THE ROAD TO PASSEY
That intricate calculations occupied Father Bertrand's mind as he
slowly paced his room from end to end was apparent in his face.
Ascetic in appearance, wont to present a calm exterior under the most
trying circumstances, the fact of his restlessness proved that he had
reached some crisis, that some part of his scheme was on the point of
settlement. Father Bertrand was a power in Vayenne. Not greatly
beloved, perhaps--he was too stern and unbending for that--his
priestly office, nevertheless, appealed strongly to a people naturally
superstitious, while his learning and political acumen made him
forceful with those who ruled. He held no office; but even the late
Duke, strong as he was, had sometimes been guided by his opinion, and
Count Felix recognized long ago, that, in his claim to the Dukedom,
the support of Father Bertrand would be of very real value.
If he is a weak man who cannot refrain from speaking his thoughts, the
priest was a very strong man, for to no one had he betrayed himself.
Count Felix felt confident of his support; Mademoiselle de Liancourt
believed that he heartily shared her ideas of right and justice;
while, as a priest, he spoke with authority to the great mass of the
people, who believed his policy based entirely upon his religion. A
few who fondly believed themselves in his confidence, but were in
reality little more than his tools, knew at least that other schemes
were working in his mind, and that, as a member of a secret order,
his information was invariably correct and reached him long before it
was known in the castle. In a peculiar sense he was all things to all
men, yet really known by none. Such a man must needs walk warily, for
his path is beset with snares.
Father Bertrand, moreover, was a man of wealth. His charity was known
in Vayenne, yet he fared simply himself, it was whispered; and there
were those who could tell of the mean, poor room he occupied in his
house in the Rue St. Romain, a room little removed as regards comfort
from that of the ordinary toiler of the city. But there were other
rooms in the house in the Rue St. Romain, and there was no lack of
luxury in the large chamber on the upper floor which the priest paced
slowly from end to end to-night. It was evidence not only of wealth,
but of taste, too, and had they known of it, many in Vayenne would
probably have formed a different estimate of Father Bertrand's
character.
Absorbed as he was in his calculations, the priest was keenly alive to
every new sound in the street or in the house. Several times he paused
to listen, and once drew aside the heavy window curtains to look down
into the street below. The Rue St. Romain lay along the north side of
the Church of St. Etienne, and was little frequented after nightfall.
Any excitement resulting from the death of the Duke would hardly
penetrate here.
There was a knocking at the door at last, and Father Bertrand
immediately took his seat at a large writing-table, and, drawing some
of the papers with which it was covered toward him, began to study
them carefully. No matter how agitated he might be in thought, his
visitor would only see him calm and self-possessed, and doubtless be
more impressed than ever with the priest's strength of character.
A man entered and closed the door behind him.
"We have failed, father."
"Only a weak man admits that, Monsieur Mercier. Where is Nicolas
Pigou?"
"At death's door. He is still unconscious, and the surgeon I got to
him declares that half of his ribs at least must be broken."
The priest did not speak, but by a gesture asked the reason of this
catastrophe.
"Our opportunity came when the stranger had passed through the arch of
the great clock into the dark street beyond," said Mercier. "We had
approached close behind him when he suddenly turned, coming into
collision with us. We had planned to take him quickly, place him in a
carriage which had followed us, and bring him here, but his unexpected
action thwarted this. Pigou passed on, and to gain time I began to
apologize. Then Pigou seized him from behind, and I immediately closed
with the man. Pigou is strong, as you are aware, but he was a babe in
the hands of this stranger, who, with a heave of his body threw him
over his head into the roadway. I should have fared no better had I
not slipped to the ground and, holding his legs, shouted 'Spy!' The
street was alive in a minute; but I have bruises about me which will
last for many a day to come."
"And then?" said the priest quietly.
"The crowd hustled him to the end of the street, and would have hanged
him there, probably, but it seems they were met by a company of
soldiers, and the stranger is now a prisoner in the castle."
"You saw the soldiers take him?"
"No; I heard that later," Mercier answered. "I slipped from the crowd,
and went to look after poor Pigou. There might have been awkward
questions asked had he been found in the street."
"I am sorry for Nicolas Pigou," said Father Bertrand, "but if a broken
rib or two is all the payment, our enterprise is cheaply won. Why do
you talk of failure, Monsieur Mercier?"
"Is it not failure then?"
"Surely not. There are more ways of reaching a place than by the high
road. This stranger is no spy. I shall prove that to Count Felix, and
we gain our end. Indeed, circumstances have favored us. The stranger
will look upon me as his deliverer, and will be the more ready to be
advised. I doubt not we shall have him in this house within a few
hours. Were you recognized by the crowd to-night?"
"No. I am known to few in Vayenne."
"Then, my dear Monsieur Mercier, two desperate villains set upon this
poor stranger in the streets; one is like to die, it is said--the
other has succeeded in escaping. This is my story--a good and
plausible one, eh?" said Father Bertrand, with a smile; "and since
justice done quickly has the greater mercy in it, I will go to the
castle at once."
