"Monsieur will not suffer the spy to go free?"
"No, Félix. He shall be punished lest he betray again."
He passed me in his dreary walk. Half a dozen times he passed by me, a
broken-hearted man, striving to collect his courage to take up his life
once more. But I thought he would never get over the blow. A husband may
forget his wife's treachery, and a mother will forgive her child's, but
a father can neither forget nor forgive the crime of the son who bears
his name.
"Ah, Monsieur, you are noble, and I love you!" I cried from the depths
of my heart, and knelt to kiss his hand.
Monsieur laid that kind hand on my shoulder.
"You shall serve me. Go now and send Vigo here. I must be looking to the
country's business."
X
_Lucas and "Le Gaucher."_
I cursed myself for a fool that I had carried the tale to Monsieur. It
should have been my business to keep a still tongue and go kill
Yeux-gris myself. For this last it was not yet too late.
Marcel was hanging about in the corridor, and to him I gave the word for
Vigo. I tore away from his eager questionings and hurried to the gate.
In the morning I had not been able to get in, and now I could no more
get out. By Vigo's orders, no man might leave the house.
Vigo was after the spy, of course. Monsieur knew the traitor now; he
would inform Vigo, and the gates would be open for honest men. But that
might take time and I could not wait five minutes. I had the audacity to
cry to the guards:
"M. le Duc will let me pass out. I refer you to M. le Duc."
The men were impressed. They had a respect for me, since I had been
closeted with Monsieur. Yet they dared not disobey Vigo for their lives.
In this dilemma the poor sentry, fearful of getting into trouble
whatever he did, sent up an envoy to ask Monsieur. I was frightened
then. I had uttered my speech in sheer bravado, and was very doubtful as
to how he would answer my impudence. But he was utterly careless, I
trow, what I did, for presently the word came down that I might pass
out.
The sun was setting as I hastened along the streets. I must reach the
Rue Coupejarrets before dark, else there was no hope for me. A man in
his senses would have known there was no hope anyway. Who but a madman
would think of venturing back, forsworn, to those three villains, for
the killing of one? It would be a miracle if aught resulted but failure
and death. Yet I felt no jot of fear as I plunged into the mesh of
crooked streets in the Coupejarrets quarter--only ardour to reach my
goal. When, on turning a corner, I came upon a group of idlers choking
the narrow ruelle, I said to myself that a dozen Parisians in the way
could no more stop me than they could stop a charge of horse. All heels
and elbows, I pushed into them. But, to my abasement, promptly was I
seized upon by a burly porter and bidden, with a cuff, to mind my
manners. Then I discovered the occasion of the crowd to be a little
procession of choristers out of a neighbouring church--St. Jean of the
Spire it was, though I knew then no name for it. The boys were singing,
the watchers quiet, bareheaded. They sang as if there were nothing in
the world but piety and love. The last level rays of the sun crowned
them with radiant aureoles, painted their white robes with glory. I shut
my eyes, dazzled; it was as if I beheld a heavenly host. When I opened
them again the folk at my side were kneeling as the cross came by. I
knelt, too, but the holy sign spoke to me only of the crucifix I had
trampled on, of Yeux-gris and his lies. I prayed to the good God to let
me kill Yeux-gris, prayed, kneeling there on the cobbles, with a fervour
I had never reached before. When I rose I ran on at redoubled speed,
never doubting that a just God would strengthen my hand, would make my
cause his.
I entered the little court. The shutter was fastened, as before, but I
had my dagger, and could again free the bolt. I could creep up-stairs
and mayhap stab Yeux-gris before they were aware of my coming. But that
was not my purpose. I was no bravo to strike in the back, but the
instrument of a righteous vengeance. He must know why he died.
One to three, I had no chance. But if I knocked openly it was likely
that Yeux-gris, being my patron, would be the one to come down to me.
Then there was the opportunity, man to man. If it were Grammont or the
lackey, I would boldly declare that I would give my news to none but
Yeux-gris. In pursuance of this plan I was pounding vigorously on the
door when a voice behind me cried out blithely:
"So you are back at last, Félix Broux"
At the first word I wheeled around. In the court entrance stood
Yeux-gris, smiling and debonair. He had laid aside his sword, and held
on his left arm a basket containing a loaf of bread, a roast capon, and
some bottles, for all the world like an honest prentice doing his
master's errand.
