WHERE THE LADY WAS
"Very well, Monsieur," said Nicolas after a pause, in a tone which meant
anything but very well. "But first you will have enough to do to save
yourself. This gentleman will soon be missed. He was in haste to go on,
as you say. His servant will be wondering why he delays, and the
landlord will become curious about his bill."
"Yes, but I must think a moment. Where is this poor lady? Who is the
gentleman? There may be another letter--a clue of some sort."
I hurriedly examined the young man's pockets, but found nothing written.
His purse I thought best to leave where it was: to whom, indeed, could I
entrust it with any chance of its being more honestly dealt with than by
those who should find the body? The innkeeper and the gentleman's
servant, with their claims for payment, would see to that. But I kept
the lady's note.
"Well," said I, "I must have a talk with the valet. I must find out
where this gentleman was going, for that must be the place where the
lady is."
"But the valet doesn't know where the gentleman was going. He was
talking to me about that in the stables."
"That's very strange--not to know his master's destination."
"He knows very little of his master's affairs: he was hired only
yesterday, at Sablé. The gentleman was staying at the inn there.
Yesterday he engaged this man, and said he was going to travel on at the
end of the week. But this morning he suddenly made up his mind to start
at once, and came off without saying where he was bound for. Until I
told him, the man didn't know that the name of this town was La Flèche."
"And what else did he tell you?"
"That's all. He was only grumbling about having to come away so
unexpectedly, and being so in the dark about his master's plans."
"You're sure he didn't say what caused his master to change his mind and
start at once?"
"He said nothing more, Monsieur."
"Did he mention his master's name?"
"No, we didn't get as far as that. It was only his desire to complain to
somebody, that made him speak to me; and I was too busy with the horses
to say much in reply."
"Then you didn't give my name--to him or any one else here?"
"Not to a soul, Monsieur."
"That's fortunate. Well, we must be attending to our business. I will
pay the landlord, and give him some reason for riding on. While you are
getting the animals ready, I will try to sound this valet a little
deeper. Come."
Without another look behind, we hastened back to the inn.
"It's a fine evening," said I to the landlord, "and that gentleman I saw
here awhile ago has given me the notion of riding on while the air is
cool." I spoke as steadily as I could, and I suppose if the landlord
detected any want of ease he put it down to the embarrassment of
announcing a change of mind. In any case, he was not slow to compute the
reckoning, nor I to pay it. Then, after seeing my bag and cloak brought
down, I went in search of the young gentleman's valet. I found him in
the kitchen, half way through a bottle of wine.
"Your master has not yet ridden on, then?" said I, dropping carelessly
on the bench opposite him.
"No, Monsieur," he replied unsuspectingly. He seemed more like a country
groom than a gentleman's body servant.
"I have decided to go on this evening, in imitation of him," I
continued.
"Then your servant had better come back and finish his supper. It's
getting cold yonder. Just as he was going to begin eating, he thought of
something, and went out, and hasn't returned yet."
It was, alas, true. In my excitement I had forgotten all about Nicolas's
supper, which he had left in order to see if I wanted my cloak for the
cool of the evening.
"I sent him on an errand," I replied. "He shall sup doubly well later.
As I was about to say, your master--by the way, if I knew his name I
could mention him properly: we have so far neglected to give each other
our names."
"Monsieur de Merri is my master's name, as far as I know it. I have been
with him only since yesterday." He spoke in a somewhat disgruntled way,
as if not too well satisfied with his new place.
"So I have heard." I said. "And it seems you were hustled off rather
sooner than you expected, this morning."
"My master did change his mind suddenly. Yesterday he said he wouldn't
leave Sablé till the end of the week."
"Yes; but of course when he received the letter--" I stopped, as if not
thinking worth while to finish, and idly scrutinized the floor.
"What letter, Monsieur?" inquired the fellow, after a moment.
"Why, the letter that made him change his mind. Didn't you see the
messenger?"
"Oh, and did that man bring a letter, then?"
"Certainly. How secretive your master is. The man from--from--where
_did_ he come from, anyhow?"
