THE HOUSE IN THE PASSAGE OF PITY
The next day, about the time appointed by La Marmotte, I presented
myself at Maître Barou, the armourer's, store. There was no one there
except the old proprietor himself, and it was hard to say if he were
Jew or Gentile as he stood behind the counter in the midst of his
wares. I had sufficient excuse for my visit, and that was to purchase
a breastplate of the pattern worn by the Queen's guards, in which I had
been formally enrolled early in the day.
"_Bien_!" he said when I inquired for one, "I have one that will fit
you, I think. It was bespoke by M. de Montorgueil----"
"But, perhaps, monsieur may have a voice in the matter."
"Probably; but as monsieur has not paid for it, and is at present
lodged in the Châtelet on account of his escapade with Mademoiselle
d'Estanay, we may let that objection pass." And Maître Barou chuckled.
"In that case, let me see the corselet."
"Here it is, monsieur."
I tried it on, and finding it would suit, and that the workmanship was
of rare excellency, demanded the price.
Barou hummed as he tapped the shining steel with his finger and glanced
at me from under his bushy brows.
"Monsieur must have but lately joined the guards?" he asked, ignoring
my question.
"A matter of a few hours."
"Ah! I thought so. I know them all, monsieur. First there is Messire
Blaise de Lorgnac, the lieutenant----"
"Maître Barou, it will take till to-morrow to go over the names. What
is your price?"
"Ho! ho! messire, you grow impatient. 'Tis Aranguez plate this, as you
may see--the best work of Spain, down to the buckles. Ho! ho! messire,
only two good things ever came from Spain: one is good armour, and the
other pretty women----"
"And I presume, Maître Barou, they are both expensive things; but the
price of your corselet, for my time is short."
"Fifty pistoles, then."
"'Tis a long sum, and I am not sure of the proof."
Maître Barou looked at me reproachfully. Seizing a poniard he glanced
at the blade for a moment, touched the point with the tip of his
finger, and then raising the weapon brought it down with his full force
on the corselet. The dagger glanced off from the mirror-like surface
and buried itself deep in the hard wood of the counter.
"There, monsieur!" And Barou looked at me triumphantly. It was a
shrewd enough test, and I closed the bargain, paying him his money then
and there, and bidding him send the mail to De Lorgnac's house.
"And the name, monsieur?"
"The Chevalier d'Orrain."
As Barou was making an entry on a slate I heard a step behind me, and
turning saw it was La Marmotte. She made no sign of recognition,
however, but went straight up to Barou, to whom she handed a small
package, giving him some instructions in a low tone. Taking the hint I
gave a casual glance or so at the things around me, and then strolled
out of the shop. I walked very slowly up the street in the direction
opposite De Lorgnac's house, and I had scarce gone a hundred paces when
La Marmotte caught me up, and asked me somewhat abruptly if I knew of a
place called the Passage of Pity. I replied that I did, and she then
told me to meet her there in an hour's time, and to be sure I was well
armed. For answer I touched the hilt of my sword; and, with a nod to
me, she crossed the street and disappeared up a narrow, winding alley.
I kept on at the leisurely pace I was going at, wondering to myself if
I were walking into a snare or not. But, although caution is a very
good thing, still there are times when one should be prepared to take
risks, and I held this was such an occasion. Having now reached the
head of the Rue Tiquetonne I quickened my pace, and was soon in the
Vallée de Misérè. I avoided the bridge, and, crossing the river by a
ferry boat, was soon in the purlieus of the Sorbonne. Every inch of
this locality was familiar to me, and at last I reached the cloisters
of the Mathurins, a few yards from which lay the narrow by-street which
the quaint wit of the Parisian _badaud_ had christened the Passage of
Pity. It was dark and short--so short, indeed, that an active boy,
standing at one end of it, might easily have thrown a stone against the
high wall of a house built athwart the other end of the road,
apparently barring all progress beyond. This was not the case,
however, for the narrow arch, that was to all appearance the entrance
to the house, gave access to a small flight of steps, worn with age,
that led towards a gallery opening upon the Rue de la Harpe.
In the wall towards the right of this arch, about a man's height from
the ground, was a small niche containing a figure of the Virgin, and
beneath was that which, perhaps, had given its name to the street, for
someone had traced in shaky characters upon the wall the words: "_Avez
pitié_!"
Beneath these words, written in blood long since browned with age,
could still be seen the impress of a hand that had been red too, as if
the unfortunate writer had supported himself thus whilst tracing his
miserable words.
The steps leading to the gallery beyond the archway were known as "The
Little Steps of Mercy," and to get at the entrance door of the house
itself, which was in part built over the passage, it was necessary to
go along the gallery, in the side of which it was placed, in an almost
invisible gloom, that added not a little to the mystery surrounding the
place. Another curious thing about this little by-street was that
every house, and there were not many, appeared deserted. Hardly a soul
ever passed by day along its dim length, which was always in shadow,
except at high noon, when the sunlight forced its way in a line of
white light along the forbidding passage. By night no one was ever
seen, and, indeed, there were few who would have ventured along the
Passage of Pity when the sun went down.
Here, then, I stood at the appointed time, staring at the surly row of
houses on either side of me and at the dead wall in my face. Twice I
paced up and down the length of the street; but there was no sign of La
Marmotte. On the second occasion, however, as I came back, the door of
the house on the right-hand side nearest the arch opened slightly, and
I heard her voice.
