[Illustration: The Sword of Serrefort was running through his Heart.]
strange, but standing like one in a trance, he raised his eyes to
heaven and exclaimed,--
“My God, I thank Thee for this night, for surely my prison shall be a
prison to me no more. Nay, Lord, I go gladly, since Thou hast given me
his life.”
And so saying, he fell in a swoon, and they carried him into the
house.
When Jacques de Serrefort came to his senses again, he was lying upon
a couch in a little pavilion of the Hôtel Beautreillis, and his
daughter, Irène, had her arms about him.
“Dear father,” she said, “turn not away from me. It is your daughter
Irène who speaks,--she whom you loved in the long ago.”
Serrefort looked at her with a loving regard. Then taking her hand as
he used to do in the old days in Brittany, he exclaimed:--
“Little one, you will never leave me more?”
“Oh, never,” she exclaimed, covering his hands and face with kisses.
“Dear father, the king, who learnt all to-night, has pardoned you. It
is Mademoiselle Corinne’s work--she who owns this house and has taken
pity upon us. We are to go to Brittany to-morrow, for she has the
king’s promise. I will never leave you more, beloved father.”
But Serrefort closed his eyes again. The great clock of Notre Dame was
striking twelve, and all the phantoms of the Bombec came winging into
the room to torture him with a memory of that which might have been.
When the hour was struck, he raised himself upon his couch and kissed
his daughter.
“Little one,” said he, “our God is good--let us go and thank your
mistress.”
IV.
AT THE HOUSE OF THE SCARLET
WITCH
The Abbé Morellet heard the ring of hoofs upon the dusty road
behind him and instantly stopped his long-suffering white pony. He was
a man of alarms, was this good abbé; and his two servants, being
dutiful servants, were for the occasion men of alarms also. All three
had heard strange stories of the perils of those travellers rash
enough to venture after sunset upon the great Western highway to
Paris; all three had begun to regret the necessity which had carried
them from the peaceful presbytery near Rambouillet to the woods upon
the outskirts of the great city. Yet here they were at eight o’clock
of a summer’s evening in the year 1762 still three leagues from Paris,
with dark already threatening them, and all the tales of bogies and of
robbers ringing in their ears like a passing bell in the ears of men
about to be hanged.
“It is my opinion,” said the abbé, addressing François, his
valet,--“it is my opinion that we are followed by the three young men
who delayed us at the Maison Rouge. I can see a cloud of dust upon the
horizon and I count three horses.”
François, the valet, and Jean, the groom, hastened in their turn to
check the asses which they rode and to inspect the winding highway
which they had traversed with so many misgivings. Being ready men,
their tongues presently wagged together, and they declared themselves
willing to submit to untold tortures if they also did not see a cloud
of dust upon the horizon and count three horses.
“_Sapristi!_” cried François, the valet, “I suspected those fellows
from the beginning. What says the proverb, my master?--he who makes
friends in an inn has the devil for his comrade. Body of Saint John, I
was for going on as your reverence is well aware.”
Jean, the groom, who watched the approaching horsemen with fearful
eyes, yet was unwilling to betray himself, remembered now that he had
been for going on too.
“Oh,” cried he, “if yon rogues are not footpads I never saw one. Did
you mark how they kept their faces masked even when they sat at meat?
Put me in the pillory if ever I heard of an honest man who was afraid
to show his nose to his neighbour. We shall all be dead men presently,
rely upon it.”
[Illustration: “If yon Rogues are not Footpads, put me in the
Pillory.”]
The abbé, who nursed a secret suspicion that the groom spoke the
truth, told him nevertheless to hold his tongue. He consoled himself
with the thought that his personal property was not worth a louis to
any rogue; he knew that he had but ten crowns in his pouch; and those
he would surrender readily. Indeed, he began to frame a little speech
in which he determined both to rebuke the robbers and to conciliate
them. And this was still troubling his mind when the three men rode up
at a gallop, and began to parley with him. They were a strange
trio--all dressed elegantly, all mounted upon horses which might well
have come from the king’s stable. The abbé, stealing glances at them
when he lifted his eyes a moment from his breviary, did not fail to
observe the shining embroidery upon their vests nor the rich ruffles
falling delicately upon their wrists, nor the diamonds glistening upon
their fingers. These things had been hidden from him in the dark room
of the tavern at Sèvres, where the merry fellows had kept him
dallying long over a bowl of claret. Now he saw plainly that his
pursuers were men of quality, and that two of them were singularly
finely built, while the third possessed a figure so slim and
delicately proportioned that it might well have been the figure of a
young girl. But all three were masked as they had been at the
tavern--and this fact alone kept the abbé’s suspicions alive.
