A REASON.
Midnight was sounding from the steeples of Chatillon as the soldiers
rode their tired beasts across the bridge over the Seine and through
the deserted street that led up to the small guard-house, where,
Boussac said, would be found the Governor of the Bailliage with some
soldiers of the Montagne Regiment.
As they had come along they had naturally talked much on the attack
that had been made upon them outside Aignay-le-Duc, and St. Georges
had decided that, as Chatillon was the most important town on this
side of Troyes, it would be his duty here to give notice to any one in
authority of that attack having taken place.
"For," said he, "that it was premeditated who can doubt? The leader
spoke of me as a brigand who had stolen a child, while he himself was
the brigand who desired to steal my child. Then, see, Boussac, we were
followed--or preceded--from Dijon by that man who warned him we were
coming--merciful heavens! who could he have been?--so that it shows
plainly that I am a marked man. Marked! tracked! known all along the
route."
"But why? Why?" interposed Boussac. "Why is your life, the life of the
_pauvrette_, aimed at? Across whose path do you and she stand?"
"That I can but guess at," replied the other; "though I have long
suspected that I have powerful enemies to whom my existence was
hateful." Then, since their tired horses were now walking side by side
across a wide plain, at the end of which rose Chatillon, he leaned
over, and, putting his hand on the mousquetaire's saddle, said
gravely:
"Boussac, you have shown to-night the true metal you are made of.
Listen to me; hark to a secret; though first you must assure me you
will never divulge to any one that which I tell you until I give you
leave. Will you promise?"
"Ay," replied Boussac. "I will." Whereon he stretched out his own
hand, drawing off first the great riding gantlet he wore, and said,
"There's my hand. And with it the word of a brother soldier, of a
mousquetaire."
"So be it," taking the offered hand in his own. "Listen. I believe
that I am the Duke de Vannes."
"What!" exclaimed Boussac, "you the Duke de Vannes! _Mon Dieu_,
monsieur, this is extraordinary. But stay. You bewilder me. Your name
is St. Georges--if it is as you say, it should be De la Bresse. I knew
him--your father. He died at Salzbach the same day as Turenne did. And
_you believe_--do you not know? Or--or did--or was----"
"Stop there, Boussac. I can suppose what you are going to say. To ask
if my mother was--well, no matter. But be sure of this: if I am what I
think, I am his lawful son. His heir, and myself a De Vannes, the De
Vannes."
"But 'what you think!' 'what you believe yourself to be!' Do you not
know?"
"No. I may be his son, I may in truth be only Monsieur St. Georges.
Yet--yet--this attack on me and mine points to the presumption that I
am what I believe myself to be. The cavalry soldier, St. Georges, and
his helpless babe would not be worth waylaying, putting out of
existence forever. De Vannes's heir would be."
"Only--again--you do not know. Does not a man know whose son he is?"
Chatillon still lay far off on the plain through which they were
riding; the flickering flambeaux on its gate and walls were but little
specks of light at present, and St. Georges decided that he would
confide in the mousquetaire who had shown himself so good a friend
that night. Moreover, Boussac had said he was of gentle blood; his
being in the Mousquetaires proved it, since none were admitted who had
not some claim to good birth--above all, he wanted a friend, a
confidant. And as, in those days, there was scarcely any gulf between
the officers of the inferior grades and the soldiers themselves,
Boussac was well fitted to be that friend and confidant. Also he knew,
he felt now, since the attack of the evening, how insecure his own
life was; he recognised that at any moment the little motherless child
he bore on his breast might be left alone unfriended in the world.
Suppose, for instance, he fell to-night in a second attack, or ere he
reached Paris, in a week, or a month hence. Well! a mousquetaire whose
principal duties were in Paris near the king's person would be a
friend worth having!
So he told him his tale.
"My mother, a Protestant cavalier's daughter, was in Holland with her
father after the execution of the king. As you know, that country was
full of refugees from England. There she met my father, 'Captain St.
Georges.' But at that time De Vannes was out of favour with the court;
he was allied with the party of the Fronde, also he was a Protestant.
And I believe he was 'Captain St. Georges,' I believe he was my
mother's husband."
"Always you 'believe,' monsieur. Surely there must be proofs! Your
mother, what does she say?"
"She died," went on St. Georges, "when I was two years old--suddenly
of the plague that spread from Sardinia to many parts of Europe. It
was because of her memory that I spared that fellow we have left
behind from the infected grave. I would not condemn him to the death
that robbed me of her."
"Therefore," exclaimed Boussac, "you gathered nothing from her!"
