The traitor's way

When an overwhelming disaster befalls one, when the whole ship of one’s life founders hopelessly, it is perhaps decreed in mercy that the full horror of the thing cannot be realized at the moment it happens. Little by little it breaks in upon the understanding, and it is only when the mind gains strength to endure, that it has the power to realize.

At least so it was with me. I can only judge from myself, and I have but a dim and vague recollection of those minutes, which were to me the most terrible of my life. There was a sound as of the sea roaring in my ears. The room seemed to enlarge to infinite space, and the crowd multiply itself to countless thousands, all watching me, and in the long vista of faces there was but one look on each and every countenance, an unutterable scorn, an unspeakable contempt. My strength was shrivelled to nothing, my courage gone to the four winds. Above all, a voice of agony ringing through a storm, came those peals of pitiful, mad laughter. God grant I may never hear the like again! Every second of that horror stretched to a year. I turned a hunted, appealing eye from face to face, but a mist seemed to gather before me, until at last I caught Achon’s glance, and the malign fire in it, the mocking sneer in his look, shook the weight from my soul. I sprang at him, but he was quick and stepped back, though with a blue scar on his face where my hand had touched him. Then those surrounding us flung themselves on me, and there was a quick, fierce struggle, for I fought like a mad thing. They bore me down by the force of numbers; but still as I struggled, and a sword was pointed to thrust me through, I heard a woman’s voice cry: “In mercy spare him!” But it was not that appeal that gave me my life, and saved me from the death I sought. It was Achon himself who stayed the trooper’s hand.

“Bear him out and bind him securely,” he said; and then, as he looked down upon me, his thin fingers at the mark on his cheek, and the cruel snarl of a cat on his lips, he added: “We have not done with you yet, monsieur—you must be paid your price in full.”

Some shred of dignity still remained with me. I made no answer to the man, struggled no more, but rose sullenly without a word, and let them drag me into the open. There one loosed the reins from a horse, and they bound me with them like a thief, my hands behind my back. With two men guarding me, I stood thus in view of all, while the others were brought out, and the troop formed around them. Perhaps in pity for me, they did not look; but the very sight of those whom I had betrayed brought an agony on me, and I strained at the thongs at my wrists.

“Unbind me,” I said hoarsely through blue lips. “I will not attempt escape; I pledge my honor.”

And the troopers broke into coarse laughter at my words, while Truchepot, the man who had taken my sword, mocked me to his fellows.

“He pledges his honor,” he said. “Monsieur would perhaps like his sword returned to him, to wear as the Prince is wearing his.”

Whereat they laughed again, and I bit my lip in silence; and then there was some one standing before me, some one who had heard my appeal and its answer, and I hung my head in shame and utter abasement. It was Marie.

“May God forgive you,” she said, and with a divine pity in her voice she added, “as I do.”

I did not dare meet her look, but half turned away with a groan; yet something in the scene stilled the gibing tongues of the troopers, and they pressed between us in rough kindliness, so surrounding me that for the moment I was hidden from view.

I was mounted on a spare horse. Perhaps it was one that had belonged to the dead Badehorn—I cannot say—and with a trooper on my left holding the reins, and one on my right, a cocked pistol in his hand, I was put almost in the rear of the party. Then followed a few quick commands, the trumpets pealed, and we were on the way back to Orleans. We went at a smart trot, for it was evidently the intention of our captors to reach the city ere sundown, and, bright as the day had become, the lights of sunset were already showing in the west.

Of the other prisoners I could see nothing except Coqueville, and he rode almost immediately before me, but with this difference, that his hands were free and his horse was not led. I do not know why, but I kept watching him with a strange fascination as he rode on, apparently in the deepest dejection, his head held down between his shoulders. I knew his mount too. It was his own mare, Lisette, and she also seemed to be possessed with the same despair as her master, for she lagged and hung back, until we in the rear almost rode over her quarters. But notwithstanding this, she still kept going slower and more slowly, her tail switching nervously to and fro, and her ears laid back over her head. Seeing this, the men on each side of Lisette exchanged some rough joke about feminine temper, and closed in on Coqueville, forcing his nag on. And then I noticed that his left foot was out of the stirrup, and stretching his leg outward with a quick, rapid motion, he spurred the trooper’s horse next to him. It swerved slightly, leaving a space between them. Quick as thought Coqueville touched Lisette on the neck with the flat of his hand, and, obeying the signal, she slung half-round and lashed out. There was a curse and a heavy fall as the stricken horse lurched downward with its leg broken, and we behind had to rein up sharply, to avoid riding on those in front. In the momentary confusion caused by this, a little space was left clear for Coqueville. It was but a flash, a second of time that he had. But he took it, and, as the kicked horse fell, he lifted Lisette’s head, dashed through the opening into the wood, and vanished.