“Sirs,” said he, closing his breviary with a sudden snap, “I observe
that you wish to speak with me.”
“My lord, the Bishop of Blois,” began the tallest of the men, while he
doffed his plumed hat with a gesture of profound respect, “it is
evident that you are a stranger upon the road to Paris--”
The abbé interrupted him with a momentary display of irritation.
“My son,” said he, “I pray you address me by my own name and not by
that to which I have no title. It is true that the Bishop of Blois is
unhappily dead, but under no circumstances is it possible that so
unworthy a successor should be found for the See as the humble priest
who has lately enjoyed your hospitality. I, gentlemen, am the Abbé
Morellet, curé of the village of Yvette, a man with whom the princes
of the Church may well concern themselves but little. I go to Paris
now to carry my ward Corinne--you may know her as Mademoiselle de
Montesson, gentlemen--to a convent of Benedictine nuns at Charenton.
And Heaven forbid that I should aspire to such a distinction as you
have named.”
He spoke with great dignity, being a man accustomed to command in his
own little world. His manner was that of one who has made an end of
the argument; but the three horsemen, who maintained a fine gravity of
demeanour during the parley, would not be put off by it; and they now
held their horses at the walk while the leader answered the obstinate
abbé.
“My Lord Bishop,” said he, “I fear that you jest with us. We know you
well, and we are concerned to find you abroad here at such an hour.
The Church has too few faithful servants that one of the stoutest of
her champions should make himself a mark for footpads. Do you forget
that you are about to enter the woods of St. Cloud--and that it is
sunset?”
The abbé looked surprised.
“Sirs,” said he, “I have never ridden to Paris but once before in all
my life, and whether this be St. Cloud or another place, I am, indeed,
unable to tell you. Yet for any warning or direction you may be
pleased to give me, you will find a grateful listener. I am but a
simple priest, gentlemen, and I cannot think that any robber would
stoop to find a victim so unprofitable. Heaven be my witness that I
have an unpleasant duty to perform in the city yonder. Authority,
sirs, is a physic which the surgeon may hesitate to employ, until both
persuasion and counsel have been administered. Too long have I been
patient--the day for that has passed. Even though the king himself
were to intercede, my purpose should be delayed no more. To-morrow,
gentlemen, all Paris shall hear that the Hôtel Beautreillis is
closed, and that its mistress, my ward, is safe within the convent
walls at Charenton.”
The abbé was emphatic. He brought this pompous speech to a fitting
close with a good thwack of the cudgel nicely laid upon the pony’s
quarters. His two servants, always imitative, laid two sticks smartly
upon the backs of their asses, and all began to ride at a good trot
towards the park of St. Cloud. As for the three horsemen, they seemed
to enjoy the abbé’s company immensely; and they kept close at his
side, while merry glances passed between them, and the youngest of the
three--who had the figure of a girl--bent low, the better to escape
observation. Thus they came altogether to the summit of the hill
wherefrom they could see the thick woods about the château of St.
Cloud with the river Seine flowing like a river of blood in the
valley, and Paris herself away in the distance, the sunlight making
red blotches of her domes and towers, and shining with a deep crimson
from a thousand west-turned windows. Here, the three strangers drew
rein, and one of them, who had not spoken before, addressed the abbé
in a parting word.
