MONSIEUR OF ARLES MARKS THE KING
“MON DIEU! Messire!” said the farmer, “but monsieur there is as like to
Monseigneur the Prince of Condé as one egg is to another. I remember
last year, when I was factor of Beaulieu, how Monseigneur rode there
once from Romorantin, to enjoy the chase in the forest of Loches.”
“So you have not been here long, then? Yet ’tis an old house.”
“Messire! I am but the servant of the Bishop of St. Aignan, whose abbey
farm this is. I came here but a year ago.”
“Then, in addition to your kindness, we are indebted to Monsieur of St.
Aignan for shelter to-night.”
“Speak not of that, messire! I would we had better fare for you, who,”
and he lowered his voice as he added, “who serve the Prince.”
I replied in the same tone. “Ah, indeed! Your information is extensive
and your tongue loose,” and I glanced at our moody companion, who,
however, took no notice of us.
“Pardon!” and the man spoke in whispers, “he sleeps, and will not
hear. ’Tis some free companion of the road, I fear. But, messire, I
have not forgotten a certain meeting in the woods of Loches. In the
dusk of the evening six gentlemen met the Prince of Condé by the oak
of King Louis. You know the tree, with its trunk mottled as if with
leprosy, and spreading its arms wide enough to shelter a company of
horse! These six gentlemen, I say, met the Prince, who came alone, and
they spoke it may be for an hour together. The heads of four of the six
now wither on the spikes of the castle gates of Amboise. The fifth was
a great noble from the north, and the sixth--he was, I remember now,
the Sieur de Vibrac, a gentleman of the Ruergue.”
“Hist! Fool! How do you know all this?”
“Messire, there was a man in the wood, who had come there by chance
and with no evil intent. He was observed and seized. It was thought he
was a spy, and the Comte de Ste. Marie would have slain him then and
there with his poniard, but you, messire, interposed and saved him. I
was that man. It was twilight at the time, and even if it had not been
dusk a noble like you would not have remembered me. But I have not
forgotten, for life is dear, messire, and you gave it to me once. And
so I warn you. There is danger here, and I am powerless to help.”
“The Bishop of Arles?” My voice was so low it might have been the
humming of a bee.
He but nodded his head, and I went on.
“Consider your debt paid, and I thank you; but we fear him not.”
“Ah, messire! He is bad, bad, and I dread him.”
“But we do not, and we will care for ourselves,” and now, seeing that
the man would talk for ever, and being unwilling to exchange further
confidences, I raised my voice, saying, “Maître Pechaud, for I believe
that is your name, it grows late----”
“And Messire de Vibrac would retire. Pardon my chattering. I will but
show the way to the chamber.”
“Thanks! Yet stay! On second thoughts I will not go now. I have some
matters to think upon. But let me not detain you.”
“Messire.”
“Let it be as I have said, Maître Pechaud. For me it is not yet night,”
and I lowered my voice once more, saying, “it would perhaps be ill, if
you and I were seen gossiping together.”
“Messire is right. The chamber is on the third story in the beacon
tower, and the stairway in the hall leads straight to it. It cannot be
missed. The flask is nearly full, I think.”
“Yes, thanks. Good-night!”
“Good-night, messire!” and he retired, stopping but for a moment to
give a respectful greeting to the surly stranger, who made no reply,
but sat like a stone, his square shoulders and broad back turned toward
us.
Though I observed this rudeness, and might at another time have
resented it as it deserved, I did not do so now. My mind was full of
other things, and, for all I was concerned, the man was no more to me
than a chair or the big press that concealed an angle of the room.