"Enter, monsieur."
For one little moment I hesitated, and then boldly slipped in. As I
did so the door was immediately shut, and I found myself in almost
total darkness.
"A moment." Then I heard the striking of a tinderbox. There was a
small, bright glow, then the flame of some burning paper, that threw
out the figure of La Marmotte as she lit a candle, and holding it out
motioned me up a rickety staircase that faced us.
I had drawn my poniard as I stepped in, so evil-looking was the place,
and she caught the gleam of the steel.
"It is needless," she said coldly; "we are alone."
"Perhaps, madame," I replied, taking no notice of her remark, "you had
better lead the way; the place is known to you."
She did as I desired, and we soon found ourselves in a small room, in
which there was some broken-down furniture. There was one window,
which was closed, and being made entirely of wood all light was shut
out except that which the candle gave.
"A strange place," I said, looking around me.
"When one is as I am, monsieur," was the bitter answer, "one gets
friends with strange places."
I looked at her more closely than I had done before. Even by the dim
light I could see how pale and sunken were her cheeks, and her raven
hair was streaked with grey. Her eyes had lost the brazen fire that
had shone in them once. Wretched and miserable indeed she looked. But
this was not the La Marmotte of the past but another woman.
She put the candle down and turned to me.
"Monsieur, I have asked you to come here because we can be alone here
and uninterrupted, and that which I have to say to you concerns the
life, perhaps, of Mademoiselle de Paradis. Monsieur, you may not
believe me, but from that dreadful night at Le Jaquemart I have become
a changed woman. I have learned, monsieur, how to pray, and, my God!
the past--the past!" And she put her hands to her face and shuddered.
"Madame, there is always a future."
"But never for a woman! Oh, Monsieur d'Orrain--for I know your name
now--you know this as well as I."
I made no answer. What could I say? And she went on:
"Listen! After that night I brought him--Trotto--back to Paris as soon
as he was able to move. He was badly hurt, but not so badly as we
thought; and he lives for revenge. Your brother the Vidame is in a
house in the Rue des Lavandières, into which he has recently moved.
There I brought Trotto. Here I found Malsain and some others; and,
believing me to be what I was before, they spoke freely before me. For
you, monsieur, I warn you to fear the bravo's knife; they will not face
you openly."
"I will try and take care of myself. But what is it that concerns
mademoiselle?"
"This much I know, monsieur: the Vidame wants her for himself, or
rather her wealth. The plan he has conceived is as follows:--the edict
against the heretics is to be revived suddenly, and mademoiselle is to
be accused. And you know what this means, with Dom Antoine de Mouchy
as judge."
"But how will this gain the Vidame his wish?"
"To explain that, monsieur, is one of the reasons I have brought you
here." And moving towards the window she opened it cautiously. As she
did so there appeared, about three feet or more away, the grey and
mottled surface of a blank wall.
"Look!" she said.
I looked out of the window. The walls of the two houses stood about
three feet apart. Below me was a deep, narrow space, shut in on all
sides except from the top. In the opposite wall was a window partly
open, below which ran a narrow ledge. This window faced the one I was
standing at, but was placed about a yard or so higher, so that anyone
standing there could look into the room in which we were. All this I
took in, and then turned to La Marmotte.
"Monsieur," she said, "that house is where Antoine de Mouchy lives, and
where, within an hour's time, he is to meet the Vidame and some others
to discuss their plan. If you would learn it you must learn it from
there." And she pointed to the window above me.
I was about to speak, but she stopped me.
"Listen! I know that house from garret to cellar, for I lived there
once. That window leads to an empty room. A door to the right leads
into De Mouchy's study, which looks over the Rue de la Harpe, and
standing at that door you can hear every word that passes within. Will
you risk it?"
"The getting there is possible, but it is the retreat that I am
doubtful of."
"I have provided for that." And opening a box that lay near her she
pulled out a short coil of stout rope with an iron hook fixed at each
end.
"Fasten one hook to the window there, and throw me the rope. I will
fasten the other here, and you will have a passage back. I will wait
here for you."
I glanced out of the window again. On the left was the Passage of Pity
with its dreary, deserted houses, on the right, above me, was a glimpse
of sky. Now and again we heard the cooing of pigeons and the flutter
of their wings amongst the eaves, but except for this there was no
sound, and we were perfectly unobserved.
Removing my boots and discarding my sword I climbed out of the window,
resting my feet on the ledge beneath it. Cautiously rising to a
standing position I found I could see clearly into the room opposite.
It was unoccupied, but, so far from being empty, was filled with books
and piles of documents. It looked, indeed, as if M. de Mouchy's study
had overrun itself into this room. I had, however, made up my mind to
take the risk of being present at this meeting whatever the cost might
be, and so after another and careful look began the attempt. Between
the opposite window and myself was a gap of a little over three feet,
so that it was impossible to reach there. Thanks, however, to the
forethought of La Marmotte I was enabled to overcome this difficulty,
and after a couple of tries, during which the noise made was such as
would have certainly aroused attention had anyone been at hand, I
succeeded in fixing one of the iron hooks attached to the rope to the
ledge of the window. Then, after a strain to test the rope, I let
myself swing across the chasm, and found foothold on the opposite
ledge. Once there matters were easy, and in a trice I had passed
through the window.