Never was there a man with a better stomach for a fight than Martin de
Garnache, nor did he stop to consider that here his appetite in that
direction was likely to be indulged to a surfeit. The sight of those
three men opposing him, swords drawn and Fortunio armed in addition
with a dagger, drove from his mind every other thought, every other
consideration but that of the impending battle.
He fell on guard to receive their onslaught, his eyes alert, his lips
tight set, his knees like springs of steel, slightly flexed to support
his well-poised body.
But they paused a moment in the extremity of their surprise, and
Fortunio called to him in Italian to know the meaning of this attitude
of his as well as that of Marius, who lay huddled where he had fallen.
Garnache, reckless now, disdaining further subterfuge nor seeking to
have recourse to subtleties that could avail him nothing, retorted in
French with the announcement of his true name. At that, perceiving that
here was some deep treachery at work, they hesitated no longer.
Led by Fortunio they attacked him, and the din they made in the next few
minutes with their heavy breathing, their frequent oaths, their stamping
and springing this way and that, and, ringing above all, the clash and
clatter of sword on sword, filled the chamber and could be heard in the
courtyard below.
Minutes sped, yet they gained no advantage on this single man; not one,
but a dozen swords did he appear to wield, so rapid were his passes, so
ubiquitous his point. Had he but stood his ground there might have been
a speedy end to him, but he retreated slowly towards the door of the
antechamber. Valerie still stood there, watching with fearful eyes and
bated breath that tremendous struggle which at any moment she expected
to see terminate in the death of her only friend.
In her way she was helping Garnache, though she little realized it. The
six tapers in the candle-branch she held aloft afforded the only light
for that stormy scene, and that light was in the eyes of Garnache’s
assailants, showing him their faces yet leaving his own in shadow.
He fell back steadily towards that door. He could not see it; but there
was not the need. He knew that it was in a direct line with the one
that opened upon the stairs, and by the latter he steered his backward
course. His aim was to gain the antechamber, although they guessed it
not, thinking that he did but retreat through inability to stand his
ground. His reasons were that here in this guardroom the best he could
do would be to put his back to the wall, where he might pick off one or
two before they made an end of him. The place was too bare to suit
his urgent, fearful need. Within the inner room there was furniture to
spare, with which he might contrive to hamper his opponents and give
them such a lusty fight as would live in the memory of those who might
survive it for as long as they should chance to live thereafter.
He had no thought of perishing himself, although, to any less concerned,
his death, sooner or later, must seem inevitable--the only possible
conclusion to this affray, taken as he was. His mind was concerned only
with this fight; his business to kill, and not himself to be slain. He
knew that presently others would come to support these three. Already,
perhaps, they were on their way, and he husbanded his strength against
their coming. He was proudly conscious of his own superior skill, for
he had studied the art of fence in Italy--its home--during his earlier
years, and there was no trick of sword-play with which he was not
acquainted, no ruse of service in a rough-and-tumble in which he was
unversed. He was proudly conscious, too, of his supple strength, his
endurance, and his great length of reach, and upon all these he counted
to help him make a decent fight.
Valerie, watching him, guessed his purpose to be the gaining of the
inner chamber, the crossing of the threshold on which she was standing.
She drew back a pace or two, almost mechanically, to give him room. The
movement went near to costing him his life. The light no longer falling
so pitilessly upon Fortunio’s eyes, the captain saw more clearly than
hitherto, and shot a swift, deadly stroke straight at the region of
Garnache’s heart. The Parisian leapt back when it was within an inch of
his breast; one of the bravoes followed up, springing a pace in advance
of his companions and lengthening his arm in a powerful lunge. Garnache
caught the blade almost on his hilt, and by the slightest turn of
the wrist made a simultaneous presentment of his point at the other’s
outstretched throat. It took the fellow just above the Adam’s apple, and
with a horrid, gurgling cry he sank, stretched as he still was in the
attitude of that murderous lunge that had proved fatal only to himself.
