At breakfast, M. Belloc, who had not retired during the night, informed me that he had already received the Queen's commands, and was on the point of setting out for Havre, where the Cardinal was expected to be found.
"At present," he continued, "we must play a waiting game. Our time will come when the new allies begin quarrelling, and that will not be long."
"Do I go with you?" I asked.
"No. It is possible you may be of some use to us in Paris, and I have told Le Tellier where to find you. I have also given your name to the Queen, and informed her she may rely on your services. It may be that I shall return shortly; if so, you will hear from me. Meanwhile, keep eyes and ears well open, and be ready to obey any order from Le Tellier or the Queen."
As soon as my friend had started—and he was in a desperate hurry—I returned to my rooms, feeling rather lonely and disappointed. On the table was a brief note from Raoul, announcing that he had gone to Havre, and could not tell when he would be in Paris again.
"Peste!" I exclaimed moodily, "one might as well be at Vançey as here. How shall I pass the time? It seems that, after all, I have brought my produce to a bad market."
I had stayed at home several days doing nothing, when one evening my landlord, bustling into the room, exclaimed, "Is it possible monsieur does not know that the city is en fête in honour of the prince's arrival? All the world has gone to witness the sights, and the prince is expected in an hour's time!"
I had no desire to swell the welcome to Condé, but to sit moping alone was dreary work; so, buckling on my sword, I sallied out. Always at one extreme or the other, the Parisians had prepared a magnificent reception for their latest favourite. Lanterns were hung from the windows of the houses, bonfires blazed, bands of nobles in gorgeous dresses lined the streets, splendid carriages with richly-caparisoned horses were drawn up, ready to take part in the procession, while the people were cheering in their thousands for Condé.
"Ma foi!" exclaimed a strong voice, which sounded somewhat familiar, "one would imagine this Condé to be a king!" and looking round, I recognised the Englishman who belonged to the Queen's Guards.
"Be careful," said I, warningly. "It is unwise to abuse Condé here."
"For to-day!" replied he, laughing. "To-morrow it may be different. Pardon me, monsieur, but I do not understand your people. They are too much like quicksilver; one is never sure where to catch them. Just now they welcome Condé as a hero, but who can say what they will do in a week?"
"Monsieur makes the mistake of most strangers; he judges the country by Paris, which is wrong," I remarked.
"Perhaps so. Paris is almost the only place with which I am acquainted. But are you, too, waiting to cheer Condé? If not, let us slip away from the crowd; the noise is becoming a nuisance."
He was such a pleasant fellow that I gladly joined him, and we strolled back together to the Palais Royal. His name, as I have mentioned, was John Humphreys, and, although still a young man, he had already been through numerous adventures. In the great English Civil War he had fought at his father's side for King Charles. Then, being left alone and penniless by the death of his father in the Low Countries, he had journeyed to Paris and taken service in the Queen's Guards. There were numerous English exiles in Paris at that time, but most of them, I think, were in the pay of Condé.
Raoul had not returned, so that I was glad of the Englishman's company, and, indeed, we very soon became good friends. He was never tired of talking about his country and of his hope one day to live there again. Sometimes I accompanied him to his quarters at the Palais Royal, where he introduced me to a few of his comrades, but more often we strolled about the city.
For once in a while Paris was actually quiet. The people went peacefully to their daily work; the lowest classes retired to their dens, and one could take a morning walk without meeting a howling mob. Every one repeated the same tale. Mazarin would never return; Condé was master, and the stupid Fronde was at an end.
Madame Coutance had returned to Paris with her niece, and occasionally I spent an hour at her house, where she treated me with much kindness; only she would insist that I was a silly fellow not to abandon a lost cause.
For a time it really seemed that Condé's triumph was assured, but soon I began to hear whispers that all was not right in the Palais Royal. Bits of gossip picked up by the Englishman, and a word or two from Le Tellier, made me imagine that Condé's position was less safe than he imagined.
Sitting alone one evening by the open window of my room, I noticed, approaching the house, a handsomely-dressed gallant, holding in his hand a naked sword on which were some fresh blood-stains. He, glanced up at me, smiling, and I, recognising Raoul, ran hastily to meet him.
"Why, it is as dangerous to visit you as a deposed favourite!" he cried merrily.
"You come in such gorgeous plumage. Many a man in the Rue des Catonnes would cheerfully risk his life for the value of your gold braid. But," glancing at the blood on his sword, "you have discovered that!"
"Yes, there is a poor wretch farther down nursing his arm and grumbling frightfully at his own clumsiness; but I threw him a pistole or two to buy some ointment. So you have not followed the Cardinal?"
"No! I am waiting here till his return," and we went upstairs together, Raoul laughing heartily at what he called my impudence.
He did not refer to our last meeting at the Palais Royal, but chatted gaily about his sudden visit to Havre, though, of course, without revealing to me the secrets of his party.
"Well," I remarked presently, "now that the wretched squabble is over, what have you gained by it?"
"Over?" he cried in astonishment; "come to the Pont Neuf and see for yourself what is going on. The cards have been shuffled again, and we are playing the game with different partners. Condé has gone too far, and Dame Anne will have none of him. He claims every office in the State for his friends, and three-fourths of the country for himself. Unless he is put down, as Mazarin says, there will be nothing left but to carry him to Rheims."
"Then you have broken with the prince?"
"Our party holds the scales at present; neither side can do anything without us."
"What of De Retz?"
"That is the most comical part of all; he is hand in glove with the Queen, and has become Condé's bitterest enemy. At least that was the situation this morning. To-morrow perhaps will furnish a fresh move."
"One has to blush for being a Frenchman! I shall go to Marshal Turenne; he is the only honest man in the country."
"Another broken reed, my friend! If rumour speaks truly, he has made a bargain with Condé, and will support him even in open rebellion. By the way, do not wander about the city too much at night."
"Why?" I asked, looking at him in surprise.