To be brief, it was not Pechaud’s warning, nor the strangeness of our
meeting that occupied me. My thoughts were more about myself. I seemed
to be, as it were, two men in one; to have two souls, one that was for
ever combating, though vainly, the other, and evil essence, that was
dragging me to the lowest deep. My nerves were not right, and I had
determined to spend the night where I was rather than risk further
temptation by sharing Marcilly’s room. The bridge of the Loup Garou was
still fresh in my memory. The horror of the thing I had so nearly done
still hung over me. I was afraid of myself. And so I sat and brooded,
whilst the snow pattered outside against the glazing of the window, and
the logs crackled in the fireplace within. Finally I became calmer, and
as I looked around me I noticed that the stranger was still there. I
began to be a little curious why he behaved in so odd a manner. Was he,
like myself one whose thoughts gnawed at his vitals? I poured out some
white Rochecorbon, acid and thin it was, and toyed with my cup. It was
late, and the silence, broken only by the plashing of the snow, and the
sputtering of the fire, became intolerable. I was determined to solve
the mystery, so, getting to my feet and approaching my companion, I
said:
“Monsieur! Will you do me the honor to drink a cup with me?”
He rose as I spoke, looked me full in the face, and holding out his
hands burst out laughing.
“Ah, Vibrac!” he said, “I thought to have tired you out and got away
unobserved; but it cannot be, I see. A cup--two cups, with pleasure.”
I had gone back a half pace in astonishment; for, as he rose,
and spoke, I recognized my old comrade-in-arms, Ponthieu, of the
Trans-Alpine Infantry. We embraced warmly, and were soon by the
fireplace pledging each other.
“To meet you, of all people, here!” I said. “And on an affair, too.
Else you had not been so retiring.”
He nodded and became grave in a moment. “Vibrac, you are with us, I
know. You, too, do not journey for pleasure on a night like this.”
“No,” I said, “but let me give you a warning. There is danger here. Get
you gone with the dawn, wherever you are bound.”
He sipped at his glass and looked at me keenly. “Vibrac, I know that,
and know too I can trust you, although these are times when the father
betrays the son, the brother the brother; tell me straight out, for old
sake’s sake, are you still with the white scarf?” He dropped his voice
to a whisper, and I nodded and smiled.
“And the Dumb Captain?”
“_Ce petit homme tant joli._” I quoted a line from the popular ballad
the Huguenot soldiers sang about Condé.
The Gascon’s tongue began to loosen now.
“Then, as of old, we are brothers-in-arms, and I can ask you for help,
for, my friend, I am in a desperate strait.”
“What is it?”
“You know how affairs stand at Orleans?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there is one chance, and only one chance, of safety. It is with
me. If I reach the Constable in three days we may yet save the Prince.
But my horse is lame, dead lame. Had this not happened, I would have
gone through the storm--but here I am, tied by the leg. Can you lend me
a horse?”
“I, too, have my business, Ponthieu, and life hangs on that. We have no
spare horse.”
“Then Condé dies,” he answered.
“An apple for your penny, Ponthieu--Condé will not die.”
He snapped his fingers. “You little know the Lorrainers. But I have
that which would cut their combs, had I but four swift hoofs beneath
me. See here, Vibrac! We are all hilt-deep in this business. If Condé
dies, we die. Think of something.”
I kicked at the fireplace with my boot, and racked my brains until a
thought--it was a forlorn hope--struck me.
“I have no horse to lend, Ponthieu, but,” and I smiled at the idea,
“there is a chance. Perhaps the Bishop of Arles has one in the stable.
Why not borrow it and go?”
He slapped his thigh and laughed out loudly, a big, strong laugh.
“Blood of a Jew! as we used to say in the Sicilies. Vibrac, you will
die a marshal. The idea is excellent, and there is no time like the
present. Ha! ha! ha!” and he rose to his feet.
“It is too early--wait till the little hours. If things go wrong, and
the papers on you----”
“Never let your soup grow cold. It must be now or never. If I am
caught, ’tis but a blank paper they will find; but you know the
secret--a trifle of water, and--_pff!_ No! I will have no help--you are
mad, my good friend, think of your own affair.”
“True!” I answered. “You are right; but take my advice, and wait. You
will lose your way--never get through the storm.”
