Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PG
Distributed Proofreaders
AN ENEMY TO THE KING
From the recently discovered memoirs of the Sieur de la Tournoire
By Robert Neilson Stephens
Author of "The Continental Dragoon," "The Road to Paris," "Philip
Winwood," etc.
1897
CONTENTS.
I. TWO ENCOUNTERS BY NIGHT
II. LOVE-MAKING AT SHORT ACQUAINTANCE
III. THE STRANGE REQUEST OF MLLE. D'ARENCY
IV. HOW LA TOURNOIRE WAS ENLIGHTENED IN THE DARK
V. HOW LA TOURNOIRE ESCAPED FROM PARIS
VI. HOW HE FLED SOUTHWARD
VII. HOW HE ANNOYED MONSIEUR DE LA CHATRE
VIII. A SWEET LADY IN DISTRESS
IX. THE FOUR RASCALS
X. A DISAPPEARANCE
XI. HOW THE HERO GAVE HIS WORD AND KEPT IT
XII. AT THE CHÂTEAU OF MAURY
XIII. HOW DE BERQUIN INVITED DEATH
XIV. "GOD GRANT I DO NOT FIND YOU FALSE"
XV. TO CLOCHONNE, AFTER MADEMOISELLE!
XVI. BEHIND THE CURTAINS
XVII. SWORD AND DAGGER
XVIII. THE RIDE TOWARDS GUIENNE
AN ENEMY TO THE KING
CHAPTER I.
TWO ENCOUNTERS BY NIGHT
Hitherto I have written with the sword, after the fashion of greater men,
and requiring no secretary. I now take up the quill to set forth,
correctly, certain incidents which, having been noised about, stand in
danger of being inaccurately reported by some imitator of Brantome and De
l'Estoile. If all the world is to know of this matter, let it know
thereof rightly.
It was early in January, in the year 1578, that I first set out for
Paris. My mother had died when I was twelve years old, and my father had
followed her a year later. It was his last wish that I, his only child,
should remain at the château, in Anjou, continuing my studies until the
end of my twenty-first year. He had chosen that I should learn manners as
best I could at home, not as page in some great household or as gentleman
in the retinue of some high personage. "A De Launay shall have no master
but God and the King," he said. Reverently I had fulfilled his
injunctions, holding my young impulses in leash. I passed the time in
sword practice with our old steward, Michel, who had followed my father
in the wars under Coligny, in hunting in our little patch of woods,
reading the Latin authors in the flowery garden of the château, or in my
favorite chamber,--that one at the top of the new tower which had been
built in the reign of Henri II. to replace the original black tower from
which the earliest De Launay of note got the title of Sieur de la
Tournoire. All this while I was holding in curb my impatient desires. So
almost resistless are the forces that impel the young heart, that there
must have been a hard struggle within me had I had to wait even a month
longer for the birthday which finally set me free to go what ways I
chose. I rose early on that cold but sunlit January day, mad with
eagerness to be off and away into the great world that at last lay open
to me. Poor old Michel was sad that I had decided to go alone. But the
only servant whom I would have taken with me was the only one to whom I
would entrust the house of my fathers in my absence,--old Michel himself.
I thought the others too rustic. My few tenants would have made awkward
lackeys in peace, sorry soldiers in war.
Michel had my portmanteau fastened on my horse, which had been brought
out into the courtyard, and then he stood by me while I took my last
breakfast in La Tournoire; and, in my haste to be off, I would have
eaten little had he not pressed much upon me, reminding me how many
leagues I would have to ride before meeting a good inn on the Paris
road. He was sad, poor old Michel, at my going, and yet he partook of
some of my own eagerness. At last I had forced down my unwilling throat
food enough to satisfy even old Michel's solicitude. He girded on me the
finest of the swords that my father had left, placed over my violet
velvet doublet the new cloak I had bought for the occasion, handed me my
new hat with its showy plumes, and stood aside for me to pass out. In
the pocket of my red breeches was a purse holding enough golden crowns
to ease my path for some time to come. I cast one last look around the
old hall and, trying to check the rapidity of my breath, and the rising
of the lump in my throat, strode out to the court-yard, breathed the
fresh air with a new ecstasy, mounted the steaming horse, gave Michel my
hand for a moment, and, purposely avoiding meeting his eyes, spoke a
last kind word to the old man. After acknowledging the farewells of the
other servants, who stood in line trying to look joyous, I started my
horse with a little jerk of the rein, and was borne swiftly through the
porte, over the bridge, and out into the world. Behind me was the home
of my fathers and my childhood; before me was Paris. It was a fine,
bracing winter morning, and I was twenty-one. A good horse was under me,
a sword was at my side, there was money in my pocket. Will I ever feel
again as I did that morning?
