the horse which they had untethered from the carriage, and we started
off along the road which the coach itself had disappeared upon a moment
before. But we travelled at a gentle trot, which, after that evening's
furious riding, was welcome to me.
With bitterness I reflected as I rode that the very moment at which
Mademoiselle de Canaples had brought herself to think better of me was
like to prove the last we should spend together. Yet not
altogether bitter was that reflection; for with it came also the
consolation--whereof I had told her--that I had not been taken before
she had had cause to change her mind concerning me.
That she should care for me was too preposterous an idea to be
nourished, and, indeed, it was better--much better--that M. de Montrésor
had come before I, grown sanguine as lovers will, had again earned her
scorn by showing her what my heart contained. Much better was it that I
should pass for ever out of her life--as, indeed, methought I was
like to pass out of all life--whilst I could leave in her mind a kind
remembrance and a grateful regret, free from the stain that a subsequent
possible presumption of mine might have cast o'er it.
Then my thoughts shifted to Andrea. St. Auban would hear of my removal,
and I cared not to think of what profit he might derive from it. To
Yvonne also his presence must hereafter be a menace, and in that wherein
tonight he had failed, he might, again, succeed. It was at this juncture
of my reverie that M. de Montrésor's pleasant young voice aroused me.
“You appear downcast, M. de Luynes.”
“I, downcast!” I echoed, throwing back my head and laughing. “Nay. I was
but thinking.
“Believe me, M. de Luynes,” he said kindly, “when I tell you that
it grieves me to be charged with this matter. I have done my best to
capture you. That was my duty. But I should have rejoiced had I failed
with the consciousness of having done all in my power.”
“Thanks, Montrésor,” I murmured, and silence followed.
“I have been thinking, Monsieur,” he went on presently, “that possibly
the absence of your sword causes you discomfort.”
“Eh? Discomfort? It does, most damnably!”
“Give me your parole d'honneur that you will attempt no escape, and not
only shall your sword be returned to you, but you shall travel to Paris
with all comfort and dignity.”
Now, so amazed was I that I paused to stare at the officer who was young
enough to make such a proposal to a man of my reputation. He turned his
face towards me, and in the moonlight I could make out his questioning
glance.
“Eh, bien, Monsieur?”
“I am more than grateful to you, M. de Montrésor,” I replied, “and I
freely give you my word of honour to seek no means of eluding you, nor
to avail myself of any that may be presented to me.”
I said this loud enough for those behind to hear, so that no surprise
was evinced when the lieutenant bade the man who bore my sword return it
to me.
If he who may chance to read these simple pages shall have gathered
aught of my character from their perusal, he will marvel, perchance,
that I should give the lieutenant my parole, instead rather of watching
for an opportunity to--at least--attempt an escape. Preeminent in my
thoughts, however, stood at that moment the necessity to remove St.
Auban, and methought that by acting as I did I saw a way by which,
haply, I might accomplish this. What might thereafter befall me seemed
of little moment.
“M. de Montrésor,” I said presently, “your kindness impels me to set a
further tax upon your generosity.”
“That is, Monsieur?”
“Bid your men fall back a little, and I will tell you.”
He made a sign to his troopers, and when the distance between us had
been sufficiently widened, I began:
“There is a man at present across the river, yonder, who has done me
no little injury, and with whom I have a rendezvous at nine o'clock
to-night at St. Sulpice des Reaux, where our swords are to determine the
difference between us. I crave, Monsieur, your permission to keep that
appointment.”
“Impossible!” he answered curtly.
I took a deep breath like a man who is about to jump an obstacle in his
path.
“Why impossible, Monsieur?”
“Because you are a prisoner, and therefore no longer under obligation to
keep appointments.”
“How would you feel, Montrésor, if, burning to be avenged upon a man
who had done you irreparable wrong, you were arrested an hour before
the time at which you were to meet this man, sword in hand, and your
captor--whose leave you craved to keep the assignation--answered you
with the word 'impossible'?”
“Yes, yes, Monsieur,” he replied impatiently. “But you forget my
position. Let us suppose that I allow you to go to St. Sulpice des
Reaux. What if you do not return?”
“You mistrust me?” I exclaimed, my hopes melting.
“You misapprehend me. I mean, what if you are killed?”
“I do not think that I shall be.”
