CADETS OF GASCONY
Novels of Love and Adventure
AT ODDS WITH THE REGENT
BY BURTON E. STEVENSON
Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50
THE DAUGHTERS OF BABYLON
BY WILSON BARRETT AND ROBERT HICHENS
Frontispiece. Cloth, $1.50
WHEN BLADES ARE OUT AND LOVE’S AFIELD
BY CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY
Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50
THE LAST BUCCANEER
BY L. COPE CORNFORD
Cloth, $1.50
THE RED MEN OF THE DUSK
THE LOVER FUGITIVES
THE STORY OF A SCOUT
BY JOHN FINNEMORE
Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50 each
THE INEVITABLE
BY PHILIP V. MIGHELS
Frontispiece. Cloth, $1.50
MLLE. FOUCHETTE
BY CHARLES T. MURRAY
Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50
A TAR-HEEL BARON
BY MABELL S. C. PELTON
Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50
[Illustration: Oh, but he was a man!--a match for both of us almost
Page 167]
CADETS OF GASCONY
Two Stories of Old France
BY
BURTON E. STEVENSON
AUTHOR OF “AT ODDS WITH THE REGENT,” “A SOLDIER
OF VIRGINIA,” “THE HERITAGE,” ETC.
_Illustrated by_
ANNA WHELEN BETTS
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1904
Copyright, 1904
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
_Published March, 1904_
Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A.
TO THE
SPIRIT OF YOUTH
OF WHICH MAY WE ALL
PARTAKE
CONTENTS
[Illustration]
MARSAN
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--I CHANCE UPON AN ADVENTURE 13
II.--I WALK INTO A HORNET’S NEST 28
III.--I FIND THE KEY TO THE PUZZLE 41
IV.--I MEET A KINDRED SPIRIT 55
V.--THE RIDE TO CADILLAC 67
VI.--I TASTE OF ROQUEFORT’S TEMPER 79
VII.--A VISION IN THE NIGHT 90
VIII.--MARLEON! 104
IX.--THE DEN OF THE WOLF 115
X.--THE QUESTION 125
XI.--ROQUEFORT’S PRICE 135
XII.--A MESSAGE FROM WITHOUT 149
XIII.--THE WHEEL TURNS 162
XIV.--THE DOOR IN THE CLIFF 174
XV.--ROQUEFORT EXACTS A PROMISE 182
XVI.--MADAME LA DUCHESSE DE ROQUEFORT 196
XVII.--A TEN YEARS’ VENGEANCE 202
XVIII.--LIGHT! 214
[Illustration]
A CHILD OF THE NIGHT
I.--AN ENCOUNTER IN THE STREETS 223
II.--I FIND MYSELF BROTHER TO AN ENCHANTING GIRL 234
III.--I FIND MY PART A DIFFICULT ONE 242
IV.--IN WHICH I COME TO PARIS 253
V.--M. RIBAUT IS OBDURATE 266
VI.--RIBAUT PLAYS A CARD 276
VII.--I AM FORTUNATE IN FINDING A NEW FRIEND 284
VIII.--I KEEP AN APPOINTMENT 292
IX.--A DESCENT INTO A CESSPOOL 299
X.--MÈRE FOUCHON SCORES 309
XI.--TORTURE 316
XII.--A CHILD OF THE NIGHT 329
XIII.--A NIGHT OF AGONY 339
XIV.--GREATER LOVE THAN MINE 350
XV.--TO THE CHURCH OF ST. LANDRY 358
XVI.--M. D’ARGENSON’S COUP 370
ENVOY 377
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Oh, but he was a man!--a match for both of us almost _Frontispiece_
She came to me shyly 22
My bonds fell from me 98
Who, looking deep into her eyes, could have lacked inspiration? 250
“I forbid the marriage” 372
MARSAN
A ROMANCE OF THE MIDI
CHAPTER I
I CHANCE UPON AN ADVENTURE
IT was at the corner of the Rue Gogard that I saw her first. You may,
perhaps, recall the place, if you know Montauban. A great barrack of a
building, time-stained and neglected, blocks the way as one turns into
it from the Rue Pluvois. Before the house is a high wall, pierced by
a single gateway. The door is of oak, four inches thick and heavily
barred with iron,--Vincennes has few stronger,--wherefrom it may be
seen that he who built the structure was a man who had his enemies.