In a moment there was a wild hubbub of kicking, plunging horses around us. The man next to me vainly fired his pistol after the fugitive, and two or three of the troopers rode after him in headlong pursuit. The whole line halted, and Richelieu galloped up, white with rage. He saw at a glance what had happened, and a short inquiry told him who had escaped.

“Here, Poltrot!” he exclaimed to a sergeant, “take half a dozen men and bring him back, dead or alive, and a hundred crowns are yours.”

“You might make it five hundred with safety. You will never have to pay. The Orléanais is not long enough to give you time to catch Lisette.”

It was Condé who spoke, but Richelieu made no answer, except that his cheek grew paler, and he drew a pistol from his holster. The men whom he had detached were gone, but the trooper whose horse had fallen stood a little apart on the roadside, staring stupidly at his beast, which lay there in mute suffering. Richelieu turned to the man and looked at him; and as I watched, helpless and tied, his face seemed transformed—his eyes burned, his lips were drawn back over his teeth like those of a snarling wolf. At last he spoke, in a voice that shook with rage:

“Was it you, Le Brun, who let the prisoner escape?”

“My horse was kicked, captain, and I—I fell,” stammered the man, and again came a laugh and a mocking cry from the Prince.

“Bon coq, Coqueville!”

The words seemed to drive the savage to madness. He glanced behind him with an oath, and then, lifting his pistol, pointed it at Le Brun.

The man threw up his hands with a cry that changed to a sob, for there was a sharp report, and the wretch, spinning round, fell to the shot, all huddled in a heap beside his horse. Slowly the Monk put the smoking pistol back into his holster. His eye fell on the troopers near him, and they shrank at his look, cowed by the sullen ferocity of his glance.

Then he called to one of the men:

“Put this horse out of pain and follow us—march!”

It may have been part of the iron discipline by which a ferocious soldiery was kept in order, but it was murder all the same—murder as foul and cruel as ever was wrought by a human tiger in the face of God’s day. And now I began to realize what manner of man this was whom men called The Monk, and the stories I had heard of him came back to me: How he was destined for the church; how his fierce and turbulent soul scorned the black robe and longed for the sword. He fled from his convent. Caraffa, the legate of the Holy See, relieved him of his vows, and no more reckless cavalier fought through the Italian war. He returned a merciless soldier, a fit instrument for the dark designs of those who sought to kill the faith with the sword. But the cup of his wickedness was brimming over, and the day of vengeance not far, when he, too, was to die by an assassin’s hand. I often wonder if any thought of poor Le Brun ever flashed before the glaring eyes of Richelieu, that bleak January night, when he lay poniarded and dying like a dog, on the pavement of the Rue des Lavandières.

We rode on, the men in an awestruck silence, and even I forgetful of myself in the horror of the thing that had happened. And yet, swift and awful as Le Brun’s fate was, it was merciful to that which every day men, women, children, yea! even babes, had to suffer in the years of the War of the Religions. The times had turned men’s hearts to stone, and life, the life God gave us, was of less value than the dust beneath our feet. But I was not then old enough to be callous, and I never became so. The long years of my seclusion have prevented me from being hardened to scenes like these. And as I thought of Richelieu and his terrible deed I began to see how far, how irrevocably, I had fallen. Black as his shield was, it was starred by the fires of a dauntless courage. Cruel as he was, his word was inviolate, and there were times, too, when no knight of old could have borne himself more gallantly. None knew that better than I. And I shivered and shrank in my soul with the cowardice of guilt as I thought how even he, evil among the evil, had turned from me in contempt and loathing.

So I rode on, my bitter thoughts preventing me feeling all pain from my bonds, my own self-reproach making me callous to the scorn that was ever and again glanced at me, and the tramp of hoofs, the jingle of chain-bits, and the clank of scabbards made a sad accompaniment to the riot in my mind.

At last, a few minutes after sunset, in the brief interval when the winter twilight hung before the gray of the night, we reached the city gates. They were shut, but the officer on guard, the same Italian whom we had met when Marcilly and I entered Orleans, opened them as we came up, and a short conversation ensued between him and the leaders of our party. At first I could hear nothing; but as the prisoners were massed up, I was brought close to the speakers, and saw that Achon’s face was clouded and full of misgiving.

“Four couriers, did you say, Carandini?”

“Monsieur—and there are already some on the part of the Constable who have reached the palace. ’Tis said that he himself lies just outside the Portereau.”

