THE SUPERSTITION OF COUNT FELIX
Among those who found no sleep that night was Count Felix himself. A
bold schemer of unbounded ambition, determined to allow no obstacle to
stand in his way, he was at the same time both subtle and farsighted.
For years he had been preparing for this hour. He had ingratiated
himself with the old Duke, who by word had virtually appointed him his
successor. He had sought to draw to him all those who were prominent
and powerful in the state. He had steadily besieged the affections of
Christine de Liancourt. Had she been his wife, or had she even
promised to marry him, he would at once have seized the throne, and
any rising in favor of the scholar of Passey would have had poor
chance of success. She was so well loved that she would have bound to
him most of those who were at present his enemies. Christine, however,
had persistently supported the claim of the Duke's son, in which Felix
had applauded her; and when the time came, had urged that she should
go to Passey herself to bring Maurice to Vayenne, since it was almost
certain that he would refuse the crown unless strong pressure were
brought to bear upon him. Such pressure Christine was certain to use,
and not for an instant did Felix doubt that it would be used
successfully. By supporting her in this way, Felix disarmed any
suspicion she might have, and felt convinced that presently she would
consent to marry him. In the meanwhile Maurice must not be allowed to
enter Vayenne. To aid him in this set purpose Felix had found a tool
ready to his hand in Barbier, an adventurer who had enough crimes to
his credit to hang him ten times over, and possessed of the doubtful
virtue of loyalty to his employer, no matter how great a scoundrel
that employer might be. It was Barbier who had chosen the men who
should form the band of pretended robbers and those who should form
Mademoiselle de Liancourt's escort. It was his own scheme, he declared
to these men, but, as he explained to them, the Count would easily
forgive such an affair, and the reward, if not openly given, would be
ample. Some of the men may have had their suspicion that the Count
knew of the plot, but it is certain that no one of them had a particle
of evidence to justify any statement of the kind; nor had they any
knowledge that their names figured on the list which Count Felix so
carefully preserved.
To kill the young Duke on his journey from Passey to Vayenne seemed
the simplest matter possible. That Christine had insisted on Gaspard
Lemasle accompanying her as captain of the escort was a pity; but what
could one man do against such a combination of enemies? Felix ranked
Lemasle among his friends rather than his foes, and should the captain
recognize any of his adversaries it would be easy to hang such
traitors. It would not be difficult quietly to compass the death of
Barbier himself if necessary.
So the Count saw no flaw in his plans. He felt secure, felt certain of
grasping his ambition. Now the hour had come, and the unexpected had
happened. Lemasle and this priest had succeeded in defending the young
Duke. True, Maurice had been wounded, might indeed be dead, but there
was no certainty. A body, marred past recognition, might convince the
people, and the court, who had seen little or nothing of Maurice; it
would be harder to convince Lemasle and Christine, but surely not
impossible. This priest was the difficulty; he knew what had become of
the Duke. Barbier had declared he was no priest. Who was he? Who was
there who could have betrayed this secret to Maurice, or Lemasle, or
to Christine? What tale had been told them? Certainly not the true
one; only Barbier knew that. Count Felix still felt secure, but had he
grasped his ambition? His fingers seemed to touch it, yet could they
not grip it. Such success as this was worse than failure.
It was no time for hesitation. The news that the young Duke was dead
was even now running through Vayenne like flame among dry sticks. In a
few hours the people would have recognized fully that he, Felix, was
Duke. The coming hours were precious, and no doubt of the truth of the
news must be allowed to transpire. Lemasle and Christine would
speedily return, and Lemasle had been captain of the escort and
responsible for the young Duke's safety. Prompt orders were issued,
therefore, that Captain Lemasle was to be arrested the moment he
entered Vayenne, and orders were also given to arrest any priest
entering the city, whether he came alone or in Lemasle's company.
Early in the morning Father Bertrand came to the castle to protest
against this second order.
"Many priests may enter Vayenne, coming and going about their duty,"
he said; "are they all to be arrested?"
"Yes, father, all," the Count answered. "They will easily clear
themselves; but there is reason to believe that some miscreant--not a
priest, probably, but arrayed as one--has had a hand in the young
Duke's death."
Father Bertrand continued to protest, but the Count was firm yet
courteous, and the priest returned thoughtfully to the Rue St.
Romain. He, too, was a man of action, and the Count had raised his
curiosity.
Soon afterward Count Felix left the castle on foot, and walked quickly
to the Place Beauvoisin, which lay beyond the castle toward the North
Gate. Here in times past the nobles had lived, but in these days the
old houses there had meaner tenants--Jews who were accounted rich, and
shopkeepers who either had made or were making money. There was an air
of prosperity in the Place Beauvoisin except in one corner of it,
where a faded house stood sideways behind a high wall. The Count
entered the square by a narrow way near this house, which was his
destination. His summons at a small door in the wall was quickly
answered, and he entered without a word to the porter. Every one in
the square knew that the beautiful Countess Elisabeth lived at the
faded house in the corner, but probably no one knew that Count Felix
was a constant visitor there.
The Countess rose from her seat to welcome him, and turned hastily to
a young girl with whom she had been talking and laughing the moment
before, telling her to go.