"Because you have made two bitter enemies—Maubranne and Peleton. They have both joined De Retz, and Peleton will work you all the mischief he can. He is a dangerous man."
"A fig for Peleton! He is a coward."
"A coward can often strike a sure blow in the dark."
We were in the streets by this time, and, passing with difficulty through the crowds of people, I was strongly reminded of the evening when I accompanied the now exiled minister to the house of the astrologer.
The riff-raff of the city were out in large numbers; the hawkers were crying their literary wares; the Black Mantles had gathered in knots to guard their property; while the young bloods swaggered along, laughing and joking, but toying with their swords as if longing for a chance to use them. On the previous occasion the rabble had roared themselves hoarse with cries against Mazarin and the Queen-Mother; now they shouted with equal vigour against Condé and his friends.
"The Abbé is still alive," remarked Raoul, as we pushed a way through the crowd.
"Is this his doing?"
"Every bit of it, and your cousin Henri makes an able lieutenant. De Retz is a dangerous enemy; all the blackguards in the city are under his thumb. You will find that he will drive the prince out of Paris before he has finished."
"What are they doing to that fellow yonder? Why, it is Joli, and they are making him cry 'Down with Condê!'"
Raoul burst out laughing. "Joli is Condé's henchman!" he exclaimed, "and a week ago he had the mob at his call. To-morrow as likely as not the idiots will be bawling for Mazarin."
"The nobles have set them a good example. There goes Joli. I did not think he could run so fast. But these fellows are becoming too daring. See, they have stopped a carriage at the corner of the street, and are threatening the occupants."
"More of Condé's friends," said Raoul lightly. "Fortunately, Joli has put the crowd in good humour, and there will be no mischief done unless those inside are obstinate."
"Listen. There is one woman not easily frightened!" and above the turmoil caused by the canaille rose a defiant "Vive le Prince!"
"Imbecile!" cried Raoul angrily, "they will tear her in pieces!"
"She has plenty of pluck, whoever she is!" I replied.
The next instant we had drawn our swords; for the woman in the carriage who had so proudly defied the ruffians of Paris was Madame Coutance, and by her side, pale yet undismayed, sat Marie.
The elder lady, marvellously handsome in her excitement, stood up in full view of the crowd. Her cheeks were flushed; her large black eyes flashed with surprising brilliancy; her lips were firm and compressed; and she gazed at the mob in scornful disdain. At first the people laughed good-naturedly, telling her that if she would cry "Down with Condé!" they would let her carriage pass. Then some of the fiercer ones pressing closer, used threats, but Madame Coutance, either reckless from excitement or not understanding the danger, only smiled.
Raoul and I had reached the fringe of the now angry crowd, when, turning round at a touch on my shoulder, I perceived my English friend.
"What is it?" he asked. "Another revolution?"
"The people are trying to force a woman to cry 'Down with Condé.'"
"There's her answer," said he, as in a clear ringing voice Madame Coutance cried aloud, "Pah! You are not good enough for Condé to wipe his boots on!"
There was no disguising the bitterness of the insult. The aristocrat flung it at them, flung it fight in their faces, and laughed as she saw it strike home. A howl of rage greeted the taunt, and, listening to the wild, fierce yell—so different from the noisy bravado of a few minutes before, I shuddered; there was something so stern and purposeful about it.
For fully a minute each man stood in his place, nursing the insult he had received; then, as if by one common impulse, the whole body sprang at the carriage. The uproar waxed furious; the narrow street became a pandemonium; in their savage eagerness the people struggled and fought without order or method.
The occupants of the houses on both sides, joining in the fray, showered missiles on the excited mob; the horses, maddened by the din, kicked and plunged; men shouted and women screamed; while Marie's aunt stood laughing defiantly at the monster her words had conjured up. She had thrown one arm around her niece as if to protect her, and confronted the mob with flashing eyes and scornful brow.
At the first sign of danger we had drawn our swords; now, flinging ourselves headlong into the press, we struck out fiercely to right and left, trying to force a passage to the carriage. Raoul cut and thrust in gallant style, and all the time he shouted with the full power of his lungs, "Orleans! Orleans! To me, friends of Orleans." I, taking my cue, yelled for Condé; the Englishman shouted, "Way for the Queen's Guards," while the mob endeavoured to drown our appeals by the ugly menace of "Death to the Nobles!"
There was scant leisure in which to look at the ladies, but Madame Coutance did not once alter her position, nor try to hide the sneering smile on her face.
Meanwhile our lusty shouts had brought assistance. Several Black Mantles, fearful lest the riot should spread, fought with us; a couple of gentlemen, responding to the cry of "Condé!" had dashed in behind me, and presently from the street corner came a shout of "Beauchamp! Beauchamp!"
"Bravo, D'Arçy!" cried Raoul in answer, and we continued the fight with greater zest. After all, the nobles of France were not quite dead to honour; their lives were still at the service of their friends.
Taking the shortest cut through the crowd, John Humphreys and I had reached the carriage door, and now stood with our backs to it, striving desperately to keep the ruffians off; Raoul, aided by several Black Mantles, was working round to the other side.
At first we fought with a certain amount of skill and method, only endeavouring to parry our opponents' strokes, but presently the struggle became grim and deadly. Then the fading daylight rapidly gave place to darkness, which was hardly lessened by the lanterns swung from the windows or by the fitful glow of the glaring pitch in the falot at the corner of the street. The figures of the combatants, now momentarily lost in the black shadows, again springing forward into full relief, were horribly grotesque.
Like ourselves, the people of the gutters were growing desperate, holding their own lives of no account, if only they could seize their prey. Yelling and screaming, they struck out wildly with the oddest of odd weapons, and sprang at us, gnashing their teeth like wild beasts.
[Transcriber's note: illustration missing from book]
Of the Black Mantles who supported us, two went down quickly and were trampled on; Raoul was bleeding in the face, and I had received a nasty cut across the head; but Armand d'Arçy and his friends were breaking through the crowd, while the cries of "Orleans!" and "Condé" redoubled.
