COUNT GASTON DE FOIX
The name of the inn at Ozauy must have been given in bitter irony, for
house and host were alike unprepossessing. Custom seemed the last
thing desired.
"Full," said he, opening the door an inch or two in reply to my third
knock, though the blankness of the dark upper windows gave him the lie.
"Go elsewhere, my fine fellow, and make less noise." And would have
shut-to the door again, had I not thrust the end of my riding-whip
through the crack.
"Tell me," I whispered, as he struggled to push it back, "is the
good-man of Tours in the neighbourhood?"
On the instant the struggling ceased, and I heard a little whimper
behind the door like the cry of a child too frightened of the dark to
scream.
"Saints have mercy on a fool!" he said, flinging the door wide. "Come
in, Monseigneur, come in! How was I to guess it was your Excellency at
so late an hour? There are half a dozen louts drinking in the kitchen,
some of them not too sober--we must live as we may these times. Shall
I turn them out?"
"No, but prepare supper while we see to the horses, then make our rooms
ready. But the good-man of Tours, what of him?"
"Certainly, your Excellency, in the morning; I shall see to that.
To-night he is----"
But I remembered Commines' advice, and cut him short; besides, it was
long past our usual hour for the meal, and we were half-starved.
"Is that your business? Bring supper."
"Again, certainly, Monseigneur, and a good one, though all Ouzay be
scoured for it." Nor, when it came, had we any cause to complain.
What profession, beyond that of spy and jackal to the sick Lion of
Plessis, the good-man of Tours followed I do not know, but at least he
was diligent in his master's service. Before seven in the morning
there was a knocking at our door, and when Martin slipped the bolt a
fellow in peasant's dress entered, closing the door carefully behind
him.
"Monsieur de Helville?" he said, looking from one to the other, but
speaking not at all in a peasant's voice.
"I am de Helville."
"And I the good-man of Tours--or his shadow. Here are your orders. Go
to the Red Cock in Poictiers, and ask the landlord the same question
you asked last night, saying neither more nor less."
He had kept his hand on the latch while he spoke, and as he ended he
opened the door and was gone before we could put in a word. Martin was
for running after him, but I forbade it.
"To what purpose? We know as much as the King wants us to know. That
masquerading peasant could tell us nothing more. It's my belief that,
except Louis himself, not a man in France, not even either Monsieur de
Commines or the Chancellor, knows the route we are to follow or the
business we travel on."
"But, Monsieur Gaspard, why such caution?"
"For this reason, my friend; if we bungle our commission, the King can
say, 'I never knew you,' and so leave us to our fate as wandering
vagabonds."
As it was at Ouzay, so it was at Poictiers and for the rest of our
journey. Poictiers sent us to Ruffec, Ruffec to Marthon, Marthon to
Saint Gatien, Saint Gatien to Le Catelet, Le Catelet to Gabarnet,
Gabarnet to Orthez, Orthez to La Voulle. Everywhere there was the same
question, everywhere the same obsequious, frightened deference, with
none seeing further into the King's purpose than the next post. Once
our instructions came by way of a woman, and once through the
inn-keeper himself.
This last was at The Good Queen in La Voulle, and there, for the first
time, our orders varied.
"I am to tell you this," said he. "What you seek is at Morsigny. When
you have found it, ride back here with all speed, and then, but not
till then, open the sealed letter."
At the time I answered nothing, but next morning as we sat at
breakfast, our host serving us, I asked, as if for gossip's sake, if he
knew of such a place as Morsigny?
"The château, I suppose you mean, Monsieur?" he replied, playing up to
my lead while he busied himself doing nothing with apparent zeal. "It
is about three leagues to the south, and so not far from the hills.
But you will not find the Count at home."
"Oh, the Count is not at home," I repeated vaguely, my information
being of the weakest. I had not even remembered there was a Count.
"No, Excellency; he is with the court at Pamplona, though not
altogether for love."
"Who, then, is at Morsigny?"
"Only the little Count and a small household. The life they live is of
the quietest; few pass their way, and if you have news from Paris, or
even from Bordeaux, Monsieur, you will be sure of a welcome."
"What?" said I doubtfully. The possible solution of an evident
difficulty did not seem a good one. "A stranger? Hardly welcome, I
think."
"That's just it, Monsieur, because you are a stranger, or no more than
two. Were you fifty you would find the door shut so fast that fifty
would not open it. Nor would you get a welcome if you came from Tours.
We of the Little Kingdom do not love Louis. Jean Volran says it."
"Bold words," said Martin grimly. "But, my friend, here's advice to
you: if you meet a certain Messire Tristan, keep your dislikes to
yourself, for assuredly Jean Volran would never say it a second time."
"Bah!" replied he, shrugging his shoulders as he turned away. "I'm not
afraid of your precious Messire Tristan."
No more passed, but as we rode on the way I had leisure to admire the
skill with which His Majesty chose even the humblest of his tools. In
three sentences Jean Volran had informed us of the position at
Morsigny, had shown us a possible cause of welcome, and hinted a
warning we would be fools to disregard.
