When the last sound of his footsteps died away, I awoke as from an evil
dream, and becoming conscious of the presence of M. Francois and the
servants, recollected mechanically that I owed the former an apology for
my discourtesy in keeping him standing in the cold. I began to offer it;
but my distress and confusion of mind were such that in the middle of a
set phrase I broke off, and stood looking fixedly at him, my trouble so
plain that he asked me civilly if anything ailed me.
‘No,’ I answered, turning from him impatiently; ‘nothing, nothing, sir.
Or tell me,’ I continued, with an abrupt change of mind, ‘who is that;
who has just left us?’
‘Father Antoine, do you mean?’
‘Ay, Father Antoine, Father Judas, call him what you like,’ I rejoined
bitterly.
‘Then if you leave the choice to me,’ M. Francois answered with grave
politeness, ‘I would rather call him something more pleasant, M. de
Marsac--James or John, let us say. For there is little said here which
does not come back to him. If walls have ears, the walls of Blois are
in his pay. But I thought you knew him,’ he continued. ‘He is secretary,
confidant, chaplain, what you will, to Cardinal Retz, and one of those
whom--in your ear--greater men court and more powerful men lean on. If I
had to choose between them, I would rather cross M. de Crillon.’
‘I am obliged to you,’ I muttered, checked as much by his manner as his
words.
‘Not at all,’ he answered more lightly. ‘Any information I have is at
your disposal.’
However, I saw the imprudence of venturing farther, and hastened to
take leave of him, persuading him to allow one of M. de Rambouillet’s
servants to accompany him home. He said that he should call on me in the
morning; and forcing myself to answer him in a suitable manner, I saw
him depart one way, and myself, accompanied by Simon Fleix, went off
another. My feet were frozen with long standing--I think the corpse we
left was scarce colder--but my head was hot with feverish doubts and
fears. The moon had sunk and the streets were dark. Our torch had burned
out, and we had no light. But where my followers saw only blackness and
vacancy, I saw an evil smile and a lean visage fraught with menace and
exultation.
For the more closely I directed my mind to the position in which I
stood, the graver it seemed. Pitted against Bruhl alone, amid strange
surroundings and in an atmosphere of Court intrigue, I had thought my
task sufficiently difficult and the disadvantages under which I laboured
sufficiently serious before this interview. Conscious of a certain
rustiness and a distaste for finesse, with resources so inferior to
Bruhl’s that even M. de Rosny’s liberality had not done much to make up
the difference, I had accepted the post offered me rather readily than
sanguinely; with joy, seeing that it held out the hope of high reward,
but with no certain expectation of success. Still, matched with a man of
violent and headstrong character, I had seen no reason to despair; nor
any why I might not arrange the secret meeting between the king and
mademoiselle with safety, and conduct to its end an intrigue simple and
unsuspected, and requiring for its execution rather courage and caution
than address or experience.
Now, however, I found that Bruhl was not my only or my most dangerous
antagonist. Another was in the field--or, to speak more correctly, was
waiting outside the arena, ready to snatch the prize when we should have
disabled one another, From a dream of Bruhl and myself as engaged in
a competition for the king’s favour, wherein neither could expose the
other nor appeal even in the last resort to the joint-enemies of his
Majesty and ourselves, I awoke to a very different state of things; I
awoke to find those enemies the masters of the situation, possessed of
the clue to our plans, and permitting them only as long as they seemed
to threaten no serious peril to themselves.
No discovery could be more mortifying or more fraught with terror. The
perspiration stood on my brow as I recalled the warning which M. de
Rosny had uttered against Cardinal Retz, or noted down the various
points of knowledge which were in Father Antoine’s possession. He knew
every event of the last month, with one exception, and could tell, I
verily believed, how many crowns I had in my pouch. Conceding this, and
the secret sources of information he must possess, what hope had I of
keeping my future movements from him? Mademoiselle’s arrival would be
known to him before she had well passed the gates; nor was it likely,
or even possible, that I should again succeed in reaching the king’s
presence untraced and unsuspected. En fin, I saw myself, equally with
Bruhl, a puppet in this man’s hands, my goings out and my comings in
watched and reported to him, his mercy the only bar between myself
and destruction. At any moment I might be arrested as a Huguenot, the
enterprise in which I was engaged ruined, and Mademoiselle de la Vire
exposed to the violence of Bruhl or the equally dangerous intrigues of
the League.
Under these circumstances I fancied sleep impossible; but habit and
weariness are strong persuaders, and when I reached my lodging I slept
long and soundly, as became a man who had looked danger in the face more
than once. The morning light too brought an accession both of courage
and hope. I reflected on the misery of my condition at St. Jean
d’Angely, without friends or resources, and driven to herd with such
a man as Fresnoy. And telling myself that the gold crowns which M. de
Rosny had lavished upon me were not for nothing, nor the more precious
friendship with which he had honoured me a gift that called for no
return, I rose with new spirit and a countenance which threw Simon
Fleix who had seen me lie down the picture of despair--into the utmost
astonishment.