"Yes, I am back!" I shouted. "Back to kill you, parricide!"
He had a knife in his belt; the fight was even. I was upon him, my
dagger raised to strike. He made no motion to draw, and I remembered in
a flash he could not: his right arm was powerless. He sprang back,
flinging up his burdened left as a shield, and my blade buried itself in
the side of the basket.
As I stabbed I heard feet thundering down the stairs within. I jerked my
knife from the wicker and turned to face this new enemy. "Grammont," I
thought, and that my end had come.
The door flew open and, shoulder to shoulder like brothers, out rushed
Grammont and--Lucas!
My fear was drowned in amaze. I forgot to run and stood staring in
sheer, blank bewilderment. Crying "Damned traitor!" Gervais, with drawn
sword, charged at me.
I had only the little dagger. I owe my life to Yeux-gris's quick wits
and no less quick fingers. Dropping the basket, he snatched a bottle
from it and hurled it at Gervais.
"Ware, Grammont!" shouted Lucas, springing forward. But the missile flew
too quickly. It struck Grammont square on the forehead, and he went down
like a slaughtered ox.
We looked, not at him, but at Lucas--Lucas, the duke's deferential
servant, the coward and skulker, Grammont's hatred, standing here by
Grammont's side, glaring at us over his naked sword.
I saw in one glance that Yeux-gris was no less astounded than I, and
from that instant, though the inwardness of the matter was still a
riddle to me, my heart acquitted him of all dishonesty, of all
complicity. His was not the face of a parricide.
"Lucas!" he cried, in a dearth of words. "_Lucas!_"
I was staring at Lucas in thick bewilderment. The man was transformed
from the one I knew. At M. le Duc's he had been pale, nervous, and
shaken--senselessly and contemptibly scared, as I thought, since he was
warned of the danger and need not face it. But now he was another man. I
can think only of those lanterns I have seen, set with coloured glass.
They look dull enough all day, but when the taper within is lighted
shine like jewels. So Lucas now. His face, so keen and handsome of
feature, was brilliant, his eyes sparkling, his figure instinct with
defiance. A smile crossed his face.
"Aye," he answered evenly, "it is Lucas."
M. le Comte appeared to be in a state of stupor. He could not for a
space find his tongue to demand:
"How, in the name of Heaven, come you here?"
"To fight Grammont," Lucas answered at once.
"A lie!" I shouted. "You're Grammont's friend. You came here to warn him
off. It's your plot!"
"Félix! The plot?" Yeux-gris cried.
"The plot's to murder Monsieur. Martin let it out. I thought it was you
and Grammont. But it's Lucas and Grammont!"
Lucas hesitated. Even now he debated whether he could not lie out of it.
Then he burst into laughter.
"It seems the cat's out of the bag. Aye, M. le Comte de Mar, I came to
warn Grammont off. The duke will be here straightway. How will you like
to swing for parricide?"
Yeux-gris stared at him, neither in fear nor in fury, but in utter
stupefaction.
"But Gervais? He plotted with you? But he hates you!"
We gaped at Lucas like yokels at a conjurer. He made us no answer but
looked from one to the other of us with the alertness of an angry viper.
We were two, but without swords. I knew he was thinking how easiest to
end us both.
M. le Comte cried: "You! You come from Navarre's camp, from M. de
Rosny!"
"Aye. I have outwitted more than one man."
"Mordieu! I was right to hate you!"
Lucas laughed. Yeux-gris blazed out:
"Traitor and thief! You stole the money. I said that from the first. You
drove us from the house. How you and Grammont--"
"Came together? Very simple," Lucas answered with easy insolence.
"Grammont did not love Monsieur, your honoured father. It was child's
play to make an assignation with him and to lament the part forced on me
by Monsieur. Grammont was ready enough to scent a scheme of M. le Duc's
to ruin him. He had said as much to Monsieur, as you may deign to
remember."
"Aye," said M. le Comte, still like a puzzled child, "he was angry with
my father. But afterward he changed his mind. He knew it was you, and
only you."
Lucas broke again into derisive laughter.
"M. de Grammont is as dull a dolt as ever I met, yet clever enough to
gull you. He thought you must suspect. I dreaded it--needlessly. You
wise St. Quentins! You cannot see what goes on under your very nose."