The Chevalier d'Auriac

by S. Levett Yeats

CHAPTER XIV

[UNDER THE LIMES]

It mattered little to me if I rode a portion of my way back with de Belin, and so I turned Couronne's head as he wished. Before setting off, however, he gave some rapid and whispered orders to Vallon, emphasising them with a loud 'Quick, mind you, and do not fail.'

'It is not likely, monsieur,' answered Vallon, and then set off.

The crowd was as great as ever, and we were compelled to go slowly. Looking for a moment to my right as we went forwards, I saw Vallon making as much haste as he could in the delivery of his message, and I wished to myself that my own stout-hearted knave were with me. One blade such as his was worth a half-dozen hired swords.

It was my intention to leave de Belin at his hotel and make my way as quickly as possible to my lodging, and thence, taking the risk of the King's warning, go straight to the Rue Varenne and urge Madame to instant flight. My house of cards had come down, a fluttering heap, as the first story was raised, and to my mind there was nothing for it but a sharp spur and a loose rein. I wished, too, for a moment of leisure to examine Coiffier's gift. I had little doubt that it conveyed a message or a warning, and the sooner I got at its contents the better.

In the meantime Belin rode by my side, whistling a march to himself, whilst a couple of lackeys immediately behind us shouted themselves hoarse with an insistent 'Way, way for Monsieur le Compte!'

This cry of theirs was being constantly echoed by a Capuchin, who, mounted on a mule, with his hood drawn over his face so as to show little but his eyes and a portion of a grey beard, kept alternately flinging an 'Ave!' and a 'Way! way!' to the crowd, the whiles he stuck close to our heels, having evidently made up his mind to follow the old saw—the stronger the company the freer the road.

I know not why it was, but the jingling notes of the tune my friend whistled irritated me beyond measure, and at last, at the corner of the Rue Perrault, I could stand it no longer, and, reining in, held out my hand.

'I must say good-bye here, Belin. We will meet again, and meet in better times, I trust, for me. In the meanwhile let me thank you, my friend. The rest of my business lies in my own hand.'

He laughed and said, 'Not yet good-bye; and as for your business, there is some of it in Coiffier's wooden ball. I would open that here before you decide to leave me.'

'Morbleu! You all seem to be determined to speak to me in riddles. Why can you not say plainly what you mean? And, besides, this is no place to read.'

'It is as good as any other. See here, d'Auriac! I slipped out of the King's cabinet as he spoke to you, and told Madame how your affair was progressing. She herself had something to communicate to you. The matter was pressing, and as things stood she could not tell you there. As for your being treated like a pawn, I give you my word it was beyond me to help that. But if you come with me you will learn many things within the hour. In the meantime open the ball, man! It was a lucky thing Coiffier was there.'

Without any further hesitation I drew forth Coiffier's gift. It was, as I have said, a hollow, wooden globe, and was made in two parts, which could be joined together or separated by a turn of the wrist. I held it in my hands for a moment or so and then opened it, and had just pulled forth the paper it contained, when by ill chance, as it seemed, the Capuchin, who was urging his mule past us, brushed violently against my horse, with the result that the paper slipped from between my fingers and fluttered to earth. Couronne, after her first start, was steady enough, but the monk's ill-conditioned mule kicked and plunged, bringing him apparently heavily to the ground. He fell exactly over the paper and lay there for a moment, face downwards, resting on one elbow. I sprang down, as much to get the paper as to assist him, but as I did so, he scrambled to his feet with 'A hundred pardons, monsieur, for my clumsiness,' and then hastily turned and hurried after his mule, which was already many yards ahead, behaving after its kind, and whose speed was not diminished by the sticks, stones, and oaths flung at him; and there was a roar of laughter—a mob will laugh or hiss at the merest trifles—as the lank figure of the Capuchin sped along in pursuit of his beast and vanished after him down a side street.

Belin himself joined in the merriment, and I picked up the paper, muddy and much soiled. Smoothening it out against the flap of my saddle, I made out the words, 'To-night, under the limes in the Tuileries—at compline.' There was no doubt about the writing, and, thrusting the precious scrap into my breast-pocket, I remounted. As I did so de Belin said:

'Well, have you changed your plans?'