“Ah! But what if you are? What shall I say to my Lord Cardinal?”
“Dame! That I am dead, and that he is saved the trouble of hanging me.
The most he can want of me is my life. Let us suppose that you had
come an hour later. You would have been forced to wait until after the
encounter, and, did I fall, matters would be no different.”
The young man fell to thinking, but I, knowing that it is not well to
let the young ponder overlong if you would bend them to your wishes,
broke in upon his reflections--“See, Montrésor, yonder are the lights of
Blois; by eight o'clock we shall be in the town. Come; grant me leave to
cross the Loire, and by ten o'clock, or half-past at the latest, I shall
return to sup with you or I shall be dead. I swear it.”
“Were I in your position,” he answered musingly, “I know how I would be
treated, and, pardieu! come what may I shall deal with you accordingly.
You may go to your assignation, M. de Luynes, and may God prosper you.”
And thus it came to pass that shortly after eight o'clock, albeit
a prisoner, I rode into the courtyard of the Lys de France, and,
alighting, I stepped across the threshold of the inn, and strode up to
a table at which I had espied Michelot. He sat nursing a huge measure
of wine, into the depths of which he was gazing pensively, with an
expression so glum upon his weather-beaten countenance that it defies
depicting. So deep was he in his meditations, that albeit I stood by the
table surveying him for a full minute, he took no heed of me.
“Allons, Michelot!” I said at length. “Wake up.”
He started up with a cry of amazement; surprise chased away the grief
that had been on his face, and a moment later joy unfeigned, and good to
see, took the place of surprise.
“You have escaped, Monsieur!” he cried, and albeit caution made him
utter the words beneath his breath, a shout seemed to lurk somewhere in
the whisper.
Pressing his hand I sat down and briefly told him how matters stood, and
how I came to be for the moment free. And when I had done I bade him,
since his wound had not proved serious, to get his hat and cloak and go
with me to find a boat.
He obeyed me, and a quarter of an hour after we had quitted the hostelry
he was rowing me across the stream, whilst, wrapped in my cloak, I sat
in the stern, thinking of Yvonne.
“Monsieur,” said Michelot, “observe how swift is the stream. If I were
to let the boat drift we should be at Tours to-morrow, and from there it
would be easy to defy pursuit. We have enough money to reach Spain. What
say you, Monsieur?”
“Say, you rascal? Why, bend your back to the work and set me ashore by
St. Sulpice in a quarter of an hour, or I'll forget that you have been
my friend. Would you see me dishonoured?”
“Sooner than see you dead,” he grumbled as he resumed his task.
Thereafter, whilst he rowed, Michelot entertained me with some quaint
ideas touching that which fine gentlemen call honour, and to what sorry
passes it was wont to bring them, concluding by thanking God that he was
no gentleman and had no honour to lead him into mischief.
At last, however, our journey came to an end, and I sprang ashore some
five hundred paces from the little chapel, and almost exactly opposite
the Château de Canaples. I stood for a moment gazing across the water at
the lighted windows of the château, wondering which of those eyes that
looked out upon the night might be that of Yvonne's chamber.
Then, bidding Michelot await me, or follow did I not return in half an
hour, I turned and moved away towards the chapel.
There is a clearing in front of the little white edifice--which rather
than a temple is but a monument to the martyr who is said to have
perished on that spot in the days before Clovis.
As I advanced into the centre of this open patch of ground, and stood
clear of the black silhouettes of the trees, cast about me by the moon,
two men appeared to detach themselves from the side wall of the chapel,
and advanced to meet me.
Albeit they were wrapped in their cloaks--uptilted behind by their
protruding scabbards--it was not difficult to tell the tall figure and
stately bearing of St. Auban and the mincing gait of Vilmorin.
I doffed my hat in a grave salutation, which was courteously returned.
“I trust, Messieurs, that I have not kept you waiting?”
“I was on the point of expressing that very hope, Monsieur,” returned
St. Auban. “We have but arrived. Do you come alone?”
“As you perceive.”
“Hum! M. le Vicomte, then, will act for both of us.”
I bowed in token of my satisfaction, and without more ado cast aside my
cloak, pleased to see that the affair was to be conducted with decency
and politeness, as such matters should ever be conducted, albeit
impoliteness may have marked their origin.