Garnache had come on guard again upon the instant. Yet in the briefest
of seconds during which his sword had been about its work of death,
Fortunio’s rapier came at him a second time. He beat the blade aside
with his bare left hand and stopped with his point the rush of the
other bravo. Then he leapt back again, and his leap brought him to
the threshold of the anteroom. He retreated quickly a pace, and then
another. He was a sword’s length within the chamber, and now he stood,
firm as a rock and engaged Fortunio’s blade which had followed him
through the doorway. But he was more at his ease. The doorway was
narrow. Two men abreast could not beset him, since one must cumber the
movements of the other. If they came at him one at a time, he felt that
he could continue that fight till morning, should there still by then be
any left to face him.
A wild exultation took him, an insane desire to laugh. Surely
was sword-play the merriest game that was ever devised for man’s
entertainment. He straightened his arm, and his steel went out like a
streak of lightning. But for the dagger on which he caught its edge,
the blade had assuredly pierced the captain’s heart. And now, fighting
still, Garnache called to Valerie. He had need of her assistance to make
his preparations ere others came.
“Set down your tapers, mademoiselle,” he bade her, “on the mantel shelf
at my back. Place the other candle branch there too.”
Swiftly, yet with half-swimming senses, everything dim to her as to one
in a nightmare, she ran to do his bidding; and now the light placed so
at his back, gave him over his opponents the same slight advantage that
he had enjoyed before. In brisk tones he issued his fresh orders.
“Can you move the table, mademoiselle?” he asked her. “Try to drag it
here, to the wall on my left, as close to the door as you can bring it.”
“I will try, monsieur,” she panted through dry lips; and again she moved
to do his bidding. Quickened by the need there was, her limbs, which
awhile ago had seemed on the point of refusing their office, appeared to
gather more than ordinary strength. She was unconsciously sobbing in her
passionate anxiety to render him what help was possible. Frenziedly she
caught at the heavy oaken table, and began to drag it across the room as
Garnache had begged her. And now, Fortunio seeing what was toward, and
guessing Garnache’s intentions, sought by a rush to force his way into
the Chamber. But Garnache was ready for him. There was a harsh grind of
steel on steel, culminating in a resounding rush, and Fortunio was back
in the guard-room, whither he had leapt to save his skin. A pause fell
at that, and Garnache lowered his point to rest his arm until they
should again come at him. From beyond the doorway the captain called
upon him to yield. He took the summons as an insult, and flew into a
momentary passion.
“Yield?” he roared. “Yield to you, you cut-throat scum? You shall have
my sword if you will come for it, but you shall have it in your throat.”
Angered in his turn, Fortunio inclined his head to his companion’s ear,
issuing an order. In obedience to it, it was the bravo now who advanced
and engaged Garnache. Suddenly he dropped on to his knees, and over his
head Garnache found his blade suddenly opposed by Fortunio’s. It was a
clever trick, and it all but did Garnache’s business then. Yet together
with the surprise of it there came to him the understanding of what was
intended. Under his guard the kneeling man’s sword was to be thrust up
into his vitals. As a cry of alarm broke from mademoiselle, he leapt
aside and towards the wall, where he was covered from Fortunio’s weapon,
and turning suddenly he passed his sword from side to side through the
body of the kneeling mercenary.
The whole thing he had performed mechanically, more by instinct than
by reason; and when it was done, and the tables were thus effectively
turned upon his assailants, he scarcely realized how he had accomplished
it.
The man’s body cumbered now the doorway, and behind him Fortunio stood,
never daring to advance lest a thrust of that sword which he could not
see--Garnache still standing close against the wall--should serve him
likewise.
Garnache leaned there, in that friendly shelter, to breathe, and he
smiled grimly under cover of his mustache. So long as he had to deal
with a single assailant he saw no need to move from so excellent a
position. Close beside him, leaning heavily against the table she had
dragged thus far, stood Valerie, her face livid as death, her heart
sick within her at the horror inspired her by that thing lying on the
threshold. She could not take her eyes from the crimson stain that
spread slowly on the floor, coming from under that limply huddled mass
of arms and legs.
“Do not look, mademoiselle,” Garnache implored her softly. “Be brave,
child; try to be brave.”
