ONE SUMMER NIGHT
It was so hot a July night in Paris that all who could be so were out
of doors, even the commonest people bringing forth stools and chairs,
and sitting on the side-paths outside their houses to get some breath
of air that might blow down the streets and alleys; while, in the
courtyards of the great nobles and rich merchants, the servants did
the same thing. And, as they thus took the air, their thoughts all
turned to memories of country lanes and fields, and of the green woods
that belted the city on all sides, and of quiet inn-gardens with
bowling-greens and archery grounds; turned also, perhaps, to the
recollection of cool draughts of wine gurgling pleasantly from out the
lips of flasks.
A hot night, even spent thus--a hotter in taverns and tripots and
drinking shops where, as always, many of the Frenchmen in Paris passed
their evenings imbibing Montrachet from long-necked glasses, or red
Citron from big-bowled ones, or Frontignac from goblets. So hot that
jackets were thrown open, and lace fal-lals untied, and even belts
loosened for coolness.
In such a way, on this hot night, sat Andrew Vause in an inn off the
Rue St. Honoré, known as "Le Point du Jour"--possibly because it was
chiefly patronized from nightfall to dawn by the wildest of French
gallants--his jacket open and his dress generally arranged to catch
any whiff of air that might blow in from the open door. He was
differently dressed now from the time when he arrived at his old home
in Surrey--the jacket being of black velvet and the whole of his
costume indicating that he was in mourning. For Philip had been in his
grave some weeks, the great heat which came in the early June of that
year having sapped from him the little vitality left, and Andrew, full
of a set purpose which he had resolved on as he saw his brother's
coffin lowered into the vault where so many other members of the
family lay, was now in Paris bent on carrying that purpose out.
Before him on a table was a flask of wine; on the other side of the
table, leaning his elbows on it, sat a Frenchman who every now and
again filled his glass at the other's bidding, and then went on with
the recital of some narrative to which Andrew listened attentively.
"He is," this man said, "in the _garde du corps_ of Turenne, his
business being always to be near the Marshal with others--to prevent
his master from either being insulted or assaulted in any tumult.
Naturally 'tis a light duty, Turenne being too popular just now for
any such _banalités_ to be perpetrated"; and the Frenchman lifted his
glass to his lips and again drank--this time in a meditative manner,
and as though thinking far more of something else than of the wine he
was sucking down his throat. After which he continued:
"He is useful to Turenne now; doubly so, indeed. Monsieur understands
that he is of Lorraine, from Remiremont. Consequently knows well the
neighbourhood."
"Of Lorraine! And fighting for France! Why! all Lorrainers, with their
Duke at their head, are with the Imperialists in spite of King Louis
claiming their country as a province."
"Not all, Monsieur. Not all," the Court spy, for such he was, answered
with a bow and a shrug, as though deprecating the necessity for
contradicting Andrew. "Many of the noblesse go against the Duke and
throw in their lot with France--she protecting them from Charles of
Lorraine's anger. _He_ is one of them and has been since '70, when the
King claimed the province again."
Whereon he filled his glass once more.
"And where is Turenne now?" asked Andrew, playing with his own glass,
but drinking nothing.
"The last news came from Sintzheim, where he had just beaten Caprara.
He is somewhere, therefore, in that neighbourhood."
"And Sintzheim is on the east bank of the Rhine, if I remember
aright."
"So, so! 'Twixt Philipsburg on the Rhine and Heilbronn on the Neckar."
"Ay! thereabouts. And you are sure this man, this Camille de
Bois-Vallée, is there with his master?"
"Where else? That is his post. Unless----"
"Unless?"
"He is killed. That may be. They are fighting always during the
summer. In the winter they go into quarters. Some returning to Paris
who can get leave--and, then, 'tis as though forty thousand devils
more than there are already here were let loose! Some stay there. The
married ones mostly. He does, I think."
It was on the tip of Andrew's tongue to say, "he is married then?" but
he refrained. This man might not know that--although he knew much of
what took place in the higher circles in France. Instead, therefore,
he contented himself by saying: "Why so? Do their wives join them?"
"_Si! Si!_ They join them. And sometimes others--but no matter."
"Therefore you think he will be there--say next winter."
"Unless he is killed."
"Always, of course, unless he is killed. That is without saying."
