"Faith, there'll soon be as many ghosts in the house as you thought you
saw there--Grammont, Pontou, and now Lucas. What ails you, lad?
Footsteps on your grave?"
But it was not thoughts of my grave caused the shudder, but of his. For
of the three men of the lightning-flash, the third was not Lucas, but M.
Étienne. What if the vision were, after all, the thing I had at first
believed it--a portent? An appearance not of those who had died by
steel, but of those who must. One, two, and now the third.
Next moment I almost laughed out in relief. It was not Pontou I had
seen, but Louis Martin. And he was living. The vision was no omen, but a
mere happening. Was I a babe to shiver so?
And yet Martin, if not dead, was like to die. He was in duress as a
Leaguer spy, to await King Henry's will. All who entered this house lay
under a curse. We should none of us pass out again, save to our tombs.
We entered the well-remembered little passage, the well-remembered
court, where shards of glass still strewed the pavement. Some one--the
gendarmes, I fancy, when they took away Pontou--had put a heavy padlock
on the door Lucas and Grammont left swinging.
"We go in by your postern, Félix," my master said. "M. Lucas, I confess
I prefer that you go first."
Lucas put his back to the wall.
"Why go farther, M. le Comte?"
"Do you long for interruption'?"
"We were not noticed coming in. The street was quiet."
He crossed the court abruptly and went down the alley to look into the
street.
"Not a soul in sight," he said, coming back. "I think we shall not be
interrupted. Still, it is wise to use every care. We will fight, if you
like, in the house."
He opened with his knife the fastened shutter, and leaped lightly in.
Monsieur followed. I, the last, was for closing the shutter, but he
stopped me.
"No; leave it wide. I have no fancy for a walk in pitch-darkness with M.
Lucas."
"Do we fight here?" Lucas asked, facing us in the wide, square hall. "We
can let in more light."
"You seem anxious, my friend, to call attention to your whereabouts. As
I am host, I designate the fighting-ground. Up-stairs, if you please."
"I suppose you insist on my walking first," Lucas sneered.
"I request it, monsieur."
"With all the willingness in the world," his rogue-ship answered,
setting foot straightway on the stair and mounting steadily, never
turning to see how near we followed, or what we did with our hands. His
trust made me ashamed of our lack of it. I almost believed we did him
injustice. Yet at heart I could not bring myself to credit him with any
fair dealing.
We went up one flight, up two. We had left behind us the twilight of the
lower story, had not reached dawn again at the top. We walked in
blackness. Suddenly I halted.
"Monsieur!"
"What?"
"I heard a noise."
"Of course you did. The place is full of rats."
"It was no rat. It was footsteps."
We all three held still.
"There, monsieur. Don't you hear?"
"Nothing, Félix; your teeth are chattering. Cross yourself and come on."
But I could not stand it.
"I'll go back and see, monsieur."
"No," Lucas said, striding back from the foot of the next flight. "I
will go."
We saw a glint in the gloom, monsieur's bared sword.
"You will go neither one of you. Hush! If we show ourselves, there'll be
no duel to-day."
We kept still, all three leaning over the banister, peering down to
where the white tiles picked themselves out of the floor of the hall far
beneath. We could see them better than we could see one another. All was
silent. Not so much as a rustle came up from below. Suddenly Lucas made
a step or two, as if to pass us. M. Étienne wheeled about, raising his
sword toward the spot where from his footfalls we supposed Lucas to be.
"You show an eagerness to get away from me, M. de Lorraine."
"Not in the least, M. de Mar. This alarm is but Félix's poltroonery, yet
it prompts me to go down and close the shutter."
"On the contrary, you will go up with me. Félix will close the shutter."
They confronted each other, vague shapes in the darkness, each with
drawn sword. Then Lucas raised his in salute.
"As you will; so be some one sees to it."
"Go, Félix."
Lucas first, they mounted the last flight of stairs, and their footsteps
passed along the corridor to the room at the back. I, as I was ordered,
set my face down the stairs.
They might mock me as they liked, but I could not get it out of my head
that I had heard steps below. Cautiously, with a thumping heart, I stole
from stair to stair, pausing at the bottom of the flight. I heard
plainly the sound of moving above me, and of voices; but below not a
whisper, not a creak. It must have been my silly fears. Resolved to
choke them, I planted my feet boldly on the next flight, and descended
humming, to prove my ease, the rollicky tune of Peyrot's catch.
Suddenly, from not three feet off, came the soft singing:
_Mirth, my love, and Folly dear_--
My knees knocked together, and the breath fluttered in my throat. It
seemed the darkness itself had given tongue. Then came a low laugh and
the muttered words:
"Here we are, M. de Lorraine. Are you ready?"