'Partly, but I think I shall go back to my lodging.'

'Do nothing of the kind as yet. I have asked Pantin to meet us at the Two Ecus, your own ordinary. Vallon has gone to call him. You can give him any orders there. You owe me as much as to yield to me in this.'

It would have been ungracious not to have agreed, and I told Lisois I would go with him.

'Hasten, then! The road is clearer now, thanks to the Capuchin, or rather to his mule. By the way, did you see the monk's face?'

'No!'

'A pity! I tried to, but failed in the attempt. His voice was familiar to me, and he seemed wonderfully active for an old man.'

'You are suspicion itself, Belin.'

'I have slept with the dogs and risen with the fleas. Harkee, Hubert! And you, Pierre! If you see that Capuchin again let me know at once; keep your eyes open. If you can persuade him to speak to me, it will be worth five crowns a-piece to you.'

'Monsieur's wishes shall be obeyed,' said both men in a breath, and now finding the road free enough we set off at a canter, and kept the pace up until almost at the door of the Two Ecus.

As we pulled up at the ordinary and dismounted, Belin exclaimed: 'Now for our supper. I am of those who can only fight under a full belt, and I would advise you, d'Auriac—you who will have fighting to do very soon perhaps—to follow my advice, and make the best use you can of your knife.'

I laughed out some reply, and then, turning to mine host, ordered refreshment for both man and beast, and directed that our supper should be served in a private room.

'And observe,' cut in Belin, 'if Maître Pantin arrives, let him be shown up to us at once.'

'Monsieur.'

Before we went in de Belin asked his men if they had seen any more of the monk, and received an answer in the negative. Bidding them remember his orders on the subject, he linked his arm in mine and we went within.

'You seem in a way about the monk,' I said.

'My dear friend, I cannot get it out of my head that I have seen him before, and I don't like a riddle like that to be unsolved.'

'This comes of your court intrigues, de Belin. You were not wont to be so.'

'Other times, other manners,' he answered, a little grimly, and we sat at our table.

How well do I remember that small room in the Two Ecus, with the dark oak wainscoting, the furniture that age had polished, the open window showing the yellow sunset between the high-roofed and many-gabled houses, the red Frontignac sparkling like rubies in our long-necked glasses, and the deft service of Susette, the landlord's daughter, whose pretty lips pouted with disappointment, because no notice was taken of her good looks by the two cavaliers who supped together, whose faces were so grave, and whose speech was in tones so low as to be heard only by each other. At last we were left to ourselves, and Belin, who had been explaining many things to me that I knew not before, suddenly rose and began to pace the room, saying: 'You take the position now, d'Auriac. If not, let me put the points again before you briefly. There are men like Sully, Villeroi, Forget, and I myself, who understand and grasp the King's views, and know that if he has his way France will be the greatest country on earth. On the other hand, Henry is bound by ties of much service rendered to him by men like Sancy, who disgraces his name by plundering the state, and Zamet, who cannot disgrace himself by anything he does. These men, and such as they, exhaust our resources if they do nothing else, and serve the cause of the great nobles, such as Epernon, Turenne, Tremouille, and above all Biron, whose ambition knows no bounds, and who, I am certain, will never be still unless his head is on a crown-piece or else on the block.'

'But what has that to do with me?'

'Listen! Great as the King is, he has one failing—you know what it is; and it is on this the Sancys and Birons play. To carry out his own designs it is necessary that Henry should be saved from himself. The Italian embassy is with us, and whilst d'Ossat and the Cardinal performed the ostensible object of their mission, they affected another and secret object—and that was the arrangement of the King's marriage with Marie de Medici.'

'The King's marriage!'

'Yes.'

'But the Queen still lives.'

'And long may she live; but not as Queen.'

'Ah!'