Some have stupidly wondered why, being a Huguenot born and bred, I did
not, when free to leave La Tournoire, go at once to offer my sword to
Henri of Navarre or to some other leader of our party. This is easily
answered. If I was a Huguenot, I was also a man of twenty-one; and the
latter much more than the former. Paris was the centre of the world.
There was the court, there were the adventures to be had, there must one
go to see the whole of life; there would I meet men and make conquests of
women. There awaited me the pleasures of which I had known only by
report, there the advancement, the triumphs in personal quarrels; and,
above all else, the great love affair of my dreams. Who that is a man and
twenty-one has not such dreams? And who that is a man and seventy would
have been without them? Youth and folly go together, each sweetening the
other. The greatest fool, I think, is he who would have gone through life
entirely without folly. What then mattered religion to me? Or what
mattered the rivalry of parties, except as they might serve my own
personal ambitions and desires? Youth was ebullient in me. The longing to
penetrate the unknown made inaction intolerable to me. I must rush into
the whirlpool; I must be in the very midst of things; I longed for
gaiety, for mystery, for contest; I must sing, drink, fight, make love.
It is true that there would have been some outlet for my energies in camp
life, but no gratification for my finer tastes, no luxury, no such
pleasures as Paris afforded,--little diversity, no elating sense of being
at the core of events, no opportunities for love-making. In Paris were
the pretty women. The last circumstance alone would have decided me.
I had reached twenty-one without having been deeply in love. I had, of
course, had transient periods of inclination towards more than one of the
demoiselles in the neighborhood of La Tournoire; but these demoiselles
had rapidly become insipid to me. As I grew older, I found it less easy
to be attracted by young ladies whom I had known from childhood up. I had
none the less the desire to be in love; but the woman whom I should love
must be new to me, a mystery, something to fathom and yet unfathomable.
She must be a world, inexhaustible, always retaining the charm of the
partly unknown. I had high aspirations. No pretty maid, however low in
station, was unworthy a kiss and some flattery; but the real _affaire
d'amour_ of my life must have no elements but magnificent ones. She must
be some great lady of the court, and our passion must be attended by
circumstances of mystery, danger, everything to complicate it and raise
it to an epic height. Such was the amour I had determined to find in
Paris. Remember, you who read this, that I am disclosing the inmost
dreams of a man of twenty-one. Such dreams are appropriate to that age;
it is only when they are associated with middle age that they become
ridiculous; and when thoughts of amatory conquest are found in common
with gray hairs, they are loathsome. If I seem to have given my mind
largely up to fancies of love, consider that I was then at the age when
such fancies rather adorn than deface. Indeed, a young man without
thoughts of love is as much an anomaly as is an older man who gives
himself up to them.
I looked back once at La Tournoire, when I reached the top of the hill
that would, in another minute, shut it from my view. I saw old Michel
standing at the porte. I waved my hand to him, and turned to proceed on
my way. Soon the lump in my throat melted away, the moisture left my
eyes, and only the future concerned me. Every object that came into
sight, every tree along the roadside, now interested me. I passed several
travellers, some of whom seemed to envy me my indifference to the cold
weather, my look of joyous content.
About noon I overtook, just where the road left a wood and turned to
cross a bridge, a small cavalcade consisting of an erect, handsome
gentleman of middle age, and several armed lackeys. The gentleman wore a
black velvet doublet, and his attire, from his snowy ruff to his black
boots, was in the best condition. He had a frank, manly countenance that
invited address. At the turn of the road he saw me, and, taking me in at
a glance, he fell behind his lackeys that I might come up to him. He
greeted me courteously, and after he had spoken of the weather and the
promise of the sky, he mentioned, incidentally, that he was going to
Paris. I told him my own destination, and we came to talking of the
court. I perceived, from his remarks, that he was well acquainted there.