"A man came to see my master at Sablé early this morning--the only man I
know of. I heard him say that he had ridden all the way from Montoire,
following my master from one town to another."
"Yes, that is the man, certainly," said I in as careless a manner as
possible, fearful lest my face should betray the interest of this
revelation to me. "Well, I think I will go and see what has become of my
servant. When you have finished that bottle, drink another to me." I
tossed him a silver piece, and sauntered out. Nicolas was fastening the
saddle girth of my horse in the yard. An ostler was attending to the
mule. The innkeeper was looking on. I asked him about the different
roads leading from the place, and by the time I had got this information
all was ready. We mounted, I replied to the landlord's adieu, threw a
coin to the ostler, and clattered out under the archway. From the square
I turned South to cross the Loir, passing not far from the place where,
surrounded by trees and bushes, the body of my adversary must still be
lying.
"Poor young man!" said I. "Once we get safe off, I hope they will find
him soon."
"They will soon be seeking him, at least," replied Nicolas. "Before you
came out of the kitchen, the landlord was wondering to the ostler what
had become of him."
"As he was to ride on at once, his absence will appear strange. Well,
I'm not sorry to think he will be found before he lies long exposed. The
authorities, no doubt, will take all measures to find out who he is and
notify his people."
"And to find the person who left him in that state," said Nicolas
fearfully.
"Well, I have a start, and shall travel as fast as my horse can safely
carry me."
"But wherever you go, Monsieur, the law will in time come up with you."
"I have thought of that; and now listen. This is what you are to do. We
shall come very soon to a meeting of roads. You will there turn to the
right--"
"And leave you, Monsieur Henri?"
"Yes, it is necessary for my safety."
"And you will go on to Paris alone?"
"I am not going to Paris immediately--at least, I shall not go by way of
Le Mans and Chartres, as I had intended. We have already turned our
backs on that road, when we left the square in front of the inn. I shall
go by way of Vendome." Montoire--where the letter had evidently come
from and where therefore the lady probably was--lay on the road to
Vendome.
"And I, Monsieur?"
"You are to go back to La Tournoire, but not by the way we have come
over. This road to the right that you will soon take leads first to
Jarzé, and there you will find a road to the West which will bring you
to our own highway not two leagues from home." I repeated these
directions as we left La Flèche behind us, till they seemed firmly
lodged in Nicolas's head. "I don't know how long it will take you to do
this journey," I added, "nor even when you may expect to reach Jarzé.
You mustn't overdo either the mule or yourself. Stop at the first
country inn and get something to eat, before it is too late at night to
be served. Go on to-night as far as you think wise. It may be best, or
necessary, to sleep in some field or wood, not too near the road, as I
shall probably do toward the end of the night."
"I shall certainly do that, Monsieur. It is a fine night."
"When you get to La Tournoire, you are to tell my father that I am going
on without an attendant, but by way of Vendome. You needn't say anything
about what you suppose my purpose to be: you needn't repeat what you
heard me say about that lady, or the letter: you aren't to mention the
lady or the letter at all."
"I understand, Monsieur Henri; but I do hope you will keep out of other
people's troubles. You have enough of your own now, over this unlucky
duel."
"It's to get me out of that trouble that you are going home. Give my
father a full account of the duel. Tell him the gentleman insulted my
religion as well as myself; that he tried my patience beyond endurance.
My father will understand, I trust. And say that I shall leave it to him
to solicit my pardon of the King. I know he would prefer I should place
the matter all in his hands."
"Yes, to be sure, Monsieur Henri. And of course to a gentleman who has
served him so well, the King can't refuse anything."
"He is scarce likely to refuse him that favour, at any rate. My father
will know just what to do; just whom to make his petition through, and
all that. Perhaps he will go to Paris himself about it; or he may send
Blaise Tripault with letters to some of his old friends who are near the
King. But he will do whatever is best. The pardon will doubtless be
obtained before I reach Paris, as I am going by this indirect way and
may stop for awhile in the neighbourhood of Vendome. But I shall
eventually turn up at the inn we were bound for, in the Rue St. Honoré."
