tore the cloth from my head and sprang up. I was in pitch-darkness. I dashed against the door to no avail. Feeling the walls, I discovered myself to be in a small, empty closet. With all my force I flung myself once more upon the door. It stood firm.
"Dame! but I have got into a pickle," I thought.
They were no ghosts, at all events. Scared as I was, I rejoiced at that. I could cope with men, but who can cope with the devil? These might be villains—doubtless were, skulking in this deserted house,—yet with readiness and pluck I could escape them.
It was as hot as a furnace in my prison, and as still as the grave. The men, who seemed by their footsteps to be several, had gone cautiously down the stairs after caging me. Evidently I had given them a fine fright, clattering through the house as I had, and even now they were looking for my accomplices.
It seemed hours before the faintest sound broke the stillness. If ever you want to squeeze away a man's cheerfulness like water from a rag, shut him up alone in the dark and silence. He will thank you to take him out into the daylight and hang him. In token whereof, my heart welcomed like brothers the men returning.
They came into the room, and I thought they were three in number. I heard the door shut, and then steps approached my closet.
"Have a care now, monsieur; he may be armed," spoke the rough voice of a man without breeding.
"Doubtless he carries a culverin up his sleeve," sneered the deep tones of my captor.
Some one else laughed, and rejoined, in a clear, quick voice:
"Natheless, he may have a knife. I will open the door, and do you look out for him, Gervais."
I had a knife and had it in my hand, ready to charge for freedom. But the door opened slowly, and Gervais looked out for me—to the effect that my knife went one way and I another before I could wink. I reeled against the wall and stayed there, cursing myself for a fool that I had not trusted to fair words instead of to my dagger.
"Well done, my brave Gervais!" cried he of the vivid voice—a tall fair-haired youth, whom I had seen before. So had I seen the stalwart blackbeard, Gervais. The third man was older, a common-looking fellow whose face was new to me. All three were in their shirts on account of the heat; all were plain, even shabby, in their dress. But the two young men wore swords at their sides.
The half-opened shutters, overhanging the court, let plenty of light into the room. It had two straw beds on the floor and a few old chairs and stools, and a table covered with dishes and broken food and wine-bottles. More bottles, riding-boots, whips and spurs, two or three hats and saddle-bags, and various odds and ends of dress littered the floor and the chairs. Everything was of mean quality except the bearing of the two young men. A gentleman is a gentleman even in the Rue Coupejarrets—all the more, maybe, in the Rue Coupejarrets. These two were gently born.
The low man, with scared face, held off from me. He whose name was Gervais confronted me with an angry scowl. Yeux-gris alone—for so I dubbed the third, from his gray eyes, well open under dark brows—Yeux-gris looked no whit alarmed or angered; the only emotion to be read in his face was a gay interest as the blackavised Gervais put me questions.
"How came you here? What are you about?"
"No harm, messieurs," I made haste to protest, ruing my stupidity with that dagger. "I climbed in at a window for sport. I thought the house was deserted."
He clutched my shoulder till I could have screamed for pain.
"The truth, now. If you value your life you will tell the truth."
"Monsieur, it is the truth. I came in idle mischief; that was the whole of it. I had no notion of breaking in upon you or any one. They said the house was haunted."
"Who said that?"
"Maître Jacques, at the Amour de Dieu."
He stared at me in surprise.
"What had you been asking about this house?"
Yeux-gris, lounging against the table, struck in:
"I can tell you that myself. He told Jacques he saw us in the window last night. Did you not?"
"Aye, monsieur. The thunder woke me, and when I looked out I saw you plain as day. But Maître Jacques said it was a vision."
"I flattered myself I saw you first and got that shutter closed very neatly," said Yeux-gris. "Dame! I am not so clever as I thought. So old Jacques called us ghosts, did he?"
"Yes, monsieur. He told me this house belonged to M. de Béthune, who was a Huguenot and killed in the massacre."
Yeux-gris burst into joyous laughter.
"He said my house belonged to the Béthunes! Well played, Jacques! You owe that gallant lie to me, Gervais, and the pains I took to make him think us Navarre's men. He is heart and soul for Henri Quatre. Did he say, perchance, that in this very courtyard Coligny fell?"
"No," said I, seeing that I had been fooled and had had all my terrors for naught, and feeling much chagrined thereat. "How was I to know it was a lie? I know naught about Paris. I came up but yesterday from St. Quentin."
"St. Quentin!" came a cry from the henchman. With a fierce "Be quiet, fool!" Gervais turned to me and demanded my name.
"Félix Broux."
"Who sent you here?"
"Monsieur, no one."
"You lie."
Again he gripped me by the shoulder, gripped till the tears stood in my eyes.
"No one, monsieur; I swear it."
"You will not speak! I'll make you, by Heaven."
He seized my thumb and wrist to bend one back on the other, torture with strength such as his. Yeux-gris sprang off the table.
"Let alone, Gervais! The boy's honest."
"He is a spy."
