AT THE THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS
I left Mlle. de Launay at the Tuileries, promising to call at eight
o’clock for the papers, and returned to the Rue des Saints Pères in no
very happy frame of mind. Why Mlle. Dacour had chosen to ignore me was
a problem which I tried in vain to solve, and preoccupied with this
mystery, I pushed my way through the crowd without seeing it. Jacques
had dinner awaiting my return, and after changing my clothes, which
had been sadly bespattered in the passage of the Rue St. Honoré, I
hastened to appease my hunger. When I was once more alone before the
fire with a bottle of wine at my elbow, I turned again to the solution
of the problem. But in all those sweet perplexities of woman’s nature
I was the merest novice,--though I have since grown wiser by dint of
much careful study,--and I puzzled my head to no purpose. Twilight came
while I sat there musing, and Jacques entered with the candles.
“Has monsieur decided where he will spend the evening?” he asked.
“Why, no,” I said. “I have an engagement at eight o’clock, but ’twill
keep me no longer than half an hour.”
“Permit me to remind monsieur that M. le Duc has always places reserved
at the Opéra and the Comédie, and that these are at monsieur’s service.”
“A thousand thanks, Jacques, for your thoughtfulness!” I cried. “And
what is the programme for this evening?”
“The Opéra will be closed, as a new piece is in preparation there, but
at the Comédie will be produced M. Voltaire’s tragedy of ‘Œdipe,’ which
has created such a furore since its first representation a month ago.”
In fact, I had myself seen many of the bills announcing the tragedy and
had heard some talk of it on the streets.
“I shall go,” I said. “Thanks, again, for your thoughtfulness, Jacques.”
“I will see that M. le Duc’s place is at the disposal of monsieur,” he
answered, and withdrew.
I looked over my wardrobe with care and selected the most elaborate
costume I possessed, as best suited to the fashionable world of the
theatre into which I was about to venture. I heard seven o’clock
striking as I finished my toilet, and knowing that I had no time to
lose, I buckled on my sword and left the house, declining a carriage
which Jacques offered me, since my first errand must be done on foot.
It was not yet eight o’clock when I reached the Tuileries and entered
the salon, but the usual crowd had already assembled, and several of
the men bowed to me as I passed. One of these was the Chevalier de Rey,
who stopped me for a moment.
“Has Richelieu left the city, monsieur?” he asked.
“He has joined his regiment at Bayonne,” I answered.
“Ah,” said de Rey, with a smile of intelligence, “the time, then, is
not far distant,” and he turned away with his news to a neighboring
group.
I continued on my way down the room, and met Mlle. de Launay as she
entered.
“You are prompt, M. de Brancas,” she said. “Here are the papers,” and
she handed me a packet resembling in outward appearance at least that
she had given to Cellamare in the afternoon. “I fancy they will keep
Hérault, Dubois, and the regent busy for a time,” she added, with a
smile.
“I trust so, at all events,” I answered, as I took the papers.
“Wait a moment, monsieur,” she continued, placing her hand lightly upon
my arm as I turned away. “Madame appreciates thoroughly your share in
this afternoon’s adventure and charged me expressly to thank you in her
name. She realizes that but for you our plans would even now be in the
hands of the regent.”
“I was glad to be of service,” I said, simply, “and hope to prove this
many times within the next few weeks.”
“I believe you, monsieur,” and she looked into my eyes. “Madame and
myself both feel that we can trust you. We are happy to have found such
an ally.”
I thanked her again and took my leave, as Polignac came to us and
engaged her in conversation, for I was ill at ease. It seemed to me
that I was being dragged into the conspiracy much deeper than I had
bargained for, and yet I saw no way to extricate myself, however much
I might wish to do so. And I realized more vividly than ever that I was
not made for intrigue.
I was anxious to have the errand done, and I hurried from the place
and made my way to the Rue Jean St. Denis, down which I turned until I
reached the Rue de Beauvais. Here an unforeseen difficulty confronted
me, for though I knew I was to leave the papers with the concierge of
the corner house, I did not know which corner. As the Rue Jean St.
