_To the Bastille._
But Vigo proved better than his word. If he would give us no
countenance, he gave freely good broad gold pieces. He himself suggested
M. Étienne's need of the sinews of war, not in the least embarrassed or
offended because he knew M. le Comte to be angry with him. He was no
feather ruffled, serene in the consciousness that he was absolutely in
the right. His position was impregnable; neither persuasion, ridicule,
nor abuse moved him one whit. He had but a single purpose in life; he
was born to forward the interests of the Duke of St. Quentin. He would
forward them, if need were, over our bleeding corpses.
On top of all his disobedience and disrespect he was most amiable to M.
Étienne, treating him with a calm assumption of friendliness that would
have maddened a saint. Yet it was not hypocrisy; he liked his young
lord, as we all did. He would not let him imperil Monsieur, but aside
from that he wished him every good fortune in the world.
M. Étienne argued no more. He was wroth and sore over Vigo's attitude,
but he said little. He accepted the advance of money--"Of course
Monsieur would say, What coin is his is yours," Vigo explained--and
despatched me to settle his score at the Three Lanterns.
I set out on my errand rather down in the mouth. We had accomplished
nothing by our return to the hôtel. Nay, rather had we lost, for we were
both of us, I thought, disheartened by the cold water flung on our
ambitions. I took the liberty of doubting whether perfect loyalty to
Monsieur included thwarting and disobeying his heir. It was all very
well for Monsieur to spoil Vigo and let him speak his mind as became not
his station, for Vigo never disobeyed _him_, but stood by him in all
things. But I imagined that, were M. Étienne master, Vigo, for all his
years of service, would be packed off the premises in short order.
I walked along in a brown study, wondering how M. Étienne did purpose to
rescue mademoiselle. His scheme, so far as vouchsafed to me, was
somewhat in the air. I could only hope he had more in his mind than he
had let me know. It seemed to me a pity not to be doing something in the
matter, and though I had no particular liking for Hôtel de Lorraine
hospitality, I had very willingly been bound thither at this moment to
try to get a letter to mademoiselle. But he would not send me.
"No," he had said, "it won't do. Think of something better, Félix."
But I could not, and so was taking my dull way to the inn of the Trois
Lanternes.
The city wore a sleepy afternoon look. It was very hot, and few cared
to be stirring. I saw nothing worth my notice until, only a stone's
throw from the Three Lanterns, I came upon a big black coach standing at
the door of a rival auberge, L'Oie d'Or. It aroused my interest at once,
for a travelling-coach was a rare sight in the beleaguered city. As my
master had said, this was not a time of pleasure-trips to Paris. I
readily imagined that the owner of this chariot came on weighty business
indeed. He might be an ambassador from Spain, a legate from Rome.
I paused by the group of street urchins who were stroking the horses and
clambering on the back of the coach, to wonder whether it would be worth
while to wait and see the dignitary come out. I was just going to ask
the coachman a question or two concerning his journey, when he began to
snap his whip about the bare legs of the little whelps. The street was
so narrow that he could hardly chastise them without danger to me, so it
seemed best to saunter off. The screaming urchins stopped just out of
the reach of his lash and set to pelting mud at him with a right good
will, but I was too old for that game. I reflected that I was charged
with business for my master, and that it was nothing to me what envoys
might come to Mayenne. I went on into the Three Lanterns.
The cabaret was absolutely deserted; one might have walked all about and
carried off what he pleased, as from the sleeping palace in the tale.
"This is a pretty way to keep an inn," I thought. "Where have all the
lazy rascals got to?" Then I heard a confused murmur of voices and
shuffle of feet from the back, and I went through into the passage where
the staircase was.
Here were gathered, in a huddle, like scared sheep, some dozen of the
serving-folk, men and maids, the lasses most of them in tears, the men
looking scarce less terrified. Their gaze was fixed on the closed door
of Maître Menard's little counting-room, whence issued the shrill cry:
"Spare me, noble gentlemen! Spare a poor innkeeper! I swear I know
nothing of his whereabouts."