"He is a fool of a country boy. A spy in hobnailed shoes, forsooth! No spy ever behaved as he has. I said when you first seized him he was no spy. I say it again, now I have heard his story. He saw us by chance, and Maître Jacques's bogy story spurred him on instead of keeping him off. You are a fool, my cousin."
"Pardieu! it is you who are the fool," growled Gervais. "You will bring us to the rope with your cursed easy ways. If he is a spy it means the whole crew are down upon us."
"What of that?"
"Pardieu! is it nothing?"
Yeux-gris returned with a touch of haughtiness:
"It is nothing. A gentleman may live in his own house."
Gervais looked as if he remembered something. He said much less boisterously:
"And do you want Monsieur here?"
Yeux-gris flushed red.
"No," he cried. "But you may be easy. He will not trouble himself to come."
Gervais regarded him silently an instant, as if he thought of several things he did not say. What he did say was: "You are a pair of fools, you and the boy. Whatever he came for, he has spied on us now. He shall not live to carry the tale of us."
"Then you have me to kill as well!"
Gervais turned on him snarling. Yeux-gris laid a hand on his sword-hilt.
"I will not have an innocent lad hurt. I was not bred a ruffian," he cried hotly. They glared at each other. Then Yeux-gris, with a sudden exclamation, "Ah, bah, Gervais!" broke into laughter.
Now, this merriment was a heart-warming thing to hear. For Gervais was taking the situation with a seriousness that was as terrifying as it was stupid. When I looked into his dogged eyes I could not but think the end of me might be near. But Yeux-gris's laugh said the very notion was ridiculous; I was innocent of all harmful intent, and they were gentlemen, not cutthroats.
"Messieurs," I said, "I swear by the blessed saints I am what I told you. I am no spy, and no one sent me here. Who you are, or what you do, I know no more than a babe unborn. I belong to no party and am no man's man. As for why you choose to live in this empty house, it is not my concern and I care no whit about it. Let me go, messieurs, and I will swear to keep silence about what I have seen."
"I am for letting him go," said Yeux-gris.
Gervais looked doubtful, the most encouraging attitude toward me he had yet assumed. He answered:
"If he had not said the name—"
"Stuff!" interrupted Yeux-gris. "It is a coincidence, no more. If he were what you think, it is the very last name he would have said."
This was Greek to me; I had mentioned no names but Maître Jacques's and my own. And he was their friend.
"Messieurs," I said, "if it is my name that does not please you, why, I can say for it that if it is not very high-sounding, at least it is an honest one and has ever been held so down where we live."
"And that is at St. Quentin," said Yeux-gris.
"Yes, monsieur. My father, Anton Broux, is Master of the Forest to the Duke of St. Quentin."
He started, and Gervais cried out:
"Voilà! who is the fool now?"
My nerves, which had grown tranquil since Yeux-gris came to my rescue, quivered anew. The common man started at the very word St. Quentin, and the masters started when I named the duke. Was it he whom they had spoken of as Monsieur? Who and what were they? There was more in this than I had thought at first. It was no longer a mere question of my liberty. I was all eyes and ears for whatever information I could gather.
Yeux-gris spoke to me, for the first time gravely:
"This is not a time when folks take pleasure-trips to Paris. What brought you?"
"I used to be Monsieur's page down at St. Quentin," I answered, deeming the straight truth best. "When we learned that he was in Paris, my father sent me up to him. I reached the city last night, and lay at the Amour de Dieu. This morning I went to the duke's hôtel, but the guard would not let me in. Then, when Monsieur drove out I tried to get speech with him, but he would have none of me."
The bitterness I felt over my rebuff must have been in my voice and face, for Gervais spoke abruptly:
"And do you hate him for that?"
"Nay," said I, churlishly enough. "It is his to do as he chooses. But I hate the Comte de Mar for striking me a foul blow."
"The Comte de Mar!" exclaimed Yeux-gris.
"His son."
"He has no son."
"But he has, monsieur. The Comte de—"
"He is dead," said Yeux-gris.
"Why, we knew naught—" I was beginning, when Gervais broke in:
"You say the fellow's honest, when he tells such tales as this! He saw the Comte de Mar—!"
"I thought it must be he," I protested. "A young man who sat by Monsieur's side, elegant and proud-looking, with an aquiline face—"
"That is Lucas, that is his secretary," declared Yeux-gris, as who should say, "That is his scullion."
Gervais looked at him oddly a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and demanded of me:
"What next?"
"I came away angry."
"And walked all the way here to risk your life in a haunted house? Pardieu! too plain a lie."
"Oh, I would have done the like; we none of us fear ghosts in the daytime," said Yeux-gris.
"You may believe him; I am no such fool. He has been caught in two lies; first the Béthunes, then the Comte de Mar. He is a clumsy spy; they might have found a better one. Not but what that touch about ill-treatment at Monsieur's hand was well thought of. That was Monsieur's suggestion, I warrant, for the boy has talked like a dolt else."
