Some precious moments did I waste standing with that green rag betwixt
my fingers, and I grew sick and numb in body and in mind. She was gone!
Carried off by a man I had reason to believe she hated, and whom God
send she might have no motive to hate more deeply hereafter!
The ugly thought swelled until it blotted out all others, and in its
train there came a fury upon me that drove me to do by instinct that
which earlier I should have done by reason. I climbed back into the
saddle, and away across the meadow I went, journeying at an angle with
the road, my horse's head turned in the direction of Blois. That road at
last was gained, and on I thundered at a stretched gallop, praying that
my hard-used beast might last until the town was reached.
Now, as I have already said, I am not a man who easily falls a prey
to excitement. It may have beset me in the heat of battle, when the
fearsome lust of blood and death makes of every man a raving maniac,
thrilled with mad joy at every stab he deals, and laughing with fierce
passion at every blow he takes, though in the taking of it his course
be run. But, saving at such wild times, never until then could I recall
having been so little master of myself. There was a fever in me; all
hell was in my blood, and, stranger still, and hitherto unknown at any
season, there was a sickly fear that mastered me, and drew out great
beads of sweat upon my brow. Fear for myself I have never known, for at
no time has life so pampered me that the thought of parting company
with it concerned me greatly. Fear for another I had not known till
then--saving perchance the uneasiness that at times I had felt touching
Andrea--because never yet had I sufficiently cared.
Thus far my thoughts took me, as I rode, and where I have halted did
they halt, and stupidly I went over their ground again, like one who
gropes for something in the dark,--because never yet had I sufficiently
cared--I had never cared.
And then, ah Dieu! As I turned the thought over I understood, and,
understanding, I pursued the sentence where I had left off.
But, caring at last, I was sick with fear of what might befall the one I
cared for! There lay the reason of the frenzied excitement whereof I had
become the slave. That it was that had brought the moisture to my brow
and curses to my lips; that it was that had caused me instinctively to
thrust the rag of green velvet within my doublet.
Ciel! It was strange--aye, monstrous strange, and a right good jest for
fate to laugh at--that I, Gaston de Luynes, vile ruffler and worthless
spadassin, should have come to such a pass; I, whose forefinger had for
the past ten years uptilted the chin of every tavern wench I had chanced
upon; I, whose lips had never known the touch of other than the lips of
these; I, who had thought my heart long dead to tenderness and devotion,
or to any fondness save the animal one for my ignoble self. Yet there I
rode as if the Devil had me for a quarry,--panting, sweating, cursing,
and well-nigh sobbing with rage at a fear that I might come too
late,--all because of a proud lady who knew me for what I was and held
me in contempt because of her knowledge; all for a lady who had not
the kindness for me that one might spare a dog--who looked on me as
something not good to see.
Since there was no one to whom I might tell my story that he might mock
me, I mocked myself--with a laugh that startled passers-by and which,
coupled with the crazy pace at which I dashed into Blois, caused them, I
doubt not, to think me mad. Nor were they wrong, for mad indeed I deemed
myself.
That I trampled no one underfoot in my furious progress through the
streets is a miracle that passes my understanding.
In the courtyard of the Lys de France I drew rein at last with a tug
that brought my shuddering brute on to his haunches and sent those who
stood about flying into the shelter of the doorways.
“Another horse!” I shouted as I sprang to the ground. “Another horse at
once!”
Then as I turned to inquire for Michelot, I espied him leaning stolidly
against the portecochère.
“How long have you been there, Michelot?” I asked.
“Half an hour, mayhap.”
“Saw you a closed carriage pass?”
“Ten minutes ago I saw one go by, followed by M. de St. Auban and a
gentleman who greatly resembled M. de Vilmorin, besides an escort of
four of the most villainous knaves--”
“That is the one,” I broke in. “Quick, Michelot! Arm yourself and get
your horse; I have need of you. Come, knave, move yourself!”
At the end of a few minutes we set out at a sharp trot, leaving the
curious ones whom my loud-voiced commands had assembled, to speculate
upon the meaning of so much bustle. Once clear of the township we gave
the reins to our horses, and our trot became a gallop as we travelled
along the road to Meung, with the Loire on our right. And as we went I
briefly told Michelot what was afoot, interlarding my explanations with
prayers that we might come upon the kidnappers before they crossed the
river, and curses at the flying pace of our mounts, which to my anxious
mind seemed slow.
At about a mile from Blois the road runs over an undulation of the
ground that is almost a hill. From the moment that I had left Canaples
as the Angelus was ringing, until the moment when our panting horses
gained the brow of that little eminence, only half an hour had sped.
Still in that half-hour the tints had all but faded from the sky, and
the twilight shadows grew thicker around us with every moment. Yet not
so thick had they become but that I could see a coach at a standstill
in the hollow, some three hundred yards beneath us, and, by it, half a
dozen horses, of which four were riderless and held by the two men who
were still mounted. Then, breathlessly scanning the field between the
road and the river, I espied five persons, half way across, and at the
same distance from the water that we were from the coach. Two men, whom
I supposed to be St. Auban and Vilmorin, were forcing along a woman,
whose struggles, feeble though they appeared--yet retarded their
progress in some measure. Behind them walked two others, musket on
shoulder.
I pointed them out to Michelot with a soft cry of joy. We were in time!
Following with my eyes the course they appeared to be pursuing I saw by
the bank a boat, in which two men were waiting. Again I pointed, this
time to the boat.
“Over the hedge, Michelot!” I cried. “We must ride in a straight line
for the water and so intercept them. Follow me.”
Over the hedge we went, and down the gentle slope at as round a pace
as the soft ground would with safety allow. I had reckoned upon being
opposed to six or even eight men, whereas there were but four, one of
whom I knew was hardly to be reckoned. Doubtless St. Auban had imagined
himself safe from pursuit when he left two of his bravos with the
horses, probably to take them on to Meung, and there cross with them and
rejoin him. Two more, I doubted not, were those seated at the oars.
