"And she--"
"Is cousin and ward to the Duke of Mayenne. Yes, and my heart's desire."
"Monsieur--"
"Aye, you begin to see it now," he cried vehemently. "You see why I have
stuck to Paris these three years, why I could not follow my father into
exile. It was more than a handful of pistoles caused the breach with
Monsieur; more than a quarrel over Gervais de Grammont. That was the
spark kindled the powder, but the train was laid."
"Then you, monsieur, were a Leaguer?"
"Nay, I was not!" he cried. "To my credit,--or my shame, as you
choose,--I was not. I was neither one nor the other, neither fish nor
flesh. My father thought me a Leaguer, but I was not. I was not
disloyal, in deed at least, to the house that bore me. Monsieur reviled
me for a skulker, a fainéant; nom de diable, he might have remembered
his own three years of idleness!"
"Monsieur held out for his religion--"
"Mademoiselle is my religion," he cried, and then laughed, not merrily.
"Pardieu! for all my pains I have not won her. I have skulked and evaded
and temporized--for nothing. I would not join the League and break my
father's heart; would not stand out against it and lose Lorance. I have
been trying these three years to please both the goat and the
cabbage--with the usual ending. I have pleased nobody. I am out of
Mayenne's books: he made me overtures and I refused him. I am out of my
father's books: he thinks me a traitor and parricide. And I am out of
mademoiselle's: she despises me for a laggard. Had I gone in with
Mayenne I had won her. Had I gone with Monsieur I was sure of a command
in King Henry's army. But I, wanting both, get neither. Between two
stools, I fall miserably to the ground. I am but a dawdler, a
do-nothing, the butt and laughing-stock of all brave men.
"But I am done with shilly-shally!" he added, catching his breath. "For
once I shall do something. Mlle. de Montluc has given me a last chance.
She has sent for me, and I go. If I fall dead on her threshold, I at
least die looking at her."
"Monsieur, monsieur," I cried in despair, "you will not die looking at
her, for you will die out here in the street, and that will profit
neither you nor her, but only Lucas and his crew."
"That is as may be. At least I make the attempt. A month back I sent her
a letter. I found it to-night in Lucas's doublet. She thinks me careless
of her. I must go."
"Monsieur, you are mad," I cried. "You have said yourself Mayenne is
likely to be behind Lucas. If you go you do but walk into the enemies'
very jaws. It is a trap, a lure."
"Félix, beware what you say!" he interrupted with quick-blazing ire. "I
do not permit such words to be spoken in connection with Mlle. de
Montluc."
"But, monsieur--"
"Silence!" he commanded in a voice as sharp as crack of pistolet. The
St. Quentins had ever the most abundant faith in those they loved. I
remembered how Monsieur in just such a blaze of resentment had forbidden
me to speak ill of his son. And I remembered, too, that Monsieur's faith
had been justified and that my accusations were lies. Natheless, I
liked not the look of this affair, and I attempted further warnings.
"Monsieur, in my opinion--"
"You are not here to hold opinions, Félix, but your tongue."
I did, at that, and stood back from the bed to let him do as it liked
him. He rose and went over to the chair where his clothes lay, only to
drop into it half swooning. I ran to the ewer and dashed half the water
in it into his face.
"Peste, you need not drown me!" he cried testily. "I am well; it was but
a moment's dizziness." He got up again at once, but was forced to seize
my shoulder to keep from falling.
"It was that damnable potion he made me drink," he muttered. "I am all
well else; I am not weak. Curse the room; it reels about like a ship at
sea."
I put my arm about him and led him back to bed; nor did he argue about
it but lay back with his eyes shut, so white against the white bed-linen
I thought him fainted for sure. But before I could drench him again he
raised his lids.
"Félix, will you go get a shutter? For I see clearly that I shall reach
Mlle. de Montluc this night in no other way."
"Monsieur," I said, "I can go. I can tell your mistress you cannot walk
across this room to-night. I can do my best for you, M. Étienne."
"My faith! I think I must e'en let you try. But what to bid you say to
her--pardieu! I scarce know what I could say to her myself."
"I can tell her how sorely you are hurt--how you would come, but
cannot."
"And make her believe it," he cried eagerly. "Do not let her think it a
flimsy excuse. And yet I do think she will believe you," he added, with
half a laugh. "There is something very trust-compelling about you,
Félix. And assure her of my lifelong, never-failing service."
"But I thought monsieur was going to take service with Henry of
Navarre."
"I was!" he cried. "I am! Oh, Félix, was ever a poor wight so harried
and torn betwixt two as I? Whom Jupiter would destroy he first makes
mad. I shall be gibbering in a cage before I have done with it."
"Monsieur will be gibbering in his bed unless he sleeps soon. I go now,
monsieur."
"And good luck to you! Félix, I offer you no reward for this midnight
journey into the house of our enemies. For recompense you will see her."