The traitor's way

“He is lost! Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “Ah! Monsieur de Vibrac!” And she just looked at me; but such a look.

There was a clattering of spurred heels as Coqueville and Lanoy rushed to the stairway; but, trembling and hot with shame, I remained chained by the horrible thought that had taken possession of me. I knew what the Princess meant. I had said that the wood was safe, and yet I had not searched there in that long, narrow neck of forest before us, and our man was lost. Yet no! He was out again; but this time not alone, for three men were at his heels, three men with fresh horses. One came alongside. Our man leaned out sideways with extended arm—a glint of steel—and it was a riderless horse that galloped by his side, with long, loose, trailing reins; and then it fell, and, scrambling up, stood stupidly by the side of the road.

Yvonne de Mailly’s white fingers tightened over my arm, and I saw her pale a little as she gave a quick gasp. The dwarf almost screamed, and I thought I heard the echo of a prayer from the Princess. I watched with dry, parched lips, and hell in my heart.

It was still two to one, and these were heavy odds; but Marcilly was not far, and going like the wind. The two pursuers hung closely behind the fugitive—there was a long, dark thing in the snow, athwart the road, where the third lay, still and motionless. But the two, intent and eager, took no note of Jean, saw nothing of Lanoy and Coqueville and the half-dozen others who spurred behind them. Our man did, however; he bent forward in his saddle, and his good horse seemed to fly.

We watched in a breathless silence. And then—it had come and gone in a moment. The fugitive was safe. He had passed Marcilly and was close to the others. But Jean—my breath came thick and fast. Was it to be, after all? The leading horse against Marcilly swerved to one side. Its rider, seeing the succor at hand, turned off to his left and made for the wood; and Lanoy—there was no mistaking the bay horse, and tall, thin figure—cut across country to intercept him. I saw no more of that. All my eyes were for Marcilly and his adversary.

There was no better sword than Jean in France. I could have sworn that, until now. But what was this? There was a circle of light as they came together, something flashed downward, and Marcilly was disarmed. And then—it was all in a hand-turn, remember—a strange thing happened. Marcilly’s adversary raised his sword to the salute and, leaving him harmless, rode straight on toward Coqueville and his men. He broke right through them, and, pulling across the road, galloped off at a break-neck pace toward Tours. There was no attempt to follow. They all gathered in a group round some one who had fallen. Once the man faced half round, and shook his clenched fist behind him, and then there was the light of his red plume, and we lost him to view in the thickets and low forest that fringed the river—and he escaped.

But our man was safe, no thanks to me. He reined up at the bridge, crossing it slowly, and then we saw him rock in his saddle.

“He is hurt!” exclaimed the Princess: but I heard no more. I was down the long stairway three steps at a time, and, hurrying across the flagged court, was just able to meet the stranger, for, as I reached the castle gates, he entered, his horse stopping under the stone archway of its own accord, with head held down and heaving flanks, while the rider hung low over the saddle. Seeing me approach, however, he steadied himself with an effort, answering my “Well ridden and bravely done, monsieur,” with a white smile and a hoarse, “’Twas between the skin and the flesh.” As he spoke I thought he would have fallen, and rushed to his side.

“Back!” I shouted to those who crowded round. “Back! Give room!” and, helping him to dismount, and lending him my arm, for he was very faint, and kept up only by his courage, we crossed the yard slowly, and began to ascend the stone steps of the main entrance, where I already saw the Princess with a group round her. As we reached the steps, she called out in sudden recognition:

“It is Maligny! Maligny!” And she ran down to us. “Speak, man! Speak! My husband—Condé—what of him?”

He bit his dry lips and looked around, then answered thickly:

“The King has agreed to his death; but there is still hope. I bring his message to you. It is: Take the young child and flee into Egypt. And, madame—go now—for it will be too late to-morrow.” He said the last words quickly, as if he felt he would not have time to finish his speech, and then fell sideways into my arms like a dead man.

And now I saw what a good woman can do. Save for a rapid gesture of despair as Maligny gave his abrupt message, she made no sign, but bent over the fainting man, giving some orders about him as calmly as if he, and he alone, were the one object that filled her mind. We carried him to the nearest room—mine—and Chandieu, the Prince’s chaplain, a man skilled in wounds, was soon by his side. To our intense relief, he pronounced Maligny merely faint from fatigue, saying that the wound on his arm was nothing, and that he would be as well as ever in a few hours. Then he took charge of him, driving us all from the room as he would be alone with his patient.