Then a word or two were exchanged in low tones between Richelieu and Achon, and the former called a subaltern officer.

“Carouges—take half the men, and escort the Princess and her suite to the Jacobins. You will keep them under careful guard. There must be no time allowed for leave-takings. We look after the others.”

The order was obeyed to the letter; not but that Marie obtained a moment’s speech with Achon.

“Monsieur,” she said, “I pray you let me join my husband. The favor I ask is so small. In mercy grant it.”

And he looked at her with a cruel light in his eye, while the mark that my hand had made on his face seemed to grow darker, as he said:

“You will join him later on, madame—he is in the arms of the Holy Office.”

The pitiless meaning of his words was clear as daylight. She gave a little gasp and strove to speak, but speech would not come to her, and then I found voice, and saved her from humbling herself in vain at the feet of the priest.

“Ah, madame! Ask him nothing—beg not from him!”

Simple as the words were, they steadied her, and gave her the strength she needed. She lapsed into a proud, cold silence, and reined back, while Achon bent toward me.

“You, too, are of those whom the Office needs but before it touches you, monsieur”—he paused and his hand passed over his cheek ere he continued: “I will deal with you, and after that you will bless the rack and the estrapade when they come.”

I laughed back at him in reckless scorn, as he turned away; and then we divided into two parties—I being placed with the one in which Condé was, and that headed straight for the house in the Rue Parisis.

We were closely guarded. The troopers hemmed us in, so that we could barely see anything, except the men around us; but, nevertheless, in the glances I shot to the right and to the left, I was aware that there was a strange commotion in the streets. As we rode on there were voices raised in angry murmurs, and all around us there was a humming as of bees. Richelieu saw this, and doubled his precautions, riding close to Condé’s side himself, and Achon’s face became graver as he went onward. Near the Martroi, which I passed with shuddering horror, we came across a party of the Queen’s guards, with Lorgnac at their head; and by his side—I could scarce believe my eyes—was Ponthieu.

They were coming toward us; but whether by accident or design, I cannot tell. They filled the road, scarce leaving us room to pass. Seeing this, Richelieu called out in a loud voice:

“Way! Way for the prisoners of the King!”

Lorgnac gave a sharp order to his men, calling them aside; but the crowd heard The Monk’s words and began to murmur, while Ponthieu, reckless as ever, raised a shout of “Bourbon, Notre Dame!” In a moment the mob caught up the cry, and it passed from mouth to mouth.

At the time Achon was quite close to Ponthieu, and he turned on the Gascon fiercely.

“You shall smart for this. I know you,” and a gibing answer came back to him:

“I have not the like honor, monsieur, yet I have given a livre for masses for the souls of your dead guards——” and what more he would have said it is impossible to say; for here Lorgnac cut him short, seizing his reins and forcing him back, as he waved us on:

“Pass, gentlemen! We give way to the King’s prisoners.”

And as we went on, the guardsman and Richelieu exchanged glances that crossed each other like two sword-blades.

It was a narrow affair, and escaped but by a hair in ending in bloodshed. That something of import had happened I was sure now; but as yet I could not tell what it was, and neither Achon nor Richelieu knew, too, though they guessed that trouble was afoot, and a pistol barrel gleamed in the latter’s hand, where he rode almost boot-to-saddle with the Prince. And so, on we rode, through the darkening streets, and at last we were again before the prison. Here, as elsewhere, a mob that grew in numbers each moment had gathered, as if expecting our coming; but whether it was the persuasive force in the muzzles of the Emperor’s Pistols, which leered down upon them from the walls, or whether the crowd was simply in a sullen, speechless mood, I know not. All I do know is that there was neither cry nor shout as they passed; but a murmuring that rose and sank, to rise and fall once more, like the distant voice of the sea on a level shore.

And now we halted before the gates. The trumpets pealed out loudly, and the huge doors groaned back in opening, disclosing the courtyard lined with armed men, while de Bresy and Comminges stood in the archway.

“You have them?” asked the former eagerly; and Richelieu answered briefly:

“All but Coqueville.”

As he spoke, both de Bresy and Comminges saw me, and the former said, with a forced laugh:

“So it is my turn again, monsieur. This time you will find it no jest”; but Achon answered him, not I, saying chilly:

“He belongs to the Holy Office, monsieur, and to none else beside.”

