Scant cause is there for me to tarry over the details of my return to
Paris. A sad enough journey was it; as sad for my poor Michelot as for
myself, since he rode with one so dejected as I.
Things had gone ill, and I feared that when the Cardinal heard the story
things would go worse, for Mazarin was never a tolerant man, nor one to
be led by the gospel of mercy and forgiveness. For myself I foresaw the
rope--possibly even the wheel; and a hundred times a day I dubbed myself
a fool for obeying the voice of honour with such punctiliousness when
so grim a reward awaited me. What mood was on me--me, Gaston de Luynes,
whose honour had been long since besmirched and tattered until no
outward semblance of honour was left?
But swift in the footsteps of that question would come the
answer--Yvonne. Ay, truly enough, it was because in my heart I had
dared to hold a sentiment of love for her, the purest--nay, the only
pure--thing my heart had held for many a year, that I would set nothing
vile to keep company with that sentiment; that until my sun should
set--and already it dropped swiftly towards life's horizon--my actions
should be the actions of such a man as might win Yvonne's affections.
But let that be. This idle restrospective mood can interest you but
little; nor can you profit from it, unless, indeed, it be by noting
how holy and cleansing to the heart of man is the love--albeit
unrequited--that he bears a good woman.
As we drew near Meung--where we lay on that first night of our
journey--a light travelling chaise, going in the same direction, passed
us at a gallop. As it flashed by, I caught a glimpse of Eugène de
Canaples's swart face through the window. Whether the recognition was
mutual I cannot say--nor does it signify.
When we reached the Hôtel de la Couronne, half an hour later, we saw
that same chaise disappearing round a corner of the street, whilst
through the porte-cochère the hostler was leading a pair of horses,
foam-flecked and steaming with sweat.
Whither went Master Canaples at such a rate, and in a haste that caused
him to travel day and night? To a goal he little looked for--or rather,
which, in the madness of his headlong rush, he could not see. So I was
to learn ere long.
Next day I awoke betimes, and setting my window wide to let in the
fresh, clean-smelling air of that May morning I made shift to dress.
Save for the cackle of the poultry which had strayed into the courtyard,
and the noisy yawns and sleep-laden ejaculations of the stable-boy, who
was drawing water for the horses, all was still, for it had not yet gone
five o'clock.
But of a sudden a door opened somewhere, and a step rang out,
accompanied by the jangle of spurs, and with it came a sharp, unpleasant
voice calling for its owner's horse. There was a familiar sound in those
shrill accents that caused me to thrust my head through the casement.
But I was quick to withdraw it, as I recognised in the gaily dressed
little fellow below my old friend Malpertuis.
I know not what impulse made me draw back so suddenly. The action was as
much the child of instinct as of the lately acquired habit of concealing
my face from the gaze of all who were likely to spread abroad the news
that I still lived.
From behind my curtains I watched Malpertuis ride out of the yard,
saying, in answer to a parting question of the landlord, who had come
upon the scene, that he would breakfast at Beaugency.
Then, as he rode down the street, he of a sudden raised his discordant
voice and sang to the accompaniment of his horse's hoofs. And the burden
of his song ran thus:
A frondeur wind
Got up to-day,
'Gainst Mazarin
It blows, they say.
I listened in amazement to his raven's voice.
Whither was he bound, I asked myself, and whence a haste that made him
set out fasting, with an anti-cardinalist ditty on his lips, and ride
two leagues to seek a breakfast in a village that did not hold an inn
where a dog might be housed in comfort?
Like Eugène de Canaples, he also travelled towards a goal that he little
dreamt of. And so albeit the one went south and the other north,
these two men were, between them, drawing together the thread of this
narrative of mine, as anon you shall learn.
We reached Paris at dusk three days later, and we went straight to my
old lodging in the Rue St. Antoine.
Coupri started and gasped upon beholding me, and not until I had cursed
him for a fool in a voice that was passing human would he believe that I
was no ghost. He too had heard the rumour of my death.
