XXVI

_Within the spider's web._

Mademoiselle slipped softly out of the room, taking our hearts with her.

Our one desire now was to be gone; but it was easier wished than

accomplished, for there remained the dreary process of bargaining. Mme.

de Mayenne had set her heart on a pearl bracelet, Mme. de Brie wanted a

vinaigrette, a third lady a pair of shoe-buckles. M. Étienne developed a

recklessness about prices that would have whitened the hair of a

goldsmith father; I thought the ladies could not fail to be suspicious

of such prodigality, to imagine we carried stolen goods. But no; the

quick settlements defeated their own ends: they fired our customers with

longing to purchase further. I was despairing, when at length Mme. de

Mayenne bethought herself that supper-time was at hand, and that no one

was yet dressed. To my eyes the company already looked fine enough for a

coronation; but I rejoiced to hear them thanking madame for her

reminder, with the gratitude of victims snatched from an awful fate. We

were commanded to bundle out, which with all alacrity we did.

Freedom was in sight. I was not so nervous on this journey as I had been

coming in. As we passed, lackey-led, through the long corridors, I had

ease enough of mind to enable me to take my bearings, and to whisper to

my master, "That door yonder is the door of the council-room, where I

was." Even as I spoke the door opened, two gentlemen appearing at the

threshold. One was a stranger; the other was Mayenne.

Our guide held back in deference. The duke and his friend stood a moment

or two in low-voiced converse; then the visitor made his farewells, and

went off down the staircase.

Mayenne had not appeared aware of our existence, thirty feet up the

passage, but now he inquired, as if we had been pieces of merchandise:

"What have you there, Louis?"

"An Italian goldsmith, so please your Grace. Madame has just dismissed

him."

He led us forward. Mayenne surveyed us deliberately, and at length said

to M. le Comte:

"I will look at your wares."

M. Étienne smiled his eager, deprecating smile, informing his Highness

that we, poor creatures, spoke no French.

"How came you in Paris, then?"

M. Étienne for the fourth time went through with his tale. I think this

time he must have trembled over it. My Lord Mayenne had not the

reputation of being easily gulled. For aught we knew, he might be

informed of the name and condition of every person who had entered Paris

this year. He might, as he listened stolid-faced, be checking off to

himself the number of monsieur's lies. But if M. Étienne trembled in his

soul, his words never faltered; he knew his history well, by this. At

its finish Mayenne said:

"Come in here."

The lackey was ordered to wait outside, while we followed his Grace of

Mayenne across the council-room to that table by the window where he had

sat with Lucas night before last. I clinched my teeth to keep them from

chattering together. Not Grammont's brutality, not Lucas's venom, not

Mlle. de Tavanne's rampant suspicion, had ever frightened me so horribly

as did Mayenne's amiable composure. He made me feel as I had felt when I

entered the tunnel, helpless in the dark, unable to cope with dangers I

could not see. Mayenne was a well, the light shining down its sides a

way, and far below the still surface of the water. You hang over the

edge and peer till your eyes drop out; you can as easily look through

iron as discern how deep the water is. I seemed to see clearly that

Mayenne suspected us not in the least. He was as placid as a summer day,

turning over the contents of the box, showing little interest in us,

much in our wares, every now and then speaking a generous word of praise

or asking a friendly question. He was the very model of the gracious

prince; the humble tradesmen whom we feigned to be must needs have

worshipfully loved him. Yet withal I believed that all the time he knew

us; that he was amusing himself with us. Presently, when he tired, he

would walk casually out of the room and send in his creatures to stab

us.

Had I known this for a truth, that he had discovered us, I should have

braced myself, I trow, to meet it. The certainty would have been

bearable; I had courage to face ruin. It was the uncertainty that was so

heart-shaking--like crossing a morass in the dark. We might be on the

safe path; we might with every step be wandering away farther and

farther into the treacherous bog; there was no way to tell. Mayenne was

quite the man to be kindly patron of the crafts, to pick out a rich

present for a friend. He was also the man to sit in the presence of his

enemy, unbetraying, tranquil, assured, waiting. It seemed to me that in

a few minutes more of this I should go mad; I should scream out: "Yes, I

am Félix Broux, and he is M. le Comte de Mar!"