“Way or no way, storm or no storm, I must risk it, and to-morrow
Monsieur of Arles will have to exercise some of that Christian
resignation he has no doubt often preached about.”
Nothing I could say would dissuade him, and I more than regretted my
speech. His preparations were quickly made. He but buckled his sword
tighter, drank another cup of Rochecorbon, and unbarred the window.
“It is cold,” he said, as he looked out, “and snowing swords.”
“Be advised, Ponthieu!”
But he shook his head and wrung my hand. Then he hung over the window
for a moment, and dropped into the snow. As I closed the shutter, I saw
him, a dark figure, crossing the dim shaft of light that ran out into
the night, and a moment after he was lost in the dark. With a shiver, I
put up the bar, and turned back to my seat at the fire.
I was alone now. Ponthieu had made no allusion to our last meeting;
but rough soldier as he seemed, he was possessed of rare tact. And now
he had gone on his reckless mission. I had given my right hand to have
gone with him. It was a jest worth the playing. But it was impossible.
I was bound to Marcilly, and the odds were heavy enough against us to
tempt the most desperate gambler with life. With solitude my thoughts
came back to me and racked me. I had sought for the bread of strength,
and come back with a stone. All this may be nothing to you who pass
by, but where could I turn for help? I, who was fighting for my soul.
As evil thoughts steal into the heart like a fog, as good thoughts
come to us like sunlight through the mist, so once again the light
flashed on me, and I swore to myself to tear up the past, and face my
sorrows like a man. Sleep was impossible. My nerves were too strung
for that. I leaned back, and staring into the fire, began to think. My
dishonor was known but to myself, and with God’s grace I would win
back my own self-respect. The past could not come back; but there was
still the future--and hope. I would fight this battle of the soul here
to-night--here as I sat alone. Alone, did I say? No; I had a hundred
companions. Out of the shadows in the room, out of the dull red embers
in the fireplace, out of the forked flames they came in troops to me,
gray phantoms of sin and shame. There was one, that red-handed spirit
of murder, that could almost hail me brother. There were others, winged
regrets that flitted to and fro. There were the ghosts of high hopes
and noble aspirations, that floated before me with veiled faces and
downcast heads. But through all this the new-born strength was coming
to me. I would be true to Marcilly, true to myself; and when it was
over, if I lived--well, the world was wide, and Gaspard de Vibrac would
find a new life in distant lands. It was as if from afar a soft voice
called to me, “Come unto me, ye that are weary.” I sank on my knees,
and then--some one laughed behind me. I sprang to my feet and faced
round, and standing before me was a tall, black-robed figure, with a
white face and shining eyes. It was Achon.
“Monsieur,” he said, the bitter laugh still on his lips, “I want a word
with you.”
“I--I thought----” I stammered; I was completely taken by surprise.
“That Achon of Arles was some one else,” he put in; “you will see him
in time, Monsieur de Vibrac, not yet. You will see him where hope
shall be cut off, and trust shall be as a spider’s web.”
But I was myself by this. “Monseigneur! You speak in riddles--and
strangely, for a prince of the Church.”
He looked at me keenly. “The Church--what is it that you know of the
Church, monsieur? You, a heretic! You were praying. Think you such
prayers as yours are heard? You might as well have cast them to the
wind that howls outside. It is the Church, the Church alone, that
can save you and yours, monsieur. But enough of this! It is of other
matters I came to speak, and, to be brief, I overheard most of your
talk with your friend.”
I glanced at the large press that stood in the corner of the room, and
then at him.
“Precisely. You have uncommon intelligence. There is a door behind
that, and space to stand.”
“And so you played the spy--well, what is your point?”
His eyes flashed. “I am coming to that. It has been my painful duty to
have your friend arrested. There were watchers by my poor mule. I have
no horse, but I am an old soldier.”
“Ponthieu has failed then?”
