A QUOTATION FROM VIRGIL
I HURRIED on, utterly careless whither my footsteps led. Richelieu’s
speech burned within me, and my very soul shrivelled under the fierce
light he had poured upon it. I saw myself in all my infamy. I cursed,
again and again, the coward heart that had not nerved my hand to strike
him dead, as he flung at me those bitter words of insult and scorn. But
a guilty conscience makes a craven soul, and the lesson was brought
home to me, as with blanched lips and trembling limbs I went on,
keeping in the shadow, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
Now and again I met a few passers-by, but, night-hawks or honest men,
they left me the road, until at last I would have been glad if one of
them had even drawn upon me.
Finally I reached the Martroi and gained my chamber in Cipierre’s
house. Alone there I tore the letters and the glove into shreds, and
cast the fragments into the fire; then I flung the sword that had
served me so ill to a corner of the room, venting upon the senseless
steel some of the fury in my heart, and, undressing, lay down to sleep.
But no rest came to my hot eyes, and I spent the weary hours counting
the diamonds on the lattice window, watching the moonlight fade into
darkness, and listening to the sighing of the wind, which rose with the
setting of the moon and gave promise of a day as gray as sorrow.
I did not rise till about the dinner hour, eleven o’clock, and when I
descended, I found the Vicomte and Jean awaiting me. I was surprised
at my own self-control. During the hours of the night, my heart had,
as it were, steeled itself within its guilt. All sensations of regret
or remorse were numbed and paralyzed. I thought them dead. All that
lived within me was a burning hate against those whom in my madness I
accused of bringing me to the pass to which I had sunk, and so I gave
my traitor hand to both Cipierre and Marcilly, and sat down to eat with
them, cordial and even gay. I had some right to be gay. In a few hours
my revenge would be complete.
At last the moment came for us to start upon our perilous enterprise,
and we stood at the door ready to mount, a couple of Swiss with us.
There was no “good-by” said. To all intents we might have been making
our daily visit to the Prince; but Cipierre’s hand lingered in that of
his nephew, and when he took mine in his clasp, he gripped me like a
vise in his excitement.
“Once free, you will ride hard, de Vibrac,” he whispered.
“Trust me for that, monsieur!” and, springing into the saddle, I
followed Marcilly into the street.
The promise of the dawn had been fulfilled, and there was a dense fog
in the air, blurring the outlines of the houses, and making the figures
of the passers-by loom like indistinct shadows. In truth, it was
difficult to see two yards ahead, and Marcilly, as he held his hand out
before him, said:
“If it keeps like this, and we bring off the stroke, you will get out
of Orleans without a question being asked.”
“De Bresy sticks in my mind,” I answered. “He never leaves us. I begin
to fear he more than suspects.”
“We have provided for that in part. While you were away we arranged
that the Prince should pretend to be suffering from a chill, and keep
his bed.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I will go in and see him, and as I take the Prince’s place you
and Vaux must settle with de Bresy. Vaux knows his part, and you must
not fail.”
“A man will not cry out if a dagger at his throat commands silence,” I
answered; “he will be killed at the first sound he utters.”
“Not that if you can help it, Vibrac.”
“That is de Bresy’s affair,” I replied, and with these words we came to
the gate of the house in the Rue Parisis.
The same formalities in regard to our entrance were observed as before,
and leaving the horses outside with the Swiss, we walked into the
courtyard, where de Bresy met us.
“That was an unlucky match at tennis,” he said, as he greeted us; “the
Prince has taken a chill and keeps his bed.”
Our faces showed nothing but the utmost concern.
“He is not bad, I trust?” asked Marcilly, adding, “have you seen him?”
“Oh, yes! ’Tis but a chill that will pass off in a few days,
unless----” and he hesitated.
“Let us not speak of it, de Bresy; we know what you mean,” and the
archer swore under his breath, muttering something as we entered the
corridor, followed even here by the fog, which filled the galleries and
rooms of the prison with its blue, semi-opaque vapor.
“I never remember such a fog in Orleans,” said Marcilly, and almost at
the same time I spoke myself:
“How went the match, de Bresy? You remember our wager?”