"And Gaspard Lemasle?" said Mercier as the priest rose.
"He will dance to our piping, but we shall keep him always on the
chain. Untrammelled he might be dangerous."
"Is the chain forged that will hold him?"
"My son, I never confide in a man of whom I am ignorant. My friends
may rest assured that I treasure some knowledge of them, some episode,
perhaps, which they have forgotten, but which in an emergency will
compel them to remain my friends." And while he laid one hand on his
companion's arm, he touched his own forehead significantly with the
other. "Come with me into another room. My servant shall set before
you wine of such a vintage that you shall forget your bruises. And do
not leave, Monsieur Mercier, until you are rested. Indeed, if I find
you asleep in your chair when I return, I will not quarrel with you."
As he followed the priest, Mercier's estimate of his companion
possibly took a wider scope than it had done before, and he wondered
which of the many episodes in his life which he was unlikely to talk
of the priest knew most about.
It was conclusive proof of Father Bertrand's power with the late Duke
and Count Felix that he was admitted to the castle without question at
so late an hour; and that the soldiers bowed to his authority was
apparent when his suggestion that he should see the spy before he saw
the Count met with no opposition.
"Lodged in the South Tower?" he said as he followed the jailer.
"Ay, father; it's the safest cage we have."
"Too safe for an innocent bird, master jailer."
"Well, I know naught of his innocence," said the jailer as he thrust
the great key into the lock, "but I'm not regretting that he should
cheat death. There's no fear about him, and there's none too many
brave men in the world that we should want to hurry them out of it."
The jailer had a torch, and he preceded the priest down the narrow
passage in the thickness of the walls.
"Asleep, prisoner?" he called out. "Here's a reverend father to see
you, and he comes as a friend."
There was no answer, and priest and jailer looked slowly round the
cell, then at each other, and then at the barred window. No ray of
moonlight came through it now, but the moonlit sky was clear without,
and there was no one crouching on the ledge!
The measured tread halting suddenly below, and the sound of the
grating key within, had had a paralyzing effect upon both fugitive and
guide for a moment. Although prepared to make a fight for it, the
position appeared hopeless to Herrick; but the dwarf, who had perhaps
foreseen that they would have the sentry to deal with, was quick to
grasp the situation and see the way out of the difficulty. The
terrace, which was considerably above the level of the floor of the
cell, was only some twelve or fourteen feet below them. It was
comparatively narrow and bounded by a low, battlemented wall.
"That's our road," whispered the dwarf, pointing to a certain point in
this wall a little to their right. "Jump, and make for it."
As he spoke he whipped out his knife, and tucking his legs under him
suddenly let himself drop upon the sentry. The thud of the fall and a
feeble, stifled groan were all Herrick heard as he, too, jumped from
the ledge, and, trusting implicitly to his companion, ran to the spot
he had indicated. As he looked back, the dwarf rose and came quickly
after him, but the sentry lay under the window and did not move.
"You have killed him!" Herrick exclaimed.
"Sharp, after me," the dwarf said, springing onto the wall, and then,
as Herrick followed him, he threw himself on his stomach, twisted
himself round, and holding onto the rough stonework let his legs hang
down on the outside of the wall. "That's it, do the same. There's a
rope here. Go steady! I'll go first. Now let me catch hold of your
feet, and get the rope between them. The stones are rough enough to
lower yourself by until you get a grasp on the rope with your hands."
This was the outer wall of the castle, and in the angle formed by a
buttress a stout rope had been fixed.
Herrick found it no easy matter to follow the dwarf's instructions,
and had he paused to consider, might have declined to make the
perilous descent at all. But with Jean's help from below he managed to
get the rope between his knees, and the rest was comparatively easy.
Some distance below was the roof of a house which clung to the castle
wall like a mussel to a rock. The dwarf caught Herrick to steady him
as he landed on the roof, for it sloped at a sharp angle, and was
dilapidated.
"Sit, and put your hand on my shoulder, and shuffle down after me," he
said. "Now carefully. Catch hold of this rafter. Let yourself swing,
and drop lightly. It's barely four feet fall for your length of body."
Herrick did as he was told, and dropped into a dark attic, followed by
the dwarf.
"You please me, friend Roger," said Jean, chuckling quietly. "My
private road is not an easy one to travel in a hurry, and the man who
takes it is not likely to wear a scared face and feel his knees
tremble when danger comes."
"I like not murder, friend Jean."
"You'd like being murdered less, I warrant," was the prompt answer.
"Besides it wasn't murder, for two reasons. Killing a man in
self-defence is not murder, and you're likely to do it yourself before
many hours have passed if you would serve Mademoiselle; and secondly,
the sentry yonder isn't dead. I had to let his strength out of an
artificial hole lest it should come through his mouth in a shout which
would have betrayed us. He will be well on his way to recovery before
a new moon, and, if not, there are plenty more sentries in the castle
to take his place. Come, you are not out of Vayenne yet, and you must
be on your way to Passey before the dawn."
The dwarf led the way down two flights of broken stairs, and through
the door of the house, and passed into a narrow, deserted street.