"I am no liar," I cried hotly. "Ask Jacques whether he did not tell me about the Béthunes. It is his lie, not mine. I did not know the Comte de Mar was dead, and this Lucas of yours is handsome enough for a count. I came here, as I told you, in curiosity concerning Maître Jacques's story. I had no idea of seeing you or any living man. It is the truth, monsieur."
"I believe you," Yeux-gris answered. "You have an honest face. You came into my house uninvited. Well, I forgive it, and invite you to stay. You shall be my valet."
"He shall be nobody's valet," Gervais cried.
The gray eyes flashed, but their owner rejoined lightly:
"You have a man; surely I should have one, too. And I understand the services of M. Félix are not engaged."
"Mille tonnerres! you would take this spy—this sneak—"
"As I would take M. de Paris, if I chose," responded Yeux-gris, with a cold hauteur that smacked more of a court than of this shabby room. He added lightly again:
"You think him a spy, I do not. But in any case, he must not blab of us. Therefore he stays here and brushes my clothes. Marry, they need it."
Easily, with grace, he had disposed of the matter. But I said:
"Monsieur, I shall do nothing of the kind."
"What!" he cried, as if the clothes-brush itself had risen in rebellion, "what! you will not."
"No," said I.
"And why not?" he demanded, plainly thinking me demented.
"Because I know you are against the Duke of St. Quentin."
Whatever they had thought me, neither expected that speech.
"I am no spy or sneak," said I. "It is true I came here by chance; it is true Monsieur turned me off this morning. But I was born on his land and I am no traitor. I will not be valet or henchman for either of you, if I die for it."
I was like to die for it. For Gervais whipped out his sword and sprang for me. I thought I saw Yeux-gris's out, too, when Gervais struck me over the head with his sword-hilt. The rest was darkness.
came to my senses slowly, to hear loud, angry voices. As I opened my eyes and stirred, the room reeled from me and all was blank again. Awhile after, I grew aware of a clashing of steel. I lay wondering thickly what it was and why it had to be going on while my head ached so, till at length it dawned on my dull brain that swords were crossing. I opened my eyes again, then.
They were fighting each other, Yeux-gris and Gervais. The latter was almost trampling on me, Yeux-gris had pressed him so close to the wall. Then he forced his way out, and they drove each other round in a circle till the room seemed to spin once more.
I crawled out of the way and watched them, bewildered, absorbed. I had more reason to thrill over the contest than the mere excellence of it,—which was great,—since I was the cause of the duel, and my very life, belike, hung on its issue.
They were both admirable swordsmen, yet it was clear from the first where the palm lay. Anything nimbler, lighter, easier than the sword-play of Yeux-gris I never hope to see in this imperfect world. The heavier adversary was hot, angry, breathing hard. A smile hovered over Yeux-gris's lips; already a red disk on Gervais's shirt showed where his cousin's sword had been and would soon go again, and deeper. I had forgotten my bruise in my interest and delight, when, of a sudden, one whom we all had ignored took a hand in the game. Gervais's lackey started forward and knocked up Yeux-gris's arm. His sword flew wide, and Gervais slashed his arm from wrist to elbow.
With a smothered cry, Yeux-gris caught at his wound. Gervais, ablaze with rage, sprang past him on his creature. The man gaped with amazement; then, for there was no time for parley, leaped for the door. It was locked. He turned, and with a look of deathly terror fell on his knees, crouched up against the door-post. Gervais lunged. His blade passed clean through the man's shoulders and pinned him to the door. His head fell heavily forward.
"Have you killed him?" cried Yeux-gris.
"By my faith! I meant to," came the answer. Gervais was bending over the man. With an abrupt laugh he called out: "Killed him, pardieu! He has come off cheap."
He raised the fellow's limp head, and we saw that the sword had passed just over his shoulder, piercing the linen, not the flesh. He had swooned from sheer terror, being in truth not so much as scratched.
Gervais turned to his cousin.
"I never meant that foul trick. It was no thought of mine. I would have turned the blade if I could. I will kill Pontou now, if you say the word."
"Nay," answered the other, faintly; "help me."
The blood was pouring from his arm; he was half swooning. Gervais and I ran to him and, between us, bathed the cut, bandaged it with strips torn from a shirt, and made a sling of a scarf. The wound was long, but not deep, and when we had poured some wine down his throat he was himself again.
"You will not bear me malice for that poltroon's work, Étienne?" Gervais asked, more humbly than I ever thought to hear him speak. "That was a foul cut, but it was no fault of mine. I am no blackguard; I fight fair. I will kill the knave, if you like."
"You are ungrateful, Gervais; he saved you when you needed saving," Yeux-gris laughed. "Faith! let him live. I forgive him. You will pay me for my hurt by yielding me Félix."
Gervais looked at me. While we had worked side by side over Yeux-gris he seemed to have forgotten that he was my enemy. But now all the old suspicion and dislike came into his face again. However, he answered:
"Aye, you would have been the victor had it not been for Pontou. You shall do what you like with your boy. I promise you that."