There was some talk of the quarrels between the King's favorites and
those of his brother, the Duke of Anjou; of the latter's sulkiness over
his treatment at the hands of the King; of the probabilities for and
against Anjou's leaving Paris and putting himself at the head of the
malcontent and Huguenot parties; of the friendship between Anjou and his
sister Marguerite, who remained at the Court of France while her husband,
Henri of Navarre, held his mimic Huguenot court in Béarn. Presently, the
name of the Duke of Guise came up.
Now we Huguenots held, and still hold, Henri de Guise to have been a
chief instigator of the event of St. Bartholomew's Night, in 1572.
Always I had in my mind the picture of Coligny, under whom my father had
fought, lying dead in his own courtyard, in the Rue de Bethizy, his
murder done under the direction of that same Henri, his body thrown from
his window into the court at Henri's orders, and there spurned by
Henri's foot. I had heard, too, of this illustrious duke's open
continuance of his amour with Marguerite, queen of our leader, Henri of
Navarre. When I spoke of him to the gentleman at whose side I rode, I
put no restraint on my tongue.
"The Duke of Guise!" I said. "All that I ever wish to say of him can
be very quickly spoken. If, as you Catholics believe, God has an
earthly representative in the Pope, then I think the devil has one in
Henri de Guise."
The gentleman was quiet for a moment, and looked very sober. Then he
said gravely:
"All men have their faults, monsieur. The difference between men is that
some have no virtues to compensate for their vices."
"If Henri de Guise has any virtues," I replied, "he wears a mask over
them; and he conceals them more effectually than he hides his
predilection for assassination, his amours, and his design to rule France
through the Holy League of which he is the real head."
The gentleman turned very red, and darted at me a glance of anger. Then
restraining himself, he answered in a very low tone:
"Monsieur, the subject can be discussed by us in only one way, or not
at all. You are young, and it would be too pitiful for you to be cut
off before you have even seen Paris. Doubtless, you are impatient to
arrive there. It would be well, then, if you rode on a little faster.
It is my intention to proceed at a much slower pace than will be
agreeable to you."
And he reined in his horse.
I reined in mine likewise. I was boiling with wrath at his superior tone,
and his consideration for my youth, but I imitated his coolness as well
as I could.
"Monsieur," said I, "whether or not I ever see Paris is not a matter to
concern you. I cannot allow you to consider my youth. You wish to be
obliging; then consider that nothing in the world would be a greater
favor to me than an opportunity to maintain with my sword my opinion of
Henri de Guise."
The man smiled gently, and replied without passion:
"Then, as we certainly are not going to fight, let my refusal be, not on
account of your youth, but on account of my necessity of reaching Paris
without accident."
His horse stood still. His lackeys also had stopped their horses, which
stood pawing and snorting at a respectful distance. It was an awkward
moment for me. I could not stand there trying to persuade a perfectly
serene man to fight. So with an abrupt pull of the rein I started my
horse, mechanically applied the spur, and galloped off. A few minutes
later I was out of sight of this singularly self-controlled gentleman,
who resented my description of the Duke of Guise. I was annoyed for some
time to think that he had had the better of the occurrence; and I gave
myself up for an hour to the unprofitable occupation of mentally
reenacting the scene in a manner more creditable to myself.
"I may meet him in Paris some day," I said to myself, "and find an
occasion to right myself in his estimation. He shall not let my youth
intercede for me again."
Then I wished that I had learned his name, that I might, on reaching
Paris, have found out more about him. Having in his suite no gentlemen,
but several lackeys, he was, doubtless, not himself an important
personage, but a follower of one. Not wishing to meet him again until
circumstances should have changed, I passed the next inn to which I came,
guessing that he would stop there. He must have done so, for he did not
come up with me that day, or at any time during my journey.
It was at sunset on a clear, cold evening that, without further
adventure, I rode into Paris through the Porte St. Michel, and stared,
as I proceeded along the Rue de la Harpe, at the crowds of people
hurrying in either direction in each of the narrow, crooked streets,
each person so absorbed in his own errand, and so used to the throng and
the noise, that he paid no heed to the animation that so interested and
stirred me. The rays of the setting sun lighted up the towers of the
colleges and abbeys at my right, while those at my left stood black
against the purple and yellow sky. I rode on and on, not wishing to stop
at an inn until I should have seen more of the panorama that so charmed
me. At last I reached the left bank of the Seine, and saw before me the
little Isle of the City, the sunlit towers of Notre Dame rising above
the wilderness of turrets and spires surrounding them. I crossed the
Pont St. Michel, stopping for a moment to look westward towards the Tour
de Nesle, and then eastward to the Tournelle, thus covering, in two
glances, the river bank of the University through which I had just come.
