The traitor's way

Bowing low, we stepped from the King’s bedside and moved toward the door, Catherine stopping Sancerre to give a last injunction: “You will leave by the private way, through my apartments—tell Bentivoglio.”

She was answered in an undertone, so that I could not catch the speech, and the next moment we re-entered the ante-chamber, closely followed by René.

Those whom we had left were still there, in curious expectation; but René repeated to them the words of the Medicis, “The King sleeps,” and there followed the murmurs of low converse, and a subdued bustle of departure, only those remaining whose duties required them to stay—a page or so, the officer of the night, and the archers at the door.

Bentivoglio and Richelieu moved together toward us, and Sancerre, whispering Catherine’s command in the chamberlain’s ear, turned to Richelieu and said:

“Monsieur! You will await Her Majesty the Queen-Mother here.”

A dark shade gathered on Richelieu’s brow.

“I command the guards in the galleries,” he answered. “Monsieur de Baillieul”—and he indicated a tall, grim-looking soldier who stood stiffly, a little apart from the others—“is on duty here to-night.”

“You do not follow me, Monsieur de Richelieu,” said Sancerre. “I said your orders were to await Her Majesty. It remains for you to obey or not,” and with that the old count swung round on his heel and moved forward to the stairway, leaving Richelieu biting his moustache with anger.

We exchanged a glance as we passed, and I read enough in Richelieu’s eye to understand that it was not any delay in getting at his skin of wine that touched him, but that this order of Catherine had crossed some design which had little to do with the jests of le Brusquet or the vintage of Gascogne.

We left him, apparently debating in his mind whether he should obey the commands he had received or not, and returned as we came. On entering the passage leading to Catherine’s apartments, Marcilly and I were side by side, and he put his hand on my arm with a friendly pressure, as he said, “I think we win.”

Oh! Win or lose! It was all one to me now; but the touch of his hand stirred the smouldering hate in my heart toward the man who had come between me and the woman I loved. I shrank back from him, muttering something—I do not know myself what—and thankful for the gloom that hid the expression which must have passed over my features.

It is a profound and awful mystery that man should carry within himself the poison that can kill his soul. Who shall fathom this strange thing? Not you nor I, my friends; but it remains true that the Almighty hand has placed side by side in our hearts the noblest aspirations and the most deadly passions. It is as if a gardener rears, with infinite pain and labor, a beautiful plant, and then grafts on to it a poisonous cutting, whose growth means death to the exquisite thing on which such labor and such care has been spent.

And the poison herbs were growing apace within me now, spreading their long arms about my soul, choking, with their creeping growth, all the manly, the noble, the pure thoughts that, but for my own folly, might have made me a man fit to hold my head high among my fellows.

All these thoughts did not pass through me then. They came with the after years, with memory, with shame, and a too late repentance. But at the time when I shrank back from Marcilly and followed my companions, the last of all, I was conscious only of a hideous turmoil in my soul; and I saw, with an ever-increasing dread and horror, that I had again approached the edge of that abyss from which but so short a while back I thought I had escaped, and whose dark deeps were now calling me down to them with an irresistible force.

In a few paces we reached the cabinet. Bentivoglio, with suave politeness, held open the door to let us pass, and as I stepped in, the last of all, I became conscious that there was some one there. For the figure of a woman arose from a chair near the window, where she had been sitting caressing Nambu, the Barbary ape, and stood in the half-light awaiting us to advance.

A second glance assured me that it was no other than Mary of Scotland, the young Queen of France herself, and with that recognition there came to me like lightning the thought that something had arisen to thwart our plans, else why should she, the secret friend of Condé, be here, and evidently expecting us?

For a moment we stood in irresolute surprise, and then the Italian recovered himself.

“Your Majesty—here—and alone,” he began; but she stopped him with a slight gesture of the hand, and, turning to Sancerre, said with that sweet, low voice of hers:

“My Lord! This should have been given to you by the Queen, my mother. ’Tis the King’s signet. Take it now.” She placed the ring in Sancerre’s hand, as she added, a little sadly: “I could trust no one to give it to you. This will pass you, and”—she hesitated a little—“your friends free, for there are those who would try and stop you, even to-night, on the chance of the King’s pardon being recalled to-morrow. Nay, not a word, Sancerre!” she went on, with a slight flush on her face, as the old man began to pour forth his thanks, “It is for the cause we all have at heart, and may God give you success!”

Then Louis de Beuil knelt before his Queen. “Your Majesty had in us loyal and faithful subjects before—you now have men who are your very slaves.” So saying, he touched her hand with his lips, and, rising to his feet, stood beside her, a towering figure, looking, with his long white beard and silver hair, like some good enchanter of the legends of romance.

