The _chaise roulante_ went on slowly up the avenue towards where, a
quarter of a mile ahead of it, innumerable lights shone from all the
windows of the royal château; the driver, as it passed De Beaurepaire,
saluting obsequiously the man whom, by his rich apparel and quantity
of gold lacing and passementerie, he knew to be some great functionary
of the Court.
And that great functionary, that man who, but a few moments before had
boasted to himself, who had told himself proudly, that he was no
assassin, sat on his horse revolving hurriedly within his mind whether
he should not now become one. Now, ere another two or three moments
had elapsed; now, ere the conveyance could advance another dozen yards
upon its road. Revolving in his mind whether he should turn rein and
rush at that carriage, thrusting his sword through the driver's heart
and, ere he could help himself or cry for assistance--which would not
be forthcoming!--through the heart of that white, sickly-looking man
within. For, it could be done, he knew. Nothing could prevent him
doing it, nothing could save either passenger or driver if he chose to
do it. Nothing.
With the exception of that creeping creature who had glided from his
sight into the darkness of the underwood, and who was probably far
away by now, there was no living creature near. No living soul. And it
was dark at last! One thrust at the man who had just saluted him,
another at the other in the vehicle: the light extinguished and the
_chaise roulante_ thrown over on to its side as he, in his great
strength could easily cause it to be--and--and--that was all! All that
was needed. All! The Court was at supper: the menials busy attending
on the Court. It could be done in a moment and he far away half an
hour after. And none would ever know. That was all that was needed!
Yet, was it--all? Would none ever know? Ah, God! would He not know?
Would his own heart not know? Yes, always! Always! Always! He would
have become a twofold murderer. And he was--a De Beaurepaire!
With a sound that, as it issued from his lips, might have been a
curse--or a sob--he loosed his rein and dug his spurs into his horse
and rode away from that carriage. Away to Paris to meet his
confederates in the great plot; to tell them that they were betrayed;
that the one man outside their own band who knew this secret was alive
and had, must have, divulged it to the King. That this man was alive
while he, their chief, had had the chance of slaying him, of silencing
him for ever--and that he had let the chance pass.
"Yet," he muttered to himself, "also have I missed being a murderer. I
have missed that. Thank God! And--and--I am a true De Beaurepaire
still. One who has brought no blot upon the name, who has nought to
blench at."
Meanwhile, the _chaise roulante_ went on until it drew up at a side
door of the château, and two lackeys sauntered down the stone steps to
see what the business of its occupant was.
"Monsieur desires?" the first inquired, letting his eyes roll
insolently, or, at least, indifferently--which in a menial is the same
thing!--over the terribly ill appearance of the man inside and also
over the shabby hired vehicle in which he arrived. "Monsieur desires?"
"To see His Majesty the King. At once. On a matter of life and death."
"To see His Majesty the King," the fellow repeated, while a faint
smile spread over his face. Yet, even as it did so, the footman
felt some wonderment creeping into his mind. For the tone of the
new-comer's voice proclaimed that this was no common person; his white
hand as it lay on the lower part of the window-frame was not white
from ill-health alone: it testified that its owner was of gentle
blood. Also, the look and bearing of the traveller spoke more plainly
than silks and satins and laces would have done of who and what he
might be.
"To see His Majesty the King," the man repeated again, while his
fellow-servant stood by his side--"On a matter----"
"Valet!" the new-comer exclaimed now in a tone of command, "open the
door and help me out. Stand not muttering there but do as I bid you,
and then take my name to some chamberlain who will pass it on to His
Majesty. It is known to him. He will see me."
The words, if not the tone in which they were uttered, had their
effect. In a moment that contemptuous, scornful address, that voice of
command from a superior to an inferior told the footman with what
manner of man he had to deal. The nobility, the gentry, spoke thus--to
such as he was--with sometimes a snarl, with sometimes a curse--often
with a blow--but they alone did so. The rest--who had not yet gathered
themselves together into that black cloud which, more than a hundred
years afterwards, was to burst over France and destroy King, Court,
Nobility and all who were better than themselves--were nothing. They
were nothing but dogs, beasts of burden, toilers for their betters;
providers of playthings, in the shape of their daughters and wives and
sisters, of toys for their rulers and masters, to be afterwards broken
and flung away.
Obediently to the dictatorial voice of the young man in the
conveyance--whose ill-health they now supposed was due to some form of
long-continued aristocratic debauchery--they did as they were bidden.