The Marquis, having followed my example and divested himself of his
cloak and hat, unsheathed his rapier and delivered it to Vilmorin, who
came across with it to where I stood. When he was close to me I saw
that he was deadly pale; his teeth chattered, and the hand that held the
weapon shook as with a palsy.
“Mu--Monsieur,” he stammered, “will it please you to lend me your sword
that I may mu-measure it?”
“What formalities!” I exclaimed with an amused smile, as I complied with
his request. “I am afraid you have caught a chill, Vicomte. The night
air is little suited to health so delicate.”
He answered me with a baleful glance, as silently he took my sword and
set it--point to hilt--with St. Auban's. He appeared to have found some
slight difference in the length, for he took two steps away from me,
holding the weapons well in the light, where for a moment he surveyed
them attentively. His hands shook so that the blades clattered one
against the other the while. But, of a sudden, taking both rapiers by
the hilt, he struck the blades together with a ringing clash, then
flung them both behind him as far as he could contrive, leaving me
thunderstruck with amazement, and marvelling whether fear had robbed him
of his wits.
Not until I perceived that the trees around me appeared to spring into
life did it occur to me that that clashing of blades was a signal, and
that I was trapped. With the realisation of it I was upon Vilmorin in a
bound, and with both hands I had caught the dog by the throat before he
thought of flight. The violence of my onslaught bore him to the ground,
and I, not to release my choking grip, went with him.
For a moment we lay together where we had fallen, his slender body
twisting and writhing under me, his swelling face upturned and his
protruding, horror-stricken eyes gazing into mine that were fierce and
pitiless. Voices rang above me; someone stooped and strove to pluck me
from my victim; then below the left shoulder I felt a sting of pain,
first cold then hot, and I knew that I had been stabbed.
Again I felt the blade thrust in, lower down and driven deeper; then, as
the knife was for the second time withdrawn, and my flesh sucked at the
steel,--the pain of it sending a shudder through me,--the instinct of
preservation overcame the sweet lust to strangle Vilmorin. I let him go
and, staggering to my feet, I turned to face those murderers who struck
a defenceless man behind.
Swords gleamed around me: one, two, three, four, five, six, I counted,
and stood weak and dazed from loss of blood, gazing stupidly at the
white blades. Had I but had my sword I should have laid about me, and
gone down beneath their blows as befits a soldier. But the absence of
that trusty friend left me limp and helpless--cowed for the first time
since I had borne arms.
Of a sudden I became aware that St. Auban stood opposite to me, hand on
hip, surveying me with a malicious leer. As our eyes met--“So, master
meddler,” quoth he mockingly, “you crow less lustily than is your wont.”
“Hound!” I gasped, choking with rage, “if you are a man, if there be a
spark of pride or honour left in your lying, cowardly soul, order your
assassins to give me my sword, and, wounded though I be, I'll fight with
you this duel that you lured me here to fight.”
He laughed harshly.
“I told you but this morning, Master de Luynes, that a St. Auban does
not fight men of your stamp. You forced a rendezvous upon me; you shall
reap the consequences.”
Despite the weakness arising from loss of blood, I sprang towards him,
beside myself with fury. But ere I had covered half the distance
that lay between us my arms were gripped from behind, and in my spent
condition I was held there, powerless, at the Marquis's mercy. He came
slowly forward until we were but some two feet apart. For a second he
stood leering at me, then, raising his hand, he struck me--struck a man
whose arms another held!--full upon the face. Passion for the moment
lent me strength, and in that moment I had wrenched my right arm free
and returned his blow with interest.
With an oath he got out a dagger that hung from his baldrick.
“Sang du Christ! Take that, you dog!” he snarled, burying the blade in
my breast as he spoke.
“My God! You are murdering me!” I gasped.
“Have you discovered it? What penetration!” he retorted, and those about
him laughed at his indecent jest!
He made a sign, and the man who had held me withdrew his hands. I
staggered forward, deprived of his support, then a crashing blow took me
across the head.
I swayed for an instant, and with arms upheld I clutched at the air,
as if I sought, by hanging to it, to save myself from falling; then the
moon appeared to go dark, a noise as of the sea beating upon its shore
filled my ears, and I seemed to be falling--falling--falling.
A voice that buzzed and vibrated oddly, growing more distant at each
word, reached me as I sank.
“Come,” it said. “Fling that carrion into the river.”
Then nothingness engulfed me.