The traitor's way

So taken aback were we that for a breath we did not realize who it was. We heard the reckless cry riding back to us through the shivering winter moonlight, we heard the excited “hou! hou!” of the alarmed watch, and the clatter of iron-shod hoofs, that stilled suddenly as the rider turned into a side street that shut out all sound, and then, only then, did the understanding of the thing come to us, and Marcilly almost shouted out:

“By all the saints! ’Tis Coqueville! What blind folly!” and, with an oath, he struck his gloved hand on the flap of his holster.

“Perhaps this explains things,” and I held up at arm’s height the letter Majolais had given to me, while Cipierre cut in:

“Come, then, let us read it. We have no time to waste.”

A moment after we were in the hall of Cipierre’s house, grouped around the letter, which I had handed to Marcilly, while a tall Swiss held a lighted candle so that we could read.

“From the Princess,” said Jean, cutting the yellow seals with the point of his dagger, and we bent over and read with him. It was from madame herself, explaining her change of plan, and stating that she, with a small suite, were at the moment lying in safe concealment in the deserted château of St. Loup. She went on to say it was here her husband was to be brought, and that she had horses provided to take the Prince, not to Poitou, but to her uncle, the Constable.

“Montmorenci,” said Cipierre; “that is not so bad. He is closer than Coligny.”

“Yes, there is something in this, especially as from what passed to-day between Sancerre and the Queen-Mother, I gather that the old fox is leaving his earth,” I said, and added, “but does not madame say anything of this?”

“Not a word! Stay! You are right,” and Marcilly turned over the page. “It’s here in the postscript. The Constable has moved from Yvoy le Marron. If this is true, ’tis only a five-league ride to reach him, if we could but effect the escape the day after to-morrow.”

“Bravo, Ponthieu!” I burst out.

“Ponthieu! Eh! What do you mean?” asked Cipierre.

“That the Constable would never have moved but for a gallant gentleman of Gascony, one Perducas de Ponthieu, who risked his life ten times over for the Cause—but the story is a long one, monsieur, and it grows late.”

As I spoke, the huge clock in the hall struck midnight, and the bronze bell in the courtyard clanged out a hoarse echo of the hour.

“Ste. Croix! I did not believe we were so far into to-morrow,” said Cipierre; “it is, indeed, too late for further talk, gentlemen, and you need rest.”

He spoke truly enough, for even Marcilly, despite his iron endurance, looked pale and worn, and I—I was longing to be alone.

And at last I had my desire, and regretted it the instant it came. In the excitement of passing events I was taken out of myself; but here, in this huge bedroom, where the candles seemed but to make little circles of light, where the logs burned low on the hearth, where thoughts black as the shadows that flitted in the uneasy light over the heavy curtains of the bed, and thick tapestries on the walls, crowded round me, I dreaded my loneliness. For a moment I thought of seeking Badehorn to discuss with him arrangements for the morrow, and then I laughed at my weakness, and, undressing, flung myself into a large easy-chair by the fire, for I felt it was useless trying to sleep. My body was wearied, it is true, but my brain was working like a clock—it was the old story, that mania which I had fought so long, and thought defeated, come back again stronger, more insistent than ever.

Sometimes when I think of this period of my life, I try to delude myself into the belief that I was mad then; that it was not I, Gaspard de Vibrac, who walked the earth, but a fiend that had ousted my soul from its earthly tenement—else why was this hateful consciousness of a double presence within me? What was this impalpable, but resistless power, that was able to force me, despite my struggles, to follow its malign course?

But let this rest! Mad or sane, I have to answer for my past, and the scroll, with its damning record, is running red before my eyes as I write; but then, as I sat there, the things that were to come, the things that were to be of my own doing, seemed to quiver like uneasy phantoms before me, and to finally resolve themselves into the one devilish thing that made me what I am.

