THE ARREST.
Almost at the same moment ten or twelve men burst into the room rather
than entered it, the noise that continued outside let it be guessed
that a great number of others was standing on the stairs and in the
passages, ready, were it required, to come to the assistance of the
others.
All these men were armed, and it was easy to recognise them at once as
guards of the King, or rather of His Eminence the Cardinal.
Only two of them, with crafty looks and squinting eyes, dressed in
black like ushers, had no visible weapons; these, in all probability
were more to be feared than the others, for beneath their feline
obsequiousness they doubtless concealed an implacable will to do evil.
One of these two men held some papers in his right hand, he advanced
two or three paces, cast a suspicious glance around him, and then took
off his cap with a courteous bow.
"In the King's name! gentleman," he said in a quick sharp voice.
"What do you want?" the Count de Barmont asked, advancing resolutely
towards him.
At this movement, which he took for a hostile demonstration, the man
in black recoiled with an ill-disguised start of terror, but feeling
himself backed up by his acolytes, he at once resumed his coolness, and
answered with a smile of evil augury--
"Ah! Ah! The Count Ludovic de Barmont, I believe," he remarked with an
ironical bow.
"Yes, sir," the gentleman replied haughtily, "I am the Count de
Barmont."
"Captain in the navy," the man in black imperturbably added, "at
present, commanding His Majesty's, frigate The Erigone."
"As I told you, sir, I am the person you are in search of," the Count
added.
"It is really with you that I have to deal, my lord," he replied, as he
drew himself up. "S'death, my good gentleman, you are not easy to catch
up; I have been running after you for a week, and was almost despairing
about having the honour of a meeting."
All this was said with an obsequious air, a honeyed voice, and with a
sweet smile, sufficient to exasperate a saint, and much more the person
whom the strange man was addressing, and who was endowed with anything
but a placable character.
"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, stamping his foot passionately; "Are we to
have much more of this?"
"Patience, my good sir," he replied in the same placid tone; "patience,
good Heaven, how quick you are!" then after taking a glance at the
papers he held in his hand, "Since by your own confession you allow
yourself to be really Count Ludovic de Barmont, captain commanding His
Majesty's frigate Erigone, by virtue of the orders I bear, I arrest
you in the King's name, for the crime of desertion; for having without
authorization abandoned your vessel in a foreign country, that is to
say, at the Port of Lisbon, in Portugal." Then raising his head and
fixing his squinting eyes on the gentleman, he added, "Surrender your
sword to me, my lord."
M. de Barmont shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"The sword of a gentleman of my race shall never be placed in the hands
of a scoundrel of your stamp," he said, with contempt; and drawing
his sword, he coldly broke the blade across his knee, and threw the
fragments through the window panes, which they broke.
Then he drew his pistols from his belt and cocked them.
"Sir, sir!" the myrmidon exclaimed, recoiling in terror, "This is
rebellion, remember, rebellion against the express orders of His
Majesty and His Eminence the Cardinal Minister."
The Count smiled disdainfully, and raising his pistols in the air,
fired them, the bullets being buried in the ceiling; then clasping them
by the barrel he threw them also out of the window; after which he
crossed his hands on his chest, and said coolly--
"Now do with me what you please."
"Have you surrendered, my lord?" the fellow asked with ill-disguised
alarm.
"Yes, from this moment I am your prisoner."
The man in black breathed again; although he was unarmed, the haughty
gentleman still made him feel uncomfortable.
"Still," the latter added, "allow me to say a couple of words to this
lady;" and he pointed to Doña Clara, who, waited upon by Dame Tiphaine,
who had hurried in at the disturbance in spite of her husband's
entreaties and orders, was beginning to regain her senses.
"No, not a word, not a syllable," the Duke exclaimed, as he threw
himself between his daughter and the Count; "remove the villain, remove
him."
But the bailiff, pleased with the facility the Count had displayed in
surrendering to him, and not wishing to excite his anger, pleased above
all at being able to show his authority without incurring resistance,
bravely interposed.
"Pray, sir, allow the gentleman to speak to the lady," he said, "and to
unburden his heart."
"But this man is an assassin," the Duke shouted violently, "before us
is still lying the corpse of my unhappy son, killed by him."
"I pity you, sir," the myrmidon said without being at all affected; "I
cannot offer any remedy for that; and you must make application in the
proper quarter. Still, if it can be of any comfort to you, be convinced
that I shall make a careful note of the accusation you bring, and will
recall it to mind at the right time and place. But you must be equally
eager to get rid of us, as we are to get away from here: hence allow
this gentleman to bid farewell to the lady quietly, and I am convinced
it will not take long."
The Duke darted a ferocious glance at the bailiff; but, not wishing to
compromise himself with such a fellow, he did not answer, and fell back
with a gloomy air.
The Count had watched this altercation without displaying either
impatience or anger; with pale forehead and frowning brow, he waited,
doubtless ready to break into some terrible extremity if his request
were not granted.
The bailiff only required to take one look at him to guess what was
passing in his heart; and, not feeling at all anxious for a fresh
contest to begin, he had prudently manoeuvred to avoid it.