But before I had verily come to this, something happened to change the

situation. Entered like a young tempest, slamming the door after him,

Lucas.

M. Étienne clutched me by the arm, drawing me back into the embrasure of

the window, where we stood in plain sight but with our faces blotted out

against the light. Mayenne looked up from two rings he was comparing,

one in each hand. Lucas, hat on head, came rapidly across the room.

"So you have appeared again," Mayenne said. "I could almost believe

myself back in night before last."

"Aye; at last I have." Lucas was all hot and ruffled, panting half from

hurry, half from wrath.

"You saw fit to be absent last night," Mayenne went on indifferently,

his eyes on the ring. "I trust, for your sake, you have used your time

profitably."

"I have been about my own concerns," Lucas answered lightly, arming

himself with his insolence against the other's disdain. In a moment he

had mastered the excitement that brought him so stormily into the room.

He was once more the Lucas who had entered that other night, nonchalant,

mocking.

"Pretty trinkets," he observed, sitting down and lifting a bracelet from

the tray.

The close kinship of these men betrayed itself in nothing so sharply as

in their unerring instinct for annoying each other. Had Lucas

volunteered explanation for his absence, Mayenne would not have listened

to it; but as he withheld it, the duke demanded brusquely:

"Well, do you give an account of yourself? You had better."

Lucas repeated the tactics which he had found such good entertainment

before. He looked with raised eyebrows toward us.

"You would not have me speak before these vermin, uncle?"

"These vermin understand no French," Mayenne made answer. "But do as it

likes you. It is nothing to me."

My master pinched my hand. Mayenne did not know us! After all, he was

what M. Étienne had called him--a man, neither god nor devil. He could

make mistakes like the rest of us. For once he had been caught napping.

Lucas leaned back in his chair with a meditative air, as if idly

wondering whether to speak or not. In his place I should not have

wondered one moment. Had Mayenne assured me in that quiet tone that he

cared nothing whether I spoke, I should scarce have been able to utter

my words fast enough. But there was so strange a twist in Lucas's nature

that he must sometimes thwart his own interests, value his caprice above

his prosperity. Also, in this case his story was no triumphant one. But

at length he did begin it:

"I went to Belin to inform him that day before yesterday Étienne de Mar

murdered his lackey, Pontou, in Mar's house in the Rue Coupejarrets."

"Was that your errand?" Mayenne said, looking up in slow surprise. "My

faith! your oaths to Lorance trouble you little."

Lucas started forward sharply. "Do you tell me you did not know my

purpose?"

"I knew, of course, that you were up to some warlockry," Mayenne

answered; "I did not concern myself to discover what."

"There speaks the general! There speaks the gentleman!" Lucas cried out.

"A general hangs a spy, yet he profits by spying. The spy runs the

risks, incurs the shames; the general sits in his tent, his honour

untarnished, pocketing all the glory. Faugh, you gentlemen! You will not

do dirty work, but you will have it done for you. You sit at home with

clean hands and eyes that see not, while we go forth to serve you. You

are the Duke of Mayenne. I am your bastard nephew, living on your

favour. But you go too far when you sneer at my smirches."

He was on his feet, standing over Mayenne, his face blazing. M. Étienne

made an instinctive step forward, thinking him about to knife the duke.

But Mayenne, as we well knew, was no craven.

"Be a little quieter, Paul," he said, unmoved. "You will have the guard

in, in a moment."

Lucas held absolutely still for a second. So did Mayenne. He knew that

Lucas, standing, could stab quicker than he defend. He sat there with

both hands on the table, looking composedly up at his nephew. Lucas

flung away across the room.

"I shall have dismissed these people directly," Mayenne continued. "Then

you can tell me your tale."

"I can tell it now in two words," Lucas answered, coming abruptly back.

"Belin signed the warrant, and sent a young ass of the burgher guard

after Mar. I attended to some affairs of my own. Then after a time I

went round to the Trois Lanternes to see if they had got him. He was not

there--only that cub of a boy of his. When I came in, he swore, the

innkeeper swore, the whole crew swore, I was Mar. The fool of an officer

arrested me."