She sought to brace her flagging courage, and by an effort she averted
her eyes from that horrid heap and fixed them upon Garnache’s calm,
intrepid face. The sight of his quietly watchful eyes, his grimly
smiling lips, seemed to infuse courage into her anew.
“I have the table, monsieur,” she told him. “I can bring it no nearer to
the wall.”
He understood that this was not because her courage or her strength
might be exhausted, but because he now occupied the spot where he had
bidden her place it. He motioned her away, and when she had moved he
darted suddenly and swiftly aside and caught the table, his sword still
fast in his two first fingers, which he had locked over the quillons.
He had pushed its massive weight halfway across the door before Fortunio
grasped the situation. Instantly the captain sought to take advantage of
it, thinking to catch Garnache unawares. But no sooner did he show his
nose inside the doorpost than Garnache’s sword flashed before his eyes,
driving him back with a bloody furrow in his cheek.
“Have a care, Monsieur le Capitaine,” Garnache mocked him. “Had you come
an inch farther it might have been the death of you.”
A clatter of steps sounded upon the stairs, and the Parisian bent once
more to his task, and thrust the table across the open doorway. He had a
moment’s respite now, for Fortunio stung--though lightly--was not likely
to come again until he had others to support him. And while the others
came, while the hum of their voices rose higher, and finally their steps
clattered over the bare boards of the guard-room floor, Garnache had
caught up and flung a chair under the table to protect him from an
attack from below, while he had piled another on top to increase and
further strengthen the barricade.
Valerie watched him agonizedly, leaning now against the wall, her hands
pressed across her bosom, as if to keep down its tempestuous heaving.
Yet her anguish was tempered by a great wonder and a great admiration of
this man who could keep such calm eyes and such smiling lips in the face
of the dreadful odds by which he was beset, in the face of the certain
death that must ultimately reach him before he was many minutes older.
And in her imagination she conjured up a picture of him lying there torn
by their angry swords and drenched in blood, his life gone out of him,
his brave spirit, quenched for ever--and all for her unworthy sake.
Because she-- little, worthless thing that she was--would not marry
as they listed, this fine, chivalrous soul was to be driven from its
stalwart body.
An agony of grief took her now, and she fell once more to those awful
sobs that awhile ago had shaken her. She had refused to marry Marius
that Florimond’s life should be spared, knowing that before Marius could
reach him she herself would have warned her betrothed. Yet even had that
circumstance not existed, she was sure that still she would have refused
to do the will of Marius. But equally sure was she that she would not so
refuse him were he now to offer as the price of her compliance the life
of Garnache, which she accounted irrevocably doomed.
Suddenly his steady, soothing voice penetrated her anguished musings.
“Calm yourself, mademoiselle; all is far from lost as yet.”
She thought that he but spoke so to comfort her; she did not follow the
working of his warlike mind, concentrated entirely upon the business
of the moment, with little thought--or care, for that matter--for what
might betide anon. Yet she made an effort to repress her sobs. She
would be brave, if only to show herself worthy of the companionship and
friendship of so brave a man.
Across his barricade he peered into the outer room to ascertain with
what fresh opponents he might have to reckon, and he was surprised to
see but four men standing by Fortunio, whilst behind them among the
thicker shadows, he dimly made out a woman’s figure and, beside her,
another man who was short and squat.
He bethought him that the hour, and the circumstance that most of the
mercenaries would be in their beds, accounted for the reinforcement not
being greater.
The woman moved forward, and he saw as he had suspected, that it was the
Dowager herself. The squat figure beside her, moving with her into the
shaft of light that fell from the doorway Garnache defended, revealed
to him the features of Monsieur de Tressan. If any doubt he had still
entertained concerning the Seneschal’s loyalty, that doubt was now
dispelled.
And now the Dowager uttered a sudden cry of fear. She had caught sight
of the fallen Marius, and she hurried to his side. Tressan sped after
her and between them they raised the boy and helped him to a chair,
where he now sat, passing a heavy hand across his no doubt aching brow.