"I will send for you presently, Lucille," she said. Then when the door
had closed she held out her hands to the Count. "I have been expecting
you."
Felix bent over her hand for a moment.
"I come to you with all my joys and sorrows," he said, "with all my
ambitions, my successes, and my failures."
"Yes; and I am glad. You know that, Felix," she answered. "To-day you
touch your ambition."
"You have heard the news then? I sometimes wonder how news, bad news,
can come into this sweet retreat."
"Bad news, Felix?"
"Is it not bad, since Maurice is dead?"
The woman looked at him for a moment, and then turned away.
"Why attempt to deceive me?" she said.
By common consent the Countess Elisabeth was pronounced beautiful. As
a rule the beauty of really beautiful women is so marked in certain
particulars that it excites criticism, and opinions will differ
concerning it. But there is another kind of beauty, not so perfect,
not comparable with any recognized standard, which nevertheless has
something in it which appeals to all opinions. Countess Elisabeth was
such a woman. She was fair, delicate-looking, and her coloring was
wonderful; yet there was strength behind this seemingly fragile
beauty--strength of purpose, strength of endurance. No one considered
her of much importance in Vayenne. She seemed to live a retired life
in the faded house in the Place Beauvoisin, her chief companion being
a young girl, a distant relative, usually spoken of as Mademoiselle
Lucille. Those who were inclined to be romantic gave the Countess a
lover, some one in the past who had died or perchance proved
faithless. They might have remodelled their ideas of her romance had
they seen the color in her cheeks as she spoke to Felix.
"Does not the news spell fortune for you?" she went on after a pause.
"All obstacles are removed by it."
"Yes. It seems so."
"Seems! What difficulty can remain?" And then she said suddenly, "You
had no hand in his death, Felix?"
"No," he answered; "and yet your very question should show you
something of the difficulty which still surrounds me. Others in
Vayenne will ask that question, too, since the death occurs so
opportunely for me."
"Why manufacture troubles?" she said. "Did ever a man yet step to a
place of power without making enemies? I have always held that Maurice
was not the man to reign in Montvilliers. His own father delivered the
kingdom to you. Have I not urged you to take it when the time came,
and chance a rising in Maurice's favor? It would never have come.
Vayenne has looked upon you as the old Duke's successor too long."
"The way has always seemed easy when you have pointed it out to me,"
said Felix.
"Yes. I have been strangely generous," the Countess answered. "For
your sake I have made no complaint when prudence suggested your
marriage with Christine de Liancourt."
"You know, Elisabeth, that it is prudence alone which suggests it."
"Yes; I have vanity enough to believe that." And there was the
suspicion of a long sigh in her answer.
"Advise me, my dearest lady," he said, leaning toward her. "You are my
strength, my living talisman. Shall I strike now or delay?"
"Delay! For what?"
"I have not seen Maurice dead. He may have escaped. There is always
the possibility. If he were to return now, he would come wearing a
halo of romance. Shall I strike or wait?"
"Strike, Felix."
"And Christine?"
"Is it necessary--now?" she asked.
"I fear so."
"Still I say strike, Felix."
"You give me courage," he said. "You give me hope. So it has ever
been. An hour ago I was beset with doubts. They are gone. Love mocks
at them."
He held out his arms to her, but she only gave him her hand.
"Nothing more at such a moment?" he said.
"It is a moment that there can be nothing more," she answered.
"Remember, I do not urge your marriage with Christine now."
"It is necessary; believe me, I would not marry her if I could help
it."
"So we come to the parting ways."
"But you have always known that such a marriage was inevitable if I
would possess the throne in peace."
"Circumstances are changed, Felix; I do not know it now. My Lord Duke
has chosen his Duchess. He may come to me for advice if he will; he
must go to her for love."
"It is sacrifice. My love is here with you."
"Think so if it helps you, but it is my hand only, Felix."
"And for the first time in my life I find it hard and cruel," he
answered, raising it to his lips.
She laughed, an unexpected laugh, as one may laugh at a grim jest
which cuts deep into the very soul.
"I do not understand you," he said.
"Did ever a man understand a woman yet? Let it suffice that I have
deeper learning, and understand you perfectly. Go, Felix. This is no
time for such riddles as trying to understand a woman. Your strong
hand is wanted at the helm of affairs now."
"Good advice again, but nothing more."
"Can a man have everything for the asking?" she answered, and,
laughing again, she passed from the room.
Felix went back to the castle, her advice ringing in his ears, all
else forgotten for the moment. There was a subtle affinity between
this woman and himself; he felt it, recognized it, bowed to it. She
understood him, perhaps, better than any one else did. He felt better
in her company, yet while he told her of his ambitions, there was much
in his scheming which he dared not tell her. She was a good woman, and
he had perception enough to think it strange that she should love him.
Beyond that, his thoughts concerning her touched chaos, touched all
that was most selfish in himself. He called it love, but there were
moments when he understood himself well enough to know that such love
as his, could she fully know it, might breed hate in her; and he would
almost as soon have lost the crown as her good-will. Something of
superstition there may have been in this; he had called her his living
talisman, and the term had real meaning for him; perhaps deep down in
his nature there were good inspirations which had never been granted
an opportunity of rising to the surface.
