I
'Madam la Reyne,' wrote Gilles the self-same night ere he laid down to rest, 'I entreat you to seek out Monseigneur le duc d'Anjou at once. Matters have occurred which might endanger the whole Success of this Enterprise. Madame Jacqueline is beautiful, exquisite, the most perfect Woman that ever graced a princely husband's house. So let Monseigneur come at once, Madame la Reyne, at once, I beg of you most humbly! and do entreat you to send me word by Maître Jehan when I may expect him.
'I am, your Majesty's
'Most Obedient and Most Faithful Servant,
'Gilles de Crohin.'
He felt more calm, more at peace with himself when he had written this letter, and allowed Jehan now to undress him and to attend to his wounds. They were not serious, certainly not so serious as many others which he had sustained in the past and recovered from without much trouble. But, somehow, this time he felt in a fever, the paltry scratches seemed unaccountably to throb, and his temples ached nigh to splitting.
Jehan, stolid and disapproving, pulled off his master's boots, took off doublet and hose with care and dexterity, but without making any attempt at conversation. What went on behind his low, square forehead could easily be conjectured: a towering rage against his own halting speech, which had prevented his proclaiming the truth before Madame Jacqueline, warred with a certain vague terror that Messire was angered with him for having brought Madame upon the scene.
But Messire apparently was too tired to scold. With unusual meekness he allowed Jehan to wash and dress that cut he had in the shoulder, and the one which had penetrated the fleshy part of his thigh. Maître Jehan was skilful in such matters. His father had been an apothecary at Grenoble and had taught the youngster something of the art of drugs and simples, until the latter's roving disposition had driven him to seeking fortune abroad. He still knew, however, how to minister to a wounded man, how to stem the flow of blood, and apply healing bandages. All this he did now in silence, and with the loving care engendered by his passionate affection for the master whom he served, the friend to whom he owed his life.
And all the while Gilles lay quite quiescent, so passive and patient that Jehan felt he must be very sick. Anger, self-contempt, self-reproach, had brought a heavy frown between his brows. Jacqueline's adorable image gave him a heart-ache more difficult to bear than any physical pain. For a long while he kept his eyes resolutely closed, in order to shut out the vision of a golden head and a demure, tantalizing face, which seemed to mock at him from out the dark angle of the room. It was only when Jehan had finished his ministrations and in his turn was ready to go to bed that he woke once more to the realities of life.
'Thou art a good soul, Jehan,' he murmured, with the first return to well-being brought about by the good fellow's restoratives.
'And you a mightily foolish one!' thought Jehan within himself, while he merely stuttered a moody: 'Aye—aye!'
'To-morrow morning,' continued Gilles; 'or rather, this morning—for 'tis past midnight now—thou'lt start for La Fère——'