HIS LAST RIDE.
The man who had struck the blow, and whose eyes still sparkled with
fury, turned them upon her. He took note of her stupor, frowned, and
with a swift, cruel glance searched the room. The lights were in
sconces on the walls, and had not suffered. The rest was wreck--a
splendid wreck, mingled terror and luxury, with the woman's
Medusa-like face gazing on it. The Duke--for he it was--still
breathing quickly, still with malevolence in his eyes, listened and
looked; but the alarm had not been taken. The lilt of a song and faint
distant laughter, borne on the night air, alone broke the night
silence. He passed to a window, and putting aside a curtain, peered
into the darkness of the garden. Then he went to the door, and
listened. Still all was quiet without and within. But to the scene in
the room his gliding figure, his bent, listening head gave the last
touch of tragedy.
Presently--before, it would appear, he had made up his mind how to
act--he saw a change come over the woman. Her breathing, which had
been no more apparent for a time than the breath of the dead at her
feet, became evident, her figure relaxed. Her attitude lost its
stoniness; yet she did not stir to the eye. Only her eyes moved; and
then at last her foot. Stealthily her foot--the man listening at the
door marked it--slid from her robe, and unshod in its thin silken
stocking--so thin of web that the skin showed through it--covered the
poniard, still wet with blood, that had fallen from her husband's
hand. Slowly she drew it nearer and nearer to her.
He at the door made as if he did not heed. But when she had drawn the
weapon within reach, and furtive and silent as a cat, stooped to grasp
it, he was before her--so far before her, at least, that, though she
gained it, he clutched her wrist as she rose. "No, madam!" he cried
fiercely. "No! Enough!" And he tried to force it from her hand.
No words came from her lips, but an animal cry of unutterable fury.
She seized on his wrist with her left hand--she tried to seize it with
her teeth; she fought to free herself, clinging to the knife and
wrestling with him in the midst of the trampled fruit, the shivered
glass, the mingled wine and blood that made the floor slippery.
"Let it fall!" he repeated, hard put to it and panting. "Enough, I
say, enough!" If he had loved her once he showed scant tenderness now.
And she--her lips writhed, her hair uncoiled and fell about her. He
began to wish that he had not dropped his sword when he sprang upon
her. For he was still weak; and if she persevered she was more than a
match for him. In her normal condition she had been more than a match
for him; but the shock had left its secret sap. Suddenly, without cry
or warning, her grasp relaxed, her head fell back, and she sank--all
her length, but sideways--amid the ruin.
He nursed his wrist a moment, looking askance at her, and thinking
deeply and darkly. Assured at length that the swoon was no feint to
take him unawares, he went to the door by which he had entered, passed
through the empty ante-room, and thence into the Captain of Vlaye's
apartments. In the passage outside the farther door of these a sleepy
valet was on guard. He was not surprised by the Duke's appearance, for
half an hour before--only half an hour!--he had allowed him and his
guide to enter.
"M. de Vlaye wishes to see the Captain of the gate," the Duke said
curtly. "Bid him come, and quickly." And to show that he looked for no
answer he turned his back on the man, and, without looking behind him,
passed through the rooms again to the one he had left.
Here he did a strange thing. On a side table which had escaped the
general disaster stood some dishes removed from the chief table, a
plate or two, a bread trencher, and a silver decanter of wine. After a
moment's thought he drew a chair to this table, laid his sword on it
beside the dishes, and, helping himself to food, began to eat and
drink, with his eyes on the door. After the lapse of two or three
minutes, during which he more than once scanned the room with a
strange and inexplicable satisfaction, a knock was heard at the door.
"Enter!" said the Duke, his mouth half-full.
The door opened, and a grizzled man with a square-cut beard stepped
in. He wore a breastpiece over a leather coat, and held his steel cap
in his hand.
"Shut the door!" the Duke said sharply.
The man did so mechanically, and turned again, and--his mouth opened.
After a few seconds of silence "Mon Dieu!" he whispered. "Mon Dieu!"
"He is quite dead," the Duke said, raising his glass to his lips. "But
you had better satisfy yourself. When you have done so, listen to me."
Had the Duke been in any other attitude it is probable that the man
had turned in a panic, flung the door wide, and yelled for help. But,
seeing a stranger calmly eating and drinking and addressing him with a
morsel on the point of his knife, the man stared helplessly, and then
did mechanically as he was told--stooped, listened, felt for the life
that had for ever departed. When he rose again "Now, listen to me,"
said the other. "I am the Duke of Joyeuse--you know my name? You know
me? Yes, I did it. That is not your affair--but I did it. Your affair
is with the thing we have next to do. No--she is not dead."