"Yes, Monsieur, and may God land you there safe and sound!"
"Tell my father that the only name by which I know my antagonist is
Monsieur de Merri. Perhaps he belonged to Montoire; at any rate, he was
acquainted there."
We soon reached the place where the roads diverge. I took over my
travelling bag and cloak from Nicolas's mule to my horse, hastily
repeated my directions in summary form, supplied him with money, and
showed him his road, he very disconsolate at parting, and myself little
less so. As night was falling, and so much uncertainty lay over my
immediate future, the trial of our spirits was the greater. However, as
soon as he was moving on his way, I turned my horse forward on mine, and
tried, by admiring the stars, to soften the sense of my loneliness and
danger.
I began to forget the peril of my present situation by thinking of the
affair I had undertaken. In the first place, how to find the lady? All I
knew of her was that she was probably at Montoire, that she had been
associated in some way with Monsieur de Merri, and that she now thought
herself in imminent danger. And I had in my possession a piece of her
handwriting, which, however, I should have to use very cautiously if at
all. There was, indeed, little to start with toward the task of finding
her out, but, as Montoire could not be a large place, I need not
despair. I would first, I thought, inquire about Monsieur de Merri and
what ladies were of his acquaintance. If Monsieur de Merri himself was
of Montoire, and had people living there, my presence would be a great
risk. I could not know how soon the news of his death might reach them
after my own arrival at the place, nor how close a description would be
given of his slayer--for there was little doubt that the innkeeper would
infer the true state of affairs on the discovery of the body. The dead
man's people would be clamorous for justice and the officers would be on
their mettle. Even if I might otherwise tarry in Montoire unsuspected,
my insinuating myself into the acquaintance of one of Monsieur de
Merri's friends would in itself be a suspicious move. The more I
considered the whole affair, the more foolish seemed my chosen course.
And yet I could not bear to think of that unknown lady in such great
fear, with perhaps none to aid her: though, indeed, since none but
Monsieur de Merri could save her honour and life, how could I do so?
Well, I could offer my services, at least; perhaps she meant she had
nobody else on whose willingness she could count; perhaps she really
could make as good use of me as of him. But on what pretext could I
offer myself? How could I account to her for my knowledge of her affairs
and for Monsieur de Merri's inability to come to her? To present myself
as his slayer would not very well recommend my services to her. Would
she, indeed, on any account accept my services? And even if she did, was
I clever enough to get her out of the situation she was in, whatever
that might be? Truly the whole case was a cloud. Well, I must take each
particular by itself as I came to it; be guided by circumstance, and
proceed with delicacy. The first thing to do was to find out who the
lady was; and even that could not be done till I got to Montoire, which,
being near Vendome, must be at least two days' journey from La Flèche.
As I thought how much in the dark was the business I had taken on
myself, my mind suddenly reverted to the first of the monk's three
maxims that Blaise Tripault had given me, which now lay folded in my
pocket, close to the lady's note.
"_Never undertake a thing unless you can see your way to the end of
it._"
I could not help smiling to think how soon chance had led me to violate
this excellent rule. But I am not likely to be confronted again by such
circumstances, thought I, and this affair once seen through, I shall be
careful; while the other maxims, being more particular, are easier to
obey, and obey them I certainly will.
I rode on till near midnight, and then, for the sake of the horse as
well as the rider, I turned out of the road at a little stream,
unsaddled among some poplar trees, and lay down, with my travelling bag
for pillow, and my cloak for bed and blanket. The horse, left to his
will, chose to lie near me; and so, in well-earned sleep, we passed the
rest of the night.