"Now that is well said, Gervais," returned Yeux-gris, rising, and picking up his sword, which he sheathed. "That is very well said. For if you did not feel like promising it, why, I should have to begin over again with my left hand."
"Oh, I give you the boy," Gervais repeated rather sullenly, turning away to pour himself some wine.
I could not but wonder at Yeux-gris, at his gaiety and his steadfastness. He had hardly looked grave through the whole affair; he had fought with a smile on his lips and had taken a cruel wound with a laugh. Withal, he had been the constant champion of my innocence, even to drawing his sword on his cousin for me. Now, with his bloody arm in its sling, he was as debonair and careless as ever. I had been stupid enough to imagine the big Gervais the leader of the two, and I found myself mistaken. I dropped on my knee and kissed my saviour's hand in all gratitude.
"Aha," said Yeux-gris, "what think you now of being my valet?"
Verily, I was hard pushed.
"Monsieur," I said, "I owe you much more than I can ever pay. If you were any man's enemy but my duke's, I would serve you on my knees. But I was born on the duke's land and I cannot be disloyal. You may kill me yourself, if you like."
"No," he answered gravely, "that is not my métier."
Gervais laughed.
"Make me that offer, and I accept."
Yeux-gris turned to him with that little hauteur he assumed occasionally.
"You are helpless, my cousin. You have passed your word."
"Aye. I leave him to you."
His sullen eyes told me it was no new-born tenderness for me that prompted his surrender. Nor had I, truth to tell, any great faith in the sacredness of his word. Yet I believed he would let me be. For it was borne in upon me that, despite his passion and temper, he had no wish to quarrel with Yeux-gris. Whether at bottom he loved him or in some way dreaded him, I could not tell; but of this my fear-sharpened wits were sure: he had no desire to press an open breach. He was honestly ashamed of his henchman's low deed; yet even before that his judgment had disliked the quarrel. Else why had he struck me with the hilt of the sword?
"I leave him to you," he repeated. "Do as you choose. If you deem his life a precious thing, cherish it. When did you learn a taste for insolence, Étienne? Time was when you were touchy on that score."
"Time never was when I did not love courage."
"Oh, it is courage!" With a sneer he turned away.
"Gervais," said Yeux-gris, "have the kindness to unlock the door."
Gervais wheeled around, his face an angry question.
Yeux-gris answered it with cold politeness:
"That Félix Broux may pass out."
"By Heaven, he shall not!"
"You gave your word you would leave him to me. Did you lie?"
"I do leave him to you!" Gervais thundered. "I would slit his impudent throat; but since you love him, you may have him to eat out of your plate and sleep in your bosom. I will put up with it. But go out of that door till the thing is done, sang dieu! he shall not!"
"If he goes straight to the duke, what then? He will say he found us living in my house. What harm? We are no felons. Let him say it."
"And put Lucas on his guard?" returned Gervais. He was angry, yet he spoke with evident attempt at restraint. "Put Lucas on the trail? He is wary as a cat. Let him get wind of us here, and he will never let us catch him."
"Well," said Yeux-gris, reluctantly, "it is true. And though I will not have the boy harmed, he shall stay here. I will not put a spoke in the wheel. We will take no risks till Lucas is shent. The boy shall be held prisoner. And afterward—"
"I will come myself and let him out," said Gervais, and laughed.
I glanced at my protector, not liking to think of that moment, whenever it might be, "afterward." He went up to Gervais.
"My cousin, are we friends or foes? For, faith! you treat me strangely like a foe."
"We are friends."
"I am your friend, since it is in your cause that I am here. I have stood at your shoulder like a brother—you cannot deny it."
"No," Gervais answered; "you stood my friend,—my one friend in that house,—as I was yours. I stood at your shoulder in the Montluc affair—you cannot deny that. I have been your ally, your servant, your messenger to mademoiselle, your envoy to Mayenne. I have done all in my power to win you your lady."
A shadow fell over Yeux-gris's open face.
"That task needs a greater power than yours, my Gervais."
He regarded Gervais with a rueful smile, his thoughts of a sudden as far away from me as if I had never set foot in the Rue Coupejarrets. He shook his head, sighing, and said, with a hand on Gervais's shoulder: "It's beyond you, cousin."
Gervais brought him back to the point.
"Well, I've done what I could for you. But you don't help me when you let loose a spy to warn Lucas."
"He shall not go. You know well, cousin, you will be no gladder than I when that knave is dead. But I will not have Félix Broux suffer because he dared speak for the Duke of St. Quentin."
"As you choose, then. I will not touch a hair of his head if you keep him from Lucas."
Once more he turned away across the room. My bewilderment was so great that the words came out of themselves:
"Messieurs, is it Lucas you mean to kill?"
Yeux-gris looked at me, not instantly replying. I cried again to him:
"Monsieur, is it Lucas or the duke?"
Then Yeux-gris, despite a gesture from Gervais, who would have told me nothing I might ask, exclaimed:
"Why, Lucas!"
