Night had fallen and it had begun to rain when Garnache and Valerie
reached Grenoble. They entered the town afoot, the Parisian not desiring
to attract attention by being seen in the streets with a lady on the
withers of his horse.
With thought for her comfort, Monsieur de Garnache had divested himself
of his heavy horseman’s cloak and insisted upon her assuming it, so
setting it about her that her head was covered as by a wimple. Thus
was she protected not only from the rain, but from the gaze of the
inquisitive.
They made their way in the drizzle, through the greasy, slippery
streets ashine with the lights that fell from door and window, Rabecque
following closely with the horses. Garnache made straight for his
inn--the Auberge du Veau qui Tete--which enjoyed the advantage of facing
the Palais Seneschal.
The ostler took charge of the nags, and the landlord conducted them to
a room above-stairs, which he placed at mademoiselle’s disposal.
That done, Garnache left Rabecque on guard, and proceeded to make the
necessary arrangements for the journey that lay before them. He began by
what he conceived to be the more urgent measure, and stepping across to
the Palais Seneschal, he demanded to see Monsieur de Tressan at once.
Ushered into the Lord Seneschal’s presence, he startled that obese
gentleman by the announcement that he had returned from Condillac with
Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, and that he would require an escort to
accompany them to Paris.
“For I am by no means minded to be exposed to such measures as the
tigress of Condillac and her cub may take to recover their victim,” he
explained with a grim smile.
The Seneschal combed his beard and screwed up his pale eyes until they
vanished in the cushions of his cheeks. He was lost in amazement.
He could only imagine that the Queen’s emissary had been duped more
successfully this time.
“I am to gather, then,” said he, dissembling what was passing through
his mind, “that you delivered the lady by force or strategy.”
“By both, monsieur,” was the short answer.
Tressan continued to comb his beard, and pondered the situation. If
things were so, indeed, they could not have fallen out more to his
taste. He had had no hand in it, one way or the other. He had run with
the hare and hunted with the hounds, and neither party could charge him
with any lack of loyalty. His admiration and respect for Monsieur de
Garnache grew enormously. When the rash Parisian had left him that
afternoon for the purpose of carrying his message himself to Condillac,
Tressan had entertained little hope of ever again seeing him alive.
Yet there he stood, as calm and composed as ever, announcing that
singlehanded he had carried out what another might well have hesitated
to attempt with a regiment at his heels.
Tressan’s curiosity urged him to beg for the details of this marvel, and
Garnache entertained him with a brief recital of what had taken
place, whereat, realizing that Garnache had indeed outwitted them, the
Seneschal’s wonder increased.
“But we are not out of the quagmire yet,” cried Garnache; “and that is
why I want an escort.”
Tressan became uneasy. “How many men shall you require?” he asked,
thinking that the Parisian would demand at least the half of a company.
“A half-dozen and a sergeant to command them.”
Tressan’s uneasiness was dissipated, and he found himself despising
Garnache more for his rashness in being content with so small a number
than he respected him for the boldness and courage he had so lately
displayed. It was not for him to suggest that the force might prove
insufficient; rather was it for him to be thankful that Garnache had not
asked for more. An escort Tressan dared not refuse him, and yet refuse
it him he must have done--or broken with the Condillacs--had he asked
for a greater number. But six men! Pooh! they would be of little
account. So he very readily consented, inquiring how soon Garnache would
require them.
“At once,” was the Parisian’s answer. “I leave Grenoble to-night. I hope
to set out in an hour’s time. Meanwhile I’ll have the troopers form a
guard of honour. I am lodged over the way.”
Tressan, but too glad to be quit of him, rose there and then to give
the necessary orders, and within ten minutes Garnache was back at the
Sucking Calf with six troopers and a sergeant, who had left their horses
in the Seneschal’s stables until the time for setting out. Meanwhile
Garnache placed them on duty in the common-room of the inn.
He called for refreshment for them, and bade them remain there at the
orders of his man Rabecque. His reason for this step was that it became
necessary that he should absent himself for a while to find a carriage
suitable for the journey; for as the Sucking Calf was not a post-house
he must seek one elsewhere--at the Auberge de France, in fact, which was
situate on the eastern side of the town by the Porte de Savoie--and
he was not minded to leave the person of Valerie unguarded during his
absence. The half-dozen troopers he considered ample, as indeed they
were.
On this errand he departed, wrapped tightly in his cloak, walking
briskly through the now heavier rain.