Suddenly in the midst of it, my sword snapped against a pike-head, and in another instant I should have been killed but for Madame Coutance, who, with the heavy end of the coachman's whip, struck my assailant across the forehead, felling him like a log.
Taken by surprise, I turned to glance at my deliverer, when a brawny fellow with fiery red hair, whose weapon had been wrenched from him in the fray, leaped at my throat. By the flame of a lackey's torch I saw he was as ugly a rascal as one would find in Paris. He had a huge mouth, with yellow, wolf-like teeth; his face was scarred in a dozen places; the bridge of his nose had at one time been broken, while the veins of his neck stood out like cords, A pair of tattered breeches and the remnant of a shirt constituted his fighting costume.
Missing my neck, he caught me round the body just under the arm-pits, but leaving my arms free. For a second or two I was held as in a vice; I thought my ribs would crack under the pressure, and struggled wildly for breath. The main fight went on around us unheeded, as we swayed to and fro, now lurching against the broken carriage, now pushed under the heels of the kicking horses, or stumbling beneath the weapons of the other combatants.
I could no longer distinguish anything clearly, and the shouting sounded in my ears like the thunderous roaring of the ocean. Blood was running from my nostrils; the pain in my chest might have been caused by red-hot knives; it was almost impossible to breathe. The fellow was slowly crushing me, and I was helpless. I should have cried aloud in agony, but could make only a faint gurgling noise. Closer and closer pressed the iron grip; my eyes burned like fire, while my breath came in short, stifling gasps. Still I stood firmly on the ground with my feet wide apart, and, strong as my assailant was, he had not beaten me completely.
If only I could get a breath of air into my lungs! It was my one chance and the last; but the brawny ruffian, guessing how nearly gone I was, hugged me ever the more tightly, till it seemed that the unequal strife could not last another second. Whether the final result was brought about by my last desperate effort, or was due to chance, I could not tell, but suddenly both of us, locked as we were in each other's arms, fell. I was underneath, but, strangely enough, the pressure relaxed, and my assailant uttered a deep groan.
Presently the heavy weight lying across my body was removed; I began to breathe, and to wonder what had happened. Very slowly I opened my eyes and gazed in astonishment at the altered scene.
The street was in possession of the Queen's Guards, at whose approach the rioters, acting on instructions from their leaders, had fled, carrying their wounded comrades with them. In the middle of the roadway stood a group of young gallants—all of whom had borne a part in the fray, and several Black Mantles, attending to a slightly injured man! Raoul and Armand d'Arçy were wiping the blood from my face, while the Englishman was forcing some liquid between my teeth.
"How do you feel?" he asked. "Can you stand?"
"Yes, there is nothing much wrong; only I have had a bear's hug, which was by no means pleasant. What has become of my opponent?"
"His friends carried him off. He was insensible; one of the frightened horses kicked him. He was a savage customer."
"You had a narrow escape, my boy," said Raoul, smiling cheerfully; "you were black in the face when we removed the fellow. Now, lean on me, you must pay your respects to the ladies."
"Salute the hero!" laughed D'Arçy. "Bring flowers and wreathe a garland for his brow. Let the conqueror be crowned on the tented field."
"Be still, D'Arçy," said Raoul, "your tongue runs like a woman's," and he conducted me to Marie and her aunt, who, between them, made a pretty speech in my honour. They wished me to enter the carriage, which, though badly damaged, remained fit for use; but to this I would not agree, preferring to walk beside it.
While the coachman put his harness straight, and quietened his frightened horses, the ladies spoke a few kind words to the wounded Black Mantle who had fought for them so bravely. Fortunately he had not been seriously hurt, and was able, with the assistance of his friends, to walk home.
Suddenly young D'Arçy, who could never remain long in a serious humour, requested us to wait a few minutes, and without staying for answer darted off to his friends, who immediately dispersed.
"What mischief is the young madcap bent on now?" I asked, wonderingly.
"Armand has a brilliant idea," Raoul replied, laughing, "be patient and you will see."
Now that the excitement had cooled, I looked round for the Englishman, but he had vanished, for which, when D'Arçy's hare-brained scheme became plain, I was not altogether sorry.
The Queen's Guards had disappeared; the coachman was mounting to his seat when Armand and his friends returned, flourishing lighted torches, and singing a ridiculous song about the Abbé de Retz.
"A torchlight procession in honour of the bravery of the ladies!" exclaimed D'Arçy with a merry laugh. "Form your ranks, gentlemen; we will teach the impudent little Abbé to keep his place!"
Holding torches in their left hands and naked swords in their right, the youthful gallants fell in; some in front, others to the rear of the carriage, while Raoul and I, unable to oppose this ludicrous whim, walked on either side. Marie, who did not favour D'Arçy's pleasantry, sat so far back that her face could not be observed, but her aunt entered into the fun, and laughed merrily when the torchbearers, catching some luckless wight, forced him to bow humbly before the carriage and to cry, "Vivent les Dames!"
The glare of the torches, the trampling of feet, the songs and laughter of the escort, brought the people out in crowds, which compelled us to proceed at a slow pace. Here and there we heard a growl of "Down with Condé!" but for the most part the worthy citizens enjoyed the spectacle and cheered heartily.
In the Rue Michel we were brought to a halt, and it appeared as if a second and more serious blood-letting would occur. The narrow street was already crowded, and a carriage, preceded by half-a-dozen lackeys bearing torches, came towards us. Casting a furtive glance at Raoul, I discovered him looking anxiously at me; it was obvious to us both that one party must turn back, but, unfortunately for any peaceful intentions we might have had, young D'Arçy who led the van, showed no sign of yielding.
"Make room there!" he shouted imperiously, as if he were Condé himself, and the people, cowed by our display of strength, parted to right and left, leaving a clear passage.