Emerging from the bridge, I followed the Rue de la Barillerie across the
Isle of the City, finding everywhere the same bustle, the same coming
and going of citizens, priests, students, and beggars, all alert, yet
not to be surprised by any spectacle that might arise before them.
Reaching the right arm of the Seine, I stopped again, this time on the
Pont-au-Change, and embraced, in a sweeping look from left to right, the
river bank of the town, the Paris of the court and the palaces, of the
markets and of trade, the Paris in which I hoped to find a splendid
future, the Paris into which, after taking this comprehensive view from
the towers of the Louvre and the Tour de Bois away leftward, to the Tour
de Billy away right ward, I urged my horse with a jubilant heart. It was
a quite dark Paris by the time I plunged into it. The Rue St. Denis,
along which I rode, was beginning to be lighted here and there by stray
rays from windows. The still narrower streets, that ran, like crooked
corridors in a great château, from the large thoroughfare, seemed to be
altogether dark.
But, dark as the city had become, I had determined to explore some of it
that night, so charming was its novelty, so inviting to me were its
countless streets, leading to who knows what? I stopped at a large inn in
the Rue St. Denis, saw my tired horse well cared for by an hostler, who
seemed amazed at my rustic solicitude for details, had my portmanteau
deposited in a clean, white-washed chamber, overlooking the street, ate a
supper such as only a Paris innkeeper can serve and a ravenous youth from
the country can devour, and went forth afoot, after curfew, into the now
entirely dark and no longer crowded street, to find what might befall me.
It had grown colder at nightfall, and I had to draw my cloak closely
around me. A wind had come up, too, and the few people whom I met were
walking with head thrust forward, the better to resist the breeze when it
should oppose them. Some were attended by armed servants bearing
lanterns. The sign-boards, that hung from the projecting stories of the
tall houses, swung as the wind swayed, and there was a continual sound of
creaking. Clouds had risen, and the moon was obscured much of the time,
so that when I looked down some of the narrower streets I could not see
whether they ended within a short distance, turned out of sight, or
continued far in the same direction. Being accustomed to the country
roads, the squares of smaller towns, and the wide avenues of the little
park at La Tournoire, I was at first surprised at the narrowness of the
streets. Across one of them lay a drunken man, peacefully snoring. His
head touched the house on one side of the street, and his feet pressed
the wall on the opposite side. It surprised me to find so many of the
streets no wider than this. But there was more breathing room wherever
two streets crossed and where several of them opened into some great
place. The crookedness and curvature of the streets constantly tempted me
to seek what might be beyond, around the corner, or the bend; and
whenever I sought, I found still other corners or bends hiding the
unknown, and luring me to investigate.
I had started westward from the inn, intending to proceed towards the
Louvre. But presently, having turned aside from one irregular street
into another, I did not know what was the direction in which I went.
The only noises that I heard were those caused by the wind, excepting
when now and then came suddenly a burst of loud talk, mingled mirth and
jangling, as quickly shut off, when the door of some cabaret opened and
closed. When I heard footsteps on the uneven pebble pavement of the
street, and saw approaching me out of the gloom some cloaked
pedestrian, I mechanically gripped the handle of my sword, and kept a
wary eye on the stranger,--knowing that in passing each other we must
almost touch elbows. His own suspicious and cautious demeanor and
motions reflected mine.
At night, in the narrow streets of a great town, there exists in every
footfall heard, every human figure seen emerging from the darkness, the
possibility of an encounter, an adventure, something unexpected. So, to
the night roamer, every human sound or sight has an unwonted interest.