“You lost by a stroke; but we are to play another match; would you care
to make it double or quits?”
“Take him, Gaspard,” laughed Marcilly; “double or quits on the next
match we play. You will lose, de Bresy.”
“I take the wager,” I smiled, catching the hidden meaning in Jean’s
words, and we found ourselves on the landing before the Prince’s
apartments, the door of which was, however, closed. The subaltern
officer was on guard there, and de Bresy addressed him.
“How is the Prince, Comminges?”
“Vaux tells me he sleeps, but that if these gentlemen came they were to
be admitted, as the Prince desired to see them.”
“We can wait in quiet in the ante-room,” said Marcilly in a low voice,
and then de Bresy led us in.
Vaux, the Prince’s page, was alone in the room, building a house of
cards at the table. He looked up as we entered, put his finger to his
lips, and whispered:
“He sleeps still.”
“Does any one watch by him?” asked Marcilly.
“No,” replied Vaux; “but shall I arouse Monseigneur? He desires much to
speak with you.”
“Better that he slept. I shall, however, go in and sit by the bedside
until he awakes. I will not disturb him in the least.” So saying,
Marcilly gently pushed open the door leading into the bedroom and
passed within.
Vaux, with a careless sweep of his hand, knocked down his house of
cards, and as he gathered the pack together, looked at us, saying:
“Shall we take hands, messieurs, to while away the time?”
“With pleasure,” replied de Bresy, “but three is an unlucky number.
Comminges shall make the fourth.”
He turned to the door as if to call out, and Vaux bit his lip with
anger as he just flashed a glance at me. I was, however, in time.
“It is needless, de Bresy. I cannot touch a card to-day. I know not
what it is, but I have no humor for it.”
“Oh, come! But a few rounds,” said de Bresy, as he turned to me, picked
up some cards, and began shuffling them in his hand.
While he spoke Vaux had made a movement toward the window. He was
behind de Bresy now, and his poniard gleamed in his hand. I held him
with a look, and de Bresy went on, all unknowing of the danger behind
him.
“’Tis a curious pack this, Vibrac. Do you see the illuminations on the
backs of the cards?”
“Yes. I noticed them before. They are Viterbo cards, I think.”
Vaux had made a step nearer his man. His eyes were blazing. I could not
have stayed him if I would; but at that moment there was a noise at the
door, and the page had just time to turn to his window like a flash,
when Comminges entered the room.
“Monsieur!” he said bluntly, addressing de Bresy, “here is a letter for
you.”
“Thanks, Comminges,” and as de Bresy took the letter I glanced at the
soldierly figure of the lieutenant. It was evident that he was one who
had risen from the ranks, and twenty years of war had left their scars
on his rough features. There he stood, the type of the soldier who has
become a machine, whose life is regulated by his orders, and as I took
in the square jaw, the firm, resolute features, and keen, deep-set
eyes, I thought to myself that it would be a far cry to the gates of
the prison even if de Bresy were disposed of. And as my mind ran on
thus, a low exclamation burst from de Bresy. He crumpled the paper in
his hand, saying as he did so:
“There is no answer, Comminges.”
The subaltern bowed stiffly and withdrew.
“It is infamous,” said de Bresy as if to himself, and then he caught my
eager look and Vaux’s glance--the page had turned from the window and
approached us when Comminges spoke. His hand, however, no longer held a
poniard.
“There is nothing new against the Prince?” I asked, and de Bresy
laughed uneasily.
“Monsieur of Arles writes to me to prepare the _cachot_ for our
prisoner to-night.”
“The _cachot_!”
“Yes. ’Tis a dog’s business, and but that my honor is pledged, I would
see it to the winds--a Prince of the blood in the _cachot_!”
A sudden thought struck me as he spoke. It was one of those
inspirations that come in moments of suspense.
“But you surely have no _cachots_ here?”
“As good as in the Châtelet, monsieur.”
“I saw the Vidame there,” I said, “and know the Châtelet. I doubt if
what you have here is anything like that.”
