The Bright Face of Danger
_Being an Account of Some Adventures of Henri de Launay, Son of the
Sieur de la Tournoire. Freely Translated into Modern English_
By Robert Neilson Stephens
_Author of_ "An Enemy to the King," "Philip Winwood," "The Mystery of
Murray Davenport," etc.
_Illustrated by_ H. C. Edwards
_Boston_
L. C. Page & Company
_Mdcccciiii_
_Copyright, 1904_
By L. C. Page & Company
_Entered at Stationers' Hall, London_
_All rights reserved_
Published April, 1904
Colonial Press
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston. Mass., U.S.A.
_THE BRIGHT FACE OF DANGER is, in a distant way, a sequel to "An
Enemy to the King," but may be read alone, without any reference to
that tale. The title is a phrase of Robert Louis Stevenson's._
_THE AUTHOR._
[Illustration: "'I GIVE YOU ONE CHANCE FOR YOUR LIFE,' SAID I QUICKLY."]
CONTENTS
I. MONSIEUR HENRI DE LAUNAY SETS OUT ON A JOURNEY
II. A YOUNG MAN WHO WENT SINGING
III. WHERE THE LADY WAS
IV. WHO THE LADY WAS
V. THE CHATEAU DE LAVARDIN
VI. WHAT THE PERIL WAS
VII. STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES
VIII. MATHILDE
IX. THE WINDING STAIRS
X. MORE THAN MERE PITY
XI. THE RAT-HOLE AND THE WATER-JUG
XII. THE ROPE LADDER
XIII. THE PARTING
XIV. IN THE FOREST
XV. THE TOWER OF MORLON
XVI. THE MERCY OF CAPTAIN FERRAGANT
XVII. THE SWORD OF LA TOURNOIRE
XVIII. THE MOUSTACHES OF BRIGNAN DE BRIGNAN
XIX. AFTERWARDS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"'I GIVE YOU ONE CHANCE FOR YOUR LIFE,' SAID I QUICKLY"
"'AND NOW SHE WILL WAIT FOR HIM IN VAIN!'"
"WE WERE INTERRUPTED BY A LOW CRY"
"'THE WRETCHES!' SAID THE TORTURED COUNT, STAGGERING TO HIS FEET"
"I LEAPED OVER THE BED, AND UPON THE MAN WHO WAS TRYING TO STRANGLE THE
COUNTESS"
"MY FATHER'S THRUSTS BECAME NOW SO QUICK AND CONTINUOUS"
THE BRIGHT FACE OF DANGER
CHAPTER I.
MONSIEUR HENRI DE LAUNAY SETS OUT ON A JOURNEY
If, on the first Tuesday in June, in the year 1608, anybody had asked me
on what business I was riding towards Paris, and if I had answered, "To
cut off the moustaches of a gentleman I have never seen, that I may toss
them at the feet of a lady who has taunted me with that gentleman's
superiorities,"--if I had made this reply, I should have been taken for
the most foolish person on horseback in France that day. Yet the answer
would have been true, though I accounted myself one of the wisest young
gentlemen you might find in Anjou or any other province.
I was, of a certainty, studious, and a lover of books. My father, the
Sieur de la Tournoire, being a daring soldier, had so often put himself
to perils inimical to my mother's peace of mind, that she had guided my
inclinations in the peaceful direction of the library, hoping not to
suffer for the son such alarms as she had undergone for the husband. I
had grown up, therefore, a musing, bookish youth, rather shy and
solitary in my habits: and this despite the care taken of my education
in swordsmanship, riding, hunting, and other manly accomplishments, both
by my father and by his old follower, Blaise Tripault. I acquired skill
enough to satisfy these well-qualified instructors, but yet a volume of
Plutarch or a book of poems was more to me than sword or dagger, horse,
hound, or falcon. I was used to lonely walks and brookside meditations
in the woods and meads of our estate of La Tournoire, in Anjou; and it
came about that with my head full of verses I must needs think upon some
lady with whom to fancy myself in love.
Contiguity determined my choice. The next estate to ours, separated from
it by a stream flowing into the Loir, had come into the possession of a
rich family of bourgeois origin whom heaven had blessed (or burdened, as
some would think) with a pretty daughter. Mlle. Celeste was a small,
graceful, active creature, with a clear and well-coloured skin, and
quick-glancing black eyes which gave me a pleasant inward stir the first
time they rested on me. In my first acquaintance with this young lady,
the black eyes seemed to enlarge and soften when they fell on me: she
regarded me with what I took to be interest and approval: her face shone
with friendliness, and her voice was kind. In this way I was led on.