'Exactly; you begin to see now. If we can make this move we get the support of the Quirinal, and, more, the help of the Florentine coffers. We will paralyse the great conspiracy which Biron heads—rather a league than a conspiracy. We can dispense with the expensive services of Sancy, of Ornano, and of Zamet, and then Henry will be free to carry out his great designs.'

'If, however, Biron is as strong as you say?'

'Permit me—we are providing for that. He has been kept close to the King. Sully, as Master-General of the ordnance, has ordered the guns at Dijon to be sent to Paris with a view of replacing them with new ones. None are going, and by the time that the King's betrothal is announced, Burgundy will be as much Henry's as it is the Marshal's now.'

'But he will believe nothing against Biron.'

'Other people have nursed vipers before, but the King is not himself now. He can think of nothing but one thing. See here, d'Auriac, I have helped you for two reasons: one, because I love France; and the other, because I love you. Henry has ordered the marriage of Madame de Bidache with d'Ayen to be celebrated to-morrow. He gave that order to-day, to put an end to the importunities of the Marshal in regard to de Gomeron. I know this, and Madame knows it too. In plain language you must play a bold stroke for the woman you love—take her away to-night.'

'That was partly arranged—we are to go to Switzerland.'

'You will never reach the frontier. Look—there is my castle of Mourmeton in Champagne. It is old and half in ruins. See, here is my signet. Take it, show it to Gringel, the old forester there—he will take you to a hiding place. Stay there until the affair blows over, and then to Switzerland or elsewhere, if you will; in the meantime I pledge you the faith of de Belin that no stone will be left unturned to effect your pardon.'

I took the ring he gave me and slipped it on, and then our hands met in a hearty clasp that expressed more than words. It was at this moment that Susette announced Pantin, and the little notary came in with his quick, short step.

'I am late, messieurs, I know,' he said, 'but I was not at home when Vallon arrived, or else I had been here sooner.'

'You are in ample time for what we want, Pantin,' I said, 'though there is no time to waste. I am leaving Paris to-night, and will not return to the Rue des Deux Mondes, but start from here. My business concerns the safety and honour of Madame de la Bidache, and when I say that I know I can rely on you. Is it not so?'

'It is, monsieur.'

'Well, then, should anyone ask for me, say I have gone you know not where. You do not know, as a matter of fact. If Jacques, my servant, returns, bid him go straight to M. le Compte. He will get orders from him.'

'I understand perfectly, monsieur.'

'There is yet another thing. Hasten to Maître Palin and bid him await me now outside the Porte St. Denis with two spare horses; he will understand what I mean. And now, my friend, adieu. This will pay what I owe you,' and I thrust a half-dozen pistoles into his hand.

But he resolutely refused. 'No, no, monsieur le chevalier.'

'But dame Annette?' interposed Belin.

'Um!' said the notary, scratching his chin, 'that is another matter. I had for the moment forgotten I was a married man. Very well, monsieur, I will take the money—not that I need it, but for the sake of peace; and now there is little time to lose. I go to do all you have asked me to, and rest assured, messieurs, it will be faithfully done.'

'I have no doubt of that, Pantin.'

'We had better make a start, too,' I said, and Belin shouted for the horses. We stayed for a moment or so after the notary's departure, during which time Belin urged me to take Vallon and a couple of men with me to my tryst, but, fearing no complications, I refused, saying that this was a matter that were best done with one hand. Belin would have come himself but that, his friendship with me being known, it was necessary for him to avoid all suspicion of his being in the affair.

'I shall go to the Louvre,' he said, 'and engage d'Ayen at play. Pimental and others will be there, and, if I mistake not M. le Baron will have a sore head for his wedding,' and he chuckled here.

