I too smarted, but mine was the private's disappointment, not the
general's who had planned the campaign. The credit of the rescue was
none of mine; no more was the blame of failure. I need not rack myself
with questioning, Had I in this or that done differently, should I not
have triumphed? I had done only what I was told. Yet I was part of the
expedition; I could not but share the grief. If I did not wet my pillow
with my tears, it was because I could not keep awake long enough.
Whatever my sorrows, speedily they slipped from me.
* * * * *
I roused with a start from deep, dreamless sleep, and then wondered
whether, after all, I had waked. Here, to be sure, was Marcel's bed, on
which I had lain down; there was the high gable-window, through which
the westering sun now poured. There was the wardrobe open, with Marcel's
Sunday suit hanging on the peg; here were the two stools, the little
image of the Virgin on the wall. But here was also something else, so
out of place in the chamber of a page that I pinched myself to make sure
it was real. At my elbow on the pallet lay a box of some fine foreign
wood, beautifully grained by God and polished by grateful man. It was
about as large as my lord's despatch-box, bound at the edges with
shining brass and having long brass hinges wrought in a design of leaves
and flowers. Beside the box were set three shallow trays, lined with
blue velvet, and filled full of goldsmith's work-glittering chains,
linked or twisted, bracelets in the form of yellow snakes with green
eyes, buckles with ivory teeth, glove-clasps thick with pearls,
ear-rings and finger-rings with precious stones.
I stared bedazzled from the display to him who stood as showman. This
was a handsome lad, seemingly no older than I, though taller, with a
shock of black hair, rough and curly, and dark, smooth face, very boyish
and pleasant. He was dressed well, in bourgeois fashion; yet there was
about him and his apparel something, I could not tell what, unfamiliar,
different from us others.
He, meeting my eye, smiled in the friendliest way, like a child, and
said, in Italian:
"Good day to you, my little gentleman."
I had still the uncertain feeling that I must be in a dream, for why
should an Italian jeweller be displaying his treasures to me, a
penniless page? But the dream was amusing; I was in no haste to wake.
I knew my Italian well enough, for Monsieur's confessor, the Father
Francesco, who had followed him into exile, was Florentine; and as he
always spoke his own tongue to Monsieur, and I was always at the duke's
heels, I picked up a deal of it. After Monsieur's going, the father,
already a victim, poor man, to the falling-sickness, of which he died,
stayed behind with us, and I found a pricking pleasure in talking with
him in the speech he loved, of Monsieur's Roman journey, of his exploits
in the war of the Three Henrys. Therefore the words came easily to my
lips to answer this lad from over the Alps:
"I give you good day, friend."
He looked somewhat surprised and more than pleased, breaking at once
into voluble speech:
"The best of greetings to you, young sir. Now, what can I sell you this
fine day? I have not been half a week in this big city of yours, yet
already I have but one boxful of trinkets left. They are noble,
open-handed customers, these gallants of Paris. I have not to show them
my wares twice, I can tell you. They know what key will unlock their
fair mistresses' hearts. And now, what can I sell you, my little
gentleman, to buy your sweetheart's kisses?"
"Nay, I have no sweetheart," I said, "and if I had, she would not wear
these gauds."
"She would if she could get them, then," he retorted. "Now, let me give
you a bit of advice, my friend, for I see you are but young: buy this
gold chain of me, or this ring with this little dove on it,--see, how
cunningly wrought,--and you'll not lack long for a sweetheart."
His words huffed me a bit, for he spoke as if he were vastly my senior.
"I want no sweetheart," I returned with dignity, "to be bought with
gold."
"Nay," he cried quickly, "but when your own valour and prowess have
inflamed her with passion, you should be willing to reward her devotion
and set at rest her suspense by a suitable gift."
I looked at him uneasily, for I had a suspicion that he might be making
fun of me. But his countenance was as guileless as a kitten's.
"Well, I tell you again I have no sweetheart and I want no sweetheart,"
I said; "I have no time to bother with girls."
At once he abandoned the subject, seeing that he was making naught by
it.
"The messer is very much occupied?" he asked with exceeding deference.
"The messer has no leisure for trifling in boudoirs; he is occupied with
great matters? Oh, that can I well believe, and I cry the messer's
pardon. For when the mind is taken up with affairs of state, it is
distasteful to listen even for a moment to light talk of maids and
jewels."
Again I eyed him challengingly; but he, with face utterly unconscious,
was sorting over his treasures. I made up my mind his queer talk was but
the outlandish way of a foreigner. He looked at me again, serious and
respectful.
"The messer must often be engaged in great risks, in perilous
encounters. Is it not so? Then he will do well to carry ever over his
heart the sacred image of our Lord."
