The traitor's way

Marcilly was right when he said that if we once succeeded in enlisting the good wishes of Sancerre and his uncle, they would act for us with full hearts. He knew them better than I did, who had forebodings as to the result of his plan; but through the information he had received from Maligny, and, above all, from Marie, he was enabled to gauge the situation correctly, and he had brought home the fact that both Cipierre and Sancerre were doomed men in the case of the death of Condé. Events had so worked at that time, that this would leave the Guise without a rival in France, and they would certainly not hesitate to take their toll of vengeance from the vicomte, whose hatred to their house was known; and still less would they stay their hands against Sancerre, whose flat refusal to aid in the sham trial had so nearly scattered all the fine-spun schemes of Lorraine.

While we were buckling on our swords, and awaiting the horses, Cipierre bluntly asked his nephew:

“And what is your plan, Marcilly? You have not told us that.”

Jean was about to answer, when Sancerre cut in with a laugh.

“Tudieu! My dear vicomte, it is not necessary for us to know as yet. Our business is to smooth the way for these gentlemen at the palace, and to see that a stout horse or two is ready if wanted.”

“But to work in the dark——”

“Exactly! We will take a lesson from the mole, and work in the dark for the present. The light will come to us later on. Now, we do not need it. And more, it has gone compline, and we must hasten. Here are the horses! Come, gentlemen!”

Cipierre shrugged his shoulders, and finished his wine as the old count fastened the clasp of his cloak and led the way down-stairs, where we found the horses ready, and the light from the torches shining in scales of fire on the cuirasses of the governor’s guard.

“To the palace,” said Cipierre, “by the Bourgogne!”

And filing out of the narrow gate, a few steps brought us to the Rue Royale, across which we found the Bourgogne.

Sancerre rode between Marcilly and myself, Cipierre a little ahead, sitting squarely on his Picard horse, and grimly silent.

“One great difficulty we have to deal with,” said Marcilly, “is the coming of the Princess to Orleans.”

“Mon Dieu! You do not mean to say she is coming? Why, it is worse than folly!”

“It is madness,” replied Jean.

“I see,” said Sancerre; “the madness of a woman who loves. Ah! If we had but a little time.”

What answer Marcilly would have made I know not; but now we came to the turning to the left, which led into the Rue Parisis, and Cipierre, suddenly reining back, pointed to a house, which raised its solidly built wall high over the others in the little square, saying in a low voice:

“There!”

Nothing more was wanted to tell us we were before Condé’s prison. Not a ray of light gleamed from the sullen walls, which looked down upon us with a chill blankness. The upper half of the building was in gray darkness, but there was an orange glow on the lower half, that reached to the crenellated balcony, caused by a huge fire that burned in the courtyard; and by the glare of this we saw four pieces of artillery grinning over the towers of the gate.

“You should know those, Jean,” Cipierre went on; “they are the Emperor’s Pistols.”

Marcilly laughed a little bitterly. “They are doing now for Guise what they never did for the Emperor,” he answered, as we rode on, crossing the Grands Ciseaux, over the broad, flat stones of the parvis of Ste. Croix, which stood a huge, shadowy phantom to our right, and halted at last before the palace gates.

As we walked across the flagged courtyard my sleep of thought awoke once more within me. I forgot in a moment our perilous enterprise. All that was present in my mind was that I was near Marie, that I would see her once again whom I loved.

No chain of lightning links itself so quickly together as one’s thoughts. In a flash I reviewed the whole matter again, and bargained with myself. I would see her, perhaps speak to her; but it would be for the last time, and I would carry that dear memory away with me to the distant land I meant to seek if I escaped the dangers before me.

I caught myself actually peering into the knots of the archers of the Scots Guards to see if she was there, and then laughed at my folly, only to look again at the next group I saw with the same expectancy. Every figure, every voice, every shadow in the long galleries, or behind the glazing of the windows, seemed to take her shape and form.

There are those who may read these lines and smile at the fool and his folly. They are fortunate in not having passed through what I did. Let them examine their own hearts, however, and smile, if they can yet smile, then. Those hearts may be harder, more steeled than mine, but, I swear, that in their silent prisons lie secrets that should still the jeer and silence the gibe.

For me, I am hiding nothing, concealing nothing. It is part of my punishment to lay bare the working of those influences which led me, one by one, to be what I am—a man of regrets.

