THE MOUNTEBANK AND THE SOLDIER
As the mountebank walked out of the apartment of the Governor's
daughter, he drew himself up with an air of expectancy, like a man
preparing for some sudden climax. Once beyond the threshold, his eyes
glanced furtively back at the closed door, and, descending the stairs
to the floor below, he carried his head a little forward, as if intent
to catch unwonted sound or outcry. But no raised voice or unusual
noise reached his ear, and his footsteps, as the party issued forth
into the street, responded briskly to the soldiers' pace. Still with
the same air of strained attention, now mingled with a trace of
perplexity, he followed his guard until called upon to stop.
"You are to sleep here!" As he spoke, the commandant opened the door
of what seemed a low out-building, not very far from the general
barracks, and motioned the mountebank to enter. The latter, after
glancing quickly at the speaker and the soldiers behind, bent to step
across the dark threshold, and, still stooping, on account of the low
roof, looked around him. By the faint glimmer of light from a lantern
one of the soldiers held, the few details of that squalid place were
indistinctly revealed: A single stall whose long-eared occupant turned
its head inquiringly at the abrupt appearance of a companion lodger;
bits of harness and a number of traps hanging from pegs on the wall,
and, near the door, on the ground, a bundle of grass, rough fodder from
the marshes close by the shore. This last salt-smelling heap, the
officer, peering in with a fastidious sniff, indicated.
"That's your bed! A softer one than you would have had but for the
Lady Elise!"
The prisoner returned no answer, and in the voice of a man whose humor
was not of the best, the commandant uttered a brief command. A moment
or two the light continued to pass fitfully about the stable; then it
and the moving shadows vanished; a key grated in the door, and the
sound of the officer's receding footsteps was followed by the
diminishing clatter of men's heels on the flagging stone. Not until
both had fairly died away in the distance and the silence was broken
only by certain indications of restiveness from the stall, did the
prisoner move.
First, to the door, which he tried and shook; then, avoiding the pile
of fodder, to the wall, where, feeling about the rough masonry with the
energy of one who knew he had no time to spare, his hands, ere long,
encountered the frame of a small window. Any gratification, however,
he might have experienced thereat found its offset in the subsequent
discovery that the window had heavy iron blinds, closed and fastened,
and was further guarded by a single strong bar set in the middle,
dividing the one inconsiderable aperture into two spaces of impassable
dimensions. But as if spurred by obstacles to greater exertions,
fiercely the man grasped the metallic barrier, braced himself, and put
forth his strength. In its setting of old masonry, the rod moved
slightly; then more and more, and the prisoner, breathing a moment
hard, girded himself anew. A wrench, a tug, and the bar, partly
disintegrated, snapped in the middle, and holding the pieces, the
prisoner fell somewhat violently back. Armed now with an implement
that well might serve as a lever, he, nevertheless, paused before
endeavoring to force the formidable fastenings of the blinds; paused to
tear off the tight-fitting clown's cap; to doff the costume of the
mountebank covering the rough, dark garments beneath, and vigorously to
rub his face with some mixture he took from his pocket. He had made
but a few passes to remove the distinguishing marks of paint and
pigment, when a sound without, in the distance, caused him to desist.
Footsteps, that grew louder, were coming his way, and, gripping his bar
tighter the prisoner grimly waited; but soon his grasp relaxed. The
sound was that of a single person, who now paused before the entrance;
fumbled at the lock, and, with an impatient exclamation, set something
down. At the same time the prisoner dropped his weapon and stooped for
the discarded garments; in the dark, they escaped him and he was still
searching, when the bolt, springing sharply back, caused him to
straighten.
"Are you there, Monsieur Mountebank?" The door swung open; an
uncertain light cast sickly rays once more within, and beneath the
lantern, raised above his head, innocent of the danger he had just
escaped, the round visage of the good-natured soldier who had escorted
the mountebank to the _auberge des voleurs_ looked amicably and
inquiringly into the darksome hovel.
"Yes; what do you want?" the answer came more curt than courteous.
"What do I want?" the fellow repeated with a broad smile. "Now that's
good! Perhaps it would be more to the point to ask what do you want?
And here," indicating a loaf and jug in his hand, "I've got them,
though why the commandant should have cared, and ordered them brought--"
"He did?" said the prisoner, with a flash of quick surprise. "Well,
I'm not hungry, but you can leave them."
"Not hungry?" And the soldier, who seemed a little the worse for
liquor, but more friendly in consequence, walked in. "I don't wonder,
though," he went on, closing the door, hanging his lantern above and
placing the jug on the ground; "in such a foul hole! What you need,
comrade, is company, and," touching significantly his breast,
"something warmer than flows from the spring of St. Aubert."
"I tell you," began the mountebank, when the soldier, staring, got a
fair look at the other for the first time and started back.
"Eh? What's this?"
"Oh, I took them off! You don't suppose I'd sleep in my white clothes
in such a dirty--"
"Right you are, comrade!" returned the other, seating himself before
the door on a three-legged stool he found in a corner. "But for the
moment you gave me a start. I thought you some other person."
"What--person?"
