IT IS THE MAN.
The wine _was_ good! Worthy of whatever _clos_ it had ripened on! A
glass of it went far to repay St. Georges for any discomfort he had
suffered during the wretched meal just concluded, and made amends for
all that had passed hitherto. As for the Bishop of Lodeve, he drank
two glasses rapidly in succession, smacked his lips, and peered at the
ruby liquid held between the guttering candle and his eye in the most
approved fashion, and seemed to be making or receiving amends for the
miserable meal he had also partaken of, though so sparingly that the
soldier thought he must either have made a better one recently or be
about to make one later on.
Then, after he had put three of the logs together--which seemed at
last as though about to burn with some effect--by the summary method
of kicking them close to each other with his foot, he said quietly,
though quite unexpectedly on the part of the other:
"His Most Christian Majesty--or rather Louvois for him--wrote me that
I might expect a visit from you on your way from Franche-Comte to
Paris."
"Indeed!" said St. Georges, looking, as he felt, astonished. After
which he added: "Truly, for a poor lieutenant of horse, such as I am,
the king seems much interested in my doings. I marvel much that he
should be so."
"Family interest, perhaps?" said the bishop, glinting an eye at him
from behind the glass which he was again holding up to the light of
the guttering candle. "Family interest is useful at court."
"Family interest!" exclaimed the other, pushing his glass away from
him. "Monseigneur, it is evident you know nothing of Georges St.
Georges, or you would not mention that. Still, how should you know my
affairs?"
"How, indeed!" replied Phelypeaux, though again there was a flash from
the eye--"how, indeed! I--I never heard of you until his Majesty said
you would honour me with a visit. Yet, Captain--I mean Monsieur--St.
Georges, there must be something which guides Louis in sending for
you--in removing you from the miserable garrison in the Jura to Paris.
Ah, Paris!" he interjected with an upward glance. "Paris! Paris!" But
having recovered from this fervent ecstasy, he continued: "And if not
family interest--I am a believer in family interest myself--what can
it be? Unless, of course, you have been selected because of your
military promise."
"Nor can it be that either," replied the guest. "I have been in
garrison at Pontarlier for a year, and as for my service, why I have
done nothing to distinguish myself. No more than thousands of his
Majesty's troops have done--nay, not half so much."
"How old are you, may I ask?"
"Thirty-three."
"Ah," replied monseigneur, "and this is the third day of '88. So you
were born in 1655. Ah!" and he leaned back in his chair and muttered
to himself, though once he said quite audibly: "Yes, yes. That would
do very well."
"What would do very well, monseigneur?" asked the other, looking at
him.
"Pardon me," replied the bishop, and St. Georges could not help
remarking how much more courtly his manner had become by degrees, so
that, while heretofore it was quite in keeping with what he had
originally imagined him to be--a servitor--it was now thoroughly
suitable to his position--the position of a member of an old French
family and of a father of the Church; "pardon me, my mind rambles
sometimes when--when I throw it back. I was reflecting that--that--it
was in that year I was made bishop. So you were born in 1655? And
how--since you say you have none of that valuable family interest--did
you become a _chevau-leger_?"
"It is somewhat of a story, and a long one. Hark! surely that is the
cathedral clock striking. It is too late to pester you with my
affairs."
"Not a jot," exclaimed Phelypeaux--"not a jot. Nay, tell the story,
and--shall we crack another bottle of the clos? It is good wine."
"It is, indeed," replied St. Georges, "excellent. Yet I will drink no
more. Three glasses are all I allow myself after supper at the best of
times. And, after all, my history will not take long in telling. At
least such portions of it as I need tell you."
"Tell me all. I love to hear the history of the young and adventurous,
as you are--as you must be. The _chevaux-legers_ encounter adventure
even in garrison," and he leered at him.
"I have encountered none, or very few. A few indecisive campaigns
against Holland in the year the king gave me my commission--namely,
fourteen years ago--then the Peace of Nimeguen, and since then
stagnation in various garrisons. Yet they say the time is coming for
war. Holland seeks allies everywhere against France; soon a great
campaign should occur."
"Without doubt, when his Most Christian Majesty will triumph as he has
done before. But why--how--did you obtain your commission? You do not
tell me that."