De Bresy remained silent, and with this we entered. In the courtyard there was a little bustle as we dismounted, and, awaiting my fate, I looked around me in stony apathy. Then moved, perhaps, by the same impulse that sometimes makes a stag, wounded to death, nibble at the grass around it, I cast my eyes on the sunset, and the strangeness of it held and arrested me, in spite of myself. There was a broad red sash of light across the west, that cut abruptly, and without any gradations of tint, into the sombre gray of the sky. Against this weird background rose the brown and purple silhouettes of the houses, the white and glistening spires of Ste. Croix, and the grim keep of the palace, the Royal standard flaunting from the staff. Even as I looked it seemed to slip down a little with a jerk, and then fluttered slowly down to half-mast height. No one noticed this. All were busily engaged, and Richelieu, Achon, and the others were in earnest converse. Achon was urging something, a desperate resolve on his face; but de Bresy shook his head, his hand to the hilt of his sword, and Comminges said loudly:

“No! It would be murder. We are not here for that.”

Whereat Richelieu put his hand on the priest’s shoulder, saying: “Let it rest. ’Tis but a matter of hours.” Then, as if to end the colloquy, he turned to the guards, saying sharply:

“Bring on the prisoners!”

It was then that Condé looked at me for the first time since the discovery of my shame. “He!” he said. “And with me!”

“No, monseigneur,” Achon answered, “with me—he remains in my sight from now,” and his hand once more touched his bruised cheek.

So, guarded and still bound, I was taken with them, as the Prince was led back to his old prison. In the landing at the end of the corridor I was stopped.

“Let him be kept here until I come back,” said Achon. “See that he does not escape you!”

And the troopers on each side of me smiled grimly in answer. The fate of Le Brun was too recent to allow them to forget their vigilance. With a parting look at me, Achon followed the others into the room, and the door being open, I was enabled to see and hear what passed.

As the Prince stepped in, Vaux, who was still there, came forward with hanging head and tears in his eyes; but Condé, who took no notice of his captors, embraced him, saying, kindly:

“Come, Vaux! ’Tis the fortune of war,” and than he looked at the card table where Vaux had rebuilt his house of cards. He touched it with his fingers, and as it crumbled on the table, he laughed as he turned to De Bresy.

“Dreams of our youth—eh, de Bresy?” And then with a perfect coolness he went on, taking a seat at the table: “The long ride has tired me, and I need a rest. Come, de Bresy! Play me a rubber.”

“I am at your Highness’ commands,” and de Bresy, taking a place opposite to the Prince, rapidly shuffled the cards. They were cut to him, and he dealt out two hands amid a wondering silence. Vaux had slunk to the window, and the Prince completely ignored the presence of Achon and Richelieu. As for Comminges, he was at the door near me, and I heard him mutter under his breath:

“Ay! He is brave.”

“The old stakes?” The Prince was laughing as he spoke.

“Your Highness.”

“You lose, de Bresy. I would put my life on this hand.”

“Monseigneur!” It was Achon’s harsh voice that broke in upon them, and Condé looked up, a cold inquiry in his eyes.

“Monseigneur!” the bishop went on, “I have that to tell you which admits of no delay——” He stopped, the unspoken words still on his lips, for the deep boom of a heavy gun fell upon our ears, and from outside there was a shouting from ten thousand throats:

“The Constable! Long live the Constable!” and louder and yet more loud came another cry, “Long live Condé! The Prince is saved!”

De Bresy almost rose from his seat, but the Prince bade him play on, paying no heed to the cries, and half turning his back on Achon. Richelieu and Comminges had dashed from the room, and for once Monsieur of Arles stood irresolute and amazed. The suspense lasted but for a moment. There came another shout and the tramp of hurrying feet. It was Richelieu returning with a pale face, but around and behind him were other figures. There was Cipierre, his grim face beaming; there was another who came with halting steps of pain, but his eye was bright, and there was a flush of joy on the cheek of the great Chancellor of France. There were others I cannot name, but as Richelieu hurried to Achon’s side and whispered something in his ear, something that turned his cheek to ashes, there was a joyous shout of “Bourbon, Notre Dame!” and Ponthieu came through the crowd. He pressed to the Prince’s side, and, leaning over the table, said low, but still loud enough for me to hear:

“Notre homme est croqué—the King is dead.”

Condé looked up quietly. Then he turned to de Bresy and spread his cards face upward on the table, saying, with a smile:

“You see—I hold four aces.”

The next minute the room was filled and the passage choked with men. On all sides I heard the words, “The King is dead!” “The Constable is at the gates!” All around me were the men of the Queen’s guards; the others had gone. There was a face there I knew well, and as yet the man there did not know my shame. It was Lorgnac, and as our eyes met he stepped to my side, his poniard in his hand. With two or three quick cuts he freed me, and then shook me by the hand.

“It is all over with them,” he said, with a smile. “You are safe now.”