This gave us a clearer view of the other carriage, and I noticed with dismay that it must belong to some important personage. Behind rode a number of cavaliers richly dressed, and what was more to the purpose, well armed. Suddenly a mocking cry from Armand informed us who it was that paraded the streets thus numerously attended.
"Bring your torches nearer, gentlemen, that we may observe the red hat of our little friend the better!" he exclaimed.
A burst of mocking laughter greeted this speech, as every one knew how De Retz had been tricked by Mazarin, and how furious he was at having failed to obtain a Cardinal's hat. Even the bystanders, most of whom were the Abbé's friends, joined in the laugh, for your true Parisian loves nothing so much as ridicule.
"Poor little man," cried one of the gallants, with assumed sympathy, "it is difficult for him to hit on the exact shade to suit his beauty best!"
Now, as De Retz was one of the ugliest men in France, this pleasantry was not likely to be well received, and I ran to the front with the idea of preserving peace. At the same time the Abbé, followed by my cousin, left the carriage, and the cavaliers pressed up from behind. Instead of retreating, Armand stood his ground firmly, and continued waving his lighted torch in the face of the Abbé, crying, "Make way for His Eminence! The Cardinal wishes to visit the ladies his mob tried to murder!"
"Eh? What's that? Ladies? Murder? What do you mean?" cried the Abbé, affecting not to notice the ridicule.
"Permit me to give your gentlemen the word," interposed Henri, "and these popinjays shall soon be cleared from your path."
"The popinjays will take some time to clear!" remarked Armand laughing. "I am not acquainted with any law which gives a private citizen, even though he be a prospective cardinal, sole right to the streets of Paris."
Now my cousin Henri was not noted for his lamb-like temper, so, without waiting for the Abbé's commands, he drew his sword and rushed at D'Arçy, crying, "On guard!"
Another instant and the Rue Michel would have become the scene of fierce combat, but, unseen by us, a stranger quietly pushed his way through the crowd, and placed himself without the least hesitation between the combatants. I gazed at him with interest. He was a tall, finely-built man, with a long, flowing beard, and the most resolute face I had yet beheld in Paris. His eyes were bright, shrewd, and piercing, his chin was square and firm, every line of his features betokened power and the habit of command. Looking at him one was tempted to exclaim, "Here at least is a man!"
He wore the long robe of a councillor, and carried no weapon, but he would have been a daring man who attacked him. The danger in which he stood troubled him not at all; he did not seem even to be aware of it.
"Put up your swords, gentlemen," he said quietly, and as if quite sure that no one would question his right to command. Then, turning to De Retz he added in the same cool tones, "Monsieur l'Abbé, I am surprised you have not sufficient influence to prevent a breach of the peace! It ill becomes a dignitary of the Church to be taking part in a street brawl."
I can hardly imagine that De Retz was awed by the speaker—perhaps he had private reasons for avoiding a quarrel with this strong, purposeful man: at least he showed no offence at the rebuke, and not only requested Henri to sheathe his sword, but actually offered a half apology for the quarrel, which really was none of his seeking.
"One must always yield to the ladies!" he exclaimed gallantly, and, with a courteous bow to the stranger, ordered his coach to be turned back.
"Who is he?" I asked Raoul, as the peacemaker, after scolding D'Arçy for his rudeness, and bidding him be less hasty in future, withdrew.
"Matthew Mole, the first President, and the only honest public man in France," replied Raoul bitterly, as he resumed his place in the procession.
The torch-bearers were not yet weary of their mischief, but the encounter with De Retz rendered them less demonstrative, and the remainder of the journey passed without incident. On arriving at the Rue Crillon, in order to keep up the character of the play, Armand marshalled his comrades in two lines, forming a kind of triumphal passage for Marie and her aunt.
As soon as the ladies entered their house the escort dispersed, some going one way, some another, Raoul and I walked away together, and D'Arçy, still bubbling over with fun, accompanied us.
"A nice evening's amusement," laughed the young scamp; "but what was it all about? Ma foi, Beauchamp, I shall have to look after you more carefully in the future, or you will be getting into further scrapes!"
"Take care yourself," I suggested, "or De Retz will lay you by the heels. He won't be in a hurry to forgive this night's work."
"Oh! the Abbé is a man of sense; he will laugh at the joke to-morrow, and accept his defeat gracefully. What a firebrand your cousin is! Did you notice his eyes flash? I thought he meant to make mincemeat of me! It is a pity you are always against him; he will take quite a dislike to you."
"Peleton and Maubranne are more to be feared than Henri," said Raoul. "Each of them has several scores to settle with our friend."
"And with you and D'Arçy!"
"Yes, but we possess powerful patrons; you have none. If Peleton stabbed either of us in the back he would have to answer to the Duke of Orleans, but who is there to champion your quarrel? Come with us to the Luxembourg, and let us introduce you to the Duke. There is no dishonour in taking fresh service now that Mazarin has fled."
"Still I intend to stand by the Cardinal!"
"Bravo!" cried Armand; "never desert your colours! I wish, though, that you belonged to our side."
"You will come over to us yet," I said. "A week ago you were hand in glove with De Retz; now you are Condé's friends. Next week——"
"That is too far off to consider," laughed Armand. "Next week? Why there are several days before that time arrives! Your mind flies too fast, my boy. I have yet to hear what led to such a hubbub this evening!"
"A mere trifle," remarked Raoul; "Madame Coutance behaved foolishly. The Abbé's mob ordered her to cry 'Down with Condé!' and she told them they weren't fit to be his doormat."
"She has plenty of pluck!"
"It is a pity she hasn't a little more common-sense. To-night she might have set all Paris by the ears through her want of thought. Mazarin was right in declaring she is like a child playing with fire."
"By the way," asked Raoul, "who was the soldier fighting for us? By his uniform he should be one of the Queen's Guards."
"He does belong to them. He is an Englishman named Humphreys, and a right good fellow."
