THE DWARF OF ST. ETIENNE
Along dark stone passages, through many a doorway, and across two or
three rough court-yards, half a dozen soldiers conducted Herrick to
his "guest-room." The woman's pleasantry had caught their fancy, and
they laughed boisterously as they went, hoping, perhaps, to put fear
into the heart of their prisoner.
They halted before a low door, which one man unlocked with a great
key. The immense thickness of the wall formed a narrow passage, at the
end of which some steps descended into a semicircular cell of no great
size, but of considerable height.
"There's straw for a bed," said the jailer, pointing to a corner,
"though how it came here I don't understand, and you've got heaven's
light itself for a candle." And he nodded toward a patch of moonlight.
"There are honest soldiers who are worse lodged, I warrant."
"It ill becomes a guest to complain of his treatment," Herrick
answered.
"Ay; that idea of a guest-room was smartly thought of," the man
returned, "but maybe you hardly see the full humor of it. This is the
South Tower, and it's usually the last lodging a man needs this side
the grave."
"Is that so?" And Herrick's attitude had interest in it, but little
personal concern.
"Yes; and it's a short walk from here to the last yard we crossed. It
usually happens there." And the jailer made a suggestive downward
sweep with his arm.
"Axe or sword?" asked Herrick.
"Sword. Unless they decide to make an especial example in your case,
then they're likely to hang you over the great gateway."
"Am I sufficiently important for that, think you?"
"I've known a dead sparrow on a string scare away much finer birds,"
the jailer answered; "but at any rate you're no white-livered man, and
I shouldn't grieve to see you cheat both sword and rope."
"Thanks for your good will," said Herrick. "Who knows, I may live to
speak a comforting word to you. I will be honest with you, I had not
appreciated the full extent of the lady's humor."
With something like a salute, deference to the prisoner's courage, the
jailer departed, and the key grated harshly in the lock as the bolts
shot home.
High up near the roof there was a deep-set window through which the
moonlight came. The tower could not be shut in by high walls,
therefore, and probably was one of the outer towers of the castle.
From that window possibly a prisoner might look into a free world,
reach it, perhaps, if age had worn the bars loose in their stone
sockets. A moment later Herrick felt certain that only this single
wall held him from freedom, for the music of the carillon burst upon
his ears. His fancy made the moonbeams the path along which the music
travelled. But the window was unattainable. The rounded walls were
almost as smooth as if the surface had been polished, and the cell was
bare of everything but the heap of straw in the comer.
"My first night in Vayenne," he muttered, and some of the bravery with
which he had addressed the jailer was wanting. The moonlight was upon
his face as he spoke, a serious face just now, although neither
hopelessness nor despair was in it. It could hardly be called a
handsome face, yet it was one to remember. They were good, steady
eyes, and if the nose and mouth were not an artist's ideals of beauty,
in the whole face the artist would have found attraction. It was
strong, forceful, fashioned in an uncommon mould; it was a face apart
rather than one of a type, a strong family possession which to
strangers had often marked him for a Herrick.
"My first night in Vayenne," he repeated as he began to pace his
narrow cell slowly. How long ago it seemed since he had first seen the
city from the brow of the hills. How much had happened in the few
short hours since then, and yet one incident stood out more clearly
than all the rest, the woman leaning from her horse to look into the
face of a spy. Even now her contempt hurt him. It was hateful to
appear mean in her eyes. All else that had happened to him seemed of
little account beside this. The moment his eyes had rested upon her
there had sprung a desire in his soul to serve her. In that service he
felt himself capable of much, yet she despised him. A little touch of
sympathy had shown in her face for a moment when he handed her the
whip, but it had no power to obliterate the contempt. That was her
true feeling toward him, the other was but the passing pity which a
woman may have even for a coward.
The carillon had sounded several times, and the direction of the moon
ray had changed, leaving the floor of the cell in darkness; but buried
in thought Herrick took no notice of the little rushes of music, nor
was he conscious of the deepening gloom around him until a sudden
shadow seemed to flit through the chamber, and a new stealthy sound
startled him. Instinctively he drew back to the wall, that whatever
enemy might be near should have to face him and not be able to take
him unawares. Once to-night already he had been seized from behind.