“Ponthieu has failed,” he repeated drily. “Ponthieu is at present
in safe hands, and to-morrow Ponthieu will rest in the _cachots_ of
Loches--where I have a great mind to send you, Monsieur de Vibrac.”
I flushed hotly, and my hand stole to the hilt of my sword.
“Put back your hand, monsieur; a blow from your sword would only kill
a poor priest, but you would be broken on the wheel, and you are not
yet ready to die. Even that poor fool, Ponthieu, is better prepared
than you, and as for Marcilly--he has a good conscience and sleeps
soundly--but you--you cannot sleep.”
“Man! Be careful! There is danger in the air.”
“But not for me, de Vibrac--for you, perhaps, who risk broad lands and
an honorable name. A moment ago the _cachots_ yawned for you, but now I
have other plans.”
There was something in his air, in his haughty speech and bearing, that
overawed me. He was reading me like an open page.
“I”--I began, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand.
“Understand, monsieur, that I do not send you to join Ponthieu because
I have other need of you. I have enough against you--even against
Marcilly--to have you both put to the question, and to send you to
the block--and you know the Edict of Romorantin. If you forget I will
refresh your memory. Under the secret clause, the punishment for all
spiritual offences remains in the hands of the bishops, and there is
one to whom our Lord the Pope and His Majesty have confided the trust
of the Holy Office, and he stands before you. But, I want you for other
things, as I said, and it has occurred to me that it would be well if
you appeared a free agent.”
“Monseigneur, you are pushing too far.”
“Bah! This is an abbey farm of my brother of St. Aignan, Vibrac, and
I have gloves for the cat. I have ten stout fellows with me. I lodged
them in the barns without for purposes of my own. Six stand now in the
hall, and you would gain nothing by violence--you would be shot down
like a mad dog--you grasp the position?”
I did. I was a campaigner old enough to know that I was outgeneralled,
and my only chance was to play fox against fox.
“I see,” Achon continued, “you are sensible. You and Marcilly are going
to Orleans. I could make sure that you did go to Orleans, but I will
take a risk--I will let you go on one condition.”
There was all our game at stake. A false move now and nothing could
save us. The cards were decidedly with the Bishop.
“The condition?”
“A very simple one--merely that you present yourself to me, in the
castle at Orleans at noon, five days hence, and there, in the presence
of Lorraine and the Chancellor, repeat what Ponthieu told you.”
“It is impossible--it would be too dishonorable.”
“I will put it another way--I will repeat what Ponthieu told you, and I
will ask you to bear witness to my truth. Do you agree?”
“If I refuse?”
“The _cachots_--and the rack. Both you and Marcilly.”
There was, truly enough, little choice in the matter, and in five days
many things might happen. I could have slain him where he was, but to
what purpose? I watched him as he stood, a whistle to his lips.
“Very well, monseigneur--I agree.”
“I have the word of Vibrac?”
I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak.
“That is right. The _cachots_ are uncomfortable, almost as
uncomfortable as the Chausse d’Hypocras of the Châtelet, where your
friend the Vidame is, though they say he has been moved to the
Tournelles.”
“One word, monseigneur! Ponthieu--he is my friend----”
He held up his jewelled hand. “Enough, monsieur! I did not come here to
discuss Ponthieu. He is safe, and beware of any attempt at rescue. As
for his skin, it rests with himself to keep it, as it rests with you
to keep yours. One thing yet, ere I go, de Vibrac, and I tell you this
because you are not quite like other men, and you have interested me.
We have met before, though you do not recall it. But I know you--you
have trouble there,” and he touched me over the heart, and looked me
in the face with keen, searching eyes as he went on: “When you have
done with me at Orleans, go back and grow cabbages at Vibrac for the
rest of your life. You will be a happier man.” He paused, and then
continued: “You start with the dawn. I wish you good fortune, and
dispense with the blessing, for you are a heretic--and forget not--I
can break you with a turn of my little finger.”
He turned and went. Outside in the hall I heard the shuffling of feet,
and then all was silence.