Clearly he was recovering, from which Garnache opined with regret that
his blow had been too light. The Dowager turned to Fortunio, who had
approached her, and her eyes seemed to take fire at something that he
told her.
“Garnache?” the Parisian heard her say, and he saw Fortunio jerk his
thumb in the direction of the barricade.
She appeared to forget her son; she stepped suddenly from his side, and
peered through the doorway at the stalwart figure of Garnache, dimly to
be seen through the pile of furniture that protected him to the height
of his breast. No word said she to the Parisian. She stood regarding him
a moment with lips compressed and a white, startled, angry face. Then:
“It was by Marius’s contrivance that he was placed sentry over the
girl,” he heard her tell Fortunio, and he thought she sneered.
She looked at the two bodies on the floor, one almost at her feet, the
other just inside the doorway, now almost hidden in the shadows of the
table. Then she issued her commands to the men, and fiercely she bade
them pull down that barricade and take the dog alive.
But before they could move to do her bidding, Garnache’s voice rang
imperatively through the chamber.
“A word with you ere they begin, Monsieur de Tressan,” he shouted, and
such was the note of command he assumed that the men stood arrested,
looking to the Dowager for fresh orders. Tressan changed colour, for
all that there was surely naught to fear, and he fingered his beard
perplexedly, looking to the Marquise for direction. She flashed him a
glance, lifted one shoulder disdainfully, and to the men:
“Fetch him out,” said she, and she pointed to Garnache. But again
Garnache stayed them.
“Monsieur de Tressan,” he called impressively, “to your dying day--and
that will be none so distant--shall you regret it if you do not hear
me.”
The Seneschal was stirred by those words and the half-threat,
half-warning; they seemed to cover. He paused a moment, and this time
his eyes avoided the Marquise’s. At last, taking a step forward,
“Knave,” said he, “I do not know you.”
“You know me well enough. You have heard my name. I am Martin Marie
Rigobert de Garnache, Her Majesty’s emissary into Dauphiny to procure
the enlargement of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye from the Chateau de
Condillac, where she is detained by force and for the serving of
unscrupulous ends. Now you know me and my quality.”
The Dowager stamped her foot.
“Fetch him out!” she commanded harshly.
“Hear me first, Monsieur le Seneschal, or it will be the worse for
you.” And the Seneschal, moved by that confident promise of evil, threw
himself before the men-at-arms.
“A moment, I beseech you, Marquise,” he cried, and the men, seeing his
earnestness and knowing his quality, stood undecided, buffeted as they
were between his will and the Marquise’s. “What have you to say to me?”
Tressan demanded, seeking to render arrogant his tone.
“This: That my servant knows where I am, and that should I fail within a
very few days to come forth safe and sound from Condillac to rejoin
him, he is to ride to Paris with certain letters I have given him. Those
letters incriminate you to the full in this infamous matter here at
Condillac. I have set forth in them how you refused me help, how you
ignored the Queen’s commands of which I was the bearer; and should it be
proved, in addition, that through your treachery and insubordination my
life has been lost, I promise you that nothing in all this world will
save you from a hanging.”
“Never listen, monsieur,” cried the Dowager, seeing Tressan start back
like a man in sudden fear. “It is no more than the ruse of a desperate
man.”
“Heed me or not, at your choice,” Garnache retorted, addressing himself
ever to Tressan. “You have had your warning. I little thought to see you
here to-night. But seeing you confirms my worst suspicions, and if I
am to die, I can die easy in my conscience at the thought that in
sacrificing you to Her Majesty’s wrath I have certainly not sacrificed
an innocent man.”
“Madame--” the Seneschal began, turning to the Dowager. But she broke in
impatiently upon his intended words, upon the prayer that bubbled to his
lips that she should pause a while ere she made an end of this Parisian.
“Monsieur,” said she, “you may bargain with him when he is taken. We
will have him alive. Go in,” she bade her men, her voice so resolute now
that none dared tarry longer. “Fetch the knave out--alive.”
Garnache smiled at mademoiselle as the words were uttered.
“They want me alive,” said he. “That is a hopeful state of things. Bear
up, child; I may need your help ere we are through.”