"Mon Dieu!" the man whispered. Old war-dog as he was, his cheeks were
sallow, his hand trembled. A hundred dead, in the open, on the
rampart, under God's sky, had not scared him as this lighted room with
its medley of horror and wealth, its curtained windows and its
suffocating tapestry, scared him.
"Your affair," the Duke repeated, "is with what is to follow." He
raised his glass, and held it between his eye and the light. "Do you
take my side or his? He is dead--you see him. I am alive--you know me.
Now hear my terms. But first, my man, what do you number?"
The man made an effort, vain for the most part, to collect himself.
But he managed to whisper, after a moment's hesitation, that they
mustered four hundred and thirty, all told.
"Fighting-men?"
The man moved his lips without sound, but the other understood that he
assented.
"Very well," the Duke said. "All that is here I give you. Understand,
all. Divide, sack, spoil; make your bundles. He is dead," with a
glance at Vlaye's body, "he'll not say you nay. And a free pardon for
all; and for as many as please--my service. All that I give, on
condition that you open your gates to me and render the place three
hours after sunrise to-morrow."
The man gaped. The position was new, but he began to see his way. "I
can do nothing by myself," he muttered.
"You can have first search," Joyeuse retorted brutally. "There he
lies, and his buttons are jewelled. And ten gold crowns I will give
you for yourself when the place is mine. You know me, and I keep my
word. I told your friend there, who got me entrance"--he pointed to
the man Vlaye had stabbed--"that if his master laid a finger on him I
would kill his master with these hands. I did it. And there's an end."
The grizzled man's face was changed. It had grown cunning. His eyes
shone with cupidity. His cheekbones were flushed. "And if they will
not come into your terms, my lord?" he asked, his head on one side,
his fingers in his beard, "what must I say you will do?"
"Hang while rope lasts," the Duke answered. "But, name of God,
man!"--staring--"beyond the spoils of the place what do you want? He
is dead, you have no leader. What matter is it of yours or of theirs
who leads?"
The old soldier nodded. "That is true," he said: "we follow our
wages."
"One thing more--nay, three things," Joyeuse continued, pushing his
cup and plate aside and rising to his feet. "The lady there--I trust
her to you. Lock her up where she will be safe, and at daybreak
see that she is sent to the convent. M. des Ageaux, whom you have
below--not a hair of his head must be injured. Lastly, you must do no
harm in the town."
"I will remember, my lord, and tell them."
"And now see me through the gates."
The man grinned cunningly; but as one who wished to prove his
astuteness, not as one who intended to refuse. "That is number four,
my lord," he said, "and the chiefest of all."
"Not so," the Duke answered. "It was on that condition I spared your
life, fool, when you came in."
"Then you knew----"
"I knew that his buttons were jewelled."
"My lord," the man said with admiration, "I vow you'd face the devil."
"You will do that whether you will or no," the Duke replied drily,
"some day. But that reminds me." He turned from his companion. He
looked on the bloodshed about him, and gradually his face showed the
first signs of compunction that had escaped him. Something of disgust,
almost of distress, appeared in his manner. He glanced from one
prostrate form to another as if he scarce knew what to do and
presently he crossed himself. "Lift her to the couch there," he said.
And when it was done, "My friend," he continued, in a lower tone,
"wait without the door one minute. But do not go beyond call."
The old soldier raised his eyebrows, but he, thoroughly won over,
obeyed. Once outside, however, he pondered cunningly. Why had he been
sent out? And thoughts of his jewelled buttons overcame him. After a
moment's hesitation--for Joyeuse had put fear into him--he dropped
softly to his knee and set his eye to a crack in the door.
M. de Joyeuse was kneeling between the dead, his palms joined before
his breast, his rosary between them. The lights of the feast, that
shone ghastly on the grim faces and on the blood-pool about them,
shone also on his uplifted face, from which the last trace of the
tremendous rages to which he was prone had fled, leaving it pale
indeed and worn--for the marks of his illness were still upon it--but
calm and sublime. His eyes were upward bent. Those eyes that a few
minutes earlier had burned with a hatred almost sub-human now shone
with a light soft and ecstatic, such as shines in the eyes of those
who see visions and hear voices. His lips moved without sound. The
beads dropped one by one through his fingers.
* * * * *
The hewers of wood and feeders of oxen who herded together in the town
under the castle walls were timidly aware of the festivities above
their heads. The sounds of brawling and dancing, of the tambour and
glee, descended to them and kept them waiting far into the night. On
occasions, rare, it is true, the war-lords above had broken loose from
their bonds, and, mad with drink and frenzied with excitement, had
harried their own town. Once, to teach a lesson, the thing had been
done--but more completely and cruelly--by Vlaye's express order.