We gathered in a group on the rush-covered daïs of the great hall. We were all there except Marcilly, whom I saw nowhere. Lanoy had accounted for his man, and Coqueville was limping and bruised. It was he who had been ridden down, and it was thought killed, by the one who had escaped, but he had come to no hurt.

We were discussing Maligny’s tidings and Condé’s message, and Coqueville was earnest in his entreaty for the Princess to leave Châtillon at once.

“Madame,” he said, “it is not for ourselves I speak. There is monseigneur here to think of, the heir of the Sires des fleurs des lys.” As he spoke he placed his sunburnt hand lightly on the shoulder of the slender, fair-haired boy, her son, who stood by her side. He was not alone in pressing the matter, and it was for an hour or more, perhaps, that we discussed it, until we reached the last corner in madame’s patience, for she spoke firmly and crisply:

“Messieurs! Very well! I shall leave Châtillon now; but for Orleans. My place is there. I have neglected my duty too long.”

She was facing us, a small, slight woman she was, but for the moment she seemed to have grown absolutely tall. “As for Henri here,” she went on, stooping and giving the boy a fierce little kiss, “he must live for vengeance if need be.”

What more she would have said I know not, but now Maligny appeared, his arm bandaged, and leaning for support on Jean. Behind came Chandieu, a tall, dark figure. As they approached it was impossible not to be struck by Marcilly’s resemblance to Condé. In a crowd a hundred men would have sworn he was the Prince. He had the same slight, spare figure, the same red-brown hair, the same eyes, even his voice, his very gestures were the same.

In the moment of excitement I had forgotten about myself, else I had not dared to face Marcilly with the consciousness of my recent shameful action upon me. It is one crowning mercy that there are moments when even the most sinful forget—even I do sometimes—for a very little.

“Madame,” said Maligny, “I have come to finish what I fear I began too bluntly. It is true that the sentence has been passed, but the Chancellor has refused to affix the Great Seal, and no day has been appointed for——” and he hesitated a moment, and then went on, not finishing his sentence, though we all understood: “The King is very ill, and at any time may relent. Strange as it may seem, the Italian is veering round in our favor. The Guise grow too great, and she realizes now what that greatness will mean for her. The Admiral knows her mind, and ’tis said that the Constable will now move from Yvoy le Marron. There is a plan even now to save the Prince”; he looked at Marcilly, and then went on: “but, in the mean time, it is of the first importance that you and the young Prince should be safe from harm. Monseigneur kisses your hands, and begs you to leave Châtillon for St. Bauld, where d’Andelot lies with fifty horse to escort you to the Admiral and safety. There is one, too, who aids us in secret—I dare not give the name—and I tell you that no sword will be drawn to stay us if we leave within the next few hours. Who those wasps were who attacked me in the wood, I know not. They are done with, however, for the present. The danger now is in staying—none in going—but we must go now.”

The Princess hardly seemed to hear the latter portion of Maligny’s speech. “And so the King—that boy—has signed the warrant!” she said. “But Lorraine held the pen. But they dare not! They dare not! After Navarre he is the first Prince of the blood. And is that all you have to say? Oh! Take me to him!” And she looked imploringly at us.

“Madame,” began Maligny, but she broke in upon his speech.

“Wait! Let me think! I know you have nothing more to say except to urge me to desert my husband. I know you are going to repeat that. Your plans and politics will break my woman’s heart. Ah! I know he will die. Have ever the merciless shown mercy? He will die, I say; but I die with him. Now hear me, Monsieur le Vicomte—and all of you. I go to Orleans—Orleans—do you hear? And I leave in an hour’s time.”

She finished; her hands clenched, her cheeks white; but in the gray deep of her eyes such a mixture of rage, sorrow, irresolution, and despair as I hope never to see in a human glance again. The strain had been too much, and, highly as she spoke, I knew and felt that she would yet yield. It was the old story. It is not in a woman’s words, but in her eyes, that her heart lies.

