WHAT THE VICOMTE DE NÉRAC SAW IN THE SECRET PASSAGE
ANDRÉ sat down on the stairs in the dark. It is perhaps not surprising
that his first thoughts were of “No. 101.” Across his path had fallen
for the second time the shadow of that baleful, blood-stained mystery.
So far all who had tried to run the traitor to earth had failed; but
when war and peace, the King’s policy and the destinies of France,
hung in the balance success in the task meant a great reward. That
masked woman in the wood had baffled him. Vanity, a passionate
curiosity, the spell of the mystery, patriotism, once more united to
kindle his longing to succeed where all had failed. But to attempt
it alone or without money or information was out of the question. To
invite the co-operation of his friends in this Versailles of intrigue
and counter-intrigue, of jealousy and selfishness, spelled certain
failure. With Madame de Pompadour’s help alone it might be done, but
that was impossible, doubly impossible. Madame was right. A De Nérac,
a Croix de St. Louis, and a Cordon Bleu could not enter the service
of a _bourgeoise_ favourite, here to-day and gone to-morrow, could not
defy his class, the Queen and the Court, could not outrage his own
dignity. Denise would spurn him for ever. Sacrifice his love? no, a
thousand times no! Still less could he return now a suppliant for the
Pompadour’s favours: she who had refused his aid; he who had scorned
her offer. Yet--yes, yet with what delicacy and sympathy she had atoned
for her apparent insolence. No woman, not Denise herself, could have
shown her gratitude with more grace and conviction. An adventuress she
was maybe, but a true woman for all that, and as charming as beautiful.
Name of a dog! The faint perfume of that dainty handkerchief, which had
made history, subtly recalled the intoxicating flattery of her eyes,
the tender gratitude of her voice. The King--André laughed softly--the
King was no fool when he was conquered by Antoinette d’Étiolles. And he
had her key; well, he would see about that key.
His mind travelled to the thought of Denise. He had sworn to win her;
he loved her, his beautiful Marquise de Beau Séjour, for was she not
what the wife of a De Nérac should be--fair, noble, and pure? The
scandalous tongues of the Court rendered her the homage of silence.
She was the type to him of what France, the France for which he
fought, could be. Did not there burn in her soul the inspiring flame
of patriotism, duty, and high endeavour which she, as he, owed to her
lineage and to God?
Well, well, to-morrow would bring counsel. He rose to grope his way to
the locked door. _Mon Dieu!_ What was this?
The door was opening stealthily. Some one was coming in. The King?
Of course. André softly flew up the stairs and crouched in the folds
of the curtain. If the King was coming to the Pompadour he was lost,
but caught as he was in this dark corridor it was his only chance of
concealment.
A light from a hand lamp flickered into the darkness. Ah! that was not
the King’s step; nor did the King hum gay songs under his breath. Ho!
ho! an adventure! Madame’s key was worth the owning after all.
As he lived, the Chevalier de St. Amant, a rose between his lips, hat
cocked jauntily, his slim, boyish figure instinct with an abandoned
grace. Pooh! he was the King’s private secretary and the royal key
had been given him by his master for his own purposes. This was very
interesting and mightily droll.
André drew a deep breath. The door at the top of the stairs at the
other end of the passage had quietly opened. Some one with a lamp was
standing awaiting the Chevalier. A woman! Yes, the light fell with a
gleam on the folds of her dress, on the jewel on her breast. The gay
young dog to use his royal master’s key in this way. What adorable
audacity!
The woman held up the lamp with a familiar gesture. Denise! By God it
was Denise!
One choking moment and then André turned stone-cold. Denise, his
Denise! Mechanically he wiped the perspiration from his brow as he
stared spellbound. Denise!
The Chevalier doffed his hat, kissed her hand, took the lamp from her,
and once more André was alone in the darkness, gnawed by impotent and
implacable rage, jealousy black and hot as hell.
But what did it mean--in heaven’s name what did it mean? And the
Chevalier? Ah, if it had not been his Denise!