The door held my eye, as I turned the corner, by its very massiveness,
and just as I reached it, it was flung open with a crash, and a girl
rushed into the street. She stopped as she saw me standing there, and
my hat was sweeping the pavement as I caught her eyes on mine.
“You seem a man of honor,” she said, and pressed her hand against her
breast as though to calm the beating of her heart.
“A thousand thanks, Mademoiselle,” I answered, and I saw that even the
stark emotion which possessed her could not bemask the beauty of her
face. “Believe me, I shall be most happy to prove it.”
“You have a sword?” she asked, still eying me with attention.
I threw back my cloak and touched the hilt.
“And know how to use it?”
“Try me, Mademoiselle,” I said simply.
The color swept back into her face and her eyes narrowed with sudden
resolution.
“Then follow me, Monsieur,” she said, and turned back through the
gateway.
I was at her heels as she ran across the little court and plunged into
a dark doorway beyond. I paused an instant to draw my sword, dropping
my cloak that it might not cumber me, and then clattered up the stair
behind her. It was dark and narrow and of many turnings, so that she,
who knew the place, had reached the top while I was stumbling along
midway, cursing the darkness. But she awaited me, and as I reached her
side held out her hand to me. My own closed over it in an instant and
found it soft and warm and trembling. Here was an adventure after my
own heart, and I had had so few adventures!
“Cautiously, Monsieur!” she whispered, and led the way along a narrow
hall to the right. The darkness was absolute, the atmosphere close and
stifling. I began to wonder if I had walked into a trap, but that warm
little hand in mine reassured me. Besides, who could know my errand
from Marsan, and, not knowing it, who would set a trap for so small a
bird as I? Then, suddenly, as we turned a corner, I heard the sound of
angry voices and saw a light streaming redly through an open doorway.
In a moment we had reached it, and I paused in astonishment as I saw
what lay within.
There was a great fire blazing on the hearth, which threw into sharp
relief a bed with disordered hangings, an open desk with papers
overflowing from it to the floor, a chair overturned, even the faded
tapestry upon the walls. But it was at none of these I looked, though
I found them all bit into my memory afterwards. It was at a man bound
to a chair, at two others who were glancing hastily through the papers
they were pulling from the drawers of the desk, at a fourth who was
making an iron turn white in the glow of the fire. The man in the chair
was watching the door with agonized eyes, but of the faces of the
others I could see nothing, for they were masked.
Even as I stood there, palsied by astonishment, the man at the fire
drew forth the iron and turned with it sputtering in his hand.
“Come, M. le Comte,” he said, “I think this will answer,” and he
advanced towards the prisoner.
But the girl was through the doorway ere he had taken a second step.
“You curs! You cowards!” she screamed, and ran at him as though to
wrench the hissing iron from his hands.
Her voice had loosed the chains which bound me, and I sprang after her,
drew her back with one hand, and while the man stood for an instant
agape at this intrusion, ran him through the breast. As he felt my
sword in his flesh he raised his hand and threw the iron full at me,
but I stepped aside and avoided it, and he fell in a heap on the
hearth. The others were upon me almost before I could turn, and with
the suddenness of their rush drove me into a corner, where, in truth, I
was very glad to go and get my back snugly against the wall. The moment
I felt their blades against my own I knew I had swordsmen to deal with.
For a breath I held them off, then I saw them exchange a glance, and
as one knocked up my blade, the other ran me through the shoulder. It
had been my heart, but that I sprang to the right. In the instant that
followed I saw my chance and thrust full at my opponent, who had left
his breast uncovered, but my point rang against a net of steel and the
blade shivered in my grasp.
“Well thrust,” he said, laughing harshly. “’Tis a pity so pretty a
swordsman must die so young. Come, Gaspard, let us finish,” and he
advanced to thrust again. I had my poniard out, but knew it would be of
little service.
And then, as I steeled myself for this last attack, commending my soul
to the Virgin, I saw a white arc of sputtering iron sweep through the
air and hiss deep into the cheek of the man in armor. He fell back
with a terrible cry, and, dropping his sword, clapped his hands to his
face. The other stood for an instant dazed, then, with an oath, caught
up his companion and plunged into the darkness of the hall without. I
heard his footsteps echoing along it for a moment, then all was still.
Only the girl stood there with the bar of iron still in her hand.
