THE FLIGHT FROM SCEAUX.
The responsibility brought by the possession of such valuable state
papers oppressed me greatly, to say nothing of the perils which would
beset their custodian if it became Jerome's purpose to reclaim them. I
thought it most prudent and proper under present conditions to see the
dispatches safe in de Serigny's hands--then, at least, I would be
absolved from any blame in the matter. Serigny held me responsible,
and it would perhaps be the part of wisdom to act independently of
Jerome, report fully to Serigny, and if it were then his wish that the
investigation concerning Yvard and Madame du Maine be pressed to
further discoveries, nothing would be easier than to return to Paris
almost before Jerome could miss me. I need tell Serigny nothing of my
suspicion of Jerome; even if true, his animosity would vanish with the
cause which gave it birth.
There was much to acquaint Serigny with, much perchance he knew
already. Paris swarmed with rumors. Every lip was busy with
second-hand gossip coming, as each relator declared, from the most
reliable sources. "My cousin, who is laundress to the Countess de
Lanois, says," and upon this immaculate authority the butcher upon his
morning rounds detailed the most delightful and impossible gossip to
his customers.
"Pierre, my son, the valet, who is in the confidence of the Duke of
Gesvres, heard His Grace say with his own lips"--and so the wine-room
stories flew, gathering strength and falsehood as they went. But the
story of to-day gave the lie to that of yesterday, and no man knew the
truth.
War with Spain filled every mouth, yet none had a why or a wherefore.
The King said "war," and all his nation echoed. No, not all. Many
there were who gave voice to the cry with hearts that rebelled, with
clear brains questioning the right of one man to plunge a whole people
into renewed slaughter. These held their peace for the sake of their
necks. "_I am the State_," Louis had declared, and such ideas were not
for the canaille to have; they must curb their tongues to cheat the
gibbet. Being a soldier and under orders, I had no right to form
opinions, but, sobered in some degree by these reflections, paced about
until it came time to take horse and away.
"In the name of the wandering Ulysses, Placide, where have you been
these two good hours?" said Jerome, suddenly coming toward me.
"Has it been so long? I tired of the crowd and strolled alone through
the gardens."
His quick eye caught sight of the handkerchief tucked snugly in my belt.
"A lady? And so soon?" he bantered me.
My tell-tale flush permitted no denial, nor did I care to discuss it.
As we talked we drifted into a small room just off the main hall.
"By the way, Placide, had we better not place our dispatches in some
safe hiding until we leave here? It might be suspected we have them.
The devil only knows what that scheming de Valence and du Maine may not
unearth. Their spies are everywhere."
I agreed with him. It was as well; anything to gain time and allay
suspicion. But I understood my lady's warning was true; his
earnestness convinced me.
"Where do you carry them?"
"Sewn in the lining of my cloak," I replied. A lie, but pardonable.
"Why, you careless fellow; they maybe lost. Where is your cloak?"
seeing I did not have it.
"In charge of Damien; he is trusty."
"Better have it yourself; wait here, I will go and fetch it."
I congratulated myself on this diplomatic stroke, for Jerome was about
to start off in all haste when Damien himself appeared, and before I
could stop him, delivered the message.
"The horses are saddled and at the door."
"Go and wait with them."
Jerome had taken my cloak from the fellow's arm, for in fact he had it,
and now laid it across his knee. His blank expression showed utter
astonishment at the disclosure.
"What does this mean? We are to rest here to-night?"
"No; I ride to Paris."
"Why?"
"I am afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of everything. We are in the house of our enemies, and it is the
quality of courage to be discreet."
During this brief dialogue Jerome was stealthily running his hands
through the lining of my cloak until he comprehended I had misled him.
I could almost put his thought in words. Together we arose, laying
each our hands upon the half-closed door, he to hold it, I to open it,
steady-eyed, and each reluctant to cause the breach we knew must come.
"Placide, the papers are not here," he said in a quiet tone, yet full
of determination.