He held up to my inspection a silver rosary from which depended a
crucifix of ivory, the sad image of the dying Christ carved upon it.
Even in Monsieur's chapel, even in the church at St. Quentin, was
nothing so masterfully wrought as this figurine to be held in the palm
of the hand. The tears started in my eyes to look at it, and I crossed
myself in reverence. I bethought me how I had trampled on my crucifix;
the stranger all unwittingly had struck a bull's-eye. I had committed
grave offence against God, but perhaps if, putting gewgaws aside, I
should give my all for this cross, he would call the account even. I
knew nothing of the value of a carving such as this, but I remembered I
was not moneyless, and I said, albeit somewhat shyly:
"I cannot take the rosary. But I should like well the crucifix. But
then, I have only ten pistoles."
"Ten pistoles!" he repeated contemptuously. "Corpo di Bacco! The
workmanship alone is worth twenty." Then, viewing my fallen visage, he
added: "However, I have received fair treatment in this house, beshrew
me but I have! I have made good sales to your young count. What sort of
master is he, this M. le Comte de Mar?"
"Oh, there's nobody like him," I answered, "except, of course, M. le
Duc."
"Ah, then you have two masters?" he inquired curiously, yet with a
certain careless air. It struck me suddenly, overwhelmingly, that he was
a spy, come here under the guise of an honest tradesman. But he should
gain nothing from me.
"This is the house of the Duke of St. Quentin," I said. "Surely you
could not come in at the gate without discovering that?"
"He is a very grand seigneur, then, this duke?"
"Assuredly," I replied cautiously.
"More of a man than the Comte de Mar?"
I would have told him to mind his own business, had it not been for my
hopes of the crucifix. If he planned to sell it to me cheap, thereby
hoping to gain information, marry, I saw no reason why I should not buy
it at his price--and withhold the information. So I made civil answer:
"They are both as gallant gentlemen as any living. About this cross,
now--"
"Oh, yes," he answered at once, accepting with willingness--well
feigned, I thought--the change of topic. "You can give me ten pistoles,
say you? 'Tis making you a present of the treasure. Yet, since I have
received good treatment at the hands of your master, I will e'en give it
to you. You shall have your cross."
With suspicions now at point of certainty, I drew out my pouch from
under my pillow, and counted into his hand the ten pieces which were my
store. My rosary I drew out likewise; I had broken it when I shattered
the cross, but one of the inn-maids had tied it together for me with a
thread, and it served very well. The Italian unhooked the delicate
carving from the silver chain and hung it on my wooden one, which I
threw over my neck, vastly pleased with my new possession. Marcel's
Virgin was a botch compared with it. I remembered that mademoiselle, who
had given me half my wealth, the half that won me the rest, had bidden
me buy something in the marts of Paris; and I told myself with pride
that she could not fail to hold me high did she know how, passing by all
vanities, I had spent my whole store for a holy image. Few boys of my
age would be capable of the like. Certes, I had done piously, and should
now take a further pious joy, my purchase safe on my neck, in thwarting
the wiles of this serpent. I would play with him awhile, tease and
baffle him, before handing him over in triumph to Vigo.
Sure enough, he began as I had expected:
"This M. de Mar down-stairs, he is a very good master, I suppose?"
"Yes," I said, without enthusiasm.
"He has always treated you well?"
I bethought myself of the trick I had played successfully with the
officer of the burgess guard.
"Why, yes, I suppose so. I have only known him two days."
"But you have known him well? You have seen much of him?" he demanded
with ill-concealed eagerness.
"But not so very much," I made tepid answer. "I have not been with him
all the time of these two days. I have seen really very little of him."
"And you know not whether or no he be a good master?"
"Oh, pretty good. So-so."
He sprang forward to deal me a stinging box on the ear.
I was out of bed at one bound, scattering the trinkets in a golden rain
and rushing for him. He retreated before me. It was to save his jewels,
but I, fool that I was, thought it pure fear of me. I dashed at him, all
headlong confidence; the next I knew he had somehow twisted his foot
between mine, and tripped me before I could grapple. Never was wight
more confounded to find himself on the floor.
I was starting up again unhurt when I saw something that made me to
forget my purpose. I sat still where I was, with dropped jaw and bulging
eyes. For his hair, that had been black, was golden.
"Ventre bleu!" I said.
"And so you know not you little villain, whether you have a good master
or not?"
"But how was I to dream it was monsieur?" I cried, confounded. "I knew
there was something queer about him--about you, I mean--about the person
I took you for, that is. I knew there was something wrong about
you--that is to say, I mean, I thought there was; I mean I knew he
wasn't what he seemed--you were not. And Peyrot fooled us, and I didn't
want to be fooled again."
"Then I am a good master?" he demanded truculently, advancing upon me.