As my footsteps sounded on the threshold, one and all spun round to look
at me in fresh dread.
"Mon dieu, it is his lackey!" a chambermaid cried. In the next second a
little wiry dame, her eyes blazing with fury, darted out of the group
and seized me by the arm with a grip of her nails that made me think a
panther had got me.
"So here you are," she screamed. I declare I thought she was going to
bite me. "Oh-h-h, you and your fine master, that come here and devour
our substance and never pay one sou, but bring ruin to the house! Now,
go you straight in there and let them squeeze your throat awhile, and
see how you like it yourself!"
She swept me across the passage like a whirlwind, opened the door,
shoved me in, and banged it after me before I could collect my senses.
The room was small; it was very well filled up by a bureau, a strong
box, a table, two chairs, three soldiers, one innkeeper, and myself.
The bureau stood by the window, with Maître Menard's account-books on
it. Opposite was the table, with a captain of dragoons on it. Of his two
men, one took the middle of the room, amusing himself with the windpipe
of Maître Menard; the other was posted at the door. I was shot out of
Mme. Menard's grasp into his, and I found his the gentler of the two.
"I say I know not where he went," Maître Menard was gasping, black in
the face from the dragoon's attentions. "He did not tell--I have no
notion. Ah--" The breath failed him utterly, but his eyes, bloodshot and
bulging, rolled toward me.
"What now?" the captain cried, springing to his feet. "Who are you?"
He wore under his breastplate what I took to be the uniform of the city
guards. I had seen the like on the officer of the gate the night I
entered Paris. He was a young man of a decidedly bourgeois appearance,
as if he were not much, outside of his uniform.
"My name is Félix Broux," I said. "I came to pay a bill--"
"His servant," Maître Menard contrived to murmur, the dragoon allowing
him a breath.
"Oh, you are the Comte de Mar's servant, are you? Where have you left
your master?"
"What do you want of him?" I asked in turn.
"Never you mind. I want him."
"But Mayenne said he should not be touched," I cried. "The Duke of
Mayenne said himself he should not be touched."
"I know nothing about that," he returned, a trifle more civilly than he
had spoken. "I have naught to do with the Duke of Mayenne. If he is
friends with your master, M. de Mar may not stay behind bars very long.
But I have the governor's warrant for his arrest."
"On what charge?"
"A trifle. Merely murder."
"_Murder?_"
"Yes, the murder of a lackey, one Pontou."
"But that is ridiculous!" I cried. "M. le Comte did not--"
I came to a halt, not knowing what to say. "Lucas--Paul de Lorraine
killed him," was on the tip of my tongue, but I choked it down. To fling
wild accusations against a great man's man were no wisdom. By accident I
had given the officer the impression that we were friends of Mayenne. I
should do ill to imperil the delusion. "M. le Comte--" I began again,
and again stopped. I meant to say that monsieur had never left the inn
last night; he could have had no hand in the crime. Then I bethought me
that I had better not know the hour of the murder. "M. le Comte is a
very grand gentleman; he would not murder a lackey," I got out at last.
"You can tell that to the judges," the captain rejoined.
At this I felt ice sliding down my spine. To be arrested as a witness
was the last thing I desired.
"I know nothing whatever about it," I cried. "He seemed to me a very
fine gentleman. But you can't always tell about these nobles. The Comte
de Mar, I've only known him twenty-four hours. Until he engaged me as
lackey, yesterday afternoon, I had never laid eyes on him. I know not
what he has been about. He engaged me yesterday to carry a message for
him to the Hôtel St. Quentin. I came into Paris but night before last,
and put up at the Amour de Dieu in the Rue Coupejarrets. Yesterday he
employed me to run his errands, and last night brought me here with him.
But I had never seen him till this time yesterday. I know nothing about
him save that he seemed a very free-handed, easy master."
To a nice ear I might have seemed a little too voluble, but the captain
only laughed at my patent fright.
"Oh, you need not look so whey-faced; I have no warrant for your arrest.
I dare say you are as great a rogue as he, but the order says nothing
about you. Don't swoon away; you are in no peril."
