THE SCHOLAR
The village of Passey, nestling in the shadow of its chateau, looked
secure, had indeed been well protected in past times, but to-day
little real resistance could have been offered to a determined enemy.
The outer wall of the chateau had crumbled and fallen in pieces, no
vigilant eyes kept ward and watch from its battlements, and the
serving-men in its old guard-rooms and courts were not of the kind out
of which stout soldiers are made. It had been in the hands of the
Dupres for three centuries or more, given originally to an ancestor in
return for good service, for the family had bred many a gallant
warrior in the past; but in recent years misfortune and poverty had
come, and the Dupres were too proud to make petitions in the Castle of
Vayenne. Nothing is easier to forget than past service if there is no
present need of favors, and the Dukes of Montvilliers had practically
forgotten their once powerful subject of Passey. More and more the
family had lived a retired life, and the last two heads of it had been
confirmed invalids. The present owner was a man of weak physique also,
barred from a life in the open and all manly sports. Thrown in upon
himself he had found consolation in books and in study, and had little
care how the world went so it left him in peace. The late Duke, a man
of warlike character and iron will, had thoroughly despised the old
man at Passey, and when his son evinced a love for dreaming over
books, his father sent him to Viscount Dupre. The chateau would serve
as a convenient place of isolation, the Duke argued, and the old fool
might well be made useful as a jailer to the young one.
"I hold you responsible for him," the Duke had said to Dupre. "Teach
him to hate the books you love and I will find means to thank you; let
him become such a one as yourself, and rest assured the reins of
government will never fall into his hands when they drop from mine.
The good of Montvilliers is far more to me than any son."
The Duke rode away, hoping perhaps that banishment from Vayenne would
cure his son, but the lad had been at Passey ever since. How far the
old Viscount attempted to turn the boy from his studies, who can say?
The fact remained that he did not succeed, and Maurice de Broux--now a
youth of eighteen--had found peace and contentment in the crumbling
old chateau and was as little concerned about the world as old Dupre
himself.
To-day the quiet life had suddenly been broken in upon. With early
dawn a company of horsemen, a woman riding in their midst, had
clattered through the village street and in at the chateau gates. "The
Duke is dead," one serving-man presently told another, and the news
spread rapidly through the village, and out into the fields beyond,
where bent-backed men and women hoed. One old man there looked toward
the chateau, and pulling off a ragged cap cried feebly, "Long live the
Duke!"
In a room in the chateau, a room of books and students' comforts, such
a room as could not have been found in the length and breadth of the
Castle of Vayenne, Maurice and Mademoiselle de Liancourt had been
closeted for hours. There was no more important person in Montvilliers
that day than the pale scholar of Passey, yet there was no excitement
in his face. That he should mourn for a father who had been little
more than a stranger to him was hardly to be expected. From time to
time he moved restlessly about the room, letting his companion talk,
and now and again her words brought a flush to his cheek. To no one
would he have listened as quietly as he did to her, for, scholar
though he was by nature, he had yet something of his father in him, a
temper that might burst into fury were it pressed too far. No one knew
this better than Christine de Liancourt, and if any words of hers
would sting him into action she would certainly speak them. For this
very purpose had she come in haste to Passey. In old days she had
often stood between Maurice and his father's wrath. She had prophesied
that when the hour came Maurice would rise to the occasion and make a
wise ruler. He was, besides, the heir, nothing could alter that, and
justice, coupled with her half-formed fear of Count Felix, drove her
to espouse the young Duke's cause with all the strength that was in
her.
"My dear Christine, you easily get angry with me," he said presently.
"Try and see the whole matter through my eyes. I am eighteen, and I
have never done a single thing to fit myself for ruling Montvilliers;
more shame to me, you may say, but we are not all born with a desire
to rule. Ever since I came to Passey I have practically been a
prisoner--a happy prisoner. I have easily forgotten how near I stood
to a dukedom, and, I warrant, have been as easily forgotten. Why
remember me now when I only desire to be left in peace? Believe me, as
a duke I should be an utter failure, a breeder of dissension and
revolution, no blessing to the land, but a curse. Let the power fall
as my father wished it. Cousin Felix will make a much better duke than
I."
"Have you no sense of duty?" she asked.
"Truly I think my duty to Montvilliers is to let some one else rule
it," he said, with a smile.
"Duty is not a cloak a man can put off and on as he wills," Christine
answered; "it is part of the man himself. He is called to fulfil
certain conditions of his life, of his birth, and he cannot throw duty
aside by saying he is unfitted to perform it. Are you a coward,
Maurice, as well as a scholar?"
"No; I do not think I am a coward."