"No, I had forgotten. Yet 'tis not much to tell. My mother--an English
woman--excuse me, Monseigneur l'Eveque, but you have spilt your wine."
"So, indeed, I have," said the bishop, sopping up the wine which his
elbow had overturned by a sudden jerk while the other was speaking,
"so, indeed, I have. But 'tis not much. And there is still that other
bottle uncorked." Then with a sidelong glance he said: "So your mother
was an English woman. _Ah! mon Dieu, elles sont belles, ces
Anglaises_! An English woman. Well, well!"
"Yes, an English woman. Daughter of a Protestant cavalier who left
England when the Commonwealth was declared. He had done his best for
the king, but with his death he could do no more. So he quitted his
country forever."
"Most interesting," exclaimed the bishop, "but your father, Monsieur
St. Georges. Who was he? Of the St. Georges's family, perhaps, of
Auvergne! Or another branch, of Dauphine! A noble family is that of
St. Georges!"
"He was of the branch in Auvergne. A humble member, but still of it. I
know no more."
"No more?"
"No."
"Humph! Strange! Pardon me, monsieur, I would not ask a delicate
question--but--but--did not the family recognise the marriage of
Monsieur St. Georges?"
"They did not recognise it for the simple reason that they were never
told of it. It did not please my father to divulge the marriage to his
family, so they were left in ignorance that it had ever taken place."
"And was Monsieur St. Georges--your father--a soldier like yourself?"
"He was a soldier like myself. And served against Conde."
"Against Conde. Under Turenne, doubtless?" and once more he cast a
sidelong glance at his visitor.
"Yes. Under Turenne. They were, I have heard, more than commander and
subordinate. They were friends."
"A great friendship!" exclaimed the bishop. "A great friendship! To
his influence you doubtless owe your commission, obtained, I think you
said, in '74, the year before Turenne's death."
"Doubtless. So my father said. He died in the same year as the
marshal."
"In battle, too, no doubt?" Then, seeing a look upon the other's face
which seemed to express a desire for no more questioning--though,
indeed, he bowed gravely at the question if his father had died in
battle--monseigneur with a polite bow said he would ask him no more
impertinent questions, and turned the conversation by exclaiming:
"But you must be weary, monsieur. You would rest, I am sure. I will
call Pierre to show you to your room. Your child will sleep better at
the 'Ours' than you will do here, since my accommodation is not of the
first order, owing to my being able to inhabit the house so little.
But we have done our best. We have done our best."
"I thank you," the soldier said, rising from his chair. "Now,
monseigneur, let me pay my farewells to you at the same time I say
'Good-night.' I propose to ride to-morrow at daybreak, and if possible
to reach Bar by night. Though much I doubt doing so; my horse is jaded
already, and can scarce compass a league an hour. And 'tis more than
twenty leagues from here, I take it."
"Ay, 'tis. More like twenty-five. And you have, you know, a burden.
You carry weight. There is the little child."
"Yes, there is the child."
"You guard it carefully, Monsieur St. Georges. By the way, you have
not told me. Where is its mother, your wife?"
Again the soldier answered as he had before answered to the watchman's
wife--yet, he knew not why, he felt more repugnance in speaking of his
dead wife to this strange bishop than he had when addressing either
that simple woman or the landlady of the "Ours." But it had to be
done--he could not make a secret of what was, in fact, no secret. So
he answered, speaking rapidly, as though desirous of getting his
answer over:
"She is dead. Our existence together was short. We loved each other
dearly, but it pleased God to take her from me. She died a year after
our marriage, in giving birth to the babe."
Phelypeaux bowed his head gravely, as though, perhaps, intending
thereby to express sympathy with the other, and said, "It was sad,
very sad." Then he continued:
"And madame--_pauvre dame!_--was she, too, English, or of some French
family?"
"She was, monseigneur, a simple French girl. Of no family--such as
you, monseigneur, would know of. A girl of the people, of the
_bourgeoisie_. Yet I loved her; she became my wife, and now--now"--and
he looked meditatively down into the ashes of the (by this time)
charred and burnt-out logs--"I have no wife. That is all. Monseigneur,
permit me to wish you good-night."
