THE RUE DES LAVANDIERES
THE first thing I did after Marcilly’s departure was to replace the
glove in my pocket, then I lifted the curtain and walked into my
dressing-room. I had a mad thought that Marie might still be there. But
I was mistaken. The room was empty. I stepped up to the door leading to
the private passage and tried to open it. It was locked from the inside
and refused to yield. In her hurry, Marie must have taken the key with
her, and turned it in the lock after her when she went.
Half unconsciously I leaned against the door, and, I was sure of it,
the faint sound of receding footsteps came to me from the stairway
beyond. If I heard right she must have waited until the last moment,
and heard every word of what had passed between her husband and
myself--and--what a villain I must have seemed!
I could bear to be there no longer, but hastened back to the study and
rang for Badehorn. He was faithful and discreet, and I could trust him
with my life.
“Badehorn,” I said when he came, “we must leave Paris to-night.”
“Monsieur!”
“Can you get three horses without any one in the house knowing it?”
“Monsieur has forgotten that there are horses of his kept ready at
Maître Barov’s.”
“Ah! I grow foolish! Is there one fit for a lady to ride?”
“There is the gray that Madame de Marcilly rode----”
“Enough! Be in waiting for me with the horses under the limes, near
the riding school of the Louvre, by nine to-night. I will join you
there--and Badehorn--not a word to a soul--this is life or death.”
“Does Monsieur mistrust me?”
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.
The street was almost deserted, and as I slowly picked my way along the
narrow pavement toward the Bouton d’Or, as my inn was called, I noticed
that the rain had ceased and that the sky was opening above, showing
the eternal blue beyond and casting a mellow light on the winding
street, and on the gray and mottled façades of the old houses that
towered on either hand.
The Bouton d’Or was situated about the middle of the street, a little
beyond the hôtel of the Sieur de Richelieu. As I came up to it, I
heard the sounds of a gay chorus from within, and hesitated a moment,
doubtful if, under the circumstances, I should venture in. It was
whilst I stood thus that I was startled by a voice.
“Alms! Alms! He who giveth unto the poor lendeth unto the Lord!”
I turned, and saw the lean figure of a Capuchin at my elbow. His hood,
drawn up, almost concealed his features; but I caught a glimpse of
a face, strangely pale, and of two fiery eyes that flashed out from
beneath the shadow of his cowl. Though I was of the New Faith, I gave
him some silver, and as he mumbled a benediction the chorus burst out
again from within.
“They are gay,” I muttered to myself; but, low as my tone was, the
words caught the ears of the friar.
“There is a time to be gay, and a time to be grave, my son--and ’tis
better to drink than to conspire.”
And with these words he abruptly turned from me, and crossing the
narrow road, began to descend the street, beating with his stick on the
pavement, like a blind man feeling his way.
There was something so ominous in the tone of the man’s voice, so
curious in his manner, that for a moment I had more than a mind to
follow him and make him show his face and explain his words. But as I
made a step forward, he accosted another passer-by with his strange
call for alms, staying him by placing upon his shoulder a hand so thin
and white that it seemed almost transparent.
“Bah!” I said to myself, as the new victim fumbled in his pocket, with
an ill grace, to pay his dole. “’Tis a mad friar, after all!” And
without more ado I entered the inn, to come face to face with the
last man I desired to meet at the time. It was the young Baron de St.
Cyergue, the son of Bohier, the late Receiver General of Normandy,
and though good-hearted, he was a scandal-monger and a gossip, though
amusing enough in his way, being much given to vaunting his exploits
with the dice-box, in arms, and in love. He prided himself on being a
_viveur_, and had almost dissipated a fine inheritance. It was this
cackler that I met, standing in the hall, with a bottle of wine in each
hand, and a face red and flushed.
“Vibrac!” he exclaimed, “welcome! welcome! I saw you at the Louvre this
morning, and meant to ask you to join our party here, but you were
engaged, and I could not get a chance to put in a word,” and he leered
at me cunningly.
Cursing my ill-fortune at having fallen into the hands of this bore, I
was about to make my excuses and exit at the same time; but he put a
bottle on the floor and seized me by the lapel of my cloak.
“Now you are not going to say you have another engagement! You must
come and join us. There is Lignières, the brightest wit in Paris, and
some one you will be glad to see, no less than your old friend Ponthieu
of the Trans-Alpine Infantry, who served with you in Milan and the
Sicilies; he is my mother’s cousin, and but arrived in Paris this
morning.”
I would have shaken him off but for the mention of Ponthieu’s name.
He was Gascon of good family, an old friend of mine, and one of the
most trusted agents of our party--a man whose reckless daring often
succeeded where skilful plans failed, and it would, perhaps, be well to
meet him. I hesitated and was lost, for St. Cyergue shouted out.
In a moment the door of an adjoining room opened, and half a dozen men
crowded around me, and I found myself shaking hands with Ponthieu, who
asked twenty questions in a breath, and five minutes later we were
seated round a table pledging our host’s health. To tell the truth,
now that I had joined the party, I felt the better for it. It took me
out of myself, and it was a pleasure to meet Ponthieu. We were able to
exchange a word or so, and the Gascon told me he was leaving Paris that
very night.
“If you are caught, it will be Montfauçon!” I said, and Ponthieu smiled.
