The traitor's way

“Mon Dieu! Messire!” said the farmer, “but monsieur there is as like to Monseigneur the Prince of Condé as one egg is to another. I remember last year, when I was factor of Beaulieu, how Monseigneur rode there once from Romorantin, to enjoy the chase in the forest of Loches.”

“So you have not been here long, then? Yet ’tis an old house.”

“Messire! I am but the servant of the Bishop of St. Aignan, whose abbey farm this is. I came here but a year ago.”

“Then, in addition to your kindness, we are indebted to Monsieur of St. Aignan for shelter to-night.”

“Speak not of that, messire! I would we had better fare for you, who,” and he lowered his voice as he added, “who serve the Prince.”

I replied in the same tone. “Ah, indeed! Your information is extensive and your tongue loose,” and I glanced at our moody companion, who, however, took no notice of us.

“Pardon!” and the man spoke in whispers, “he sleeps, and will not hear. ’Tis some free companion of the road, I fear. But, messire, I have not forgotten a certain meeting in the woods of Loches. In the dusk of the evening six gentlemen met the Prince of Condé by the oak of King Louis. You know the tree, with its trunk mottled as if with leprosy, and spreading its arms wide enough to shelter a company of horse! These six gentlemen, I say, met the Prince, who came alone, and they spoke it may be for an hour together. The heads of four of the six now wither on the spikes of the castle gates of Amboise. The fifth was a great noble from the north, and the sixth—he was, I remember now, the Sieur de Vibrac, a gentleman of the Ruergue.”

“Hist! Fool! How do you know all this?”

“Messire, there was a man in the wood, who had come there by chance and with no evil intent. He was observed and seized. It was thought he was a spy, and the Comte de Ste. Marie would have slain him then and there with his poniard, but you, messire, interposed and saved him. I was that man. It was twilight at the time, and even if it had not been dusk a noble like you would not have remembered me. But I have not forgotten, for life is dear, messire, and you gave it to me once. And so I warn you. There is danger here, and I am powerless to help.”

“The Bishop of Arles?” My voice was so low it might have been the humming of a bee.

He but nodded his head, and I went on.

“Consider your debt paid, and I thank you; but we fear him not.”

“Ah, messire! He is bad, bad, and I dread him.”

“But we do not, and we will care for ourselves,” and now, seeing that the man would talk for ever, and being unwilling to exchange further confidences, I raised my voice, saying, “Maître Pechaud, for I believe that is your name, it grows late——”

“And Messire de Vibrac would retire. Pardon my chattering. I will but show the way to the chamber.”

“Thanks! Yet stay! On second thoughts I will not go now. I have some matters to think upon. But let me not detain you.”

“Messire.”

“Let it be as I have said, Maître Pechaud. For me it is not yet night,” and I lowered my voice once more, saying, “it would perhaps be ill, if you and I were seen gossiping together.”

“Messire is right. The chamber is on the third story in the beacon tower, and the stairway in the hall leads straight to it. It cannot be missed. The flask is nearly full, I think.”

“Yes, thanks. Good-night!”

“Good-night, messire!” and he retired, stopping but for a moment to give a respectful greeting to the surly stranger, who made no reply, but sat like a stone, his square shoulders and broad back turned toward us.

Though I observed this rudeness, and might at another time have resented it as it deserved, I did not do so now. My mind was full of other things, and, for all I was concerned, the man was no more to me than a chair or the big press that concealed an angle of the room.

To be brief, it was not Pechaud’s warning, nor the strangeness of our meeting that occupied me. My thoughts were more about myself. I seemed to be, as it were, two men in one; to have two souls, one that was for ever combating, though vainly, the other, and evil essence, that was dragging me to the lowest deep. My nerves were not right, and I had determined to spend the night where I was rather than risk further temptation by sharing Marcilly’s room. The bridge of the Loup Garou was still fresh in my memory. The horror of the thing I had so nearly done still hung over me. I was afraid of myself. And so I sat and brooded, whilst the snow pattered outside against the glazing of the window, and the logs crackled in the fireplace within. Finally I became calmer, and as I looked around me I noticed that the stranger was still there. I began to be a little curious why he behaved in so odd a manner. Was he, like myself one whose thoughts gnawed at his vitals? I poured out some white Rochecorbon, acid and thin it was, and toyed with my cup. It was late, and the silence, broken only by the plashing of the snow, and the sputtering of the fire, became intolerable. I was determined to solve the mystery, so, getting to my feet and approaching my companion, I said:

“Monsieur! Will you do me the honor to drink a cup with me?”

He rose as I spoke, looked me full in the face, and holding out his hands burst out laughing.

“Ah, Vibrac!” he said, “I thought to have tired you out and got away unobserved; but it cannot be, I see. A cup—two cups, with pleasure.”

I had gone back a half pace in astonishment; for, as he rose, and spoke, I recognized my old comrade-in-arms, Ponthieu, of the Trans-Alpine Infantry. We embraced warmly, and were soon by the fireplace pledging each other.