"He is there now," the Frenchman said, filling his glass furtively and
almost in a shamefaced manner at having drunk so much of what was in
the bottle, "I know that. You bade me a week ago find out, discover,
where he was. I have done it. You may rely on me." Then, with a slight
simper and somewhat of hesitation in his voice, he said: "I have done
my share of the work, monsieur."
"That is true. I will do mine," and he produced from his breast a
small roll of what were evidently gold pieces--or pieces of money of
some sort--and slipped it across the table into the other's palm.
"Yet," said Andrew, as he did so, "I would you could have answered the
other portion of my question. I would have paid you well--will pay you
well now--if you can discover anything further."
The man opposite him shrugged his shoulders, while at the same time he
was slipping the rouleau into his pouch, then he said, "_Ma foi!_ In
such cases it is a little difficult. _Fichtre!_ It is extremely
difficult. This Bois-Vallée has been so much mixed up with women
that----"
"Hist!" exclaimed Andrew under his breath, while he made a sign to the
spy to be silent awhile. Then he turned his eyes towards a table in
the corner, the other following intuitively his glance.
Doing so, they rested on a young fellow who was scarce more than a
lad--but an extremely good-looking one, with a pink and white
complexion, now flushed a little, as though from too deep an attention
having been paid to a bottle of amber-coloured wine on the table, upon
which he leant his arm. He was well dressed, too, the garb he wore
showing that he belonged to the wealthy classes, if not to the
noble--though his clear-cut, aristocratic features proclaimed almost
indubitably that he was of good birth. His coat of russet satin was
enriched with red and silver cording, his satin breeches had handsome
slashed seams, also showing red and silver lace, while the bows at his
knees above his brown silk stockings were of deep frilled lace. His
hat lay carelessly on the table where it had been tossed, and some
droppings from his bottle had somewhat soaked into the rich black
beaver and soiled its lace, while, unbelted from his body and with the
sash belt still attached to it, a handsome silver-hilted rapier stood
against the wall by his side. He wore his own hair, a bright chestnut
flecked with yellow, which, as he sat with his back against the wall,
with his eyes shut, shone like a new louis d'or against the somewhat
dingy background.
Andrew had thought him asleep during the time he had been holding his
conversation with the informer, whom he had sent for some days since
and taken into his pay, but he thought so no longer when--on that
informer mentioning somewhat above his breath the name of "De
Bois-Vallée"--the youth had opened a pair of dark grey eyes and fixed
them on the speaker. And the manner in which he had done so gave the
astute cavalier the idea that that name was not unfamiliar to him, an
impression which he would have conceived earlier had he seen the lad
previously open his eyes more than once when the name of the Vicomte
had been mentioned.
The young man, however, closed them again directly those other glances
were directed towards him, and, since Andrew Vause and his companion
turned their conversation to another subject, he opened them no more,
but seemed to drop of again into a sleep with his head against the
wall. Then a little later he aroused himself, called the serving-man,
and paying him, as well as tossing him a silver coin for his service,
buckled on his rapier and left the tavern.
"Do you know the youth?" Andrew asked, as he too paid the man and
arranged his jacket and neckerchief previous to leaving the place. "He
was acquainted with, I will be sworn, the name of--of--the person we
have been discussing."
"Nay," said the other. "Nay. Though doubtless I could discover. Shall
I follow him, watch where he goes to--find out who he is?"
"No," replied Vause. "No. I have nought to do with him, and it may
well be that he knows the man; by his appearance he should be one
acquainted with the Court and such circles as those which De
Bois-Vallée frequents. Let be! Also, he is in Paris, and he whom I go
to seek is on the Rhine. And--he knows nothing."
He did not add, which was the case, that to him, soldier of fortune
and free lance as he was, all kinds of espionage were distasteful, and
that, having now found out the Vicomte's whereabouts, he wanted no
more spyings. This fellow had put him on the track of the man whom he
had taken a vow to find and stand face to face with--that was enough.
He would do the rest himself, trusting only to his own manhood and to
his sword.
He briefly bade the man "good-night," therefore, with some muttered
word of thanks for service rendered, and, telling him that should he
need him again he would send to his lodgings, went out into the night,
leaving the spy draining the last dregs from the bottle. He was
staying at "Le Point du Jour" for the present, having an airy, cool
room at the top of the house, but there was one duty he performed
nightly ere seeking that room. That was to go to the stables in the
next alley to the one in which the inn was situated, and there see
that all was well with his horse--a duty no man dared neglect even
though his love of his animal did not prompt him to it, so valuable an
adjunct to the life and safety of the soldier was his steed. But, with
Andrew Vause, the attention would have been given, even though neither
he nor the steed were ever likely to set forth on any journey of
adventure together again.