As I followed the turning of one of the narrowest streets, the darkness,
some distance ahead of me, was suddenly cleft by a stream of light from a
window that was quickly opened in the second story of a tall house on the
right-hand side of the way. Then the window was darkened by the form of a
man coming from the chamber within. At his appearance into view I stood
still. Resting for a moment on his knees on the window-ledge, he lowered
first one leg, then the other, then his body, and presently he was
hanging by his hands over the street. Then the face of a woman appeared
in the window, and as the man remained there, suspended, he looked up at
her inquiringly.
"It is well," she said, in a low tone; "but be quick. We are just in
time." And she stood ready to close the window as soon as he should be
out of the way.
"Good night, adorable," he replied, and dropped to the street. The
lady immediately closed the window, not even waiting to see how the
man had alighted.
Had she waited to see that, she would have seen him, in lurching over to
prevent his sword from striking the ground, lose his balance on a
detached paving-stone, and fall heavily on his right arm.
"_Peste_!" he hissed, as he slowly scrambled to his feet. "I have
broken my arm!"
With his right arm hanging stiff by his side, and clutching its elbow
with his left hand, as if in great pain, he hastened away from the spot,
not having noticed me. I followed him.
After a second turn, the street crossed another. In the middle of the
open space at the junction, there stood a cross, as could be seen by the
moonlight that now came through an interval in the procession of
wind-driven clouds.
Just as the man with the hurt arm, who was slender, and had a dandified
walk, entered this open space, a gust of wind came into it with him; and
there came, also, from the other street, a robust gentleman of medium
height, holding his head high and walking briskly. Caught by the gust of
wind, my gentleman from the second story window ran precipitantly into
the other. The robust man was not sent backward an inch. He took the
shock of meeting with the firmness of an unyielding wall, so that the
slender gentleman rebounded. Each man uttered a brief oath, and grasped
his sword, the slender one forgetting the condition of his arm.
"Oh, it is you," said the robust man, in a virile voice, of which the
tone was now purposely offensive. "The wind blows fragile articles into
one's face to-night."
"It blows gentlemen into muck-heaps," responded the other, quickly.
The hearty gentleman gave a loud laugh, meant to aggravate the other's
anger, and then said:
"We do not need seconds, M. de Quelus," putting into his utterance of the
other's name a world of insult.
"Come on, then, M. Bussy d'Amboise," replied the other, pronouncing the
name only that he might, in return, hiss out the final syllable as if it
were the word for something filthy.
Both whipped out their swords, M. de Quelus now seemingly unconscious of
the pain in his arm.
I looked on from the shadow in which I had stopped, not having followed
De Quelus into the little open space. My interest in the encounter was
naturally the greater for having learned the names of the antagonists. At
La Tournoire I had heard enough of the court to know that the Marquis de
Quelus was the chief of the King's effeminate chamberlains, whom he
called his minions, and that Bussy d'Amboise was the most redoubtable of
the rufflers attached to the King's discontented brother, the Duke of
Anjou; and that between the dainty gentlemen of the King and the bullying
swordsmen of the Duke, there was continual feud.
Bussy d'Amboise, disdaining even to remove his cloak, of which he quickly
gathered the end under his left arm, made two steps and a thrust at De
Quelus. The latter made what parade he could for a moment, so that Bussy
stepped back to try a feint. De Quelus, trying to raise his sword a
trifle higher, uttered an ejaculation of pain, and then dropped the
point. Bussy had already begun the motion of a lunge, which it was too
late to arrest, even if he had discovered that the other's arm was
injured and had disdained to profit by such an advantage. De Quelus would
have been pierced through had not I leaped forward with drawn sword and,
by a quick thrust, happened to strike Bussy's blade and make it diverge
from its course.
De Quelus jumped back on his side, as Bussy did on his. Both regarded me
with astonishment.
"Oh, ho, an ambush!" cried Bussy. "Then come on, all of you, messieurs of
the daubed face and painted beard! I shall not even call my servants, who
wait at the next corner."
And he made a lunge at me, which I diverted by a parry made on instinct,
not having had time to bring my mind to the direction of matters. Bussy
then stood back on guard.
"You lie," said De Quelus, vainly trying to find sufficient strength
in his arm to lift his sword. "I was alone. My servants are as near
as yours, yet I have not called. As for this gentleman, I never saw
him before."
"That is true," I said, keeping up my guard, while Bussy stood with his
back to the cross, his brows knit in his effort to make out my features.
"Oh, very well," said Bussy. "I do not recognize him, but he is evidently
a gentleman in search of a quarrel, and I am disposed to be
accommodating."