I was stung to be thought such a craven, but I pocketed the insult, and
merely answered:
"I assure you, monsieur, I know naught of the matter." Yesterday I would
have blurted out to him the whole truth; decidedly my experiences were
teaching me something.
"Come now, I can't fool about here all day," he said impatiently. "Tell
me where that precious master of yours is now. And be quicker about it
than this old mule."
Maître Menard, then, had told them nothing--staunch old loyalist. He
knew perfectly that M. le Comte had gone home, and they had throttled
him, and yet he had not told. Well, he should not lose by it.
"Monsieur is about the streets somewhere. On my life, I know not where.
But I know he will be back here to supper."
"Oh, you don't know, don't you? Then perhaps Gaspard can quicken your
memory."
At the word the soldier who had attended to Maître Menard came over to
me and taught me how it feels to be hanged. I said to myself that if I
had talked like a dastard I was not one, and every time he let me speak
I gasped, "I don't know." The room was black to me, and the sea roared
in my ears, and I wondered whether I had done well to tell the lie. For
had I said that my master was in the Hôtel St Quentin, still those
fellows would have found it no easy job to take him. Vigo might not be
ready to defend Mlle. de Montluc, but he would defend Monsieur's heir to
the last gasp. Yet I would not yield before the choking Maître Menard
had withstood, and I stuck to my lie.
Then I bethought me, while the room reeled about me and my head seemed
like to burst, that perchance if they should keep me here a captive for
M. le Comte's arrival he might really follow to see what had become of
me. I turned sick with the fear of it, and resolved on the truth. But
Gaspard's last gullet-gripe had robbed me of the power to speak. I could
only pant and choke. As I struggled painfully for wind, the door was
flung open before a tall young man in black. Through the haze that hung
before my vision I saw the soldier seize him as he crossed the
threshold. Through the noise of waters I heard the captain's cry of
triumph.
"Oh, M. Étienne!" I gasped, in agony that my pain had been for nothing.
Now all was lost. Then the blur lifted, and my amazed eyes beheld not my
master, but--Lucas!
"How now, sirrah?" he cried to the dragoon. "Hands off me, knaves!" For
the second soldier had seized his other arm.
"I regret to inconvenience monsieur," the captain answered, "but he is
wanted at the Bastille."
"Wanted? I?" Lucas cried, fear flashing into his eyes.
He felt an instant's terror, I deem, lest Mayenne had betrayed him.
Quick as he was, he did not see that he had been taken for another man.
"You, monsieur. You are wanted for the murder of your man, Pontou."
He grew white, looking instinctively at me, remembering where I had been
at three o'clock this morning.
"It is a lie! He left my service a month back and I have never seen him
since."
"Tell that to the judges," the captain said, as he had said to me. "I am
not trying you. The handcuffs, men."
One of them produced a pair. Lucas struggled frantically in his captors'
grasp. He dragged them from one end of the room to the other, calling
down all the curses of Heaven upon them; but they snapped the handcuffs
on for all that.
"If this is Mayenne's work--" he panted.
The officer caught nothing but the name Mayenne.
"The boy said you were a friend to his Grace, monsieur, but orders are
orders. I have the warrant for your arrest from M. de Belin."
"At whose instigation?"
"How should I know'? I am a soldier of the guard. I have naught to do
with it but to arrest you."
"Let me see the warrant."
"I am not obliged to. But I will, though. It may quiet your bluster."
He took out the warrant and held it at a safe distance before Lucas's
eyes. A great light broke in on that personage.
"Mille tonnerres! I am not the Comte de Mar!"
"Oh, you say that now, do you? Pity you had not thought of it sooner."
"But I am not the Comte de Mar! I am Paul de Lorraine, nephew to my Lord
Mayenne."
"Why don't you say straight out that you're the Duc de Guise?"
"I am not the Due de Guise," Lucas returned with dignity. He must have
been cursing himself that he had not given his name sooner. "But I am
his brother."
"You take me for a fool."
"Aye, who shall hang for his folly!"
