“Good-day, little fire-eater! Did they give you alms at the Hôtel
Beautreillis. Saint John, what an honest face you have! Oh, it is
plain that you are a loss to Paris!”
Dauberval stood for a moment to shake his fist at them. Then he passed
the gate, and Paris knew him no more.
II.
THE LIBERTY OF THE LITTLE
RED MAN
Coq le Roi, the highwayman, started up in his bed when the great
bell of Notre Dame struck midnight. Silently, and with a waking man’s
curiosity, he counted the strokes, nodding his head at each one, and
thinking to himself that it would be five or six of the morning, and
time for him to be about. But when the clock went on to tell the hour
of twelve, an exclamation burst from his lips.
“_Mort Christ!_” said he to himself, “I have not slept an hour. I
might know that by the music below. Saint Paul! what throats they
have!”
No man cares to be deceived with the tricks of sleep; nor was Coq le
Roi,--otherwise the Little Red Man, otherwise Jacques Cabot, the
notorious scourge of the highways about Paris, and one of the most
successful robbers that ever set spurs to a horse,--an exception to
the rule. He concluded that he had a personal grievance against the
night for thus cheating him. He began to tell himself that he was
thirsty, and would do well to draw on his boots and venture out to a
cabaret for a cup of wine. Then he remembered that he was not in the
habit of losing his sleep because a few cutthroats bawled beneath the
window of his garret. Some strange sound, some unusual omen of the
night, must have troubled his ears while he slept, he said. And for
the first time for many a day he began to remember that the guards of
the new Lieutenant of Police were then hunting for him out in the
woods beyond Fontenay.
“_Sang bleu!_” he cried, springing suddenly from his bed, and going to
the window of his garret that he might look down thence to the narrow
street below, “am I a woman that I should start at shadows on the
wall? What a thing to tell--at the house of the Red Cock too!”
He put his head out of the window, and the moving panorama of the slum
below reassured him. There, in the heart of the thieves’ quarter of
the Paris of 1761, he might well think himself safe even from the
early energies of Monsieur de Sartines who had just come to be
Lieutenant of Police. Though the day had begun with driving sleet and
bitter wind, few of the beggars in that Rue St. Sauveur thought of
sleep, or indeed of anything but their pleasures. Regularly, when
night fell, these rogues whom Coq le Roi now looked down upon with
satisfaction, hastened to quit the church doors and the gates of the
hôtels, and hurried to the labyrinth of filthy lanes and tottering
houses which had marked their kingdom behind Rue Mauconseil almost
since Paris had risen about the islands of the marshes. A motley group
they were; blind men counting their sous; lepers washing off their
sham sores; lame men carrying their crutches; orphans cursing their
fathers and mothers, who cursed them back again; venders of oranges
with their cry, “Portugal, Portugal;” rogues whom the gibbet long had
claimed in vain. Weary with the labours of the unbefriending day,
eager for the shelter of the cabaret, ripe for quarrel, or drink, or
play, they now rioted in the security of the alleys behind the
markets, and so hid from the night of the greater Paris, the cankering
sore, which was her reproach by day.
Coq le Roi permitted the bitter wind to blow upon his face for some
minutes, then he drew back his head, for he remembered his intention
to drink a cup of wine at the nearest cabaret, and he found the idea a
very good one.
“Bah!” said he to himself, as he tugged at his long boots and looked
to his pistols, which lay, ready for priming, upon the table by his
ragged bed, “what have I to do with woman’s tattle here? Guards in the
Rue St. Sauveur! what a day that would be! I should like to see it.”
The notion amused him, and he chuckled to himself pleasantly; but of a
sudden the laugh died down upon his lips, and he sat upon the bed like
one petrified. He had become aware, in that instant, of the presence
of another in the room,--a gaunt figure dressed from head to foot in
black, and masked so closely that even his eyes were not visible.
Noiselessly, with no drawing of bolt or creak of foot, the apparition
had come to his bedside. The robber feared nothing human--but now he
trembled so that the whole bed shook, and the sweat fell in icy cold
drops from his brow down upon his naked chest.
“God have pity, who are you?” he asked, not daring so much as to raise
his hand to the pistol beside him.
The stranger laughed merrily, and crossing before the robber, he sat
himself down upon a rough oak bench which was the only seat, other
than the bed, in the miserable attic. Coq le Roi could see by the
little light which fell through the lattice that the visitor wore very
good clothes, and that the hilt of his sword was a-glitter with
diamonds.
“_Bon soir_, Monsieur Jacques Cabot,” said the man, leaning back
against the wall, and crossing his legs for comfort,--“_Bon soir_; or
perhaps I should say rightly, _Bon jour_. The clock has just gone
twelve, I think.”
Coq laughed nervously. He was ashamed now that he should have so
carried himself.
“I thought you were the devil,” said he.
The man neglected to see that he was unanswered.
“You are an early riser, Monsieur Cabot,” he continued playfully, “to
be out of your bed at midnight. What a monk you would make!”
The robber shrugged his shoulders, and since he feared his visitor no
longer, he stretched out a hand and took up one of his pistols. In the
same moment the man in the mask gave a sharp lunge with his foot, and
so cleverly was it done that the pistol went flying up to the roof and
there exploded with a crash like that of cannon.
“Imbecile,” said he, “would you fire upon one who comes to save your
neck?”
Coq le Roi sank back upon the bed with a sigh. After all, he said to
himself, there was something uncanny about the coming of this mask.
“Well,” he asked doggedly, “and what next?”
The man rose and opened the window.
“This is no time for words,” said he; “let your ears tell you the
tale.”
He held up his hand warningly, bidding the other to listen; and while
the two stood there at the little casement a strange sound arose above
the hum of the city life. It was a sound neither of beggars brawling
nor of rogues at their play. When it had continued a little while,
there was added to it the loud rattle of musketry, the clash of
swords, and the tramp of many feet; while clear above all, and
resounding like the note of a trumpet, was the cry, “The guards, the
guards!”
“You hear,” exclaimed the unknown, drawing back from the window, “our
friends, the cutthroats, are welcoming the guards of the new
Lieutenant of Police. Shall I tell you, Monsieur Cabot, how many years
it is since a dragoon dared to pass the Virgin’s statue? You have no
love for history, you say. Saint Denis, I do not wonder at it, since
it is for you that Monsieur de Sartines has brought about this pretty
play and come into this den of beasts.”