I expected Mayenne to burst out laughing in Lucas's chagrined face. But

instead he seemed less struck with his nephew's misfortunes than with

some other aspect of the affair. He said slowly:

"You told Belin this arrest was my desire?"

"I may have implied something of the sort."

"You repeated it to the arresting officer before Mar's boy!"

"I had no time to say anything before they hustled me off," Lucas

exclaimed. "Mille tonnerres! Never had any man such luck as I. It's

enough to make me sign papers with the devil."

"Mar would believe I had broken faith with him?"

"I dare say. One isn't responsible for what Mar believes," Lucas

answered carelessly.

Mayenne was silent, with knit brows, drumming his hand on the table.

Lucas went on with the tale of his woes:

"At the Bastille, I ordered the commissary to send to you. He did not;

he sent to Belin. Belin was busy, didn't understand the message,

wouldn't be bothered. I lay in my cell like a mouse in a trap till an

hour agone, when at last he saw fit to appear--damn him!"

Mayenne fell to laughing. Lucas cried out:

"When they arrested me my first thought was that this was your work."

"In that case, how should you be free now?"

"You found you needed me."

"You are twice wrong, Paul. For I knew nothing of your arrest. Nor do I

think I need you. Pardieu! you succeed too badly to give me confidence."

Lucas stood glowering, gnawing his lip, picturing the chagrin, the angry

reproaches, the justifications he did not utter. I am certain he pitied

himself as the sport of fate and of tyrants, the most shamefully used

of mortal men. And so long as he aspired to the hand of Mayenne's ward,

so long was he helpless under Mayenne's will.

"'Twas pity," Mayenne said reflectively, "that you thought best to be

absent last night. Had you been here, you had had sport. Your young

friend Mar came to sing under his lady's window."

"Saw she him?" Lucas cried sharply.

"How should I know? She does not confide in me."

"You took care to find out!" Lucas cried, knowing he was being badgered,

yet powerless to keep himself from writhing.

"I may have."

"Did she see him?" Lucas demanded again, the heavy lines of hatred and

jealousy searing his face.

"No credit to you if she did not. You accomplish singularly little to

harass M. de Mar in his love-making. You deserve that she should have

seen him. But, as a matter of fact, she did not. She was in the chapel

with madame."

"What happened?"

"François de Brie--now there is a youngster, Paul," Mayenne interrupted

himself to point out, "who has not a tithe of your cleverness; but he

has the advantage of being on the spot when needed. Desiring a word with

mademoiselle, he betook himself to her chamber. She was not there, but

Mar was warbling under the window."

"Brie?"

"Brie bestirred himself. He sent two of the guard round behind the

house to cut off the retreat, while he and Latour attacked from the

front."

"Mar's killed?" Lucas cried. "He's killed!"

"By no means," answered Mayenne. "He got away."

Before he could explain further,--if he meant to,--the door opened, and

Mlle. de Montluc came in.

Her eyes travelled first to us, in anxiety; then with relief to Mayenne,

sitting over the jewels; last, to Lucas, with startlement. She advanced

without hesitation to the duke.

"I am come, monsieur, to fetch you to supper."

"Pardieu, Lorance!" Mayenne exclaimed, "you show me a different face

from that of dinner-time." Indeed, so she did, for her eyes were shining

with excitement, while the colour that M. Étienne had kissed into them

still flushed her cheeks.

"If I do," she made quick answer, "it is because, the more I think on

it, the surer I grow that my loving cousin will not break my heart."

"I want a word with you, Lorance," Mayenne said quietly.

"As many as you like, monsieur," she replied promptly. "But will you not

send these creatures from the room first?"

"Do you include your cousin Paul in that term?"

"I meant these jewellers. But since you suggest it, perhaps it would be

as well for Paul to go."

"You hear your orders, Paul."

"Aye, I hear and I disobey," Lucas retorted. "Mademoiselle, I take too

much joy in your presence to be willing to leave it."

"Monsieur," she said to the duke, ignoring her cousin Paul with a

coolness that must have maddened him, "will you not dismiss your

tradespeople? Then can we talk comfortably."

"Aye," answered Mayenne, "I will. I am more gallant than Paul. If you

command it, out they go, though I have not half had time to look their

wares over. Here, master jeweller," he addressed M. Étienne, slipping

easily into Italian, "pack up your wares and depart."