Standing on the outside ledge of the window, holding on to the bars
and peering into the cell, was a figure that might well startle the
bravest. The opening could not be more than four feet in height, yet
it was sufficient to allow this figure to stand upright. Head, feet,
and hands were at least normal in size, those of a full-grown and
powerful man, the body was that of a child, though its curiously
twisted form might have abnormal strength in it. His hair was long,
and a thick, stubbly beard and whiskers completely surrounded his
face. He was ugly in the extreme, and even Herrick was pleased to
think that solid bars were between them.
For full five minutes the dwarf stood there, uttering no sound, but
moving his head from side to side, trying to pierce the darkness, and
once or twice he leant backward at arm's length to look down on the
outside below him. Then he took hold of one bar with both hands, and,
lifting it out of its socket, laid it carefully along the
window-ledge. From the breast of the loose smock-like garment he wore
he took a length of rope, knotted one end round one of the bars, and
let the other end fall into the cell. For a moment he waited and
listened; then, with the agility of a gorilla, he swung himself down,
and stood on the floor of the cell, the rope still in his hand, as
though he were prepared to spring upward to safety again at the first
sign of danger.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" said Herrick suddenly.
The dwarf turned quickly toward him.
"Hush! It's only friend Jean."
"I have no such friend."
"You do not know it, but yes, from this moment you have. See here, my
knife; watch, I fling it across the floor! Take it, it is for your
protection--to show my good faith. I have no other weapon. Now, let's
come close and look at each other."
The knife, a formidable blade, came skimming across the stone flags to
Herrick's feet. He picked it up, and walked into the centre of the
cell to meet his strange visitor.
"You must bend down to let me be sure that you are the man," said the
dwarf.
"You have seen me before, then?"
"To-night when she rode across the court-yard to look at you. Ah, yes,
you are the man. You were so quiet I thought they had put you
elsewhere. Did I frighten you?"
"Well, you startled me, friend Jean."
The dwarf laughed a little, low chuckle, and, silently clapping his
hands, stood on one foot and scratched the calf of his leg with the
other.
"Ah! So I startled you, friend Spy."
"Stop! Not that word."
"I must needs call you by some name. Give me another."
"Roger Herrick."
"Friend Roger, good. It comes to my tongue easily. Let's sit, and I'll
tell you who I am." And doubling his legs under him he sank
cross-legged onto the floor.
"I will lean by the wall, Jean, I find it easier," said Herrick.
"Ah, there are compensations, after all, for a man like me. To know
Vayenne is to know me; you can't help it. They call me an innocent;
you know what that means?"
"Yes."
"But not all it means, I warrant," chuckled the dwarf. "I get pity; I
am not supposed to do things like other men. Who cares where I
go? In the castle, in the church, in a house where there's
feasting--anywhere--I don't count. Who cares if I listen? It's only
Jean; in at one ear, out at the other. No one looks to me for work,
they'd sooner pay me for playing the fool, and I let 'em, I let 'em."
And somewhere in his strange, loose garments he made the coins jingle.
"So I go in and out as I will. If I curled up to sleep on the rug at
the Duke's door they'd hardly trouble to disturb me, I count for such
a little. Generally I sleep in the church."
"In the church?"
"Ay; in the porch. They call me the dwarf of St. Etienne. Listen!
there's its music." And he remained silent with uplifted finger until
the ripple of the carillon had died away into the night. "I'm a little
fellow to have so large a church to myself, as I often do at nights;
and, friend Roger, I see things in St. Etienne when the moonlight
sends faint, colored beams through the painted windows. There are
legends and superstitions about St. Etienne, and people are
superstitious about me, too. They believe I know things, and so I do,
but not of the sort they fancy."
A strange little madman, Herrick thought, yet one with a method
surely, as the unbarred window showed.
"An innocent, that's what they call me," the dwarf went on, as though
he answered his companion's thought, "and though I am no more one than
you are, it suits my purpose. My wisdom would get any other man into
trouble."
"That loose bar, for instance," said Herrick, pointing to the window.
"Yes; but I never thought of the use I should one day put it to. It is
well to have more than one hole to creep into, and few would expect to
find a man lodging in the South Tower of his own free will."
"I hear it has an evil reputation," said Herrick.
"Ay; the grave's anteroom. So I chose it as a hiding-place. There are
times when I like to sleep here, to be alone and think of all I hear
and see. I was many nights loosening that bar."
"And why have you come to-night--to sleep here?"