Coq le Roi, quickened by the danger, began to prime his second pistol.
His natural courage had returned to him now. Little man that he was,
little and with a face like a young girl’s, he had made danger so good
a bedfellow that surprise was rather pleasant than alarming to him.
“Bah!” cried he, “that Sartines should be such a fool as to look for
me at the house of the Red Cock. Oh, we shall have a merry night,
comrade--yet who you are and why you are here, the devil take me if I
can say.”
He buttoned his cloak around his shoulders with itching fingers,
convinced, though he did not say so, that this man who had come to him
so mysteriously had come as a friend. Meanwhile, the whole quarter
without was thundering with the clamour of the mob--hell itself seemed
to have been loosed in that labyrinth of crime and squalor.
Coq le Roi was sure that his liberty was a matter of moments.
“Look you, my friend,” he continued to the unknown, who had watched
him with some amusement and perhaps a little malice, “I am now going
upstairs to get some fresh air upon the roof. But I shall not forget
that you, whoever you may be, warned me of to-night’s affair. I wish
you good-night, monsieur. When we meet again it may be your turn to
thank me and to tell me how you got into this house. I hope it will be
so.”
The stranger laughed aloud, insolently indifferent to the haste of the
other.
“You are going on the roof, Monsieur Cabot?” he exclaimed mockingly;
“surely that is very thoughtless of you.”
“And why, monsieur?”
“You shall be the judge of that when I tell you that five of Sartines’
men are there before you.”
Coq le Roi swore a full-mouthed oath. He even thought for a moment
that this man had betrayed him; but he was too wise to act upon his
suspicions.
“I shall see for myself,” said he, and with that he quitted the room,
only to return a moment later with a face white with fear.
“Monsieur,” said he, trying to force a jest, “you reckon well. There
are exactly five of Sartines’ men above us. How many there may be in
the street below, I will not venture to hazard. Nor will I dispute
with you any longer. If you come here to aid me, this is the time to
do your work; but if you are upon any other errand--then God help you,
for I will certainly blow out your brains.”
The stranger laughed again.
“I do not keep my brains in the ceiling of your garret,” said he.
“Upon my word you are a very impertinent fellow, Monsieur Cabot. I am
half of the mind to leave you to Sartines, who has sworn to dig up the
stones of Paris rather than lose the pleasure of your company.”
“He has sworn that?” muttered Coq le Roi, beginning to tremble again.
“As I say. Did you not stop the coach of Madame Geoffrin but a week
ago and wound two of her lacqueys? Very well, Madame Geoffrin
complained to the king and the king to Monsieur de Sartines. And now,
you see, the dragoons are coming to beat in the door of your house.
Oh, the lieutenant knows well that he could only take you with
dragoons. What a man he is--to trap you here like a bear in a cage!
For you are trapped, Monsieur Cabot. Yon street is as full of police
as an orange of pips. And hark, there are the troopers themselves.”
The clamour without, a clamour in which were commingled the hoarse
cries of men, the shrieks of women, the ringing of hoofs upon the
flags, the clash of steel, the loud note of command now rose up from
the street below them. Coq le Roi listened to the hubbub and his knees
quaked under him; but the unknown, who had timed his play to the
ultimate moment, seemed at last to turn from his humour and to take
pity on the trembling robber.
“Come,” said he, “follow me and ask nothing. You have a lantern
there--bring it.”
The hunted man was now as clay in the hands of this maker of
mysteries. He lighted his lantern mechanically; mechanically he
followed the stranger down the dark and narrow stairs of the house of
the Red Cock. He could hear those without beating already upon his
door; but he trembled no longer. The man who went before him seemed to
fill him with a new courage, as a measure is filled with wine. He did
not ask, “Whence does he come, whither does he go?” He said only, “He
will save me.” And when at length he found himself out in the narrow,
high-walled courtyard which was called by courtesy his garden, he was
like a child obeying a father, and trusting him unquestioningly.
“Monsieur,” he exclaimed with humble civility, “there is no door to
the street here.”
“You lie,” said the stranger, curtly; “give me your lantern.”
Coq le Roi watched him with amazement now. When he had taken the
lantern in his hand, he walked straight to the mouth of the old well,
which was the one conspicuous thing in that filthy and deserted court.
Then he unwound a long coil of thin rope, and attaching the lantern to
this, he lowered it into the orifice. Coq le Roi, looking over his
shoulder timidly, watched him as one watches a conjuror at his tricks.
“Monsieur,” cried he, “you cannot hide me in the well.”
The unknown laughed scornfully.
“St. Denis,” exclaimed he, “that a man should live five years in a
house and yet know nothing of its resources! Do you follow the path of
that light, my friend? Well, tell me what you see.”
“The light shows me walls green with slime and fungus,” said the
robber. “I see great gaps where bricks have been; there are lizards of
strange shapes, and rats feeding--and now I see the water. Holy
Virgin!--you would not send me down there, monsieur?”
“Look again,” cried the other, unmoved at the plea, “upon the
right-hand side of the well at a little distance above the water’s
edge,--what see you now?”
Coq le Roi stretched out his neck and searched the fœtid depths with
eager eyes. The twinkle of the light below was like a star seen
through a black tube. The rats fled at its light; stones fell with
resounding splashes while they ran; cold air oozed up and seemed to
freeze the robber’s face.
“_Mon Dieu!_” said he, “you have discovered something, monsieur; there
is a little tunnel running into the well, and the water does not cover
its mouth.”
“You have said well,” answered the unknown; “through that tunnel we
shall pass to our friends. After you, Monsieur Cabot. The rope which
holds the bucket will bear the weight of three men. Trust your life to
it rather than to your friends without. I wait for you.”
Coq le Roi shuddered.
“Holy Virgin!” said he, “I dare not go down there.”
“You dare not--do you hear those blows? They are from the sabres of
the guards who beat in your door. Shall I leave you to receive your
guests? I give you one minute.”
He folded his arms and waited. Coq le Roi, now wringing his hands, or
running to and fro in his distress, or peering with a horrid fear into
the well below, was like a woman distracted.
“God have pity,” cried he; “I cannot--I cannot.”
“The half of a minute is gone,” answered the unknown in a voice hard
as iron.
“Do you wish to kill me, Monsieur?” moaned the robber.
“You have ten seconds yet,” cried the unknown.
“You torture me,” wailed the robber.
“The guards are just beating in your door,” replied the unknown.