"No one in particular. You might," unbuttoning his coat to draw forth
a bottle, "have been any one! But I dare say you have had them off in
worse places than this--which, after all, is not bad, compared to some
of the rooms for guests at the Mount!"
"You mean?" The mountebank looked first at the closed blinds; then at
the door, and a sudden determination came to his eyes.
"Those especially prepared for the followers of the Black Seigneur,
taken prisoners near Casque, for example!"
"They are dungeons?"
"With Jacques for keeper! The little sexton, we call him, because the
prisoners go generally from the cells to the pit, and the quicklime is
the hunchback's graveyard!"
"This Jacques--" A growing impatience shone ominously from the
prisoner's glance; his attention, that of a man straining to catch some
expected sound without, focused itself on the speaker. "This
Jacques--what sort of quarters has he?"
"Oh, he lives anywhere; everywhere! Sometimes at the thieves' inn;
again in one of the storehouses near the wheel. They say, though, he
is not a great hand to sleep, but passes most of his time like a cat,
prowling in and out the black passages and tunnels of the Mount. But,"
abruptly breaking off, "the play--that's what I want to know about!
The end! How did it end?"
"I'm in no mood for talking."
"Take the bottle, an' it'll loosen your tongue!"
"No."
"What! you refuse?"
"Yes."
"Then," philosophically, "must I drink alone."
"Not here!"
"Eh?"
"Will you get out, or--" and the mountebank stepped toward the other
with apparently undisguised intention.
"So that's your game?" Quickly the soldier sprang to his feet. "I
must teach you a little politeness, my friend--how we deal with uncivil
people in the army!" And throwing off his coat, as ready for a bout at
fisticuffs as for an encounter of words, the soldier confronted the
clown. "When I'm done, you'll sing that song of the stick out of the
other side of the mouth, and think your wicked peasant received a
coddling from his master in comparison!"
But the mountebank did not answer--with words--and the soldier was
still threatening, and painting dire prophetic pictures of what he
intended doing, when a strong arm closed about him; fingers like iron
gripped his throat, and, for some moments thereafter, although of
unusual size and vigor, the man was more concerned in keeping his feet
than in searching his vocabulary for picturesque imagery. Then, in
spite of his struggles and best endeavors to free himself, he felt his
head forced backwards; the grasp on his neck tightened. Still he could
not shake off that deadly hold, and, aware that consciousness was
gradually leaving him, his efforts relaxed. After that, for an
interval, he remembered nothing; but with returning realization and a
vague sense of stiffness in his throat, in a rough sort of way was
prepared to accept defeat; acknowledge the other's supremacy, and seal
that acknowledgment over the bottle.
Only the mountebank afforded him no opportunity thus to toast the "best
man"; with a long strap of leather snatched from one of the pegs, he
had already bound the hands and feet of his bulky antagonist, and was
just rising to survey his handiwork, when the other opened his eyes.
"Here! What do you mean?" exclaimed the soldier, when even the power
vocally to express further surprise or indignation was denied him, in
consequence of something soft being thrust between his teeth; and mute,
helpless, he could but express in looks the disgusted inquiry his lips
refused to frame.
"No! it's no joke," answered the mountebank, rapidly passing an end of
the strap, binding the soldier, about a post of the stall and securing
it, sailor-wise. "A poor return for hospitality, yet needs must, when
the devil drives!" quickly seizing a handful of marsh grass from the
ground and rubbing it over his face. "Anyhow, you'll be none the worse
on the morrow," stepping toward the lantern, "while I--who can say? He
laughs best--" About to blow out the flame, he stopped, attracted by
something his foot had thrust aside; a garment; the soldier's! A
moment he surveyed it; stooped; picked it up. "Unless I am mistaken,"
casting aside his own coat, slipping on that of the soldier, and then
donning the latter's cap, which had fallen in the struggle, "we are
about of a size. And this sword," unfastening the belt from the
prostrate jailer, "should go with the coat." A moment his words,
tense, reckless, continued to vibrate in the soldier's ears, then:
"I'll leave you the lantern!" And darkness fell over the place.
Boldly, a little uncertainly, as the soldier had walked, the
mountebank, now, to all appearance, a man of the ranks in the service
of his Excellency, the Governor, strode down the wide, stone-paved way
separating the outhouses and a number of desultory ancient structures
from the officers' quarters, hard against the ramparts. In the sky's
dome the stars still shone, although a small mottled patch of cloud
obscured the moon; on either side no lights appeared in windows, and
friendly shadows favored him, until he approached at the end of the way
the broad, open entrance between the soldiers' barracks and the
officers' row. There, set in the stone above the key of the time-worn
arch, flared a smoky lamp, dimly revealing the surrounding details; but
the young man did not stop; had drawn quite close to the medieval
structure, when unexpectedly another tread, on the soldiers' side of
the entrance, mingled with his own; rang for a moment in unison; then
jingled out of time. He who approached came to a sudden standstill;
cast a quick glance over his shoulder, only to be brought to an abrupt
realization that it was now too late to retreat. A black silhouette,
suddenly precipitated across the pavement, preceded a dark figure that
stepped quickly out and barred the way, while at the same time, a
voice, loud and incisive, challenged.