Denis ended here, there were only two corners to choose from, and
I looked at these with attention. The building on the right was a
handsome edifice of four stories, extending down the Rue de Beauvais to
the Rue Fromenteau, and along the Rue Jean St. Denis a corresponding
distance. I reflected that Hérault would not be likely to choose the
concierge of such an imposing edifice as a depository for his papers,
and turned my attention to the opposite side. The corner house here
was a small one, stuck in, as it were, to fill an angle left by the
two adjoining buildings. It was only two stories in height, the ground
floor being occupied by a cabaret which seemed well patronized. I
decided at once that this was the place, and, pulling my hat down over
my eyes and wrapping my cloak about my face, I approached it.
I looked about, but could discover no sign of a concierge, and turned
the corner into the Rue de Beauvais. Here fortune favored me, for
I found a little court which gave entrance to the interior of the
building. In one corner of this court was a hut of one room, with a
large window commanding the entrance. By the candle within I saw a
little old man sitting at a table, apparently asleep. I opened the door.
“Are you the concierge?” I asked, touching him with my foot.
He awoke with a start and sat blinking at me.
“I asked if you are the concierge,” I repeated.
“The concierge?” he stammered. “Yes, yes. What is it, monsieur?”
“You sometimes receive papers and letters, do you not?”
“Sometimes, monsieur.”
“And what do you do with them?”
“I give them to the person for whom they are intended, monsieur,” and
he smiled cunningly.
“All right,” I said. “I see you are my man. These must be delivered to
that person at once. Tell me the first letter of his name.”
“H, monsieur.”
“Good. Here are the papers,” and I gave him the packet and turned to
leave.
“But your name, monsieur?” he cried.
“He will know from whom they come,” I answered. “It is always safer
not to mention names,” and I hurried from the place, for I feared that
one of Hérault’s agents might arrive while I was there. I met no one,
however, and turning up the Rue du Chantre, soon reached the Palais
Royal.
The Théâtre-Français occupied a portion of the left wing, and the
entrance was crowded with gayly dressed people. Thanks to Jacques, who
had been before me, I had no difficulty in securing the place reserved
for Richelieu at the right of the stage, and I looked about me with no
little interest and some astonishment. The hall was not very large and
but indifferently lighted. Two rows of boxes extended in a semicircle
around it, encircling the pit, which was without seats. It was already
filled with a crush of people, who were compelled to stand on tiptoe
and look over each other’s shoulders to catch a glimpse of the stage.
The stage itself appeared to be a mere strip of planks in the midst of
this sea of people, for on either side of it were four rows of seats,
one above the other, enclosed in a gilt railing, and at the back thirty
or forty people were standing, through whom the actors must force their
way in order to reach the front. As was inevitable in such a multitude,
there was a perfect babel of conversation. Most of the boxes were still
empty, but from the pit came an uproar indescribable. The din was
increased by dealers in lemonade and sweetmeats, who pushed their way
through the crowd crying their wares.
The boxes filled gradually, most of them being occupied by elegantly
attired ladies, many of whom were masked. My attention was attracted by
a party of especially distinguished appearance which entered the box
across from mine. It consisted of three ladies, all wearing masks.
The ringing of a bell drew my eyes to the stage, and those who had come
only to see the assembling of the audience withdrew and received their
money back as they passed out. A boy snuffed the row of candles which
served as footlights, and the bell tapped a second time. Something like
stillness fell upon the house, and I saw two gentlemen attired in
the mode of Paris, with swords at their sides, precisely as had every
gentleman in the audience, break a way through the crowd at the back of
the stage and advance to the front. One, so the playbill told me, was
the Prince of Eubœa, and the other his friend Dimas, and the opening
couplet was ringing in the air,--
“Philoctète, est-ce vous? Quel coup affreux du sort
Dans ces lieux empestés vous fait chercer la mort?”