Only by the sternest self-control did he prevent himself from dashing
after them. Pure madness, for that door was certainly locked. He must
wait here if he waited till Doomsday. It seemed an eternity--in reality
it was about half-an-hour--and then the Chevalier reappeared alone and
still jauntily humming his song stealthily let himself out, ignorant,
poor boy, that only a noble’s refusal to stab in cold blood like a
common footpad had saved him from staining the floor of this dark
corridor with his life’s blood.
Here was a fresh mystery. This cursed Versailles with its infamies
and plots, its libertines and intriguers, its cabals, cliques,
and conspiracies! “No. 101,” Yvonne, the crystal-gazer, Madame de
Pompadour, war, treachery, and the Chevalier--in what cruel toils was
his life set; but this last was the rudest shock of all. André could
have cried aloud in sheer perplexity at the riddles that beset him on
every side.
He took out the key. The touch of the cool steel on his feverish
fingers sent a thrill through him. Ah! Madame had given him this key;
she had ushered him out this way. He had wondered why. Because she was
grateful? No. It was clear now--clear as daylight. She knew the secrets
of this hateful corridor and she desired him to see for himself. Could
it be possible? Yes, yes; it must be. A swift decision stormed into his
mind.
Cautiously he let himself out. The public gallery was empty, but as he
strode towards the stables he was startled to meet Denise hurrying to
the Queen’s apartments.
“Ah,” he said, inspecting her closely, “tell me, if you please, where I
can find the Chevalier de St. Amant?”
Denise gazed at his bronzed, inscrutable face with astonishment--or was
it fear?
“I was informed,” André said carelessly, “that he had been seen in your
company going towards the King’s apartments--a mistake, no doubt. The
Chevalier is probably with His Majesty. It is a pity, for----”
“But the King,” Denise interrupted hastily, “is not in his private
apartments; neither is the Chevalier there.”
André calmly studied her. “Ah, Mademoiselle,” he laughed, “I see you
are well informed. I must seek the Chevalier elsewhere.” He turned away.
“And will you not tell me of what passed--” Denise had begun.
“I regret infinitely that I have pressing business, Mademoiselle.
To-morrow, if you will be so kind,” and he smilingly bid her good-night.
Five minutes later he was galloping through the woods to “The Cock with
the Spurs of Gold.” Something useful for his new resolve might possibly
be learned there, and every clue would help now.
The inn that looked like a farmhouse buried in the woods wore as
deserted an air as it had worn eighteen months ago, and in answer to
his imperious knock there appeared the chambermaid with the shifty
eyes, who stared in fear and surprise at this officer in his faded
uniform and muddy boots who demanded entrance in the dark hours of the
night.
“My mistress, the wise woman, is not here, sir,” she replied pettishly,
half closing the door in André’s face.
“When will she be here?”
“Never again, Monsieur. She has left.”
André promptly pushed his way into the passage and closed the door. The
girl uttered a suppressed shriek. “Are you of the police, sir?” she
whimpered. “I know nothing, nothing; I swear it.”
“I am not of the police,” he said quietly. “I am a friend of your
mistress. See that gold piece; you shall have it if you will tell me
all you know.”
The girl looked slowly round. “I do not know where she is, my
mistress,” she said. “Three days ago there came an English
gentleman----”
“English?” he interrupted sharply.
“But yes. Madame said he was English. He saw her--he went away.
Yesterday Madam left; she will come no more. She is gone, perhaps, to
England. I do not know, I swear.”
André reflected. Yes, it was more than possible that “the princess” had
returned to England.
“Do you know,” he demanded next, “why she left?”
“Because,” her voice dropped, “she feared the vengeance of the Marquise
de Pompadour.”
André vividly recollected the scene when he had come to consult the
crystal-gazer. The girl was not lying.
“And you know nothing more?”
“Nothing, Monsieur.”
She took the gold piece greedily. André had his foot in the stirrup
when a thought struck him.
“Tell me,” he asked persuasively, “why you thought I was of the police?”
The girl beckoned him within and closed the door.
“Monsieur the superintendent of police has twice been here this week to
inquire about my mistress,” she answered softly. “This very morning he
was here. He would know everything would monsieur the superintendent.
But he does not pay and he learned nothing, nothing, I swear.” She
laughed knowingly.