The next morning, when we were on the road again, I decided to exchange
talk with as many travellers as possible who were going my way, in the
hope of falling in with one who knew Montoire. At a distance from the
place, I might more safely be inquisitive about Monsieur de Merri and
his friendships than at Montoire itself. The news of what had happened
at La Flèche would not have come along the road any sooner than I had
done, except by somebody who had travelled by night and had passed me
while I slept. In the unlikelihood of there being such a person, I could
speak of Monsieur de Merri without much danger of suspicion. But even if
there was such a person, and the news had got ahead, nobody could be
confident in suspecting me. I was not the only young gentleman of my
appearance, mounted on a horse like mine, to be met on the roads that
day. And besides, I was no longer attended by a servant on a mule, as I
had been at La Flèche. So I determined to act with all freedom, accost
whom I chose, and speak boldly.
Passing early through Le Lude, I breakfasted at last, and talked with
various travellers, both on the road and at the inn there, but none of
them showed any such interest, when I casually introduced the name of
Montoire, as a dweller of that place must have betrayed. To bring in the
name of the town was easy enough. As thus:--in the neighbourhood of Le
Lude one had only to mention the fine chateau there, and after admiring
it, to add: "They say there is one very like it, at some other town
along this river--I forget which--is it Montoire?--or La Chartre?--I
have never travelled this road before." A man of Montoire, or who knew
that town well, would have answered with certainty, and have added
something to show his acquaintance there. The chateau of Le Lude served
me in this manner all the way to Vaas, where there is a great church,
which answered my purpose thence to Chateau du Loir. But though I threw
out my conversational bait to dozens of people, of all conditions, not
one bite did I get anywhere on the road between Le Lude and La Chartre.
It was evening when I arrived at La Chartre, and I was now thirteen
leagues from La Flèche, thanks to having journeyed half the previous
night. Anybody having left La Flèche that morning would be satisfied
with a day's journey of nine leagues to Chateau du Loir, the last
convenient stopping-place before La Chartre. So I decided to stay at La
Chartre for the night, and give my horse the rest he needed.
At the inn I talked to everybody I could lay hold of, dragging in the
name of Montoire, all to no purpose, until I began to think the
inhabitants of Montoire must be the most stay-at-home people, and their
town the most unvisited town, in the world. In this manner, in the
kitchen after supper, I asked a fat bourgeois whether the better place
for me to break my next day's journey for dinner would be Troo or
Montoire.
"I know no better than you," he replied with a shrug.
"Pardon, Monsieur; I think you will find the better inn at Montoire,"
put in a voice behind my shoulder. I turned and saw, seated on a stool
with his back to the wall, a bright-looking, well-made young fellow who
might, from his dress, have been a lawyer's clerk, or the son of a
tradesman, but with rather a more out-of-doors appearance than is
usually acquired in an office or shop.
"Ah," said I, "you know those towns, then?"
"I live at Montoire," said he, interestedly, as if glad to get into
conversation. "There is a fine public square there, you will see."
"But it is rather a long ride before dinner, isn't it?"
"Only about five leagues. I shall ride there for dinner to-morrow, at
all events."
"You are returning home, then?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Have you been far away?"
"That is as one may think," he replied after a moment's hesitation,
during which he seemed to decide it best to evade the question. His
travels were none of my business, and I cared not how secretive he might
be upon them. But to teach him a lesson in openness, I said:
"I have travelled from Le Lude to-day."
"And I too," said he, with his former interest.
"I didn't see you at the inn there," said I. "You must have left early
this morning."
"Yes, after arriving late last night. Yesterday evening I was at La
Flèche."
I gave an inward start; but said quietly enough: "Ah?--and yet you talk
as if you had slept at Le Lude."
"So I did. I travelled part of the night."
"And arrived at Le Lude before midnight, perhaps?"
"Yes, a little before. Luckily, the innkeeper happened to be up, and he
let me in."
I breathed more freely. This young man must have left La Flèche before I
had: he could know nothing of the man slain.
"There is a good inn at La Flèche," I said, to continue the talk.
"No doubt. I stopped only a short while, at a small house at the edge of
the town. I was in some haste."
"Then you will be starting early to-morrow?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
I resolved to be watchful and start at the same time. But lest he should
have other company, or something should interfere, I decided not to lose
the present opportunity. So I began forthwith:
"I have met a gentleman who comes, I think, from Montoire, or at least
is acquainted there,--a Monsieur de Merri, of about my own age."