“My Lord Bishop,” said he, regardless of the abbé’s protests, “you go
on a bold task. There have been many before this who have sought to
stand between Corinne de Montesson and her pleasures. Do you seek for
them, you will find them in all the prisons of Paris--or gone to the
wars for shame of their defeat. Beware how you act, then, and think
yourself a lucky man if you ride into Paris at all. Nay, I will wager
you a thousand crowns that this time to-morrow night you shall be very
glad to see us and to get back to Yvette with what speed you may. Yon
wood is full of strange sights and sounds, monsieur--many a man who
has entered it at sundown has been known no more when dawn has come.
Look to your steps, I beseech you; and Heaven grant that the witches
of St. Cloud may respect the path of the Lord Bishop of Blois.”
He doffed his cap as the other had done, and all three bowing with
ready grace, presently they set spurs to their horses and disappeared
at a gallop into the heart of the wood. The good abbé, who had been
content at first to think that some mistake had led them to give him
so distinguished a title, now became very angry, and not a little
alarmed.
“A plague on them and their Bishop of Blois as well!” cried
he,--“three tipsy gallants, I will wager, ridden out of the palace to
point the finger at me. I should not be surprised to hear that Corinne
had sent them. It is well known that she is a friend to footpads.
Possibly she has saved them from the gallows. But she shall gain
nothing by this. Though she fall on her knees before me, I will carry
her to the convent. The day for mercy has passed.”
The reflection pleased the abbé. He had been made guardian of pretty
Corinne de Montesson, who, as all the world knew, was mistress of the
great Hôtel Beautreillis in Paris, upon the death of her father, the
count. For his part, he would have sent her to a convent at once,
there to complete her education, which, he thought, had been sadly
neglected. But the king had put in a word; and so Corinne was left in
her great house to be the friend of all the ne’er-do-weels in the city
and to disgrace, as the good abbé said, the proud position to which
she had been called. Had she done anything for him personally, his
anger possibly would have been more moderate. But, notwithstanding her
professions of love, he remained the simple curé of Yvette--and there
he had fretted two years over his misfortunes. Then came the tidings
that Corinne had helped the notorious Coq le Roi, the highwayman, to
escape from Sartines, the new lieutenant of police. The news awoke the
abbé to his old resolutions.
“I will go to Paris,” said he, “and place her with the good nuns of
Charenton. She is like a little wild animal; her claws must be cut. I
have been merciful too long.”
This seemed a very simple resolution in theory; but when the abbé
entered the dark woods of St. Cloud after his conversation with the
three jesters in the masks, the practice of it began to be difficult.
He remembered that the last time he had been to Paris they had led him
such a life in the great house that he had been truly thankful to get
back to his little hamlet and to his own poor people. He had just a
lurking suspicion that his authority might be laughed at again.
Besides, he was not in Paris yet, and there before him lay the dark
woods against which the three strangers had warned him.
“Bah!” said he, as he quitted the high-road and plunged into the
darkness of the silent thicket, “strange sights and sounds, indeed. Am
I a child, to be frightened by old women’s tales? Never let it be
said. Thank God, there is a ducking-stool still for witches; and I
shall know where to complain if I am molested. We must be in Paris
before midnight--that is certain.”
The reflection comforted him. It was very dark in the woods, and so
silent that the sound of distant church bells or the barking of dogs
sounded like voices from a far-off world. The sun had sunk below the
rim of the western hills now, and only a deep blue-grey light, blended
with pink at the peaks of the clouds, marked the lingering day. In the
thickets themselves the mystery and spell of the night were already
omnipotent. The abbé could not put off a certain dread and
foreboding. His two servants did not attempt any such task. They told
each other, consolingly, that they would be dead men before morning;
and so they rode hand in hand, each devoutly hoping that the other
would be the victim of the night, and that the abbé, their master,
would precede them to the grave. No superstition was too gross for
them to believe. They swallowed every goblin and witch and demon dwarf
that tradition had named for a hundred years or more. There was not a
ghost in all France that they would not have staked their lives upon.
And here at St. Cloud--where every village lad could tell you of the
scarlet witch who rode upon the wings of the wind when the sun had set
and the elves were abroad in the forest--what miracle, they asked,
could save them from the perils of an encounter with her?
“I have heard it said,” muttered François to Jean as they drove their
stubborn asses still deeper into the woods,--“I have heard it said
that you have but to look upon the woman to be for ever blind.”