But at the Auberge de France a disappointment awaited him. The host
had no horses and no carriage, nor would he have until the following
morning. He was sorrow-stricken that the circumstance should discompose
Monsieur de Garnache; he was elaborate in his explanations of how
it happened that he could place no vehicle at Monsieur de Garnache’s
disposal--so elaborate that it is surprising Monsieur de Garnache’s
suspicions should not have been aroused. For the truth of the matter
was that the folk of Condillac had been at the Auberge de France before
him--as they had been elsewhere in the town wherever a conveyance might
be procurable--and by promises of reward for obedience and threats of
punishment for disobedience, they had contrived that Garnache should
hear this same story on every hand. His mistake had lain in his
eagerness to obtain a guard from the Seneschal. Had he begun by making
sure of a conveyance, anticipating, as he should have done, this move on
the part of the Condillacs--a move which he did not even now suspect--it
is possible that he might have been spared much of the trouble that was
to follow.
An hour or so later, after having vainly ransacked the town for the
thing he needed, he returned wet and annoyed to the Veau qui Tote. In a
corner of the spacious common-room--a corner by the door leading to the
interior of the inn--he saw the six troopers at table, waxing a trifle
noisy over cards. Their sergeant sat a little apart, in conversation
with the landlord’s wife, eyes upturned adoringly, oblivious of the
increasing scowl that gathered about her watchful husband’s brow.
At another table sat four gentlemen--seemingly travellers, by their air
and garb--in a conversation that was hushed at Garnache’s entrance.
But he paid no heed to them as he stalked with ringing step across the
rushstrewn floor, nor observed how covertly and watchfully their glances
followed him as returning, in passing the sergeant’s prompt salute he
vanished through the doorway leading to the stairs.
He reappeared again a moment later, to call the host, and give him
orders for the preparing of his own and Rabecque’s supper.
On the landing above he found Rabecque awaiting him.
“Is all well?” he asked, and received from his lackey a reassuring
answer.
Mademoiselle welcomed him gladly. His long absence, it appeared, had
been giving her concern. He told her on what errand he had been, and
alarm overspread her face upon hearing its result.
“But, monsieur,” she cried, “you are not proposing that I should remain
a night in Grenoble.”
“What alternative have we?” he asked, and his brows met, impatient at
what he accounted no more than feminine whimsey.
“It is not safe,” she exclaimed, her fears increasing. “You do not know
how powerful are the Condillacs.”
He strode to the fire, and the logs hissed under the pressure of his wet
boot. He set his back to the blaze, and smiled down upon her.
“Nor do you know how powerful are we,” he answered easily. “I have below
six troopers and a sergeant of the Seneschal’s regiment; with myself
and Rabecque we are nine men in all. That should be a sufficient guard,
mademoiselle. Nor do I think that with all their power the Condillacs
will venture here to claim you at the sword point.”
“And yet,” she answered, for all that she was plainly reassured, at
least in part, “I would rather you had got me a horse, that we might
have ridden to Saint Marcellin, where no doubt a carriage might be
obtained.”
“I did not see the need to put you to so much discomfort,” he returned.
“It is raining heavily.”
“Oh, what of that?” she flung back impatiently.
“Besides,” he added, “it seems there are no horses at the post-house. A
benighted place this Dauphiny of yours, mademoiselle.”
But she never heeded the gibe at her native province. “No horses?” she
echoed, and her hazel eyes looked up sharply, the alarm returning to her
face. She rose, and approached him. “Surely that is impossible.”
“I assure you that it is as I say--neither at the post-house nor at any
of the inns I visited could I find me a spare horse.”
“Monsieur,” she cried, “I see the hand of Condillac in this.”
“As how?” he inquired, and his tone again was quickened by impatience.
“They have anticipated you. They seek to keep you here--to keep us in
Grenoble.”
“But to what end?” he asked, his impatience growing. “The Auberge de
France has promised me a carriage in the morning. What shall it avail
them at Condillac to keep us here to-night?”
“They may have some project. Oh, monsieur! I am full of fears.”
“Dismiss them,” he answered lightly; and to reassure her he added,
smiling: “Rest assured we shall keep good watch over you, Rabecque and
I and the troopers. A guard shall remain in the passage throughout the
night. Rabecque and I will take turn about at sentry-go. Will that give
you peace?”
“You are very good,” she said, her voice quivering with feeling and real
gratitude, and as he was departing she called after him. “You will be
careful of yourself,” she said.
