XX

_"On guard, monsieur."_

We found ourselves in a narrow panelled passageway, lighted by a

flickering oil-lamp pendent from a bracket. Confronting us was our

preserver--a little old lady in black velvet, leaning back in chuckling

triumph against the shot bolts.

She was very small and very old. Her figure was bent and shrunken, a

pitiful little bag of bones in a rich dress; her hair was as white as

her ruff; her skin as yellow and dry as parchment, furrowed with a

thousand wrinkles; but her black eyes sparkled like a girl's.

"I did not mean to let my nightingale's throat be slit," she cried in a

shrill voice quavering like a young child's. "I have listened to your

singing many a night, monsieur; I was glad to-night to find the

nightingale back again. When I saw that crew rush at you, I said I would

save you if only you would put your back to my door. Monsieur, you are a

young man of intelligence."

"I am a young man of amazing good fortune, madame," M. Étienne replied,

with his handsomest bow, sheathing his wet blade. "I owe you a debt of

gratitude which is ill repaid in the base coin of bringing trouble to

this house."

"Not at all--not at all!" she protested with animation. "No one is

likely to molest this house. It is the dwelling of M. Ferou."

"Of the Sixteen?"

"Of the Sixteen," she nodded, her shrewd face agleam with mischief. "In

truth, if my son were within, you were little likely to find harbourage

here. But, as it is, he and his wife are supping with his Grace of

Lyons. And the servants are one and all gone to mass, leaving madame

grand'mère to shift for herself. No, no, my good friends; you may knock

till you drop, but you won't get in."

The attacking party was indeed hammering energetically on the door,

shouting to us to open, to deny them at our peril. The eyes of the old

lady glittered with new delight at every rap.

"I fancy they will think twice before they batter down M. Ferou's door!

Ma foi! I fancy they are a little mystified at finding you sanctuaried

in this house. Was it not my Lord Mayenne's jackal, François de Brie?"

"Yes; and Marc Latour."

"I thought I knew them," she cried in evident pride at her sharpness.

"It was dark, and they were masked, and my eyes are old, but I knew

them! And which of the ladies is it?"

He could do no less than answer his saviour.

"Ah, well," she said, with a little sigh, "I too once--but that is a

long time ago." Then her eyes twinkled again; I trow she was not much

given to sighing. "That is a long time ago," she repeated briskly, "and

now they think I am too old to do aught but tell my beads and wait for

death. But I like to have a hand in the game."

"I will come to take a hand with you any time, madame," M. Étienne

assured her. "I like the way you play."

She broke into shrill, delighted laughter.

"I'll warrant you do! And I don't mean to do the thing by halves. No; I

shall save you, hide and hair. Be so kind, my lad, as to lift the

lantern from the hook."

I did as she bade me, and we followed her down the passage like

spaniels. She was so entirely equal to the situation that we made no

protests and asked no questions. At the end of the hall she paused,

opening neither the door on the right nor the door on the left, but,

passing her hand up one of the panels of the wainscot, suddenly she

flung it wide.

"You are not so small as I," she chuckled, "yet I think you can make

shift to get through. You, monsieur lantern-bearer, go first."

I doubled myself up and scrambled through. The old lady, gathering her

petticoats daintily, followed me without difficulty, but M. Étienne was

put to some trouble to bow his tall head low enough. We stood at the top

of a flight of stone steps descending into blackness. The old lady

unhesitatingly tripped down before us.

At the foot of the stairs was a vaulted stone passageway, slippery with

lichen, the dampness hanging in beads on the wall. Turning two corners,

we brought up at a narrow, nail-studded door.

"Here I bid you farewell," quoth the little old lady. "You have only to

walk on till you get to the end. At the steps, pull the rope once and

wait. When he opens to you, say, 'For the Cause,' and draw a crown with

your finger in the air."

"Madame," M. Étienne cried, "I hope the day may come when I shall make

you suitable acknowledgements. My name--"

"I prefer not to know it," she interrupted, glancing up at him. "I will

call you M. Yeux-gris; that is enough. As for acknowledgments--pooh! I

am overpaid in the sport it has been."