“To meet you, of all people, here!” I said. “And on an affair, too. Else you had not been so retiring.”

He nodded and became grave in a moment. “Vibrac, you are with us, I know. You, too, do not journey for pleasure on a night like this.”

“No,” I said, “but let me give you a warning. There is danger here. Get you gone with the dawn, wherever you are bound.”

He sipped at his glass and looked at me keenly. “Vibrac, I know that, and know too I can trust you, although these are times when the father betrays the son, the brother the brother; tell me straight out, for old sake’s sake, are you still with the white scarf?” He dropped his voice to a whisper, and I nodded and smiled.

“And the Dumb Captain?”

“Ce petit homme tant joli.” I quoted a line from the popular ballad the Huguenot soldiers sang about Condé.

The Gascon’s tongue began to loosen now.

“Then, as of old, we are brothers-in-arms, and I can ask you for help, for, my friend, I am in a desperate strait.”

“What is it?”

“You know how affairs stand at Orleans?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there is one chance, and only one chance, of safety. It is with me. If I reach the Constable in three days we may yet save the Prince. But my horse is lame, dead lame. Had this not happened, I would have gone through the storm—but here I am, tied by the leg. Can you lend me a horse?”

“I, too, have my business, Ponthieu, and life hangs on that. We have no spare horse.”

“Then Condé dies,” he answered.

“An apple for your penny, Ponthieu—Condé will not die.”

He snapped his fingers. “You little know the Lorrainers. But I have that which would cut their combs, had I but four swift hoofs beneath me. See here, Vibrac! We are all hilt-deep in this business. If Condé dies, we die. Think of something.”

I kicked at the fireplace with my boot, and racked my brains until a thought—it was a forlorn hope—struck me.

“I have no horse to lend, Ponthieu, but,” and I smiled at the idea, “there is a chance. Perhaps the Bishop of Arles has one in the stable. Why not borrow it and go?”

He slapped his thigh and laughed out loudly, a big, strong laugh.

“Blood of a Jew! as we used to say in the Sicilies. Vibrac, you will die a marshal. The idea is excellent, and there is no time like the present. Ha! ha! ha!” and he rose to his feet.

“It is too early—wait till the little hours. If things go wrong, and the papers on you——”

“Never let your soup grow cold. It must be now or never. If I am caught, ’tis but a blank paper they will find; but you know the secret—a trifle of water, and—pff! No! I will have no help—you are mad, my good friend, think of your own affair.”

“True!” I answered. “You are right; but take my advice, and wait. You will lose your way—never get through the storm.”

“Way or no way, storm or no storm, I must risk it, and to-morrow Monsieur of Arles will have to exercise some of that Christian resignation he has no doubt often preached about.”

Nothing I could say would dissuade him, and I more than regretted my speech. His preparations were quickly made. He but buckled his sword tighter, drank another cup of Rochecorbon, and unbarred the window.

“It is cold,” he said, as he looked out, “and snowing swords.”

“Be advised, Ponthieu!”

But he shook his head and wrung my hand. Then he hung over the window for a moment, and dropped into the snow. As I closed the shutter, I saw him, a dark figure, crossing the dim shaft of light that ran out into the night, and a moment after he was lost in the dark. With a shiver, I put up the bar, and turned back to my seat at the fire.

I was alone now. Ponthieu had made no allusion to our last meeting; but rough soldier as he seemed, he was possessed of rare tact. And now he had gone on his reckless mission. I had given my right hand to have gone with him. It was a jest worth the playing. But it was impossible. I was bound to Marcilly, and the odds were heavy enough against us to tempt the most desperate gambler with life. With solitude my thoughts came back to me and racked me. I had sought for the bread of strength, and come back with a stone. All this may be nothing to you who pass by, but where could I turn for help? I, who was fighting for my soul. As evil thoughts steal into the heart like a fog, as good thoughts come to us like sunlight through the mist, so once again the light flashed on me, and I swore to myself to tear up the past, and face my sorrows like a man. Sleep was impossible. My nerves were too strung for that. I leaned back, and staring into the fire, began to think. My dishonor was known but to myself, and with God’s grace I would win back my own self-respect. The past could not come back; but there was still the future—and hope. I would fight this battle of the soul here to-night—here as I sat alone. Alone, did I say? No; I had a hundred companions. Out of the shadows in the room, out of the dull red embers in the fireplace, out of the forked flames they came in troops to me, gray phantoms of sin and shame. There was one, that red-handed spirit of murder, that could almost hail me brother. There were others, winged regrets that flitted to and fro. There were the ghosts of high hopes and noble aspirations, that floated before me with veiled faces and downcast heads. But through all this the new-born strength was coming to me. I would be true to Marcilly, true to myself; and when it was over, if I lived—well, the world was wide, and Gaspard de Vibrac would find a new life in distant lands. It was as if from afar a soft voice called to me, “Come unto me, ye that are weary.” I sank on my knees, and then—some one laughed behind me. I sprang to my feet and faced round, and standing before me was a tall, black-robed figure, with a white face and shining eyes. It was Achon.

