Dame! What an ado there was next day in Blois, when the news came that
the troopers had installed themselves at the Château de Canaples and
that the Chevalier had been arrested for treason by order of the Lord
Cardinal, and that he would be taken to Paris, and--probably--the
scaffold.
Men gathered in little knots at street corners, and with sullen brows
and threatening gestures they talked of the affair; and the more
they talked, the more clouded grew their looks, and more than one
anti-cardinalist pasquinade was heard in Blois that day.
Given a leader those men would have laid hands upon pikes and muskets,
and gone to the Chevalier's rescue. As I observed them, the thought did
cross my mind that I might contrive a pretty fight in the rose garden of
Canaples were I so inclined. And so inclined I should, indeed, have been
but for the plan that had come to me like an inspiration from above, and
which methought would prove safer in the end.
To carry out this plan of mine, I quitted Blois at nightfall, with my
two knaves, having paid my reckoning at the Lys de France, and given
out that we were journeying to Tours. We followed the road that leads to
Canaples, until we reached the first trees bordering the park. There
I dismounted, and, leaving Abdon to guard the horses, I made my way on
foot, accompanied by Michelot, towards the garden.
We gained this, and were on the point of quitting the shadow of the
trees, when of a sudden, by the light of the crescent moon, I beheld
a man walking in one of the alleys, not a hundred paces from where we
stood. I had but time to seize Michelot by the collar of his pourpoint
and draw him towards me. But as he trod precipitately backwards a twig
snapped 'neath his foot with a report that in the surrounding stillness
was like a pistol shot.
I caught my breath as he who walked in the garden stood still, his face,
wrapped in the shadows of his hat, turned towards us.
“Who goes there?” he shouted. Then getting no reply he came resolutely
forward, whilst I drew a pistol wherewith to welcome him did he come too
near.
On he came, and already I had brought my pistol to a level with his
head, when fortunately he repeated his question, “Who goes there?”--and
this time I recognised the voice of Montrésor, the very man I could then
most wish to meet.
“Hist! Montrésor!” I called softly. “'T is I--Luynes.”
“So!” he exclaimed, coming close up to me. “You have reached Canaples at
last!”
“At last?” I echoed.
“Whom have you there?” he inquired abruptly.
“Only Michelot.”
“Bid him fall behind a little.”
When Michelot had complied with this request, “You see, M. de Luynes,”
quoth the officer, “that you have arrived too late.”
There was a certain coldness in his tone that made me seek by my reply
to sound him.
“Indeed, I trust not, my friend. With your assistance I hope to get M.
de Canaples from the clutches of St. Auban.”
He shook his head.
“It is impossible that I should help you,” he replied with increasing
coldness. “Already once for your sake have I broken faith to those who
pay me, by setting you in a position to forestall St. Auban and get M.
de Canaples away before his arrival. Unfortunately, you have dallied
on the road, M. de Luynes, and Canaples is already a prisoner--a doomed
one, I fear.”
“Is that your last word, Montrésor?” I inquired sadly.
“I am sorry,” he answered in softened tones, “but you must see that I
cannot do otherwise. I warned you; more you cannot expect of me.”
I sighed, and stood musing for an instant. Then--“You are right,
Montrésor. Nevertheless, I am still grateful to you for the warning you
gave me in Paris. God pity and help Canaples! Adieu, Montrésor. I do not
think that you will see me again.”
He took my hand, but as he did so he pushed me back into the shadow from
which I had stepped to proffer it him.
“Peste!” he ejaculated. “The moon was full upon your face, and did St.
Auban chance to look out, he must have seen you.”
I followed the indication of his thumb, and noted the lighted window to
which he pointed. A moment later he was gone, and as I joined Michelot,
I chuckled softly to myself.
For two hours and more I sat in the shrubbery, conversing in whispers
with Michelot, and watching the lights in the château die out one by
one, until St. Auban's window, which opened on to the terrace balcony,
was the only one that was not wrapt in darkness.
I waited a little while longer, then rising I cautiously made a tour of
inspection. Peace reigned everywhere, and the only sign of life was the
sentry, who with musket on shoulder paced in front of the main entrance,
a silent testimony of St. Auban's mistrust of the Blaisois and of his
fears of a possible surprise.
Satisfied that everyone slept I retraced my steps to the shrubbery where
Michelot awaited me, watching the square of light, and after exchanging
word with him, I again stepped forth.
When I was half way across the intervening space of garden, treading
with infinite precaution, a dark shadow obscured the window, which a
second later was thrown open. Crouching hastily behind a boxwood hedge,
I watched St. Auban--for I guessed that he it was--as he leaned out and
gazed skywards.
For a little while he remained there, then he withdrew, leaving the
casement open, and presently I caught the grating of a chair on the
parquet floor within. If ever the gods favoured mortal, they favoured me
at that moment.