"But, madame, when monsieur your son discovers--"

"Mon dieu! I am not afraid of my son or of any other woman's son!" she

cried, with cackling laughter. And I warrant she was not.

"Madame," M. Étienne said, "I trust we shall meet again when I shall

have time to tell you what I think of you." He dropped on his knees

before her, kissing both her hands.

"Yes, yes, of course you are grateful," she said, somewhat bored

apparently by his demonstration. "Naturally one does not like to die at

your age. I wish you a pleasant journey, M. Yeux-gris, and you too, you

fresh-faced boy. Give me back my lantern and fare you well."

"You will let us see you safe back in your hall."

"I will do nothing of the sort! I am not so decrepit, thank you, that I

cannot get up my own stairs. No, no; no more gallantries, but get on

your way! Begone with you! I must be back in my chamber working my

altar-cloth when my daughter-in-law comes home."

Crowing her elfin laugh, she pulled the door open and fairly hustled us

through.

"Good-by--you are fine boys"; and she slammed the door upon us. We were

in absolute darkness. As we took our first breath of the dank, foul air,

we heard bolts snap into place.

"Well, since we cannot go back, let us go forward," said M. Étienne,

cheerfully. "I am glad she has bolted the door; it is to throw them off

the scent should they track us."

I knew very well that he was not at all glad; that the same thought

which chilled my blood had come to him. This little beldam, with her

beady eyes and her laughter, was the wicked witch of our childhood days;

she had shut us up in a charnel-house to die.

I heard him tapping the pavement before him with his scabbard, using it

as a blind man's staff. And so we advanced through the fetid gloom, the

passage being only wide enough to let us walk shoulder to shoulder.

There was a whirring of wings about us, and a squeaking; once something

swooped square into my face, knocking a cry of terror from me, and a

laugh from him.

"What was it? a bat? Cheer up, Félix; they don't bite." But I would not

go on till I had made sure, as well as I could without seeing, that the

cursed thing was not clinging on me somewhere.

We walked on then in silence, the stone walls vibrant with our tread.

We went on till it seemed we had traversed the width of Paris; and I

wondered who were sleeping and feasting and scheming and loving over our

heads. M. Étienne said at length:

"Mordieu! I hope this snake-hole does not empty us out into the Seine."

But I thought that as long as it emptied us out somewhere, I should not

greatly mind the Seine.

At this very moment M. Étienne clutched my arm, jerking me to a halt. I

bounded backward, trying in the blackness to discern a precipice yawning

at my feet. "Look!" he cried in a low, tense voice. I perceived, far

before us in the gloom, a point of light, which, as we watched it, grew

bigger and bigger, till it became an approaching lantern.

"This is like to be awkward," murmured M. Étienne.

The man carrying the light came on with firm, heavy tread; naturally he

did not see us as soon as we saw him. I thought him alone, but it was

hard to tell in this dark, echoy place.

He might easily have approached within touch of my sad clothing without

becoming aware of me, but M. Étienne's azure and white caught the

lantern rays a rod away. The newcomer stopped short, holding up the

light between us and his face. We could make nothing of him, save that

he was a large man, soberly clad.

"Who is it?" he demanded, his voice ringing out loud and steady. "Is it

you, Ferou?"

M. Étienne hooked his scabbard in place, and went forward into the clear

circle of light.

"No, M. de Mayenne; it is Étienne de Mar."

"Ventre bleu!" Mayenne ejaculated, changing his lantern with comical

alacrity to his left hand, and whipping out his sword. My master's came

bare, too, at that. They confronted each other in silence, till

Mayenne's ever-increasing astonishment forced the cry from him:

"How the devil come you here?"

"Evidently by way of M. Ferou's house," M. Étienne answered. Mayenne

still stared in thick amazement; after a moment my master added: "I must

in justice say that M. Ferou is not aware that I am using this passage;

he is, with madame his wife, supping with the Archbishop of Lyons."