"A fine swordsman! It was wonderful how he cleared a space; the people were afraid to be anywhere near him."
"I must introduce him at the first opportunity. You are sure to like him."
"Not as an opponent," laughed Raoul; "and he doesn't seem likely to be anything else at present. Well, we turn off here; I shall see you at the end of the week."
"Meanwhile keep your eyes open!" D'Arçy advised, as they proceeded towards the Luxembourg, while I, crossing the Pont Neuf, turned down by the Quai.
I had at the time a great deal to think of. Being young and strong, I cared little for the threatened danger, but my stock of money was running low, and I foresaw that, unless something unexpected happened, I should be stranded before long for want of funds.
Thus far, I thought bitterly, my search for fortune had not met with much success. Twice I had been within an ace of death, and my body still bore the marks of several wounds. Mazarin, to whose service I was pledged, had been banished, and I could find another patron only among his enemies. Completely wrapped up in these thoughts, I wandered along the dirty quay, and turning mechanically in the proper direction, reached the Rue des Catonnes.
The next day I increased my stock of ready money by the sale of my horse, which enabled me to carry on again for a time, and I hoped that before the supply was exhausted a fresh turn of fortune's wheel would relieve my difficulties. Raoul, of course, would have lent me his purse freely, but that I did not wish.
During the evening my English friend came across from the Palais Royal for a chat about the adventure of the previous night. Like Raoul, he blamed Madame Coutance for her stupid behaviour, speaking his mind freely, and not stopping to choose his words.
"Did you return with your comrades?" I asked.
"Yes, and a lucky thing too, or I should have got into worse trouble. As it was, our captain reproved me severely for engaging in a street brawl. Upon my word I think my brain must be softening."
"What is the matter?"
"Matter?" he cried, banging his fist on the table. "Why, it takes a man all his time to find out where he stands in this topsy-turvy city. Just tell me what this commotion is about, will you? It may be easy enough for a Frenchman to understand, but for me—it makes my head swim."
He listened attentively while I explained the situation, asking a question here and there, and turning the answers over in his mind.
"Oh," he observed at the end, "the affair is simple enough after all. The Queen has only to clap Orleans, Condé, and De Retz into the Bastille, and the trick is done. If their friends grumbled, why they could go too, and fight out their quarrels in prison. What is the use of being a Queen if you don't rule?"
"Your plan is excellent, but it would bring about civil war, and we don't want that."
"But you have it now!" he objected quickly. "What else was the visit of the mob to the Palace the other night? And this Condé—he issues his orders like a king, though according to you he is only a subject. I would have no such subjects in my country."
"The trouble must be over soon. The King will be proclaimed of age on his fourteenth birthday, and all parties will rally round him."
"A good thing for the country!" said he, rising. "Well, I must get back; I am on guard to-night."
It was dreary work sitting in my room alone, so, putting on my hat, I strolled into the streets, and finally found myself at the house in the Rue Crillon. Madame Coutance was at home, and she received me with high good-humour, calling me one of her knights-errant, and declaring I had helped to save her life, which was really true.
It was interesting to observe how differently the two ladies regarded the same circumstance. The elder one could talk only of the romantic parts; the challenge of the mob, the defiance, the fight, the arrival of the soldiers, the torchlight procession, the humbling of De Retz. Marie, on the contrary, cared little for these things; all her anxiety was for the people who had been injured.
"The more I see of these troubles, the more hateful they become," she said. "They have divided families, and parted friends; they have starved the poor and desolated the country, and no good has resulted from them."
"The country requires a strong man like Condé to hold the reins," remarked her aunt.
"Or a learned priest like De Retz," I put in slily, and was met at once by strong expressions of dissent; Marie, in particular, declaring she would rather hear of the recall of Mazarin, which I ventured to prophesy would be the outcome of these petty squabbles.
The girl seemed rather sad, and I was not surprised when she said, "I wish we were back at Aunay, away from the turmoil. There is no peace in this continual whirl of excitement. I am always thinking some evil is going to happen."
"Nonsense," exclaimed her aunt. "How can there be any danger now that Condé has returned to his rightful place? De Retz will never dare to harm the prince's friends," a naïve remark, which much amused me.
It was late when I left the house, and the street was nearly deserted. Standing a moment on the step, I suddenly became aware of an ill-dressed fellow evidently watching me from the shelter of a door-way nearly opposite.
"A spy!" I concluded, "and a very clumsy one, too. I wonder if he has been set to dog me?"
I crossed the road carelessly, when the fellow, no doubt hoping he had not been noticed, slipped off, and, on my following a short distance, he darted into a narrow street and disappeared. Puzzled by this strange behaviour, I hid in the shadow of a wall, and kept a patient watch for over an hour, but he did not return.
"Chut!" I exclaimed at last, "Raoul has shaken my nerves with his warning of Peleton and Maubranne. Most likely the man did not know me from Adam." I endeavoured to dismiss the incident from my mind, yet I could think of little else during the walk home, and even the next day the memory of it clung to me. It seemed absurd to suppose that any one would spy on my actions, but in those days nothing was too absurd to be true.
"Well," I thought, "it can soon be tested. I will visit the Rue Crillon again to-night, and keep a sharp look-out."
The streets as usual were extremely noisy; the citizens were out in crowds, and several slight scuffles occurred between the friends of Condé and De Retz. Taking no notice of these squabbles, I proceeded briskly to the Rue Crillon, and there found my man in his hiding-place. He was carefully watching the house opposite, but as soon as I appeared within sight he vanished.
"Oh, oh," said I to myself, with a chuckle, "it is Madame Coutance you are watching, is it? Well, my friend, you will find that two can play at that game!" and, discovering a quiet corner, I stood flattened against the wall with my face muffled.
Two hours passed, but the man did not re-appear, and, when midnight arrived without any incident, I left the Rue Crillon, which was now almost deserted.