Listen! I had sought to injure Marcilly, therefore I hated him. I had lowered myself to play the traitor to him in all that man holds dearest. But that he stood between me and my love, this would not have been, and I hated him the more for that. I had tried to win my way back to honor, and all but succeeded, when, but a few hours ago, I found, as I thought—I jumped to conclusions as usual—that I had been made the victim of a coquette’s pastime. All my vanity, all my self-love, was wounded and in arms—I was filled with the rage that burns in a heart in which love is turned to anger. I was capable of anything, and I had paved the way for this total descent. It was no case—it never is—of one becoming at once supremely vile. I would have revenge, a full and complete revenge, for my abasement, and then came the whispered temptation that lost me my soul.

I started as the thought came to me, and then with it came a horror and loathing of the evil thing. I sprang from my chair and paced the room. It could not be. It was impossible. I looked around me like a guilty man, and then I clutched at a straw. I tried to pray, but my heart would not feel the words that my cold lips uttered, and for the first time I rose to my feet, without even that momentary strength that prayer had hitherto given me. As I glanced around me, I saw what I had not noticed before—a flagon of wine, and near it a cup, left there by the thoughtful care of Cipierre’s servants. Three times did I fill the cup to the brim and drain it. I wanted sleep, rest, forgetfulness—if it was but for a moment. I wanted to become oblivious of the new horror that had come upon me, to obtain in the Lethe of sleep that peace which cannot come even to those who die. For death is but the door which opens to lead us into another life. We know not if it brings rest, we know not if we leave behind us anything except the earthly shell of the soul. But sleep—there is rest in it—if only for a little while. And for a space it came to me, a deep and dreamless slumber, and when I awoke the morning was well advanced. I made my toilet, and looked out of the lattice window. The day was one in which sunlight and mist strove with each other, and the sun was winning, aided by a breeze, which shred the clouds into woolly wisps, that floated westward in long lines, with patches of blue sky between them.

The rest had done me good. I held my hand to the light, and it was steady, not trembling like an aspen leaf, as it was when I lay down to sleep; but the evil thing in my mind was still there, and, strange to say, I no longer looked at it with the horror and loathing of a few hours back.

As I turned from the window there was a knock at the door, and I heard Marcilly’s voice asking if he could come in.

“Come in!” I answered back, and my voice was gay and cordial, for a traitor must know to be a hypocrite.

Jean entered, looking refreshed and strong again, his slight, spare figure set off to advantage in the rich brown and yellow of his dress, while a short cloak of the same colors, fastened at the throat by a jewelled clasp, was hung carelessly over his shoulders.

“Is it time to be moving?” I asked as he came in, adding, “I fear I have slept late.”

“There is time yet, Vibrac,” he answered, seating himself in the arm-chair and playing with his gloves. There was something on his mind, something he desired to say; but I would not help him, and at last he spoke.

“Gaspard,” he said, “there is a thing I want you to do for me.”

I remained silent, our eyes met for a moment, and then he went on, his voice shaking a little: “I must not see Marie again. The sight of her unmans me. I want you, however, to do this for me”—he pulled from his breast pocket a letter, which he held in his hand—“I want you to give this to Marie. It is my farewell,” and he laughed, a mirthless, nervous laugh.

“Give it to me!” I replied, stretching out my hand; “it will reach madame’s hands in safety.”

“I thank you,” and as he handed me the letter a thought struck me, and it was merely to make conversation that I gave utterance to it, little imagining to what it would lead.

“Has it never occurred to you, Marcilly, that your wife is in very great danger here?”

“I don’t follow,” he answered, though he paled a little.

“Merely this—that if there is any hitch in our attempt, to save herself Catherine will sacrifice every one to the Guise. I doubt if any mercy will be shown to any one belonging to you—and you remember, too, that the St. Andre, and Achon above all, claim your wife’s estates of Chaumont.”

“They would never dare,” he said, but I interrupted him.

“The estates are large, I believe, and you recollect the case of Mademoiselle de Luynes.”