Stealthily as a cat I sprang towards the terrace, the steps to which I
climbed on hands and knees. Stooping, I sped silently across it until I
had gained the flower-bed immediately below the window that had drawn
me to it. Crouching there--for did I stand upright my chin would be on a
level with the sill--I paused to listen for some moments. The only sound
I caught was a rustle, as of paper. Emboldened, I took a deep breath,
and standing up I gazed straight into the chamber.
By the light of four tapers in heavy silver sconces, I beheld St. Auban
seated at a table littered with parchments, over which he was intently
poring. His back was towards me, and his long black hair hung straight
upon his shoulders. On the table, amid the papers, lay his golden wig
and black mask, and on the floor in the centre of the room, his back and
breast of blackened steel and his sword.
It needed but little shrewdness to guess those parchments before him
to be legal documents touching the Canaples estates, and his occupation
that of casting up exactly what profit he would reap from his infamous
work of betrayal.
So intent was the hound upon his calculations that my cautious movements
passed unheeded by him as I got astride of the window ledge. It was only
when I swung my right leg into the room that he turned his head, but
before his eyes reached me I was standing upright and motionless within
the chamber.
I have seen fear of many sorts writ large upon the faces of men of many
conditions--from the awe that blanches the cheek of the boy soldier when
first he hears the cannon thundering to the terror that glazes the eye
of the vanquished swordsman who at every moment expects the deadly point
in his heart. But never had I gazed upon a countenance filled with such
abject ghastly terror as that which came over St. Auban's when his eyes
met mine that night.
He sprang up with an inarticulate cry that sank into something that I
can but liken to the rattle which issues from the throat of expiring
men. For a second he stood where he had risen, then terror loosened his
knees, and he sank back into his chair. His mouth fell open, and the
trembling lips were drawn down at the corners like those of a sobbing
child; his cheeks turned whiter than the lawn collar at his throat, and
his eyes, wide open in a horrid stare, were fixed on mine and, powerless
to avert them, he met my gaze--cold, stern, and implacable.
For a moment we remained thus, and I marvelled greatly to see a man
whose heart, if full of evil, I had yet deemed stout enough, stricken by
fear into so parlous and pitiful a condition.
Then I had the explanation of it as he lifted his right hand and made
the sign of the cross, first upon himself, then in the air, whilst his
lips moved, and I guessed that to himself he was muttering some prayer
of exorcising purport. There was the solution of the terror--sweat
that stood out in beads upon his brow--he had deemed me a spectre; the
spectre of a man he believed to have foully done to death on a spot
across the Loire visible from the window at my back.
At last he sufficiently mastered himself to break the awful silence.
“What do you want?” he whispered; then, his voice gaining power as he
used it--“Speak,” he commanded. “Man or devil, speak!”
I laughed for answer, harshly, mockingly; for never had I known a
fiercer, crueller mood. At the sound of that laugh, satanical though may
have been its ring, he sprang up again, and unsheathing a dagger he took
a step towards me.
“We shall see of what you are made,” he cried. “If you blast me in the
act, I'll strike you!”
I laughed again, and raising my arm I gave him the nozzle of a pistol to
contemplate.
“Stand where you are, St. Auban, or, by the God above us, I'll send your
ghost a-wandering,” quoth I coolly.
My voice, which I take it had nothing ghostly in it, and still more
the levelled pistol, which of all implements is the most unghostly,
dispelled his dread. The colour crept slowly back to his cheeks, and his
mouth closed with a snap of determination.
“Is it, indeed, you, master meddler?” he said. “Peste! I thought you
dead these three months.”
“And you are overcome with joy to find that you were in error, eh,
Marquis? We Luynes die hard.”
“It seems so, indeed,” he answered with a cool effrontery past crediting
in one who but a moment ago had looked so pitiful. “What do you seek at
Canaples?”
“Many things, Marquis. You among others.”
“You have come to murder me,” he cried, and again alarm overspread his
countenance.
“Hoity, toity, Marquis! We do not all follow the same trade. Who talks
of murder? Faugh!”
Again he took a step towards me, but again the nozzle of my pistol drove
him back. To have pistoled him there and then as he deserved would have
brought the household about my ears, and that would have defeated my
object. To have fallen upon him and slain him with silent steel would
have equally embarrassed me, as you shall understand anon.
“You and I had a rendezvous at St. Sulpice des Reaux,” I said calmly,
“to which you came with a band of hired assassins. For this you deserve
to be shot like the dog you are. But I have it in my heart to be
generous to you,” I added in a tone of irony. “Come, take up your
sword.”
“To what purpose?”
“Do you question me? Take up your sword, man, and do my bidding; thus
shall you have a slender chance of life. Refuse and I pistol you without
compunction. So now put on that wig and mask.”
When he obeyed me in this--“Now listen, St. Auban,” I said. “You and
I are going together to that willow copse whither three months ago you
lured Yvonne de Canaples for the purpose of abducting her. On that spot
you and I shall presently face each other sword in hand, with none other
to witness our meeting save God, in whose hands the issue lies. That is
your chance; at the first sign that you meditate playing me any tricks,
that chance is lost to you.” And I tapped my pistol significantly. “Now
climb out through that window.”