M. Étienne leaned his shoulder against the wall, smiling pleasantly, and

waiting for the duke to make the next move. Mayenne kept a nonplussed

silence. The situation was indeed somewhat awkward. He could not come

forward without encountering an agile opponent, whose exceeding skill

with the sword was probably known to him. He could not turn tail, had

his dignity allowed the course, without exposing himself to be spitted.

He was in the predicament of the goat on the bridge. Yet was he gaping

at us less in fear, I think, than in bewilderment. This Ferou, as I

learned later, was one of his right-hand men, years-long supporter.

Mayenne had as soon expected to meet a lion in the tunnel as to meet a

foe. He cried out again upon us, with an instinctive certainty that a

great prince's question must be answered:

"How came you here?"

"I don't ask," said M. Étienne, "how it happens that M. le Duc is

walking through this rat-hole. Nor do I feel disposed to make any

explanation to him."

"Very well, then," said Mayenne; "our swords, if you are ready, will

make adequate explanation."

"Now, that is gallant of you," returned M. Étienne, "as it is evident

that the closeness of these walls will inconvenience your Grace more

than it will me."

The walls of the passage were roughly laid. Mayenne perched his lantern

on a projecting stone.

"On guard, sir," he answered.

The silence was profound. Mayenne had no companion following him. He was

alone with his sword. He was not now head of the state, but only a man

with a sword, standing opposite another man with a sword. Nor was he in

the pink of form. Though he gave the effect, from his clear colour and

proud bearing, perhaps also from his masterful energy, of tremendous

force and strength, his body was in truth but a poor machine, his great

corpulence making him clumsy and scant of breath. He must have known, as

he eyed his supple antagonist, what the end would be. Yet he merely

said:

"On guard, monsieur."

M. Étienne did not raise his weapon. I retreated a pace, that I might

not be in the way of his jump, should Mayenne spring on him. M. Étienne

said slowly:

"M. de Mayenne, this encounter was none of my contriving. Nor have I any

wish to cross swords with you. Family quarrels are to be deprecated.

Since I still intend to become your cousin, I must respectfully beg to

be released from the obligation of fighting you."

A man knowing himself overmatched cannot refuse combat. He may, even as

Mayenne had done, think himself compelled to offer it. But if he insists

on forcing battle with a reluctant adversary, he must be a hothead

indeed. And Mayenne was no hothead. He stood hesitant, feeling that he

was made ridiculous in accepting the clemency and should be still more

ridiculous to refuse it. He half lifted his sword, only to lower it

again, till at last his good sense came to his relief in a laugh.

"M. de Mar, it appears that, after all, some explanations are necessary.

You think that in declining to fight you put me in your debt. Possibly

you are right. But if you expect that in gratitude I shall hand over

Lorance de Montluc, you were never more mistaken. Never, while I live,

shall she marry into the king's camp. Now, monsieur, that we understand

each other, I abide by your decision whether we fight or not."

For answer, M. Étienne put up his blade. The Duke of Mayenne, saluting

with his, did the like. "Mar," he said, "you stood off from us, like a

coquetting girl, for three years. At length, last May, you refused

point-blank to join us. I do not often ask a man twice, but I ask you.

Will you join the League to-night, and marry Lorance to-morrow?"

No man could have spoken with a franker grace. I believe then, I

believe now, he meant it. M. Étienne believed he meant it.

"Monsieur," he answered, "I have shilly-shallied long; but I am planted

squarely at last with my father on the king's side. You put your

interesting nephew into my father's house to kill him; I shall not sign

myself with the League."

"In that case," returned Mayenne, "perhaps we might each continue on his

way."

"With all my heart, monsieur."

Each drew back against the wall to let the other pass, with a wary eye

for daggers. Then M. Étienne, laughing a little, but watching Mayenne

like a lynx, started to go by. The duke, seeing the look, suddenly

raised his hands over his head, holding them there while both of us

squeezed past him.

"Cousin Charles," said M. Étienne, "I see that when I have married

Lorance you and I shall get on capitally. Till then, God have you ever

in guard."

"I thank you, monsieur. You make me immortal."