It was as he said. The great iron-bound gate was giving way to the
crashing blows which fell upon it. Coq le Roi listened for one long
instant--and then, reeling, staggering toward the well, he clutched
the rope and began to descend.
“When you come to the tunnel, kick against the wall, and that will
swing you in,” cried the masked man, bending over to watch him; “leave
the lantern until I follow.”
[Illustration: “You will find my Body,” howled the Robber.]
“You will find my body,” howled the robber from the darkness.
Lowering himself hand under hand, Coq le Roi descended to the well.
The unknown waited until he had reached the light, and had entered the
dark hole above the water. Then he, too, clutched the rope--but he
could not keep back the laugh from his lips.
“_Ventrebleu!_ Sartines,” said he to himself, “a merry night to you,
and a merrier day to-morrow. To be fooled by a woman at your time of
life! Oh, you amuse us finely.”
“Are you coming, monsieur,” roared Coq le Roi below, “Oh, for pity’s
sake, be quick!”
The unknown hesitated no longer, but swung himself cleverly upon the
rope and so disappeared into the darkness of the well.
Five minutes later a terrible cry, like a cry of victory, arose
suddenly from the ranks of the sweltering mob gathered in the narrow
alley before the house of the Red Cock. From lane to lane, and street
to street, it spread until it was echoed in long-drawn hooting even
across the frilling waters of the Seine.
“Coq le Roi has escaped! _Holà! Holà! Holà!_ Coq le Roi is free.
Long life to the little red man. _Viva!_ Down with the guard. _À
bas_, Sartines! _Holà! Holà!_”
Loud, terrible, long sustained was the cry. Exhilarated at these
unexpected tidings, spurred to new courage by the joyous news, the mob
fell upon the sulking troopers with any weapon that came to its hand;
and in the stifling courts and alleys there was soon to be heard the
shrieks of dying men, the booming of muskets, the shriller wailing of
the women. Yet it was not until dawn broke that the beggars began to
number their dead, and to forget that Coq le Roi was free.
Monsieur de Sartines had supped well, as he always did at the Hôtel
Beautreillis. Though he declared that the gloomy old house in the Rue
St. Paul was more forbidding than the Bastille where its exterior was
concerned, there was no one readier to admit that Mademoiselle Corinne
de Montesson, its mistress, was the cleverest woman in Paris and the
most fascinating. Besides, was she not the particular patron of all
the rogues and vagabonds in the thieves’ quarter, and could she not,
if she would, be of more service to the court in general and to
himself, Monsieur de Sartines in particular, than a squadron of
dragoons? It was a big “if,” since mademoiselle’s charity and
large-heartedness were traditions in the city; but the lieutenant
still hoped--and supped.
On this particular evening, the excellent man had much need of
consolation, and of the rich red wine which added the lustre of the
ruby to the sparkling Venetian glass in which Corinne’s guests were
always served. For it was the evening of the day when Coq le Roi had
slipped through his fingers in so miraculous a manner; and in escaping
had set the whole city laughing at her Lieutenant of Police. Nor had
the good Sartines secured at that time the reputation which in after
years brought him fame beyond the fame of any who had occupied the
office which he glorified. He had yet to prove himself; and in proving
himself he had begun with this disastrous and long-remembered fiasco.
Depressed by the reflection, gloomy, and not a little irritable, he
had gone to Mademoiselle de Montesson’s house, scarce daring to hope
that she would aid him; convinced, none the less, that she would amuse
him. He had found her, to his satisfaction, alone save for the
presence of her wonder-loving old physician, Antonio, and of her young
kinsman, Bénoît, who was said to be the finest swordsman in Paris.
The supper had been unsurpassable, as it was always at the Hôtel
Beautreillis; and when it was done, mademoiselle carried her guest to
the great music-room, and there caused her servants to bring the
delicious coffee of the East. And this being served, Hátrin, her
harpist, began to touch the strings of his instrument caressingly;
while mademoiselle herself, sharing a rest-giving lounge with the
gloomy lieutenant, endeavoured to play wittily upon his melancholy.
“I read your thoughts, my dear friend,” said she.
“They would make a dull book, mademoiselle,” replied the other.
“Oh, not at all; such a book has yet to be finished. Gloom is the
seasoning which gives joy its savour, Monsieur de Sartines--just as
failure is the salt which provokes the appetite for success.”
“Of what are you thinking, my dear lady?”
“I--of what should I think but the happiness of my friends? And you
are not happy, monsieur. Indeed, you are the picture of misery.”
“And you are of merriment, mademoiselle--and of beauty.”
The lieutenant bowed pompously when he uttered the compliment.
Mademoiselle herself laughed a rippling girlish laugh--she had lived
but twenty-three years, and the fountain of her youth still played
abundantly.
“Ho, ho,” she cried, “a compliment from Monsieur de Sartines. I shall
look for the question next. You will spare me the torture of the boot,
monsieur.”
“It would have to be a very pretty boot, dear lady.”
“Another compliment. Oh, surely, Monsieur de Sartines is about to put
the question.”
“How! You think that I have something to ask--of you?”
“And why not? There would be stranger questions.”
“You must prove that before I admit it.”
“Certainly, I will prove it in a word. You came here to-night to speak
about Coq le Roi.”
Monsieur de Sartines, when he heard this, sat straight up like a man
who has been hit in the back with the flat of a sword.
“_Pardieu!_” cried he, “what do you know about Coq le Roi?”
She laughed at him girlishly and very sweetly.
“I know much more than the Lieutenant of Police,” she said.
“You are pleased to jest, mademoiselle.”
“I--to jest--what an accusation!”
“Then convince me that you do not.”
“With the greatest pleasure possible--for instance, you would like to
learn--”
The lieutenant laughed savagely.
“I would like to learn where the man is at this moment,” exclaimed he.
“Is that all--surely, nothing could be more simple. I will summon
Antonio.”
“Oh! it is Antonio who is the friend of assassins, then?”
“Certainly, he is a brother to them all. Does that shock you, dear
Monsieur de Sartines? If so, we will not trouble him.”
“By no means,” cried the lieutenant, who was boiling over with
curiosity; “at least he will amuse me.”
“I promise that,” replied Corinne.
Sartines had expected that she would rise from her seat to summon the
physician as she had promised; but she did not so much as move a
finger; and when some minutes had passed the lieutenant became
impatient.
