THE COUNT LOSES HIS SWORD
At dawn Jean was in the castle again, but Herrick and Christine had
heard what had happened to Lemasle. To Lemasle's cell the dwarf also
gained admittance, for the Count's orders had been peremptory. Jean
had a part to play, and he meant to make the most of it.
"The making or marring of you is in my hands," he boasted in the
guard-rooms, "so if you're wise you'll make much of me. The Count and
I are brother gossips, and when I get my robes of office, you'll
hardly tell one from the other."
So Herrick was able to send his message to Lemasle, and the plot
against the Count ripened to its gathering.
Two days later the castle was full of guests and their suites, come to
the burial of the Duke, which was to take place on the morrow. There
were signs of mourning in the streets through which the cortege would
pass, and the great Church of St. Etienne was draped in black. In a
few hours men would be busy packing away these death trappings and
making ready festive trophies to grace the coronation; such is the
kaleidoscope of existence.
The morning broke, heavy and cloudy, and rain fell at intervals. There
were those who spoke of the dead man as the great Duke, and these saw
a fitness in the sombre day on which he should pass for the last time
through the streets of Vayenne.
Jean, by permission, had left the castle to-day, and stood near the
great west doors of St. Etienne. Above him tolled the great bell, rung
only when a duke came to his last resting-place; and across its solemn
sounding the joyous music of the carillon burst out at frequent
intervals. The cadences seemed to fall from high heaven, the dwarf
thought, as though there were joy there, no matter how great a sorrow
there might be upon the earth. Dim lights gleamed in the great nave,
low music tumbled from the misty darkness, sad music, yet ever and
anon a wave of harmony that had triumph in it, a sudden certainty that
to life was the victory though for a while the pageantry of death was
supreme.
Into the church came all who were great and powerful in Montvilliers,
men whose fathers had fought side by side with other dukes, men whose
names and honors had been handed down through the centuries. Among
them came the de Bornais, his suite halting on one side of the great
doors. Jean's sharp eyes scanned each man that stood there, resting at
last upon one whom he watched until the end.
Presently came the cortege--nay, two--drawn by horses in waving plumes
and black trappings. Only yesterday was it known throughout Vayenne
that the marred body of the young Duke had been found in the forest
and brought to the city by Captain Barbier. One great funeral for
father and son--the solemnity of the occasion appealed to the people.
A silence was in the streets and tears on some faces. To-day the Duke
is dead--and buried; to-morrow, "Long live the Duke." Before nightfall
there was laughter in the castle halls and corridors. Men must eat and
drink though dukes die, and women's eyes will sparkle even though
tears were in them a little while since.
Felix moved from group to group, solemn, yet smooth-tongued. His ears
were keen to catch whispers, his eyes quick to note each man's
expression.
"Felix."
His name was whispered as he passed through the entrance of the great
hall, and he turned quickly.
"Elisabeth."
"I must see you alone," she said. "I have that to tell you which you
ought to hear without delay."
"Christine?" he asked.
Elisabeth nodded, and then as the Count turned and led her away, the
dwarf came from a dark corner where he had stood watching the
Countess.
"This means mischief," he said, and went quickly down the corridor.
Many had looked for Mademoiselle de Liancourt at the castle that
night, and marvelled that she was not present. Felix recognized only
too well that her absence was unfavorable to him, and, if necessary,
would certainly have used force to bring her to the castle had he
known where to find her.
But for the promise given to Herrick, it is doubtful whether Christine
would have remained in her hiding-place to-day. Her uncle had been
very good to her; had loved her, perhaps, more than he had loved any
one else in the world; had listened to her pleading when none else
dared approach him, and many a man had her to thank for saving him
from the Duke's anger. Christine's heart was heavy because she could
not pay her last respects to the dead, and there was rage, too, in her
soul that Felix had dared to take some marred corpse and bury it in
pomp and state, declaring it to be Maurice's body. She longed to rush
out into the street and proclaim his treachery to every passer-by.