When she saw how far she had drawn me, her manner changed: she became
whimsical, never the same for five minutes: sometimes indifferent,
sometimes disdainful, sometimes gay at my expense. This treatment
touched my pride, and would have driven me off, but that still, when in
her presence, I felt in some degree the charm of the black eyes, the
well-chiselled face, the graceful swift motions, and what else I know
not. When I was away from her, this charm declined: nevertheless I chose
to keep her in my mind as just such a capricious object of adoration as
poets are accustomed to lament and praise in the same verses.
But indeed I was never for many days out of reach of her attractive
powers, for several of her own favourite haunts were on her side of the
brook by which I was in the habit of strolling or reclining for some
part of almost every fair day. Attended by a fat and sleepy old
waiting-woman, she was often to be seen running along the grassy bank
with a greyhound that followed her everywhere. For this animal she
showed a constancy of affection that made her changefulness to me the
more heart-sickening.
Thus, half in love, half in disgust, I sat moodily on my side of the
stream one sunny afternoon, watching her on the other side. She had been
running a race with the dog, and had just settled down on the green
bank, with the hound sitting on his haunches beside her. Both dog and
girl were panting, and her face was still merry with the fun of the
scamper. Her old attendant had probably been left dozing in some other
part of the wood. Here now was an opportunity for me to put in a sweet
speech or two. But as I looked at her and thought of her treatment of
me, my pride rebelled, and I suppose my face for the moment wore a
cloud. My expression, whatever it was, caught the quick eyes of Mlle.
Celeste. Being in merriment herself, she was the readier to make scorn
of my sulky countenance. She pealed out a derisive laugh.
"Oh, the sour face! Is that what comes of your eternal reading?"
I had in my hand a volume of Plutarch in the French of Amyot. Her
ridicule of reading annoyed me.
"No, Mademoiselle, it isn't from books that one draws sourness. I find
more sweetness in them than in--most things." I was looking straight at
her as I said this.
She pretended to laugh again, but turned quite red.
"Nay, forgive me," I said, instantly softened. "Ah, Celeste, you know
too well what is the sweetest of all books for my reading." By my look
and sigh, she knew I meant her face. But she chose to be contemptuous.
"Poh! What should a pale scholar know of such books? I tell you,
Monsieur de Launay, you will never be a man till you leave your books
and see a little of the world."
Though she called me truly enough a pale scholar, I was scarlet for a
moment.
"And what do you know of the world, then?" I retorted. "Or of men
either?"
"I am only a girl. But as to men, I have met one or two. There is your
father, for example. And that brave and handsome Brignan de Brignan."
Whether I loved or not, I was certainly capable of jealousy; and
jealousy of the fiercest arose at the name of Brignan de Brignan. I had
never seen him; but she had mentioned him to me before, too many times
indeed for me to hear his name now with composure. He was a young
gentleman of the King's Guard, of whom, by reason of a distant
relationship, her family had seen much during a residence of several
months in Paris.
"Brignan de Brignan," I echoed. "Yes, I dare say he has looked more into
the faces of women than into books."
"And more into the face of danger than into either. That's what has made
him the man he is."
"Tut!" I cried, waving my Plutarch; "there's more manly action in this
book than a thousand Brignans could perform in all their lives--more
danger encountered."
"An old woman might read it for all that. Would it make her manly? Well,
Monsieur Henri, if you choose to encounter danger only in books, there's
nobody to complain. But you shouldn't show malice toward those who
prefer to meet it in the wars or on the road."
"Malice? Not I. What is Brignan de Brignan to me? You may say what you
please--this Plutarch is as good a school of heroism as any officer of
the King's Guard ever went to."
"Yet the officers of the King's Guard aren't pale, moping fellows like
you lovers of books. Ah, Monsieur Henri, if you mean to be a monk, well
and good. But otherwise, do you know what would change your complexion
for the better? A lively brush with real dangers on the field, or in
Paris, or anywhere away from your home and your father's protection.
That would bring colour into your cheeks."
"You may let my cheeks alone, Mademoiselle."
"You may be sure I will do that."
"I'm quite satisfied with my complexion, and I wouldn't exchange it for
that of Brignan de Brignan. I dare say his face is red enough."
"Yes, a most manly colour. And his broad shoulders--and powerful
arms--and fine bold eyes--ah! there _is_ the picture of a hero--and his
superb moustaches--"
Now I was at the time not strong in respect of moustaches. I was
extremely sensitive upon the point. My frame, though not above middle
size, was yet capable of robust development, my paleness was not beyond
remedy, and my eyes were of a pleasant blue, so there was little to
rankle in what she said of my rival's face and body; but as to the
moustaches----!
I scrambled to my feet.
"I tell you what it is, Mademoiselle. Just to show what your Brignan
really amounts to, and whether I mean to be a monk, and what a reader of
books can do when he likes, I have made up my mind to go to Paris; and
there I will find your Brignan, and show my scorn of such an illiterate
bravo, and cut off his famous moustaches, and bring them back to you for
proof! So adieu, Mademoiselle, for this is the last you will see of me
till what I have said is done!"