André mounted and rode away. Fate was against him. Well, it could
not be helped now. And the news of that English gentleman and the
inquiries of the police were disquieting. What were English gentlemen
doing at “The Cock with the Spurs of Gold” when England was at war with
France? No wonder the police, the Marquise’s friend in particular, were
prowling about so suspicious an inn. No wonder the crystal-gazer had
taken to flight.
“Who is that?” cried a boyish voice. A galloping horse had suddenly
pulled up beside André’s. “You, Vicomte, you! The very man that is
wanted.”
André had at the sudden challenge whipped out his sword to defend
himself. He now peered through the gloom.
“Chevalier, you!” he exclaimed in intense suspicion and annoyance.
“Yes, I, Chevalier de St. Amant. I am in luck. There’s the devil’s own
business here.”
“What is it?” André demanded angrily. To be detected in this wood by
the Chevalier, of all men, was maddening.
“Treachery,” said the Chevalier briefly.
“Treachery?”
St. Amant was excited. “I was on my way to Paris by the King’s orders
to overtake a courier. I took the short cut through this wood; you know
it doubtless. I hear a groan, I dismount, and there is the courier
in the ditch, tied hand and foot, gagged too, poor devil, and his
despatches gone.”
“Gone?” A shiver ran down André’s back.
“Clean as a whistle. The idiot had taken the short cut, too. As far as
I can make out he was attacked from behind, stunned, and robbed. Will
you help to bring the poor wretch back to Versailles, for I must go on
to Paris?”
André sat appalled. “Of course,” he replied presently.
“This is the Vincennes affair over again,” the Chevalier remarked when
they had unbound the courier and set him on André’s horse. “It is
devilish this treachery, devilish and amazing.”
De Nérac nodded. He was in no mood to discuss anything with anybody
just now, least of all with the Chevalier de St. Amant.
The young man had mounted. “I am very sorry,” he said, “that I cannot
offer to accompany you, but the King’s orders were urgent and I am
already late. Good-night, Vicomte.”
André bowed stiffly.
“If I might suggest,” the Chevalier added in the friendliest way, “it
would be well to say nothing of this damnable business until the King
has been informed in the morning.”
“I thank you,” André replied coldly. “I had already intended to wait
until His Majesty had heard the story from your lips.”
“Good. I shall be back at dawn.” The Chevalier spurred away.
As De Nérac rode slowly back the Marquise’s words rang in his
ears--“This is the second time in three months. There will be a third
before long.” The third had already come, and as usual like a thief in
the night. Confound “No. 101”! Confound the Chevalier de St. Amant!
He was in no mood to go to bed. He would walk in one of the galleries
until he had eased himself of all the black thoughts and fears, until
he could see a path through the thickets into which fate had plunged
him.
A party of his friends was still playing at dice, and as André passed
through the room they stared at his muddy riding boots in amused
surprise.
“You have news?” cried the Comte de Mont Rouge.
“Yes,” André retorted curtly, “bad news which you will learn later.”
“What the devil has he been doing?” he heard St. Benôit exclaim as
André sharply left the room.
“I will tell you,” Mont Rouge laughed. “He has already begun to do the
dirty work of that grisette.”
“What do you mean?” St. Benôit demanded.
“She is going to make him master of her household.”
“De Nérac? Master of the Pompadour’s household? Impossible!” A dozen
voices protested, and the dice-boxes ceased to rattle.
“Wait and you will see,” Mont Rouge’s cynical tones replied.
“Where and how did you learn this?” St. Benôit asked, aghast.
“The Comtesse des Forges told me,” Mont Rouge answered. “She is in
the confidence of St. Amant, who as we all know is the King’s most
confidential secretary.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, well!” André, who had caught his friend’s denial, halted
involuntarily behind the door, picturing to himself Mont Rouge’s shrug
of the shoulders. Well, it was only one more item in a long account, an
account that would be settled some day.
“If it is true,” said the Abbé St. Victor, “that De Nérac has sold
himself, he will be ruined when she is ruined. It is a pity, but he
will deserve it.”
Ruined? André laughed the laugh of a reckless gambler staking his last
piece. Ruined? They would see.