They opened the door of the _chaise roulante_ and helped its occupant
out; they assisted him to mount the stone steps and led him to a deep
fauteuil in the richly carpeted vestibule, and then the first lackey
said in a deferential tone:--
"His Majesty the King is at supper. But, if the seigneur will give his
name it shall----"
"My name is Humphrey West. The King is acquainted with it. Here, give
me some writing things. I will set it down. Your master knows it well,
I say. Then lose no time. I tell you, man, I come on serious import."
After which, Humphrey took the pen and paper that the footman brought
and wrote his name as largely and legibly as his weakness would
permit. Bearing the paper in his hand the man went away, while his
fellow walked to the farther end of the vestibule and entered into
conversation with another member of his fraternity who was loitering
about. A few moments later, however, the first one returned followed
by a handsome young page dressed all in crimson and lace, over which
latter his long fair hair streamed--a pretty youth who, bowing to
Humphrey, said:--
"If monsieur will give himself the trouble to follow me, I will
conduct him to the apartment of Monsieur le Marquis de Louvois. Yet, I
protest, monsieur," he said, in a well-bred, soft voice as he
witnessed Humphrey's painful attempts to rise, "you will not get so
far alone." An instant later, in a totally different tone, while
stamping his red heel on the richly carpeted floor, he said to the
lackeys: "You dogs, do you not see that monsieur can scarcely rise?
Give him your arms at once. At once, I say, or I will have you both
whipped."
"At once, Monsieur le Duc. At once," the fellows exclaimed, rushing to
obey the summary orders of this handsome youth. "We but awaited
Monsieur le Duc's commands." After which they assisted Humphrey along
the corridor, while the masterful young sprig of nobility walked
behind them muttering further objurgations as he tossed his fair locks
over his shoulder.
After traversing two corridors--during which time the aristocratic
page was profuse in his regrets at the distance Humphrey had to
accomplish in his enfeebled state--the group arrived at last in a
large room furnished in dark, highly polished oak on which the lights
from the candles in a huge silver candelabra were reflected as in a
mirror. Then, when the footmen had retired, the page, after saying in
a soft voice, "Monsieur le Marquis is here," bowed to Humphrey and
backed out of the door after the others.
Looking round the room, which was so vast that one portion of it was
quite in shadow, Humphrey saw that down at the farther end, and
standing before a vast fireplace in which the logs were almost
extinct, was a man. A man richly, handsomely dressed whose eyes were
fixed on him. One who, when the page and the footmen had departed,
advanced towards Humphrey.
"Nay," this man said, seeing the latter's efforts to rise from a chair
to which the young Duke had motioned him, "do not distress yourself. I
have heard that you are in sore plight. Now, Monsieur West--whose name
I know well and my master, the King, knows better--tell me all you
have to say. I am the Marquis de Louvois," and, as he spoke, he drew
another chair up close to Humphrey and sat down in it.
That this man was De Louvois--De Louvois called by some "the
terrible," by others "the unscrupulous," and by still others the
"curse of France"--Humphrey knew very well, since he had seen him
often. He knew, also, that not only was De Louvois the Minister of War
but Louis' most confidential minister: the only confidant the latter
had ever possessed since De Louvois had gradually ousted Colbert from
the same position. He had often seen that tall, rugged frame and
coarse-featured face which told of the many vulgar passions beneath,
and of the evil temper and overbearing disposition which caused the
man to be hated by all who surrounded him and were in a position to be
tyrannised over by him, and, consequently, he knew well enough that he
was speaking to the domineering autocrat who, if not the king, was the
King's right hand.
"Monsieur le Marquis," Humphrey said consequently, "I have come
post-haste from Basle after escaping from death by a miracle, to
reveal to His Majesty the existence of a plot which threatens not only
his throne but his life."
"His life. _Hein!_" De Louvois muttered, rubbing his square jaw
reflectively; "his life as well as his throne. How is that to be?
Come, tell me that. But, stay, first tell me how you chance to be in
possession of this knowledge. Thereby I shall be better able to judge
of what value that knowledge is."
Then, as he said this, Humphrey was astonished to see the powerful
minister spring to his feet and assume a most deferential attitude
while, as he did so, Humphrey heard at the same time a low clear voice
say behind him, "And as I, too, shall also be able to judge."