“Monsieur,” he said, the bitter laugh still on his lips, “I want a word with you.”

“I—I thought——” I stammered; I was completely taken by surprise.

“That Achon of Arles was some one else,” he put in; “you will see him in time, Monsieur de Vibrac, not yet. You will see him where hope shall be cut off, and trust shall be as a spider’s web.”

But I was myself by this. “Monseigneur! You speak in riddles—and strangely, for a prince of the Church.”

He looked at me keenly. “The Church—what is it that you know of the Church, monsieur? You, a heretic! You were praying. Think you such prayers as yours are heard? You might as well have cast them to the wind that howls outside. It is the Church, the Church alone, that can save you and yours, monsieur. But enough of this! It is of other matters I came to speak, and, to be brief, I overheard most of your talk with your friend.”

I glanced at the large press that stood in the corner of the room, and then at him.

“Precisely. You have uncommon intelligence. There is a door behind that, and space to stand.”

“And so you played the spy—well, what is your point?”

His eyes flashed. “I am coming to that. It has been my painful duty to have your friend arrested. There were watchers by my poor mule. I have no horse, but I am an old soldier.”

“Ponthieu has failed then?”

“Ponthieu has failed,” he repeated drily. “Ponthieu is at present in safe hands, and to-morrow Ponthieu will rest in the cachots of Loches—where I have a great mind to send you, Monsieur de Vibrac.”

I flushed hotly, and my hand stole to the hilt of my sword.

“Put back your hand, monsieur; a blow from your sword would only kill a poor priest, but you would be broken on the wheel, and you are not yet ready to die. Even that poor fool, Ponthieu, is better prepared than you, and as for Marcilly—he has a good conscience and sleeps soundly—but you—you cannot sleep.”

“Man! Be careful! There is danger in the air.”

“But not for me, de Vibrac—for you, perhaps, who risk broad lands and an honorable name. A moment ago the cachots yawned for you, but now I have other plans.”

There was something in his air, in his haughty speech and bearing, that overawed me. He was reading me like an open page.

“I”—I began, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand.

“Understand, monsieur, that I do not send you to join Ponthieu because I have other need of you. I have enough against you—even against Marcilly—to have you both put to the question, and to send you to the block—and you know the Edict of Romorantin. If you forget I will refresh your memory. Under the secret clause, the punishment for all spiritual offences remains in the hands of the bishops, and there is one to whom our Lord the Pope and His Majesty have confided the trust of the Holy Office, and he stands before you. But, I want you for other things, as I said, and it has occurred to me that it would be well if you appeared a free agent.”

“Monseigneur, you are pushing too far.”

“Bah! This is an abbey farm of my brother of St. Aignan, Vibrac, and I have gloves for the cat. I have ten stout fellows with me. I lodged them in the barns without for purposes of my own. Six stand now in the hall, and you would gain nothing by violence—you would be shot down like a mad dog—you grasp the position?”

I did. I was a campaigner old enough to know that I was outgeneralled, and my only chance was to play fox against fox.

“I see,” Achon continued, “you are sensible. You and Marcilly are going to Orleans. I could make sure that you did go to Orleans, but I will take a risk—I will let you go on one condition.”

There was all our game at stake. A false move now and nothing could save us. The cards were decidedly with the Bishop.

“The condition?”

“A very simple one—merely that you present yourself to me, in the castle at Orleans at noon, five days hence, and there, in the presence of Lorraine and the Chancellor, repeat what Ponthieu told you.”

“It is impossible—it would be too dishonorable.”

“I will put it another way—I will repeat what Ponthieu told you, and I will ask you to bear witness to my truth. Do you agree?”

“If I refuse?”

“The cachots—and the rack. Both you and Marcilly.”

There was, truly enough, little choice in the matter, and in five days many things might happen. I could have slain him where he was, but to what purpose? I watched him as he stood, a whistle to his lips.

“Very well, monseigneur—I agree.”

“I have the word of Vibrac?”

I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak.

“That is right. The cachots are uncomfortable, almost as uncomfortable as the Chausse d’Hypocras of the Châtelet, where your friend the Vidame is, though they say he has been moved to the Tournelles.”

“One word, monseigneur! Ponthieu—he is my friend——”

He held up his jewelled hand. “Enough, monsieur! I did not come here to discuss Ponthieu. He is safe, and beware of any attempt at rescue. As for his skin, it rests with himself to keep it, as it rests with you to keep yours. One thing yet, ere I go, de Vibrac, and I tell you this because you are not quite like other men, and you have interested me. We have met before, though you do not recall it. But I know you—you have trouble there,” and he touched me over the heart, and looked me in the face with keen, searching eyes as he went on: “When you have done with me at Orleans, go back and grow cabbages at Vibrac for the rest of your life. You will be a happier man.” He paused, and then continued: “You start with the dawn. I wish you good fortune, and dispense with the blessing, for you are a heretic—and forget not—I can break you with a turn of my little finger.”

He turned and went. Outside in the hall I heard the shuffling of feet, and then all was silence.