Then I settled the score with mine host, and, mounting our horses, we rode back the way we came. It was at the Magasins that we wished each other good-bye, and, with a last grip of the hand and a last warning to hasten to Mourmeton, Belin turned towards the Louvre, whilst I went on towards the Tuileries, keeping the northern road, and not the more frequented street along the river face. I chose this way because, although it was a little longer, yet there was still a half-hour for my appointment, and it would not do for me to arrive too early, as by hanging about at the trysting-place I might attract attention, and, perhaps, ruin the game. As I rode on I caught myself wondering if I could play the same hand that Sully, Villeroi, and de Belin were throwing to. I knew they were honest men—their positions removed them from such temptations as might assail even a great noble, and that they were loyally trying to serve their country and their King. If such service, however good its object, meant, as it clearly did, that one must be up to the elbows in intrigue, then I thanked God that I belonged to no party, and inwardly resolved that, whether I won or lost my hazard, the court would see me no more; and as for the King! Pardieu! It is not good to know a hero too well.

There was a strong moon, and the night was as clear as crystal. One side of the street was in shadow, illumined here and there by the dim light of a few lanterns set high up in niches in the old and moss-grown walls of the buildings. The houses here were old even for this part of Paris, and, with their sloping roofs and many gables, rose in irregular outlines on either side—outlines, however, so softened by the moonlight, in which they seemed to quiver, that it was as if some fantastic creation of fairyland had been set down here—a phantom city that would melt into nothingness with the warm rays of the morning sun.

Away in the distance it still seemed as if I could hear the hum of the city behind me, but here all was quiet and still and the iron-shod hoofs of Couronne rang out with a strange clearness into the night. Occasionally I met a passer on the road, but he or she, whoever they were, took care to give me a wide berth, and once a woman who had opened her door to look out, for some reason or other, hurried in and shut it with a little cry of alarm as I passed.

I had now come to the gardens of the Tuileries, and, putting Couronne at the wall which was just being raised around them, found myself within a quarter-mile of our place of meeting. The turf was soft and level here, and I let Couronne go at a half-gallop, keeping in the chequered shade of the huge trees, which whispered strange things to each other in the breeze. At this moment it seemed as if I heard the smothered neigh of a horse. I knew the sound well, for often had my old Norman tried to serve me in this way through the scarf by which his jaws were bound together when we lay in ambuscade. With a touch of my hand I stayed my beast and stopped to listen. Beyond me stretched the avenue, at the end of which stood the great lime trees. I could see nothing but the ghostly line of trunks, lit up here by the moon, there standing out black against the night, or fading away into a lacework of leaves and branches. There was no sound except the tinkle of the leaves and the sullen creaking of the boughs overhead. 'It must be her horse or Palings,' I said aloud to myself; and then the compline came to me clear and sweet from the spire of St. Germain.

I lifted my hat for an instant with a silent prayer to God for help, and then shook up Couronne. Ere the last notes of the bells had gone I was under the limes. At first I could see nothing; there was no one there; and my heart grew cold at the thought that some danger had overtaken my dear one.

'Madame!' I called out. 'It is I—-d'Auriac'

Then a figure in a grey mantle stepped out from the shadow of the trees, and I sprang from the saddle and held out my hand.

'I knew it was you, chevalier,' she said, 'but I wanted to make certain and waited until you spoke.'

'I hope I have not kept you waiting?'

'Indeed no. I had but just come across from the Louvre when you arrived.'

'Then you did not come riding?'

'How could I? I have been in the Louvre, and am expected to be at the coucher of Madame Catherine in a half-hour,' and she laughed slightly.

The thought of that smothered neigh flashed through my mind like lightning.

'We must trust ourselves to Couronne,' I said. 'Palin will be at the Porte St. Denis. There is no time to waste; come!'

Then it seemed that she hesitated, and, flinging back her hood, looked me full in the face. In the moonlight I saw her white as marble, and she suddenly put out both her hands, saying:

'I trust you utterly, d'Auriac'

Man is not made of stone, and I loved this woman as my life. There was that in her voice, in the pitiful appeal of its tones, that broke down all my false pride. I cannot say how it happened, but in a moment my arm was round her waist, and I drew her towards me, she nothing resisting.

'Claude, I love you. Give me the right to protect you.'

What she said is for my ears alone; and then she lay still and passive in my arms, her head resting on my shoulder.

So for a time we stood in silence, and then I kissed her.

'Come, dear,' I said, 'and with the morning we shall be safe.'

