—enough to watch beside him and withhold his soul from the grim claws of Death.
“What of M. de St. Auban?” I inquired presently.
“He has not been seen since that night. Probably he feared that did he come to Blois, the Chevalier would find means of punishing him for the attempted abduction of Mademoiselle.”
“Ah, then Andrea is safe?”
As if in answer to my question, the lad entered at that moment, and upon seeing me sitting up, talking to Michelot, he uttered an exclamation of joy, and hurried forward to my bedside.
“Gaston, dear friend!” he cried, as he took my hand—and a thin, withered hand it was.
We talked long together,—we three,—and anon we were joined by the Chevalier de Canaples, who offered me also, in his hesitating manner, his felicitations. And with me they lingered until Yvonne came to drive them with protestations from my bedside.
Such, in brief, was the manner of my resurrection. For a week or so I still kept my chamber; then one day towards the middle of April, the weather being warm and the sun bright, Michelot assisted me to don my clothes, which hung strangely empty upon my gaunt, emaciated frame, and, leaning heavily upon my faithful henchman, I made my way below.
In the salon I found the Chevalier de Canaples with Mesdemoiselles and Andrea awaiting me, and the kindness wherewith they overwhelmed me, as I sat propped up with pillows, was such that I asked myself again and again if, indeed, I was that same Gaston de Luynes who but a little while ago had held himself as destitute of friends as he was of fortune. I was the pampered hero of the hour, and even little Geneviève had a sunny smile and a kind word for me.
Thereafter my recovery progressed with great strides, and gradually, day by day, I felt more like my old vigorous self. They were happy days, for Mademoiselle was often at my side, and ever kind to me; so kind was she that presently, as my strength grew, there fell a great cloud athwart my happiness—the thought that soon I must leave Canaples never to return there,—leave Mademoiselle's presence never to come into it again.
I was Monsieur de Montrésor's prisoner. I had learned that in common with all others, save those at Canaples, he deemed me dead, and that, informed of it by a message from St. Auban, he had returned to Paris on the day following that of my journey to Reaux. Nevertheless, since I lived, he had my parole, and it was my duty as soon as I had regained sufficient strength, to journey to Paris and deliver myself into his hands.
Nearer and nearer drew the dreaded hour in which I felt that I must leave Canaples. On the last day of April I essayed a fencing bout with Andrea, and so strong and supple did I prove myself that I was forced to realise that the time was come. On the morrow I would go.
As I was on the point of returning indoors with the foils under my arm, Andrea called me back.
“Gaston, I have something of importance to say to you. Will you take a turn with me down yonder by the river?”
There was a serious, almost nervous look on his comely face, which arrested my attention. I dropped the foils, and taking his arm I went with him as he bade me. We seated ourselves on the grass by the edge of the gurgling waters, and he began:
“It is now two months since we came to Blois: I, to pay my court to the wealthy Mademoiselle de Canaples; you, to watch over and protect me—nay, you need not interrupt me. Michelot has told me what St. Auban sought here, and the true motives of your journey to St. Sulpice. Never shall I be able to sufficiently prove my gratitude to you, my poor Gaston. But tell me, dear friend, you who from the outset saw how matters stood, why did you not inform St. Auban that he had no cause to hunt me down since I intended not to come between him and Yvonne?”
“Mon Dieu!” I exclaimed, “that little fair-haired coquette has—”
“Gaston,” he interrupted, “you go too fast. I love Geneviève de Canaples. I have loved her, I think, since the moment I beheld her in the inn at Choisy, and, what is more, she loves me.”
“So that—?” I asked with an ill-repressed sneer.
“We have plighted our troth, and with her father's sanction, or without it, she will do me the honour to become my wife.”
“Admirable!” I exclaimed. “And my Lord Cardinal?”
“May hang himself on his stole for aught I care.”
“Ah! Truly a dutiful expression for a nephew who has thwarted his uncle's plans!”
“My uncle's plans are like himself, cold and selfish in their ambition.”
“Andrea, Andrea! Whatever your uncle may be, to those of your blood, at least, he was never selfish.”
“Not selfish!” he cried. “Think you that he is enriching and contracting great alliances for us because he loves us? No, no. Our uncle seeks to gain our support and with it the support of those noble houses to which he is allying us. The nobility opposes him, therefore he seeks to find relatives among noblemen, so that he may weather the storm of which his far-seeing eyes have already detected the first dim clouds. What to him are my feelings, my inclinations, my affections? Things of no moment, to be sacrificed so that I may serve him in the manner that will bring him the most profit. Yet you call him not selfish! Were he not selfish, I should go to him and say: 'I love Geneviève de Canaples. Create me Duke as you would do, did I wed her sister, and the Chevalier de Canaples will not withstand our union.' What think you would be his answer?”
“I have a shrewd idea what his answer would be,” I replied slowly. “Also I have a shrewd idea of what he will say when he learns in what manner you have defied his wishes.”
“He can but order me away from Court, or, at most, banish me from France.”
“And then what will become of you—of you and your wife?”
“What is to become of us?” he cried in a tone that was almost that of anger. “Think you that I am a pauper dependent upon my uncle's bounty? I have an estate near Palermo, which, for all that it does not yield riches, is yet sufficient to enable us to live with dignity and comfort. I have told Geneviève, and she is content.”
I looked at his flushed face and laughed.
“Well, well!” said I. “If you are resolved upon it, it is ended.”
He appeared to meditate for a moment, then—“We have decided to be married by the Curé of St. Innocent on the day after to-morrow.”
“Crédieu!” I answered, with a whistle, “you have wasted no time in determining your plans. Does Yvonne know of it?”
“We have dared tell nobody,” he replied; and a moment later he added hesitatingly, “You, I know, will not betray us.”
“Do you know me so little that you doubt me on that score? Have no fear, Andrea, I shall not speak. Besides, to-morrow, or the next day at latest, I leave Canaples.”
“You do not mean that you are returning to the Lys de France!”
“No. I am going farther than that. I am going to Paris.”
“To Paris?”
“To Paris, to deliver myself up to M. de Montrésor, who gave me leave to go to Reaux some seven weeks ago.”
“But it is madness, Gaston!” he ejaculated.
“All virtue is madness in a world so sinful; nevertheless I go. In a measure I am glad that things have fallen out with you as they have done, for when the news goes abroad that you have married Geneviève de Canaples and left the heiress free, your enemies will vanish, and you will have no further need of me. New enemies you will have perchance, but in your strife with them I could lend you no help, were I by.”
He sat in silence casting pebbles into the stream, and watching the ripples they made upon the face of the waters.
“Have you told Mademoiselle?” he asked at length.
“Not yet. I shall tell her to-day. You also, Andrea, must take her into your confidence touching your approaching marriage. That she will prove a good friend to you I am assured.”
“But what reason shall I give form my secrecy?” he inquired, and inwardly I smiled to see how the selfishness which love begets in us had caused him already to forget my affairs, and how the thought of his own approaching union effaced all thought of me and the doom to which I went.
“Give no reason,” I answered. “Let Genevieve tell her of what you contemplate, and if a reason she must have, let Geneviève bid her come to me. This much will I do for you in the matter; indeed, Andrea, it is the last service I am like to render you.”
“Sh! Here comes the Chevalier. She shall be told to-day.”