It was a curious picture—the light from the Mercury flickering over the room, the ape cowering among his cushions, staring at us with bead-like, unthinking eyes, the group of stern men around that fair young figure, that Queen who was Queen for but a day.

There as she stood, with the lights and shadows playing on her, and her sweet, trustful face turned toward us, I caught myself wondering why should she—the niece of Guise—be doing her utmost to help his most deadly foe? Was it pity alone? Or was there truth in the whisperings of the Court, that Mary of Scotland had lost her heart, ere she was Queen of France, to the gay and gallant Bourbon, and that in secret she was ever true to her love? And even as I put these thoughts from me, the Queen broke the silence.

“Messieurs! It is late. We must ask Bentivoglio to conduct us to the King.”

With a slight inclination of her head, and preceded by Bentivoglio, she left the cabinet. When she had gone, we gathered round Sancerre, who stood near the lamp, the ring in his hand.

“Tudieu!” he laughed, as he slipped the signet on his finger. “I see now why Richelieu wished to accompany us. I would wager my best hawk against a hedge-crow that we meet him yet. Come, gentlemen!”

So saying, he led the way from the cabinet toward the outer gateway, where Lorgnac was yet at his vigil.

“Still on duty!” said Cipierre, stopping to exchange a word with the lieutenant of the guard, who was a favorite of his.

“As you see, monsieur.”

“What! Do they make you watch all night? It was not so in my time.”

“No, monsieur!” replied the young soldier; “but till midnight, when Crequi relieves me—good-night, messieurs!”

“Good-night, de Lorgnac!” We returned his greeting and, moving quickly along the corridor, gained the entrance hall, where we found that Sancerre’s words were true, for Richelieu was there, warming himself at the fire, and, ranged near the door, stood at least a dozen of his carabiniers.

We looked at one another in surprise, and Richelieu stopped rubbing his hands together at the blaze in the grate; then, putting on his plumed hat, that lay on a chair beside him, he came toward us.

As he approached, Sancerre addressed him: “You here, monsieur! I had thought your duties were with the Queen-Mother.”

“My duties are where my orders carry me,” sneered Richelieu, “and, at the moment, these duties are painful—to others.” Then turning to us, he said, in a loud voice: “Messieurs de Marcilly and de Vibrac, I arrest you in the King’s name! Your swords, please, gentlemen!”

“Morbleu!” exclaimed Cipierre. “This is too much, monsieur! I demand your authority!”

Richelieu shrugged his shoulders. “It is at the door, Monsieur le Vicomte,” and he pointed to his troopers where they stood, grim and motionless.

There was a veiled triumph in his voice, a studied insolence in his manner, that made our blood boil, and Cipierre, ever hasty, was roused at once.

“You will do this at your peril, sir,” he began, but Sancerre stayed him, and, turning toward Richelieu, looked him steadily in the face, as he asked:

“Monsieur, do I understand you to say you have the orders of the King—the King, mind you—for your action?”

But Richelieu was not to be browbeaten. He cocked his hat fiercely on the side of his head, and answered with a haughtiness equal to that of the Count:

“Monsieur de Sancerre! It is sufficient for me that I have my orders. It is my duty to see them carried out, and yours, monsieur, not to hinder me.”

“Precisely! Provided you have orders.”

“Monsieur!”

“Come, monsieur! There must be some mistake. One does not arrest gentlemen who have but a moment ago received the King’s pardon. If you have the King’s warrant, produce it, and the matter is ended.”

Sancerre’s words had their effect on the man. He had started perceptibly at the mention of the King’s pardon, and for a moment he was shaken. But Richelieu was a hardy villain, and steeled himself. He turned insolently from Sancerre, saying:

“I cannot stand here talking all night. Messieurs, your swords—or must I use force?”

But here Cipierre’s patience was exhausted. “Stay!” he cried. “I give you my word, monsieur, that if you do not produce your authority, and if you arrest these gentlemen by force without producing it, that I, Philibert de Marcilly, Captain of Orleans and Colonel-General of Cavalry, will break you like a reed. There is an old story, monsieur, of an earthen vessel and a metal pot going together down stream—you have worn the black robe, and ought to know the fable—and I take it you are wise enough to apply it. Come, sir, no more fencing; your authority.”

