"HE IS MINE. MUST BE MINE NOW!"
Nevertheless he knew that it was necessary for him to be very careful.
For, to begin with, these men were doubtful allies--even if he wanted
any such, which, after all, he was not sure about. Certainly he wanted
none to help him slay De Bois-Vallée and thereby avenge Philip--but
even as he so paused, endeavouring to think what was best to do, he
observed the looks of consternation still on their faces at
discovering he had overheard their remarks when outside. Yet, might
not their assistance be of the greatest use to him in rescuing Marion
Wyatt from evil at the Vicomte's hands? Might not they also be of the
greatest service to him in helping to discover what evil it was that
threatened the woman? Or, further and better, was it possible that
they had some knowledge of what that evil was?
"Harm that may come to her through his fear of what I know, as he
imagines; harm that may be averted perhaps by me if I can find her--or
again find him?" he had asked Debrasques, he remembered; remembered
also that from Debrasques' eyes had come the answer in the
affirmative. And he had bidden Andrew go and avert the harm impending;
now he was here, and it seemed that an opportunity had arisen which
might assist him in thus averting it.
He must extract all that he could from these men; he must lose no
chance. Indeed, his only regret was that his manner had not been more
propitiatory from the outset, less rough with them, and he prayed that
the big leather purse, and another which he had put carefully away,
might be able to win their goodwill. If so they should have it all,
even though he had to go without food until more money could be
obtained from England.
They sprang up--or two of them did--as he uttered the words about the
burning house and the flames whose reflection should be cast on the
mountain tops, while the elder man cast an evil glance at him that
would have augured badly for his safety in that lonely spot had he not
been so big and strong. Then the first of these two men, whom he had
heard called Jean, exclaimed, "You heard that--outside! And know that
it was of him and of his house we spoke?"
"I know it now."
"And what will you do?" while as he spoke he bent forward with a
sinister look on his face, and with his hand in his coarse brown
blouse, "What will you do?"
"I will tell you," replied Andrew, "only, first, give me that," while
as he answered he darted his own hand out like lightning, seized the
fellow by the wrist, and drew his hand from out of his bosom. In it
was a long knife.
"Let it fall to the floor," he said, compressing the man's wrist so
that he winced, while Andrew turned as he did so and spoke to the
other two (who had sprung up and were standing over him threateningly)
in a marvellously quiet voice, yet one that had its effect.
"Make no interference," he said. "Be warned. Resume your seats or we
shall all regret it. Do as I say," he continued, his voice sinking
even lower as he fixed his eyes on them. "As I say. It will be best."
Whether it was his height or his broad chest, or, perhaps, the sight
of the huge hand that compressed Jean's wrist, which forced them to
obey, cannot be said. Suffice it that, after a look of indecision on
the part of the well-favoured, dissolute-looking man, and a scowl on
the part of the old one, they did as he said. Each returned to the
settle, or stool, he had occupied, though not without murmuring and
muttering.
Another squeeze from Andrew finished also Jean's affair; the fingers
unloosed the knife, which clattered down on to the earth, and, at the
same time, his wrist was released, scored with a red mark as though an
iron vice had been screwed on it.
"Enough," said Andrew; "now we shall be very good friends. Listen,
therefore, to what I have to say. But, first, find another bottle of
wine."
Obedient to his orders--although it might be but for a time and until
they could concert some joint attack on him--another dusty, cobwebby
bottle was produced from the hole in the wall, and, when the one glass
from which Andrew drank and the mugs of the others had been filled,
the former spoke again, though with his eyes on all their faces and on
their hands, too, to see if they threatened harm.
"I will tell you," he said, "what I shall do. Yet, first, let there be
no mistake. The man of whom you speak as having come across these
mountains, the man whose home you purpose to burn to the ground, is
the Vicomte De Bois-Vallée. Nay," seeing the look that came on their
countenances, "deny it not! There is but one who has so come from
Turenne's camp, but one who has fled from the army, deserted his post.
The man I seek and follow."
"Fled! Deserted!" they repeated, while the old man muttered
incoherently.
"Ay, fled, deserted. Shall I tell you why? If I do, you will perhaps
acknowledge that, for the present, at least, you may leave his house
in peace."
"Tell us," all said together.