“Well,” he said, “are you not going to exhibit this godfather of
assassins?”
“Surely, since he is here now.”
It was as she said. The old doctor, Antonio, had entered the room
during their talk; and the lieutenant felt a cold chill run down his
spine, when suddenly he became aware that a strange figure stood at
his side. Whence the apparition had come; from the shelter of what
trap, or panel, or hiding-place, Sartines could not tell. He knew only
that the old man was before him, clad in his Geneva gown, wearing a
full-bottomed wig, the curls of which almost touched his elbows.
“_Ciel!_” cried he, “you have a light foot, doctor.”
Antonio bowed with the grace of a prince-bishop.
“At your service, lieutenant,” said he. “If all report be true, you
will need many light feet for your work in Paris.”
Sartines bit his lip. The physician’s words seemed a reflection upon
his mishap with Coq le Roi.
“Come,” said he, “let us talk of other things. Mademoiselle has
promised that you will amuse me--”
“I am here to obey my mistress,” said the old man, “--what is your
pleasure, lieutenant?”
“Oh, my pleasure is not in question, but mademoiselle has said--”
“I have said that you will tell him what the highwayman named Coq le
Roi, is doing to-night,” cried Corinne, interrupting suddenly; “there
is nothing more simple than that, eh, Antonio?”
“It is a child’s task, mademoiselle.”
Sartines, who had begun by treating the whole thing as an elaborate
jest, listened to this talk incredulously. While he told himself that
Antonio’s claim was absurd, preposterous, ridiculous, nevertheless the
idea that he should put the physician to the trial was strong and
fascinating. He felt like one in the presence of a conjuror. He would
watch the trick closely--perhaps learn something from it. Besides, if
he should get any information about Coq le Roi--but that, he said, was
impossible.
Antonio, meanwhile, had crossed the great room and had seated himself
before a little table upon which was an astrolabe in brass, a lamp
with a green shade, and a large sheet of drawing-paper, all scrawled
over with hieroglyphics and strange lettering like the lettering of an
Eastern manuscript. When he had turned back the long sleeves of his
gown, and had taken a pair of compasses in his hand, the doctor bade
the others come near.
“Monsieur,” said he to Sartines, “you desire to know in what
occupation the man Jacques Cabot, sometimes called Coq le Roi, has
been employed during the last twelve hours. If you will be good enough
to sit by my side, and to say nothing until the clock shall strike
again, I will tell you.”
The lieutenant, assuring himself that he was a fool to take part in
such mummery, sat as the physician directed. Corinne took her stand
beside him; Antonio, resting his head upon his hands, cried suddenly
for less light; and at the words, lacqueys entered the room
noiselessly and extinguished the candles. Only the shaded green lamp
remained; and from its aureole of light the figure of the old doctor
stood out--motionless, stern--the figure of some weird magician risen
up from the ages of the past.
Five minutes passed, and nothing was to be heard in the great room but
the ticking of the clock. Sartines found himself spellbound; Corinne
herself stood like a statue, scarce seeming to breathe. When, at last,
Antonio broke the spell, he did so by beginning to speak in a low
voice, accompanying the words with the tracing of strange lines upon
the paper before him.
“Monsieur,” said he, addressing Sartines, but keeping his eyes upon
the paper, “at twelve o’clock to-day Coq le Roi was at Soisy robbing
the coach of his lordship, the Duke of Sabran.”
“_Dieu!_” cried Sartines, rising from his chair, “you say--”
Antonio, without so much as turning his head, continued to draw upon
the paper. Corinne touched the lieutenant gently upon the arm, and
made a sign to him that he should say nothing.
“At three o’clock,” continued the physician, whose voice was now
strong and clear as the note of a bell, “I find that Coq le Roi was at
Gros Bois after stopping the coach of the Grand Master of Artillery,
the Comte d’Eu, and robbing him of three hundred louis d’or.”
“_Ventre bleu!_” cried Sartines, while he threw himself back in his
chair and laughed heartily, “what a play! Oh, you amuse me very well,
my dear doctor.”
Antonio ignored the interruption. His head was now so near to the
paper that his eyes almost touched it. His voice was the voice of a
man who speaks his thoughts aloud, unconscious that any listen.
“It is six o’clock,” he said, after a long pause, “and the rain falls
heavily upon the road to Fontenay. I see a great hill, and at its foot
the woods stretch out to meet the waters. One horseman keeps watch in
the dark place of the valley. He is waiting for the coming of his
highness, the Duke de Nevers--”
“Thousand devils,” cried Sartines, unable to control himself, “you
lie, monsieur--”
Antonio turned his head swiftly; Corinne pressed the lieutenant’s arm
warningly.
“Your pardon,” cried Sartines, nettled at his outburst, and now pale
with excitement, “but has not this jest gone far enough?”
“It is as monsieur pleases,” cried the old physician, pushing his
paper away from him; “he has asked me what the highwayman known as Coq
le Roi has done to-day and I have told him, reading from the signs
which have been given to me.”
“Certainly,” replied the lieutenant, “you have amused me very well;
but is it not possible, monsieur, that you have not read your signs
aright?”
“Oh, indeed, if you think that,” cried Corinne, interrupting quickly,
“why not ask Coq le Roi himself?”
“Ask Coq le Roi?”
“As I say. Had you allowed Antonio to finish his work, he would have
told you that, after stopping the coach of his highness, the Duke de
Nevers, Coq le Roi turned his horse towards Paris; and that, even
while we were speaking of him, he entered this house, and is now my
guest in the Tower of St. Paul--which, I need not tell you,
lieutenant, is still part of the Hôtel Beautreillis.”
Sartines heard her out, and when she had finished, his face was almost
as green as the shade of the physician’s lamp. The sweat poured from
his brow like rain; he gnashed his teeth; he laughed with the
hysterical laugh of a woman.
“Am I a child, mademoiselle,” he blurted out at last, “that you should
tell me such tales?”
Corinne, holding herself with great dignity, struck a gong at her
side; this was her answer to him.
A lacquey answered the summons while the note was still reverberating
in the hall.
“Edouard,” she said to the servant, “Monsieur Jacques Cabot, is he in
his apartment?”
“He arrived an hour ago, mademoiselle.”
“And now?”
“He is sleeping, mademoiselle.”
Corinne clapped her pretty hands.
“Could anything be better?” she said. “We will have a peep at him and
apologise afterwards. Come, Monsieur de Sartines, you shall doubt no
more.”