The memory of these occasions remained, burned shamefully into the
towns-folk's mind; and many a cotter looked up this night in trembling
from his humble window, many a woman with her hood about her head
stood in the alley whispering to her neighbour and quaked as she
listened. Something beyond the ordinary was passing above, in the
stronghold that at once protected and plundered them; something that a
sad experience told them boded no good. Two or three young women of
the better class went so far as to seek a sanctuary in Father Benet's
chapel; while their fathers hid their little hoards, and their mothers
took heed to quench the fires, and some threw water on the thatch--sad
precautions which necessity had made second nature in many a hamlet
and many a market-town of France.
Had they known, these poor folk who paid for all, that their lord lay
dead in the lighted room above, had they guessed that the hand which
had held those turbulent troopers in order was nerveless at last,
never again to instil fear or strike a blow, not even these
precautions had contented them. They would have risen and fled, and in
the marshes by the river or in remote meadows would have hidden
themselves from the first violence of the troopers' outbreak. But they
did not know, and they remained. And though those who were most
fearful or least sleepy, women or men, noted that the lights above
burned all night and that the tumult, albeit its note changed, held
till dawn, they slept or kept vigil in security. The Duke's command
availed. And no man, until the day was broad, left the castle.
Then the gates were opened, and a procession numbering four score
troopers--those who had the most to fear from justice or the least
bent towards honest service--issued from them, and rode two abreast
down the hill and through the town, They were in strange guise. Every
man had a great bundle on his crupper, and some a woman; and every man
rode gorgeous in silk or Genoa, or rich furs, with feathers and such
like gewgaws. One had a headpiece damascened beyond price swinging at
his shoulders, another flaunted trappings of silver, a third had a
jewelled hilt, a fourth a bunch of clinking cups or a swollen belt.
Behind them came a dozen spare horses, roped head and tail and high
laden with casks and skins of wine; while hunting-dogs ran at the
stirrups, and two or three monkeys and thrice as many chained hawks
balanced themselves on the swaying casks. The men rode jauntily, with
high looks and defiant voices, jesting and singing as they passed; and
now and again a one aimed a blow at a clown, or, with rude laughter,
flung a handful of coppers to the townsfolk, who shrank into their
doorways to see them pass. But no man vouchsafed a word of
explanation; only the last rider as he passed under the arch of the
town gate turned, and, with his hands joined, flung behind him a
derisive gesture of farewell.
The townsfolk wondered, for the men were rich laden. Many a one
carried a year's pay on his shoulders; and what they hid in their
bundles might amount to many times as much. Moreover, they swaggered
as men who mind no master. What then had happened? Nay, what was still
happening? For it was plain that something was amiss above. From the
castle proceeded a strange and continuous hum; a dull noise, as of
bees swarming; a murmur compound of many sounds, and full of menace.
But no man who was not in the secret guessed the truth or even came
near it. And the sun had travelled far and the lads had driven the
cows to pasture before the green valley of the Dronne, that had lain
so long under the spell of fear, awoke to find its burden gone and to
learn that a better time, bringing law, order, and justice, was at
hand. About seven a body of horsemen were seen crossing the narrow
plain which divided the place from the northern heights; and as these
approached the bridge a lad, one of those who had first espied them,
was sent to carry the alarm to the castle. The townsfolk looked to see
a rush of armed men to the outer gate; or, if not that, something
akin. But nothing of the kind followed, and while they stood gaping,
uncertain whether to stand their ground or flee to hiding, the
advancing horsemen, who numbered about two hundred, marched across the
bridge with every sign of confidence.
The Duke was not among them. Fatigue and the weakness caused by his
wound had stood in the way of his return, and at this hour he lay in
utter collapse in his quarters in the peasants' camp. His place was
occupied by the Bat, who rode in the van with Charles de Villeneuve on
his right and Roger on his left. The young men's minds were clouded by
thoughts of their sister and her plight; but, in spite of this, it was
a day of pride to them, a day of triumph and revenge--and they rode in
that spirit. The Bat, to whom Hecuba was naught--it was long since a
woman had troubled his peace--wore none the less a grave face. For
time had pressed, the Duke's explanation had been brief though fervid,
and the men had saddled and started within an hour of his return.
Consequently all might be well, or it might be ill. The Captain of
Vlaye's troops might surrender the place without a blow, or they might
not. For his part, the Bat would not have risked his purse on their
promise.
But to risk his life and his men was in the way of war. And he moved
steadily up the street, and gave no sign of doubt. Nevertheless it was
his ear that, as they debouched into the market-place, caught the
tread of a galloping horse on the flat beyond the river; and it was
his hand that halted the men--apparently that the stragglers might
move up and take their places.
A minute or two later the galloping horse pounded under the gateway
and clattered recklessly up the paved street. The sound of those
hurrying hoofs told of news; and the men turned in their saddles and
looked to learn who followed. The rider appeared in the open. It was
Bonne de Villeneuve.