“Would you care to see for yourself? I have the key here,” and de Bresy
pointed to his side, where at his belt a large key hung attached to a
thick silver chain.
“Well,” I answered, “it will kill some of the time we have to spend
here, waiting for the Prince to awaken. Will you come, too, Vaux?” And
as I glanced at the page my eyes told him to say “No.” He was quick to
grasp this; but he was also a good actor, and he hesitated a moment
before replying.
“I think not, monsieur. I shall await your return here.”
We left him, card-building once more, and stepped out where, after a
few words with Comminges, de Bresy led me through the corridor, and
stopped before a small, iron-studded door. Beside it, in a niche, a
lantern burned, and taking this in one hand my companion opened the
door, and, as it swung back creaking, he pointed downward with his key,
saying:
“_Facilis descensus Averni._”
I laughed as I looked down the black passage, with its old and worn
steps. I laughed because I thought it would be for me to finish the
quotation; and then I followed de Bresy as he picked his way downward.
Twice were we stopped by doors, each of which he opened with his master
key, and each as it opened disclosed a stairway, darker, more hideous
than the one before. And now we found ourselves in a small landing,
facing yet another door.
“We have come,” said de Bresy, putting down his lantern as he used his
key again. He had to push twice at the door, before it went back on
its hinges with a sullen groan, and before us lay a dungeon which all
but matched the _Chausse d’Hypocras_, that fearful prison den of the
Châtelet.
“Does that satisfy you?” asked de Bresy, as we gazed on the damp and
dripping walls, where the drops of water oozing from their surface
flashed like gems in the ruddy light of the lantern. Even against
myself I shuddered.
“To put him here!” I muttered, and de Bresy, catching the words, spoke
again.
“You will judge better if you step within. Except just outside this
door not a voice could be heard, call it ever so loudly.”
I wanted a moment to think, and did as I was bidden. The next instant
the door closed behind me with a crash, and I was in total darkness.
Outside I heard de Bresy laughing, but it was as the laugh of a man
coming from a far distance.
I staggered back blindly, and my groping hands felt the wet and
slippery walls; and then on the instant the whole horror of the thing
seized me. Tricked! Cozened! Trapped like a fox! With a curse I flung
myself at the door and battered at it with both hands. I might as well
have tried to tear down Notre Dame with my fingers. In those moments I
lived years. I was bursting with shame and mortification. No long-eared
ass could have walked into a pitfall more easily than I had done. And
then I heard de Bresy’s voice again, and the door slowly swung back. As
the light fell on me, he rocked in senseless, foolish laughter.
“Ye gods!” he almost screamed, “I did but try you, de Vibrac. You are
as white as a sheet.”
I came out slowly and laughed myself--a harsh laugh that rang back from
the vaulted roof.
“’Tis a sorry jest, monsieur, and one for which you must answer me.”
He simply bowed--my tone had sobered him--and turned toward the
lantern. Ay! The fool had given me the key to my difficulty in his
idle jest. Quick as thought I was on him, but he turned like a wildcat
at me, and for a moment we grappled together. Backward and forward we
swayed. I heard the key he held fall with a clash to the floor, and he
caught at my wrist, for my hand was at his throat, and he tugged vainly
to free himself.
He was sinewy as a leopard, but it would have been a strong man who
could have stood against me then, and I held him like a vise. Even by
the dim light of the lantern I could see his face grow livid, his lips
blue, and his eyes almost start from their sockets. He struggled like
a fish in a net, poor wretch! But at last his knees went from under
him. Slowly, slowly, he yielded, and I felt him limp as a sack in my
arms. One effort, and I flung him from me through the open door of the
dungeon, and heard him fall with a half-smothered cry. He lay there
like a log, and, closing the door after him, I picked up the key and
turned the lock.
Then I waited in the silence, slowly arranging my disordered dress.
When I had finished, I lifted up the lantern, and as I did so heard a
faint cry: “Open! Open, de Vibrac!”
There were a hundred agonies in the voice; but he had made me pass
through them before. I laughed in my turn at de Bresy, as I repeated
and finished his quotation:
“... _Facilis descensus Averni:
Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,
Hic opus, hic labor est._”