"I know it."
"Why have you deceived me then?" for he could mask his purposes no
longer, "Hand me those dispatches."
"No. My orders are to place them in the hands of Serigny."
"But I must have them."
"And I tell you as firmly, you can not."
"Listen, Captain," he begged in altered tones, "those dispatches may
compromise Celeste. Let us take from them anything which implicates
her in this miserable intrigue, and deliver the rest. That is easy. I
can open and close them again so it can not be told."
"My orders are not to open them."
"By God, you will!" he burst out with volcanic fury, "no, no; I am too
hot. We can lose them; tell Serigny they were never found; tell him
Yvard carried them off; tell him he never had them. We can fix a tale."
"It would be a long story, and a liar must needs have a good memory."
I was playing for time, time to think, time to get away.
"But I will go with you to Serigny," he insisted, "tell the lie and
make him to believe. 'Pshaw, man, you know not the ways of the world,
at least not at the Court of France."
"Think, Jerome, of the war, of our people in the colonies, of our
honor?"
"I care not for it all," the wild passion in his voice made me almost
fear him. "All that is as nothing to me where Celeste is concerned.
Oh, Placide, think of it! I love her, love her, love her--do you
comprehend what that means to such a man as I? I, who have loved her
almost from her birth, have seen her taken from me and sold--yes, sold
by her money-loving father, sold, sold! I, who have borne all her
husband's leers when, flushed with the insolence of rank and wine, this
shriveled bridegroom bore her as a piece of ornament to his house in
Paris. Can I bear to lose her now?
"But, Jerome, you would not be such a coward as to permit our brethren
in the colonies to be slaughtered, while you tell your pitiful lie to
shield a woman? It can not be done. What a fool you are come to be.
Man, man, where is your courage?"
"I care not. Love for such a woman would make of Truth a liar, and of
Jove a fool. Think, Placide, think of her, Celeste, in the Bastille,
the irons cutting into her delicate hands, those hands which I have so
fondly held within my own--the cold stones for her bed. Or, worse: The
block, the headsman and the jeering rabble. Have you no feeling, man?
Suppose there was some woman whom you loved--a guilty love, I
grant--but so strong, so deep, so overpowering, you could not master
it? Suppose _she_ were threatened, would you not protect her even if
you lost your life; yea, bartered away your honor?"
A pale little tearful face thrust itself before me as he spoke, and I
knew my own weak heart. I confess his pleading staggered me, and I
hesitated. He came closer; all the love and fear of a strong and
desperate man wove itself into his words.
"Could you only have seen her two hours ago when you left her chamber;
have heard her sobs, felt the tremble of her heart when she threw
herself, just as when a child she used to do, into my arms pleading for
protection! Those dispatches will ruin her. She so calm, so proud, so
brave to all the world, wept like a terrified baby upon my breast.
Placide, I'd die and go to hell to save her. She so cold and pure, her
very name is a reproach to this flock of butterfly women. This woman
loves me, loves me even though that love be what men call dishonor.
Bah! I hate the word. Her father never sold her heart. No, that was
mine, forever mine. Had I but foreseen this I'd have left you rotting
in Bertrand's dungeon. No, no. Placide, I meant it not; I'm not
myself; forgive me, comrade; pity her and pity me."
I vaguely wondered what there could be in the packet to cause him so
sincere an apprehension. But I must think of my people and be strong.
I denied him once for all. He sprang at me with the fury of a demon.
Being the cooler and stronger, I threw him off easily and reached the
door as he came again with his sword. It was a delicate predicament.
I could easily kill him. Wild with a lover's fear, he left his front
open to my blade, but I'd had enough of death. He paused to shove a
table from his path, which gave me time to open and slip through the
door.
In a moment he rushed out behind me, pale and panting. The corridor,
deserted, echoed to our flying steps. I ran on ahead making my way
toward the horses. Meeting people outside, we had to slacken our gait,
smile, and conceal the realities of the situation, the necessity for
which he apprehended as quickly as I.