"Come," he said, "speak, my worthy gentleman, no one will oppose it."
"Thanks," the Count answered hoarsely and approached Doña Clara, who
watched him advance with an ardent gaze fixed on him.
"Clara," he said to her in a firm and deeply marked voice, "do you love
me?"
She hesitated for a moment and bowed her head while heaving a profound
sigh.
"Do you love me?" he repeated.
"I do love you, Ludovic," she replied in a faint and trembling voice.
"Do you love me, as your husband before God and man, as the father of
your child?"
The young lady rose, her black eyes flashed fire, and stretching out
her hands before her, she said in a voice choked by emotion--
"In the presence of my father, who is ready to curse me, before the
body of my dead brother and in the face of the men who are listening to
me, I swear, Ludovic, that I love you as the father of my child, and
that I shall remain faithful to you, whatever may happen."
"Very good, Clara," he answered, "God has received your oath and will
help you to keep it; remember that, whether dead or alive, you belong
to me as I belong to you, and that no person on earth shall break the
ties that unite us. Now farewell, and keep your courage."
"Farewell!" she muttered, as she fell back in her chair and buried her
face in her hands.
"Let us go, gentlemen! Do with me what you please," the Count said as
he turned to the exempt and the guards, who were involuntarily affected
by this scene.
The Duke bounded with a tiger leap on his daughter, and seizing
her right arm with a frenzied gesture, he forced her to raise her
tear-swollen face to his, and fixing on her a glance loaded with all
the rage that swelled his heart, he said in a voice which fury rendered
sibilant--
"Daughter, prepare to marry within two days, the man I destine for you.
As for your child, you will never see it again; it no longer exists for
you."
The young lady uttered a cry of despair and fell back deprived of her
senses in the arms of Dame Tiphaine.
The Count, who at this moment was leaving the room, stopped short and
turned round to the Duke with his arm stretched out toward him:
"Hangman," he shouted in a hoarse voice which chilled his auditors
with horror, "I curse you, I swear on my honor as a gentlemen to take
on you and yours so terrible a vengeance, that the memory of it shall
remain eternal; and if I cannot reach you, you and the whole nation
to which you belong shall be buried beneath the implacable weight of
my hatred. Between us henceforth there is a war of savages and wild
beasts, without truce or mercy; farewell."
And leaving the proud Spaniard horrified by this fearful anathema, the
gentleman quitted the room with a firm step, and taking a last loving
glance at the woman he adored, from whom he was perhaps eternally
separated.
The passages, stairs, and inn garden were filled with armed men; it was
evidently a miracle that the two sailors had succeeded in escaping and
getting away safe and sound; this gave the Count, hope and he went down
the stairs with an assured step, carefully watched by his escort who
did not let him out of sight.
The guards had been long before warned that they would have to do
with a naval officer possessing an inordinate violence of character,
prodigious vigour and indomitable courage; hence the resignation of the
prisoner, which they believed to be assumed, only inspired them with
very slight confidence, and they were continually on the defensive.
When they came out into the garden the chief of the exempts noticed the
coach, which was still standing at the door.
"Why," he said with a grin and rubbing his hands, "here's the very
thing we want. In our hurry to get here, we forgot to provide ourselves
with a coach; be good enough to get in, my lord," he said as he opened
the door.
The Count got in without any further hesitation; and the exempts then
addressed the driver who was sitting motionless on his box.
"Come down, scamp," he said in a tone of authority; "I require the use
of this coach for an affair of state. Give up your place to one of my
men. Wideawake," he added, turning to a tall impudent looking fellow
standing by his side, "get up on the box in that man's place--let us be
off."
The driver did not attempt to resist this peremptory order; he
descended and his place was immediately taken by Wideawake; the exempt
then entered the carriage, seated himself facing his prisoner, closed
the door, and the steeds, aroused by a vigorous, lash, dashed forward
dragging after them the heavy vehicle round which the twenty odd
soldiers were collected.
For a considerable period the coach rolled along without a word being
exchanged between the prisoner and his guard.
The Count was thinking, the exempt sleeping, or, to speak more
correctly, pretending to sleep.
In the month of March the nights are beginning to shorten; daylight
soon appeared, and broad white stripes were beginning to cross the sky.
The Count, who up to this moment had remained motionless, gave a slight
start.
"Are you suffering, my lord?" the exempt inquired. This question was
addressed to him with an intonation so different from that hitherto
employed by the man who had made him prisoner; there was in the sound
of his voice an accent so really gentle and sympathizing, that the
Count involuntarily started, and took a fixed look at his singular
companion: but so far as he could see by the faint light of coming
dawn, the man in front of him still had the same crafty face and the
same ironical smile stereotyped on his lips. The Count found himself
in error, and throwing himself back, merely uttered one word, "No," in
a tone intended to break off any attempt at conversation between his
guardian and himself.
But the former was probably in a humour for talking, for he would
not be checked; and pretending not to remark the manner in which his
advances had been received, he continued--
"The nights are still chill, the breeze enters this coach on all sides,
and I feared lest the cold had struck you."