He said it in such honest surprise and with such a steady glance that the heavy fear that had hung on me dropped from me like a dead-weight, and suddenly I turned quite dizzy and fell into the nearest chair.
A dash of water in the face made me look up, to see Yeux-gris standing wet-handed by me.
"Mon dieu!" he cried, "you were as white as the wall. Do you love so much this Lucas who struck you?"
"No," I said, rising; "I thought you meant to kill the duke."
"Did you take us for Leaguers?"
I nodded.
He spoke as if actually he felt it important to set himself right in my eyes.
"Well, we are none. We are no politicians, but private gentlemen with a grudge to pay. I care not what the parties do. Whether we have the Princess Isabelle or Henry the Huguenot, 'tis all one to me; I am not putting either on the throne. So if you have got it into your head that we are plotting for the League, why, get it out again."
"But you are enemies to the Duke of St. Quentin?"
He answered me slowly:
"We do not love him. But we do not plot his death. He goes his way unharmed by us. We are gentlemen, not bravos."
"And Lucas?"
"Lucas is my cousin's enemy, and, being a great man's man, skulks behind the bars of the Hôtel st. Quentin and will not face my cousin's sword. So to reach him takes a little plotting. Do you believe me?"
I looked into his gray eyes, that had flashed so hotly in my defence, and I could not but believe him.
"Yes, monsieur," I said.
He regarded me curiously.
"The duke's life seems much to you."
"Why, monsieur, I am a Broux."
"And could not be disloyal to save your life?"
"My life! Monsieur, the Broux would not seek to save their souls if M. le Duc preferred them damned."
I expected he would rebuke me for the outburst, but he did not; he merely said:
"And Lucas?"
"Oh, Lucas!" I said. "I know nothing of him. He is new with the duke since my time. I do not owe him anything, save a grudge for that blow this morning. Mon dieu, monsieur, I am thankful to you for befriending me. Dying for Monsieur is all in a day's work; we expect to do that. But, my faith, if I had died just now, it would have been for Lucas."
At this moment a long groan came from the end of the room. We turned; the lackey was waking from his swoon, under the ministration of Gervais. He opened his eyes; their glance was dull till they fell upon his master. And then at once they looked venomous.
Gervais kicked him into fuller consciousness.
"Get up, hound. It is time to meet Martin."
The wretch scrambled shakily to his feet, and stood clutching the door-jamb and eying Gervais, terror writ large on his chalky countenance. Yet there was more than terror in his face; there was the look you see in the eyes of a trapped animal that watches its chance to bite. Yeux-gris cried out:
"You dare not send that man, Gervais."
"Why not?"
"Because the moment he is clear of the house he will betray you. Look at his face."
"He shall swear on the cross!"
"Aye. But you cannot trust the oath of such as he."
"What would you? We must send."
"As you will. But you are mad if you send him."
Gervais pondered a moment, his slower wits taking in the situation. Then he seized the man by the collar, fairly flung him across the room into the closet, and bolted the door upon him.
"I will settle with him later. But you are right. We cannot send him."
Yeux-gris burst into laughter.
"My faith! we could not have more trouble if we were heads of the League than this little duel of yours is giving us. Why, what if we are seen? I will go."
Gervais started.
"No; that will not do."
"Eh, bien, then, what will you propose?"
But it was some one else who proposed. I said to Yeux-gris:
"Monsieur, if all your purpose is against Lucas and no other, I am your man. I will go."
"What, my stubborn-neck, you?"
"Why, monsieur, I owe you a great debt. While I thought you meant ill to M. le Duc, I could not serve you. But this Lucas is another pair of sleeves. I owe him no allegiance. Moreover, he nearly killed me this morning. Therefore I am quite at your disposal."
"Now, I wonder if you are lying," said Gervais.
"I do not think he is lying," Yeux-gris said. "I trow, Gervais, we have got our messenger."
"You tell me to beware of Pontou because he hates me, and then would have me trust this fellow?" Gervais demanded with some acumen.
I said: "Monsieur, you do not seem to understand how I come to make this offer."
"To get out of the house with a whole skin."
I had a joy in daring him, being sure of Yeux-gris.
"Monsieur," I said, "I should be glad to leave this house with my skin whole or broken, so long as I left on my own feet. But you have mentioned the very reason why I shall not betray you. I do not love you and I do not love Lucas. Therefore, if you and M. Lucas are to fight, I ask nothing better than to help the quarrel on."
He stared at me with an air more of bewilderment than aught else, but Yeux-gris's ready laughter rang out.
"Bravo, Félix! I am proud of you. That is an idea worthy of Cæsar! You would set your enemies to exterminate each other. And I asked you to be my valet!"
"Which do you wish to see slain?" demanded the black Gervais.
I answered quite truthfully:
"Monsieur, I shall be pleased either way."
I know not how he relished the answer, for Yeux-gris cried out at once:
"Bravo, Félix, you are a paragon! I have not wit enough to know whether you are as simple as sunshine or as deep as a well, but I love you."
