"_Dieu des Dieux!_" whispered La Truaumont between pale lips, "it must
be done. It will fall to me to do it. Yet the pity of it! He is a
young lion and brave as a lion, too; one who, if it is not for me,
will have put that _luron_ out of the world for ever ere another
moment is past. And I am a gentleman, yet must now stoop to be a
murderer. I cannot. I cannot. I, Georges du Hamel, Sieur de la
Truaumont! I, to become a murderer!"
In truth, the scene was a weird one on which the pale, trembling man
gazed; that man who, in all his adventurous career, had never known
what it was to tremble at the most terrible of impending catastrophes:
that man who had looked on tremblings and qualms as fit only for women
and puling children.
A weird scene, added to and made doubly so by the sickly rays emitted
from the lantern behind whose dirty, horn encasement a guttering
rush-light burned. Added to, also, in weirdness by the whimpering of
the frightened animals who were startled by the clash of steel, and by
the grunts of Fleur de Mai as he fought desperately while knowing,
feeling sure, that his hour--his moment--was come, and by the
occasional contemptuous ejaculations of Humphrey as he bade his
opponent take courage since it was but the first bite of the blade
which was agony, and to utter a prayer if he knew one.
By now Humphrey had driven the bully into a vacant stall and, having
him there, had ceased to lunge at him, but, instead, with his blade
crossed over the other's was slowly but surely beating down that
other's weapon until the moment came when, swift as the lightning
flash, he would run him through. And Fleur de Mai knew that this was
so, that it would happen: there needed no jeers from his opponent to
tell him what the bite of the steel would feel like. Yet, breathing
heavily, his face, nay, his whole body, reeking with the sweat that
burst from all his pores, he still endeavoured to save himself, to
avert the moment of his doom. As that moment drew near, however, his
heart failed him and he shrieked to La Truaumont for assistance,
knowing full well that from Boisfleury there was none to be hoped,
since he lay stunned outside the next stall and was himself in danger
of his life each moment from the hoofs of the excited animal within
it.
But from La Truaumont the assistance came not. Rough soldier as the
man was, conspirator as he had become, part-assassin of the King as he
had proposed and still proposed to be, he could not bring himself to
steal up behind the man fighting so gallantly against the great bravo
and run him through the back or maim him. He could not force himself
to become a common murderer.
"Not yet," La Truaumont whispered to himself. "Not yet. If he kills
Fleur de Mai, as he will, then I must engage him, though not until he
has had breathing time. But not this way. And--my God!--we have been
friends, comrades. Oh! that he had not learnt this secret."
Suddenly, however, he saw that the fight had taken a different turn.
Fleur de Mai, desperate, knowing himself lost, had resorted to one
last trick: the last in truth that is left to the swordsman who knows
his chance is gone. A trick that may succeed yet is doubly like to
fail. One that may save an almost beaten man if it succeeds, but that,
in failing, places him in no worse, no more perilous, position than he
was before.
Therefore he tried it, doubting yet hoping.
Swiftly, with one last attempt--it was successful!--of escaping his
enemy's blade, Fleur de Mai essayed the once well-known _botte de
lâche_. He fell to the earth on his left hand, catching himself
adroitly on that hand and, ere Humphrey could draw back his weapon to
run him through and through, the other had thrust upwards at his
conqueror's breast. He had thrust up with all his force and, even as
he did so, knew that he had won. With a gasp the young man reeled
backwards, staggered against the stable wall and, a moment later, fell
to the floor insensible.
"So, so," muttered La Truaumont, "there was no need for me. I am quit
of that." After which he stooped over Humphrey's now inert body, tore
open his jacket at the breast and, thrusting his hand in over the
heart, let it rest there a moment or so. "It beats still," he said.
"It is not pierced. Yet, see," and he drew forth the hand and held it
up before the other, who, by the miserable light of the horn lantern,
saw that it gleamed crimson. "You have given him his death. There is a
wound somewhere here big enough to let his life out, to set his soul
free. What to do now?"
"Do now!" Fleur de Mai grunted, as he leant, blowing and puffing,
against the side of the stall while supporting himself on the handle
of his sword, from the point of which the red drops ran down and
tinged the straw at his feet. "Do now! Why! Clear ourselves from this,
my most noble captain who would not come to a comrade's help in a dire
hour."