It was curious, but it was not the seizing of the child that troubled
my conscience, but the stealing through a friendly door under cover of
a lie. But as I cast about how I might shift a downright lie to a
seeming truth, and so cheat the devil in the dark, Martin could stand
his uncertainty no longer, and so, for the tenth time since we had left
Plessis, spurred Ninus up alongside of Roland that he might ease his
curiosity.
"Are we at our journey's end, Monsieur Gaspard?"
"Nearly," answered I, finding safety in brevity.
"And what do we do next?"
"The King's business."
"Then it's turn about," said he, "for the King nearly did mine in
Tours. But what is the King's business to us?"
"The restoration of the Hellewyl lands, the building of Solignac, and
Jan Meert's life. Will that content you?"
But to my surprise, so far from showing the lively satisfaction I
looked for, or even astonishment, his face grew grave.
"Is it as dangerous as all that? The old fox of Plessis never gives
coin or life except at ten-fold usury. Who pays it, Monsieur Gaspard?"
"Are you a coward? Think of the gain, man."
"Ay! Coward! Think of the cost!" he answered dourly. "I say again,
Who pays it? Pray God we don't!"
"That we may not," I answered, speaking more sharply than was just, for
I had always encouraged Martin to be frank. "See well to Roland and
Ninus, for when we ride from Morsigny we shall ride as if the devil or
Tristan himself were after us. The pack-horse we shall leave behind."
"Morsigny!" said Martin. "I'd rather have Solignac, charred and
roofless, than twenty Morsignys. God send us safe away!"
"God send us safe there," I retorted; "and that He may, do thou wait
here till I ask our road. I hear voices across the break of whins
yonder."
It is my belief that the sun, the rain, and the wind are at the bottom
of half the workings of a man's spirit, nor, if nature be in a
mothering mood, is it possible for wholesome five-and-twenty to
withstand for long her comfortings. Never had Flanders shown me so
blue a sky, rarely had such a kindly sun so warmed me. The very vigour
of the trees, their depth of green, their splendid strength, their
lavishment of southern foliage, was a beguiling and a delight. Long
before I turned Roland out of the track my sourness had vanished, and
in its place was the glorious exuberance and sweetness of youth, that
thinks neither care nor evil. Care? To the back of to-morrow with
care! All around me the world was sown with gold, the yellow of broom,
the yellow of whin, the yellow of kingcups; and as the honey-sweet of
the warm air smote my nostrils, my heart danced in time to the thud of
Roland's hoofs. Over this bush we leaped, over that, zigzagging
towards the sound of life.
"_Ah dieu! me donc le joye d'amour!_"
sang I, and landed Roland almost flat on the top of a fluttering skirt.
With a jerk I pulled him to his haunches, and, bonnet in hand, sprang
to the ground.
"Pardon, Madame," I began, but stopped short, my heart leaping again,
but this time to the tune of my song. It was no Madame at all, but
Mademoiselle herself--Mademoiselle of the Star of Flanders and Tours
Cathedral, and straddling in front of her was a little six or
seven-year lad, his fists squared up at me.
It is another of my beliefs that, in the disadvantage of surprise, a
woman's wits work more keenly than a man's. Certainly Mademoiselle
found her tongue first, though that, perhaps, was yet more truly
feminine.
"Welcome to Navarre, Monsieur Gaspard Hellewyl!" said she, sweeping me
a curtsey so low that the exertion fired her cheeks ruddily. "Or is it
Monsieur Martin? The changes are so confusing and the names so hard to
remember."
"Gaspard Hellewyl, Mademoiselle," answered I; "Gaspard Hellewyl, and
always at your service."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, curtseying a second time, "always at my service!
That is very prettily said, Monsieur. And have you come all the way
from Tours to kill a man to prove it? That was your way in Paris, and
that was what you would have done in Tours, but here in Navarre I pray
you prove it in some gentler fashion. We have so few men in Navarre,
and"--the laughter died from her eyes as she paused an instant--"we may
need them all to fight France."
"If all Navarre can double its fists as sturdily as your playfellow,
Mademoiselle," answered I, giving her badinage for badinage, "then
France had better call Spain to her help, or else cry quarter."
As we spoke she had folded her arms round the little lad in loving
protection, but now she loosed him, and we stood for a moment in
silence. Presently she shook her head, her mouth twitching, as if her
gaiety was struggling back again.
"My playfellow! Ah, no, Monsieur Hellewyl, and I humbly pray you will
pardon the freedom of my presumption in addressing you. I am Monsieur
le Comte's _gouvernante_ and nurse, but, to be frank, very much his
nurse and very little his gouvernante, for I fear I teach him nothing
but to love me. This, Monsieur, is Count Gaston de Foix, only son and
heir to Monseigneur the Count de Narbonne. Monsieur Gaston, have I
permission to present to you Monsieur Hellewyl?"
