AN ACHATES FOR AN AENEAS
"What are you doing here?" demanded the Chevalier roughly.
"Paul," sadly, "you are drunk."
"So I am," moodily. "How long ago since I was sober? Bah! every pore
in my body is a voice that calls loudly for wine. Drunk? My faith,
yes! You make me laugh, Victor. When was I ever sober? As a boy I
used to fall asleep in the cellars of the château. But you . . . What
are you doing here in Rochelle?"
"I am here to command your immediate return to Paris."
"Paris? Body of Bacchus! but it is fine gratitude on your part to
accept this mission. So his Eminence thinks that I shall be safer in
the Bastille? What a compliment!"
"No, Paul. He wishes simply to exonerate you and return to you your
privileges. Ah! how could you do it?"
"Do what?" sinking upon one of the benches and striving to put together
his wine-befuddled thoughts.
"Take the brunt of a crime you supposed I had done?"
"Supposed? Come, now; you are laughing!"
"Word of honor: supposed I had done. It was not till a week ago that I
learned what you had done. How I galloped back to Paris! It was
magnificent of you; it was fine."
"But you? And that cloak which I lent to you?"
"Well, I was as little concerned as you, which I proved to Mazarin. I
was at my sister's wedding at Blois. Your grey cloak was stolen from
my room the day before De Brissac met his violent end. My lad, Hector,
found the cloak in a tavern. How, he would not say. He dared not keep
it, so sent it to the Candlestick in care of another lad. He
understood that its disappearance might bring harm to you. I trounced
him well for his carelessness in permitting the cloak to be stolen."
"This is all very unusual. Stolen, from you?" bewildered.
"Yes."
"And it was not you?"
"Am I a killer of old men? No, Paul. De Brissac and I were on
excellent terms. You ought to know me better. I do not climb into
windows, especially when the door is always open for me. I am like my
sword, loyal, frank, and honest; we scorn braggart's cunning, dark
alleys, stealth; we look not at a man's back but into his face; we
prefer sunshine to darkness. And listen," tapping his sword: "he who
has done this thing, be he never so far away, yet shall this long sword
of mine find him and snuff his candle out."
"Good lad, forgive! I am drunk, atrociously drunk; and I have been
drunk so long!" The Chevalier swept the hair out of his eyes. "Have
you an enemy? Have I?"
"Enemies, enemies? If you but knew how I have searched my memory for a
sign of one! The only enemy I could find was . . . myself. Here is
your signet-ring, the one you pawned at Fontainebleau. You see,
Mazarin went to the bottom of things."
The Chevalier slipped the ring on his finger, twirled it, and remained
silent.
"Well?" said Victor, humorously.
"You never told me about Madame de Brissac." The Chevalier held the
beryl of the ring toward the light and watched the flames dance upon
its surface.
"Why should I have told you? I knew how matters stood between you and
madame; it would have annoyed you. It was not want of confidence,
Paul; it was diffidence. Are you sober enough to hear all about it
now?"
"Sober? Well, I can listen." The Chevalier was but half awake
mentally; he still looked at Victor as one would look at an apparition.
"So. Well, then," Victor began, "once upon a time there lived a great
noble. He was valiant in wars and passing loves. From the age of
eighteen to sixty, Mars nor Venus had withheld their favors. He was a
Henri IV without a crown."
"Like that good father of mine," said the Chevalier, scowling.
"His sixtieth birthday came, and it was then he found that the garden
of pleasure, that had offered so many charming flowers for his
plucking, had drawn to its end. Behind, there were only souvenirs;
before, nothing but barren fields. Suddenly he remembered that he had
forgotten to marry. A name such as his must not sink into oblivion.
He must have a wife, young and innocent. He did not seek love; in this
his heart was as a cinder on a dead hearth. He desired an ornament to
grace his home, innocence to protect his worldly honor. Strange, how
these men who have tasted all fruits, the bitter and the sweet, should
in their old age crave the companionship of youth and innocence. So he
cast about. Being rich, he waived the question of any dowry save
beauty and birth. A certain lady-in-waiting, formerly, to the queen,
solved the problem for him. In a month her daughter would leave her
convent, fresh and innocent as the dews of morning."
"O rare poet!" interrupted the Chevalier, with a droll turn of the head.
"This pleased the noble greatly. Men who have never found their ideals
grow near-sighted at sixty. The marriage was celebrated quietly; few
persons had ever heard of Gabrielle de Montbazon. Monsieur le Comte
returned to Paris and reopened his hôtel. But he kept away from court
and mingled only with those who were in disfavor. Among his friends he
wore his young wife as one would wear a flower. He evinced the same
pride in showing her off as he would in showing off a fine horse, a
famous picture, a rare drinking-cup. Madame was at first dazzled; it
was such a change from convent life. He kept wondrous guard over her
the first year. He never had any young companions at the hôtel; they
were all antique like himself. Paul, there is something which age
refuses to understand. Youth, like a flower, does not thrive in dusty
nooks, in dark cellars."