To-night Christine stood by the open window of her room deep in
thought, yet attentive to any sound in the garden below. Many things
might have happened to-day, and Jean might bring her news at any
moment. The tolling of the great bell at St. Etienne had ceased long
ago, only the faint music of the carillon wove itself into her
thoughts. She glanced back into the room where Lucille sat bending
over a book. The girl had been with her ever since Countess Elisabeth
had gone out. Christine had thought nothing of this fact at first, but
when Lucille so persistently stayed with her, following her if she
went from one room to another, she began to wonder if the girl were
not carrying out some instructions she had received. Christine felt
that there had not been a true ring about the Countess's welcome the
other night, and since then there had been many signs of uncertainty
and effort in her conversation and in her actions.
"Are not your eyes weary of reading, Lucille?" Christine asked
suddenly.
"No," answered the girl, looking up; "but I would rather talk."
"Talk! Of what? Prisons and death?"
"Oh, but there are other things. Why should we talk of death or a
prison?"
"Come here, Lucille." And Christine put her arm round her, and drew
her to the window. "Isn't the city quiet to-night? It seems a sentient
thing, awestruck and keeping silent because it knows that death is in
it."
"I have known it as quiet other nights," the girl answered.
"What were your dreams then?"
"The Countess called them a silly girl's dreams, because I told her,"
said Lucille, a blush dyeing her fair face.
"Tell me. Perhaps I shall understand better."
"I wonder if you would! You know my little history--that I am the last
of a family once rich and famous in Montvilliers. Long, long ago some
ancestor of mine displeased some ancestor of yours, who was Duke then,
and we lost honor and estates, and we have never risen again. Yet
there has always been a legend that we should come to honor once more,
and, strangely, that it should come through a woman. I am the only one
left, so I dream."
"Of what?"
"Sometimes of a great deed that I shall do, and perhaps suffer for,
but which shall make my name famous through all the world. And
sometimes it is different."
"Well, Lucille?"
"Sometimes it is love," the girl whispered, "and I dream of a prince
who shall come, who shall pass by all the rich and beautiful women,
and kneel to me. So we may win back honor that way. Do you call them a
silly girl's fancies?"
"No. Youth will dream of love, it cannot help it."
"Do you?" Lucille asked.
"That, I should confess to you, was not in the bargain," said
Christine. "Some day perhaps I may help you to your ambition."
"Will you?" was the eager question.
"We will talk of it another time. To-night I can only think of death
and a prison--death in the city, a prison in this house."
"This house a prison!" exclaimed the girl.
"I have a mind to go out for a little while."
"The garden is dark and wet. It has rained much to-day."
"The garden will not satisfy me--I mean in the streets. Yes, I think I
will go."
"Oh, no, you must not," said Lucille.
"Why not?"
"The Countess said----"
"That I was not to be allowed to leave the house," Christine said.
"Was that her command?"
"She meant for your own sake."
"Did she? Are you clever enough to read all that is in Countess
Elisabeth's mind?"
"She has been very good to me," the girl answered. "I would not
disobey her."
"I am not blaming you. You shall keep me prisoner. I will not go out
to-night."
"Thank you; and you will----"
Lucille stopped. There was a knocking at the door, and a servant
entered.
"Mademoiselle!--I mean Mademoiselle Lucille."
"What is it?"
"A man would speak with--with you."
"Or with me?" asked Christine sharply.
"With--with----"
"Bring him here," said Christine. "We will see him together."
"I cannot--I----Ah! He is here already!"
From the darkness of the passage without a priest advanced into the
room. His cloak was wrapped closely round him and the hood drawn low
over his face.
"Leave us, Lucille," said Christine. "A priest may enter anywhere,
even to a prisoner."
"The Countess said----"
"Go! You may lose the friendship of the Countess to find a better one.
Christine de Liancourt has still power in Vayenne. Go! You shall have
excuse. See, I force you from the room!" And she gently pushed her
out, shut the door, and locked it.
As she turned Herrick threw back his hood, and let the cloak fall
apart.
"Again as a priest I come to you, mademoiselle."
"But this house is dangerous for you. Only to-night I have learned
that I am virtually a prisoner in it."
"To-night I believe Count Felix has learned that you are here," said
Herrick.
"From whom?"
"From the Countess Elisabeth. Jean saw her approach the Count, heard
your name mentioned. That is why I have come. I thought it might be
that as a priest I should more easily gain admittance, and Jean
borrowed the cloak for me."
"But they may be here at any moment if the Countess has betrayed me."
"That is why I have come," Herrick answered.