"Monsieur," I answered, as I think, very neatly, "if I am a well, truth lies at the bottom."
"Well, Gervais?" demanded Yeux-gris.
Gervais bent his lowering brows on his cousin.
"Do you say, trust him?"
"Aye, I would trust him. For never yet did villain turn honest, nor honest man false, in one short hour. When he was asked to serve against the duke he showed his stuff. He was no traitor; he was no coward; he was no liar. I think he is not those now."
Gervais was still doubtful.
"It is a risk. If he betrays—"
"What is life without risks?" cried Yeux-gris. "I thought you too good a gambler, Gervais, to falter before a risk."
"Well," Gervais consented, "I leave it to you. Do as you like."
Yeux-gris said at once to me:
"This Lucas, as I told you, is too cowardly to meet my cousin in open fight. Since he got the challenge he has never stuck his nose out of doors without two or three of the duke's guard about him. Therefore we have the right to get at him as we can. We have paid a man in the house to tell of his movements. He is to fare out secretly at night on a mission for M. le Duc, with one comrade only. M. Gervais and I will interrupt that little journey."
"Very good, monsieur. And I?"
"You will meet our spy and learn the hour of the expedition. Last night, when he told us of the plan, it had not been decided."
"Then he will be the other man I saw in the window? I shall know him."
"You have sharp eyes and a sharp brain, youngster. But he will not know you. Therefore you can say you come from the shuttered house in the Rue Coupejarrets. You will meet him in the little alley to the north of the Hôtel St. Quentin. Do you know your way to the hôtel? Well, then, you are to go down the passageway between the house and M. de Portreuse's garden—you cannot mistake it, for on two sides of the house is the street, on the third the garden, and on the fourth the alleyway. Half-way down the alley is an arch with a small door. In that arch our man, Louis Martin, will meet you. Do you understand?"
I repeated the directions.
"You have learned your lesson. You will ask him the hour—only that."
"And you will take oath not to betray us," commanded Gervais.
I took out the cross that hung on my rosary. I was ready to swear. Gervais prompted:
"I swear to go and come straight, and speak no word to any but Martin."
With all solemnity I swore it on my cross.
"That oath will be kept," said Yeux-gris. He held out a sudden hand for the cross, which I gave him, wondering.
"I swear that we mean no harm whatsoever to the Duke of St. Quentin." He kissed the cross and flung the chain back over my neck.
At last I saw the door unlocked. Yeux-gris even returned to me my knife.
"Au revoir, messieurs."
Gervais, sullen to the last, vouchsafed no answer, but Yeux-gris called out cheerily, "Au revoir."
othing in life can be so sweet as freedom after captivity, safety after danger. When I gained the open street once more and breathed the open air, no one molesting or troubling me, I could have sung with joy. I fairly hugged myself for my cleverness in getting out of my plight. As for the combat I was furthering, my only doubt about that was lest the skulking Lucas should not prove good sword enough to give trouble to M. Gervais. It was very far from my wish that he should come out of the attempt unscathed.
But as I went along and had more time to ponder the matter, other doubts forced themselves into my reluctant mind. Put it as I pleased, the affair smacked too much of secrecy to be quite savoury. It was curious, to say the least, that an honest encounter should require so much plotting. Also, Lucas, coward and rascal though he might be, was Monsieur's man, doing Monsieur's errand, and for me to mix myself up in a plot against him was scarcely in keeping with my vaunted loyalty to the house of St. Quentin. My friend Gervais's quarrel might be just; his manner of procedure, even, might be just, and yet I have no right to take part in it.
And yet Monsieur had signified plainly enough that he was no longer my patron. For my birth's sake I might never work against him, but I was free to do whatever else I chose. Monsieur himself had made it necessary for me to take another master, and assuredly I owed something to Yeux-gris. I had reason to feel confidence in his honour; surely I might reckon that he would not be in the affair unless it were honest. Lucas was like enough a scoundrel of whom Monsieur would be well rid. And lastly and finally and above all, I was sworn, so there was no use worrying about it. I had taken oath, and could not draw back.
I hurried along to the rendezvous, only pausing one moment at the street-corner to buy sausages hot from the brazier, which I crammed into my mouth as I ran. But after all was there no need of haste; the little arch, when I panted up to it, was all deserted.
No better place for a tryst could have been found in the heart of busy Paris. Only the one door opened into the alley; M. de Portreuse's high garden wall, forming the other side of the passage, was unbroken by a gate, and no curious eyes from the house could look into the deep arch and see the narrow nail-studded door at the back where I awaited the rat-faced Martin.
I stood there long, first on one foot and then on the other, fearful every moment lest some one of Monsieur's true men should come along to demand my business. No one appeared, either foe or friend, for so long that I began to think Yeux-gris had tricked me and sent me here on a fool's errand, when, all at once, a low voice said close to my ear:
"What seek you here?"
I jumped on finding at my side a little, pale, sharp-faced man—the man of the vision. He had slipped through the door so suddenly and quietly that I was once more tempted to take him for a ghost. He eyed me for a bare second; then his eyes dropped before mine.