He attacked me again, and I surprised myself, vastly, by being able to
resist the onslaughts of this, the most formidable swordsman at the
court of France. But I dared not hope for final victory. It did not even
occur to me as possible that I might survive this fight. The best for
which I hoped was that I might not be among the easiest victims of this
famous sword.
"Monsieur," said De Quelus, while Bussy and I kept it up, with offence
on his part, defence on mine, "I am sorry that I cannot intervene to
save your life. My arm has been hurt in a fall, and I cannot even hold
up my sword."
"I know that," I replied. "That is why I interfered."
"The devil!" cried Bussy. "Much as I detest you, M. de Quelus, you know I
would not have attacked you had I known that. But this gentleman, at
least, has nothing the matter with his arm."
And he came for me again.
Nothing the matter with my arm! Actually a compliment upon my
sword-handling from the most invincible fighter, whether in formal duel
or sudden quarrel, in France! I liked the generosity which impelled him
to acknowledge me a worthy antagonist, as much as I resented his
overbearing insolence; and I began to think there was a chance for me.
For the first time, I now assumed the offensive, and with such suddenness
that Bussy fell back, out of sheer surprise. He had forgotten about the
cross that stood in the centre of the place, and, in leaping backward, he
struck this cross heavily with his sword wrist. His glove did not save
him from being jarred and bruised; and, for a moment, he relaxed his firm
grasp of his sword, and before he could renew his clutch I could have
destroyed his guard and ended the matter; but I dropped my point instead.
Bussy looked at me in amazement, and then dropped his.
"Absurd, monsieur! You might very fairly have used your advantage.
Now you have spoiled everything. We can't go on fighting, for I would
not give you another such opening, nor would I kill a man who gives
me my life."
"As you will, monsieur," said I. "I am glad not to be killed, for what
is the use of having fought Bussy d'Amboise if one may not live to
boast of it?"
He seemed pleased in his self-esteem, and sheathed his sword. "I am
destined not to fight to-night," he answered. "One adversary turns out to
have a damaged arm, which would make it a disgrace to kill him, and the
other puts me under obligation for my life. But, M. de Quelus, your arm
will recover."
"I hope so, if for only one reason," replied Quelus.
Bussy d'Amboise then bowed to me, and strode on his way. He was joined at
the next crossing of streets by four lackeys, who had been waiting in
shadow. All had swords and pistols, and one bore a lantern, which had
been concealed beneath his cloak.
De Quelus, having looked after him with an angry frown, now turned to me,
and spoke with affability:
"Monsieur, had you not observed the condition of my arm, I should have
resented your aid. But as it is, I owe you my life no less than he owes
you his, and it may be that I can do more than merely acknowledge the
obligation."
I saw here the opportunity for which a man might wait months, and I was
not such a fool as to lose it through pride.
"Monsieur," I said, "I am Ernanton de Launay, Sieur de la Tournoire. I
arrived in Paris to-day, from Anjou, with the desire of enlisting in the
French Guards."
De Quelus smiled. "You desire very little for a gentleman, and one who
can handle a sword so well."
"I know that, but I do not bring any letters, and I am not one who could
expect the favor of a court appointment. I am a Huguenot."
"A Huguenot?" said De Quelus. "And yet you come to Paris?"
"I prefer to serve the King of France. He is at present on good terms
with the Huguenots, is he not?"
"Yes,--at least, he is not at war with them. Well, gentlemen like you are
not to be wasted, even though Huguenots. Attach yourself to Duret's
company of the guards for the present, and who knows when you may win a
vacant captaincy? I will bring you to the attention of the King. Can you
be, to-morrow at eleven o'clock, at the principal gate of the Louvre?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Very well. I will speak to Captain Duret, also, about you."
He looked at my active figure, neither tall nor short, neither broad nor
too thin, observed the length of my arm, and remembered that I had made
so respectable a showing with the sword against Bussy, I could see that
he was thinking, "It is well to have in one's debt as many such strong
and honest young gentlemen as can be had. Even a Huguenot may be useful
in these days."
Then, when so many leaders contended, every man was desirous of gaining
partisans. At court, wise people were scrupulous to repay obligations, in
the hope of securing future benefit. I divined De Quelus's motives, but
was none the less willing to profit by them as to the possible vacant
captaincy.