The child nodded gravely, acknowledging my bow with a quaint
seriousness that moved my pity. It seemed a sorrowful thing that at
six years old the ceremonies of court usage should already have been so
deeply ingrained; but in an age when babes were betrothed in their very
cradles, the prince knew even less of the joys of life than the
peasant. Gaston de Foix! The lad to secure whom I was to turn
child-stealer! Gaston! The troubler of France, and the bearer of
peace to two nations if I could but succeed in my mission. Already I
was drawn towards him, already I pitied him, for if court ways so
cramped his life here in the freedom of the fields of Navarre, what
would it be behind the walls of Plessis, or wherever the King might
elect to quarter him?
"If Monsieur Hellewyl is your friend, Suzanne, then I am glad to see
him," replied he, with all the sedateness of a councillor of state.
Suzanne! So that was her name! Somehow it pleased me that I should
hear it for the first time from the lips of a child, and have my own
conjoined with it as a friend. And yet, such is the discontent of
mankind, I would have been yet better pleased if the child had put it
that Mademoiselle Suzanne was friend to Gaspard Hellewyl.
With a gravity the equal of his own I returned the queer stiff little
bow he gave me.
"Her friend always, that I can promise you, Monsieur le Comte, if she
will but permit me the honour. And she has greater friends than I;
Monseigneur the Prince de Talmont----"
With a sweep of her arm that should have been a revelation to me but
was not, so intent was I watching her eyes, Mademoiselle
unceremoniously put the boy aside.
"Commines!" she cried sharply, her face suddenly losing the freshness
of its youth. "Monsieur de Commines has sent you! God's name,
Monsieur Hellewyl, why did you not say so at once?"
"Because, Mademoiselle Suzanne, it is not quite as you put it."
"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur, leave your precise niceness of orders aside,
and come to the broad truth. It was Monsieur de Commines who told you
where to find me, however cunningly he may have packed his meaning in
doubtful words. I know his shifty ways. I mean him no offence. More
than once he has shown himself my friend; but he is one of those who
love to skirt the shadow of a hedge rather than cross a field in God's
sunlight. He has ten several ways of saying Good-morning! and each has
a different significance. Your message, Monsieur? Is it peace? What
a fool I was to think--but no matter what I thought; is it peace? is it
peace?"
For the second time I had unwittingly misled her. But though on this
occasion the fault was certainly not mine, I was embarrassed how to
answer. It was not simply that to tell how, in blunt truth, I had
stumbled on her by accident would have cost me the playful mischievous
interest I had first awakened, but it must also have provoked enquiry.
The woman who had cried of Villon, Is there no one to kill this
infamous wretch? who had had the cool hardihood to ride under the very
shadow of Tristan's gallows-house, because the greater safety lay in
the greater danger, would promptly ask, If Gaspard Hellewyl does not
come from Philip de Commines, what, then, is he doing in Navarre at all
in these times of stress? It was the little Count who gave me
sufficient breathing time to avoid the crime of a blundering lie.
Naturally, he could not follow Mademoiselle's change of mood, and her
pleading cry as she stood with outstretched arms seemed to him the cry
of fear.
"What is it, Suzanne?" said he, running between us. "What has he done
to you? If he hurts you, I'll kill him when I grow big--I will, I
will! Go away, Monsieur Hellewyl, you are not a friend."
"No, my heart, no," answered she, again putting him aside, but
gropingly, for her eyes were fixed on mine. "Monsieur Hellewyl, is
truly our friend, or I hope he is, and am waiting to hear him prove it."
"Heart, head, and hand," replied I, not venturing to touch the white
fingers, near though they were to mine. The brief interval had given
my slow wit time to move, and I thought I saw my way clear. "As to
Monsieur de Commines, his position is even more difficult than you
credit. At times the path by the hedge is quicker than the straight
road in the open sun. But this will prove that at least I am here with
his full knowledge." Out of its inner pocket, and with a blessing on
him for his crooked ways, I whipped the King's letter, turning first
the false seal, and then the extorted endorsement towards her. "Do you
recognise them?"
"I recognise them," she replied curtly, advancing her hand yet nearer.
"Give it me, Monsieur; pray God you bring good news."
"From my heart I believe I bring peace, and yet I cannot give you the
letter--cannot give it to-day," I added after a pause. "You see it has
no address, and--oh! wait Mademoiselle, wait! Trust me, the best fruit
ripens slowly."
"Wait!" she repeated, her arm sinking to her side; "that is always what
men say to a woman! Wait! wait! as if to wait were not hardest of all;
to wait, not knowing whether to hope or fear, or whether the new day
brings a blessing or a curse. Wait! Ah, Monsieur, you cannot love
your Flanders as we of the Little Kingdom love Navarre, or you would
not say Wait! so easily."
Once more the little Count stood my friend.
"Come and play, Suzanne," he said impatiently. "Monsieur can find his
way to Morsigny by himself."
"To Morsigny!" she cried, stooping to catch him in her arms so that I
failed to see her face. "Yes, that is best. Why, what a clever boy
you are, Gaston! Monsieur Hellewyl, the Count de Foix invites you to
Morsigny. But oh! I fear that you will find it dull, for at Morsigny
there are no men to be killed."