Jean groaned.
“God grant that our master sees her first,” said he.
“And worse than that,” said the valet, “if you are young and
good-looking, she will kiss you upon the forehead, and then you are
branded like one who has been sent to the galleys.”
Jean signed.
“Saint Denis!” said he, “I knew how it would be. We shall die here,
comrade--and for what? Because we follow our master. Is that our duty?
I tell you he is no longer himself. Did you hear how yon fellows
called him? Be sure of it--they have bewitched him already. I am ready
to die for the abbé of Yvette; but a plague upon me if I ride another
league for the Lord Bishop of Blois.”
He stopped his ass with the word, and François the valet made haste
to imitate him. They were at this moment in a glade so deeply bordered
by chestnut-trees that you could scarce see a patch of the grey sky
above. The moss beneath their feet was soft and yielding, and the
asses’ feet sunk in it almost to the hocks. The figure of the abbé
was scarce to be discerned, although he rode but twenty paces before
them. It was a gloomy spot, dark, threatening, lonely. A stag, which
leaped up at their coming, set the hearts of the cowardly pair beating
like pumps. And just at the supreme moment of their alarm what should
they see in the hollow but a great flash of crimson light, which lit
up the brake about them until every twig seemed to have been dipped in
blood, every tree trunk to be a scarlet phantom conjured up by the
ghostly flames! Twice the light flashed, lurid, smoking,
terrible--then darkness fell; and from the wood there came a scream of
many voices raised in an awful wail, like the wail of departed spirits
or of men in their agony.
At the first flashing of the fire, the abbé’s pony stood quite still,
shivering with fear. Nor was his master in any better plight.
“François,” roared the abbé, “Jean! do you not hear me? God help us
all--what a thing to see!”
But François and Jean heard nothing. They were even then on their way
back to Yvette, at all the speed of which asses are capable. Long the
abbé called them in language which the Church might not have
approved, but which the occasion and the abbé’s fear demanded. When
he found at last that he was alone, beads of perspiration stood upon
his forehead, and it seemed that a hundred spirits were mocking him in
the wood.
“Oh,” groaned he, “what do I see--where am I--who is it that follows
me? That I should have left my home to come to such a place! Heaven
help me or I am surely lost.”
He beat his pony the more in his fear, and driving the unwilling beast
through the thicket only by a generous application of his cudgel, he
came at last out upon a sward upon which great trees cast shadows of
fantastic shape. The spot was desolate enough for anything; but it was
lighter than the copse he had just quitted; and the stars shining
brightly in the grey heaven above seemed to cast down a message of
courage.
“Come,” said the abbé to himself as he wiped the perspiration from
his forehead and began to take heart a little, “why do I fear when I
have but ten crowns in my pocket? Who would harm the curé of
Yvette?--not the footpads of St. Cloud, I am sure. And I do not
believe in spirits--certainly they are for hags’ tales. What I saw was
the fire of some charcoal-burner. No doubt that was it. My men will
come up presently, and we will all go on together. I could laugh to
remember what a figure I cut.”
He did laugh at the remembrance, but it was a poor attempt--hollow and
mocking, like the thought which bred it. And he began now to be very
anxious for the company of his servants, bidding them come forth from
the thicket where he believed them still to lie.
“François, Jean!” he bawled, “it is I, your master, who calls you.
What do you fear, knaves? Am I not here to protect you? Oh, surely I
will lay my cudgel upon your backs to-morrow.”
To his amazement, neither Jean nor François answered his appeal; but
in the wood behind him there arose again the eerie wail, and now it
was long sustained and piercing, like the wail of witches upon the
wing.
“Hail to the Lord Bishop of Blois,” was the cry, “hail, hail! Whither
he goes, there go we--lolalla--lolalla--lolalla!”
The echo fled from wood to wood and grove to grove, until it died away
in moaning sighs, afar, at the heart of the forest. When the last note
was stilled, the abbé heard a voice, sweet and fresh and young,
crying,--
“What shall be done to the Lord Bishop of Blois?”