The traitor's way

by S. Levett Yeats

I looked at the resolute face and honest eyes. There was no treachery there.

“No, Badehorn—not you.”

He was sparing of speech, and said nothing; but his face brightened like that of a faithful dog caressed by its master, and I went on.

“I am going out now—on foot—let it be thought that I am returning shortly—give me my cloak.”

As he helped me on with my cloak, he said, “Monsieur, Billot has just returned from the Louvre, and says that they are taking the King at once to Blois, and that the Cardinal has gone already.”

“The Cardinal gone?”

“Monsieur—and the whole place in an uproar.”

“It will give us breathing space, and more chance of escape then,” I muttered. Then with a last word of caution to Badehorn, I left the room, and walked down the wide stairway I was never to see again.

Across the flagged courtyard, and into the street I went, and was soon lost in the throng of humanity that surged down toward the river face and the palace. I made no attempt at concealment. There was concealment enough in being an atom of that heaving mass, and the eyes would have been sharp indeed that could have recognized any one in the streets, where the drizzle blurred out everything an arm’s length ahead, though here and there a faint splash of blue in the monotonous gray overhead showed that it was likely to clear soon. Under the dripping eaves, beneath the shelter of the overhanging windows, within and about the doors of shops and cabarets, groups of people were assembled, all talking eagerly and in an excited manner of the events of the past two days. Despite the rain the streets were crowded with ever-moving waves of passers-by, and now and then above the swish of the rain, above the continuous and insistent hum of voices, one could hear a shout of “Down with the tiger of Lorraine!”—a cry that would be replied to at once by an answering, “A Guise! A Guise! Death to the Huguenots!” Then would follow a roar of many throats that showed that the passions of the mob were rising to fever heat.

I paid no attention, however, to what was passing, but went steadily onward toward the Rue des Lavandières. In that quiet street was an inn, kept by one who was a secret agent of our party, and I judged that in his house I would be safe from observation until the hour came for me to meet Marie. I was in a frame of mind not easy to describe. I was conscious that I had played an utterly despicable part toward my friend, whilst at the same time I fully believed that I was justified in rescuing Marie—so I put it to myself—from her unhappy condition, and I had persuaded myself moreover that any means were justifiable to attain that end and give me the woman I loved. That love for her had grown to be part of my life. How it all came about I know not; but it was on my return from the campaign in the Milanese that I met her, frivolous and gay, amongst the gay and brilliant beauties of the “Queen-Mother’s Squadron.” She had been but lately married to the Comte de Marcilly, a family arrangement, and though there was love on his side there was none on hers—as she thought—and they slowly drifted apart. It was the case of a wife, feather-brained, but good at heart, with just enough imagination to make it a peril, and of a husband who could neither come down to his wife’s level nor lift her to his. And the result was unhappiness. It was at this moment that we met, and one of those friendships that will spring up between man and woman sprang up between us, and inch by inch we drifted nearer to danger without either suspecting it. Then came the revelation, and I learned what she was to me—and she—to this day I know not if she ever loved me—but for the moment she was as mad as I was, and am still, when I think of her. As I walked on, however, I was sore at heart. My conscience was still awake within me, though its voice was unheeded, and I went on, sullen and resolved on my course, one whom it would have been dangerous to cross at the moment. I went straight onward until I came to the river face, and then turning sharply to the left followed the Vallée de Misère until I reached the mouth of the Rue des Lavandières.