Four horses stood ready, and choosing the one I thought best fitted for
a hard chase--it was evident we could not afford to fight it out at
Sceaux--and to fight seemed now his purpose--I vaulted lightly into the
saddle, and before Jerome could hinder, had jumped the low wall and
taken the direct road to Paris.
Practiced horseman as Jerome was, it took him no time to follow, and
his grooms joined in the chase.
On, on, we sped. Trees, fences, walls and people all melted into one
motley and indistinguishable stream. In the open road we strung out,
according to the speed of our mounts, one of the grooms dropping
farther and farther in the rear. The distance between Jerome and
myself, despite his frantic belaborings of his brave steed, grew
steadily greater.
Just before we passed a crooked lane off to the left, leading whither I
knew not, Jerome turned in his saddle and called to the two grooms now
well to the rear.
"That way quick; to the Versailles road. Cut him off."
The fellows obeyed, reining their horses into a swinging lope, as, less
hurried, they took the lane indicated. Jerome thence rode on after me
alone. The situation was now becoming awkward. I had acted without
cool consideration heretofore, taking the Paris road because it was the
only one I knew, and trusting thereafter largely to fortune. Now, as I
caught occasional glimpses of the city spires, the towers of Notre
Dame, I must perforce remember I had no hopes from them. The crazed
man behind knew the city well, while to me it was a labyrinth of
difficulty. I had no friends, while he counted many. I must act, and
that quickly. Had I but known enough to turn down that lane into the
Versailles road I could have reached the palace without molestation,
thanks to my good luck in picking the best horse of the lot. Thinking
of the lane brought an idea which promised well.
Moderating my speed gradually I suffered Jerome to draw nearer. I then
called over my shoulder that as we were now man to man, we might
dismount and fight it out upon a piece of level sward beside the road.
His horse was nearly spent, and inflamed to fury by the fear of my
escape, he eagerly agreed. While we parleyed, I worked myself into a
position near his horse's head, and as he prepared to alight, snatched
my sword and with a quick upper cut severed one rein near the bit. The
blade having cut his horse slightly under his throat, he reared and
plunged, and finding himself uncontrolled started madly off down the
road, Jerome cursing, screaming and clinging to his mane.
I had to laugh at the success of my stratagem, for though it was a
scurvy trick to play an old friend, it was much the simplest way out of
the difficulty to dispose of him in this bloodless fashion. I put my
horse about now without interference. When I wheeled down the lane
toward Versailles, Jerome's clatter and dust was just dying away over
the crest of a distant hill, making most excellent time in the
direction of Paris.
Now that this new danger was past, I rode on heavy-hearted enough, for
I had grown to love Jerome, and blamed him little for his sudden touch
of fury. For I was nearly in the same boat, borne on by the same
strong currents as Jerome.
Verily, what will man not do for woman? Love had turned him from a
courteous nobleman of France, a brave and kindly gentleman, into the
frenzied coward who would lie to his master, slay his friend, and turn
traitor to his countrymen. A god could not love and be wise.
I jogged along slowly, seeking to rest my horse, for I could not tell
how soon I must look to his speed for safety. It was necessary also
that I should see the two fellows who watched the Versailles road
before they caught sight of me. Possibly an artifice might avail me
where force would fail.
Presently from a slight eminence the broad highway could be seen
winding out of Paris, glistening in the starlight, for it was now after
dusk, twisting in dusty undulations toward the distant palace of the
King. I drew rein among some trees which served for shelter, and
scanned the way to see if the watchers were in sight. The lane, before
it entered the Versailles road, branched out into two portions, one
bearing away toward Paris, while the other traversed a piece of low
ground that struck the main road several hundred yards in the other
direction. Within the irregular triangle thus formed the two grooms
had thrown themselves upon the ground, being distinctly visible in a
little clearing.