He leaned back helplessly in his chair, biting his lip, and twisting at his moustache, and as I looked at him, tossed with mental agony, and thought, too, of the hideous story of which I had just reminded him, my good angel made a last effort, and touched me with pity. I went up to him, and put my hand on his shoulder.

“See, Marcilly!” I said. “You want a cool brain and a steady nerve for this, and that you will never have as long as your wife is here. Why not get her away? Let her join the Princess at St. Loup at once, and thence go on with her to her refuge with the Constable.”

His face brightened at once. “If that could be done! But Catherine will never let her go.”

“Leave that to me,” I said. “I will manage that. What is more natural than that madame should come to Cipierre’s house to see you? She has been here constantly before, and her coming will arouse no suspicion. From the Martroi to St. Loup is scarce two hours’ ride, and she would be with the Princess before any one even began to suspect that the bird had flown.”

He sprang up and wrung my hand.

“Do this,” he said, “and you will loose a mill-stone from my neck.”

“Make your mind easy; and is it not time to start?”

“In a half-hour,” he said, “when we have breakfasted.”

Punctually to the half-hour we started. Cipierre had already gone on to the palace, but four of his Swiss troopers came with us, and, confident in the King’s pardon, and in the protection afforded by an escort wearing the colors of the Captain of Orleans, we had no fear of meeting any one, not even the Guise himself.

We rode slowly up the crowded Rue Royale, talking gaily of a hundred things, to cover that which was in our minds. We spoke of Coqueville and wondered if he had got free of the town. It was all but impossible, as we thought, and if arrested, we knew there would be no mercy shown to him, who, with the exception perhaps of Renaudie, had been perhaps the most daring and able leader of the Amboisards. And even as we spoke of him the old proverb came true, for in the pushing, swaying crowd in the street I caught a glimpse of the dwarf, his gay clothes covered with patches of mud, as if he had fallen heavily, and close to him was Coqueville himself, stalking quietly through the press, evidently making his way toward the city gates.

“See there!” I whispered to Marcilly, but his eye was as quick as mine.

“So they have not got off. They are lost if they are recognized now—take no notice.”

As he spoke, the dwarf turned his head and saw us, showing his teeth in a knowing smile, while he plucked Coqueville by his cloak, but the latter looked at us as if we were perfect strangers, and began to cross the road slowly, followed by his companion.

It was at this point that a party of horsemen came sharply into the street. They rode at a trot, utterly regardless of the people, and the crowd gave before them in fear.

It was Achon himself who rode at the head of these men—Achon booted and spurred like a carabinier of the guard, a steel corselet glinting under his purple mantle, and swinging in his right hand a long, straight cutting whip. In the stir caused by the pace at which Monsieur of Arles and his men came on, Coqueville slipped out of sight, but, confused by the crowd, Majolais hesitated and looked around him. Achon’s horse swerved slightly at the black, misshapen figure; but, pulling him back almost on his haunches, the prelate raised his whip and struck the Moor savagely across the face. For a moment, half blinded and bleeding, Majolais staggered back and then sprang at Achon, something flashing brightly in his hand; but the cruel whip came down again like lightning, and, with a shriek, the dwarf rolled over on the cobble-stones of the pavement. A man-at-arms lowered his lance to stick him, but the dwarf gained his feet with incredible rapidity, and dashed headlong into the crowd, which closed around him with a roar of oaths, laughter, and mob-cries, with now and then a tone that rose to the octave of menace against the bishop and his suite. But Achon only smiled grimly as he gave some orders to his followers, and two of them detached themselves, as if to pursue the dwarf, while the rest rode onward.

Not once had Achon looked in our direction, and yet I knew and felt that we had been seen and recognized by him, though for the present that mattered little. He was evidently on his way to the palace, and we halted for a moment to let the crowd clear, and watched the cavalcade, until it turned off to the right, and vanished from our view.

“If the dwarf lives through this, ’twill go hard with Achon,” said Marcilly.

“If he lives!” I answered; “hark at the crowd roaring after him.”