She led the way from the room while the lieutenant was still gaping
with his astonishment, and he, not knowing whether he stood upon his
head or his heels, followed her into the courtyard of the old house,
and thence across a pretty garden, darkened by great chestnut-trees
and a labyrinth of bushes. The Hôtel Beautreillis, as Corinne’s home
was called, formed a part of the once royal palace of St. Paul; and
many strange old towers and turrets and pavilions then stood in its
beautiful gardens. It was to one of these pavilions that the girl now
conducted Sartines; and the excellent lieutenant was not a little
surprised to find two sturdy Swiss guards standing sentry at its
iron-bound door.
“_Parbleu!_” cried he, “you watch your guests well, my dear lady.”
“Nay,” she said, “it is the king’s wish.”
“How? The king knows that the man is here?”
“Certainly--or rather, he knows that I await him.”
Sartines asked himself for the fifth time what wine he had drunk and
from what malady he suffered. Then he stumbled up the narrow stairs;
and, while Corinne held aloft the lantern which a servant had given to
her, he entered a small and exquisitely furnished room--and there he
saw Coq le Roi.
The highwayman was no typical robber. Short to the point of absurdity,
with hair as red as the sands of the sea, and clothes which spoke of
long hours in the saddle, you might have taken him for a hunchback of
Notre Dame or a tailor of the Rue St. Severin. All the city called him
the “Little Red Man,” and the title fitted him like a glove. When
Sartines then saw him he was sleeping, still dressed, upon a couch;
and the light from Mademoiselle’s lantern, playing upon his strange
little face, lit up features which might have been those of a girl.
Beyond this, the man was splashed to his shoulders with mud; and two
great pistols he always carried were displayed threateningly upon the
table beside the relics of the admirable supper he had just partaken
of.
“_Dame!_” cried Sartines, feasting his eyes upon the motionless figure
of the robber, “that is Coq le Roi right enough. I could pick him from
a hundred.”
“Certainly you could,” whispered Corinne, drawing back from the room.
“Very well,” cried the lieutenant, “I am content to ask no questions,
mademoiselle, but in ten minutes my officers will call for their
prisoner.”
“One moment, lieutenant. Be pleased first to read the king’s
pleasure.”
At this word she held her lantern quite close to the lieutenant’s
eyes, and showed him a little sheet of parchment which she had brought
with her from the music-room. At the foot of this there was the royal
seal and the signature of King Louis. Sartines took the document with
trembling hands and read these words:--
“Jacques Cabot, sometimes called Coq le Roi, is to be the prisoner of
Mademoiselle de Montesson until he shall steal the diamond ring from
the finger of Monsieur de Sartines.”
A smile, a terrible smile, played in the eyes of the now thoroughly
enraged lieutenant.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, bowing low, “I congratulate you upon the
farce you are playing; at the same time his majesty’s wish is a
command to me. I shall make it my business to see him to-morrow and to
alter this.”
“Very well, my dear Monsieur Sartines--but remember, it is half past
ten o’clock.”
“Half past ten o’clock--why should I remember that?”
“You will learn presently.”
He turned upon his heel with another stately bow, and the voices of
the lacqueys were heard immediately crying for his coach. Two minutes
later his horses were galloping furiously toward the Hôtel de Ville;
but Corinne de Montesson was still laughing in her garden.
“Oh,” she said, “if only he will go to the king!”
Monsieur de Sartines did not go to the king--that night at any rate.
His first act was to call the Captain of the Guard, and to give him
precise instructions for the good of Coq le Roi.
“Take a file of men,” said he to the captain, “and surround the
pavilion of St. Paul in the garden of the Hôtel Beautreillis. Coq le
Roi, the highwayman, is there. Shoot him if he attempts to leave the
place. Otherwise, keep the guard posted until you hear from me.”
The captain saluted and withdrew. When he had gone, Sartines called
for a cup of white wine and drank it at a draught. Then he took snuff
in huge quantities, seeking vainly to compose his thoughts.
“_Dame!_” said he to himself, “what a tale to tell! That she should be
the friend of assassins--And the king supports her. Either I am mad or
I have dreamed the things of this night. Jacques Cabot her guest! Holy
Virgin--she will burn the Bastille next!”
Long he paced his apartment, his brain burning with his changing
thoughts. Twelve o’clock rang out from Notre Dame, one o’clock was
told by all the churches of Paris, and still his coach waited to carry
him to his own house in the Faubourg St. Germain. At a quarter past
one, when sleep had begun to battle with his perplexity, a new clatter
of hoofs disturbed the silent courts of the Hôtel de Ville, and awoke
him from his stupor. He had scarce started up from his chair to learn
the moment of the interruption when a horseman, dripping wet and
splashed from head to foot with mud, burst into his room and stood at
the salute before him.
“Well,” cried Sartines.
“I have the honour to inform your excellency,” cried the man, “that
Monsieur l’Abbé Lamotte was stopped upon the road to Choisy at half
past ten to-night and robbed of a hundred crowns by the man called Coq
le Roi.”
“What,” roared Sartines, “at half past ten! You lie, rogue--I was with
Coq le Roi myself at that hour.”
“It is as I say, sir--I was one of the company, and I could pick the
man from a thousand.”
“God deliver me from all devils!” ejaculated the lieutenant; “it was
the hour she told me to remember.”
Monsieur de Sartines was, perhaps, as little in love with hag’s tales
and superstitions as any man in Paris; but the events of that night,
the strange mysteries of it, the surprises he had known, confused his
brain and distracted him until he had no longer command of his reason.
While the messenger was speaking to him, he found himself looking
instinctively for the diamond ring upon the third finger of his left
hand. It still glistened there, and he chuckled grimly when he saw it.
“Bah!” said he, “it is the king’s jest. He has posted his own guards
in the Rue St. Paul, and to-morrow he will deliver up Cabot to my
charge. His words prove that. ‘Until he shall steal the diamond ring
from the finger of Monsieur de Sartines.’ _Dame!_ if the liberty of
Coq le Roi depends upon that, he will remain a prisoner until the day
of judgment. Steal my ring--Holy Virgin, I would like to see the man
who could do it!”