"I am come to learn the hour," said I.
"Did you not hear the chimes ring five?"
"Oh, no need for disguise. I am come from the two in the Rue Coupejarrets. They bade me ask the hour."
He favoured me with another of his shifty glances.
"What hour meant they?"
I said bluntly, in a louder tone:
"The hour when M. Lucas sets out on his secret mission."
"Hush!" he cried. "Hush! Don't say names aloud—his or the other's."
"Well," I said crossly, "you have kept me waiting already more time than I care to lose. How much longer before you will tell me what I came to know?"
He looked at me sharply for another brief instant before his eyes slunk away from mine.
"You should have a password."
"They gave me none. They told me to say I came from the shuttered house in the Rue Coupejarrets, and that would be enough."
"How came you into this business?"
"By a back window."
He gave me another suspicious glance, but making nothing by it, he rejoined:
"Eh bien, I trust you. I will tell you."
He clutched my arm and drew me to the back of the arch, where the afternoon shadows were already gathered.
"What have you for me?" he demanded.
"Nothing. What should I have?"
"No gold?"
"No."
"He promised me ten pistoles to-day. He did not give them to you?"
"I tell you, no."
"You are a thief! You have them!"
He stepped forward menacingly; so did I. He then fell back as abruptly.
"Nay, it was a jest; I know you are honest. But he promised me ten pistoles."
"He did not give them to me," I said. "Perhaps he was not so convinced of my honesty. He will doubtless pay you afterward."
"Afterward!" he retorted in a high key. "By our Lady, he shall pay me afterward! The gutters will run gold then, will they? Pardieu! I will see that a good stream flows my way. But one cannot play to-day with to-morrow's coin. He said I should have ten pistoles when I let him know the hour."
"I cannot mend that. It lies between you and him. I have not seen or heard of any money."
Martin edged up close to the door of retreat and waxed defiant.
"Then all I have to say is, he may go whistle for his news."
Now, had I but thought of it, here was an easy road out of a bad business. If Martin would not tell the hour of rendezvous, Lucas was saved, Monsieur's interests not endangered, yet at the same time I was not forsworn. But touch pitch and be defiled. You cannot go hand and glove with villains and remain an honest man. I returned directly:
"As you choose. But M. Gervais carries a long sword."
He started at that and made no instant reply, seeming to be balancing considerations. Then he gave his decision.
"I will tell you. But your M. Gervais is wrong if he thinks I can be slighted and robbed of my dues. I know enough to make trouble for him, and I know where to take my knowledge. He will not find it easy to shut my mouth afterward, except with good broad gold pieces."
"Enfin, are you telling me the hour?" I said impatiently. I was ill at ease; my only wish was to get the errand done and be gone.
He laid a hand on my shoulder and made me bend to him, and even then spoke so low I could scarce catch the words.
"They have fixed positively on to-night. They will leave by this door and take the route I described last night to M. Gervais. They will start as soon as the streets are quiet, sometime between ten and eleven. They must allow an hour to reach the gate, and the man goes off at twelve. In all likelihood they will not set out before a quarter of eleven; M. le Duc does not care to be recognized."
So they planned to kill Lucas at Monsieur's side? Yeux-gris had not dared to tell me that. But he had looked me straight in the face and sworn on the cross no harm was meant to M. le Duc. Natheless, the thing looked ugly. My heart leaped up at the next words:
"Also Vigo will go."
"Vigo!"
"Not so loud! You will have the guard on us! Yes, he is to go. At first Monsieur did not tell even him, he desired to keep this visit to the king so secret. But this morning he took Vigo into his confidence, and nothing would serve the man but to go. He watches over Monsieur like a hen over a chick."
"Then it will be three to three," I said. I thought of Gervais, Yeux-gris, and Pontou, for of course I would take no part in it.
"Three to two; Lucas will not fight."
Lucas must be a poltroon, indeed!
"But Vigo and Monsieur—" I began.
"Aye, they are quick enough with their swords. Your side must be quicker, that's all. If you are sudden enough you can easily kill the duke before he can draw."
Talk of words like thunderbolts! All the thunder of heaven could not have whelmed me like those words. Yeux-gris and his oaths! It was the duke, after all!
I could not speak. I looked I know not how. But it was dusky in the arch.
"It sounds simple," he went on. "But, three of you as you are, you will have trouble with Vigo. That is all. I have told you all. I must get back before I am missed. Good luck to the enterprise."
Still I stood like a block of wood.
"Tell M. Gervais to remember me," he said, and opening the door, passed in. I heard him lock and bolt it after him, and his footsteps hurrying down the passageway.
Then I came to myself and sprang to the door and beat upon it furiously. But if he heard he was afraid to respond. After a futile moment that seemed an hour I rushed out of the arch and around to the great gate.
The grilles were closed as before, but the sentry's face, luckily, was strange to me.
"Open! open!" I shouted, breathless. "I must see M. le Duc!"