"You must think me a fool," the captain repeated. "The Duke of Guise's
eldest brother is but seventeen--"
"I did not say I was legitimate."
"Oh, you did not say that? You did not know, then, that I could reel off
the ages of every Lorraine of them all. No, M. de Mar, I am not so
simple as you think. You will come along with me to the Bastille."
"Blockhead! I'll have you broken on the wheel for this," Lucas stormed.
"I am no more Count of Mar than I am King of Spain. Speak up, you old
turnspit," he shouted to Maître Menard. "Am I he?"
Poor Maître Menard had dropped down on his iron box, too limp and sick
to know what was going on. He only stared helplessly.
"Speak, rascal," Lucas cried. "Am I Comte de Mar?"
"No," the maître answered in low, faltering tones. He was at the last
point of pain and fear. "No, monsieur officer, it is as he says. He is
not the Comte de Mar."
"Who is he, then?"
"I know not," the maître stammered. "He came here last night. But it is
as he says--he is not the Comte de Mar."
"Take care, mine host," the officer returned; "you're lying."
I could not wonder at him; if I had not been in a position to know
otherwise, I had thought myself the maître was lying.
"If you had spoken at first I might have believed you," the captain
said, bestowing a kick on him. "Get out of here, old ass, before I cram
your lie down your throat. And clear your people away from this door.
I'll not walk through a mob. Send every man Jack about his business, or
it will be the worse for him. And every woman Jill, too."
"M. le Capitaine," Maître Menard quavered, rising unsteadily to his
feet, "you make a mistake. On my sacred word, you mistake; this is
not--"
"Get out!" cried the captain, helping him along with his boot. Maître
Menard fell rather than walked out of the door.
A gray hue came over Lucas's face. His first fright had given way to
fury at perceiving himself the victim of a mistake, but now alarm was
born in his eyes again. Was it, after all, a mistake? This obstinate
disbelief in his assertion, this ordering away of all who could swear to
his identity--was it not rather a plot for his ruin? He swallowed hard
once or twice, fear gripping his throat harder than ever the dragoon's
fingers had gripped mine. Certainly he was not the Comte de Mar; but
then he was the man who had killed Pontou.
"If this is a plot against me, say so!" he cried. "If you have orders to
arrest me, do so. But arrest me by the name of Paul de Lorraine, not of
Étienne de Mar."
"The name of Étienne de Mar will do," the captain returned; "we have no
fancy for aliases at the Bastille."
"It is a plot!" Lucas cried.
"It is a warrant; that is all I know about it"
"But I am not Comte de Mar," Lucas repeated.
His uneasy conscience had numbed his wits. In his dread of a plot he had
done little to dissipate an error. But now he pulled himself together;
error or intention, he would act as if he knew it must be error.
"My captain, you have made a mistake likely to cost you your
shoulder-straps. I tell you I am not Mar; the landlord, who knows him
well, tells you I am not Mar. Ask those who know M. de Mar; ask these
inn people. They will one and all tell you I am not he. Ask that boy
there; even he dares not say to my face that I am."
His eyes met mine, and I could see that, even in the moment of
challenging me, he repented. He believed that I would give the lie. But
the dragoon who was bending over him, relieving him of his sword-belt,
spared me the necessity.
"Captain, you need give yourself no uneasiness; this is the Comte right
enough. I live in the Quartier Marais, and I have seen this gentleman a
score of times riding with M. de St. Quentin."
Lucas, at this unexpected testimony, looked so taken aback that the
captain burst out laughing.
"Yes, my dear monsieur, it is a little hard for M. de Mayenne's
nephew--you are a nephew, are you not?--to explain how he comes to ride
with the Duc de St. Quentin."
It was awkward to explain. Lucas, knowing well that there was no future
for him who betrayed the Generalissimo's secrets, cried out angrily:
"He lies! I never rode out with M. de St. Quentin."
"Oh, come now. Really you waste a great deal of breath," the captain
said. "I regret the cruel necessity of arresting you, M. de Mar; but
there is nothing gained by blustering about it. I usually know what I am
about."