As she stood there, silent and motionless, Marcilly leaned over the Vicomte’s shoulder, and whispered something. Then they both beckoned to Lanoy and Chandieu, and retired into the recess of the window, where they spoke in whispers, and, as I looked, I saw a smile on Lanoy’s dark face, a light in the Vicomte’s eyes—and a jealous anger came into my heart that I was not asked to share their confidences.

But here on the daïs, where through the open window the mellow sunlight fell on the rushes at our feet, and lit them up in gold and brown; where still we were partly in shadow, and partly in light, there was no word spoken, and the Princess stood, biting her lip and watching the four. So still was it one might have heard the fall of a silken glove.

Suddenly the falcon on Majolais’ wrist began to flutter its wings, and the sound, as it broke the stillness, brought the Princess to the moment. She turned to Coqueville and myself.

“Messieurs! You will excuse me—time presses.” With a slight bow to us, and a shrug of her shoulders in the direction of the four, she walked slowly down the hall, Yvonne de Mailly turning as she followed her, and throwing up the palms of her hands as if to say it was all over.

As the Princess passed the window, however, Lanoy and the Vicomte came up to her and spoke in low, rapid tones, Jean standing a little on one side playing with the hilt of his sword. What they said I could not catch, but they urged it again and again, and she put her hands to her face, exclaiming:

“No! No! I cannot—I cannot!”

Then Jean stepped forward, dropping on one knee before her, added his entreaty to those of the other two, and one by one we came up and formed a half-circle around them.

“Madame,” said Lanoy, “it is not for the Prince alone. It is for the King, for France. I pledge you my word he succeeds.”

“What can I say?” she asked. “Friends!” and she turned toward us, “do you know what I have been asked to do? I have been asked to accept the sacrifice of a life. Jean—our own true knight—has said that he will go to Orleans and bring off the Prince or die.”

“He will succeed, madame,” said Maligny. “Would to God I could be by his side!”

“Though our persecutors be swifter than the eagles of Heaven, yet the Lord of Hosts is with us. Let him go, madame, that thy beloved may be delivered. Save with thy right hand and hear me,” and Chandieu spoke in the words of the Psalmist, his voice deep but low.

But still the Princess stood—hesitating—wavering. Her pale lips moved as if in prayer, and then, as one who takes a sudden plunge, she held out her hands with a quick, impulsive gesture, and, raising Jean to his feet, looked him full in the face with eyes that swam with tears.

“May God bless you!” she said; “be it as you will.”

So they stood for a moment, her hands resting on his shoulders. Then bending forward she kissed him, and with a sob turned and passed out of the room, all following except myself.

It is odd how sometimes, when the mind is distracted, a petty thing will arrest the attention, and remain in the memory for ever, a centre upon which other recollections revolve. As they went out the last to go was Majolais. At the door he stopped, a little spot of brilliant color, and, turning his head, looked back upon me. In that one moment his eyes seemed to read my thoughts and mock my misery. So he stood for a breath, then, pointing a claw-like finger at me, he turned and fled. It was as if some fiend gibed at my fall. I remained for long where I was, in the shadow of the heavy curtains that drooped over the window, glowering at the band of sunlight on the rushes and thinking of a hundred things. The past year of my life came before me in vivid detail. All my struggles with myself, all my failures. How inch by inch I had slipped down mentally, until it came to pass that I yielded without effort to the hideous whisper of the fiend, when I let Marcilly ride off by himself.

I was certain that Marie loved me still, and that in her heart she would welcome freedom. But an hour or so back it was this that made me long, yet fear, to see him stretched dead in the snow. It was this that made me hate myself, and yet urged me on. Fifty times during the scene with the Princess, had I been within an ace of stepping to Marcilly’s side, and asking to share his enterprise. Each time I was held back, caught by the throat and held back by my evil thoughts.

To my mind the attempt was impossible. He must die—and then—I became aware I was not alone, for Jean stood at my right hand smiling at me with his kind eyes.

“Gaspard,” he said, “I want a friend. You refused me once to-day. Will you deny me now? Will you come?”

I was not altogether lost. I was sick with the shame of what had passed. I dared not refuse.

“I will come,” I answered, and my voice was strange, even to my own ears. It was Fate. Who can resist its decrees?

“Pour ma foy, et mon roy,” he said, linking his arm in mine, as he quoted the motto of his house. “To horse, man! There is not a moment to lose.”