"I was not wanted. Two men were not needed to kill one. Your own skill
has proved that"--"foul blow though it was," he added inwardly. Then
he continued, "Best we desert the _folle furieuse_ at once and ride to
Paris. De Beaurepaire will absolve us when he knows what we have done
to save him, even though we break faith with her. Add to which, we are
wanted there and in Normandy. She can do without us, or, at least, she
must."
"No, not ride," Fleur de Mai said, while as he spoke he assumed a
greater tone of equality with La Truaumont than he had done before, if
not a tone of command. For he it was who had vanquished the man who
would have undone them, and he was not disposed to regard the
accomplishment lightly. "No riding on these horses," glancing his eyes
down the line of stalls. "Yet, still, away. To make for, not ride to
Paris."
"I understand you not."
"Listen. I will propound to you. Let heaven give you the brains to
comprehend."
"Beware. No insolence. I bear a sword more cunning than his," looking
down at Humphrey.
"A _fico_ for your sword! Again I say, listen. Let us back to the inn
and be seen about it. Possibly 'tis not yet closed--you shall pay for
a bottle. Then I will depart. Later you, too, can do so. On foot,
together or alone, we can escape across the frontier; thus we are
safe. In France none can touch us for what we have done amongst these
Switzers, or, if they attempt it, let them beware. As for money, you
have some I know full well. While he, too, perhaps, has some about
him," touching Humphrey's body with the tip of his murderous sword as
he spoke.
"What! You would rob your victim!"
"The spoils of war! Feel for his purse."
"Feel for it yourself. I need not money."
"I do." Whereon the ruffian calmly knelt down by Humphrey's side,
ransacked his clothes and, at last, drew out a fairly well-filled
purse which he clinked joyously in front of the lantern. "With this,"
he said, "we can--I mean, I can--buy me a horse across the frontier or
get a seat in some coach, or _patache_ or waggon for France. You need
not money, you say. Therefore you, too, can do the same."
"Why not take our own horses?"
"Because thereby we tell the tale. This butterfly is found here dead;
we are gone and our horses, too. What does that point to, _hein?_
Whereas, there is mystery in it if we are also gone without our
horses, and he, if dead here, and----"
The fellow paused, hearing a slight rustle in the straw and whispered,
"Ha! he stirs. 'Tis best to finish the affair," and he lifted his
sword.
"Nay, fool," said La Truaumont. "'Tis Boisfleury who moves.
And--hark--he moans in his insensibility."
"Boisfleury! Boisfleury," the other repeated, musing. "Boisfleury. A
crafty knave and violent. Listen again," he continued, whispering,
"perhaps Boisfleury, too, will die. Then 'twill be thought they have
killed each other--Boisfleury's blade is out; he would have maimed the
mare. While," and now Fleur de Mai placed a brawny finger on La
Truaumont's breast and peered into his eyes, "if he does not die,
still," and he tapped the other with the finger, "he will be found
here alive. He cannot stir yet. So, too, will that be found," pointing
at the reddened straw. "So, too, that," pointing at the bruise on
Boisfleury's temple. "You take me? The murder--will--be out. And
Boisfleury will--pay--for it. They execute freely here, they say, for
any little violence. He will not go scot free. But we shall. Come,
man. Come. Away. A flask first and then off--off--to the frontier. And
I have this," shaking the purse. "_Pardie!_ the valet pays better than
_madame la patronne_. Come."
* * * * * * *
The eternal clocks told the hours again and again; it was growing
late--or early; outside in the street there was now no sound. Perhaps
the watch slept, or, if it did not, at least it came not near that
stable wherein two men lay. Or where, rather, one man lay against the
wall and the other sat up outside a stall peering across the stones at
him.
"So," that second man said to himself, "'tis Boisfleury who will be
found here with him, is it? 'The murder will out, and Boisfleury will
pay for it.' Ha! Well, we will see for that."
He rose now from his sitting position, or, instead, he crept
upon his hands and knees towards where Humphrey lay, while as he
did so he muttered to himself. "No. No. No. The body will not be
found. It may be that the murder will not out: that Boisfleury will
not pay--for--it! But," and a hideous grin distorted his face which,
added to the bruise on his temple, would have made him horrible to the
eyes of any who should have beheld him, "others will--others shall.