He paused under the lintel, and turned, surprised. “It is a habit of
mine,” said he, with a glint of humour in his eye.
But there was no answering smile from her. Her face was all anxiety.
“Beware of pitfalls,” she bade him. “Go warily; they are cruelly
cunning, those folk of Condillac. And if evil should befall you...”
“There would still remain Rabecque and the troopers,” he concluded.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I implore you to be careful,” she insisted.
“You may depend upon me,” he said, and closed the door.
Outside he called Rabecque, and together they went below. But mindful of
her fears, he dispatched one of the troopers to stand sentry outside her
door whilst he and his lackey supped. That done, he called the host, and
set himself at table, Rabecque at his elbow in attendance to hand him
the dishes and pour his wine.
Across the low-ceilinged room the four travellers still sat in talk, and
as Garnache seated himself, one of them shouted for the host and asked
in an impatient tone to know if his supper was soon to come.
“In a moment, sir,” answered the landlord respectfully, and he turned
again to the Parisian. He went out to bring the latter’s meal, and
whilst he was gone Rabecque heard from his master the reason of their
remaining that night in Grenoble. The inference drawn by the astute
lackey--and freely expressed by him--from the lack of horses or
carriages in Grenoble that night, coincided oddly with Valerie’s. He
too gave it as his opinion that his master had been forestalled by
the Dowager’s people, and without presuming to advise Garnache to go
warily--a piece of advice that Garnache would have resented, to the
extent perhaps of boxing the fellow’s ears--he determined, there and
then, to keep a close watch upon his master, and under no circumstances,
if possible, permit him to leave the Sucking Calf that night.
The host returned, bearing a platter on which there steamed a ragout
that gave out an appetizing odour; his wife followed with other dishes
and a bottle of Armagnac under her arm. Rabecque busied himself at
once, and his hungry master disposed himself to satisfy the healthiest
appetite in France, when suddenly a shadow fell across the table. A man
had come to stand beside it, his body screening the light of one of the
lamps that hung from a rafter of the ceiling.
“At last!” he exclaimed, and his voice was harsh with ill-humour.
Garnache looked up, pausing in the very act of helping himself to
that ragout. Rabecque looked up from behind his master, and his lips
tightened. The host looked up from the act of drawing the cork of the
flagon he had taken from his wife, and his eyes grew big as in his mind
he prepared a judicious blend of apology and remonstrance wherewith
to soothe this very impatient gentleman. But before he could speak,
Garnache’s voice cut sharply into the silence. An interruption at such a
moment vexed him sorely.
“Monsieur says?” quoth he.
“To you, sir--nothing,” answered the fellow impudently, and looked him
straight between the eyes.
With a flush mounting to his cheeks, and his brows drawn together in
perplexity, Garnache surveyed him. He was that same traveller who had
lately clamoured to know when he might sup, a man of rather more than
middle height, lithe and active of frame, yet with a breadth of shoulder
and depth of chest that argued strength and endurance as well. He had
fair, wavy hair, which he wore rather longer than was the mode, brown
eyes, and a face which, without being handsome, was yet more than
ordinarily engaging by virtue of its strength and frank ingenuousness.
His dress was his worst feature. It was flamboyant and showy; cheap, and
tawdrily pretentious. Yet he bore himself with the easy dignity of a man
who counts more inferiors than superiors.
Despite the arrogant manner of his address, Garnache felt prepossessed
in the newcomer’s favour. But before he could answer him, the host was
speaking.
“Monsieur mistakes...” he began.
“Mistakes?” thundered the other in an accent slightly foreign. “It is
you who mistake if you propose to tell me that this is not my supper.
Am I to wait all night, while every jackanapes who follows me into your
pigsty is to be served before me?”
“Jackanapes?” said Garnache thoughtfully, and looked the man in the face
again. Behind the stranger pressed his three companions now, whilst the
troopers across the room forgot their card-play to watch the altercation
that seemed to impend.
The foreigner--for such, indeed, his French proclaimed him--turned
half-contemptuously to the host, ignoring Garnache with an air that was
studiously offensive.
“Jackanapes?” murmured Garnache again, and he, too, turned to the host.
“Tell me, Monsieur l’Hote,” said he, “where do the jackanapes bury their
dead in Grenoble? I may need the information.”
Before the distressed landlord could utter a word, the stranger had
wheeled about again to face Garnache. “What shall that mean?” he asked
sharply, a great fierceness in his glance.