“You shall find me ready, monsieur,” she assured him for all her
tremors. He looked at the pale face, composed now by an effort of her
will, and at the beautiful hazel eyes which strove to meet his with calm
and to reflect his smile, and he marvelled at her courage as much as did
she at his.
Then the assault began, and he could have laughed at the way in which
a couple of those cut-throats--neither wishing to have the honour of
meeting him singly--hindered each other by seeking to attack him at
once.
At last the Dowager commanded one of them to go in. The fellow came,
and he was driven back by the sword that darted at him from above the
barricade.
There matters might have come to a deadlock, but that Fortunio came
forward with one of his men to repeat the tactics which had cost him
a life already. His fellow went down on his knees, and drove his sword
under the table and through the frame of the chair, seeking to prick
Garnache in the legs. Simultaneously the captain laid hold of an arm
of the chair above and sought to engage Garnache across it. The ruse
succeeded to the extent of compelling the Parisian to retreat. The table
seemed likely to be his undoing instead of helping him. He dropped like
lightning to one knee, seeking to force the fellow out from underneath.
But the obstacles which should have hindered his assailants hindered
Garnache even more at this juncture. In that instant Fortunio whipped
the chair from the table-top, and flung it forward. One of its legs
caught Garnache on the sword arm, deadening it for a second. The sword
fell from his hand, and Valerie shrieked aloud, thinking the battle
at an end. But the next moment he was on his feet, his rapier firmly
gripped once more, for all that his arm still felt a trifle numbed. As
seconds passed the numbness wore away, but before that had taken place
the table had been thrust forward, and the man beneath it had made it
impossible for Garnache to hinder this. Suddenly he called to Valerie.
“A cloak, mademoiselle! Get me a cloak!” he begged. And she, stemming
her fears once more, ran to do his bidding.
She caught up a cloak that lay on a chair by the door of her
bed-chamber, and brought it to him. He twisted it twice round his left
arm, letting its folds hang loose, and advanced again to try conclusions
with the gentleman underneath. He cast the garment so that it enmeshed
the sword when next it was advanced. Stepping briskly aside, he was up
to the table, and his busy blade drove back the man who assailed him
across it. He threw his weight against it, and thrust it back till it
was jammed hard once more against the doorposts, leaving the chair at
his very feet. The man beneath had recovered his sword by this, and
again he sought to use it. That was the end of him. Again Garnache
enmeshed it, kicked away the chair, or, rather, thrust it aside with his
foot, stooped suddenly, and driving his blade under the table felt it
sink into the body of his tormentor.
There was a groan and a spluttering cough, and then before Garnache
could recover he heard mademoiselle crying out to him to beware. The
table was thrust suddenly forward almost on top of him; its edge caught
his left shoulder, and sent him back a full yard, sprawling upon the
ground.
To rise again, gasping for air--for the fall had shaken him--was the
work of an instant. But in that instant Fortunio had thrust the table
clear of the doorway, and his men were pouring into the room.
They came at Garnache in a body, with wild shouts and fierce mockery,
and he hurriedly fell on guard and gave way before them until his
shoulders were against the wainscot and he had at least the assurance
that none could take him in the rear. Three blades engaged his own.
Fortunio had come no farther than the doorway, where he stood his torn
cheek drenched in blood, watching the scene the Marquise beside him, and
Tressan standing just behind them, very pale and scared.
Yet Garnache’s first thought even in that moment of dire peril was for
Valerie. He would spare her the sight that must before many moments be
spread to view within that shambles.
“To your chamber, mademoiselle,” he cried to her. “You hinder me,” he
added by way of compelling her obedience. She did his bidding, but only
in part. No farther went she than the doorway of her room, where she
remained standing, watching the fray as earlier she had stood and
watched it from the door of the antechamber.
Suddenly she was moved by inspiration. He had gained an advantage
before, by retreating through a doorway into an inner room. Might he not
do the same again, and be in better case if he were to retreat now to
her own chamber? Impulsively she called to him.
“In here, Monsieur de Garnache. In here.”