"Who are you?" he demanded, staring.
"My name is Broux. I have news for M. le Duc. Let me in. It is a matter of life and death."
"Why, I suppose, then, I must let you in," that good fellow answered, drawing back the bolts. "But you must wait here till—"
The gate was open. I took base advantage of him by sliding under his arm and shooting across the court up the steps to the house. The door stood open, and a couple of lackeys lounged on a bench in the hall.
"M. le Duc!" I cried. "I must see him."
They jumped up, the picture of bewilderment.
"Who are you? How came you here?" cried the quicker-tongued of the two.
"The sentry opened for me. Where am I to find M. le Duc? I must see him! I have news!"
"M. le Duc sees no one to-day," the second lackey announced pompously.
"But I must see him, I tell you," I repeated. I had completely lost what little head I ever had; it seemed to me that if I could not see M. le Duc on the instant I should find him weltering in his gore. "I must see him," I cried, parrot-like. "It is a matter of life and death."
"From whom do you come?"
"That's my affair. Enough that I come with news of the highest moment. You will be sorry if I you do not get me quickly to M. le Duc."
They looked at each other, somewhat impressed.
"I will go for M. Constant," said the one who had spoken first.
Constant was Master of the Household; M. le Duc had inherited him with the estate and kept him in his place for old time's sake. He was old, fussy, and self-important, and withal no friend to me.
"I had rather you fetched Vigo," I said.
"Oh, Vigo will not come. He is with Monsieur. If I bring M. Constant, it is the best I can do for you."
I had recovered myself sufficiently by this time to remember the nature of lackeys, and gave the messenger the last silver piece I had in the world. He regarded it contemptuously, but pocketed it and departed in leisurely fashion up the stairs.
The other was not too grand to cross-examine me.
"What sort of news have you? Do you come from the king?" he asked in a lowered voice.
"No."
"From M. de Valère?"
"No."
"Then who the devil are you?"
"Félix Broux of St. Quentin."
"Ah, St. Quentin," he said, as if he found that rather tame. "You bring news from there?"
"No, I do not. Think you I shall tell you? This news is for Monsieur."
"It won't reach Monsieur unless you learn politeness toward the gentlemen of his household," he retorted.
We were getting into a lively quarrel when Constant appeared on the stairway—Constant and the lackey who had fetched him, and two more lackeys, and a page, all of whom had somehow scented that something was in the wind. They came flocking about us as I said:
"Ah, M. Constant! You know me, Félix Broux of St. Quentin. I must see M. le Duc."
Constant's face of surprise at me changed to one of malice. Down at St. Quentin he had suffered much from us pages, as a slow, peevish old dotard must. I had played many a prank on him, but I had not thought he would revenge himself at such time as this. He looked at me with a spiteful grin, and said to the men:
"He lies. I do not know him. I never saw him."
"Never saw me, Félix Broux!" I cried, completely taken aback.
"No," maintained Constant. "You are an impostor."
"Impostor! Nonsense!" I cried out. "Constant, you know me as well as you know yourself. I say I must see the duke; his life is in danger!"
Constant was paying off old scores with interest.
"An impostor," he yelled shrilly, "or else a madman—or an assassin."
"That is the truth," said some one, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder.
I turned; two men of the guard had come up, my friend of just now and my foe of the morning. It was the latter who held me and said:
"This is the very rascal who sprang on Monsieur's coach-step in the morning. M. Lucas threw him off, else he might have stabbed Monsieur. We were fools enough to let him go free. But this time he shall not get off so easy."
"I am innocent of all thought of harm," I cried. "I am M. le Duc's loyal servant. I meant no harm this morning, and I mean none now. I am here to save Monsieur's life."
"He is here to kill Monsieur; he is an assassin!" screamed Constant. "Flog him, men; he will own the truth then!"
"I am no assassin!" I shouted, struggling in their grasp. "Let me go, villains, let me go! I tell you, Monsieur's life is at stake—Monsieur's very life, I tell you!"
They paid me no heed. Not one of them—save hat lying knave Constant—knew me as other than the shabby fellow who had acted suspiciously in the morning. They were dragging me to the door in spite of my shouts and struggles, when suddenly a ringing voice spoke from above:
"What is this rumpus? Who talks of Monsieur's life?"
The guards halted dead, and I cried out joyfully:
"Vigo!"
"Yes, I am Vigo," the big man answered, striding down the stairs. "Who are you?"
I wanted to shout, "Félix Broux, Monsieur's page," but a sort of nightmare dread came over me lest Vigo, too, should disclaim me, and my voice stuck in my throat.
"Whoever you are, you will be taught not to make a racket in M. le Duc's hall. By the saints! it's the boy Félix."
At the friendliness in his voice the guards dropped their hands from me.
"M. Vigo," I said, "I have news for Monsieur of the gravest moment. I am come on a matter of life and death. And I am stopped in the hall by lackeys."
He looked at me sternly.
"This is not one of your fooleries, Félix?"
"No, M. Vigo."
"Come with me."