M. Étienne, bursting into rapid thanks to his Highness for his

condescension in noticing the dirt of the way, set about his packing.

Mayenne turned to his lovely cousin.

"Now for my word to you, mademoiselle. You wept so last night, it was

impossible to discuss the subject properly. But now I rejoice to see you

more tranquil. Here is the beginning and the middle and the end of the

matter: your marriage is my affair, and I shall do as I like about it."

She searched his face; before his steady look her colour slowly died. M.

Étienne, whether by accident or design, knocked his tray of jewels off

the table. Murmuring profuse apologies, he dropped on his knees to grope

for them. Neither of the men heeded him, but kept their eyes steadily on

the lady.

"Mademoiselle," Mayenne deliberately went on, "I have been over-fond

with you. Had I followed my own interests instead of bowing to your

whims, you had been a wife these two years. I have indulged you,

mademoiselle, because you were my ally Montluc's daughter, because you

came to me a lonely orphan, because you were my little cousin whose

baby mouth I kissed. I have let you cavil at this suitor and that, pout

that one was too tall and one too short, and a third too bold and a

fourth not bold enough. I have been pleased to let you cajole me. But

now, mademoiselle, I am at the end of my patience."

"Monsieur," she cried, "I never meant to abuse your kindness. You let me

cajole you, as you say, else I could not have done it. You treated my

whims as a jest. You let me air them. But when you frowned, I have put

them by. I have always done your will."

"Then do it now, mademoiselle. Be faithful to me and to your birth.

Cease sighing for the enemy of our house."

"Monsieur," she said, "when you first brought him to me, he was not the

enemy of our house. When he came here, day after day, season after

season, he was not our enemy. When I wrote that letter, at Paul's

dictation, I did not know he was our enemy. You told me that night that

I was not for him. I promised you obedience. Did he come here to me and

implore me to wed with him, I would send him away."

Mayenne little imagined how truly she spoke; but he could not look in

her eyes and doubt her honesty.

"You are a good child, Lorance," he said. "I could wish your lover as

docile."

"He will not come here again," she cried. "He knows I am not for him. He

gives it up, monsieur--he takes himself out of Paris. I promise you it

is over. He gives me up."

"I have not his promise for that," Mayenne said dryly; "but the next

time he comes after you, he may settle with your husband."

She uttered a little gasp, but scarce of surprise--almost of relief that

the blow, so long expected, had at last been dealt.

"You will marry me, monsieur?" she murmured. "To M. de Brie?"

"You are shrewd, mademoiselle. You know that it will be a good three

months before François de Brie can stand up to be wed. You say to

yourself that much may happen in three months. So it may. Therefore will

your bridegroom be at hand to-morrow morning."

She made no rejoinder, but her eyes, wide like a hunted animal's, moved

fearsomely, loathingly, to Lucas. Mayenne uttered an abrupt laugh.

"No; Paul is not the happy man. Besides bungling the St. Quentin affair,

he has seen fit to make free with my name in an enterprise of his own.

Therefore, Paul, you will dance at Lorance's wedding a bachelor.

Mademoiselle, you marry in the morning Señor el Conde del Rondelar y

Saragossa of his Majesty King Philip's court. After dinner you will

depart with your husband for Spain."

Lucas sprang forward, hand on sword, face ablaze with furious protest.

Mayenne, heeding him no more than if he had not been there, rose and

went to Mlle de Montluc.

"Have I your obedience, cousin?"

"You know it, monsieur."

She was curtseying to him when he folded her in his arms, kissing both

her cheeks.

"You are as good as you are lovely, and that says much, ma mie. We will

talk a little more about this after supper. Permit me, mademoiselle."

He took her hand and led her in leisurely fashion out of the room.

It wondered me that Lucas had not killed him. He looked murder. Haply

had the duke disclosed by so much as a quivering eyelid a consciousness

of Lucas's rage, of danger to himself, Lucas had struck him down. But he

walked straight past, clad in his composure as in armour, and Lucas made

no move. I think to stab was the impulse of a moment, gone in a moment.

Instantly he was glad he had not killed the Duke of Mayenne, to be cut

himself into dice by the guard. After the duke was gone, Lucas stood

still a long time, no less furious, but cogitating deeply.

