The traitor's way

It was market day, as I have said, and the little square was full to overflow with a chaffering, haggling crowd, that pressed round the shelter of the shops, and squeezed, pushed, and shouted about the stalls and booths erected in the open, on the rough and still sleet-covered cobble-stones of the uneven pavement. We made our way slowly through the heaving mass of red-faced and brown-handed country folk, all talking at the same time, and in the same breath retailing some gossip of the hamlet side, and holding fast to a deal, or throwing in a prayer to St. Jean of Bléré, as they beat down a price.

We rode past pigs, cattle, and sheep, booths full of leather work from Château Renault, rough pottery from Tours and the Sologne, woollen material from Amboise, iron and copper ware, and cheap haberdashery from Blois and Orleans. There were stalls where chestnuts were roasting, and a warm wheat cake, a handful of hot chestnuts, and a draught of fresh milk were to be had for a brown piece. We were detained for a moment by an altercation between some soldiers of the garrison and a sutler from Montrichard, who had tried to palm off on them a skin of white Joué as a true Cote d’Or, and but escaped this to fall under the eye of a mad friar, who had climbed on to a cart laden with rye, or buckwheat flour, and from that elevation denounced the vengeance of heaven on the sins of Chenonceaux. His glance fell on us, and we at once became subjects for his invective. We, of course, took no notice, and pushed on, to find, this time, that we were completely hemmed in by a crowd that rushed to form a ring round a juggler, who prepared to show his wonders, while his companion, a black-eyed, dark-browed, and comely Arlesienne, beat a tambour, as she sang the shepherd’s song of her country to the morning star, “La Belle Maguelonne,” and coppers flew thick and fast. I thought that we had shown sufficient consideration to these canaille in not riding some of them down ere this, and was about to vent my impatience, when I was checked by Marcilly.

“Mon ami!” he said; “let them be—these are the bread-winners of France.”

I knew he was right, and, feeling the reproof, reined back from him. We were, however, relieved from our difficulty by M. de Rabutin and his friends, who, using their canes freely for their own passage, soon caused the crowd to surge back, and opened a way for us.

We rode forward, and would have passed de Rabutin and his companions, but, perhaps a little excited, they stood before our horses, still flourishing their canes and wearing a threatening aspect, until Marcilly called out:

“Have a care, de Rabutin! Do you not know us?”

“Jean de Marcilly, as I live, and de Vibrac too!” exclaimed de Rabutin, dropping his cane. “Where in the world have you sprung from, and where do you ride?”

“To Orleans, de Rabutin, and we are hard pressed, else we had stayed at the château for a cup of d’Arbois.”

“And heartily welcome! Will you not do so now?”

“I fear we cannot, for our time is short, and we would have to fight the great St. Cyergue, whose invitation we have been compelled to refuse as well.”

The Captain of Chenonceaux laughed, and insisted on walking by us as far as the bridge, over which he said he would give us safe conduct. We stopped on the other side to say farewell, when we were startled by a sudden roar of voices that came from behind, and, turning round, saw the crowd swaying and parting before a mounted man, who, bareheaded, white-faced, and spattered with mud, urged his horse through the press, now striking to the right, then to the left, with the flat of his drawn sword.

It was Ponthieu, as I lived! Ponthieu, who had somehow escaped the clutches of Achon, and was making a brave bid for freedom.

“Name of the devil!” roared de Rabutin. “Stop him! Seize him!”

There were half a dozen mounted men at the bridge close to us, and in an instant swords had flashed out, and the way was barred, but it was all or nothing now, and with a reckless shout of “Bourbon, Notre Dame!” Ponthieu spurred across the bridge and came straight for us.

Things that take but a moment to happen should take but a moment to tell. Our swords were out, too, now; but we cut for Ponthieu as he came up, and he dashed into us in the confusion caused by our sudden assault in his favor. Marcilly’s reins were seized by de Rabutin with a cry of “Traitor,” but Jean leaned forward and struck the Tarantaise with the hilt of his sword, and he fell backward, but rose staggering to his feet. Ponthieu was hard pressed. Once he thrust at me, and it was but chance that I managed to turn his point. At another time he was all but overpowered, but I ran the trooper who was on him through, and the man fell forward with a sob.

“Courage, Ponthieu!” I cried, and then he recognized me.

“Good friend!” he said, and the next moment we were free.

“Gallop! Gallop!” It was Jean’s voice at my bridle-rein, but we needed no word to urge us as we dashed forward, Ponthieu at my right hand and Badehorn, who had cunningly got clear at the beginning of things, a good quarter-mile ahead.

Ah! But it was with a glad heart that I rode on. I had felt Ponthieu’s fate to be like a mill-stone round my neck, and now he was free, and it was my sword that had helped to free him! It was to me an omen of the future, and for very lightness of soul I could have turned back for yet another pass with de Rabutin’s men, who came pressing behind, cursing as they fired their pistols after us in vain.