I dispatched Michelot to the Palais Royal, where--without permitting his
motive to transpire--he was to ascertain for me whether M. de Montrésor
was in Paris, whether he still dwelt at the Hôtel des Cloches, and at
what hour he could be found there.
Whilst he was away I went up to my room, and there I found a letter
which Coupri informed me had been left by a lackey a month ago--before
the report that I had been killed had reached Paris--and since lain
forgotten. It was a delicate note, to which still hung the ghost of a
perfume; there were no arms on the seal, but the writing I took to be
that of my aunt, the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and vaguely marvelling what
motive she could have had for communicating with me, I cut the silk.
It was, indeed, from the Duchesse, but it contained no more than a
request that I should visit her at her hôtel on the day following upon
that on which she had written, adding that she had pleasing news for me.
I thrust the note into my pocket with a sigh. Of what could it avail me
now to present myself at her hôtel? Her invitation was for a month ago.
Since then she would likely enough have heard the rumour that had been
current, and would have ceased to expect me.
I caught myself wondering whether the news might have caused her a pang
of regret, and somehow methought this possible. For of all my relatives,
Madame de Chevreuse was the only one--and she was but my aunt by
marriage--who of late years had shown me any kindness, or even
recognition. I marvelled what her pleasing news could be, and I
concluded that probably she had heard of my difficulties, and wished
once again to help me out of them. Well, my purse was hollow, indeed,
at the moment, but I need not trouble her, since I was going somewhere
where purses are not needed--on a journey to which no expenses are
attached.
In my heart, nevertheless, I blessed the gracious lady, who, for all the
lies that the world may have told of her, was the kindest woman I had
known, and the best--save one other.
I was still musing when Michelot returned with the information that M.
de Montrésor was to be found at the Hôtel des Cloches, whither he had
gone to sup a few minutes before. Straightway I set out, bidding him
attend me, and, muffled in my cloak, I proceeded at a brisk pace to the
Rue des Fosses St. Germain, where the lieutenant's auberge was situated.
I left Michelot in the common-room, and, preceded by the plump little
woman who owned the house, I ascended to Montrésor's chamber. I found
the young soldier at table, and, fortunately, alone. He rose as I
entered, and as the hostess, retreating, closed the door, I doffed my
hat, and letting fall my cloak revealed myself. His lips parted, and I
heard the hiss of an indrawn breath as his astonished eyes fell upon my
countenance. My laugh dispelled his doubts that I might be other than
flesh and blood--yet not his doubts touching my identity. He caught up
a taper and, coming forward, he cast the light on my face for a moment,
then setting the candle back upon the table, he vented his surprise in
an oath or two, which was natural enough in one of his calling.
“'T is clear, Lieutenant,” quoth I, as I detached my sword from the
baldrick, “that you believed me dead. Fate willed, however, that I
should be restored to life, and so soon as I had recovered sufficient
strength to undertake the journey to Paris, I set out. I arrived an hour
ago, and here I am, to redeem my word of honour, and surrender the sword
and liberty which you but lent me.”
I placed my rapier on the table and waited for him to speak. Instead,
however, he continued to stare at me for some moments, and when at last
he did break the silence, it was to burst into a laugh that poured from
his throat in rich, mellow peals, as he lay back in his chair.
My wrath arose. Had I travelled from Blois, and done what I deemed the
most honourable deed of my life, to be laughed at for my pains by a
foppish young jackanapes of his Eminence's guards? Something of my
displeasure must he have seen reflected on my face, for of a sudden he
checked his mirth.
“Forgive me, M. de Luynes,” he gasped. “Pardieu, 't is no matter for
laughter, and albeit I laughed with more zest than courtesy, I give you
my word that my admiration for you vastly exceeds my amusement. M. de
Luynes,” he added, rising and holding out his hand to me, “there are
liars in Paris who give you an evil name--men who laughed at me when
they heard that I had given you leave to go on parole to St. Sulpice des
Reaux that night, trusting to your word of honour that you would return
if you lived. His Eminence dubbed me a fool and went near to dismissing
me from his service, and yet I have now the proof that my confidence was
not misplaced, since even though you were believed to be dead, you did
not hesitate to bring me your sword.”