Charles wheeled his horse, and rode down the column to meet his
sister. "You have not come alone?" he said in astonishment, mingled
with anger.
She nodded, breathing quickly; and, supporting herself by one hand on
the sweating horse, she pulled up. She was unable to speak for a
moment. Then "I must go first!" she gasped. "I must go first."
"But----"
"I must! I must!" she replied. Her distress was painful.
Her brother frowned. The Bat eyed her, in doubt and perplexity. But
Roger spoke. "Let her go," he said in a low voice. "I understand. She
is right."
And though no one else understood, the Bat let her pass the head of
the file of horsemen and ride alone up the way that led to the castle.
The men, with wondering faces, watched her figure and her horse until
the turn in the road hid her, and watched again until she was seen
crossing the bridge which spanned the road. Immediately she vanished
without let or hindrance.
"The gates are open," some one muttered in a tone of relief. And the
men's faces lost their gravity. They fell into postures of ease, and
began to talk and exchange jests. Some gazed up at the castle windows
or at that rampart walk, high above the town, which had been the
Captain of Vlaye's favourite lounge of evenings. Only the foremost
ranks, who could see the road before them and the bridge that crossed
it, continued to look to the front with curiosity.
It was one of these whose exclamation presently stilled all tongues
and recalled all thoughts to the work in hand. An instant later the
Bat's face turned a dull red colour. Roger laughed nervously. Some of
the men swayed, and seemed inclined to cheer; others raised their
hands, but thought better of it. The rear ranks rose in their
stirrups. A moment and all could see des Ageaux coming down the road
on foot. The Bat and the two Villeneuves went forward to meet him.
He nodded to them without speaking. Then, "Why are you waiting?" he
asked in a low voice. "Is it not all arranged?"
"But mademoiselle," the Bat answered, staring. "Have you not seen
her?"
"No."
"But I thought--she asked us to wait."
The Lieutenant of Perigord looked along the line of horsemen, whose
bronzed faces and smiling eyes--all striving at once to catch
his--gave him welcome. "I don't understand," he said. "I know nothing
of this."
"I do," Roger muttered. "I think Charles and I should go forward,
and----"
He did not continue. The Bat, by a movement which silenced him, called
his attention to the bridge. On it a number of persons had that moment
appeared, issuing from the castle gates, and directing their course to
the tilt-yard crest. Their progress was slow, yet the gazers below
could not, from the place where they stood, discern why; or precisely
who they were. But presently, after an interval of suspense and
waiting, the little company reappeared in the road below and began to
descend the slope towards them. Then here and there a man caught his
breath, and, as by one consent, all edged their horses to the side. M.
des Ageaux bared his head, and the troopers, from front to rear,
followed his example.
It was a brief and mournful procession. In the van, riding where he
had ridden so often, to foray and skirmish, the Captain of Vlaye rode
his last ride, with a man at either rein and either stirrup, his
war-cloak about him, and his steel headpiece nodding above his
clay-cold face. His lance, with its drooping pennon, rose upright from
his stirrup, and the faithful four who brought him forth had so fixed
it that he seemed to grasp its shaft rather than to be supported by
it. The sun twinkled on his steel, the light breeze caught and lifted
the ends of his sash. As the old war-horse paced slowly and quietly
along, conscious of its burden and of death, it was hard to say at a
glance that the Lord of all the Valley was not passing forth as of old
to battle; that, instead, he was moving to his last rest in the
cloister which rose among the trees a half-league from the walls.
A few paces behind him, in a mule-litter, was borne a woman swathed in
black cloth from head to foot, so that not so much as her eyes
appeared. On one side of the litter walked Bonne, her chin on her
breast, and her hand resting on the litter's edge. On the other side
walked a frightened waiting-woman.
M. de Vlaye passed, the litter passed, all passed. But until the
procession disappeared in the narrow street that led to the town gate
no man covered himself or moved. Then, at a low word of command, the
line of troopers rode on with a sudden merry jingle of bits and spurs,
and, winding up the little gorge between the crests, marched over the
bridge and through the open gates.
The Lieutenant's first act was to go to a low rampart on the west side
of the courtyard, whence it was possible to trace with the eye the
road to the Abbey. Bonne had not looked at him as she passed, nor so
much as raised her eyes. But he knew by some subtle sense that she had
been aware of his presence and that he had her promise that she would
return.
Doubtless he looked forward to the moment of meeting; doubtless he
looked forward to other things. But it was characteristic of the man
that as soon as he had assured himself of her safe passage he turned
without more ado to the work of restoring order, of raising the King's
standard, and enforcing the King's peace.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Abbess Of Vlaye, by Stanley J. Weyman