I laughed to myself as I took in all this, but, even as I laughed, those
in the field stood still, and sent up a shout that told me we had been
perceived.
“On, Michelot, on!” I shouted, spurring my horse forward. Then, in
answer to their master's call, the two ruffians who had been doing duty
as grooms came pounding into the field.
“Ride to meet them, Michelot!” I cried. Obediently he wheeled to the
left, and I caught the swish of his sword as it left the scabbard.
St. Auban was now hurrying towards the river with his party. Already
they were but fifty yards from the boat, and a hundred still lay between
him and me. Furiously I pressed onward, and presently but half the
distance separated us, whilst they were still some thirty yards from
their goal.
Then his two bravos faced round to meet me, and one, standing some fifty
paces in advance of the other, levelled his musket and fired. But in
his haste he aimed too high; the bullet carried away my hat, and before
the smoke had cleared I was upon him. I had drawn a pistol from my
holster, but it was not needed; my horse passed over him before he could
save himself from my fearful charge.
In the fast-fading light a second musket barrel shone, and I saw the
second ruffian taking aim at me with not a dozen yards between us. With
the old soldier's instinct I wrenched at the reins till I brought my
horse on to his haunches. It was high time, for simultaneously with my
action the fellow blazed at me, and the scream of pain that broke from
my steed told me that the poor brute had taken the bullet. With a bound
that carried me forward some six paces, the animal sank, quivering, to
the ground. I disengaged my feet from the stirrups as he fell, but the
shock of it sent me rolling on the ground, and the ruffian, seeing me
fallen, sprang forward, swinging his musket up above his head. I dodged
the murderous downward stroke, and as the stock buried itself close
beside me in the soft earth I rose on one knee and with a grim laugh I
raised my pistol. I brought the muzzle within a hand's breadth of his
face, then fired and shot him through the head. Perchance you'll say it
was a murderous, cruel stroke: mayhap it was, but at such seasons
men stay not to unravel niceties, but strike ere they themselves be
stricken.
Leaping over the twitching corpse, I got out my sword and sprang after
St. Auban, who, with Vilmorin and Yvonne, careless of what might betide
his followers, was now within ten paces of the boat.
Pistol shots cracked behind me, and I wondered how Michelot was faring,
but dared not pause to look.
The twain in the boat stood up, wielding their great oars, and methought
them on the point of coming to their master's aid, in which case my
battle had truly been a lost one. But that craven Vilmorin did me good
service then, for with a cry of fear at my approach, he abandoned his
hold of Yvonne, whose struggles were keeping both the men back; thus
freed, he fled towards the boat, and jumping in, he shouted to the men
in his shrill, quavering voice, to put off. Albeit they disobeyed him
contemptuously and waited for the Marquis; still they did not leave the
boat, fearing, no doubt, that if they did so the coward would put off
alone.
As for St. Auban, Vilmorin's flight left him unequal to the task of
dragging the girl along. She dug her heels into the ground, and, tug as
he might, for all that he set both hands to work, he could not move her.
In this plight I came upon him, and challenged him to stand and face me.
With a bunch of oaths he got out his sword, but in doing so he was
forced to remove one of his hands from the girl's arm. Seizing the
opportunity with a ready wit and courage seldom found in women of her
quality, she twisted herself from the grip of his left hand, and came
staggering towards me for protection, holding up her pinioned wrists.
With my blade I severed the cord, whereupon she plucked the gag from
her mouth, and sank against my side, her struggles having left her weak
indeed.
As I set my arm about her waist to support her, my heart seemed to swell
within me, and strange melodies shaped themselves within my soul.
St. Auban bore down upon me with a raucous oath, but the glittering
point of my rapier danced before his eyes and drove him back again.
“To me, Vilmorin, you cowardly cur!” he shouted. “To me, you dogs!”
He let fly at them a volley of blood-curdling oaths, then, without
waiting to see if they obeyed him, he came at me again, and our swords
met.
“Courage, Mademoiselle,” I whispered, as a sigh that was almost a groan
escaped her. “Have no fear.”
But that fight was not destined to be fought, for, as again we engaged,
there came the fall of running feet behind me. It flashed across my
mind that Michelot had been worsted, and that my back was about to be
assailed. But in St. Auban's face I saw, as in a mirror, that he who
came was Michelot.
“Mort de Christ!” snarled the Marquis, springing back beyond my reach.
“What can a man do with naught but fools and poltroons to serve
him? Faugh! We will continue our sword-play at St. Sulpice des Reaux
to-night. Au revoir, M. de Luynes!”
Turning, he sheathed his sword, and, running down to the river, bounded
into the boat, where I heard him reviling Vilmorin with every foul name
he could call to mind.
My blood was aflame, and I was not minded to wait for our meeting
at Reaux. Consigning Mademoiselle to the care of Michelot, who stood
panting and bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, I turned back to my
dead horse, and plucking the remaining pistol from the holster I ran
down to the very edge of the water. The boat was not ten yards from
shore, and my action had been unheeded by St. Auban, who was standing in
the stern.
Kneeling I took careful aim at him, and as God lives, I would have saved
much trouble that was to follow had I been allowed to fire. But at that
moment a hand was laid upon my arm, and Yvonne's sweet voice murmured in
my ear:
“You have fought a brave and gallant fight, M. de Luynes, and you have
done a deed of which the knights of old might have been proud. Do not
mar it by an act of murder.”
“Murder, Mademoiselle!” I gasped, letting my hand fall. “Surely there is
no murder in this!”
“A suspicion of it, I think, and so brave a man should have clean
hands.”