There was a stir of feet on the landing before me, behind the voice. The
house, then, was full of Lucas's cutthroats, the first of them Peyrot.
In the height of my terror, I remembered that M. Étienne's life, too,
depended on my wits, and I kept them. I whispered, for whispering voices
are hard to tell apart:
"Not yet. The two of them are up there. Keep quiet, and I'll send the
boy down. When you've finished him, come up."
"As you say, monsieur. It is your job."
I turned, scarce able to believe my luck, and, not daring to run, walked
up-stairs again. Prick my ears as I might, I heard no movement after me.
Actually, I had fooled Peyrot. I had gone down to meet my death, and a
tune had saved me.
When I reached the uppermost landing, I rushed along the passage and
into the room, flinging the door shut, locking and bolting it.
They had not begun to fight, but had busied themselves clearing the
space of all obstacles. The table was pushed against the wall in the
corner by the door; the chairs were heaped one on another at the end of
the room. Both shutters were wide open. M. Étienne, bareheaded, in his
shirt, stood at guard. Lucas was kneeling on the floor, picking up with
scrupulous care some bits of a broken plate. He sprang to his feet at
sight of me.
"What is it?" cried M. Étienne.
"Cutthroats. They'll be here in a minute."
Even as I spoke, I heard tramping on the stairs below. My slam of the
door had warned them that something was wrong.
"Was that your delay?" M. Étienne shouted, springing at his foe.
"I play to win!" Lucas answered, smiling.
The blades met; the men circled about and about. Lucas, though he
preferred to murder, knew how to duel.
We were doomed. With monsieur's sword for only weapon, we could never
hope to pass the gang. In another minute they would be here to batter
the door down and end us. Our consolation lay in killing Lucas first.
Yet as I watched, I feared that M. Étienne, in the brief moments that
remained to him, could not conquer him, so shrewd and strong was Lucas's
fence. Must the scoundrel win? I started forward to play Pontou's trick.
Lucas sought to murder us. Why not we him?
One flash from my lord's eyes, and I retreated in despair. For I knew
that did I touch Lucas, M. Étienne would let fall his sword, let Lucas
kill him. And the bravos were on the last flight.
Was there no escape? There were three doors in the room. One led to the
passage, one to the closet, the third--I dashed through to find myself
in a large empty chamber, a door wide open giving on the passage.
Through it I could see the dusky figures of four men running up the
stairs.
I was across the room like an arrow, and got the door shut and bolted
before they could reach the landing. The next moment some one flung
against it. It stood firm. Delaying only a moment to shake it, three of
the four I could hear run to the farther door, whence issued the noise
of the swords.
I, inside the wall, ran back too. The combat still raged. Neither, that
I could see, had gained the least advantage. Outside, the murderers
dashed themselves upon the door.
I dragged at the heavy table, and, with a strength that amazed myself,
pushed and pulled it before the door. It would make the panels a little
firmer.
Was there no escape? None? I ran once more into the second chamber. Its
shutters were closed; I threw them open. There was no other door to the
room, no hiding-place. There was a chimney, but spanned a foot above the
fireplace by two iron bars. The thinnest sweep that ever wielded broom
could not have squeezed between them.
In despair, I ran to the window again. Top of the house as it was, I
thought I would sooner leap than be stabbed to death. I stuck my head
out. It was the same window where I had stood when Grammont seized me.
There, not ten feet away, eight at the most, but a little above me, was
the casement of my garret in the Amour de Dieu. Would it be possible to
jump and catch the sill? If I did, I could scarce pull myself in.
I looked below me. There swung the sign of the Amour de Dieu. And there
beside it stood a homespun figure surely known to me. There was no
mistaking that bald pate. I yelled at the top of my lungs:
"Maître Jacques!"
He looked up, gaping at this voice out of the sky, but, despite his
amazement, I saw that he knew me.
"Maître Jacques! We're being murdered! We can't get out! Help us for the
love of Christ! Bring a plank, a rope, to the window there!"
For an instant he stood confounded. Then he vanished into the inn.
I waited, on fire. Still from the next room sounded the clash of steel.
White shirt and black doublet passed the door in turn, unflagging,
ungaining.
Suddenly came a new noise from the passage, of trampling and rending,
blows and oaths. My first thought was that they were fighting out there,
that rescuers had come. Then, as I listened, I learned better.
Despairing of kicking down the door, they were tearing out a piece of
stair-rail for a battering-ram. It would not long stand against that.