‘You have had good dreams,’ he said, eyeing me jealously and with a
disturbed air.
‘I had a very evil one last night,’ I answered lightly, wondering a
little why he looked at me so, and why he seemed to resent my return
to hopefulness and courage. I might have followed this train of thought
further with advantage, since I possessed a clue to his state of mind;
but at that moment a summons at the door called him away to it, and
he presently ushered in M. d’Agen, who, saluting me with punctilious
politeness, had not said fifty words before he introduced the subject
of his toe--no longer, however, in a hostile spirit, but as the
happy medium which had led him to recognise the worth and sterling
qualities--so he was pleased to say--of his preserver.
I was delighted to find him in this frame of mind, and told him frankly
that the friendship with which his kinsman, M. de Rambouillet, honoured
me would prevent me giving him satisfaction save in the last resort.
He replied that the service I had done him was such as to render this
immaterial, unless I had myself cause of offence; which I was forward to
deny.
We were paying one another compliments after this fashion, while I
regarded him with the interest which the middle-aged bestow on the young
and gallant in whom they see their own youth and hopes mirrored, when
the door was again opened, and after a moment’s pause admitted, equally,
I think, to the disgust of M. Francois, and myself, the form of Father
Antoine.
Seldom have two men more diverse stood, I believe, in a room together;
seldom has any greater contrast been presented to a man’s eyes than that
opened to mine on this occasion. On the one side the gay young spark,
with his short cloak, his fine suit; of black-and-silver, his trim
limbs and jewelled hilt and chased comfit-box; on the other, the tall,
stooping monk, lean-jawed and bright-eyed, whose gown hung about him in
coarse, ungainly folds. And M. Francois’ sentiment on first seeing the
other was certainly dislike. Is spite of this, however, he bestowed a
greeting on the new-comer which evidenced a secret awe, and in other
ways showed so plain a desire to please, that I felt my fears of the
priest return in force. I reflected that the talents which in such a
garb could win the respect of M. Francois d’Agen--a brilliant star among
the younger courtiers, and one of a class much given to thinking scorn
of their fathers’ roughness--must be both great and formidable; and,
so considering, I received the monk with a distant courtesy which I had
once little thought to extend to him. I put aside for the moment the
private grudge I bore him with so much justice, and remembered only the
burden which lay on me in my contest with him.
I conjectured without difficulty that he chose to come at this time,
when M. Francois was with me, out of a cunning regard to his own safety;
and I was not surprised when M. Francois, beginning to make his adieux,
Father Antoine begged him to wait below, adding that he had something
of importance to communicate. He advanced his request in terms of
politeness bordering on humility; but I could clearly see that, in
assenting to it, M. d’Agen bowed to a will stronger than his own, and
would, had he dared to follow his own bent, have given a very different
answer. As it was he retired--nominally to give an order to his
lackey--with a species of impatient self-restraint which it was not
difficult to construe.
Left alone with me, and assured that we had no listeners, the monk was
not slow in coming to the point.
‘You have thought over what I told you last night?’ he said brusquely,
dropping in a moment the suave manner which he had maintained in M.
Francois’s presence.
I replied coldly that I had.
‘And you understand the position?’ he continued quickly, looking at me
from under his brows as he stood before me, with one clenched fist on
the table. ‘Or shall I tell you more? Shall I tell you how poor and
despised you were some weeks ago, M. de Marsac--you who now go in
velvet, and have three men at your back? Or whose gold it is has brought
you here, and made you, this? Chut! Do not let us trifle. You are here
as the secret agent of the King of Navarre. It is my business to learn
your plans and his intentions, and I propose to do so.’
‘Well?’ I said.
‘I am prepared to buy them,’ he answered; and his eyes sparkled as he
spoke, with a greed which set me yet more on my guard.
‘For whom?’ I asked. Having made up my mind that I must use the same
weapons as my adversary, I reflected that to express indignation, such
as might become a young man new to the world, could, help me not a whit.
‘For whom?’ I repeated, seeing that he hesitated.
‘That is my business,’ he replied slowly.
‘You want to know too much and tell too little,’ I retorted, yawning.