The young fellow looked at me with a sudden sharpness of curiosity,
which took me back: but I did not change countenance, and he had
repossessed himself by the time he replied:
"There is a Monsieur de Merri, who is about as old as you, but he does
not live at Montoire. He sometimes comes there."
Here was comfort, at least: I should not find myself among the dead
man's relations, seeking vengeance.
"No doubt he has friends there?" I ventured.
"No doubt, Monsieur," answered the young man, merely out of politeness,
and looking vague.
"Probably he visits people in the neighbourhood," I tried again.
"I cannot say," was the reply, still more absently given.
"Or lives at the inn," I pursued.
"It may be so." The young fellow was now glancing about the kitchen, as
if to rid himself of this talk.
"Or perhaps he dwells in private lodgings when he is at Montoire," I
went on resolutely.
"It might well be. There are private lodgings to be had there."
"Do you know much of this Monsieur de Merri?" I asked pointblank, in
desperation.
"I have seen him two or three times."
"Where?"
"Where? At Montoire, of course." The speaker, in surprise, scrutinized
me again with the keen look he had shown before.
It was plain, from his manner, that he chose to be close-mouthed on the
subject of Monsieur de Merri. He was one of those people who generally
have a desire to talk of themselves and all their affairs, but who can
be suddenly very secretive on some particular matter or occasion. I saw
that I must give him up, for that time at least. Perhaps on the road
next day his unwillingness to be communicative about Monsieur de Merri
would have passed away. But meanwhile, what was the cause of that
unwillingness? Did he know, after all, what had occurred at La Flèche,
and had he begun to suspect me? I inwardly cursed his reticence, and
went soon to bed, that I might rise the earlier.
But early as I rose, my young friend had beaten me. The ostler to whom I
described him said he had ridden off half-an-hour ago. In no very
amiable mood, I rode after him. Not till the forenoon was half spent,
did I catch up. He saluted me politely, and gave me his views of the
weather, but was not otherwise talkative. We rode together pleasantly
enough, but there was no more of that openness in him which would have
made me feel safe in resuming the subject of Monsieur de Merri. As we
approached noon and our destination, I asked him about the different
families of consequence living thereabouts, and he mentioned several
names and circumstances, but told me nothing from which I could infer
the possibility of danger to any of their ladies. It was toward mid-day
when we rode into the great square of Montoire, and found ourselves
before the inn of the Three Kings.
I turned to take leave of my travelling companion, thinking that as he
belonged to this town he would go on to his own house.
"I'm going to stop here for a glass of wine and to leave my horse
awhile," he said, noticing my movement.
He followed me through the archway. A stout innkeeper welcomed me, saw
me dismount, and then turned to my young fellow-traveller, speaking with
good-natured familiarity:
"Ah, my child, so you are back safe after your journey. Let us see, how
long have you been away? Since Sunday morning--four days and a half. I
might almost guess where you've been, from the time--for all the secret
you make of it."
The young man laughed perfunctorily, and led his horse to the stable
after the ostler who had taken mine.
"A pleasant young man," said I, staying with the landlord. "He lives in
this town, he tells me."
"Yes, an excellent youth. He owns his bit of land, and though his father
was a miller, his children may come near being gentlemen."
I went into the kitchen, and ordered dinner. Presently my young man
entered and had his wine, which he poured down quickly. He then bowed to
me, and went away, like one who wishes to lose no time.
Suddenly the whole probability of the case appeared to me in a flash.
Regardless of the wine before me, and of the dinner I had ordered, I
rose and followed him.
I had put together his reticence about Monsieur de Merri, his having
been away from Montoire just four and a half days, the direction of his
journey, and his errand to be done immediately on returning. He must be
the messenger who had carried the lady's note to Sablé, and he was now
going to report its delivery and, perhaps, Monsieur de Merri's answer.
If I could dog his steps unseen, he would lead me to the lady who was in
danger.