There was a ring in the Vicomte’s voice that showed he meant every word he said. It was one thing to beard Sancerre, who, highly placed as he was, held no great office; it was, however, quite another thing to cross Cipierre, whose power as Governor of Orleans, and as a general of cavalry, was sufficient to crush a man like Richelieu easily. He felt, too, that every moment he delayed weakened the ground under his feet, and made our belief that he held no warrant for the arrest a certainty. As a matter of fact, he had not, and confessed it the next moment.

“I have not the warrant with me,” he said, sullenly.

“Whose was the order, then—the King’s, the Chancellor’s?”

“My instructions were from the Cardinal,” and then, recovering his spirit, “and they are enough for me.”

Cipierre laughed harshly. “So, monsieur, your orders came from the Cardinal, and they are enough for you, are they? Since when did Charles of Lorraine become Colonel of Carabiniers? Or is it that you think you wear the iron and yellow of Guise, instead of the silver and red of the King’s House? Come, Sancerre, end this farce—show him the signet and let him be gone.”

Richelieu had paled to the lips with anger as Cipierre spoke; but prudence, and perhaps fear, kept him still—and now his eyes were fixed on the signet that Sancerre held toward him.

“It is the King’s,” he said, in a voice thick with rage.

“And you obey that, or do you refuse? If you refuse, I will order your own men to arrest you,” said the Vicomte.

“I have no option but to obey.”

“Very well! Call off your guard from the door! And to-morrow the King will know what a servant he has in you.”

Richelieu was no coward, and the stinging words of Cipierre’s voice raised the man to fury. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword, and then, recollecting himself, withdrew it slowly; but it was in a voice that trembled with passion that he answered:

“Monsieur le Vicomte, I obey the King’s signet. These gentlemen are free. But you, monsieur—I have a word with you——”

“Tush, man!” and Cipierre broke in roughly upon his speech. “You think you are in a tavern. I cannot cross swords with you. The difference between us is too great. Come! Call off your guards!”

And Richelieu did as he was bidden without another word. In passing out, however, I had my opportunity. “Monsieur,” I said, “I shall be pleased to hear the word you intended for Monsieur le Vicomte.”

A dark flush came on his face. “In another place,” he answered.

“In your own place, and at your own time, monsieur. I commend myself to you,” and with a slight bow we separated.

“They will do their utmost to get the pardon recalled to-morrow,” said Marcilly, as we trotted down the silent square of Ste. Croix.

“Remember, however,” I said, “that I am under the protection of Monsieur of Arles. He wants me as a free agent, as he said. I fear little for myself for the next few days.”

“I will be with the Queen-Mother at her rising,” said Sancerre, “and you, gentlemen, must see the Prince early to-morrow and arrange all. There must be no delays now. In case of accidents, you had better keep this signet for the present,” and he handed the ring to Marcilly.

We left Sancerre at his house, and, the hour being late, pushed on at a round pace homeward. In a few minutes we were again in the Martroi, now to all appearance totally deserted, except by the watchmen keeping guard over the scaffoldings and wooden galleries that filled the square. Here and there they had lit fires, and were huddled around them, for the winter wind blew chill, though the night was clear as crystal and the moon was out.

On the far side of the square, behind the huge scaffoldings, which almost hid the houses beyond them from view, there seemed to be a wakeful and merry party around the night fire, which splattered up redly there, casting its light on the tracery of the crossed beams and network of galleries above it. Some one was singing, but we could not catch the words of the song, though the chorus came to us distinctly:

The cheery refrain jarred on our ears, coming as it did from almost under the spot where Condé was to die—where, if the plans of the Guise succeeded, not only would Condé die, but with him, as we thought, our France—the France that we loved so well.

We were now almost opposite Cipierre’s house, where the wooden galleries in the square were but partly finished. It was here, as we slackened pace to approach the gates, that we saw a man, mounted on a white horse, emerge from the shadow of the scaffolding and come half out into the moonlight.

Something in his air and manner made me feel that I knew him, and then a small, dark figure slipped from the saddle behind him and ran toward us. It was Majolais, as I live!

“Blitzen!” swore one of the reiters, as he drew his sword and attempted to make a cut at the dwarf; but I struck the blade up, saying:

“A friend! A friend! Here, Majolais!”

The next moment the imp was at my side, and, thrusting a packet into my hand, was off again like a flash.

“Stay! Stay!” called out both Cipierre and Marcilly, but the dwarf only laughed—that cackling, tongueless laugh of his—and sprang behind the saddle of the white horse, while its rider, turning its head on the instant, went off at a gallop.

“Come back!” shouted Cipierre, and an answer came to us through the moonlight:

“Bon coq, Coqueville!” And then we heard him going ding-dong down the deserted streets.