Their position commanded quite a considerable stretch of road toward
the city, and as by going that way it would take a good hour and a half
of hard riding to get so far, it was certain they did not expect me to
pass for some time. That cut-off through the lane must have been ten
miles the shorter journey.
This reflection gave me some hope that I might be able to slip by in a
gallop before they could take horse. Yet I could not afford to waste
much time, for Jerome might perchance find means to follow, and would
not be in a pleasant humor. There could be no accounting for the
lengths to which his desperation and folly might carry him. I had need
for both haste and caution.
I was now at the top of a slight hillock, the grooms resting at the
foot. As ill fortune would have it, my horse's hoof loosened a stone,
and one of them looking up recognized my figure clear drawn against the
fading colors of the sky. They both jumped up with an alertness which
would have done credit to old woodsmen, and before I could dodge by,
had remounted and taken possession of the road. My more elevated
position and perhaps better hearing, too, enabled me to detect the
coming of persons along the road from Paris. Certainly as many as
three or four horsemen, perhaps a vehicle. It could hardly be possible
that Jerome had made the trip so quickly, yet I did not know what other
and shorter way he might find. At any rate every instant intensified
the danger, for if it were Jerome, then, indeed, I could not hope to
make Versailles that night.
Listening more critically I decided they were travelling too slowly to
be Jerome's party.
I would then most gladly have charged the insolents in front and taken
all chances, but my half hour of quiet thought had brought me the
conclusion it was too much to risk my life, at least until Serigny was
acquainted with the information we had gained. I, too, was the only
person who knew of the traitors on board le Dauphin.
"Who are you, and what do you mean stopping a gentleman's path?" I
called to the twain who had drawn a little away from the foot of the
hill seeing the disadvantage of their former position in case I charged
them, and preferring to receive me on the open ground.
"No harm, Monsieur, we only mean to detain you until M. de Greville
comes up," the slender man spoke quite politely.
"M. de Greville will not come up this night--may God have mercy on his
soul," I added solemnly.
"Why not, fine sir?" the gruffer fellow on the big bay questioned with
some heat. I made no quibble on his manner, but replied:
"I doubt I have slain him. He lies back yonder in the road to Sceaux,
and I know not whether he be dead or still lives."
They hesitated and consulted together in a low tone; I saw my
opportunity to press their indecision.
"What excuse can you make and what authority have you for halting an
officer of the King with dispatches to the King? With M. Jerome de
Greville to stand between you and harm it was dangerous enough; now it
is a matter of hanging."
"But M. de Greville is not dead," they protested together, "we left him
a few minutes since alive and well." I seized upon the vacillation
manifest in their voices and proceeded with confidence.
"Then how think you I came along this road? Think you M. Jerome would
let me go so easily? You know his temper too well. Does he change his
mind like a woman? I turned about to take the nearer path, and see,
his blood is not yet dry upon my sword."
"We do not believe you. It is some trick."
"If you will but move this way and give me clear passage to Versailles,
I will go and say nothing. You can then return and minister to your
master."
"Nay, we'll hold the road an hour, which gives him time to come up. An
hour gone and you may pursue your journey."
"Then, forsooth, one of you can make his peace with God. I'll shoot
your stoutest bully and try blades with the other."
I raised the pistol which had been concealed unknown to Jerome, and to
say the truth, it looked formidable enough all a-glitter beneath the
rising moon, though I doubted much if I could strike my mark.
As I started resolutely onward I warned them:
"Pull your nags off in yonder level space, leave the left fork free, or
by the gods, you burly black-haired rascal, I'll take the first shot at
you, you make the fairest target. Way there, in the King's name!"
As is ever so with low-born churls, and no gentleman to command, each
looked to the other for some act of heroism, and each sought his own
safety.
They stood their ground only an instant, then pulled aside as I had
bidden them. As soon as I passed them a decent distance as if I had no
fear, I put spurs to my good steed, and, breathing more freely than I
had done for many days, heard the merry pounding of his hoofs upon the
open way to my mission's end.