Outside the tavern the air was cool and fresh, and, meditating much on
all that lay before him ere the task was done which he had vowed to
accomplish, he strolled leisurely along, reached the Rue St. Honoré,
and so wended his way towards where the stables were, casting up his
eyes as he went at the portals of a grim, deserted-looking palace over
which the light of a new moon showed him a cardinal's hat carved in
stone--the portals of the house where Richelieu breathed his last
thirty years before.
"Ah! _votre eminence!_" he murmured, "you were a man, with all your
faults, worth serving. An unscrupulous devil too," he mused, "yet one
who knew good mettle when you found it. Better than the upstart
Louvois, better even than the great King who now fights bloodless
battles and leaves Turenne and Condé to fight the real ones. Ha! What
is that? The clash of arms hard by. Where? Where?"
He soon discovered, for to his well-trained ear the metallic hiss of
rapier against rapier was as good a guide as any call would have been,
and, darting down a _ruelle_ close by, found himself in the
neighbourhood of the fight that was going on, on the cobble stones of
the court.
"What!" he muttered, while he hastened forward, "three engaged. A
strange duel this, or, by the Lord, two against one." Then in a moment
his own great sword was out, and Andrew Vause was in his element.
At the same time he recognized one of the combatants--the fair-haired
youth who had sat dozing in the tavern over his wine, now hard beset
by two others--brawny, common ruffians who, Andrew made no manner of
doubt, had fallen upon the well-dressed young fellow with the idea of
robbery, helped at first, if necessary, by assassination. The lad was
making a good fight of it, however, with his back against the wall of
an empty house, and seemed to be holding his own well, although the
accustomed eye of the trained soldier showed him that danger menaced
the young fellow in a manner unsuspected by him.
"A higher guard," he called out as he approached, "higher, my lad.
That fellow with the loose cloak on his left arm will throw it on your
point else, and so disarm you. Higher--so--that's better!"
Then he reached the trio, and, for a moment, there was a cessation of
hostilities.
"Ha!" said Andrew grimly, as he ran his eye over the _spadassins_ who
had attacked the other, "I do perceive. A little duel in which
Monsieur the second is so carried away by his love of swordplay that,
unwittingly, he joins in the fray. Well, we can better that. Messieurs
doubtless know the gracious laws of the duello. While the principals
engage, the seconds may also amuse themselves. Monsieur," to the lad,
"attack your man--I will be your second and engage his friend," and
the long rapier was raised to the salute in irony.
"Thanks," the young man said, feeling all the better for this
breathing space, "this ruffian is my man," and in an instant he had
fallen on one of the others with such fury that he had to defend
himself or be trussed like a woodcock on the spit.
"Now, Monsieur," exclaimed Andrew, "_À vous_."
But whether it was the terrible appearance of the brawny Englishman
who towered over him with swart complexion and fierce piercing eye, or
whether it was the equally terrible appearance of that rapier with its
long smooth blade and enormous quilloned hilt, there was now no fight
in the fellow--not, at least, when it was man to man and even chances!
"I am no fighter," he muttered. "I did but think my friend got the
worst of it--and so came to his assistance."
"No fighter," said Andrew quietly, yet appalling the man by his look,
"no fighter! Yet you wear a sword, and use it--when the odds are two
to one! Give it to me."
The man hesitated a moment and again muttered something--this time
inaudibly--whereupon Andrew repeated his request for the other's
sword, and, to prove that he meant what he said, administered such a
swinging kick to the fellow that he reeled across the narrow _ruelle_.
"Now. The sword!" he said again.
Then when it was in his hand he gazed at it a moment, thinking in
truth it was too good to be owned by such as this craven hound, and,
next, broke it across his knee, while, seeing the opening to a drain
close by, into which the water ran in wet weather, he threw the two
pieces down into it. Then he seized the owner by the collar of his
jacket, and, kicking him into a doorway, flung him on the step, where
he lay almost motionless.
"Come out of that," he said, "until this rencounter is over, and by
all the saints in your knavish calendar I will thrust this through
your gizzard," and the fellow saw the rapier flash before his blurred
eyes as the other spoke.