Before the evening came Humphrey had discovered the manner in which he
had been able to overhear so plainly all that had passed between La
Truaumont and the Marquise de Villiers-Bordéville the previous night.
On returning to his room after his conversation with the Duchess, he
had at once set about looking for the reason why the sounds of their
voices had reached his ears so clearly, and, ere five minutes had
elapsed, that reason was forthcoming.
The tapestry--if it was worthy of the name, since, in actual fact, it
was nothing but coarse, heavy-coloured cloth which hung in front of
the walls from the ceiling to the wainscot--was quite loose and might
be lifted aside, or drawn forward, by being grasped at the bottom, as
easily as a curtain might be, so that, consequently, when this was
done the whole of the bare wall behind it could be observed. Now,
since Humphrey very well understood that whatever sound had penetrated
to his ears must have come from and through the wall which separated
his bedroom from the salon of his neighbour, it was to that wall that
he at once directed his attention. A moment later he had done this,
and saw that high up in the wall was an orifice of about two feet
square which was strongly crossed with iron bars, and was probably, if
such a thing could have been thought of in even earlier days than
these, intended as a means of permitting air to circulate from one
room to another. If this had not been the original intention, Humphrey
could think of no other reason for the grating being where it was.
"Yet," he said to himself, as he gazed, or rather peered up, at the
thing from where he stood, his head being under the lower part of the
coarse tapestry, "what matters the cause of its being there since, by
its existence, I have been enabled to hear one portion of this
villainous scheme discussed, and, by God's will, may be enabled to
hear still more. So, too, I observe that the tapestry on the other
side prevents that grating from being visible to any in the woman's
salon, therefore none will guess that there is a listener here. 'Tis
very well. If I know aught of plotters and conspirators there will be
no more talk in there until the night has come and the house is at
rest, wherefore, since this is the time of day when the Duchess
sleeps, as do all her countrywomen and most of her countrymen, I will
go and pass an hour or so with sweet Jacquette. Then will I tell her,
from whom I have no secrets, of how I purpose passing part of my
night."
At the same time, since he was a young man of method, he looked around
his room while pondering if he could not utilise some piece of
furniture by pushing it up against the wall so that, by standing on
it, he should hear better whatever might be said within that room. All
the same he decided, after a moment's reflection, not to do this.
"Last night I heard much," he thought to himself, "though that other
and La Truaumont spoke but in whispers: to-night, since I shall not be
in bed but under the hangings, I should hear still better. And, also,
the maid will doubtless come here at night to fill the ewer and
prepare the bed; she would observe the change I have made. Let be.
'Tis best so."
Upon which he went out after locking his door behind him, a precaution
never to be neglected in such times as these when nothing worth
filching, even down to a plume for a hat or a wisp of lace, was safe
from some one or other's thievish hands. After which he made his way
to Jacquette's room and tapped lightly on the door to call her forth.
"Sweetheart," he said, when she came to it, "put on thy hood and come
out into the streets of this old city. The Duchess should be sleeping
now and have no need for thee."
"She is asleep, or seeking sleep. You know, Humphrey, we set out for
Geneva and the Milanese territory to-morrow."
"I know, dear one, and we will ride together side by side as we have
ridden here from Paris, though by devious ways and far off a straight
route. Yet, as you may guess, there is much to be done by me ere we
set forth."
"I know. I know. But wait for me below. I will but get my cape and
hood--'tis cold here in this damp, mountainous land--and then be with
you. But for an hour only, Humphrey. Only one hour."
"It must suffice since it can be no more. Yet we shall still be much
together until," looking softly at her, "we are together for ever."
After which he descended and went out to the great _place_ between the
inn and the Rhine and waited for his love to descend.
He waited, idling away the moments until Jacquette came, while seeing
Fleur de Mai sally forth with Boisfleury, the former having a new
plume in his hat and a fresh scarf round him, while the latter
swaggered by his side untidy as ever. He saw, too, La Truaumont across
the river, sitting in a tavern balcony which overhung the rushing
stream, and drinking with an old man of vulpine appearance--the old
man who had early that morning descended from the French coach and
looked up at the window of the Marquise's salon and leered and stuck
his tongue in his cheek, so that Humphrey had felt sure the woman in
that salon was visible.