In a side street a number of people were cheering loudly for Condé, and farther on I met half a dozen cavaliers evidently returning from some meeting. One was Baron Maubranne. Willing to keep out of mischief, I drew aside to let him pass, hoping he would not recognise me. He passed on singing lustily, but a second man stared insolently into my face. Keeping my temper, though my fingers itched to chastise the fellow, I went on my way, thinking the danger past; but in this I was wrong.
To reach the Pont Neuf it was necessary to traverse a narrow dingy court, and here my life and my story nearly came to an end together.
Still thinking of the mysterious spy in the Rue Crillon, and not at all of Maubranne's friends, I proceeded slowly, paying little heed to my route. Happily for me the court was very quiet; the inmates had retired to rest, and nothing broke the stillness of the night.
Suddenly I stopped, with my hand on my sword, and listened intently. From behind came the swift patter of footsteps, and turning round I perceived dimly the figure of a man gliding along in the shadow of the wall. Before I could get my sword free he sprang at me, and, in endeavouring to avoid the blow, I fell heavily. With a jeering laugh the assassin flourished his sword, and, as I caught sight of his face, all hope vanished, for the man was Peleton. Looking down at me, he gripped his weapon more firmly, and prepared to strike home.
"You are a clever lad," said he tauntingly, "but all the skill in the world won't save you now. I intend to pay off my old debts."
The fall had half stunned me, but the sound of his voice and the gleam of steel brought back my senses. I was struggling to regain my feet, when I heard a hoarse shout, and the next instant Peleton's weapon went flying into the air. A second man had run up hurriedly, and was gripping my assailant's arm.
"Fool!" cried he, "can't you wait? Don't you know the Abbé has need of him? A plague on your stupid temper; it will ruin everything. Put up your sword, M. de Lalande," for by now I was standing on guard, "our friend here has made a trifling mistake, that is all."
It was difficult to refrain from laughing at the man's coolness. He spoke as if a sword thrust was a matter hardly to be considered; but I thanked him, nevertheless, for having saved my life.
"Not at all, not at all!" he replied. "There is nothing to be thankful for. I only grudged my friend the pleasure of paying his score before my own account was settled."
By this time I had recognised Maubranne, who, for some reason best known to himself, had interfered to prevent my being killed. Now he rejoined Peleton, who meanwhile had groped about in the darkness and recovered his sword, and the two worthies departed together, leaving me in a state of considerable amazement.
For a short while I remained trying to understand clearly what had happened, but it was all so strange that I could make nothing of it. There was, of course, no mystery in Peleton's attempt on my life, but what was I to think of Maubranne's rescue?
The baron had distinctly stated I had no reason to thank him, I was only enjoying a respite, and that for the oddest of reasons—the Abbé had need of me! What could be made of so astounding a remark as that? De Retz was no friend to me, while almost every act of mine had been opposed to his interests. Without having the least suspicion as to the actual truth, I felt that the Abbé's plans boded me no good. I was like a person groping in the darkness, and expecting every moment to fall into a deep pit.
"Can't you wait?" Maubranne had asked.
For what was Peleton to wait? And how could it affect me? Why should the fellow's temper spoil everything? From Maubranne's words it appeared that the success of their scheme, whatever it was, depended on me. Yet from the very beginning I had fought them tooth and nail.
"This business will drive me crazy," I muttered, "it is worse than the muddle at La Boule d'Or. Both these blackguards would gladly give me a few inches of steel, and yet, having me wholly in their power, they do me no injury. It is evident that I, in some manner, am to further the interests of their party. Am I to be offered a bribe?"
This was making myself out to be a person of some consequence, but I could think of nothing else. However, it was useless to stand there all night, so, keeping a keen look-out for fresh danger, I hurried from the court and made straight for the Pont Neuf. A few night-birds were abroad, but I passed on swiftly, keeping well within the shadow of the walls.
As it chanced, the night's adventures were not finished even yet. Turning into the Rue des Carolines, I was almost at home, when a man, slipping from the shadow of a doorway, swung a lantern in my face. Peleton's cowardly attack had put me on my guard, and in less than a second my sword was at the fellow's throat.
He was either very stupid or very brave.
"M. de Lalande?" said he quietly, and, thrusting a folded paper into my hand, vanished.
I ran a few yards hoping to catch him, but he was soon swallowed up in the darkness, and there was nothing for it but to return. In my room I opened the packet with nervous haste. The letter, or rather note, consisted of only a few words, and had no signature. I gazed at the writing curiously, it was cramped, partly illegible, and in a man's hand. By supplying a letter here and there I managed to piece together the strange message.
"When the net is spread openly, only a foolish bird will be ensnared. A wise one will fly away. An old story relates how a swallow once found safety in the tents of an army."
Nothing more! I read it through again and again till I had learned every word by heart. Who wrote it? I knew not. I counted no friends among the enemy, and danger was hardly likely to come from Raoul's party. Peleton's attempt to murder me was merely the outcome of personal spite, and had nothing to do with this fresh adventure. Yet, on one point, the message was clear. Some peril threatened me, and my best chance of safety lay in flight. But why? I sat down to thresh the matter out.
Including my cousin, I had three enemies. Henri disliked me, because I had, to a certain extent, spoiled his plans; yet I did not, for an instant, imagine that he sought my life—that was out of all reason. There remained Maubranne and Peleton, either of whom would kill me without scruple, but that very night the baron had interfered to save my life! Once more I was forced back on the mystery attached to his words. What was it the Abbé proposed to do with me? Buzz! buzz! buzz! The question hummed in my head till I was nearly wild. It went with me to bed, it kept me awake half the night, and was the first thing I was conscious of in the morning.
Directly after breakfast, I hurried to the Luxembourg to take counsel with Raoul. He was on duty, but young D'Arçy, observing my agitation, volunteered to relieve him.
"What is it?" asked my comrade anxiously. "Has anything happened? Here, come into this room where we shall not be interrupted."
