"No," she answered; "I had got you into this by my foolishness; I must
needs try to get you out by my wits. Brie, the one who took you by the
throat--there has been bad blood between him and your lord this
twelvemonth; only last May M. le Comte ran him through the wrist. Had I
interfered for you," she said, colouring a little, "M. de Brie would
have inferred interest in the master from that in the man, and he had
seen to your beating himself."
It suddenly dawned on me that this M. de Brie was the "little cheese" of
guard-room gossip. And I thought that the gentleman would hardly display
so much venom against M. Étienne unless he were a serious obstacle to
his hopes. Nor would mademoiselle be here at midnight, weeping over a
serving-lad, if she cared nothing for the master. If she had not worn
her heart on her sleeve before the laughing salon, mayhap she would show
it to me.
"Mademoiselle," I cried, "when the billet was brought him M. Étienne
rose from his bed at once to come. But he was faint from fatigue and
loss of blood; he could not walk across the room. But he bade me try to
make mademoiselle believe his absence was no fault of his. He wrote her
a month ago; he found to-day the letter was never delivered."
"Is he hurt dangerously?"
"No," I admitted reluctantly; "no, I think not. He was wounded in the
right forearm, and again pinked in the shoulder; but he will recover."
"You said," she went on, the tears standing in her eyes, "that he was
penniless. I have not much, but what I have is freely his."
She advanced upon me holding out her silken purse which she had taken
from her bosom; but I retreated.
"No, no, mademoiselle," I cried, ashamed of my hot words; "we are not
penniless--or if we are, we get on very well sans le sou. They do
everything for monsieur at the Trois Lanternes, and he has only to
return to the Hôtel St. Quentin to get all the gold pieces he can spend.
Oh, no; we are in no want, mademoiselle. I was angry when I said it; I
did not mean it. I cry mademoiselle's pardon."
She looked at me a little hesitatingly.
"You are telling me true?"
"Why, yes, mademoiselle; if my monsieur needed money, indeed, indeed, I
would not refuse it."
"Then if you cannot take it for him, you can take it for yourself. It
will be strange if in all Paris you cannot find something you like as a
token from me." With her own white fingers she slipped some tinkling
coins into my pouch, and cut short my thanks with the little wailing
cry:
"Oh, your poor, bound hands! I have my poniard in my dress. I could free
them in a second. But if they knew I had been here with you they never
will let you go."
"If mademoiselle is running into danger staying here, I pray her to go
back to bed. M. Étienne did not send me hither to bring her grief and
trouble."
"Who are you?" she asked me abruptly. "You have never been here before
on monsieur's errands?"
"No, mademoiselle; I came up only yesterday from Picardie. I belong on
the St. Quentin estate. My name is Félix Broux."
"Alack, you have chosen a bad time to visit Paris!"
"I came up to see life," I said, "and mordieu! I am seeing it."
"I pray God you may not see death, too," she answered soberly.
She stood looking at me helplessly.
"I am in my lord's black books," she said slowly, as if to herself; "but
I might weep François de Brie's rough heart to softness. Then it is a
question whether he could turn Mayenne. I wish I knew whether the duke
himself or only Paul de Lorraine has planned this move to-night. That
is," she added, blushing, but speaking out candidly, "whether they
attack M. de Mar as the League's enemy or as my lover."
"This M. Paul de Lorraine," said I, speaking as respectfully as I knew
how, but eager to find out all I could for M. Étienne--"this M. de
Lorraine is mademoiselle's lover, too?"
She shrugged her shoulders, neither assenting nor denying. "We are all
pawns in the game for M. de Mayenne to push about as he chooses. For a
time M. de Mar was high in his favour. Then my cousin Paul came back
after a two years' disappearance, and straightway he was up and M. de
Mar was down. And then Paul vanished again as suddenly as he had come,
and it became the turn of M. de Brie. Now to-night Paul walked in as
suddenly as he had left and at once played on me to write that unlucky
letter. And what it bodes for _him_ I know not."
She spoke with amazing frankness; yet, much as she had told me, the fact
of her telling it told me even more. I saw that she was as lonely in
this great house as I had been at St. Quentin. She would have talked
delightedly to M. le Comte's dog.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I would like well to tell you what has been
happening to my M. Étienne this last month, if you are not afraid to
stay long enough to hear it."
"Oh, every one is asleep long ago; it is past two o'clock. Yes, you may
tell me if you wish."
She sat down on a praying-cushion, motioning me to the other, and I
began my tale. At first she listened with a little air of languor, as if
the whole were of slight consequence and she really did not care at all
what M. le Comte had been about these five weeks. But as I got into the
affair of the Rue Coupejarrets she forgot her indifference and leaned
forward with burning cheeks, hanging on my words with eager questions.
And when I told her how Lucas had evaded us in the darkness, she cried:
"Blessed Virgin! M. de Mar has enough to contend with in this Lucas,
without Paul de Lorraine, and Brie, and the Duke of Mayenne himself."