_The two dukes._
Mademoiselle being given into Dame Verney's motherly hands, Gilles and I
were ordered to repose ourselves on the skins in the saddler's shop.
Lying there in the malodourous gloom, I could see the crack of light
under the door at the back and hear, between Gilles's snores, the murmur
of voices. The king and his gentlemen were planning to save my master; I
went to sleep in perfect peace.
At daybreak, even before the saddler opened the shop, Monsieur routed us
out.
"I'm off for Paris, lads. Félix comes with me. Gilles stays to guard
mademoiselle."
I felt not a little injured, deeming that I, whom mademoiselle knew
best, should not be the one chosen to stay by her. But the sting passed
quickly. After all, Paris was likely to be more exciting than St. Denis.
The day being Friday, we delayed not to eat, but straightway mounted the
two nags that a sunburnt Béarn pikeman had brought to the door. As we
walked them gently across the square, which at this rath hour we alone
shared with the twittering birds, we saw coming down one of the empty
streets the hurrying figure of M. de Rosny. My lord drew rein at once.
"You are no slugabed, St. Quentin," the young councillor called. "I
deserved to miss you. Fear not! I come not to hinder you, but to wish
you God-speed."
"Now, this is kind, Rosny," Monsieur answered, grasping his hand. "The
more that you don't approve me."
Rosny smiled, like a sudden burst of sunshine in a December day. Another
man's embrace would have meant less.
"I approve you so much, St. Quentin, that I cannot composedly see you
putting your head into the lion's jaws."
"My head is used to the pillow. Do the teeth close, I am no worse off
than my son."
"Your death makes your son's no easier."
"Why, what else to do, Rosny?" Monsieur exclaimed. "Mishandle the lady?
Storm Paris? Sell the Cause?"
"I would we could storm Paris," Rosny sighed. "It would suit me better
to seize the prisoner than to sue for him. But Paris is not ripe for us
yet. You know my plan--to send to Villeroi. I believe he could manage
this thing."
"I am second to none," Monsieur said politely, "in my admiration of M.
de Villeroi's abilities. But to reach him is uncertain; what he can or
will do, uncertain. Étienne de Mar is not Villeroi's son; he is mine."
"Aye, it is your business," Rosny assented. "It is yours to take your
way."
"A mad way, but mine. But come, now, Rosny, you must admit that once or
twice, when all your wiseacres were deadlocked, my madness has served."
Rosny took Monsieur's hand in a silent grip.
"Maximilien," the duke said, smiling down on him, "what a pity you are a
scamp of a heretic!"
"Henri," Rosny returned gravely, "I would you had had the good fortune
to be born in the Religion."
Again he wished us God-speed, and we gathered up our reins. As we turned
the corner I glanced back to find him still standing as we had left him,
gazing soberly after us.
The man who was going into the lion's den was far less solemn over it.
By fits and starts, as he thought on his son's great danger, he
contrived a gloomy countenance: but Monsieur had ridden all his life
with Hope on the pillion; she did not desert him now. As we cantered
steadily along in the fresh, cool morning, he already pictured M.
Étienne released. However mad he acknowledged his errand to be, I think
he was scarce visited by a doubt of its success. It was impossible to
him that his son should not be saved.
We entered with perfect ease the gate of Paris, and took our way without
hesitancy through the busiest streets. Nowhere did the guard spring on
us, but, instead, more than once, the passers-by gathered in knots, the
tradesmen and artisans ran out of their shops to cheer St. Quentin, to
cheer France, to cheer peace, to cheer to the echo the Catholic king.
"I hope Mayenne hears them," Monsieur said to me, doffing his hat to a
big farrier who had come out of his smithy waving impudently in the eye
of all the world the white flag of the king.
We kept a brisk pace alike where they cheered us and where, in other
streets, they scowled and hooted at us, so that I looked out for men
with pistols in second-story windows. But, friend or foe, none stopped
us till at length we drew rein before the grilles of the Hôtel de
Lorraine.
They made no demur at admitting us. Monsieur went into the house, while
I led the horses to the stables, where three or four grooms at once
volunteered to rub them down, in eagerness to pump their guardian. But
before the fellows had had time to get much out of me came Jean
Marchand, all unrecognizing, to summon me indoors. I followed him in
delight, partly for curiosity, partly because it had seemed to me when
the doorway swallowed Monsieur that I might never see him more. Jean
ushered me into the well-remembered council-room, where Monsieur stood
alone, surprised at the sight of me.
"A lackey came for me," I said. "Look, Monsieur, that's where we shut up
Lucas."