Looking round as well as the stiffness and soreness from which he was
suffering would permit him to do, the young man saw that the King, who
must have entered the room softly, was standing behind him. The King
who was now dressed in a black velvet Court suit devoid of all
adornment, save a glittering diamond-set semblance of the sun that
sparkled from out the rich lace of his breast. The King who, even as
Humphrey endeavoured to struggle to his feet by aid of pressing his
hands on the arms of the fauteuil, said, "Nay, Monsieur West, be
seated; do not rise," and added, "I grieve to see you in such a
condition," while as he spoke he held out his hand, sparkling with
jewels, to the young man to kiss.
"Sire," Humphrey muttered, having done so, "I--I--must rise----"
"Nay. Instead, I will be seated," and Louis subsided into the chair
just vacated by Louvois. Then he said, "Now proceed with your tale.
Tell all you know. Everything."
It took perhaps not more than a quarter of an hour for Humphrey to
describe all he had overheard in that bedroom of his at Basle; all of
what was said in the adjacent salon. Nevertheless, he told the story
clearly and succinctly, omitting only one thing, namely, all mention
of De Beaurepaire. _His_ name he could not bring himself to pronounce,
remembering that he had ever been treated kindly by the chevalier and
also that, even now, he was not resolved as to whether the former was
the head and front of the whole conspiracy or whether his name and
position were not being used by the conspirators without his consent.
"So," said the King, "you overheard all this. And--the names of those
who plotted thus? Do you know them? Outside that of La Truaumont with
whom you rode in the train of the Duchesse de Castellucchio, are you
aware of the names of the others? The name of the woman and also of
the man passing as her father?"
"Sire, the woman is known as the Marquise de Villiers-Bordéville."
"The Marquise de Villiers-Bordéville. De Villiers-Bordéville!" the
King repeated. Then, after a moment's reflection, he said, "There is
no such title in France."
As, however, the words fell from his lips the attitude of De Louvois,
while he leant nearer to him, showed that he desired to speak.
Whereupon the King said, "You know her, De Louvois?"
"Sire," the minister answered, "La Reynie, your _Surintendant de
Police_, knows her. He has signalised her to me as dangerous."
"Who is she?"
"She is Louise Belleau de Cortonne. Her husband was Jacques de
Mallorties, Seigneur de Villers and Boudéville. Villers and Boudéville
are almost akin to Villiers-Bordéville. That husband died mysteriously
by poison, she was tried at Rouen for his murder but acquitted.
Now----"
"Yes, now?"
"She is a spy in the pay of either Holland or Spain or both, and she
loves secretly--the--man--whom--we suspect."
"_Dieu!_" the King exclaimed, exhibiting, however, as little agitation
as, in all the great crises of his long reign--the plots and
conspiracies against his life, the combinations of half Europe against
him, the treachery of those whom he had enriched and advanced, as well
as the treachery, in one extreme case at least, of the women he had
loved--he was ever known to show. Turning, however, to Humphrey now,
Louis said in a voice that was absolutely calm:--
"Was any great name mentioned in this talk you overheard? Any name so
great in all that pertains to it that, almost, it casts a shadow over,
or pretends to cast a shadow over, the name of Louis de Bourbon?"
"Your Majesty," Humphrey whispered, "such a name was mentioned, hinted
at. But--but----"
"But what?"
"More as the name of one who occupied the position spoken of by
Monsieur le Ministre a moment past. As one who is admired, perhaps
loved by----"
"That woman, the _soi-disant_ Marquise?"
"Your Majesty has said it. More as that than as the name of a plotter,
an intriguer."
"So be it. Let us pass from this. Now, Monsieur West, the name of the
other man? The old man who travelled from Paris to take part in this
grievous conference after having travelled beforehand from Holland to
Paris. The man who passed as the woman's father?"
"Sire, as her father he passed under the name of Châteaugrand. But he
was addressed and spoken of as Van den Enden."
"A man," exclaimed De Louvois, "well known to La Reynie and to me. A
Dutch Jew, who has been everything: doctor, schoolmaster--he speaks
all languages--a preacher of atheism, keeper of a bagnio, proprietor
of a _tripot_ and spy and plotter. But principally the latter."
"'Tis well. Very well. Communicate with La Reynie to-night. He will
know his work. Now, Monsieur West, let me hear the rest of your story.
When that is told you will remain here as the guest of the King whom
you have striven so bravely to serve."