The thought somewhat comforted him. He determined to go to his own
house and to get what sleep he could before dawn broke. He said that
this report of a new outrage must be untrue, since Coq le Roi was
watched by his own guards in the Rue St. Paul. He remembered that the
king was still at Versailles, and that if luck were willing, he would
be able to find his Majesty there in the early hours of daylight. As
for the stupendous mystery now hovering about the Hôtel Beautreillis
and Corinne de Montesson, his tired brain could not grapple with that.
He swore when he thought of it. He recalled the days when the people
had declared the girl to be a witch. He fell to sleep in his own bed
at last only to dream that Coq le Roi had stolen his ring and that the
king himself was wearing it.
The sun had been up an hour, when the lieutenant awoke from his
troubled sleep. He found his valet standing at his bedside, profuse in
apology for the intrusion.
“I am sorry to disturb your excellency,” he said, “but there is a
mounted messenger below who has news which will not wait.”
“Send him up,” cried the lieutenant, springing from his bed, and
beginning to dress hurriedly. “Does he come from the provost?”
“I know nothing,” said the man, “save that he craves audience.”
A moment later, the messenger, one of the new guard, was saluting his
chief.
“I am to tell you, sir,” said he, “that Coq le Roi, the highwayman,
was seen this morning in the woods beyond Yères.”
“Oh,” cried the lieutenant, bristling with anger, “you come to tell me
that--then tell it to the devil.”
The man crossed himself devoutly.
“God save us all!” said he; “here is your excellency’s own guard in
the Rue St. Paul declaring that the fellow has slept all night and has
never so much as turned in his sleep.”
The lieutenant waited to hear no more. Refusing even the coffee which
his servants offered to him, he called for his coach and set out at a
gallop for Versailles. No fool under any circumstances, this mystery
seemed to be making a fool of him. He told himself while he drove that
all Paris would be laughing at him before night fell. He could have
wagered his life that he had seen Coq le Roi fast asleep in the
turreted pavilion of Corinne’s house. He declared either that he had
dreamed the thing, or that these new stories were false. The king had
made the robber a prisoner in this way for some secret purpose. That
purpose he must find out. Perhaps, after all, it was only his
Majesty’s love for a pair of pretty blue eyes.
He arrived at Versailles at eight o’clock, but learnt to his chagrin
that the king had set out to the hunt, and was not to return to the
palace until the afternoon. This was an irritating foil to his plans;
but he spent the day in seeking audiences of his friends, and
endeavouring vainly to glean some hints from which he could forge a
key to his perplexity. Disappointed in this, he conceived the notion
of walking a little way into the park; and so of catching his Majesty
before he was surrounded by the host of idlers and pleasure-seekers
who lay waiting to whisper a word into the royal ear.
It was nearly five o’clock in the evening when he set out on this
quest; and an unusual stillness reigned in the magnificent gardens of
the château. Here and there, daintily coloured lanterns gave dancing
light beneath the trees; a few richly dressed fops were making love to
pretty women; but the great world of pleasure was resting until the
zenith of the night should awake it to new occupations. Sartines,
indeed, found himself almost alone, when absorbed in his unending
speculations he crossed the gardens where the fountains foamed redly
in the glowing rays of the setting sun, and passed down the Avenue de
Trianon into the groves of the more open park. This was quite deserted
at such an hour. Valets, stablemen, gardeners--all were taking what
rest they could, knowing well that the night would have need of them.
The silence and the twilight suited the lieutenant’s mood well. He
began to pace a deserted avenue of yew elms with the slow steps of a
man bearing a burden of worry and of doubt. He looked often across the
park for the advance guards of the royal party. He believed himself to
be alone, and even spoke his thoughts aloud.
“Bah!” said he, remembering still the letter which Corinne had read to
him, “when any highwayman shall steal my ring, then will I hang myself
from the king’s bed-post. What an idea to suggest! It really amuses
me--it really--ha, ha!--”
To his surprise, a mocking laugh answered his spoken thoughts. He
turned round swiftly, abashed at his words, to find that the intruder
was no other than an exceedingly pretty girl, apparently not yet
twenty years of age, who was then sitting upon a mouldy stone bench
under the shadow of the elms. She was dressed in an exquisite riding
habit of green velvet, and the merriment of her laugh, together with
the brightness of her eyes and the exceeding suppleness of her figure,
completed a picture which arrested even the wandering attention of the
Lieutenant of Police.
“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” cried he, bowing very low, “have I
the honour--?”
“Oh,” said the young girl, laughing again, “the honour is mine,
monsieur--to be forgotten by the chief of his Majesty’s police.”
“I see so many faces,” pleaded Sartines, gallantly, “but that I should
forget your face, mademoiselle--oh, that were impossible.”
“I think not, monsieur--since you do not remember that you met me at
the château of the Comte d’Eu.”
The name of the Comte d’Eu sent a shiver down the lieutenant’s back.
It recalled the old physician and his mystic prophecies.
“_Pardieu!_” cried he, “I remember, of course. You are a kinswoman of
the count’s, I doubt not--and that being so, you know something of the
misfortune which overtook him yesterday.”
“Indeed, I do,” said the girl, “since I was with him in his coach when
he was stopped by the highwayman they call Coq le Roi.”
Sartines gasped. Such a striking confirmation of the old physician’s
words he had never looked to hear.
“Mademoiselle,” cried he, very anxiously, “will you permit me to sit a
moment while you tell me more of this affair?”
She made way for him readily upon the bench.
“Oh,” she said, “I will tell you anything you please--and I know a
good deal more about Coq le Roi than you do, Monsieur de Sartines.”
The lieutenant looked at the girlish figure beside him and laughed a
little contemptuously.
“You must convince me of that,” said he.
“Certainly I will--though I ought not to do so. It is dangerous to
play with other people’s secrets, Monsieur de Sartines.”
“Secrets,” exclaimed the lieutenant, “why--what secrets can there be
in a case like this?”
“If I were sure we were alone, I might be tempted to tell you. But
look how dark it grows. Upon my word I must not stay any longer,
monsieur--another time you shall learn all.”
Sartines’ eagerness was now beyond control.
“Indeed,” said he, “I beg you will do me the favour to remain, if it
is only for ten minutes. Are you not safe with me?”
“I should be--but you know it is lonely here--and hush, is there not
some one coming?”
They both listened a moment, but the murmur of the fountains and the
echo of distant music were the only sounds in the darkness of the
grove.
“Well,” resumed Sartines, “you see that we are alone--and now, I beg
of you--”
The girl sighed--a sigh of regret and hesitation.
“It is very wrong of me,” she said, “and Corinne will never forgive
me.”