“I thank you, Mademoiselle,” I said. “In another moment I had been
beyond assistance.”
She smiled at me faintly, tremulously, and cast the iron down upon the
hearth. Plainly, she was not used to scenes of violence, and had small
relish for them.
“Come,” I continued, “let us release the prisoner,” and with my poniard
I cut the ropes which bound him. He arose from the chair unsteadily,
stretched his limbs, and looked at me with a good-humored light in his
eyes.
“In faith, Monsieur,” he said, “you arrived most opportunely. I admit I
have no appetite for white-hot iron. I am a man of the pen, not of the
sword. Accept my thanks,” and he bowed with a certain dignity.
I bowed in return, not to be outdone in courtesy; then, of a sudden I
felt my strength drop from me, and sat down limply on the chair from
which I had just released him.
“Oh, you are wounded!” cried the girl. “See, uncle, here in his
shoulder,” and before I could prevent it she had sunk to her knees
beside me and was tearing away my doublet. In a trice my shoulder was
bare, and she examined the wound with compressed lips, touching it with
intelligent fingers that bespoke her convent training.
“It is nothing,” I protested weakly. “A mere flesh-wound. Do not
trouble about it, I beg of you, Mademoiselle. I shall be better in a
moment.”
But the man interrupted me.
“Nonsense!” he said curtly, and he too looked at the wound. “Claire,”
he added, “bring a basin of water and clean linen. We will soon repair
this damage.”
I followed her with my eyes as she ran to do his bidding. So her name
was Claire, and I repeated it over and over to myself, as a man rolls
wine in his mouth to get the full flavor. She was soon back, and the
wound washed clean and deftly bandaged.
“There,” he said at last, “I think that will do. I do not believe the
hurt a dangerous one, Monsieur, but you would best consult without
delay a more skilful surgeon than either Claire or I. One thing more I
can do for you,” and he opened a cupboard in the wall and brought out
a flask of wine. “Drink this,” he said, and handed me a glass brimming
over. I drained it at a draught--how good it tasted!
“A thousand thanks,” I said. “I am quite myself again. I trust
Mademoiselle will pardon my momentary weakness.”
She smiled happily as she looked at me.
“Oh, yes, Monsieur,” she answered softly; “I think I could find it in
my heart to pardon a much more serious offence,” and her face grew
rosy with sudden blushes, in fear, doubtless, that she had said too
much. I could guess that she had seen little of the world, and that its
strangeness frightened her.
Her companion forestalled me before I could find words for a reply.
“May I ask the name of our rescuer? We shall wish always to remember it
with gratitude.”
“Paul de Marsan,” I answered simply.
He started, and I saw the girl’s face turn white.
“Liege to the Comte de Cadillac?” he asked quickly.
I bowed.
“I came to Montauban to see him,” I said, wondering at his emotion.
“But must you see him?” he persisted.
“At the earliest moment.”
He waved his hand with a gesture of despair and stood for a little
time, his head bent in thought.
“M. de Marsan,” he began at last, “I fear we have done you ill service
by calling you here to-day----”
But I stopped him before he could say more.
“Ill service!” I cried. “Ill service to give my sword a chance at three
consummate scoundrels, and me an opportunity of meeting Mademoiselle!
Do me a thousand such ill services, Monsieur!”
His was a merry spirit when no danger threatened, and I saw a jest
spring to life in his eyes.
“A chance to meet a thousand pretty girls?” he asked.
But he was not to catch me so.
“On the contrary, a thousand chances to meet Mademoiselle,” I answered
boldly, though the boldness was no deeper than the lips, and from the
corner of my eye I saw the girl blush hotly.
He glanced from me to her and back again. The mirth died out of his
face, as heat from a bed of ashes, and left it cold and gray.
“I fear that may not be, Monsieur,” he said gravely. “Our way is not
your way, as you will soon know for yourself. But, at least, I can give
you a friend in place of the one you have lost here in our service.”
He signed to Claire, and she ran to an adjoining room, returning in a
moment with a sword in a scabbard of stout leather.
“Gird him,” he said.
She came to me shyly, and taking the old scabbard from my belt, clasped
the new one there. I trembled at the touch of her fingers, and gripped
my hands behind me to keep my arms from about her. I could see the red
blood surging in waves over cheek and neck as I looked down at her, but
only when she had finished the task did she lift her eyes to mine for
an instant. What eyes they were--dark, lustrous, with the white soul
looking out!