The thing had come into my head in one hot moment, indeed it formed
itself as I spoke it; and so I, the quiet and studious, stood committed
to an act which the most harebrained brawler in Anjou would have deemed
childish folly. Truly, I did lack knowledge of the world.
I turned from Mlle. Celeste's look of incredulous wonderment, and went
off through the woods, with swifter strides than I usually took, to our
chateau. Of course I dared not tell my parents my reason for wishing to
go to Paris. It was enough, to my mother at least, that I should desire
to go on any account. The best way in which I could put my resolution to
them, which I did that very afternoon, on the terrace where I found them
sitting, was thus:
"I have been thinking how little I know of the world. It is true, you
have taken me to Paris; but I was only a lad then, and what I saw was
with a lad's eyes and under your guidance. I am now twenty-two, and many
a man at that age has begun to make his own career. To be worthy of my
years, of my breeding, of my name, I ought to know something of life
from my own experience. So I have resolved, with your permission, my
dear father and mother, to go to Paris and see what I may see."
My mother had turned pale as soon as she saw the drift of my speech, and
was for putting every plea in the way. But my father, though he looked
serious, seemed not displeased. We talked upon the matter--as to how
long I should wish to stay in Paris, whether I had thought of aiming at
any particular career there, and of such things. I said I had formed no
plans nor hopes: these might or might not come after I had arrived in
Paris and looked about me. But see something of the world I must, if
only that I might not be at disadvantage in conversation afterward. It
was a thing I could afford, for on the attainment of my majority my
father had made over to me the income of a portion of our estate, a
small enough revenue indeed, but one that looked great in my eyes. He
could not now offer any reasonable objection to my project, and he plead
my cause with my mother, without whose consent I should not have had the
heart to go. Indeed, knowing what her dread had always been, and seeing
the anxious love in her eyes as she now regarded me, I almost wavered.
But of course she was won over, as women are, though what tears her
acquiescence caused her afterwards when she was alone I did not like to
think upon.
She comforted herself presently with the thought that our faithful
Blaise Tripault should attend me, but here again I had to oppose her.
For Blaise, by reason of his years and the service he had done my father
in the old wars, was of a dictatorial way with all of us, and I knew he
would rob me of all responsibility and freedom, so that I should be
again a lad under the thumb of an elder and should profit nothing in
self-reliance and mastership. Besides this reason, which I urged upon my
parents, I had my own reason, which I did not urge, namely, that I
should never dare let Blaise know the special purpose of my visit to
Paris. He would laugh me out of countenance, and yet ten to one he would
in the end deprive me of the credit of keeping my promise, by taking its
performance upon himself. That I might be my own master, therefore, I
chose as my valet the most tractable fellow at my disposal, one Nicolas,
a lank, knock-kneed jack of about my own age, who had hitherto made
himself of the least possible use, with the best possible intentions,
between the dining-hall and the kitchen. And yet he was clever enough
among horses, or anywhere outdoors. My mother, though she wondered at my
choice and trembled to think how fragile a reed I should have to rely
on, was yet not sorry, I fancy, at the prospect of ridding her house of
poor blundering Nicolas in a kind and creditable way. I had reason to
think Nicolas better suited for this new service, and, by insisting, I
gained my point in this also.
I made haste about my equipment, and in a few days we set forth, myself
on a good young chestnut gelding, Nicolas on a strong black mule, which
carried also our baggage. Before I mounted, and while my mother, doing
her best to keep back her tears, was adding some last article of comfort
to the contents of my great leather bag, my father led me into the
window recess of the hall, and after speaking of the letters of
introduction with which he had provided me, said in his soldierly,
straightforward manner:
"I know you have gathered wisdom from books, and it will serve you well,
because it will make you take better heed of experience and see more
meaning in it. But then it will require the experience to give your
book-learned wisdom its full force. Often at first, in the face of
emergency, when the call is for action, your wisdom will fly from your
mind; but this will not be the case after you have seen life for
yourself. Experience will teach you the full and living meaning of much
that you now know but as written truth. It may teach you also some
things you have never read, nor even dreamt of. What you have learned by
study, and what you must learn by practice only, leave no use for any
good counsel I might give you now. Only one thing I can't help saying,
though you know it already and will doubtless see it proved again and
again. There are many deceivers in the world. Don't trust the outward
look of things or people. Be cautious; yet conceal your caution under
courtesy, for nothing is more boorish than open suspicion. And remember,
too, not to think bad, either, from appearances alone. You may do
injustice that way. Hold your opinion till the matter is tested. When
appearances are fair, be wary without showing it; when they are bad,
regard your safety but don't condemn. In other words, always mingle
caution with urbanity, even with kindness.--I need not speak of the name
you have to keep unsullied. Honour is a thing about which you require no
admonitions. You know that it consists as much in not giving affronts as
in not enduring them, though many who talk loudest about it seem to
think otherwise. Indeed this is an age in which honour is prated of most
by those who practise it least. Well, my son, there are a thousand
things I would say, but that is all I shall say. Good-bye--may the good
God bless and protect you."