“Corinne!” ejaculated the lieutenant, “do you refer to Mademoiselle de
Montesson?”
“Certainly.”
“And what of her?”
The girl appeared to hesitate, and it was only after a long pause that
she said: “Oh, she has been very unkind to you. She made a wager with
the king that she would find an actress from the Opéra Comique and
pass her off on you as Coq le Roi himself. And she has won, you know!”
“What!” roared Sartines.
“It is as I say. The man you thought you saw in her house last night
was not a man at all. It was Mademoiselle Guérin, from the Opéra
Comique.”
“Thousand devils,” exclaimed the lieutenant, rising from his seat, “I
never thought of that!”
“Of course you did not. You forgot that your robber has the face of a
young girl. Corinne, you know, remembered that, and so she tricked
you. She has always been the friend of Coq le Roi. She warned him two
days ago that spies were in the Rue St. Sauveur, and lent him the
disguise in which he escaped. He told her himself what coaches he was
going to rob and where. Her old physician helped her with his nonsense
and his gown. And now she has set all Paris laughing at you.”
Sartines groaned like a wounded man.
“What, then, in heaven’s name means this farce about stealing my
ring?” he cried, more to himself than to the pretty creature at his
side.
“My dear Monsieur de Sartines, where are your wits?” said the girl.
“Don’t you see that she wishes to get the king’s pardon for her
friend? And the king makes this ridiculous condition, meaning that the
man shall not be pardoned. Oh, it is all as plain as the Trianon
there.”
“Of course it is, of course it is,” snarled the lieutenant, whose
hands were trembling with rage and shame.
“I could tell you many more things, monsieur,” continued the girl, “if
the sun were not in such a hurry to set--but see how dark it grows.
Meanwhile, here is a letter which you may keep and read when you
return to Paris to-night--it will tell you much.”
She took a letter from the breast of her habit and pressed it into the
hand of the lieutenant, allowing her fingers to rest for some moments
in his. Sartines, tormented by a thousand reproaches, did not even
notice the pressure.
“Do you know,” he asked abstractedly, “in what disguise Coq le Roi
left the Rue St. Sauveur?”
“Indeed I do, monsieur; it was in the disguise of a woman of
fashion,--in fact, he wore a green velvet riding-habit which Corinne
gave to him.”
“A green velvet riding-habit,” repeated Sartines, thinking of anything
but the green velvet habit at his side.
“Nothing else,--a green velvet riding-habit and a little
three-cornered hat. Oh, they cheated you well--but read that letter,
and it will save you being fooled a third time.”
“A third time!” exclaimed the lieutenant, looking round quickly, while
the clasp of the girl’s pretty fingers was strong upon his left hand,
into which she was forcing the letter.
“As I say--a third time,” she explained boisterously. “Corinne has
cheated you once in making you believe that a woman is a man; I have
cheated you a second time in making you believe that a man is a
woman.”
Her words came in a torrent; and even while they were upon her lips,
she raised the gloved hand which was free, leaving the other hand
still in that of the man; and very dexterously and suddenly she cast
the contents of a tiny bottle she had concealed in her palm into the
eyes of Monsieur de Sartines. At the same moment she grasped his
fingers with a strange twist, and so sprang to her feet. But the
lieutenant, whose eyes seemed on fire and who believed himself to be
blind, roared like a stricken bull.
“Who, in heaven’s name, are you?” he cried.
“I am Jacques Cabot, otherwise Coq le Roi, otherwise the Little Red
Man--very much at your service. _Bon soir_, Monsieur de Sartines. You
will see very well in ten minutes. I have your diamond ring upon my
left hand.”
The lieutenant uttered a terrible cry and staggered across the path,
in a vain endeavour to grapple with the robber. But when the guard at
last answered his cries he was quite alone, and the silence of the
night reigned in the grove.
III.
A PRISON OF SWORDS
Jacques de Serrefort was sleeping when the jailor opened the door of
his cell; but he awoke while the keys still rattled in the lock, and
sat up in his bed half blinded by the sunlight which streamed through
the high window of his prison. It was a morning of early June, fresh
with sweet breezes of the summer and the odour of roses in the air;
but the captive, who had lived a day of the long ago in his dreams,
regarded neither the hour nor the freshness of it. Every morning for
fifteen years had he arisen from such dreams of the old time to forget
them quickly in the terrible realities of his doom. The gentle smile
upon his face, born of the visions of the night, passed at once in the
first moments of the day. Sleep had carried him to the fair fields of
Brittany, to the pastures of his homestead, to the ingle wherein his
wife, and the daughter he had loved more than life, had been wont to
greet him when the day’s work was done. But the dawn destroyed
illusions so welcome. He became the slave again. Nothing to him that
it was the height of summer, when all Paris was alive with merry music
and feasting and the notes of bells calling lovers to the altars. Day
or night, the fall of the leaf or the flowering of the blossom--the
hour was long since passed when he remembered these. No more did he
rave against the destiny which had made him a perpetual prisoner in
the Conciergerie. His mind was rusted from long disuse; he talked and
acted like a little child; tears refused him their consoling
friendship. He prayed that the end might be soon; he sorrowed only
because death was not given to him.
The jailor entered the cell as he had entered it every morning during
those terrible years. He and Serrefort had grown old together; old in
association, almost in captivity. True, Baptiste, as they called the
fellow, had a little house out in the cathedral close yonder, and went
there at odd hours to gossip with his neighbours; but nine-tenths of
his years were spent in the Conciergerie, and he knew every stone in
it, nay, almost every crack in its tremendous walls. In his way, he
had been a good friend to Jacques de Serrefort--a friend in the little
things of kindness whose worth to a prisoner is inestimable. Every
morning, as soon as the bells of Notre Dame struck six o’clock, he
would enter the wretched man’s cell to cry: “Courage, comrade; here is
the day. Who knows what it will bring?” Jacques would declare
sometimes that he had said the same thing every day for fifteen years.
But it came out of the goodness of his heart, and was not to be
resented. Indeed, the prisoner welcomed the sound of the homely voice;
and when on this particular morning of June, in the year 1761, the
customary greeting was not given, Serrefort turned quickly to his
jailor with a question upon his lips.
“How now, Baptiste,” cried he, “you are silent this morning!”
Baptiste shook his head, and went toward the window that Serrefort
might not see his face.