"How about mushrooms? They grow in cellars; and the thought of them
makes my mouth water."
"Paul, you are unkind to laugh."
"Have I not told you that I am drunk? Go on."
"Well, then, youth is like a flower; it must have air and sunshine, the
freedom of its graceful stem. Nature does not leap from May to
December. The year culminates in the warm breath of summer. Youth
culminates in the sunshine of love. The year bereft of summer is less
mournful than youth deprived of love. So. A young girl, married to a
man old enough to be her grandsire, misses the glory of her summer, the
realization of her convent dreams. Gradually she comprehends that she
has been cheated, cruelly cheated. What happens? She begins by
comparing her husband who is old to the gallants who are young. This
is but natural."
"And exciting," interpolated the Chevalier.
"By and by, the world as contrived by man shows her many loopholes
through which she may pass without disturbing her conscience. Ah, but
these steps are so imperceptible that one does not perceive how far one
goes till one looks back to find the way closed. Behold the irony of
fate! During the second year Monsieur le Comte falls in love with one
of Scudery's actresses, and, commits all sorts of follies for her sake.
Ah well, there were gallants enough. And one found favor in madame's
eyes; at least, so it seemed to him. In the summer months they
promenaded the gardens of La Place Royale, on the Cours de la Reine,
always at dusk. When it grew colder this gallant, who was of a
poetical turn of mind, read her verses from Voiture, Malherbe, or
Ronsard . . ."
"Not to mention Saumaise," said the Chevalier.
"He was usually seated at her feet in her boudoir. Sometimes they
discussed the merits of Ronsard, or a novel by the Marquis d'Urfe. On
my word of honor, Paul, to kiss her hand was the limit of my courage.
She fascinated; her eyes were pitfalls; men looked into them but to
tumble in. Gay one moment, sad the next; a burst of sunshine, a cloud!"
"What! you are talking about yourself?" asked the Chevalier. "Poet
that you are, how well you tell a story! And you feared to offend me?
I should have laughed. Is she pretty?"
"She is like her mother when her mother was twenty: the handsomest
woman in Paris, which is to say, in all France."
"And you love her?"
"So much as that your poet's neck is very near the ax," lowly.
"Eh? What's that?"
The poet glanced hastily about. There was no one within hearing. "I
asked Mazarin for this mission simply because I feared to remain in
Paris and dare not now return. Your poet put his name upon a piece of
paper which might have proved an epic but which has turned out to be
pretty poor stuff. This paper was in De Brissac's care; was, I say,
because it was missing the morning after his death. To-morrow, a week
or a month from now, Mazarin will have it. And . . ." Victor drew his
finger across his throat.
"A conspiracy? And you have put your name to it, you, who have never
been more serious than a sonnet? Were you mad, or drunk?"
"They call it madness. Madame's innocent eyes drew me into it. I've
only a vague idea what the conspiracy is about. Not that madame knew
what was going on. Politics was a large word to her, embracing all
those things which neither excited nor interested her. Lord love you,
there were a dozen besides myself, madame's beauty being the magnet."
"And the plot?"
"Mazarin's abduction and forced resignation, Condé's return from Spain
and Gaston's reinstatement at court."
"And your reward?"
"Hang me!" with a comical expression, "I had forgotten all about that
end of it. A captaincy of some sort. Devil take cabals! And madame,
finding out too late what had been going on, and having innocently
attached her name to the paper, is gone from Paris, leaving advice for
me to do the same. So here I am, ready to cross into Spain the moment
you set out for Paris. Mazarin has taken it into his head to imitate
Richelieu: off with the head rather than let the state feed the
stomach."
"So that is why De Beaufort, thinking me to be the guilty man, sought
me out and demanded the paper? My faith, this grows interesting. But
oh! wise poet, did you not hear me tell you never to sign your name to
anything save poetry?"
"It might have been a poem . . . I wonder whither madame has flown?
By the way, Mademoiselle de Longueville gave me a letter to give to
you. It is unaddressed. I promised to deliver it to you."
The Chevalier took the letter and opened it carelessly; but no sooner
did he recognize the almost illegible but wholly aristocratic pothooks
than a fit of trembling seized him. The faint odor of vervain filled
his nostrils, and he breathed quickly.
"_Forgive! How could I have doubled so gallant a gentleman! You have
asked me if I love you. Find me and put the question again. I leave
Paris indefinitely. France is large. If you love me you will find me.
You complain that I have never permitted you to kiss me. Read. In
this missive I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times. Diane._"
A wild desire sprang into the Chevalier's heart to mount and ride to
Paris that very night. The storm was nothing; his heart was warm,
sending a heat into his cheeks and a sparkle into his dull eyes.
"Horns of Panurge! you weep?" cried Victor jestingly. "Good! You are
maudlin. What is this news which makes you weep?"
"Ah, lad," said the Chevalier, standing, "you have brought me more than
exoneration; you have brought me life, life and love. France is small
when a beloved voice calls. I shall learn who she is, this glorious
creature. A month and I shall have solved the enchantment. Victor, I
have told you of her. Sometimes it seems that I must wake to find it
all a dream. For nearly a year she has kept me dangling in mid air.