From that instant I forgot the audience and no longer saw the
anachronism which gave this Greek tragedy all the appointments of a
French contemporary drama. I heard only the majesty of the lines, as
the story moved on without interruption to the tragedy which was its
climax. Thunders of applause interrupted the actors at every moment.
The audience found in the first scene a reference to the king, then
only eight years old, and to the regent. These were clapped to the
echo, and the actors were recalled at the end of the scene.
The act once over, the hubbub of voices arose again, and I had leisure
to look about me. Unconsciously my eyes wandered to the box opposite,
and I started as I fancied I saw one of the masked ladies make a
motion to me with her fan. I told myself I must be mistaken, but
a moment later the signal was repeated. I arose from my chair and
looked questioningly at her, still incredulous of my good fortune.
She nodded her head and again beckoned with her fan. This time there
was no mistaking her meaning, and I hurried from my box and made my
way through the crowd as rapidly as possible to the other side of the
theatre. With fast-beating heart I tapped at the door of the box where
the three ladies sat.
“Enter, monsieur,” said a low voice, which I recognized at once as that
of Mlle. de Valois. “Ah, M. de Brancas,” she continued, holding out her
hand, “you are welcome. But I am ashamed of you, sir. Do you always
compel a lady to give you three invitations?”
“It was because I could not believe in my good fortune, mademoiselle,”
I cried. “Had I known who you were, I fear I should not have waited for
even one invitation.”
“I see my mask is no disguise, monsieur,” laughed the princess, “for
you seem to know me now. Pray tell me, do you know these other ladies?”
“I know Mlle. Dacour,” I answered, bowing to one of the other two, who
remained silent, apparently absorbed in watching the crowd in the pit.
“And how do you know that?” she asked.
“By the beating of my heart, mademoiselle,” I answered.
The princess laughed merrily.
“A pretty compliment, upon my word,” she cried. “Come, Louise, are you
not going to give M. de Brancas your hand to kiss as a reward?”
“M. de Brancas is too fond of kissing hands,” she retorted, without
looking at me. “Let him find others, as he has doubtless already done.”
Mlle. de Valois glanced at my lugubrious face and burst into another
peal of laughter.
“It is too amusing,” she cried. “But first, monsieur, let me introduce
you to this other lady, concerning whom your heart tells you
nothing,--my sister, Mlle. de Chartres.”
I bowed to the lady, who was apparently some years older than Mlle.
de Valois, and who smiled at me graciously. The princess was still
laughing.
“Oh, come, M. de Brancas,” she said, “put off that melancholy air.
You should rejoice rather than despair, for, do you know, Louise is
doing you the honor of being jealous of you. This afternoon we were
out driving, and in the Rue St. Honoré who should we see but M. de
Brancas wading across the street and with a young and pretty woman
held very affectionately in his arms. It made my blood leap and I was
for cheering you from the carriage window, but Louise held me back,
and in a moment you were gone. I thought it fine, but she said it was
disgraceful, and I nearly died with laughing at her indignant face.”
“Oh, this is too much!” cried Mlle. Dacour, starting from her seat. “I
will not remain here to be insulted in this manner.”
“Oh, do not go, mademoiselle!” I implored.
“Yes, stay, Louise,” said the princess. “I promise not to tease you
further. Besides,” she added, mischievously, “M. de Brancas doubtless
has an explanation to offer, and perhaps he was not holding her so
affectionately as I imagined.”
I would have told them at once that it had been a question of necessity
and not at all of affection, but at that moment the bell rang and the
second act began. I forgot my fair companions in the interest of the
tragedy. The laughing voice of Mlle. de Valois aroused me.
“Ah, M. de Brancas,” she said, “it is evident that you have never
before seen the ‘Œdipe.’ Here, sit beside me. If you are very good and
answer my questions nicely I shall let you sit beside Louise, and you
will have only yourself to blame if you do not make peace with her. She
is dying of curiosity to learn the lady’s name. Have you heard from
Richelieu?” she asked in a lower tone.