And from the distance we could hear the yells of the mob, as fickle as the breeze, now joined in hounding down the dwarf, whom but a moment before they had closed round in protection.

“They’ll have him to a certainty!” said Marcilly. “I would we could have saved him.”

I said nothing. There was nothing to say. It would have been madness to have drawn swords then with the enterprise we had in hand. We could not deviate from our course, but I was not satisfied with myself, and rode in silence, until we saw the Emperor’s Pistols, grinning over the gateway of the house in the Rue Parisis, and drew rein before the prison of Condé.

An archer guard was at the gate, and a little way from the men Monsieur de Bresy, the same gentleman who had destroyed my house in Paris a year back, and who was now in charge of the Prince, stood patting the neck of a gray horse from which he had just dismounted. He flung the reins to a groom and turned to us.

“Good-morning, gentlemen! I address Messieurs de Marcilly and de Vibrac, do I not?”

“The same, monsieur,” and we bowed our greeting as we dismounted.

“I was at the palace last night and saw you, as well as heard your names there,” said de Bresy, as if in explanation of his recognition of us. And then he added: “I fear, M. de Vibrac, you owe me no good will for what happened in Paris. I give you my word, however, that I could not restrain the men——”

“That is quite possible,” I answered, and then, checking myself, for it was no time to quarrel, I went on: “We have made our peace at last. We have come here, however, to pay our respects to His Highness.”

“Had you come an hour ago it would have been useless, but as it is I shall inquire if the Prince will receive you. I was sent for to the palace this morning, and informed that the Prince would be allowed henceforth to see a few friends daily—you are, I presume, of the number?”

“Monsieur, and if there is any doubt on the matter, perhaps this will satisfy you,” and Marcilly held out the signet.

De Bresy glanced at it for a moment without showing any surprise: “It is more than enough,” he said, and then as he looked again at Marcilly: “But for the weather that has touched your cheek, monsieur, and that you do not stoop so much, ’twould be hard to distinguish you from Condé.”

We laughed, and I put my hand on Jean’s shoulder, saying:

“You see here, monsieur, ‘The Shadow of Condé.’”

“I shall take care,” was the reply, “that I do not mistake the shadow for the substance; will you enter, gentlemen?” and with these words he motioned us into the doorway, now opened by the guard.

In the courtyard we were stopped for a few seconds, and de Bresy went off to announce our coming. When he went out of earshot, I remarked:

“Did you hear what de Bresy said—that he would take care not to mistake the shadow for the substance? Think you he suspects?”

“It is impossible to say. You must keep him engaged the whole time when the stroke comes off to-morrow.”

“Why not to-day?”

“If it can be done to-day, I’ll risk it; but there may be suspicions, and ’twould be well to let them sleep.”

“Remember,” I said, “that as soon as ever matters have been explained to the Prince I leave you. I have to do that ride to St. Loup to-day.”

“You are the best of friends,” he answered. “But hush! Here comes de Bresy.”

In effect de Bresy appeared at the moment. “His Highness will receive you, gentlemen—have the kindness to follow me,” and he led the way. We observed everything that was possible as we went, noted the number of sentries in the corridors, counted the steps on the stairs, marked the thickness of the doors and how they were secured, until at last we reached a landing, where there was an officer and four men on guard. Behind them was an open door, and, looking into the room beyond, we saw three or four figures seated round a card table, early in the day though it was. They were the Prince and his immediate attendants, Vaux and one or two others. Condé saw us almost at once, and, in cheery greeting, waved a hand holding some cards, his voice as joyous and hearty as if he had never known a moment’s grief, as if he did not know that within a few hours his neck might lie upon the headsman’s block. He was a true Bourbon, and the Bourbons, with all their faults, were never afflicted with the poltroon fever.

“Welcome!” he cried. “Come, give me all the news.” And, flinging his cards on the table, he rose and took us by the hands. Except that he was pale and thin with his confinement, he seemed as much at his ease there, with death hanging over him, as if he were receiving us in his own château of Germiny.