Strange! With every thought of the woman I loved there began to stir again within me that bitterness toward Marcilly I have spoken of before. It was the bitterness one feels toward the man whom one has wronged. In the wave of good impulse that had swept over me, I thought this evil fire had been extinguished; but here it was again, burning slowly and surely. And yet I was his brother, sworn to stand by him to the end. There were times when I felt strong, when my very heart was with him; but when these memories cropped up, I had to force myself to the right, drag myself like an unwilling dog at the end of a chain.

It was with these mingled feelings in my heart, that I walked up the gallery that led to Catherine’s apartments. Cipierre was by my side, and a yard or so before us were Marcilly and Sancerre, conversing in low, rapid tones. Sancerre was getting that confidence he had prevented Cipierre from obtaining ere we started.

The corridor was in semi-darkness, being lit by cressets placed at some distance apart, which threw a feeble light around them, casting grotesque shadows on the polished oak of the floor, and the heavy tapestry that clung to the walls.

At the extreme end, opposite to us, the light was brighter; and facing us, at the side of the door, young Lorgnac, the lieutenant of the Queen’s Guard, was seated on a coffer, his drawn sword resting between his knees.

When we were half-way up the corridor, the door near which Lorgnac was seated opened, and a man stepped out, closing it quickly behind him.

The lieutenant half rose, but the stranger stayed him with a laugh and a wave of his hand. Then, with a hurried word in Lorgnac’s ear, he turned and came toward us with quick, firm steps. He was splashed with mud, his corselet was seamed and scarred with lines of fresh rust, and the long red plume in his hat hung limply down. He looked as one who had ridden far and hard, and he came toward us with an indescribable swagger, his sword in the loop of his arm, and clinking the rowels of his huge spurs.

“’Tis Richelieu!” said Sancerre; and Marcilly, who had stepped back to my side on seeing him, pressed my arm as he whispered:

“My friend of the forest of Châtillon.”

We thought he would have come right up to us, and Jean stepped as far into the shadow as possible, but we were mistaken. Whistling low to himself, Richelieu stopped before a side door. It opened to his touch, and with a quick glance at us he was gone.

“So ‘The Monk’ is back,” said Sancerre, using the nickname by which this formidable soldier was known, for he had once held orders. “The Carabiniers have been without their captain for a week.”

“Some Devil’s errand,” grumbled Cipierre; “never did Antony de Richelieu look so but there was evil afoot.”

“I could throw a little light on that, I fancy, if there was time,” said Marcilly, and as he spoke we came to the door of the ante-chamber. Lorgnac had risen to his feet and saluted.

“Is Her Majesty alone, Lorgnac?” asked Cipierre.

“I relieved de Billy but a moment ago, and since I came no one has passed in or out, Monsieur le Vicomte, except Richelieu,” replied the young soldier, “but there are doors within doors behind me, and I cannot say. The Italian is within, however, and he may be able to inform you.”

“Bentivoglio?”

Lorgnac nodded, and stepped aside to let us pass.

The door shut behind us as noiselessly as it had opened, and we found ourselves in a room lit by tall wax candles, standing in grotesque holders of bronze. On one side was a recess formed by the bay of a window, and facing us was a heavy curtain of violet velvet, starred with the golden lilies of France. A rare tapestry, representing the deeds of La Pucelle, hung on the walls, and the door was covered with a matchless carpet, soft and springy as turf. It was one of the gifts brought back by the Embassy to the Grand Turk. Except for a seat or two, the room was entirely bare of furniture, and at first I thought there was no one in it but ourselves. Another glance, however, showed me the figure of a man with his face partly turned from us. He was standing in the half-light of the recess, holding something over a cresset that hung from its domed roof. He dropped this into the dim flame of the lamp, and, a moment after, the pungent odor of burning aloes filled the room. He did not at first appear to observe us, but the clink of our spurs, or maybe scabbards, arrested his attention, and with a slight start he looked up, and then moved toward us. The collar of the Order was round his neck, the golden shells gleaming against his black velvet pourpoint.

It was Cornelius Bentivoglio, Catherine’s chamberlain, and as I saw him advancing, a set smile on his dark features, I thought of that wintertide in Roche Guyon, when Francis of Bourbon was foully murdered by the man who stood smiling before us. I was a boy then, but the story came to us in the far-off Ruergue, and how, too, the bravo had boasted that he had avenged the day of Cerisoles. And now he was a knight of the King’s Order and a noble of the State. In after times we who had also been of the Court knew him well, and I hated and despised him then. I might hate his memory still, but I dare not despise.