"We'll go quickly," he whispered. "No one will suspect you in those
garments. We shall meet few, and they will think that some one dying
has need of a priest, and that I have fetched you. I have done it
often before."
They passed through a perfect labyrinth of narrow streets in silence,
and the two or three night wanderers they met took no notice of them.
Vayenne was asleep under the pale moon; that temporary death called
sleep was in every habitation. The dead Duke in his chamber in the
castle was hardly less silent than the sleeping thousands he had
ruled.
Presently the dwarf stopped before the door of a house at the end of a
blind alley.
"We go in here, friend Roger," he said, "but by a window. The door is
locked, because they who own the place still hope for a tenant, which
is a forlorn hope. The house grows more rotten every day, water rats
make a retreat of it, and some mischievous person has said it is
haunted by a horrible ghost."
"You are that mischievous person, I suppose."
"Why think so ill of me?" chuckled the dwarf. "When I don't wish to
leave the city by the gates, this is the way I go."
He led the way to a room at the top of the house.
"From the roof we scramble onto the city wall, which is low here, and
rough, for the river washes its base. Sometimes, I just drop into the
water, and swim, but under a low arch there is an old boat, which we
will use to-night. Have you money in your purse, friend Roger?"
"A little."
"You may want more. I came provided. Here is gold," he said, taking a
small leathern bag from the folds of his blouse. "Put it away
carefully. You can repay me another time. Remain a priest, it may
serve you to get audience with Mademoiselle more easily, but although
priest without, you must be soldier within."
The dwarf went to a corner of the room, and, wrenching up a board,
knelt down, and thrust his long arm into the opening, from which he
drew out a sword and a revolver.
"Strap this under your robe," he said, handing Herrick the sword, "and
put the revolver where you may come at it easily. And listen, friend
Roger. You must come at Mademoiselle de Liancourt as your wits serve
you; tell her what I have told you. She will not easily believe the
tale, but you must convince her; and for the rest, circumstances must
guide you."
"Do you not come with me then?"
"A little way to show you the road, then I return to plot in the city.
Were I a straight man as you are, I might not have come for you
to-night. That's a dark saying--I wonder if you can read its meaning?"
"I cannot, friend Jean."
"Well, you'll want all your wits for your enterprise; it's a pity to
waste them on riddles. But remember this, friend Roger: when I was
made in this queer shape, an ordinary heart was put into me, and
there was no strange twist given to my feelings. We are not so very
different, you and I, after all. Come, we waste precious time."
There was no great difficulty in scrambling onto the wall from the
roof of the house, and, bidding Herrick wait, the dwarf climbed down
the face of the wall almost as easily as the rough stones of it had
been steps. Working his way along a narrow stone course, or ledge,
which was near the bottom, he reached an iron ring let into the wall,
and, supporting himself by this, managed to drag out a small,
flat-bottomed boat from beneath a nearly submerged archway.
Having carefully watched the descent of his companion, Herrick
attempted to make as little of the matter as he had done. The descent
ended in a sudden and rather unsteady jump, which almost sank the
rickety old craft, and Herrick would certainly have fallen sideways
into the water had not his companion caught him.
A fairly strong stream was running, and they were carried down some
two hundred yards in the process of crossing. A belt of trees in a
thick undergrowth screened the landing-place.
"I have a friend here," said the dwarf. "We will not wake him
to-night, but we will borrow his horse. I will explain to-morrow."
There was a small house nestling under a clump of trees, and on the
opposite side of a roadway a shed at the corner of a field. To this
the dwarf went, and it was evident that he knew every corner of it
intimately, for in a few moments he had saddled the horse there and
led it out.
"We don't want to wake the good man, so we'll walk the animal along
the grass for a little way," he said. "There is a gate higher up. You
follow this road, friend Roger; it runs without interruption for many
miles. At a wayside Calvary it forks; take the right-hand road. Five
miles will bring you to a deep wood, and I have heard of thieves
there, so it would be well to have your revolver ready. Once out of
the wood keep the lefthand road, and to your left you will presently
see the Chateau of Passey on high ground. Perhaps it would be well to
let your horse go free then, and enter the village on foot. A mounted
priest might cause wonder, and the horse may find his way home. Here
is the gate. Mount, friend Roger. Use your horse well, and you will be
in Passey before noon."
"I may overtake Mademoiselle and her escort."
"You will be clever if you do, since they have gone by a different and
a shorter road, one which might not be safe for you to travel. They
will be in Passey by dawn."
"And how shall I let you know how I fare and where fortune may take
me?"
"Success or failure, I shall hear soon enough," the dwarf answered.
"Remember only that you serve Mademoiselle de Liancourt, and that all
prison windows have not bars which may be lifted out. Farewell!" And
without another word, he turned, and hurried back to the river-bank,
where his boat lay.
So it happened that as Father Bertrand went back to the Rue St.
Romain, and the alarm given by the jailer presently resulted in the
finding of the wounded sentry, Roger Herrick was galloping through the
night toward Passey and the woman he was destined to serve.