"Ha," he said to himself, "so he, too, is in it. He is the intriguer
of whom the Duchess spoke; the man who was to come here. Well! well!
we shall know more to-night."
As he thought this, however, he determined that he would not wait
until the full night had come ere he retired to his room and began to
keep his watch, since he would thus be ready to hear all that might be
said in the next one. A word to the Duchess, a hint of what he was
about to do, would absolve him from any attendance on her that
evening.
Jacquette came forth from the inn now, her pretty travelling
_escoffion_ on her head and her little cape around her shoulders,
when, stepping across the place to where he stood with his back to
her, she joined him. Then--after looking across the river towards the
spot where Humphrey told her La Truaumont was seated (La Truaumont
who, having seen her come out of the inn, now waved his hand
gracefully to her, though half _en camarade_ and half with the air of
a roystering, boisterous soldier) she put her hand on her lover's arm
and, together, they walked side by side along the left bank of the
swift, rushing Rhine.
Of love 'tis certain they should talk at first--just a little--as is
the case with other lovers when first they meet, and always has been
since the world was young and fresh and green, and will be until it is
worn out and dead and gone. Therefore, so it was now with Humphrey and
Jacquette. And once, nay more than once, perhaps, when they had gotten
opposite the great wind-mills on the other side and were shielded from
view by the overhanging banks of the river, and hidden by the acacias
growing wild on those banks, their young lips met and touched as,
sometimes, the petals of one drooping crimson flower will meet and
touch those of another. But each knew that they were here for
something more serious at this moment than even their love, and
gradually they fell to talking on the strange environments with which
they, who had but lately been boy and girl together, were now
surrounded. They talked of the journey that lay before them over the
eternal snows of the St. Bernard or the St. Gothard, of which many
travellers had spoken and written and over the former of which
Humphrey's father had once himself passed on a voyage to Italy. They
wondered, too, how the family of the Duchess would receive her and
make a new home for her, and even wondered what the mad Duke would do
to regain possession of his errant wife. And then, at last, they spoke
of the whisper there was in the air--their air; that air by which they
were surrounded; of the whisper that De Beaurepaire meditated some mad
stroke by which he would set his life upon a cast and either lose all,
including life, in that attempt, or soar still higher than even one of
his house had ever soared before. "To-night," said Humphrey, in answer
to a question from Jacquette, "I shall know more; perhaps all. If that
happens which I think will happen, then I may know enough to prevent
the Prince from rushing on his ruin. For, sweet one, I do not believe,
nor will I ever believe, that he is aught but a tool, a cat's-paw in
the hands of these others. La Truaumont pretends to be his follower,
his servitor, yet he is, if I mistake not, the one who leads or pushes
him towards the end he himself desires to obtain. While for this
woman, who lives so close and snug within her rooms and is seen of
none, who is she, what is she?"
"I know naught of her, or only that La Truaumont says she secretly,
and unknown to him, loves De Beaurepaire."
"I understand," her lover answered. "Yet I believe that--that--as with
La Truaumont so it is with this woman; she, too, pushes De Beaurepaire
onward to something he would never otherwise attempt. And if she is
beautiful----"
"She _is_ beautiful," Jacquette said. "I saw her in Nancy. Poorly clad
'tis true, with poor adornments----"
"She has others now," Humphrey exclaimed, remembering the tray of
handsome lace that Emérance's maid carried in her hand when they
talked together at the head of the stairs.
"No doubt, no doubt," the colour returning again to Jacquette's
cheeks as she spoke. "And you would say that, if she is beautiful
she can lead him, wind him round her fingers as a child can wind
a silken thread. He is vain and she may play upon his vanity,
although--although, Humphrey--even as she does so she still may love
him. If all the world speaks true, many women have loved him ere now."
"If she loves him she should not lure him to his destruction. Yet, if
what I overheard last night has any truth in it, her own destruction
might accompany his. La Truaumont warned her--and, as he spoke, his
voice sounded sinister to me--that she might pay a heavy price for his
love."
"A woman would not heed that," Jacquette answered softly. "If she
loves a man and would have him love her, the price, even though it be
her life, counts nought."