The Marquise looked across at her, and smiled in mockery. Garnache was
too well occupied, she thought, to attempt any such rashness. If he but
dared remove his shoulders from the wall there would be a speedier end
to him than as things were.
Not so, however, thought Garnache. The cloak twisted about his left
arm gave him some advantage, and he used it to the full. He flicked
the slack of it in the face of one, and followed it up by stabbing the
fellow in the stomach before he could recover guard, whilst with another
wave of that cloak he enmeshed the sword that shot readily into the
opening he had left.
Madame cursed, and Fortunio echoed her imprecations. The Seneschal
gasped, his fears lost in amazement at so much valour and dexterity.
Garnache swung away from the wall now, and set his back to mademoiselle,
determined to act upon her advice. But even in that moment he asked
himself for the first time since the commencement of that carnage--to
what purpose? His arms were growing heavy with fatigue, his mouth was
parched, and great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow. Soon he
would be spent, and they would not fail to take a very full advantage of
it.
Hitherto his mind had been taken up with the battle only, and if he
had thought of retreating, it was but to the end that he might gain a
position of some vantage. Now, conscious of his growing fatigue, his
thoughts turned them at last to the consideration of flight. Was there
no way out of it? Must he kill every man in Condillac before he could
hope to escape?
Whimsically, and almost mechanically, he set himself, in his mind,
to count the men. There were twenty mercenaries all told, excluding
Fortunio and himself. On Arsenio he might rely not to attack him,
perhaps even to come to his assistance at the finish. That left
nineteen. Four he had already either killed outright or effectively
disabled; so that fifteen remained him. The task of dealing with those
other fifteen was utterly beyond him. Presently, no doubt, the two now
opposing him would be reinforced by others. So that if any possible way
out existed, he had best set about finding it at once.
He wondered could he cut down these two, make an end of Fortunio, and,
running for it, attempt to escape through the postern before the rest of
the garrison had time to come up with him or guess his purpose. But the
notion was too wild, its accomplishment too impossible.
He was fighting now with his back to mademoiselle and his face to the
tall window, through the leaded panes of which he caught the distorted
shape of a crescent moon. Suddenly the idea came to him. Through that
window must lie his way. It was a good fifty feet above the moat, he
knew, and if he essayed to leap it, it must be an even chance that he
would be killed in leaping. But the chance of death was a certain one
if he tarried where he was until others came to support his present
opponents. And so he briskly determined upon the lesser risk.
He remembered that the window was nailed down, as it had remained since
mademoiselle’s pretended attempt at flight. But surely that should prove
no formidable obstacle.
And now that his resolve was taken his tactics abruptly changed.
Hitherto he had been sparing of his movements, husbanding his strength
against the long battle that seemed promised him. Suddenly he assumed
the offensive where hitherto he had but acted in self-defence, and a
most deadly offensive was it. He plied his cloak, untwisting it from his
arm and flinging it over the head and body of one of his assailants, so
that he was enmeshed and blinded by it. Leaping to the fellow’s flank,
Garnache, with a terrific kick, knocked his legs from under him so that
he fell heavily. Then, stooping suddenly, the Parisian ran his blade
under the other brave’s guard and through the fellow’s thigh. The man
cried out, staggered, and then went down utterly disabled.
One swift downward thrust Garnache made at the mass that wriggled
under his cloak. The activity of its wriggles increased in the next few
seconds, then ceased altogether.
Tressan felt wet from head to foot with a sweat provoked by horror of
what he saw. The Dowager’s lips were pouring forth a horrid litany
of guard-room oaths, and meanwhile Garnache had swung round to meet
Fortunio, the last of all who had stood with him.
The captain came on boldly, armed with sword and dagger, and in that
moment, feeling himself spent, Garnache bitterly repented having
relinquished his cloak. Yet he made a stubborn fight, and whilst
they fenced and stamped about that room, Marius came to watch them,
staggering to his mother’s side and leaning heavily upon Tressan’s
shoulder. The Marquise turned to him, her face livid to the lips.