We had gathered up our jewels and locked our box, and stood holding it

between us, waiting our chance to depart. We might have gone a dozen

times during the talking, for none marked us; but M. Étienne, despite my

tuggings, refused to budge so long as mademoiselle was in the room. Now

was he ready enough to go, but hesitated to see if Lucas would not leave

first. That worthy, however, showed no intention of stirring, but

remained in his pose, buried in thought, unaware of our presence. To get

out, we had to walk round one end or the other of the table, passing

either before or behind him. M. le Comte was for marching carelessly

before his face, but I pulled so violently in the other direction that

he gave way to me. I think now that had we passed in front of him, Lucas

would have let us go by without a look. As it was, hearing steps at his

back, he wheeled about to confront us. If the eye of love is quick, so

is the eye of hate. He cried out instantly:

"Mar!"

We dropped the box, and sprang at him. But he was too quick for us. He

leaped back, whipping out his sword.

"I have you now, Mar!" he cried.

M. Étienne grabbed up the heavy box in both hands to brain him. Lucas

retreated. He might run through M. Étienne, but only at the risk of

having his head split. After all, it suited his book as well to take us

alive. Shouting for the guards, he retreated toward the door.

But I was there before him. As he ran at M. Étienne, I had dashed by,

slammed the door shut, and bolted it. If we were caught, we would make a

fight for it. I snatched up a stool for weapon.

He halted. Then he darted over to the chimney, and pulled violently the

bell-rope hanging near. We heard through the closed door two loud peals

somewhere in the corridor.

We both ran for him. Even as he pulled the rope, M. Étienne struck the

box over his sword, snapping it. I dropped my stool, as he his box, and

we pinned Lucas in our arms.

"The oratory!" I gasped. With a strength born of our desperation, we

dragged him kicking and cursing across the room, heaved him with all our

force into the oratory, and bolted the door on him.

"Your wig!" cried M. Étienne, running to recover his box. While I picked

it up and endeavoured with clumsy fingers to put it on properly, he set

on its legs the stool I had flung down, threw the pieces of Lucas's

sword into the fireplace, seized his box, dashed to me and set my wig

straight, dashed to the outer door, and opened it just as Pierre came up

the corridor.

"Well, what do you want?" the lackey demanded. "You ring as if it was a

question of life and death."

"I want to be shown out, if the messer will be so kind. His Highness the

duke, when he went to supper, left me here to put up my wares, but I

know not my way to the door."

It was after sunset, and the room, back from the windows, was dusky. The

lackey seemed not to mark our flushed and rumpled looks, and to be quite

satisfied with M. Étienne's explanation, when of a sudden Lucas, who had

been stunned for the moment by the violent meeting of his head and the

tiles, began to pound and kick on the oratory door.

He was shouting as well. But the door closed with absolute tightness; it

had not even a keyhole. His cries came to us muffled and inarticulate.

"Corpo di Bacco!" M. Étienne exclaimed, with a face of childlike

surprise. "Some one is in a fine hurry to enter! Do you not let him in,

Sir Master of the Household?"

"I wonder who he's got there now," Pierre muttered to himself in

French, staring in puzzled wise at the door. Then he answered M. Étienne

with a laugh:

"No, my innocent; I do not let him in. It might cost me my neck to open

that door. Come along now. I must see you out and get back to my

trenchers."

We met not a soul on the stairs, every one, served or servants, being in

the supper-room. We passed the sentry without question, and round the

corner without hindrance. M. Étienne stopped to heave a sigh of

thanksgiving.

"I thought we were done for that time!" he panted. "Mordieu! another

scored off Lucas! Come, let us make good time home! 'Twere wise to be

inside our gates when he gets out of that closet."

We made good time, ever listening for the haro after us. But we heard it

not. We came unmolested up the street at the back, of the Hôtel St.

Quentin, on our way to the postern. Monsieur took the key out of his

doublet, saying as we walked around the corner tower:

"Well, it appears we are safe at home."

"Yes, M. Étienne."

Even as I uttered the words, three men from the shadow of the wall

sprang out and seized us.

"This is he!" one cried. "M. le Comte de Mar, I have the pleasure of

taking you to the Bastille."