"It's true, monsieur! You're free! It's all settled with Mayenne.
Monsieur's seen him; he sets you free. He said, 'In recognizance of
Wednesday night.'"
Incredulous joy flashed over his face, to give way to belief without
joy.
"Now I know she's married."
"Nothing of the sort!" I fairly shouted at him, dancing up and down in
my eagerness. "She's to marry M. le Comte. She's at St. Denis with
Monsieur. She's to marry you. It's all arranged. Mayenne consents--the
king--everybody. It's all settled. She marries you."
Preposterous as it seemed, he could not discredit my fervour. He
followed us out of the cell and through the fortress in a radiant daze.
He half believed himself dreaming, I think, and feared to speak lest his
happiness should melt. I fancied even that he walked lightly and
gingerly, as if the slightest unwary movement might break the spell. Not
till we were actually in the open door of the court, face to face with
freedom, did he rouse himself to acknowledge the thing real. With a
joyous laugh, he turned to the keeper:
"M. de La Motte, you should employ your leisure in writing down your
reflections, like the Chevalier de Montaigne. You could give us a
trenchant essay on the Ingratitude of Man. Here are you host of the
biggest inn in Paris--a pile more imposing than the Louvre itself. Your
hospitality is so eager that you insist on entertaining me, so lavish
that you lodge me for nothing, would keep me without a murmur till the
end of my life. Yet I, ingrate that I am, depart without a thank you!"
"They don't leave in such case that they can very well thank me, most of
my guests," La Motte answered, with a dry smile. "You are a fortunate
man, M. de Mar."
"M. le Comte, will you come quietly with me to the St. Denis gate?"
d'Auvray asked him. "Or must I borrow a guard from M. de La Motte?"
M. Étienne's whole face was smiling; not his lips alone, but his eyes.
Even his skin and hair seemed to have taken on a brighter look. He
glanced at d'Auvray in surprise at the absurd question.
"I will come like a lamb, M. le Mousquetaire."
We saluted La Motte and walked merrily out into the Place Bastille. I
think I never felt so grand as when I passed through the noble
sally-port, the soldiers making no motion to hinder us, but all saluting
as if we owned the place. It had its advantage, this making friends with
Mayenne.
The first thing my lord did, still in the shadow of the prison, was to
come to terms with d'Auvray.
"See here, my friend, why must you put yourself to the fatigue of
escorting me to the gate?"
"Orders, monsieur. The general-duke wants to know that you get into no
mischief between here and the gate. You are banished, you understand,
from Paris."
"I pledge you my word I shall make no attempt to elude my fate. I go
straight to the gate. But, with all politeness to you, Sir Musketeer, I
could dispense with your company."
"I am a soldier, and a soldier's orders must be obeyed," d'Auvray quoted
the keeper's words, which seemed to have impressed him. "However, M. le
Comte, if I had something to look at, I could walk ten paces behind you
and look at it."
"Oh, if it is a question of something to play with!" M. Étienne laughed.
D'Auvray was provided with toys, and M. Étienne linked arms with me, the
soldier out of ear-shot behind us. He followed till we were in the Rue
St. Denis, when, waving his hand in farewell, he turned his steps with
the pious consciousness of duty done. Only I looked back to see it;
monsieur had forgotten his existence.
"I am not proud; I don't mind being marched through the streets by a
musketeer," M. Étienne explained as we started; "but I can't talk before
him. Tell me, Félix, the story, if you would have me live."
And I told him, till we almost ran blindly into the tower of the St.
Denis gate.
We learned of the warder that M. de St. Quentin had recently passed out,
but that nothing had been seen of his equery. No steeds were here for
us.
"Well, then, we'll go have a glass. But if Vigo doesn't come soon, by my
faith, I'll walk to St. Denis!"
But that promised glass was never drunk, nor were we to set out at once
for St. Denis; for in the door of the wine-shop we met Lucas.
I had dismissed him from thought, as something out of the reckoning,
dead and done with, powerless as yesterday's broken sword. I thought him
gone out of our lives when he went out of prison--gone forever, like
last year's snow. And here within the hour we encountered him, a naked
sword in his hand, a smile on his lips. He said, in the flower of his
easy insolence:
"Tuesday I told you our hour would come. It is here."
"At your service," quoth my lord.
"Then it needs not to slap your face?"
"You insult me safely, Lucas. You have but one life. That is forfeit, be
you courteous."
"You think so?"
"I know it."
Lucas held out the bare sword, hilt toward us.
"Monsieur had a box for weapon yesterday, but as I prefer to fight in
the established way, I ventured to provide him with a sword."
"Thoughtful of you, Lucas. Is this the make of sword you elect to be
killed with?"
He was bending the blade to try its temper. Lucas unsheathed his own.
"M. de Mar may have his choice."