“That man must be the very fiend,” Garnache heard her tell her son. “Run
for help, Tressan, or, God knows, he may escape us yet. Go for men, or
we shall have Fortunio killed as well. Bid them bring muskets.”
Tressan, moving like one bereft of wits, went her errand, while the two
men fought on, stamping and panting, circling and lunging, their breath
coming in gasps, their swords grinding and clashing till sparks leapt
from them.
The dust rose up to envelop and almost choke them, and more than once
they slipped in the blood with which the floor was spattered, whilst
presently Garnache barely recovered and saved himself from stumbling
over the body of one of his victims against which his swiftly moving
feet had hurtled.
And the Dowager, who watched the conflict and who knew something of
sword-play, realized that, tired though Garnache might be, unless
help came soon or some strange chance gave the captain the advantage,
Fortunio would be laid low with the others.
His circling had brought the Parisian round, so that his back was now to
the window, his face to the door of the bedchamber, where mademoiselle
still watched in ever-growing horror. His right shoulder was in line
with the door of the antechamber, which madame occupied, and he never
saw her quit Marius’s side and creep slyly into the room to speed
swiftly round behind him.
The only one from whom he thought that he might have cause to fear
treachery was the man whom he had dropped with a thigh wound, and he was
careful to keep beyond the reach of any sudden sword-thrust from that
fellow.
But if he did not see the woman’s movements, mademoiselle saw them,
and the sight set her eyes dilating with a new fear. She guessed the
Dowager’s treacherous purpose. And no sooner had she guessed it than,
with a choking sob, she told herself that what madame could do that
could she also.
Suddenly Garnache saw an opening; Fortunio’s eyes, caught by the
Dowager’s movements, strayed for a moment past his opponent, and the
thing would have been fatal to the captain but that in that moment,
as Garnache was on the point of lunging, he felt himself caught from
behind, his arms pinioned to his sides by a pair of slender ones that
twined themselves about him, and over his shoulder, the breath of it
fanning his hot cheek, came a vicious voice--
“Stab now, Fortunio!”
The captain asked nothing better. He raised his weary sword-arm and
brought his point to the level of Garnache’s breast, but in that instant
its weight became leaden. Imitating the Marquise, Valerie had been in
time. She seized Fortunio’s half-lifted arm and flung all her weight
upon it.
The captain cursed her horridly in a frenzy of fear, for he saw that
did Garnache shake off the Marquise there would be an end of himself. He
sought to wrench himself free of her detaining grasp, and the exertion
brought him down, weary as he was, and with her weight hanging to him.
He sank to his knees, and the girl, still clinging valiantly, sank with
him, calling to Garnache that she held the captain fast.
Putting forth all his remaining strength, the Parisian twisted from the
Dowager’s encircling grasp and hurled her from him with a violence he
nowise intended.
“Yours, madame, are the first woman’s arms that ever Martin de Garnache
has known,” said he. “And never could embrace of beauty have been less
welcome.”
Panting, he caught up one of the overturned chairs. Holding it by the
back he made for the window. He had dropped his sword, and he called
to mademoiselle to hold the captain yet an instant longer. He swung his
chair aloft and dashed it against the window. There was a thundering
crash of shivered glass and a cool draught of that November night came
to sweeten the air that had been fouled by the stamping of the fighters.
Again he swung up his chair and dashed it at the window, and yet again,
until no window remained, but a great, gaping opening with a fringe of
ragged glass and twisted leadwork.
In that moment Fortunio struggled to his feet, free of the girl, who
sank, almost in a swoon. He sprang towards Garnache. The Parisian turned
and flung his now shattered chair toward the advancing captain. It
dropped at his feet, and his flying shins struck against an edge of
it, bringing him, hurt and sprawling, to the ground. Before he could
recover, a figure was flying through the open gap that lately had been a
window.
Mademoiselle sat up and screamed.
“You will be killed, Monsieur de Garnache! Dear God, you will be
killed!” and the anguish in her voice was awful.
It was the last thing that reached the ears of Monsieur de Garnache as
he tumbled headlong through the darkness of the chill November night.