"You must not stay. Felix will not really harm me, but you----"
"Have no fear, mademoiselle. I go armed, as you see. This dress
proclaims me in the suite of De Bornais, and to-day no one has
recognized the man they took for a spy in it. I have come from the
castle. I am lodged there--a guest."
Christine turned again to the door to make certain it was locked, and
then ran to the window, and closed it.
"I am afraid," she said, a color in her cheeks; "Jean climbed in this
way, and bid me remember that an enemy might do the same. Oh, why have
you come! Could you not have sent a messenger, could you not have sent
Jean?"
"No, mademoiselle. I could trust none with my message to-night."
"Tell me," she said. "Tell me quickly. Every passing moment makes me
more afraid."
"In three days Count Felix will be formally proclaimed Duke," said
Herrick. "The blow we have planned will be struck then. It is a
desperate venture; it may fail, but it is the only way."
"And if it fails?" said Christine.
"To-night the Count is almost certain to send for you," Herrick went
on, as though he did not hear her question. "If you will not go
willingly, he will probably have ordered that you shall be taken by
force. No one knows better than he does how much questioning there is
at your absence from the castle at this time. Your presence must help
him, and I could have wished that you had not been there until the day
he is proclaimed. As it is, you must go willingly."
"And then?"
"Wait, mademoiselle."
"What part have I to play?" said Christine.
"Ours is a scheme in which little can be arranged beforehand," Herrick
answered. "Much of our action must be decided by the events of the
moment. If I fail----"
"Yes; if you fail?"
"Who can tell, mademoiselle? Even then luck may show me a way out,"
said Herrick. "A man who hopes to achieve never allows himself to
consider what may happen in the case of failure. It would make a
coward of him."
"But those who--others--his friends may think for him," she answered.
"We will not think of failure."
"Let me judge. Tell me the whole plot."
"Mademoiselle, I came myself to-night, so that you might understand.
In the hut yonder in the forest you accepted my service. The other
night when I sent you a message which must have sounded strangely like
a command, you sent me an answer, obedience and trust. Even as Jean
gave it me I could see you smile at the promise to obey."
"I did not smile. I meant it. Witness that I am here to-night."
"And trust, did you mean that too?" asked Herrick.
"Yes."
"I am going to try your trust to the utmost limit. I cannot tell you
the plot. I cannot tell you what I intend to do."
"Why not?"
"Do not ask me. I cannot answer."
"The trust is to be all on my side," said Christine slowly.
"And it may be strained to breaking point. You may--indeed, I fear you
will--find it difficult to believe in me. I am here to-night to tell
you so. For no duke am I doing this thing, but for you--you. There
will be plenty of tongues to fill your ears with evil thoughts of me;
then remember what I have said to-night. Circumstances have forced me
into this part that I must play, circumstances and a woman--you."
"Circumstances; yes, I understand that; but----"
"But the other you cannot understand," said Herrick quickly. "Is it
anything to me, do you suppose, who rules in Montvilliers?"
"Did I not urge that upon you in the forest?" said Christine.
"Yes; and I gave you an answer. My whim compelled me to see the game
to the end. There was truth in that answer, but not all the truth. Did
you guess that?"
"I thought of it afterward," she answered.
"Circumstances I might break through," Herrick went on. "They may
still be looking for a priest in Vayenne, but this dress of the De
Bornais would pass me out of the gates. In a few hours I might be
across the frontier."
"Why not go?" she asked, looking suddenly up into his eyes.
"Because you hold me."
"And Captain Lemasle, who is a prisoner, trusts you," said Christine.
"You are not the man to leave a comrade like that."
"For the moment I had forgotten him," said Herrick. "You reprove me in
kindly fashion; but after to-night we may never speak again as we are
now, you and I alone--man and woman. It is nothing to me that you are
the greatest lady in this land; to me you are only the woman I love,
the lady I worship. I am dedicated to your service. The avowal is
wrung from me to-night because--because failure may bring death--at
the best flight, and success may bring your contempt."
"Death!" she said slowly.
"That were better than your contempt," he answered.
"I shall not easily hate you," she returned.
"I shall remember always that you have confessed so much," he said
quietly, kneeling to kiss her hand.
Into Christine's thoughts came the memory of Lucille's dream and the
prince who knelt to her, bringing the fulfilment of all her desires.
"Far from hating you, I might confess more," she whispered, bending
over his bowed head.
"Christine!"