Without delay I plunged into the story, telling him first of the mysterious spy in the Rue Crillon, the encounter with Peleton, and Maubranne's strange action and words.
"Well, my friend," said he, "you have an adventure on hand now that ought to keep your time fairly occupied! I don't understand it in the least, but it is plain you have become an important person. There is one thing I would like to know, but don't answer if you would rather not. Are you in Mazarin's secrets?"
"I have heard nothing of the Cardinal since my visit to Aunay."
"Then that notion falls to the ground. I thought De Retz might imagine you could give him some useful information. And yet, I don't know. People say he is already in the Queen's confidence."
"Well," I remarked, "if the first chapter is exciting, what do you think of the second?" and I showed him the warning note, which he read with a strangely puzzled air.
"Where did this come from?" he asked, and I informed him, adding that the messenger was a total stranger whom I should be unable to recognise.
"Still," said he, "it shows there is some one in the Abbé's confidence who wishes you well. I wonder if it can be Madame de Chevreuse? She is concerned with most of his plans."
"I have not met her since the night of the ball and besides, this is a man's writing."
"That can be accounted for easily; she employs several secretaries."
I shook my head, saying Madame de Chevreuse was not likely to interest herself in my welfare.
After walking about the room for a time, Raoul stopped and exclaimed, "Suppose we are looking at the matter from the wrong side? How can you be certain this note comes from a friend? It may be a trick to lure you away from Paris!"
"If so, it will fail. I will not leave the city for an hour, even were Turenne to offer me the command of a regiment."
"Why not accept service with the Duke? You would be in a much safer position."
"No. I will see this thing through alone. I will not budge a foot for all the fighting priests in the country."
"Don't be over venturesome. De Retz is a crafty foe and is playing just now for high stakes. If rumour speaks true, he is going to try a fall with Condé himself. Now I must set Armand at liberty, but I will come to your rooms at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, if you require help, a note will bring me instantly."
I returned home still in a state of bewilderment. The mystery was as dark as ever, and, cudgel my brains as I would, I could throw no light on it.
That same evening I laid the case before John Humphreys, but naturally he was unable to offer any explanation.
"Show me an enemy," said he, "and I will stand up against him, but I am a poor hand at fighting shadows. However, it is plain enough that some one has marked you down, and you will have to walk warily."
That, indeed, was the only advice any one could offer. The thing which troubled me most at this time was the presence of the spy in the Rue Crillon. The ladies apparently had not noticed him, so I said nothing to them, but continued to keep a strict watch on the mysterious stranger who night after night prowled about near their house. What he expected to gain was difficult to imagine, as he neither followed Madame Coutance abroad nor attempted to molest her. At first I thought him a clumsy fellow, but twice when I tried to catch him he vanished cleverly down the narrow streets.
One evening, while strolling carelessly along the Rue Pierre, I met my cousin Henri. He was wearing a long mantle with a hood, and appeared in a great hurry. To my surprise, however, he stopped and exclaimed quite cordially, "Ah, cousin, you are a stranger! I have not seen you for a long time. I was sorry to hear of Peleton's mad prank. Were you hurt?"
"No," said I, rather shortly.
"You are a lucky fellow, Albert. For a lad from the country, you have done well. Peste! You have made quite a splash in the world, and I am proud of my cousin."
"You do me great honour," said I, with a mocking bow.
"Not more than you deserve. By the way, is it true that you have joined Condé's party?"
"Why?"
"Because you were with his mob when Madame Coutance behaved so stupidly."
"I did my best to save a woman from being torn to pieces—nothing more."
"It was very gallant of you," and then, as an afterthought, "so you still fancy there is a chance of Mazarin's return?"
"There may be, or not. I only know that I am pledged to assist him, and that the De Lalandes have been taught to keep their word."
"Quite right!" returned Henri, gaily. "Well, adieu, my faithful cousin! Your constancy is touching, and I hope it may bring you good fortune, but of that I am doubtful," and, with a careless laugh, he hurried on.
"Planning some fresh mischief!" I muttered, and dismissed the incident from my mind.
Nearly a week had now passed since the receipt of the mysterious note, and nothing of consequence had happened. Every day I went into the streets without disguise or attempt at concealment, and no one paid any attention to my doings.
About this time the city was considerably agitated, and filled with all sorts of conflicting rumours. Among other things it was hinted that Mazarin, having re-entered France, was marching at the head of a foreign army on Paris, with the avowed object of razing it to the ground.
De Retz, laughing in his sleeve, went about attended by a numerous and well-armed retinue to protect him from being murdered; Condé followed his example, and the petits maîtres swaggered more than ever, especially when they met the friends of De Retz; at the Hôtel Vendôme, the Duke of Beaufort stayed in bed, having, according to rumour, been poisoned; while Gaston of Orleans was popularly supposed to have joined four separate plots in one day, and betrayed them all to the Queen before night. Thus far, however, nothing serious had resulted from these wonderful doings, and I was chiefly concerned with my own private affairs.
"It seems to me," I said to Raoul one night, as we walked together toward the Rue Crillon, "that we have been making a mountain out of a mole-hill. More than a week has passed now since the warning, and I am none the worse."
"Yet the spy still keeps watch?"
"He was there last night, but I could not get near him. Perhaps you may have better luck."
The man was in his usual place, and I pointed him out to Raoul, whispering, "That is he. Are you acquainted with him?"
"No. He belongs to the class that either De Retz or Condé can buy by the dozen. Don't look that way. Let us cross the road. I will slip through this alley and enter the street at the other end; then we shall have him between us."
Unfortunately for our purpose the fellow was particularly wide-awake, and as Raoul appeared at the corner he moved away. Following cautiously, we kept him in sight for a good distance, but finally he disappeared in a maze of alleys.
"Peste!" exclaimed my comrade, discontentedly, "he is an artful rascal. If we could catch him he might be able to tell us all we want to learn. There must be some reason for his actions. Is he always alone?"