"Has he," Humphrey asked now, after gazing into her eyes as she spoke
thus, "confided in the Duchess? Does she know all?"
"She will _not_ know. She will _not_ hear. She is resolved to know
nothing of De Beaurepaire's share in what is being plotted, I think.
For if 'tis against the King, against his crown, that danger
threatens, then--then--even though it were to bring death to him she
would warn the King. His mother, the Princess, would have told the
Duchess at Nancy, she endeavoured to tell her, to beseech her to
intercede with De Beaurepaire, to beg him to forgo this mad scheme of
which he had whispered the greater part to her, though not mentioning
that he was the head and front of it; but madame would not listen to
her. She will not know it since, knowing, she would feel impelled to
divulge all to the King."
"Then, somehow, I will save him. He has been ever good to me: once he
offered me a commission in his guards; also 'twas he who pressed King
Louis to make King Charles restore to me all that my father lost in
his father's cause. I must save him."
"Yet," Jacquette said, toying with the lace of his sleeve, "it does
behove you also to save the King, since, if these conspirators are
backed by the power and wealth of Spain, there is a chance they may
succeed. He, Louis the King, has also been good to you."
"'Tis true. 'Tis very true," Humphrey said reflectively; "he, too,
when my father was dead and my mother and I borne down by bitter,
grinding poverty, put in our way the wherewithal to live. He placed
her in the suite of Madame Henriette, he made me a page at Vincennes.
In very truth I owe him much."
"Therefore repay. Endeavour to serve both of those who, in their time,
have served you and yours. Save De Beaurepaire from these huckstering
conspirators, or, better still, save him from himself: save the King
from their assaults upon his great power and position. Yet--yet--ah!
heaven," she broke off to exclaim, "if your knowledge of this plot, if
the knowledge you already possess, or may further possess, should
bring harm to you! Oh! if they should know that you have discovered
all, what--what would they hesitate at? Either here, in this gloomy
town, outside the power of France to help or save you, or--or--when,
later, we are on those icy passes over which we must ride to reach the
Milanese."
"Why, sweetheart, what can they do?" Humphrey asked, with a smile.
"What! I am as good a man as any one of them, my rapier as stout, my
arm and wrist as strong."
"There are many of them who may come against you. The bravo, La
Truaumont, the desperado, Fleur de Mai, his boon companion,
Boisfleury. And--and--those others! That old, evil-looking man who
came to-day; this adventuress who lies fast hid within her rooms. Ah!
Humphrey, Humphrey, my love, 'tis not these men's swords I should fear
so much for you as the craft and wickedness of that other pair. For
God's sake, Humphrey, be on your guard."
"_Ma mie_, fear not. And remember this. If I discover aught that it
behoves me to know, it will not be on the passes or here, in this
auberge, that they will find their opportunity. For, then, soon, I
shall be gone from out their ken----"
"Gone!"
"Ay, gone. Either to De Beaurepaire--if he be their tool; to the King
if he be a chief mover in this wickedness. Gone to France, to Paris,
ere they can do aught to stop or harm me."
"Gone! And the Duchess and I left without you."
"If it must be it must. And you will be well escorted, even though the
escort is none too trustworthy. For, think. Reflect. La Truaumont's
orders are never to quit Madame la Duchesse until she is safe in the
hands of her sister and her family in Milan. While, as for the others,
his jackals, what can they do without his will? They whom he pays week
by week."
"And the others? Those two. That old man and that intriguing woman!"
"They will not cross the pass. Nor, if I must travel back, can they
travel as fast as I on 'Soupir'."
"But you, my heart, you? My love, my companion, my comrade?" Jacquette
asked. "What if you are gone without one word, one last farewell?"
"If I am gone, if 'tis necessary that I start even ere dawn, then you
will know the why and the wherefore, my own. You will know 'tis for
life and death, for the sake of one Louis or the other. In hinting
this to the Duchess you will thus obtain my pardon. As for our last
farewell--ah! _ma mie_, we can say it now. We can now take our last
embrace until we meet again. While, if I set not out, 'tis one more to
the good account."
Whereupon he again drew the girl to him under the shade of the acacias
and kissed her long and fondly.