The bishop rang the bell, and while they waited for Pierre to come, he
said:
"You asked me, Monsieur St. Georges, this evening, why his Most
Christian Majesty should have thought fit through Louvois to direct
you to stay at my house in Dijon? I shall not see you to-morrow ere
you depart; let me therefore be frank. The king--and Louvois also--are
in correspondence with me on a political matter, which must not even
be trusted to the post, nor to courier, nor messenger. Nay, we do not
even write what we have to say, but, instead, correspond by words and
signs. Now, you are a trusty man--you will go far--already I see your
captaincy of a troop looming up before you. Therefore I will send by
you one word and one alone. You cannot forget it, for it is perhaps
the simplest in our or any language. You will convey it?"
"I am the king's servant. What is the word, monseigneur?"
"The word '_Yes_.'"
"The word '_Yes_,'" the _chevau-leger_ repeated. "The word '_Yes_.'
That is it? No more?"
"Nothing more. Simply the word '_Yes_.' Yet stay, remember my
instructions. The word is sent as much to Louvois as to the king. It
is a common message to both. And there is one other thing. The
Marquise de Roquemaure is also concerned in this matter; she will
without doubt ask you what the word is I have sent. And, monsieur,
there is no need of secrecy with her. You may frankly tell her."
Again with military precision the other made sure of his instructions.
"I may say that the word you send is '_Yes_'?"
"Precisely."
"I shall remember."
And now, Pierre coming in, the bishop bade him farewell and
good-night.
"The bed, I trust," he said, addressing the servant, "is as
comfortable as may be under the circumstances. Also properly aired.
For Monsieur St. Georges must sleep well to-night. He rides to Troyes
to-morrow or as far upon his road as he can get. He must sleep well."
"So! he rides to Troyes to-morrow," repeated the domestic,
surlily--"to Troyes, eh? And at what hour does Monsieur St. Georges
set forth? I must know, so that he shall be called."
"At daybreak," St. Georges replied.
The man led him after this up some great stairs, evidently the
principal ones of the mansion, and past what were the chief salons,
holding the lantern he carried above his head all the way and casting
thereby weird shadows on to walls and corners. Then up another flight
they went--their feet echoing now on the bare, uncarpeted stairs, and
so along a corridor until at the end the man opened a door and ushered
the guest into a moderately sized room very sparsely furnished in all
except the bed, which was large enough for three men to have slept in
side by side. Next, lighting a taper which looked as though it might
burn ten minutes but not longer, he gruffly bade St. Georges
"Good-night," and, saying that he should be called before daybreak, he
strode away, while the other heard his heavy footfall gradually grow
fainter and fainter until, at last, there was no further sound in the
house except the banging of a door now and again.
"_Nom d'un chien!_" exclaimed the soldier, as he unbuckled his spurs,
drew off his long riding boots, and, unsheathing his sword, laid it
along the side of the bed nearest the wall, "this is a pleasant hole
for a man to find himself in." And throwing himself on the bed, and
discovering that, as he drew the counterpane up about his shoulders,
it was so short that it did not reach below his knees, he wrapped up
the lower part of his body in the great cloak in which he had carried
the child all day, and so, shivering with cold, went at last to sleep.
Down below, while this had been going on, Pierre had rejoined his
master, and, standing before him, was answering several questions put
with great rapidity.
"Your horse is sound?" the bishop asked, as now he partook of a glass
out of the second bottle.
"Ay, it is sound," replied the other. "It has not left the stable for
three days."
"You can, therefore, ride forth to-morrow."
"Further than he can, weather permitting."
"Good. Therefore ride ahead of him until you meet the Marquis de
Roquemaure. Then you can deliver to him a message somewhat similar to
the one he will deliver to the mother of the noble marquis."
"What is the message?"
"The message he will deliver to madame la marquise--if he is fortunate
enough to see her--is the word '_Yes_.' The message you will deliver
to her son, whom you _must_ see, is also '_Yes_.' And, if you can
remember, you may also say to the marquis, 'It is the man.' _Can_ you
remember?"
"Without doubt I can. The words are: 'Yes. It is the man.'"
"Those are the words."