"Always."
"We must set a trap for him."
"Let me try once more by myself. I dislike the idea of being beaten by a spy."
"As you will; and if you fail, I will borrow some troopers from the Luxembourg and lay him by the heels. At all events the fellow will know who pays him."
The next night I set off for the Rue Crillon, and, after spending an hour or two with Marie and her aunt, went back into the street. My man, as usual, was in full view, and it appeared to me, rather overdid his part, as if he was anxious to attract my attention.
However, there was not much leisure for reflection, and I walked quickly and boldly towards him, when he immediately made off. Angry at being baulked so often, and determined to discover his business, I followed sharply, and nearly caught him at the bottom of the narrow street running at right angles to the Rue Crillon. A stupid charcoal-burner lost me my advantage here, but perceiving which way the spy went I hurried on in the same direction.
For half an hour I patiently tracked my quarry, through a network of narrow streets and alleys crossing and re-crossing each other like an Eastern puzzle. By this time I was hopelessly astray, never having been in that quarter, which was one of the worst in the city. Under other circumstances I should have feared to trust myself in those horrible courts, but now I did not even remember the danger.
Presently the spy himself seemed doubtful as to which turning to take. He stood a moment in apparent hesitation, but, finding me close on his heels, darted as if at random up a narrow entrance. It was a cul-de-sac containing perhaps half a dozen houses, and I chuckled inwardly on finding how completely he had trapped himself. I could not have desired a better place for my purpose. The court was very quiet; the houses were old and dilapidated, and the inmates had either gone to bed or had not returned from their nightly wanderings. We two had a clear stage to ourselves.
The man was a regular coward after all. He looked this way and that with frightened eyes, ran on a few paces as if hoping to find a way out, came back, and finally made a dash to get past me.
"Oh, ho, not so fast, my good fellow!" I cried, barring his path. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"I have lost my way, monsieur," he answered in a whining voice.
"How strange! So have I! We may as well keep each other company. Don't look like that, I am not going to hurt you."
"I feared monsieur meant to kill me," he whimpered.
"Bah! I only want a little information, which will be well paid for. Are you willing to earn ten crowns?"
"Ten crowns, monsieur? Certainly."
"Then tell me what you do in the Rue Crillon and who pays you? Answer these questions and here are the ten crowns."
"And if not, monsieur?" said he, still whining like a beggar.
"If not it will be the worse for you. Quick, make your choice, I cannot stay here for ever."
It was the rascal's turn now to laugh, as some one, throwing a heavy mantle over my head, tripped me up violently.
"His sword, quick! Take it away! Tie his arms firmly; he is a mad bull for fighting. Now his pistols, François, you fat pig! Softly monsieur! Tap him on the head if he struggles. Are you ready, Pierre? What a time! are your fingers in knots? Now, monsieur, your choice—will you come quietly or must we use force?"
I lay on the ground half dazed and only partly understanding the fellow's meaning, so, to awaken my interest he repeated his questions, pressing one of my own pistols to my head.
"Take that thing away," I said, "and help me to my feet. You have the upper hand at present."
Laughing mischievously, he withdrew the weapon, and his companions, pushing me upright, half led, half dragged me into one of the dilapidated houses. We ascended a flight of stairs, went along a narrow passage, and so into a room which had been prepared for my reception.
At least, that was the conclusion I arrived at when two of the men having gone out, the third said, "Monsieur, there is a bed of straw in the corner, the door is bolted, the window barred, and I am going to keep watch inside all night, while Pierre and François relieve each other outside the door."
I could not see the speaker, as the room was in darkness, but his voice sounded familiar, and I tried, but in vain, to remember where I had heard it before. However, this did not matter, so I lay down on the straw, and wondered what the adventure meant.
Who were my gaolers, and what did they intend to do with me? Presently Maubranne's words flashed into my mind, and set me thinking that this might be a move in the plot at which the mysterious note hinted. Just how De Retz could make use of me I had not the faintest notion, but he was a clever schemer, and had, presumably, laid his plans carefully. However, as no amount of speculation on this head would improve matters, I began to reflect on the best way of escape. My arms were tightly bound, the door was well secured, the window barred, and a gaoler, wide-awake and armed, sat between me and it. Altogether the prospect was far from cheering.
"Sleep will perhaps bring counsel," I muttered, and, turning on my side, I dozed off into a light, restless slumber.
With the coming of day I was able to make an inspection of my new abode. The room was small, dirty, out of repair, and destitute of furniture. In the corner opposite to mine was another heap of straw, and on it sat the man whom long ago I had gagged and bound in the chamber at La Boule d'Or, and who afterwards was my companion from Aunay to Paris. Perceiving that I recognised him, the rascal showed his teeth in a broad grin, and exclaimed, "The wheel has turned, monsieur! It seems that we have changed parts."
"And you are uppermost this time," I answered, striving to speak good-humouredly, for it is a bad plan to quarrel with one's gaoler.
Rising and taking a turn round the room, Pillot stood still at my side.
"Listen to me, monsieur," said he. "Some months ago I lost the game to you and you acted like a lad of honour. When your own life was in danger you remembered me, and I am still grateful. Now let me give you a friendly warning. Of course, you are planning to get away. Abandon the idea, as you cannot escape alive. There is an armed man beneath the window, while Pierre or François will knock you on the head without the least hesitation. We all have our orders."
"Merci! It is just as well to know what one has to expect. Do the orders include starving your prisoner?"
"Here comes François in reply to the question; but you must pass your word not to take advantage if I unbind you."
After a moment's reflection I gave the required promise, upon which Pillot untied my arms, and then, opening the door, admitted François, who carried the food.
"Here is breakfast, monsieur," said the dwarf, making an elaborate bow. "It is not as good as the supper we enjoyed together in the village inn, but François has not had much experience in the character of host. Later on he will doubtless acquit himself better."