"No; to plot with friend Roger," the dwarf answered promptly. "The
Duke died to-night; you know that? Out of his death will come trouble
for many--for the woman you saw in the court-yard a little while
since. Ah! That moves you. She is beautiful, friend Roger."
"Who is she?"
"Mademoiselle Christine de Liancourt, and might be ruler in
Montvilliers, but that the law denies it to a woman. There are many
who would overthrow that law if she would let them, but she will make
no sign. The Duke is dead; his son must reign in his stead. This son
is a poor sort of fellow, a lover of books instead of a man of
affairs."
"The pale scholar of Passey," said Herrick.
"How learnt you that catch phrase?" asked the dwarf sharply.
"I overheard it to-night."
"Yes; they call him that," Jean went on slowly, "and in truth he may
make us a poor Duke, but Mademoiselle de Liancourt thinks otherwise.
Count Felix--maybe you overheard him mentioned to-night?"
"I did. He would be Duke, and the old Duke wished it so."
"You have great knowledge for a casual traveller in Vayenne, friend
Roger," said the dwarf with some suspicion, "but you shall explain it
to me presently. Count Felix would be Duke; more, would wed with
Christine de Liancourt, and she loves not either of these ideas.
To-night she rides to Passey to carry news of the Duke's death to his
son, and to bring him to Vayenne."
"A strange office for a woman to perform; stranger still that Count
Felix should let her go and jeopardize his schemes," Herrick said.
"She has influence with the scholar, who has no desire to be a Duke,
that is why she was determined to go. Count Felix thought it wise not
to thwart her, since he would stand well in her favor, but he has
arranged that an accident shall prevent the scholar ever reaching
Vayenne. The escort will be attacked, and it is arranged shall be
beaten, and no effort will suffice to save the life of the scholar. It
is cleverly conceived, eh, friend Roger? A man who can plot so
prettily will go far toward success."
"But you could have warned her," Herrick exclaimed. "Why didn't you?"
"I am an innocent. Who would believe me?"
Herrick glanced at the window.
"Of what think you, friend Roger?"
"That Mademoiselle sorely needs a swift messenger to-night."
The dwarf sprang to his feet.
"Truly, by the way one man gets in another may well leave. But stay."
And he put his hand on Herrick's arm. "I took you not for a spy when I
saw you in the court-yard to-night, but how came you by your knowledge
of the scholar of Passey?"
"As I dined to-night at the Croix Verte I heard a priest talk of him."
"A narrow, hatchet-faced priest, with never a smile, and eyes that
look into you without blinking?"
"The same."
"Ah, Father Bertrand has his plot, too. When he talks, friend Roger,
remember how easy it is for a man to lie. Come, you shall be the swift
messenger Mademoiselle needs. That is why I came to-night. See, I have
brought what shall pass you easily through the streets." And he
produced a priest's cassock and cloak with a hood, which he had deftly
fastened round him under the folds of his smock. "I borrowed them from
St. Etienne." And then, as Herrick arrayed himself in the garments, he
silently clapped his hands. "You are more like a priest than most of
the real ones I know," he chuckled.
"I do not know how I am to travel to Passey, but, at least, I trust
you, and there's the proof of it," said Herrick, handing the dwarf his
knife.
"A little while ago you didn't know that the bar was loose in that
window," said Jean, taking the weapon, "and you didn't know me.
To-morrow is as far off as next year for all a man knows of it."
"That's true."
"There are those who would wed to-morrow, yet die to-night," the dwarf
went on. "It's a world of minutes for us all. You come to understand
these things when you roam through St. Etienne at nights. I'll set you
on your way to Passey within an hour unless 'twixt now and then time
ends for me. If so, you must needs shift for yourself."
He caught hold of the rope as he spoke, and swung himself to the
window-ledge with the agility of an ape. Impeded by his unaccustomed
garments, Herrick found it a more difficult matter; but he was strong
and athletic, and in a few moments was crouching on his knees beside
the dwarf.
The bars were placed midway in the thickness of the wall, so that on
either side there was room for them both.
"We'll shut our door," whispered the dwarf when they had crawled
through the opening, and he replaced the movable bar and drew up the
rope. The next instant he had gripped his companion's arm to compel
him to silence and to keep him motionless. Below was the sound of a
heavy step, which came to a halt immediately beneath them, and from
within the cell came a grating noise. It was the great key being
thrust into the lock.