"It is only a coward who would not ride to Vayenne and claim his
birthright."
"If we come to such close argument as that, this same birthright may
be found to have little justice in it," he said quickly. "Did my
father become Duke by right of birth? You know he didn't. He was a
strong man, while those who should have ruled were weak. Montvilliers
wanted a strong hand to guide her, and a bloodless revolution raised
my father to power."
"Has Felix any greater right than you?" she asked.
"By birth, no; by capacity, yes. Let him be Duke. I will be the first
to shout for him."
"Coward!" she said.
"Christine, there are bounds which even you must not pass," he said,
turning a stern face to her.
She clapped her hands at his sudden anger, and stepped quickly to his
side.
"There spoke a worthy Duke. I have seen the same anger rush blood-red
into your father's face, and have trembled for his enemies. You cannot
hide your real self; you cannot deny your real personality, even
though you would."
"It lies in peace among these books of mine," he answered. "We have
talked of this enough."
"Not yet. Listen, Maurice. Felix is hated by many, and if he seizes
the crown, there will be bloodshed in the streets of Vayenne."
"He will be strong enough to suppress rebellion," was the answer.
"And wise enough perchance to shed blood in this peaceful Chateau of
Passey," she went on quickly.
"Why here? Passey does not trouble itself with politics. The harvest
of the fields is Passey's concern, and it is of small consequence who
rules in Vayenne."
Christine laid her hand on his arm. "Think you the golden circle of
sovereignty will rest easily on your cousin's brow while you live?
Deny your birthright, Maurice, and then, like a coward, flee your
country for safety, for I warrant you will die a violent death if you
stay in it."
"I cannot think so--so much evil of Felix," he answered.
"I know him far better than you possibly can do," she said. "He let me
come to you only because he is convinced that you will not come to
Vayenne. He despises you, Maurice. He will use your refusal for his
own purposes, and in his own manner. He will easily convince many that
you are a danger to the state and that there is righteousness in
judicial murder."
"Will not a kingdom satisfy him, but he must have my poor life as
well?" Maurice muttered.
"Has it ever satisfied, in any age, in any history? Felix will seek to
make himself secure in every possible way. Since there are many who
love me, he wishes to wed me."
"Perhaps he loves you?"
"It may be," she answered, "but not as he loves himself."
"And you would marry him?"
"For the good of Montvilliers I might be persuaded."
She watched him as he walked slowly across the room. Perhaps there was
a vague, half-formed desire in his heart that she should not marry his
cousin. She would be less his friend if she were Felix's wife.
"Perhaps such a marriage might be good for Montvilliers," he said
after a pause.
"I shall serve my country more directly by persuading you to do your
duty, Maurice," she answered. "It is not only internal strife which is
to be feared, but danger from without. In the past Montvilliers has
fought for, and maintained, her independence, but our neighbors have
not ceased to long for the possession of our fruitful soil, and our
dissensions are their opportunity. Only last night a spy was caught in
the streets and brought to the castle."
Maurice went to the window, and for some time stood looking down at
the peaceful village he had loved so well. Here he had found happiness
and the life he longed for. But beyond were the fruitful fields and
green pastures of his native land, dearer to him than any other land,
though he had no desire to rule it. Did it not rest with him to save
this land from the enemies who had so long sought to lay a conquering
hand upon it? Immediately below him, lounging in the courtyard, were
some of the soldiers of Christine de Liancourt's escort, proof that
there were men armed and ready to fight for their freedom as their
fathers had done. Duty seemed to present itself with a new meaning to
Maurice, and, as though Heaven itself would send him a messenger in
this crisis of his life, just then a cassocked and hooded priest came
slowly in at the gates.
"At least we will see what plots exist," he said presently, turning to
Christine, "and also prove your cousin Felix. To-morrow I will ride
with you to Vayenne. Leave me alone until then. A man does not break
with so peaceful a life as mine has been without sorrow."
In an instant her manner changed. Stepping back she made a low
curtsey. "Long live the Duke," she said quietly, and then left the
room quickly.
She had conquered. He had promised to come to Vayenne. She could not
tell which particular argument had forced him to this decision, she
only knew that it had been far more difficult to persuade him than
even she had expected. What would his answer have been had she told
him that the fact of going to Vayenne was only one step toward
success, and only a small one--if she had explained that he spoke no
more than the truth when he had said that he had been forgotten?
Vayenne was not going to open her arms and shout a welcome to him
until he had proved himself a man. She was thrusting upon him a great
task, would he be able to perform it? She could have wished him
different to what he was, but at least right was his, and opposition
might stir him to great things. Of herself she thought little. For
Felix she had little love, yet, were it for the good of her country,
she would marry him. She was ready to make any sacrifice for the land
she loved.