"He has fled," continued Andrew, "because thereby he imagines he can
evade me--me, who have sworn to slay him. And I am resolved to slay
him. See, listen. I am an Englishman, well-to-do now, though not long
ago I had nought but that which I could earn with this," and he let
his left hand fall on his sword hilt. "Well-to-do, I tell you, might
live at home in my own land, run no greater danger than a man
encounters in his own fields and gardens. Yet I am here. To slay him."
"To slay him!" the dissolute, good-looking peasant repeated. "To slay
him! Camille De Bois-Vallée! To slay him!"
"Ay! From England to Paris I came, from Paris to Turenne's army, from
that army here. To-morrow to Remiremont, to-morrow night, as it shall
fall out, or in a week, or month, or year, to return to England with
my sword left sticking through him. Say, shall I do that first, ere
you burn his house down?"
"What is your wrong?" asked Laurent, the good-looking man. "What?
_Pardie!_ a woman, I suppose."
"Ay, a woman. Yet from your words, your guess at that, it should seem
I am not the only one. Has he wronged other men--through the women
they love?"
"Yes," Laurent answered. "Yes. That way and others."
"That way and others. So, 'tis not I alone who seek to punish him. Yet
from me the punishment shall come. And 'tis better so, is it not? If
you, or others, destroy him, you are here to be punished in return,
you are yourselves of the _pays_, as you tell me. But I--I am a
stranger, and, that done which I must do, I shall be gone; none can
harm me. Moreover, he will fall at my hands in honourable duello. I
shall not spare him as I spared him before."
"What!" came from all their lips, while the old man thrust his horn
spectacles up on his forehead, and leaned across the table to stare at
him. "What you had him once, and you spared him?"
"Yes, to finish the work better next time. And it was not his murder I
sought" Whereupon he rapidly told them of the fight in the glade
behind the church, and of how the peasants would have slain De
Bois-Vallée, had he not interfered for his protection.
"'Twas folly," Laurent said, "I would have left him there for them to
do the work. Thereby, monsieur would have had his desire gratified at
no cost to himself."
"Nay," replied Andrew, "'twas because I had not done the work that I
saved him, as now I prevent you from wreaking your vengeance on him.
'Tis I who must do it. Also, there is something else to be done.
Listen!"
And now, because he saw and knew that he could bind these men to
him either through their hatred of his enemy or because of their
cupidity--or through both combined--he told them that the woman who
had been wronged by this man was, he believed, somewhere in his power,
and that, before all--before his revenge, before theirs--she must be
found and saved. "Could they," he asked, "help him to save her?"
"Where is she?" answered Laurent, who seemed to take the lead now
amongst his companions. "Let us know that, and, since you desire it,
we may be of service. Alas! that we could have saved other women!"
"That," replied Andrew, "is what I do not know. Is what, indeed, at
present, I seek to learn. Further, I know not where his house is, nor
how to find entrance. Though soon I shall."
Then, at once, spurred on as it seemed to Andrew by a desire for
vengeance on the part of Laurent particularly, who, he could see,
nourished a personal hatred against the man, and, on the part of the
others, by a desire for gain, and by greed, they gave him some
information which he did not doubt was true.
De Bois-Vallée, they told him, lived not in Remiremont itself, but,
instead, some four or five miles this side of it, and at the foot of
the very mountain which they were now on the summit of. It was a large
property known as Bois-le-Vaux, they said, consisting of wood and
forest with a mountain stream through it that afterwards joined the
Meurthe, and, in the middle of this estate and backed up by the hills,
was the house itself.
"Of what description?" asked Andrew.
"Oh! for that, old, very old. Dating back, some said, to the days of
Le Duc Thierry," the old man, Gaspard, answered. "Built partly of
stone, hewn out of these mountains, one should suppose; a house long
and low, with, above the ground floor, much wood. Also outhouses and
stables and a granary, all of wood. Therefore," he added, "it would
burn well."
"But not yet," answered Andrew, "not yet. That is for after I am gone,
by which time he will be dead. For which reason there may be no
necessity to thus destroy it. Are there any as bad as he to come
after, and have all who went before him been equally as bad?"
No, they answered, each telling the tale by little pieces; no, there
were none to come after of whom they knew; he had neither brother nor
sister, nor was he married.