To-day it was her advice that filled his thoughts. She, too, had
called him my Lord Duke, even as Jean the dwarf had done. Was the
spirit of prophecy in them both? Why had the dwarf called him so?
Truly he was a fool, but might there not be method in such folly? He
would see the dwarf and question him. So as soon as he returned to the
castle, he gave orders that Jean was to be found without delay and
brought to him.
The dwarf was sought for in the castle, in the Church of St. Etienne,
and in the streets, but was nowhere to be found. He had been seen in
the city during the morning, but no one could tell where he had gone.
He was quite a public character in Vayenne, everybody knew him, but
how he lived, or where he was to be found at any given moment, nobody
knew. It was agreed, however, that there were times when he was not
seen at all for days together. The failure to find him now only made
the Count more eager to see him, and a diligent search went on
throughout the day.
And all the while Jean sat in the corner of a room in the empty house
by the wall, his legs doubled under him, his arms folded in his loose
tunic, his head dropped forward upon his breast. He was as motionless
as a squatting idol, and any one who had ever seen him thus might well
believe that there was something mysterious about him. Jean was not
hiding from the Count, he had no idea that he was being looked for; he
had a problem to consider, and he had come into this solitude to solve
it. He had heard of the death of the young Duke, had seen Barbier as
he rode to and from the castle yesterday. He had heard of the Count's
orders to arrest Captain Lemasle and any priest who entered Vayenne.
Was the Duke really dead? How was friend Roger to be warned? The
problem was evidently a difficult one to solve, for the dwarf sat for
hours in the corner, never changing his position, scarcely making a
movement the whole time.
Toward dusk, when the lights had begun to blink from windows, and the
taverns and cafes were filling with men eager to discuss the news, he
climbed to the roof, and clambered down the face of the wall to his
boat hidden in the sunken archway. With a few vigorous strokes he sent
it out into the stream, landing presently at the same spot where he
had landed Herrick. He made fast the boat, and went quickly to the
house among the trees.
"Farmer Jacques at home?" he said as he pushed open the door.
"'Tis the limb of Satan," the farmer cried. "Come in. Art hungry?
Here's provender."
"You call me a devil and give me the welcome of an angel," said Jean.
"There are great things afoot, Farmer Jacques."
"To dreamers like thou art there always are."
"And the river yonder separates you from the world," said Jean. "When
were you in the city last?"
"A week ago."
"That's an eternity when things are afoot," said the dwarf.
"True. I was minded to go the other day," said Jacques, "for things
have happened on this side of the river too. My horse was stolen in
the night."
"Stolen!"
"Ay; saddle and all; and next day, toward evening, came trotting home
again. What he'd done with the thief I know not."
"I'm glad he came back," said the dwarf thoughtfully.
"He'd been ridden hard, I could tell that," said the farmer.
"And not by a thief, perhaps," said Jean. "The young Duke, they say,
is dead, Farmer Jacques."
"What, the Passey scholar?"
"So they say yonder." And the dwarf nodded his head in the direction
of the city. "It is said that some tried to rescue him and failed; and
there are some who would arrest these men if they could. That's news
for you, farmer."
"Bad news, Jean."
"It's good news to hear you call it so," said the dwarf, leaning
toward his companion. "One of these rescuers was a priest, who will
perchance come again to Vayenne. He might pass this way. If he does,
Farmer Jacques, stop him, and say: 'All priests entering Vayenne are
to be arrested.'"
"I'll do it. I don't hold with hangings over the castle gates. Would
they hang a priest, think you?"
"This one they would; and for that matter all priests have necks as
other men have," the dwarf returned.
"That's ribald talk," said Jacques, who was a religious man and had no
liking for jests concerning priests.
"Crooked as my limbs, but a fact for all that, just as they are. I
meant no jest. I've said what I came to say, and I'll get back. They
watch the gate carefully to-night, and were I too late they might
question me."
Jean's friendship with the farmer was not one of full confidence.
Jacques knew nothing of the flat-bottomed boat and the dwarf's private
entrance into Vayenne. So Jean started briskly along the road, and not
until he was well out of sight did he turn aside and make his way back
to his hidden landing-place. There he waited until near the dawn,
listening for footsteps, or the beating hoofs of a horse, in the
silence of the night.
They came some hours afterward, but Jean had recrossed the river then.
Herrick drew up in the shelter of the trees by the landing-place, and
looked across the river toward the city. He was bare-headed, and no
longer wore the priest's robe. He had thrown that aside before he
emerged from the forest. It would mark him to those he had fought with
there, some of whom had doubtless returned to Vayenne. How was he to
enter the city? The sound of a heavy wagon crunching its way slowly
along the road gave him inspiration. Dismounting quickly, he led his
horse round to the back of the shed Jean had plundered the other
night. There was no one about, and he fastened the bridle to a staple
in the woodwork.
"You're as good an animal as the one we stole, so that debt is paid,"
he said; and then he hastened after the wagon going in the direction
of Vayenne.