‘And you are playing with me,’ he cried, looking at me suddenly, with so
piercing a gaze and so dark a countenance that I checked a shudder with
difficulty. ‘So much the worse for you, so much the worse for you!’ he
continued fiercely. ‘I am here to buy the information you hold, but if
you will not sell, there is another way. At an hour’s notice I can ruin
your plans, and send you to a dungeon! You are like a fish caught in a
net not yet drawn. It thrusts its nose this way and that, and touches
the mesh, but is slow to take the alarm until the net is drawn--and then
it is too late. So it is with you, and so it is,’ he added, falling
into the ecstatic mood which marked him at times, and left me in doubt
whether he were all knave or in part enthusiast, ‘with all those who set
themselves against St. Peter and his Church!’
‘I have heard you say much the same of the King of France,’ I said
derisively.
‘You trust in him?’ he retorted, his eyes gleaming. ‘You have been
up there, and seen his crowded chamber, and counted his forty-five
gentlemen and his grey-coated Swiss? I tell you the splendour you saw
was a dream, and will vanish as a dream. The man’s strength and his
glory shall go from him, and that soon. Have you no eyes to see that
he is beside the question? There are but two powers in France--the Holy
Union, which still prevails, and the accursed Huguenot; and between them
is the battle.’
‘Now you are telling me more,’ I said.
He grew sober in a moment, looking at me with a vicious anger hard to
describe.
‘Tut tut,’ he said, showing his yellow teeth, ‘the dead tell no tales.
And for Henry of Valois, he so loves a monk that you might better accuse
his mistress. But for you, I have only to cry “Ho! a Huguenot and a
spy!” and though he loved you more than he loved Quelus or Maugiron, he
dare not stretch out a finger to save you!’
I knew that he spoke the truth, and with difficulty maintained the air
of indifference with which I had entered on the interview.
‘But what if I leave Blois?’ I ventured, merely to see what he would
say.
He laughed. ‘You cannot,’ he answered. ‘The net is round you, M. de
Marsac, and there are those at every gate who know you and have their
instructions. I can destroy you, but I would fain have your information,
and for that I will pay you five hundred crowns and let you go.’
‘To fall into the hands of the King of Navarre?’
‘He will disown you, in any case,’ he answered eagerly. ‘He had that
in his mind, my friend, when he selected an agent so obscure. He will
disown you. Ah, mon Dieu! had I been an hour quicker I had caught
Rosny--Rosny himself!’
‘There is one thing lacking still,’ I replied. ‘How am I to be sure
that, when I have told you what I know, you will pay me the money or let
me go?’
‘I will swear to it!’ he answered earnestly, deceived into thinking I
was about to surrender. ‘I will give you my oath, M. de Marsac!’
‘I would as soon have your shoe-lace!’ I exclaimed, the indignation I
could not entirely repress finding vent in that phrase. ‘A Churchman’s
vow is worth a candle--or a candle and a half, is it?’ I continued
ironically. ‘I must have some security a great deal more substantial
than that, father.’
‘What?’ he asked, looking at me gloomily.
Seeing an opening, I cudgelled my brains to think of any condition
which, being fulfilled, might turn the table on him and place him in my
power. But his position was so strong, or my wits so weak, that nothing
occurred to me at the time, and I sat looking at, him, my mind gradually
passing from the possibility of escape to the actual danger in which
I stood, and which encompassed also Simon Fleix, and, in a degree,
doubtless, M. de Rambouillet. In four or five days, too, Mademoiselle de
la Vire would arrive. I wondered if I could send any warning to her;
and then, again, I doubted the wisdom of interfering with M. de Rosny’s
plans, the more as Maignan, who had gone to fetch mademoiselle, was of a
kind to disregard any orders save his master’s.
‘Well!’ said the monk, impatiently recalling me to myself, ‘what
security do you want?’
‘I am not quite sure at this moment,’ I made answer slowly. ‘I am in a
difficult position. I must have some time to consider.’
‘And to rid yourself of me, if it be possible,’ he said with irony. ‘I
quite understand. But I warn you that you are watched; and that wherever
you go and whatever you do, eyes which are mine are upon you.’
‘I, too, understand,’ I said coolly.
He stood awhile uncertain, regarding me with mingled doubt and
malevolence, tortured on the one hand by fear of losing the prize if
he granted delay, on the other of failing as utterly if he exerted his
power and did not succeed in subduing my resolution. I watched him, too,
and gauging his eagerness and the value of the stake for which he was
striving by the strength of his emotions, drew small comfort from the
sight. More than once it had occurred to me, and now it occurred to me
again, to extricate myself by a blow. But a natural reluctance to strike
an unarmed man, however vile and knavish, and the belief that he had
not trusted himself in my power without taking the fullest precautions,
withheld me. When he grudgingly, and with many dark threats, proposed to
wait three days--and not an hour more--for my answer, I accepted; for I
saw no other alternative open. And on these terms, but not without
some short discussion, we parted, and I heard his stealthy footstep go
sneaking down the stairs.