_A chance encounter._
The street before us was as orderly as the aisle of Notre Dame. Few
way-farers passed us; those there were talked together as placidly as if
love-trysts and mêlées existed not, and tunnels and countersigns were
but the smoke of a dream. It was a street of shops, all shuttered,
while, above, the burghers' families went respectably to bed.
"This is the Rue de la Ferronnerie," my master said, pausing a moment to
take his bearings. "See, under the lantern, the sign of the Pierced
Heart. The little shop is in the Rue de la Soierie. We are close by the
Halles--we must have come half a mile underground. Well, we'll swing
about in a circle to get home. For this night I've had enough of the
Hôtel de Lorraine."
And I. But I held my tongue about it, as became me.
"They were wider awake than I thought--those Lorrainers. Pardieu! Féix,
you and I came closer quarters with death than is entirely amusing."
"If that door had not opened-" I shuddered.
"A new saint in the calendar--la Sainte Ferou! But what a madcap of a
saint, then! My faith, she must have led them a dance when Francis I was
king!
"Natheless it galls me," he went on, half to himself, "to know that I
was lost by my own folly, saved by pure chance. I underrated the
enemy--worst mistake in the book of strategy. I came near flinging away
two lives and making a most unsightly mess under a lady's window."
"Monsieur made somewhat of a mess as it was."
"Aye. I would I knew whether I killed Brie. We'll go round in the
morning and find out."
"I am thankful that monsieur does not mean to go to-night."
"Not to-night, Félix; I've had enough. No; we'll get home without
passing near the Hôtel de Lorraine, if we go outside the walls to do it.
To-night I draw my sword no more."
To this day I have no quite clear idea of how we went. A strange city at
night--Paris of all cities--is a labyrinth. I know that after a time we
came out in some meadows along the river-bank, traversed them, and
plunged once more into narrow, high-walled streets. It was very late,
and lights were few. We had started in clear starlight, but now a rack
of clouds hid even their pale shine.
"The snake-hole over again," said M. Étienne. "But we are almost at our
own gates."
But, as in the snake-hole, came light. Turning a sharp corner, we ran
straight into a gentleman and his porte-flambeau, swinging along at as
smart a pace as we.
"A thousand pardons," M. Étienne cried to his encounterer, the possessor
of years and gravity but of no great size, whom he had almost knocked
down. "I heard you, but knew not you were so close. We were speeding to
get home."
The personage was also of a portliness, and the collision had knocked
the wind out of him. He leaned panting against the wall. As he scanned
M. Étienne's open countenance and princely dress his alarm vanished.
"It is unseemly to go about on a night like this without a lantern," he
said with asperity. "The municipality should forbid it. I shall
certainly bring the matter up at the next sitting."
"Monsieur is a member of the Parliament?" M. Étienne asked with immense
respect.
"I have that honour, monsieur," the little man replied, delighted to
impress us, as he himself was impressed, by the sense of his importance.
"Oh," said M. Étienne, with increasing solemnity, "perhaps monsieur had
a hand in a certain decree of the 28th June?"
The little man began to look uneasy.
"There was, as monsieur says, a measure passed that day," he stammered.
"A rebellious and contumacious decree," M. Étienne rejoined, "most
offensive to the general-duke." Whereupon he fingered his sword.
"Monsieur," the little deputy cried, "we meant no offence to his Grace,
or to any true Frenchman. We but desire peace after all these years of
blood. We were informed that his Grace was angry; yet we believed that
even he will come to see the matter in a different light--"
"You have acted in a manner insulting to his Grace of Mayenne," M.
Étienne repeated inexorably, and he glanced up the street and down the
street to make sure the coast was clear. The wretched little deputy's
teeth chattered.
The linkman had retreated to the other side of the way, where he seemed
on the point of fleeing, leaving his master to his fate. I thought it
would be a shame if the badgered deputy had to stumble home in the dark,
so I growled out to the fellow:
"Stir one step at your peril!"
I was afraid he would drop the flambeau and run, but he did not; he only
sank back against the wall, eyeing my sword with exceeding deference. He
knew not that there was but a foot of blade in the scabbard.
The burgher looked up the street and down the street, after M. Étienne's
example, but there was no help to be seen or heard. He turned to his
tormentor with the valour of a mouse at bay.
"Monsieur, beware what you do. I am Pierre Marceau!"
"Oh, you are Pierre Marceau? And can M. Pierre Marceau explain how he
happened to be faring forth from his dwelling at this unholy hour?"
"I am not faring forth; I am faring home. I--we had a little con--that
is, not to say a conference, but merely a little discussion on matters
of no importance--"
"I have the pleasure," interrupted M. Étienne, sternly, "of knowing
where M. Marceau lives. M. Marceau's errand in this direction is not
accounted for."
"But I was going home--on my sacred honour I was! Ask Jacques, else. But
as we went down the Rue de l'Évêque we saw two men in front of us. As
they reached the wall by M. de Mirabeau's garden a gang of footpads fell
on them. The two drew blades and defended themselves, but the ruffians
were a dozen--a score. We ran for our lives."