“That Grenoble may be witnessing the funeral of a foreign bully by
to-morrow, Monsieur l’Etranger,” said Garnache, showing his teeth in a
pleasant smile. He became conscious in that moment of a pressure on his
shoulder blade, but paid no heed to it, intent on watching the other’s
countenance. It expressed surprise a moment, then grew dark with anger.
“Do you mean that for me, sir?” he growled.
Garnache spread his hands. “If monsieur feels that the cap fits him, I
shall not stay him in the act of donning it.”
The stranger set one hand upon the table, and leaned forward towards
Garnache. “May I ask monsieur to be a little more definite?” he begged.
Garnache sat back in his chair and surveyed the man, smiling. Quick
though his temper usually might be, it was checked at present by
amusement. He had seen in his time many quarrels spring from the
flimsiest of motives, but surely never had he seen one quite so
self-begotten. It was almost as if the fellow had come there of set
purpose to pick it with him.
A suspicion flashed across his mind. He remembered the warning
mademoiselle had given him. And he wondered. Was this a trick to lure
him to some guet-apens? He surveyed his man more closely; but the
inspection lent no colour to his suspicions. The stranger looked so
frank and honest; then again his accent was foreign. It might very well
be that he was some Savoyard lordling unused to being kept waiting,
and that his hunger made him irritable and impatient. If that were so,
assuredly the fellow deserved a lesson that should show him he was now
in France, where different manners obtained to those that he displayed;
yet, lest he should be something else, Garnache determined to pursue a
policy of conciliation. It would be a madness to embroil himself just
then, whether this fellow were of Condillac or not.
“I have asked you, monsieur,” the stranger insisted, “to be a little
more definite.”
Garnache’s smile broadened and grew more friendly. “Frankly,” said he,
“I experience difficulty. My remark was vague. I meant it so to be.”
“But it offended me, monsieur,” the other answered sharply.
The Parisian raised his eyebrows, and pursed his lips. “Then I deplore
it,” said he. And now he had to endure the hardest trial of all. The
stranger’s expression changed to one of wondering scorn.
“Do I understand that monsieur apologizes?”
Garnache felt himself crimsoning; his self-control was slipping from
him; the pressure against his shoulder blade was renewed, and in time he
became aware of it and knew it for a warning from Rabecque.
“I cannot conceive, sir, that I have offended,” said he at length,
keeping a tight hand upon his every instinct--which was to knock this
impertinent stranger down. “But if I have, I beg that you will believe
that I have done so unwittingly. I had no such intent.”
The stranger removed his hand from the table and drew himself erect.
“So much for that, then,” said he, provokingly contemptuous. “If you
will be as amiable in the matter of the supper I shall be glad to
terminate an acquaintance which I can see no honour to myself in
pursuing.”
This, Garnache felt, was more than he could endure. A spasm of passion
crossed his face, another instant and despite Rabecque’s frantic
proddings he might have flung the ragout in the gentleman’s face; when
suddenly came the landlord unexpectedly to the rescue.
“Monsieur, here comes your supper now,” he announced, as his wife
reentered from the kitchen with a laden tray.
For a moment the stranger seemed out of countenance. Then he looked with
cold insolence from the dishes set before Garnache to those which were
being set for himself.
“Ah,” said he, and his tone was an insult unsurpassable, “perhaps it is
to be preferred. This ragout grows cold, I think.”
He sniffed, and turning on his heel, without word or sign of salutation
to Garnache, he passed to the next table, and sat down with his
companions. The Parisian’s eyes followed him, and they blazed
with suppressed wrath. Never in all his life had he exercised such
self-control as he was exercising then--which was the reason why he had
failed to achieve greatness--and he was exercising it for the sake of
that child above-stairs, and because he kept ever-present in his mind
the thought that she must come to grievous harm if ill befell himself.
But he controlled his passion at the cost of his appetite. He could not
eat, so enraged was he. And so he pushed the platter from him, and rose.
He turned to Rabecque, and the sight of his face sent the lackey back a
pace or two in very fear. He waved his hand to the table.
“Sup, Rabecque,” said he. “Then come to me above.”
And followed, as before, by the eyes of the stranger and his companions,
Garnache strode out of the room, and mounting the stairs went to find
solace in talk with Valerie. But however impossible he might find it to
digest the affront he had swallowed, no word of the matter did he utter
to the girl, lest it should cause her fears to reawaken.