The next moment Herrick had sprung to his feet. There were heavy steps
in the corridor without, rapidly approaching the room.
"Quick, the window!" said Christine.
"Open it wide," said Herrick, pulling his hood over his head, and
noiselessly drawing his sword from its sheath. His cloak was a heavy
double one, and the inner part he fastened to conceal his dress, the
outer folds he drew together to hide the drawn sword.
"What will you do? Go. No harm can happen to me," said Christine.
The door was rattled sharply.
"Open! Open!"
"Go," Christine whispered. "They will kill you."
"They might insult you," he answered. "Open the door."
"For my sake, go," she said, pointing to the window.
"Open the door," Herrick repeated.
"Open! Open!" came from without as the door was rattled fiercely
again.
"Go," she said, her arm stretched out to him. "Just now you said--I
thought you meant you----"
"I did mean it," Herrick answered. "Christine, I love you. Now open
the door."
She hesitated a moment, then unlocked it, and threw it open, and Felix
strode into the room.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she asked.
The Count did not answer her, but advanced toward Herrick.
"Whom have we here masquerading as a priest?"
"You have been looking for me, Count; now you have found me. You came
to speak to Mademoiselle. You could hardly have expected to find me
here."
By a sudden movement Christine placed herself between the two men.
"What do you want with me, Felix?"
"You will go with me presently to the castle."
"I will go with you now."
"Presently," said Felix.
"Mademoiselle, summon the young girl who was here with you just now,"
said Herrick. "You may go together to the castle."
The Count's sword rang from its scabbard as a fierce oath left his
lips.
"Stay!" Herrick said, his sword's point flashing instantly toward the
Count's breast. "Would you fight in the presence of this lady?"
Lucille hurried in with a pale face.
"You must be my maid to-night and come with me to the castle," said
Christine.
"Go quickly," said Herrick.
"Felix, you shall go with us," said Christine.
"I will follow," he answered, his eyes fixed on Herrick. "Go. No one
will stop you. You are expected at the castle."
"Obedience and trust," said Herrick quietly.
For a moment Christine hesitated, then she went out quickly with
Lucille, closing the door.
"Now, Count, I am at your service," said Herrick. "What is our
quarrel?"
"It lies too deep for words," said Felix, attacking his adversary
hotly. "Say it concerns a woman's honor, if you will."
"Say rather that it springs from the Duke Maurice, whom you have
buried in St. Etienne to-day," Herrick answered sternly.
Had he sought to put his adversary off his guard, he could have
chosen no better way than the sudden utterance of these words. Mad
with rage, and with the consciousness that it was in this man's power
to betray him, he rushed upon Herrick wildly, bent on silencing so
dangerous a foe at once and forever. The next instant his sword
clattered to the floor, and a moment later Herrick had tossed it
through the window into the garden.
"This is not to be a fight to the death, Count," he said. "Yours is a
small hurt. I will leave you to bind it up."
"Curse you!"
"Curses fall lightly on honest men," Herrick answered, retreating
backward to the door, his sword still in his hand. "You would not have
come alone had you expected to find me here; therefore I am fortunate,
and in your present humor, mademoiselle is fortunate too in not having
your escort back to the castle. There you will hardly dare to insult
her."
While Herrick spoke he had opened the door, and fitted the key into
the lock on the outside. Now he went out quickly, and locked the door
after him.
"Good-night," he called out. "When you have bound up your wound, no
doubt some one will come to your shouting."
"Curse you!" came the answer. "The future shall make you regret your
present luck."
Herrick laughed, and went quickly down into the hall.
"There is a sword in the garden," he said to the sleepy porter, who
was still wondering at the sudden coming and going. "Take a lantern
and find it. Count Felix, who is up-stairs, will be calling for it
presently."
Once out of the house, Herrick walked rapidly away, and a little later
walked in at the castle gate; but no longer a priest. The cloak lay
behind the wall of a garden near the old markets, and was destined
to cause much wonder when it was found next day.
[Illustration: _He rushed upon Herrick wildly._]
Jean shuffled along near him as Herrick went to his quarters.
"Mademoiselle came to the castle not long since. Is all well?"
"Yes."
"And the Count?"
"I left him binding a cut in his wrist."
"Good, friend Roger, though it might have saved trouble if you had
made a slit in his heart which could not be bound." And Jean turned
aside, and was lost in the shadows.