“Messieurs!” he said, addressing Sancerre and the Vicomte, and speaking with a strong foreign accent, but in good French, “you are welcome. I was just burning a sprig of aloe. ’Tis a specific against the plague, as René will have it, and smells almost as sweetly as a burning Huguenot. Per Bacco! I did not observe you before, messieurs! ’Tis the Comte de Marcilly, and the Sieur de Vibrac, as I live! You have been absent long, gentlemen,” and he showed his white teeth in a treacherous smile.

“Monsieur,” said Sancerre coldly, “we have come on an urgent affair—do us the honor to announce the Captain of Orleans, and the Comte de Sancerre.”

“Vent’ bleu!” the Italian answered, cutting and lisping his words with an affected air, “it would be an honor for me to do so, but”—and he shrugged his shoulders—“her Majesty will not receive. She has been wearied with the day, and ’tis past compline, and besides”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“Madame is not alone. The Duke and the Cardinal are with her.”

“At this hour!”

“Faith of a gentleman! Richelieu came here with red spurs, and strange tidings, and they followed on his heels. Perhaps, messieurs, he may have forestalled you,” and he grinned maliciously.

Cipierre would have said something, but there came a murmur of voices from behind the curtain, the violet folds slipped softly to one side, and two persons entered the room.

It needed no look at the Golden Fleece on his broad breast—he held the Spanish Order—to recognize the Lieutenant-General of the kingdom. His great height, the livid scar of the spear-wound on his left cheek, his air of imperious command, gave no chance for any error—it was the Guise himself. He stopped short in his passage through the room to exchange a few words with Sancerre and the Vicomte, and then, his quick glance penetrating the shadow of the recess into which we had retired, he recognized us—for we had served under him, in the days when he fought for the glory of France—and calling us by name, he greeted us with that princely courtesy which belonged to him alone, and under which he could cloak the deadliest hatred.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “you bring back the air of the Spanish war with you. ’Tis like a fresh breeze. Remember, the banner of Guise always has shadow for a good sword.”

“Your Highness is most kind,” said Marcilly, and I murmured something under my breath, my eyes fixed on the curtain, near which stood another and more sinister figure.

It was the Cardinal of Lorraine. One white hand, upon which flashed the sapphire of a prince of the church, still held the velvet folds of the curtain, against which the scarlet of his robes stood out in rich contrast. He was tall, almost as tall as his brother, and held himself as proudly. He had the same bold, high features, but the sternness on Guise’s lip became cruelty on his, the fire of undaunted courage in the Duke’s glance, for he was brave among the brave, gave place in the churchman to the malign fire that blazes in the eyes of a wolf, and, like the wolf he was pitiless and treacherous. He was learned, eloquent, and witty, but there were strange tales about him—how he was a craven at heart, how in secret he mocked at religion. There were stories of orgies at Bel Esbat, his stately seat, that might have brought a blush to the cheeks of Borgia. There were whispers of hideous crimes, of fits of bitter repentance, followed by reckless outbursts of shameless sin. Of these I know nothing of the truth, save that the tongue of scandal was busy with his name. All that I can think of now is that, as I saw him there, his searching glance striving to read every thought on the faces of the group before him, it came to me to rid France of the vampire who drank her blood; but the Lord spared him then, to be a scourge to his country for many a long year to come.

So he stood for a moment, and then passed slowly out of the room, taking no more notice of us than if we had been flies; but the Duke still lingered, as if he would discover what our business was, and yet dared not compromise his dignity by asking a direct question. Cipierre answered him in short yeas and nays, and Sancerre fenced with him like the skilful courtier he was, and then His Highness changed the conversation, and repeated his offers of service to us. We respectfully declined them for the present, and he said, with that high grave air of his:

“Very well, gentlemen! Let it be as you wish, but forget not that the sauce of a Guise is as good as the sauce of a Prince of the blood.”

And then, with the hidden meaning of his words in our ears, he left us, tall and stately, a soldier whom we would have followed to the death, but that his sword was red to the hilt with the blood of his country.

“Diavolo!” said the chamberlain; “Monseigneur is in one of his gracious moods—he meditates a blow.”

As he spoke, Cipierre looked him full in the face, saying:

“Monsieur—if you please.”

There was something in the Vicomte’s tone that could not be denied, and without an answer the Italian passed into the cabinet. He came out again almost at once, saying:

“Her Majesty will receive you, gentlemen.”

Then he turned on his heel, and betook himself to burning his aloes once more.