“I have heard only that he is on the road to Bayonne,” I answered.
“And you think he should remain there?”
“I believe it would be best for the present, mademoiselle.”
“Ah, but, M. de Brancas,” she said, “suppose you were Richelieu and I
Louise Dacour. Would you remain at Bayonne? Do not answer me, I see
in your face that you would not. Listen. Richelieu will be in Paris
to-morrow night.”
“To-morrow night,” I gasped.
“Yes. He will doubtless go first to his hotel, where you will meet him.
So soon as you see him give him this note,” and she handed me a little
perfumed missive. “The note, I may as well tell you, states that at ten
o’clock to-morrow night I shall be at the house of a friend in the Rue
Jean Tison, the third house from the corner of the Rue Bailleul, on the
right-hand side. Rap three times and the door will be opened to you
without question. Mount the stairs to the first floor. Louise will be
there also. Do you understand, monsieur?”
“Yes, yes,” I said, and placed the note in my pocket.
“You do not seem to consider any longer the danger to which Richelieu
will be exposed,” she said, slyly.
“Oh, if Louise is there,” I murmured.
“You are charming, M. de Brancas,” said the princess, and she gave me
an adorable smile. “Now take your reward. Sit by her side and whisper
a few sentences such as that into those little pink ears of hers. She
will soon be smiling.”
The end of the second act gave me the opportunity of changing my seat.
“Oh, mademoiselle,” I whispered, as I sat down beside her, “believe
me, there are only two hands in the whole world that I desire to
kiss,--those two which are lying in your lap.”
“Who was the lady you were with this afternoon?” she asked, not
deigning to glance at me, but gazing straight in front of her.
“Mlle. de Launay,” I answered.
“Mlle. de Launay?”
“Yes.”
“You know her, then?”
“Richelieu introduced us. Madame du Maine asked me to accompany her
this afternoon on an errand. On our way back to the Tuileries we found
the way blocked by the flooded street. She was in haste, and as there
was no other way, I carried her across. I did not enjoy the task, I
assure you, mademoiselle.”
She glanced at me, and I thought I saw signs of relenting in her eyes.
“Come, Louise,” cried the duchess, “we must go. It was not to see the
‘Œdipe’ that we came here. We have accomplished our mission and must
return.”
“Till to-morrow, then,” I whispered to Louise as the ladies arose, and
I fancied that she gave a slight affirmative nod of the head. I would
have accompanied them, but the princess waved me back, and I returned
to my box to witness the remainder of the play. It moved me strongly,
and I was still thinking over its stirring periods as I reached the
quays and crossed the river. As I turned down the Quai Malaquest I
fancied I heard footsteps behind me, but when I turned, saw no one.
The street was very dark, the candles, which swung here and there in
lanterns twenty feet above the roadway, having been extinguished by a
gust of rain earlier in the evening and no attempt having been made to
relight them.
I was stumbling on over the uneven pavement, when suddenly half a
dozen shadows detached themselves from the wall in front of me, and
at the same instant I heard hastening footsteps in my rear. Before I
could draw my sword, or even, in fact, appreciate my danger, a dozen
men threw themselves upon me. A gag was thrust into my mouth, a scarf
bound over my eyes, my hands and feet were tied, and in a moment I was
helpless. Some one was searching my pockets.
“Some more of the Cartouche gang,” I thought.
“Handle him as gently as possible,” I heard a voice say. “Now two of
you lift him and bring him along.”
I was lifted from the pavement and borne along for some distance. Then
I was placed in a carriage, which was driven rapidly through the
streets. It rumbled across a bridge, stopped, and I heard a sentry’s
challenge.
“The Bastille again,” I groaned to myself.
The carriage drove on and then came to a sudden stop. I was lifted out
and carried into a room, the door of which I heard closed after me.