We met him in the same spirit, and spoke in general terms of a hundred things, de Bresy, who remained in the room, joining in the converse. At last I caught Marcilly’s eye, and succeeded in arresting de Bresy’s attention for a moment by raising a discussion on Touchet’s system of fence. I showed him the Spanish pass, and, when the little play was over, had the satisfaction of seeing that Jean had been able to make known at least the object of our coming.

As I sheathed my sword the Prince said, “Bresy, these gentlemen dine with me to-day; I trust you will honor me with your company as well.”

The archer bowed and expressed his thanks, and, seeing that we were staying practically for the day, begged leave to excuse himself, as he had to do his rounds. As he was at the door Condé called after him:

“At twelve exactly, de Bresy, and we will play a match at tennis in the afternoon. I wager ten écus that Marcilly, here, beats you. Will you take it?”

“With pleasure, monseigneur,” and, bowing, de Bresy went.

The door was still open, but that did not matter, for we gathered round the card table, which we pushed near the fireplace, and as we pretended to play, Marcilly, in a few rapid words, explained our plan. It was only, however, when we came to the point that the Princess was awaiting him at St. Loup that Condé spoke.

“Oui-da!” he exclaimed. “I would ’twere La Limeuil.”

Marcilly bit his lip, and I for one did not hesitate to show my feelings. The callous indifference displayed by the man we were about to risk so much for moved me for the moment to hot anger. I actually dared to curse him in my heart, I, who in a short time was to be guilty of a crime to which the Bourbon’s sins were white as snow. Condé, however, was quick to see the effect of his words. He laughed his merry laugh. “Ah!” he said, “I but jested, my friends. Once out of this”—and his eye flashed—“I will draw the sword openly, and, by God’s grace, France shall be free.”

The matter passed off, and Marcilly went on, explaining his plan to the end. When he had finished, Condé, who had said no word since that untoward interruption of his, leaned back in his chair, tugging at his moustache. We had expected him to say something, but not a word did he utter, not even a phrase that was suggestive of thanks for the sacrifice that was being made; and at last it was with a voice that almost trembled with anger that I asked:

“Monseigneur approves of the plan, I trust?”

“It is impracticable,” he said shortly. “Come, let us go on with the cards.”

We looked at one another in astonishment. “Does not Your Highness intend to make any effort?” I went on. “And how is this impracticable? We at least deserve to be told that.”

He had picked up an ace of hearts, and was looking at it as I spoke. When I finished, he laid it down face upward on the table, and looked at us.

“Messieurs,” he said gravely, “it is impracticable because, for such a plan to succeed, Louis of Bourbon must be base enough to buy his life at the expense of another’s—and—he has not yet come to that. Messieurs, if this were the only way, and I had to die ten times over, I would not take it. Let there be an end to this. Your very offer is an insult to me.”

To say that we were thunderstruck is nothing. Here was an aspect of the case that had never presented itself to us. We looked at each other blankly, and as we looked the gong in the courtyard struck the half-hour after eleven.

There are moments when a lie becomes almost sublime, and one of those moments had come.

“Monseigneur,” said Marcilly, “you are under a misapprehension. My safety is assured in any case—it is pledged.”

I turned to him; but the expression on his face stilled the inquiry on my lips, and I waited and wondered, while the Prince said dryly, with that touch of sarcasm in his words, from which he could never divest himself:

“Indeed! By the King himself, perhaps?”

“Monseigneur can judge for himself,” and Jean held out the signet of the King.

Condé took it in his hand for a moment, and his glance shot out at Marcilly like a sword blade, but the features of the other remained immovable and calm.

“I believe you, monsieur,” he said, as he handed back the signet, “and I place myself in your hands. Forgive me the words I have just spoken.”

For a moment I, Gaspard de Vibrac, had thought that my vengeance on that heartless coquette was about to escape me.