“Courage, comrade,” said he; “it will not be for long--your daughter
will return to Paris presently, and then all will be well.”
Serrefort, who had begun to dress, sat down upon his bed again. He
divined that some great misfortune was about to overtake him, though
of its nature he could foresee nothing.
“Come, Baptiste,” said he, “you speak in riddles. What has my daughter
to do with the Conciergerie--have I not enough to bear that you should
talk of her?”
“_Dame!_” replied the old jailor, “I must speak of her since she alone
has kept you from the Bombec Tower[1] these two years and more. Think
you, comrade, that the bailiff gives windows and red wine to all who
ask them? Saint Denis, you have the best quarters in the prison, and
the best food. And why?--why, because your daughter has paid for such
things. You don’t know that?”
“I swear to heaven that I know nothing,” exclaimed Serrefort. “You say
that I have these things through my daughter, and that she pays for
them?”
“How else should you have them? _Sapristi!_ a child would not be so
simple. She has paid for them since your old protector, the Sieur
Buchot, died. And she will pay for them again--when she comes back to
Paris. Oh, be sure of it. She is a good child, and rare is the week
when she does not tell me what she means to do for you. Do not lose
heart, old friend. Who knows?--she may be ill or gone away upon an
affair of importance. If the bailiff were reasonable, he would think
of these things. But he will not hear me, and the order now is that I
am to carry you to the Bombec Tower this morning, and to show you no
more favours until you can pay for them again.”
Serrefort shuddered. He had not lived in the great prison for fifteen
years without hearing many a grim story of the terrible _oubliettes_
below the level of the river Seine, wherein, shut out from God’s day
and surrounded by horrors unnameable, the more wretched and poorer
victims of the bailiff Hubert’s greed went all too slowly to their
doom. Captivity is apt to obliterate from a man’s heart those finer
affections which are fed upon freedom. Serrefort was tempted for a
moment to bitter thoughts of the daughter who had left him to a fate
so horrible. But anon he remembered Baptiste’s words, that she must be
ill or away upon an affair of importance. And then he complained no
more, but fell to wondering what her life had been since he had left
her, a child of fifteen, in the old home in Brittany. He could not
forget altogether that he owed this enduring punishment to her, and
her alone. The hardness born of prison life closed about his heart
when he told himself that if he had not struck the man who had been
the shadow upon her life, he would not now be a prisoner in the
Conciergerie. Such thoughts, however, passed upon the instant, and his
great love of her came flowing into his heart like a freshet, and he
longed, with the accumulated longing of years, to take her to his
heart again.
“Lord, let me see her once more,” he prayed, and so praying he dressed
himself and told Baptiste that he was ready.
“Old friend,” said he, “I have been blind indeed, to take these gifts
from the hand of one whose own need must be so great. Think you that I
would have permitted Irène to work for me at a time when she has
neither friends nor helpers in all the city? Heaven forbid that I
should have so little love for her. Oh, I am ready to follow you,
Baptiste. I care not where you carry me if only you bring me news that
she is well. Have I aught else in the world to remember but my little
Irène? God shield her always in the shadow of His love.”
He stood up dressed now, and the sunlight fell, bright and golden,
upon his clear features and snow-white hair. He had been one of
Condé’s legion in the old time; a type of fine manhood and dashing
courage. They said that there was no finer swordsman in the regiment;
no better horseman. Nor had fifteen years of captivity robbed him
altogether of that magnificent figure and soldierly carriage which had
been the envy of his comrades in the long ago, when Brittany was the
fairest country in the world to him, and the face of his young wife
the sweetest face in all France. He stood up now, the sun showing the
pallor of his face and the deep black lines beneath his eyes; but his
body was erect, his shoulders square, his step firm. And so, like a
soldier upon parade, he quitted the cell which had harboured him so
long, and followed Baptiste to the corridor without.
There was a file of men in the passage armed with harberds and
spontoons; a little army to guard a prisoner, who had never in his
wildest moments dreamed of escape from a citadel so formidable as the
Conciergerie. Serrefort exchanged no greeting with them; but he
surveyed them with some scorn when they closed about him and began to
march down the corridor, and so to the head of a flight of steps which
appeared to lead into the very bowels of the earth. For one short
instant a window showed him the city, and beyond that the river,
bright with lapping green waves and busy boats, and the houses all
huddled together in the sunlight, and the streets full of hurrying
throngs, glad because the new day had come. He said that the world lay
there,--the world where men hoped and loved and worked; the world he
would never know again. And then the window was passed, and he found
himself descending the winding stairs of the great Bombec Tower, which
seemed to rise up from the very river itself. Though his guards held
torches high above their heads, the place was so dark that even the
garish yellow light could not penetrate the terrible blackness.
Serrefort feared almost to set foot upon the ground, lest he should
tumble into some horrid pit or go headlong into the waters of the
Seine. So heavy and damp was the air that his lungs seemed to be
filled with noxious vapours at every breath. Even the floor of the
staircase was covered with wet and slime, while water dripped from the
walls in a ceaseless “pat-pat-pat,” which spoke eloquently of the
surpassing misery of those who must live in depths so terrible.
Serrefort had heard often of the Bombec Tower. He remembered that when
as a little child his father had brought him to Paris, they had shown
him this great stone bastille, one of the towers of the Conciergerie
springing up from the very river’s bed, and they had spoken in hushed
voices of the suffering of those doomed to such a prison. And now he
must learn of these things for himself. Indeed, the lesson had begun
already when the sunshine was left far above him; and an intolerable
longing for air and light forced him to say that he must lose his
reason if they did not carry him up again to the day he had left. And
so he came to the foot of the staircase, and his guards having gone
some little way down a narrow and sinuous passage, one of them held a
torch aloft, while old Baptiste unlocked the door of a cell and bade
the prisoner enter.
“Courage,” said he, “for the love of Heaven. It is only for a little
while, and your daughter will be back again. You will find a seat
there--do not quit it until I come to you. It is the prison of swords
you enter, God help you.”
There was a quaver in the old man’s voice when he spoke; but Serrefort
did not hear. His eyes were staring horribly into the hole which
henceforth must be his home. Bright as the flare of the torch was, its
light could penetrate but a little way into that den wherein the sun’s
rays had not entered for centuries, nor any sound been heard but the
groans and sobs of the wretched victims of the dungeon.
“Oh,” cried Serrefort, pitifully drawing back, “if I might die! I
cannot enter--I cannot--”