“Untie him,” commanded a voice, and in a moment my hands and feet were
free, the gag was taken from my mouth and the scarf whisked from my
eyes. A man of middle age in the uniform of an officer of the guards
stood before me.
“It is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting you, M. de
Brancas,” he said, smiling. “I trust we shall be good friends.”
“The beginning of our acquaintance does not seem to me a happy one,” I
answered. “But may I ask your name, monsieur?”
“I am called Hérault, lieutenant of police,” and he bowed.
“Hérault?” I exclaimed.
“At your service,” and he bowed again.
“And why have I been arrested, monsieur?” I asked.
“Ah, do not use so harsh a word!” he cried. “I assure you, monsieur,
you are not arrested, but merely detained. There is no charge against
you, and on my word you shall be free again day after to-morrow.”
“But in the mean time?”
“In the mean time, monsieur, you will be my guest, and I shall strive
to make your stay a pleasant one.”
I searched his face with my eyes, but it told me nothing. With a start
I remembered the rendezvous, and my hand sought my pocket. The note
Mlle. de Valois had given me was gone. In an instant I understood. The
regent was setting another trap for Richelieu.
Hérault read my face as he would have read an open book.
“I see you are beginning to understand, M. de Brancas,” he said, still
smiling. “It would be inconvenient to have you present at certain
scenes which are to occur say twenty-four hours from now. Consequently
you will be my guest for thirty-six hours.”
I was still dazed at the discovery of this trap, and my mind was
stumbling blindly along its intricacies.
“How did you learn of the existence of this note, monsieur?” I asked at
length, finding here a problem which I could not solve.
“Ah, M. de Brancas,” cried Hérault, “it was there that you displayed
an indiscretion which surprised me. Did you for a moment suppose that
a masked lady, whose identity, however, was well known, could give
you a note in a crowded house where there were twenty of my agents
without this being perceived? Did you believe that you could talk of a
rendezvous in a theatre box and not be overheard, provided the police
wished to overhear you? You will answer, of course, that you talked in
a low voice, but permit me to tell you something, monsieur, which may
be of value to you in the future. In a theatre, a hall, or any place
where there is a great crowd of people and consequently much noise, a
single human voice seems to its possessor the most feeble instrument in
the world. And yet, no matter how great the confusion, trained ears,
such as my agents possess, can pick out that voice and follow it as
though it were speaking alone in the stillness of the grave.”
I understood but too clearly, and cursed my own folly and that of Mlle.
de Valois.
“As I said before,” continued Hérault, “you are my guest. You are at my
house in the Rue de Perpignan. But do not think of escape, monsieur.
Twenty men guard every door and avenue of escape. I shall be obliged
to station six in your apartment. They will be fully armed, and as you
have not even your sword,”--I placed my hand at my side and found that
my sword was indeed gone,--“you can easily realize how foolhardy it
would be to attack them. They have instructions to kill you rather than
permit you to escape, and I should be truly sorry to have the incident
end so unhappily.”
He paused for a moment as though to allow his words to take effect, and
then motioned me to follow him. We mounted two steep and narrow flights
of stairs, passing several sentries on the way, and stopped before
a door on the third floor. This Hérault opened, and we entered. Six
soldiers, all armed with swords and muskets, were pacing up and down
inside. An open door disclosed another and smaller room, in which there
was a bed.
“I trust you will be comfortable here, monsieur,” said Hérault. “After
all, it will be only for a short time. Is there anything you desire?”
“Nothing, monsieur,” I answered.
“Good-night, then,” and casting another glance around the apartment
to assure himself that all was right, he withdrew. I heard him giving
some orders outside the door, a bolt was thrown, and all was still.
The six guards in my apartment continued marching up and down without
saying a word. I realized that nothing could be done that night, and
appreciating the value of sleep in clearing the brain and steadying the
nerves, I undressed and went to bed. As I entered the smaller room two
of the guards took their station at its open door, where they could
observe my every movement, and I smiled to myself at the thought that
Hérault must indeed consider me formidable.