“_Mon ami!_ I am leaving Paris in the train of Catherine herself.” I
looked at him hardly, and was about to express my surprise and add
another warning when St. Cyergue cut in, the wine passed, and the
conversation became general.
Now, in the strangeness of things, what followed was to affect the
whole of my future, and it is necessary that I should go into some
detail. The room in which we sat opened out into a small courtyard
surrounded by a high wall. A side door gave access to the street, and
near it grew a stunted apple-tree that somehow lived and thrived
amidst its sterile surroundings. Beneath the apple-tree was a rustic
seat and a table, and as we drank and talked I observed the side door
open, and the Capuchin entered and called for alms. The innkeeper went
out, not best pleased to attend to him, but it was dangerous to cross
a priest then. He motioned the friar to a seat on the bench and served
him--as sparingly as possible. As I looked the vague mistrust I had of
that strange figure when we first met came upon me once more, and I
said, as I pointed to him:
“See there! He might be a spy for all we know.”
“He is welcome to spy here,” said St. Cyergue, “we but conspire against
red wine.”
“Let us call the friar and make him drink our health,” said some one.
“Bah!” exclaimed Lignières, who had hitherto kept silent, contenting
himself with filling his glass each time the bottle passed him. “Waste
wine on a friar? Not I! ’Twould be better to drink to the bright eyes
of our mistresses. Would it not, Vibrac?” I shrugged my shoulders and
laughed; but the man, being a little in his cups, went at me with the
persistence of a fly.
“Yes! we will toast our mistresses, and the last-comer shall have the
place of honor, and toast her first. Go on, Vibrac, name her--fill your
glasses, gentlemen!”
“We will toast her without naming her,” said Ponthieu, and the others
laughed in approval as St. Cyergue cut in.
“By far the best plan. I, for one, would find it difficult to name my
particular star.”
“You change her every day with your hat and cloak, eh, baron?” sneered
Lignières, who was beginning to be quarrelsome; “you are not like our
Strephon here, constant only to his Chloe.”
“Monsieur le Vicomte, you go too far,” I warned him, but he laughed
recklessly.
“If you do not name her, I will, and put you to shame as a
chicken-livered lover,” and he rose to his feet with his glass held out
at arm’s length before him. St. Cyergue tried to stop him, but it was
useless.
“Gentlemen!” he said, “here’s to Chloe of the blue eyes and fair
hair. Here’s to sweet Ma----!” He spoke no more, for I had risen in
uncontrollable anger and flung the glass I held in my hand in his face,
and he stood, sober enough now, wiping his bleeding lips with the back
of his hand and looking at me with death in his eyes. Then, with a
little gasp, for he was almost speechless with rage, he pointed to the
courtyard.
“Now,” he said, and with a bow I replied, “I am at your service,
monsieur.”
Not a word more was said, and we passed out silently into the
courtyard. The landlord, seeing what was about to happen, would have
raised an outcry, but Ponthieu sternly bade him be silent, and he slunk
shivering against the lee of the wall. I took off my coat and vest,
and as I flung them on the rustic bench noticed that the friar was
still there--he was standing calmly staring at us.
“_Mon père!_” said St. Cyergue, “you had better go.”
And the reply came in deep, stern tones:
“There may be work for a priest when this is done.”
“Let him stay. If he goes, he may call the watch,” said one of those
present, and St. Cyergue turned on his heel with a shrug of his
shoulders.
Lignières had followed my example, and stripped to his shirt, then came
the few brief preliminaries, and Ponthieu’s sharp
“_Allez, messieurs!_”
For a little we tried to feel each other’s strength, and it was nothing
but pretty sword-play. But it soon came to deadly earnest, for I was
in a white heat with rage, and almost beside myself with the events of
the day; whilst Lignières--well--he meant to kill me as he had killed
others before.
But it was his hour; and it was all over in five minutes. He thrust too
low in quarto, I parried, and with the riposte ran him through, and
with a gasp he flung his sword into the air, and fell backward, rolling
limply on his side as he touched the flagstones.
I stood over him, my red sword quivering in my hand, and the others
crowded round, grave and pale.
Ponthieu was kneeling by the fallen man, his hand to his heart, a
troubled look on his face. And now the tall figure of the Capuchin
stole silently up, and bending down, he said to Ponthieu, “I said there
would be work for me.”
Then passing his arm round Lignières’ neck, he raised his head, and
held a crucifix before those glazing eyes, which opened once, to close
again forever. There was a sigh, a quiver of the limbs, and a strong
man was dead--slain for a light word and a foolish jest.
It was then that Ponthieu caught me by the arm.
“Go!” he said. “We will see to the rest.”
“You bear witness, gentlemen, that he forced it on me--that it was in
fair fight,” I said hoarsely, and there was a murmur of assent.
“Go!” repeated Ponthieu, and I walked to the bench for my hat and coat.
As I stooped to get them, I found the Capuchin by my side. He helped me
with my things, and as he did so whispered low:
“There is no need to fear: Monsieur did the Queen-Mother and the State
a great service when he took off his coat for this little affair,”
and he half turned toward the group gathered in the centre of the
courtyard. I barely caught the words, though they came back to me with
their full force very shortly. At the time, however, all that I wanted
was to put a distance between myself and the still figure lying there,
that but a moment before had been so full of life and strength. I made
no answer to the friar, spoke no word of farewell to the others; but
fastening the clasp of my cloak, and pulling my hat over my brows, went
out, red-handed, into the street.