Of her own accord she put her arms about my neck and pressed her lips to mine, and then I lifted my darling to Couronne's saddle bow.

Had I but taken de Belin's offer! If Jacques were but with me then!

My foot was in the stirrup, my hand on the reins, when there was a sudden flash, a loud report, and my poor horse fell forward, floundering in the agony of death.

I just managed to snatch Claude from the saddle, and staggered back, and then with a rush a half-dozen men were on us. They were masked to a man, and made their attack in a perfect silence; but as my sword flashed out of my scabbard I recognised the tall figure of the Capuchin, and thrust at him fiercely, with a curse at my folly in coming alone.

Things like these take a short time in doing, and should take a shorter time in telling. I ran one man through the heart, and with a gasp he fell forwards and twisted himself like a snake round my blade. Then someone flung a cloak over my head—I was overborne by numbers and thrown. Two or three men held me down; there was an iron grip at my throat, and a man's knee pressed heavily on my chest. I made a frantic effort to free myself: the covering slipped from my face, and I saw it was the Capuchin kneeling over me, a dagger in his hand. His mask had fallen from him, and his face was the face of Ravaillac!

I could not call out, I was held too tight; and the villain lifted his poniard to strike, when a voice—the voice of de Gomeron—said:

'Hold! We will put him out another way.'

'This is the quickest and surest,' answered Ravaillac; but the reply was brief and stern.

'Carry out my orders. Gag him and bring him with us.'

'To Babette's?'

'To Babette's. There is the oubliette. Quick, there is no time to lose.'

'Oh, ho!' laughed Ravaillac, 'that is good! M. le Chevalier will be able to drown his sorrows under the Seine; but he will take a long time to die!'

'You villain!' I gasped, but like lightning the gag was on me, and then I was blindfolded. I could see nothing of Madame, though I tried my utmost to get a glimpse of her. Then I was bound hand and foot, and lifted by a couple of men. After being carried a short space I was thrust into a litter, and as this was done I heard a faint cry from Claude; and I groaned in my heart, for I was powerless to help.

The litter went forward at a jolting pace, and from the echo of hoofs around it I gathered that there were at least a dozen mounted men about me. Sometimes I heard a brief order given by de Gomeron, and the sound of his voice made me certain that Madame was with us. If so, there might still be hope, and I lay still and tried to follow our route by the movement of the party, but I could see nothing; and after a time my brain began to get confused, for we turned this way and that, up side streets, down winding roads, until the thing became impossible.

Once we were challenged by the watch, and my captor gave answer boldly:

'M. de Gomeron, of the Marshal's Guards, with prisoners for the Chatelet; let us pass in the King's name.'

I heard the words and strove to call out, but the gag was too secure. At any rate, I had learned one thing—we were going in the direction of the Chatelet. Who, then, was Babette? I had heard the name once before, on the night that I lay wounded before La Fère, and an inspiration seemed to come on me, and I was certain that the night hag and de Gomeron's Babette were one and the same.

Then we jolted on for about another half-hour—we must have passed the Chatelet by this—when suddenly the litter took a sharp turn to the right, and after going a little way was put to the ground.

'Sacré nom d'un chien!' exclaimed one of my carriers, 'he is heavy as lead.'

'He will be light enough in a week or so,' answered someone else; and then I heard the creaking of hinges, and the litter appeared to be borne within a yard and was left there. After a half-hour or so I was dragged out, and I heard a woman's voice:

'This way, my lambs; the gentleman's room is below—very far below, out of all draughts;' and she laughed, with the same pitiless note in her voice that I had heard once before—and I knew it was the murderess.

Down a winding stair we went, and I remained passive, but mentally counted the steps and the turns. There were eighteen steps and three turns, at each of which there was apparently a door, and then we stopped. There was a jingling of keys, the harsh, grating noise of a bolt being drawn back, and Babette spoke again:

'Monsieur's apartment is ready—'tis the safest room in the Toison d'Or.' Then I was flung in heavily as I was, and the door bolted behind me.