"You do not know! Nom de dieu, you do not know. Félix Broux, speak up
there. If you have told him behind my back that I am Étienne de Mar, I
defy you to say it to my face."
"I know nothing about it, messieurs." I repeated my little refrain.
"Monsieur captain, remember, if you please, I never saw him till
yesterday; he may be Paul de Lorraine for all I know. But he did not
call himself that yesterday."
"You hell-hound!" Lucas cried.
"Go tell Louis to drive up to the cabaret door, Gaspard," bade the
captain.
Lucas gazed at him as if to tear out of him the truth of the matter. I
think he was still a prey to suspicion of a plot in this, and it
paralyzed his tongue. He so reeked with intrigue that he smelled one
wherever he went. He was much too clever to believe that this arresting
officer was simply thick-witted.
"I say no more," he cried. "You may spare yourself your lies, the whole
crew of you. I go as your prisoner, but I go as Paul of Lorraine, son of
Henry, Duke of Guise."
He said it with a certain superbness; but the young captain, bourgeois
of the bourgeois, did not mean to let himself be put down by any sprig
of the noblesse.
"Certainly, if it is any comfort to you," he retorted. "But you are very
dull, monsieur, not to be aware that your identity is known perfectly
to others besides your lackey here and my man. I did not come to arrest
you without a minute description of you from M. de Belin himself."
"Ventre bleu!" Lucas shouted. "I wrote the description. I myself lodged
information against Mar. I came here to make sure you took him. Carry me
before Belin; he will know me."
I trembled lest the officer could not but see that the man spoke truth.
But I had no need to fear; there is a combination of stupidity and
vanity which nothing can move.
"I have no orders to take you to M. de Belin," he returned calmly. "So
you wrote the description, did you? Perhaps you will deny that it fits
you?"
He read from the paper:
"'Charles-André-Étienne-Marie de St. Quentin, Comte de Mar. Age,
three-and-twenty; figure, tall and slender; was dressed yesterday in
black with a plain falling-band; carries his right arm in a sling--"
"Is my arm in a sling?" Lucas demanded.
"No, in a handcuff," the captain laughed, at the same moment that his
dragoon exclaimed, "His right wrist is bandaged, though."
"That is nothing! It is a mere scratch. I did it myself last night by
accident," Lucas shouted, striving with his hampered left hand to pull
the folds apart to show it. But he could not, and fell silent,
wide-eyed, like one who sees the net of fate drawing in about him. The
captain went on reading from his little paper:
[Illustration: "HE WAS DEPOSITED IN THE BIG BLACK COACH."]
"'Fair hair, gray eyes, aquiline nose'--I suppose you will still tell
us, monsieur, that you are not the man?"
"I am not he. The Comte de Mar and I are nothing alike. We are both
young, tall, yes; but that is all. He is slashed all up the forearm; my
wrist is but scratched with a knife-edge. He has yellow hair; mine is
brown. His eyes--"
"It is plain to me, monsieur," the officer interrupted, "that the
description fits you in every particular." And so it did.
I, who had heard M. Étienne described twenty times, had yesterday
mistaken Lucas for him; the same items served for both. It was the more
remarkable because they actually looked no more alike than chalk and
cheese. Lucas had set down his catalogue without a thought that he was
drawing his own picture. If ever hunter was caught in his own gin, Lucas
was!
"You lie!" he cried furiously. "You know I am not Mar. You lie, the
whole pack of you!"
"Gag him, Ravelle," the captain commanded with an angry flush.
"I demand to be taken before M. de Belin!" Lucas shouted.
The next moment the soldier had twisted a handkerchief about his mouth.
"Ready?" the captain asked of Gaspard, who had come back just in time to
aid in the throttling. "Move on, then."
He led the way out, the two dragoons following with their prisoner. And
this time Lucas's fertile wits failed him. He did not slip from his
captors' fingers between the room and the street. He was deposited in
the big black coach that had aroused my wonder. Louis cracked his whip
and off they rumbled.