“Draw your blade,” commanded the other.
As I obeyed and its polished sides caught the firelight I saw it was no
ordinary weapon.
“Test it,” he said.
[Illustration: She came to me shyly]
I bent it to left and right. It gave in my hands like some living thing.
“’Twill take a stout coat of mail to turn it aside,” he said. “’Tis a
Toledo.”
I flushed with joy at possessing such a treasure and tried to stammer
my thanks, but he cut me off.
“There, there,” he said, not unkindly. “Keep your thanks. I doubt you
will soon find you have little enough cause for gratitude. But ’tis the
utmost I can do for you, for ’tis very unlike we shall ever meet again.”
“But your name,” I stammered. “Surely I may know your name.”
He hesitated a moment, then shook his head impatiently, as though
casting some weakness from him.
“My name is of small moment,” he said. “You may call me Duval. That
will serve as well as any other.”
“But, Monsieur,” I protested, “I hope to see you many times again--you
and Mademoiselle,” and I stole a glance at her, but her eyes were fixed
on the floor.
Duval came to me and took my hand.
“Believe me, M. de Marsan,” he said earnestly, “I honor you and value
your friendship highly, but for your own sake you must not meet us
again. Indeed, ’twill do you little good to try, since by to-morrow
we shall be far from here, in a country it were death for you to
penetrate.”
I gazed at him, too astonished to reply.
“I will ask you one more favor,” he added. “Will you assist me in
carrying yonder fellow to the bed? We must give him a chance, if he
hath a spark of life left in him.”
“Willingly,” I answered, and between us we raised the man, who lay
where he had fallen, and stretched him on the couch. He gave no sign of
life and I thought him done for, but when the doublet was stripped from
his breast I saw that the blood was still slowly oozing from the wound
which my sword had made. Duval hesitated an instant and then lifted
the mask from his face. I had never seen the man before, but he had a
strong, bold countenance, with something of rough power in it.
“That was the master against whose cuirass you broke your sword, M.
de Marsan,” remarked Duval, and then as he met my inquiring glance he
added, “Believe me, I appreciate your courtesy, Monsieur, in keeping
back the questions which must be on your lips; but ’tis a matter you
are ignorant of, even were I at liberty to explain it. And now I must
ask you to leave us, for we have much to do.”
“We will meet again,” I said earnestly as I took his hand.
But he merely shook his head.
“Claire will accompany you to the street,” he said, and turned away to
his disordered desk.
I followed her without a word along the hallway and down the dark
stair; but at the foot I caught her hand and held it.
“Can it be, Mademoiselle,” I asked, “that this is adieu? Surely you do
not believe so!”
“I fear I must believe so, Monsieur,” she answered softly. “Only I wish
myself to thank you for your gallantry and courage. They were given to
a good cause.”
“And will be given again to the same cause!” I cried. “I warn you,
Mademoiselle, that I shall not submit so tamely to this decree of
separation.”
She pressed my fingers gently and withdrew her hand.
“Come,” she said, “I must return,” and she went on across the little
court and to the gate, which still hung open as we had left it. “Adieu,
Monsieur,” she added, and held out her hand again.
I raised it to my lips and kissed it.
“It is not adieu,” I said. “I will not have it so. I shall see you
again many times,” but as I looked into her eyes I felt my certainty
slipping from me, and with it my self-control.
Perhaps she read my thought, for she drew her hand away and made ready
to close the gate.
“Adieu, Monsieur,” she repeated, and I saw that her eyes were bright
with tears.
I sprang to her and caught both her hands in mine.
“But, Claire,” I cried, “at least, tell me that you are sorry; tell me
that you care; tell me that you would not have it so!”
She looked up into my face and her lips were quivering.
“I have had many disappointments,” she said. “One more will matter
little. You must go, Monsieur. To detain me here is to endanger both of
us.”
“As you will,” I said, a little bitterly, and I dropped her hands and
turned to the gate. “Only in this, Mademoiselle, you shall not be
disappointed. I swear it. Au revoir.”
I stepped through to the street and turned with bared head and
trembling hands for a last glimpse of her. For an instant she held the
gate half open and gazed into my eyes. Then she shut it fast, the bar
dropped into place, and I heard her footsteps slowly cross the court.