_Bel homme_," he muttered again, as now he touched Humphrey, "you
will never reach Louis the King, but--another--may. And--and--peace to
your manes!--what you would have told him shall be told by that other
and well told, too. Nought shall be forgotten. Nought. Nought.
Messire Fleur de Mai, M. le Capitaine de la Truaumont, Madame la
Marquise--bah! Madame _la coquine_--de Villiers-Bordéville--Monsieur
le Prince et Chevalier de Beaurepaire"--hissing out sardonically all
these titles and appellations through his white lips as though it
gratified him to repeat them to himself, "and you, Jew, call on your
friend and master, the Devil, to help you when I tell my tale to the
Splendid One."
And again he muttered, "The murder will out, and Boisfleury will pay
for it," while, as he did so, he once more snarled like a hunted wolf.
"I cannot feel it beat," he said now, as he placed his hand beneath
Humphrey's satin undervest, much as La Truaumont had done some hour or
two before, "therefore he is dead. Still, the murder must not out.
Boisfleury," he muttered again, as he harped on Fleur de Mai's words,
"must not be made to pay for it. No. No. Instead, this murder must be
hidden away from all men's knowledge. It must never be known. Never.
It is well I was but stunned for a few moments after that blow; that I
lay dark and snug and let them fight it through. Well, very well. Thus
my skin is safe and the secret is mine."
He rose from the floor and left Humphrey's prostrate body now, and
went to the stable door which the other two had closed behind them,
and, opening it, peered out into the night. He saw then that all was
still dark and black and silent; he also perceived that heavy rain was
falling. There was no living thing about; not so much as a houseless
dog shivering in any porch or stoop; neither was there any light in
any window, nor any sound except the swish of the rain and the noisy
swirl of the Rhine as, rushing by, it sped away upon its course
towards and past France.
"The murder, for murder it was," he whispered to himself, "will never
out. Never. Boisfleury has no reckoning to make, no scot to pay. But
others have."
He went back now to where Humphrey lay, and, lifting him up, gradually
got him hoisted on his shoulders, for, though neither big and burly as
Fleur de Mai nor sinewy and bull-shaped as La Truaumont, he was wiry
and strong. Then, going to the stable door again, he pushed it open
with his foot, his hands being engaged in holding his burden on his
back, and went out into the pitiless rain and so across the _place_ to
the high, built-up bank of the river.
"'Twill carry him on swiftly," he whispered to himself, "through
ravines and past sunny meads until, at last, it throws him ashore
leagues and leagues from here: 'tis better thus than lying in some
town fosse or common graveyard. _Allez, pauvre homme_."
As he spoke he turned his back to the river, leaning downwards against
the wooden rails erected to prevent the townspeople or children from
falling into it, after which he let go of Humphrey's arms, which he
had drawn over his shoulders, gave a strong, swift throw backwards of
his body against the rails, and knew that his burden was gone. Gone
with one heavy splash into the rushing, tumbling waters beneath;
carried away as a cork thrown into those waters would itself have been
carried away.
Nor, when he turned round swiftly an instant afterwards, was there any
sign of Humphrey. He could not see a human mass rolling over and over
in those turbulent, leaping waters, nor a white face gleaming from
them, nor any glassy, lifeless eyes glaring up into the leaden skies
above. The body was gone and had left no sign behind.
Boisfleury went back now to the stable, and, taking the lantern from
the hook on which it hung, placed it on the floor and carefully picked
up all the straw tinged or soaked with blood that he could find. Next,
he picked up Humphrey's rapier--the cloak, he knew well enough, was on
the victim's back excepting that part of it which he had wound tightly
round his arm ere he attacked Fleur de Mai. Finally--after having
carefully arranged some clean straw in the vacant stall with his
hands--while all the time watched by the gleaming, startled eyes of
the horses gazing at him over the divisions of the other stalls--he
blew out the lamp and, shutting the door behind him, went over to the
river again.
"There is no score to pay now," he murmured, as he flung the tinged
straw and the rapier into the Rhine. "None, here, in Basle. None by
Boisfleury. But elsewhere? And by others! Ah!"