She is as learned as Aspasia, as holding as Calypso, as fascinating as
Circe. She is loveliness and wisdom; and I love her madly."
"And you will return to-morrow ?" asked Victor regretfully.
"To-morrow! Blessed day! Back to life and love! . . . Forgive me,
lad; joy made me forget! I will see you safely in Spain."
Victor brooded for a space. "Horns of Panurge! Could I but lay my
hands upon that paper!"
"No moping, lad. The bowl awaits; trouble shall smother in the cup.
We shall make this night one for memory. I have a château in the
Cévennes, and it shall be yours till all this blows over. Ah!"
The door leading to the private assembly opened. On the threshold
stood a man of thirty-three or four, his countenance haughty and as
clean cut as a Greek medallion. The eyes were large and black, the
brows slanting and heavy, the nose high-bridged and fierce, the chin
aggressive. There lay over all this a mask of reckless humor and
gaiety. It was the face of a man who, had he curbed his desires and
walked with circumspection, would have known enduring greatness as a
captain, as an explorer, as a theologian. Not a contour of the face
hut expressed force, courage, daring, immobility of purpose.
"Hurrah, Chevalier!" he cried; "the bowl will soon be empty."
"The Vicomte d'Halluys?" murmured Victor. "Paul, there is another
gentleman bound for Spain. We shall have company."
"What? The astute vicomte, that diplomat?"
"Even so. The Vicomte d'Halluys, wit, duelist, devil-may-care,
spendthrift. Ho, Vicomte!" the poet called.
"Saumaise?" cried the man at the door, coming forward.
"Go in, Paul," said the poet; "I want a word with him."
The Chevalier passed into the private assembly. The vicomte and the
poet looked into each other's eyes for a moment. The vicomte slapped
his thigh and laughed.
"Hang me from a gargoyle on Notre Dame," he broke forth, "if it isn't
the poet!"
"The same," less hilariously.
"I thought you had gone to Holland?"
"I can talk Spanish," replied Victor, "but not a word of Dutch. And
you? Is it Spain?"
"Nay; when the time comes I'm for New France. I have some property
there; a fine excuse to see it. What a joke! How well it will read in
Monsieur Somebody's memoirs! What is new?"
"Mazarin has not yet come into possession of that paper. Beaufort will
see to that, so far as it lies in his power. I am all at sea."
"And I soon shall be! Come on, then. We are making a night of it."
And the vicomte caught the poet by the arm and dragged him into the
private assembly.
Around a huge silver bowl sat a company of roisterers, all flushed with
wine and the attendant false happiness. Long clay pipes clouded the
candle-light; there was the jingle of gold and the purr of shuffling
cards; and here and there were some given to the voicing of ribald
songs. To Victor this was no uncommon scene; and it was not long
before he had thrown himself with gay enthusiasm into this mad carouse.
Shortly after the door had closed upon the company of merry-makers and
their loud voices had resolved into untranslatable murmurs, three men
came into the public room and ranged themselves in front of the fire.
The close fitting, long black cassocks, the wide-brimmed hats looped up
at the sides, proclaimed two of them to belong to the Society of Jesus.
The third, his body clothed in nondescript skins and furs, his feet in
beaded moccasins, his head hatless and the coarse black hair adorned
with a solitary feather from a heron's wing and glistening with melting
snow, the color of his skin unburnished copper, his eyes black, fierce,
restless,--all these marked the savage of the New World. Potboys,
grooms, and guests all craned their necks to get a glimpse of this
strange and formidable being of whom they had heard such stories as
curdled the blood and filled the night with troubled dreams. A crowd
gathered about, whispering and nodding and pointing. The Iroquois
beheld all this commotion with indifference not unmixed with contempt.
When he saw Du Puys and Bouchard pressing through the crowd, his lips
relaxed. These were men whom he knew to be men and tried warriors.
After greeting the two priests, Du Puys led them to a table and
directed Maître le Borgne to bring supper for three. The Iroquois,
receiving a pleasant nod from Father Chaumonot, took his place at the
table. And Le Borgne, pale and trembling, took the red man's order for
meat and water.
"Ah, Captain," said Chaumonot, "it is good to see you again."
"Major, Father; Major."
"You have received your commission, then?"
"Finally."
"Congratulations! Will you direct me at once to the Hôtel de Périgny?
I must see the marquis to-night, since we sail to-morrow."
"As soon as you have completed your supper," said Du Puys. Then
lowering his voice: "The marquis's son is in yonder room."
"Then the marquis has a son?" said Brother Jacques, with an
indescribable smile. "And by what name is he known?"
"The Chevalier du Cévennes."
Strange fires glowed in the young Jesuit's eyes. He plucked at his
rosary. "The Chevalier du Cévennes: the ways of God are inscrutable."
"In what way, my son?" asked Chaumonot.
"I met the Chevalier in Paris." Brother Jacques folded his arms and
stared absently at his plate.