“Monsieur, spare me!” I exclaimed, for in truth his compliments waxed as
irksome as had been his whilom merriment.
He continued, however, his laudatory address, and when it was at last
ended, and he paused exhausted alike in breath and brain, it was to take
up my sword and return it to me with my parole, pronouncing me a free
man, and advising me to let men continue to think me dead, and to
withdraw from France. He cut short my half-protesting thanks, and
calling the hostess bade her set another cover, whilst me he invited to
share his supper. And as we ate he again urged upon me the advice that I
should go abroad.
“For by Heaven,” he added, “Mazarin has been as a raging beast since the
news was brought him yesterday of his nephew's marriage.”
“How?” I cried. “He has heard already?”
“He has, indeed; and should he learn that your flesh still walks the
earth, methinks it would go worse with you than it went even with Eugène
de Canaples.”
In answer to the questions with which I excitedly plied him, I drew from
him the story of how Eugène had arrived the day before in Paris, and
gone straight to the Palais Royal. M. de Montrésor had been on guard
in the ante-chamber, and in virtue of an excitement noticeable in
Canaples's bearing, coupled with the ill-odour wherein already he was
held by Mazarin, the lieutenant's presence had been commanded in the
Cardinal's closet during the interview--for his Eminence was never like
to acquire fame for valour.
In his exultation at what had chanced, and at the manner in which
Mazarin's Château en Espagne had been dispelled, Canaples used little
caution, or even discretion, in what he said. In fact, from what
Montrésor told me, I gathered that the fool's eagerness to be the first
to bear the tidings to Mazarin sprang from a rash desire to gloat over
the Cardinal's discomfiture. He had told his story insolently--almost
derisively--and Mazarin's fury, driven beyond bounds already by what
he had heard, became a very tempest of passion 'neath the lash of
Canaples's impertinences. And, naturally enough, that tempest had burst
upon the only head available--Eugène de Canaples's--and the Cardinal had
answered his jibes with interest by calling upon Montrésor to arrest the
fellow and bear him to the Bastille.
When the astonished and sobered Canaples had indignantly asked upon what
charge he was being robbed of his liberty, the Cardinal had laughed
at him, and answered with his never-failing axiom that “He who sings,
pays.”
“You sang lustily enough just now,” his Eminence had added, “and you
shall pay by lodging awhile in an oubliette of the Bastille, where you
may lift up your voice to sing the De profundis.”
“Was my name not mentioned?” I anxiously inquired when Montrésor had
finished.
“Not once. You may depend that I should have remarked it. After I had
taken Canaples away, the Cardinal, I am told, sat down, and, still
trembling with rage, wrote a letter which he straightway dispatched to
the Chevalier Armand de Canaples, at Blois.
“No doubt,” I mused, “he attributes much blame to me for what has come
to pass.”
“Not a doubt of it. This morning he said to me that it was a pity your
wings had not been clipped before you left Paris, and that his misplaced
clemency had helped to bring him great misfortunes. You see, therefore,
M. de Luynes, that your sojourn in France will be attended with great
peril. I advise you to try Spain; 't is a martial country where a man of
the sword may find honourable and even profitable employment.”
His counsel I deemed sound. But how follow it? Then of a sudden I
bethought me of Madame de Chevreuse's friendly letter. Doubtless she
would assist me once again, and in such an extremity as this. And with
the conception of the thought came the resolution to visit her on the
morrow. That formed, I gave myself up to the task of drinking M. de
Montrésor under the table with an abandon which had not been mine for
months. In each goblet that I drained, methought I saw Yvonne's sweet
face floating on the surface of the red Armagnac; it looked now sad, now
reproachful, still I drank on, and in each cup I pledged her.