We all but gave them the slip in the forest of Amboise. Here, while we galloped through the withered, but wet and dripping underwood, tearing our faces and hands with the thorns and overhanging branches, the gray tree trunks flitted by like shadows, and the white snow-covered glades seemed to open and shut like fans as we sped past them. Beneath us we could hear the breathing of the horses, and behind came shout and halloo, answered by a hundred echoes, until the dim forest seemed to ring again with the voices of those who sought our death. But our horses went fast, and we rode hard, for safety lay in front and there was no mercy behind, and at last cry and echo died away, and there was a silence. We had distanced them, as we thought, and we pulled up for a moment to breathe the nags.

“We must take to the open Sologne if we wish to reach Nanteuil,” said Marcilly, loosening a holster flap, and, turning sharply to our right, we trotted out of the cover of the trees into the rough moorland.

It was a necessary but unfortunate thing, for as we rode out we were spied once more by the troopers, and with a yell they came on. It was perhaps well for us that there were not more than about a half-dozen of them. As I turned in my saddle to glance back, I noticed that there was but this number at our heels, and could we but reach the Beuvron there was every chance of safety among the yoke elms and chestnuts of Russy. For ourselves, I felt this was possible, but as I looked at Ponthieu, and saw the heaving flanks of his horse, I began to fear for the issue of our ride. It would, of course, be impossible to desert him now; at any hazard we must stand or fall together. The Gascon caught my eye as I looked up from his horse and laughed at me.

“There is a half-mile or so in him yet, Vibrac,” and he swung his sword, and hallooed the horses on.

We had a good start, but our beasts were already nearly blown, and we began to feel that the end could not be far.

“We must fight at the Masse,” said Marcilly, as he brought his nag with an effort alongside mine.

“Now, if you like,” I answered; but he shook his head, and pointed before him to the low line of willows that showed where the Masse crept. How we rode for those few hundred yards! How the very horses seemed to know the danger behind! And somehow we managed it, all four of us, though, as we splashed out of the stream and up the opposite bank, our pursuers were not more than a hundred paces away. As we gained the bank, Ponthieu sprang from his saddle, pistol in hand.

“Go on friends!” he said; “my horse is beaten, and you have risked too much for me already—save yourselves!”

But Jean laughed as he faced round, and we four of us, brought to bay, waited for de Rabutin. After he was felled by Marcilly, he must have seized a trooper’s horse and followed us, and we could see him now, utterly weaponless, riding well ahead of his men, his face red with the blood of his wound, and his pourpoint splashed and torn. As they came up, however, his men, seeing we were determined to fight to the last, that we were well armed and desperate, wavered and hesitated.

Not so did Rabutin; he was mad with anger, and shrieked at them as they slackened rein, and began to move forward slowly.

“Cowards! Dogs! Would you halt now? See, there are but four of them! On! On! God save me! Am I followed by a pack of serving-wenches or men-at-arms?”

And as he stormed, Marcilly shouted to him: “Go back, de Rabutin! We have no quarrel with you. Go back!” But the sound of Jean’s voice seemed to drive him to frenzy.

“You—you——” he said, shaking his clenched fist at us, and, all swordless as he was, plunged into the stream, followed for very shame by his men.

Our hands were being forced, and I felt that what was to follow would not be on our heads; but now Jean raised his pistol and shot de Rabutin’s horse dead, and man and beast together fell into the icy water of the Masse. His men needed no further inducement to retreat than the fall of their leader, and, turning rein at once for the opposite shore, galloped off leaving de Rabutin to his fate. He managed to scramble to the bank thoroughly cooled by his drenching, and wishing him a pleasant walk back to Chenonceaux—a good wish that he answered with a curse—we rode on, now thanking our lucky stars at our escape, now laughing at the sorry figure poor de Rabutin cut as he crawled out of the water.

“We have made an enemy for life,” said Marcilly, “and the worst of it is that the Tarantaise has something of right on his side. He will make the Court ring with his complaints.”

“And we with laughter, as we tell how monsieur took a bath in the Masse ere he walked to Chenonceaux,” I answered.

“As for right on his side,” said Ponthieu, “Cap de Diou! He holds no commission as a catch-poll. What right had he to hunt us to death like a stag. My faith! It was in my heart to have ended his hunting for all as he struggled in the water.”

The Gascon had excuse for what he said, and, as we crossed the Bievre, that little child of the Beuvron, we slackened pace, now feeling secure from further pursuit, and Ponthieu, who had completely regained his spirits and good temper, told us how he escaped.

“You must know, friends,” he said, “that when I dropped out of the window, I knew no more than the road to the moon where I was, but after some groping I reached the stable where my lame nag stood. He was close to yours, and for once I was tempted to take the chance Providence had thrown to my hand, and assist myself to one of your beasts.”