"I am habituated to suffer heat and cold," the Count answered;
"besides, it is probable that if I have not yet made my apprenticeship,
I am about to undergo one which will accustom me to endure everything
without complaining."
"Who knows, my lord?" the exempt said, with a shake of the head.
"What?" the other objected, "Am I not condemned to a lengthened
captivity in a fortress?"
"Yes, according to the terms of the order, which it is my duty to carry
out."
There was a momentary silence. The Count gazed absently at the country
which the first beams of day were beginning to illumine. At length he
turned to the exempt.
"May I ask whither you are taking me?" he said.
"I see no objection to your doing so."
"And you will answer my question?"
"Why not? There is nothing to prevent it."
"Then we are going?"
"To the isles of St. Marguerite, my lord."
The Count trembled inwardly. The islands of Lerins, or Sainte
Marguerite, enjoyed at that time, even, a reputation almost as terrible
as the one they acquired at a later date, when they served as a prison
to the mysterious iron mask, whom it was forbidden to take even a
glance at under penalty of death.
The exempt looked at him fixedly without speaking.
It was the Count who again resumed the conversation.
"Where are we now?" he asked.
The exempt bent out of the window, and then resumed his seat.
"We are just arriving at Corbeil, where we shall change horses."
"Ah!" said the Count.
"If you wish to rest, I can give orders for an hour's stay. Perhaps you
feel a want of some refreshment?"
This singular man was gradually acquiring in the Count's eyes all the
interest of an enigma.
"Very good," he said.
Without replying the exempt let down the window.
"Wideawake!" he shouted.
"What is the matter?" the latter asked.
"Pull up at the Golden Lion."
"All right."
Ten minutes later the coach halted in the Rue St. Spire, in front of a
door over which creaked a sign representing an enormous gilt cat, with
one of its paws on a ball. They had arrived.
The exempt got out, followed by the Count, and both entered the inn:
one portion of the escort remained in the saddle in the street, while
the others dismounted and installed themselves in the common room.
The Count had mechanically followed the exempt, and on reaching the
room, seated himself in a chair by the fire, in a first floor decently
furnished room. He was too busy with his own thoughts to attach any
great attention to what was going on around him.
When the landlord had left them alone, the exempt bolted the door
inside, and then placed himself in front of his prisoner.
"Now," he said, "let us speak frankly, my lord."
The latter, astonished at this sudden address, quickly raised his head.
"We have no time to lose in coming to an understanding, sir; so please
to listen without interrupting me," the exempt continued. "I am
François Bouillot, the younger brother of your foster father. Do you
recognise me?"
"No," the Count replied, after examining him attentively for a moment.
"That does not surprise me, for you were only eight years old the last
time I had the honor of seeing you at Barmont Castle: but that is of no
consequence; I am devoted to you, and wish to save you."
"What assures me that you are really François Bouillot, the brother of
my foster father, and that you are not attempting to deceive me?" the
Count answered, in a suspicious accent.
The exempt felt in his pocket, pulled out several papers, which he
unfolded, and presented them open to the Count.
The latter looked at them mechanically: they consisted of a baptismal
certificate, a commission, and several letters proving his identity.
The Count handed him the letters back.
"How is it that you should have been the man to arrest me, and arrived
so opportunely to aid me?" he asked.
"In a very simple way, my lord: your order of arrest was obtained from
the Cardinal Minister by the Dutch Embassy. I was present when M. de
Laffemas, a familiar of his Eminence, who is kind to me, left the
Palais Cardinal order in hand: I was there, and he chose me. Still, as
I was able to decline, I should have done so, had I not seen your name
on the paper, and remembered the kindness your family had shown to me
and my brother. Taking advantage of the opportunity my profession of
exempt offered me, I resolved to repay you what your friends have done
for mine, by attempting to save you."
"That does not seem to me very easy, my poor friend."
"More so than you may fancy, my lord: I will leave here one-half our
escort, and then only ten will remain with us."
"Hum! That is a very decent number," the Count replied, involuntarily
interested.
"They would be too many if there were not among the ten men seven of
whom I am certain, which reduces the number of those we have to fear
to three. I have been running after you for a long time, my lord," he
added, with a laugh, "and all my precautions are taken: through some
excuse, easy to be found, we will pass through Toulon, and on arriving
there, we will stop for an hour or two at a hostelry I know. You will
disguise yourself as a mendicant monk, and leave the inn unnoticed. I
will take care to get rid of the guards I am not certain of. You will
proceed to the port furnished with papers I will hand you; you will go
on board a charming chasse-marée, called the _Seamew_, which I have
freighted on your account, and which is waiting for you. The master
will recognise you by a password I will tell you, and you will be at
liberty to go whither-soever you please. Is not this plan extremely
simple, my lord?" he asked, rubbing his hands joyously, "And have I not
foreseen everything?"
"No, my friend," the Count answered with emotion, as he offered him his
hand; "there is one more thing you have not foreseen."
"What is that, my lord?" he asked, in surprise.
"That I do not wish to fly," the young man answered, with a melancholy
shake of the head.