At the foot of the stairs a soldier saluted, and said that a priest
craved an audience with her.
"What should he want with me?"
"He would say no more than that he had a message of importance. He is
not of Passey, and carries the dust of a long journey upon him."
"I will see him. Bring him to the small room yonder, and see that we
are not disturbed."
Christine turned from the window as the priest entered. Much dust was
upon his cassock and cloak, and the hood, which he did not remove,
partially concealed his face.
"You have travelled far," she said.
"From Vayenne," he answered.
"From Father Bertrand?"
"No, mademoiselle; from one far humbler than Father Bertrand, yet one
who is wiser, perhaps, in your interests."
"He chooses a strange messenger."
"No stranger surely than the messenger chosen to ride to Passey and
bid the young Duke to Vayenne. Besides, a priest may enter where a
soldier would be refused. These are perilous times, mademoiselle, and
I come to tell you so."
"In this matter you can tell me little I do not know," she answered.
"Then you do not ride to Vayenne to-morrow?"
"Yes--with the Duke." And she watched the priest closely to see if he
were astonished at this information.
"With the same escort as came with you to Passey?"
"I think I have sufficiently answered you," she said.
"Mademoiselle, I have travelled all night to serve you. You must not
ride to Vayenne to-morrow. It has been arranged that your party is to
be attacked by a strongly armed party of robbers, and defeated. Your
soldiers will make a show of fight, but for the most part they are
bought men. You will escape, there is no desire to hurt you, but the
Duke will be slain."
"You shall tell this to the captain of our escort."
"One moment, mademoiselle," he said as she moved to the door.
"Ah! you are afraid to let the captain and his men hear your story,"
she said contemptuously.
"They would probably kill me, and that would hardly help you,"
answered the priest quietly. "Count Felix has determined that the
young Duke shall not enter Vayenne. I had the story from one who is
well known to you, mademoiselle--from Jean, the dwarf of St. Etienne."
"A fitting story from such a madman," she laughed. "How came he to
persuade a priest to be his ambassador?"
"I am not a priest." And Herrick threw back the hood from his head.
Christine took one step toward him, and gazed into his face.
"The spy!" she said.
"Mademoiselle, do I look like a spy? Do I act like one? Last night I
was locked in the South Tower, a place of ill omen, as you know. To be
his messenger the dwarf released me by a way known to him alone. I
have ridden hard all night to bring this warning to you. All roads
were open to me; I need not have taken that to Passey were I not
desirous of serving you."
"You shall tell this story to the captain," she answered. "It is for
him to weigh its merit."
"As you will, mademoiselle. Heaven grant he is an honest man."
She went to the door, and, calling a servant, bid him fetch the
captain of the escort; nor did she speak to Herrick until the captain
entered the room.
"Do you know this man, Captain Lemasle?" she asked.
[Illustration: _"The Spy!" she said._]
Gaspard Lemasle was not a very observant man, and the priest's dress
deceived him.
"No, mademoiselle," he answered.
"He comes to Passey with a strange story."
"I have no great love for priests," returned the captain, "and saving
your presence, mademoiselle, have often known them to tell strange
stories."
In as few words as possible, Herrick repeated his tale.
"Do you say that I and the men I command are traitors?" Lemasle burst
out angrily when Herrick had finished.
"I say nothing against Captain Lemasle," said Herrick. "Not many hours
since he toasted Mademoiselle de Liancourt with such enthusiasm at the
Croix Verte, I could not believe him anything but an honest man."
"You are no priest, and there is something in your voice that I
remember."
"No, I am not a priest; you took me for a spy last night."
"I thought you safely caged in the South Tower."
"I was, captain. I am here to try and save the Duke."
"But how could you escape?" said Lemasle in astonishment.
"That I can tell you at another time."
Lemasle was silent for a few moments.
"It is indeed a strange story, mademoiselle," he said presently, "and
truth to tell there are some in our company who would not be in it had
I had the choosing."
"If there is any worth in the story, you must judge," Christine said.
"For myself, I do not believe such tales easily, and at all hazards we
ride to Vayenne to-morrow. It might be well to take this man with us.
Unless he can prove his honesty, the castle can surely hold him though
he has escaped once."
"And from the South Tower," muttered Lemasle.
"I ask nothing better than to strike a blow in your defence,
mademoiselle," said Herrick.
She looked at him curiously for a moment, as even she had looked at
him last night when he had picked up the fallen whip.
"I have no mercy for spies and traitors," she said slowly, "but prove
yourself honest, and I may find a way to reward you."
Herrick did not answer, but stood with bowed head as she passed out of
the room.