When he had done so, I bade him stand six paces away whilst I followed,
and to discourage any foolish indiscretion on his part I again showed
him my pistol.
He answered me with an impatient gesture, and by the light that fell on
his face I saw him sneer.
“Come on, you fool,” he snarled, “and have done threatening. I'll talk
to you in the copse. And tread softly lest you arouse the sentry on the
other side.”
Rejoiced to see the man so wide awake in him, I followed him closely
across the terrace, and through the rose garden to the bank of the
river. This we followed until we came at last to the belt of willows,
where, having found a suitable patch of even and springy turf, I drew my
sword and invited him to make ready.
“Will you not strip?” he inquired sullenly.
“I do not think so,” I answered. “The night air is sharp. Nevertheless,
do you make ready as best you deem fit, and that speedily, Monsieur.”
With an exclamation of contempt, he divested himself of his wig, mask,
and doublet, then drawing his sword, he came forward, and announced
himself at my disposal.
As well you may conceive, we wasted no time in compliments, but
straightway went to work, and that with a zest that drew sparks from our
rapiers at the first contact.
The Marquis attacked me furiously, and therein lay his only chance; for
a fierce, rude sword-play that is easily dealt with in broad daylight
is vastly discomposing in such pale moonshine as lighted us. I defended
myself warily, for of a sudden I had grown conscious of the danger that
I ran did he once by luck or strength get past my guard with that point
of his which in the spare light I could not follow closely enough to
feel secure.
'Neath the fury of his onslaught I was compelled to break ground more
than once, and each time he was so swift to follow up his advantage that
I had ne'er a chance to retaliate.
Still fear or doubt of the issue I had none. I needed but to wait until
the Marquis's fury was spent by want of breath, to make an end of it.
And presently that which I waited for came about. His attack began to
lag in vigour, and the pressure of his blade to need less resistance,
whilst his breathing grew noisy as that of a broken-winded horse. Then
with the rage of a gambler who loses at every throw, he cursed and
reviled me with every thrust or lunge that I turned aside.
My turn was come; yet I held back, and let him spend his strength to the
utmost drop, whilst with my elbow close against my side and by an easy
play of wrist, I diverted each murderous stroke of his point that came
again and again for my heart.
When at last he had wasted in blasphemies what little breath his wild
exertions had left him, I let him feel on his blade the twist that
heralded my first riposte. He caught the thrust, and retreated a
step, his blasphemous tongue silenced, and his livid face bathed in
perspiration.
Cruelly I toyed with him then, and with every disengagement I made him
realise that he was mastered, and that if I withheld the coup de grâce
it was but to prolong his agony. And to add to the bitterness of that
agony of his, I derided him whilst I fenced; with a recitation of his
many sins I mocked him, showing him how ripe he was for hell, and asking
him how it felt to die unshriven with such a load upon his soul.
Goaded to rage by my bitter words, he grit his teeth, and gathered what
rags of strength were left him for a final effort, And before I knew
what he was about, he had dropped on to his left knee, and with his body
thrown forward and supported within a foot of the ground by his left
arm, he came, like a snake, under my guard with his point directed
upwards.
So swift had been this movement and so unlooked-for, that had I not
sprung backwards in the very nick of time, this narrative of mine had
ne'er been written. With a jeering laugh I knocked aside his sword, but
even as I disengaged, to thrust at him, he knelt up and caught my blade
in his left hand, and for all that it ate its way through the flesh to
the very bones of his fingers, he clung to it with that fierce strength
and blind courage that is born of despair.
Then raising himself on his knees again, he struck at me wildly. I swung
aside, and as his sword, missing its goal, shot past me, I caught his
wrist in a grip from which I contemptuously invited him to free himself.
With that began a fierce tugging and panting on both sides, which,
however, was of short duration, for presently, my blade, having severed
the last sinew of his fingers, was set free. Simultaneously I let go
his wrist, pushing his arm from me so violently that in his exhausted
condition it caused him to fall over on his side.
In an instant, however, he was up and at me again. Again our swords
clashed--but once only. It was time to finish. With a vigorous
disengagement I got past his feeble guard and sent my blade into him
full in the middle of his chest and out again at his back until a foot
or so of glittering steel protruded.
A shudder ran through him, and his mouth worked oddly, whilst
spasmodically he still sought, without avail, to raise his sword; then
as I recovered my blade, a half-stifled cry broke from his lips, and
throwing up his arms, he staggered and fell in a heap.
As I turned him over to see if he were dead, his eyes met mine, and were
full of piteous entreaty; his lips moved, and presently I caught the
words:
“I am sped, Luynes.” Then struggling up, and in a louder voice: “A
priest!” he gasped. “Get me a priest, Luynes. Jesu! Have mer--”
A rush of blood choked him and cut short his utterance. He writhed and
twitched for a moment, then his chin sank forward and he fell back,
death starkening his limbs and glazing the eyes which stared hideously
upwards at the cold, pitiless moon.
Such was the passing of the Marquis César de St. Auban.