“If you had, Ponthieu——”

“We would not have been such good friends as we are now, but I should have been within a league of Yvoy le Marron, where the Constable lies. To make the story short, I resisted the temptation for our friendship’s sake, de Vibrac, and sought the next stall, to find there a mule—a yellow mule as I live—nevertheless he seemed a stout beast, and would serve at a pinch. I looked round to see if any one was by, but there was no one watching, so I made a shift to go back to my own horse to fetch his saddle. As I came out of the stall into the flagged passage, a light suddenly flashed before my eyes, and some one struck at me. I started back, luckily, or else I had never spoken again, but the blow grazed my good steel cap, and sent me flying. The next moment I was seized and pinned down. I made a struggle for it, as you may think, and shouted out for help, the Lord knows why, for I knew well enough there was no help at hand; but all was useless. There were four men against me—stout fellows—and in a twinkling I was gagged and bound. Then they took away my arms and money, and searched me. But they did not find what they wanted, and at last one of them flashed the lantern again in my face as he asked me roughly:

“‘Where is the letter?’

“‘Oh! ho!’ I said to myself, as it came to me in a moment that there was more in this than I thought, and that there must have been a traitor somewhere.”

“The traitors were our own tongues, Ponthieu; every word of our talk was overheard by Achon.”

He looked at me, his black eyes staring with astonishment.

“Overheard! Impossible! There was not a soul in the room.”

“We both forgot that big press, Ponthieu. Achon lay in wait behind that. But go on with your story. I will tell you mine later on.”

“Cap de Diou! That explains things,” he said. “And to go on. At the demand for the letter, I thanked the saints in my heart that the Admiral had given me a decoy duck, an empty sealed packet, which I had sewn in my vest, while the real letter, the blank paper itself, lay on the inside of the sole of my boot.”

“Then Achon never got that?” I eagerly asked.

Ponthieu laughed as he stuck out his left foot. “It is here,” he said, as he went on: “I, of course, could not answer, but mumbled something under the gag, and, seeing this, they undid the bandage, and asked the question again, the man who had first spoken saying that if I would keep my skin I had best speak out at once. I pretended to be overcome with fear, and told them of the letter, begging with a trembling voice for my life. They cut open my vest in a moment, and when they found the letter, I began to implore and entreat again for my life, saying I would tell all if they would but free me.

“‘Ugh!’ said one of them, as he gave me a kick. ‘’Tis the whitest-livered cur I have seen—the cachots are too good for him—he is best in the stocks.’

“Then, despite my protestations, they gagged me again, and flung me into the loft of the stables, bidding me lie there till the morning, and though I ached with the pain of the cords, I laughed in my heart to think that my letter was safe as yet. Boun!” he exclaimed, with his strong southern accent, “Boun! It was safe as yet; but for how long! That I could not tell. Through the chill hours I lay there, till I heard the cock crow, and there was a bustle, and you all departed. I could hear your voices but could neither speak nor move.”

“By heaven! If we had known you were so close, Ponthieu, we would have struck a blow for you then.”

“You have done so now, to make amends,” he said, as he continued: “About a half-hour after you were gone, my friends returned and, setting me on a horse, we rode off in the direction of Loches. I forgot to say they had removed my gag, and the ropes from my feet, though my hands remained securely tied. Beyond Beaulieu we met the Princess of Condé and her suite on the way to Orleans.”

“What!” exclaimed Marcilly and I in a breath.

“Eh!” said Ponthieu, “you seem surprised, but it is as I said.”

“Souvent femme varie,” muttered Jean, under his breath, as I hastened to ask:

“Are you sure, Ponthieu?”

“Sure as I live! It was near the King’s Oak, where the road through the forest turns sharply toward the west. My guards thought me safe enough, for Loches was in sight. Two of them were a little in front of me laughing and singing, two rode behind, and in this manner we were going at a walk, when at the elbow of the road we came face to face with a half-dozen cavaliers, and the leading horseman was Coqueville.

“All through the morning I had been looking for some chance to make a dash for it. When we met, the two parties were not fifty yards apart, and if I could only slip past them, I knew that in the confusion I would get a start, and the luck that favors the brave might favor me.

“All this went through me in a moment. I put spurs to my horse, and, giving a yell, went forward like a flash. I got behind Coqueville, calling loudly out to him by name for help, and then my horse stumbled, and I rolled over like a log into the brambles.

“But the good God was with me. I was not hurt, by a mercy. Coqueville knew my voice, and ma foi! But he is a great sword. While I lay in the brambles I heard the kicking and plunging of horses, the clash of steel, and twice the sharp reports of a pistol. My guards were taken by surprise, but the bishop is well served, and they made a brave fight of it. Two lay dead in the snow, and two, beaten from their horses, had surrendered. I thought it was time to appear now, so scrambled up, and began to pour out thanks, while the cords that bound my hands were cut by a Moorish dwarf.”

“Majolais!”

“I know not his name, but, once free, I helped myself to a sword from one of the dead men, and explained how I stood. The Princess was there in her litter, and she herself told me that she was for Orleans but that Monsieur de Lanoy had taken the young Prince on to Poitou. She wished me God-speed on my errand to the Constable, Coqueville gave me one of the captured horses, and lent me ten écus—and you can guess the rest. But now, messieurs, here is the forest of Russy, and here is the Beuvron, and here we must part, for I lie to-night at Bracieux, and to-morrow must be with the Constable.”

He shook our hands, thanked us again, and, turning toward the northeast, trotted off into the forest.