"Wherefore," interjected Gaspard, who seemed the most anxious for the
destruction by flames of the mansion of Bois-le-Vaux, "it may properly
be burned down. All of this country hate it and him; after his death
we desire no memorial of his race."
"And of those before him. Were they like him?" again asked Andrew.
"His mother was a saint on earth," the old man said; "I knew her. And
his father was harmless. The old wolf-blood of his forerunners has
come out in him."
"His mother!" exclaimed Andrew. "His mother!" and he clapped his hand
to his pocket and drew out the medallion. "You knew her. Is this she?"
and he showed them the portrait.
"Ay," exclaimed Gaspard, after he had brought the spectacles down from
his forehead to their proper place again, "ay, 'tis. I knew her well.
She was a saint--all loved her--'tis for the sake of her memory we
have so long borne with the son."
"Enough," said Andrew. "I will return it to him."
"Wherefore?" asked Laurent, not understanding.
"As something which he dropped in fleeing from the army, from me. He
can scarce refuse to take it, to come and take it from my hands; thus
we shall be face to face again."
"And the woman?" one asked.
"Ah the woman. I had forgotten. No; first I must find out if she is
here, below, in this gloomy mansion you speak of. Then--then--it will
be time to decide what I must do. But it grows late; to-morrow I must
see this house and reconnoitre. My friends, if you will be such, let
us make terms. Will you place yourselves at my service?"
"As I told monsieur," said Gaspard, "we are very poor. We must live.
And if monsieur desires vengeance on one whom we all hate we will
serve him. Though I for one can do but little. I am old--yet I do not
forget. Ah, Julie! Also he forced me from my cottage, raising the
seigneurial rights month by month till I became an outcast, living
here on no man's land."
"Curse him!" exclaimed Laurent. "All I desire is to see him dead. And
as for payment--well, I have no money--I, too, am an outcast, he would
send me to the galleys if he caught me. Curse him!" he cried again,
"give me but the wherewithal to live, and I will help you. Either you
or I shall slay him."
"He has wronged you deeply?" Andrew asked, noticing how the handsome
features of this man were convulsed by his fury.
"Wronged me! Wronged me! My God! Listen. I married this man's
daughter, Julie," and his hand shook as he beat it against Gaspard's
shoulder, "and he took her from me, took her to that hell, Paris,
and--and--left her to die there. Judge if he has wronged me."
"And you?" turning to the third, the man Jean. "Do you hate him, too?"
"I hate all aristocrats," he replied. "They grind us to the earth. And
him I doubly hate. For--for--well, I have cause. Also," and he laughed
now the harsh and reckless laugh which Andrew had heard as he
approached the hut, "you saw how I loved him when, for fear that you
might be here to help him, I drew that on you," and he pointed to the
knife lying where it had fallen.
"'Tis well," said Andrew, "we understand one another. And, for earnest
of my good faith, take this and do what you will with it"; whereon he
drew forth once more the leathern bag and emptied its contents--a
dozen good louis d'ors and as many écus and German dollars--on the
table. As he did so he noticed to whom the spoils fell. Gaspard, with
a greed often enough the accompaniment of old age, especially when
that old age is surrounded by and steeped in poverty, thrust out his
gnarled and knotty hands, endeavouring to cover all the pieces. Jean,
with a laugh, clutched some ere the other could prevent him. Laurent
alone was moderate. One gold coin rolled towards him, which he picked
up and thrust under his blouse.
"'Twill suffice a long time for meat and drink," he said. "By the time
'tis spent--well!--what I desire more than money may be accomplished."
"You have left yourself without any," the old man said, turning to
Andrew, almost with a look of shame on his withered face, yet still
with his hands on all the coins that Jean had been unable to wrench
from beneath them. "What will you do?"
"Nay! never fear. It is not my all. I have more--for myself and you.
And, after that, can obtain still more. Serve me faithfully and you
will find me a good paymaster."
Then, after they had vowed again and again that they would do
so--Laurent alone wasting no words in protestation--Andrew remarked:
"He is mine. Must be mine now. Nothing can save him or prevent me
bringing him to book. Even though we have to besiege him in his house!
He is mine. And, even should he escape me for a time, he is a ruined
man. To the army he can never return. His desertion prevents that. My
friends," and he rose from his chair, "De Bois-Vallée will never harry
you again. From this time forth we harry him."