"I have no need to make you witty. M. de Mayenne, when you have

submitted to the king, as you will one of these days, I shall have as

delightful a kinsman as heart of man could wish. You and I will yet

drink a loving-cup together. Till that happy hour, I am your good enemy.

Fare you well, monsieur."

He bowed; the duke, half laughing despite a considerable ire, returned

the obeisance with all pomp. M. Étienne took me by the arm and departed.

Mayenne stood still for a space; then we heard his retreating

footsteps, and the glimmer of his light slowly faded away.

[Illustration: "WE CLIMBED OUT INTO A SILK-MERCER'S SHOP."]

"It wasn't necessary to tell him the door is bolted," M. Étienne

muttered.

We hurried along now without precaution, knowing that the floor which

had supported Mayenne would support us. The consequence was that we

stumbled abruptly against a step, and fell with a force like to break

our kneecaps. I picked myself up at once, and ran headlong up the

stairs, to hit my crown on the ceiling and reel back on M. Étienne,

sweeping him off his feet, so that we rolled in a struggling heap on the

stones of the passage. And for the minute the place was no longer dark;

I saw more lightning than even flashed in the Rue Coupejarrets.

"Are you hurt, Félix?" cried M. Étienne, the first to disentangle

himself.

"No," I said, groaning; "but I banged my head. She did not say it was a

trap-door."

We ascended the stairs a second time--this time most cautiously on our

hands and knees. Above us, at the end, we could feel, with upleaping of

spirit, a wooden ceiling.

"Ah, I have the cord!" he exclaimed.

The next instant we heard a faint but most comforting tinkle somewhere

above us. Before we had time to wonder whether any marked it but us, we

heard steps overhead, and a noise as of a chest being pulled about, and

then the trap lifted. We climbed out into a silk-mercer's shop.

"Faith, my man," said M. Étienne to the little bourgeois who had opened

to us, "I am glad to see you appear so promptly."

He looked at us, somewhat troubled or alarmed.

"You must have met--" he suggested with hesitancy.

"Yes," said M. Étienne; "but he did not object. We are, of course, of

the initiated."

"Of course, of course," the little fellow assented, with a funny

assumption of knowing all about it. "Not every one has the secret of the

passage. Well, I can call myself a lucky man. 'Tis mighty few mercers

have a duke in their shop as often as I."

We looked curiously about us. The shop was low and dim, with piles of

stuff in rolls on the shelves, and other stuffs lying loose on the

counter before us, as if the man had just been measuring them--gorgeous

brocades and satins. Above us, a bell on the rafter still quivered.

"Yes, that is the bell of the trap," the proprietor said, following our

glance. "Customers do not know where it rings from. And if I am not at

liberty to open, I drop my brass yardstick on the floor--But they told

you that, doubtless, monsieur?" he added, regarding M. Étienne again a

little uneasily.

"They told me something else I had near forgotten," M. Étienne answered,

and, drawing a crown in the air, gave the password, "For the Cause."

"For the King," the shopkeeper made instant rejoinder, drawing in the

air in his turn a letter C and the numeral X.

M. Étienne laid a gold piece on the counter, and if the shopkeeper had

felt any doubts of this well-dressed gallant who wore no hat, they

vanished in its radiance.

"And now, my friend, let us out into the street and forget our faces."

The man took up his candle to light us to the door.

"Perhaps it would not trouble monsieur to say a word for me over there?"

he suggested, pointing in the direction of the tunnel. "M. le Duc has

every confidence in me. Still, it would do no harm if monsieur should

mention how quickly I let him out."

"When I see him, I will surely mention it," M. Étienne promised him.

"Continue to be vigilant to-night, my friend. There is another man to

come."

Followed by the little bourgeois's thanks and adieus, we walked out into

the sweet open air. As soon as his door was shut again, we took to our

heels, nor stopped running till we had put half a dozen streets between

us and the mouth of the tunnel. Then we walked along in breathless

silence.

Presently M. Étienne cried out:

"Death of my life! Had I fought there in the burrow, I should have

changed the history of France!"