"Then I thank you, monsieur, and will keep the appointment," I said.
"You are alone," said De Quelus. "One does not know when one may have
one's throat cut for a sou, after dark in the streets of Paris. Will you
accept the escort of two of my servants? They are waiting for me in the
next street. One does not, you know, let one's servants wait too near
windows out of which one expects to drop," he added with a smile.
"I thank you, monsieur, but I have already fared so well alone to-night,
that I should fear to change my fortune by taking attendants."
"Then good night, monsieur. No, thank you. I can sheathe my own sword. My
arm has lost its numbness. _Parbleu_, I should like to meet Bussy
d'Amboise now."
And he strode away, leaving me standing by the cross.
I hesitated between returning to the inn, and resuming my exploration of
the streets. I decided to go back, lest I be shut out for the night.
I had made my way some distance, in the labyrinth of streets, when, on
reaching another junction of ways, I heard steps at some distance to the
left. Looking in that direction, I saw approaching a little procession
headed by two men servants, one of whom carried a lantern. I stepped back
into the street from which I had just emerged, that I might remain
unseen, until it should pass. Peering around the street corner, I saw
that behind the two servants came a lady, whose form indicated youth and
elegance, and who leaned on the arm of a stout woman, doubtless a
servant. Behind these two came another pair of lackeys.
The lady wore a mask, and although heavily cloaked, shivered in the
January wind, and walked as rapidly as she could. The four men had swords
and pistols, and were sturdy fellows, able to afford her good protection.
The two men in advance passed without seeing me, stepping easily over a
pool of muddy water that had collected in a depression in the street, and
had not yet had time to freeze.
When the lady reached this pool, she stopped at its brink and looked down
at it, with a little motion of consternation.
"I cannot step across this lake," she said, in a voice that was
low-pitched, rich, and full of charm to the ear. "We must skirt
its borders."
And she turned to walk a short distance up the street in which I stood.
"Not so, madame," I said, stepping forth and bowing. "The lake is a long
one, and you would have to go far out of your way. I will convey you
across in a moment, if you will allow me." And I held out my arms,
indicating my willingness to lift her across the pool.
The two servants in the rear now hastened up, ready to attack me, and
those ahead turned and came back, their hands on their weapons.
The lady looked at me through the eye-holes of her mask. Her lips and
chin being visible, she could not conceal a quizzical smile that came
at my offer.
"Why not?" she said, motioning her servants back.
I caught her up in my arms and lifted her over the puddle. She slid from
my grasp with a slight laugh.
I sought some pretext to prolong this meeting. "When I came out
to-night," I said, "I dared not hope for such happiness as this."
"Nor did the astrologer predict anything of the kind to me," she replied.
From this I knew the cause of her being in the street so late,--a secret
visit to some fortune-teller. Then she called to the stout woman, who was
looking for a place to step over the pool. "Come, Isa, in the name of
Heaven. You know that if the guard is changed--"
She stopped, but she had already betrayed herself. She meant the guard of
the palace, doubtless; and that her secret entrance, so long after the
closing of the gates, depended for its ease on the presence of some
officer with whom she had an understanding. She must be one of the ladies
attached to the royal household, and her nocturnal excursion, from the
Louvre, was evidently clandestine.
Isa now joined her mistress, and the latter, with a mere, "I thank you,
monsieur," turned and hastened on her way. Soon the footsteps of her
attendants died out of hearing.
I had not even seen her face, save the white, curved chin and the
delicate mouth. I had only beheld her lithe figure, felt its heaving as I
carried her, had my cold cheek warmed for a moment by her breath, heard
her provoking laugh and her voice, rich with vitality. Yet her charm had
caught me and remained with me. I could not, nor did I try to throw it
off. I was possessed by a craving to see her again, to know more of her.
Already I made this unknown the heroine of my prospective love affair. I
could soon find her, after gaining the entrée of the court; and I could
identify her by her voice as well as by her probable recognition of me.
Heaving a deep sigh, I left the place of our meeting and found my way
back to the inn. Thanks to the presence of some late drinkers, I got in
without much pounding on the door; and in my little white-washed chamber
I dreamt of soft eyes that glowed through the holes of a lady's mask.