I had much to do to speak firmly and to perceive what I was about, in
taking my leave, for my mother could no longer refrain from sobbing as
she embraced me at the last, and my young brother and sister, catching
the infection, began to whimper and to rub their eyes with their fists.
Knowing so much more of my wild purpose than they did, and realizing
that I might never return alive, I was the more tried in my resolution
not to disgrace with tears the virgin rapier and dagger at my side. But
finally I got somehow upon my horse, whose head Blaise Tripault was
holding, and threw my last kisses to the family on the steps. I then
managed voice enough to say "Good-bye, Blaise," to the old soldier.
"Nay, I will walk as far as to the village," said he, in his gruff,
autocratic way. "I have a word or two for you at parting."
Throwing back a somewhat pallid smile to my people, tearfully waving
their adieus, I turned my horse out of the court-yard, followed by
Nicolas on the mule, and soon emerging from the avenue, was upon the
road. Blaise Tripault strode after me. When I came in front of the inn
at the end of the village, he called out to stop. I did so, and Blaise,
coming up to my stirrup, handed me a folded paper and thus addressed me:
"Of course your father has given you all the advice you need. Nobody is
more competent than he to instruct a young man setting out to see the
world. His young days were the days of hard knocks, as everybody knows.
But as I was thinking of your journey, there came into my head an old
tale a monk told me once--for, like your father, I was never too much of
a Huguenot to get what good I might out of any priest or monk the Lord
chose to send my way. It's a tale that has to do with travelling, and
that's what made me think of it--a tale about three maxims that some
wise person once gave a Roman emperor who was going on a journey. I half
forget the tale itself, for it isn't much of a tale; but the maxims I
remembered, because I had had experience enough to realize their value.
I've written them out for you there: and if you get them by heart, and
never lose sight of them, you'll perhaps save yourself much repentance."
He then bade me good-bye, and the last I saw of him he was entering the
inn to drink to my good fortune.
When I had got clear of the village, I unfolded Blaise's paper and read
the maxims:
1. "_Never undertake a thing unless you can see your way to the end of
it._"
2. "_Never sleep in a house where the master is old and the wife
young._"
3. "_Never leave a highway for a byway._"
Very good counsel, thought I, and worth bearing in mind. It was true, my
very journey itself was, as to its foolhardy purpose, a violation of the
first maxim. But that could not be helped now, and I could at least heed
that piece of advice, as well as the others, in the details of my
mission. When I thought of that mission, I felt both foolish and
heavy-hearted. I had not the faintest idea yet of how I should go about
encountering Brignan de Brignan and getting into a quarrel with him, and
I had great misgivings as to how I should be able to conduct myself in
that quarrel, and as to its outcome. Certainly no man ever took the road
on a more incredible, frivolous quest. Of all the people travelling my
way, that June morning, T was probably one of the most thoughtful and
judiciously-minded; yet of every one but myself the business in being
abroad was sober and reasonable, while mine was utterly ridiculous and
silly. And the girl whose banter had driven me to it--perhaps she had
attached no seriousness whatever to my petulant vow and had even now
forgotten it. With these reflections were mingled the pangs of parting
from my home and family; and for a time I was downcast and sad.
But the day was fine. Presently my thoughts, which at first had flown
back to all I had left behind, began to concern themselves with the
scenes around me; then they flew ahead to the place whither I was
bound:--this is usually the way on journeys. At least, thought I, I
should see life, and perchance meet dangers, and so far be the gainer.
And who knows but I might even come with credit out of the affair with
Monsieur de Brignan?--it is a world of strange turnings, and the upshot
is always more or less different from what has been predicted. So I took
heart, and already I began to feel I was not exactly the pale scholar of
yesterday. It was something to be my own master, on horseback and
well-armed, my eyes ranging the wide and open country, green and brown
in the sunlight, dotted here and there with trees, sometimes traversed
by a stream, and often backed by woods of darker green, which seemed to
hold secrets dangerous and luring.
Riding gave me a great appetite, and I was fortunate in coming upon an
inn at Durtal whose table was worthy of my capacity. After dinner, we
took the road again and proceeded at an easy pace toward La Flèche.
Toward the middle of the afternoon a vague uneasiness stole over me, as
if some tragic circumstance lay waiting on the path--to me
unknown--ahead.