"Nothing. I cannot even remember her. Nay, some more years had to pass
ere I, growing up, knew that my name was St. Georges. Then, as
gradually intelligence dawned, I learned from the man with whom I
lived, a Huguenot pastor at Montereau, that I had no mother, and that
my father was a soldier who could rarely find time to come and see me.
Nay, was not often in Paris, and then not always able to make even so
short a journey as that to Montereau. Yet," went on St. Georges,
meditatively, "he came sometimes, loaded with presents for me which he
brought in the coach, and passed the day with us, being always
addressed as Captain St. Georges by the pastor. Those were happy days,
for he was always kind and good to me, would walk out with me hand in
hand, would spend the day with me in the Forest of Fontainebleau, hard
by, and would talk about my future. Yet he was sad, too; his eyes
would fill with tears sometimes as he looked at me or stroked my hair,
and always he asked me if I would be a soldier as he was. And always
in reply I answered, 'Yes,' which seemed to please him. So I grew up,
treated with more and more respect mingled with affection from the
pastor as time went on; and, also, I was now taught military exercises
and drilled in preparation for my future career. But as the time went
on my father came less and less, though he never failed to send ample
sums to provide for my education and also for my pleasures. When I
asked the pastor why he never came near us, he said he was occupied
with his profession, that he was away in the Palatinate with Turenne.
Now, at that period, I being then about eighteen, there came
frequently to Paris the story of all that was doing in the
Palatinate--stories that made the blood run cold to hear. Stories of
villages and towns burnt, so that never more should that region send
forth enemies against Louis."
"They penetrated further than Paris and Montereau," interrupted
Boussac, "ay, even to our out-of-the-way part of France. And not only
of villages and towns burnt and destroyed, but of fathers and
breadwinners burnt in their beds, women ill treated, ruin everywhere.
There were those who said it was not war, but rapine."
"And so I said," replied St. Georges; "once even I went so far as to
say that I regretted that my father followed so cruel and bloodthirsty
a man as Turenne. But the pastor stopped me, rose up in his chair in
anger, bade me never say another word against him--told me that I, of
all alive, had least right to judge him."
"But," exclaimed Boussac, "this does not show that the duke was your
father, monsieur. The worthy pastor may have thought it wrong to
encourage you in speaking ill of one----"
"Nay; listen," said St. Georges. "The year 1674 arrived, my twentieth
year, when there came one night my commission in the regiment--the
Nivernois. You have perhaps never seen one of these documents,
Boussac, but you will ere long, I make no doubt, when your own is made
out for the Mousquetaires. Therefore, I will tell you of its strange
character and wording. It was that the king, at the request of the Duc
de Vannes, had been graciously pleased to appoint me to the position
of _porte-drapeau_ in the Nivernois under De Mailly-Sebret--a brave
man, now dead--and that I was to join it in Holland. I did so, and,
from that day to this, have prosecuted many inquiries as to why De
Vannes should have procured me that commission. But up to now I have
never received positive proof that he was my father--though still I do
believe it."
"But why, why, why?" asked Boussac impatiently. "A man must have some
friend who obtains him his presentation to a regiment--even I had our
grand seigneur. And I never suspected _him_ of being my father!"
"Doubtless you had no reason to do so. Yet, again, listen. De Vannes
was killed in 1675; in the same year--a month before him--died my old
friend and protector--the one man who had ever stood in the light of a
parent to me. His successor found among his papers and chattels a
packet addressed to me, and forwarded it by a sure hand to Holland.
When I opened it I found therein a miniature of my mother--though I
should not have known it was she had he not informed me of it--and
also instructions that I should myself seek out the Duc de Vannes at
the first opportunity and boldly ask him who my father was. 'For,' he
wrote, 'he can tell you if he will, and he ought in justice to tell
you. I would do so only the most solemn promise binds me to keep
silence--a promise which, had I never given it, would have stood in
the way of my ever being to you all that I have been--of having my
life cheered by you, my dear, dear one.' I was preparing to seek the
duke out, had obtained leave to do so and to join Turenne in the
campaign, when, lo! the news came that both he and De Vannes were
killed on the same day."
"And you know no more?" asked Boussac, as now the plain was passed,
and from the watch towers of Chatillon they could hear the guard being
changed. And also, as they rode up to the gate, the challenge of "Who
comes there?" rang out on the frosty air.
Again the usual answer was given, "Chevau-Leger" and "Mousquetaire,"
and then, while the bolts were heard creaking harshly in their sockets
as the gate was being opened for them, St. Georges turning to his
comrade said, in answer to his last question:
"I know no more, though still my belief is fixed. But, Boussac, she at
whose manoir I am bidden to stay at Troyes--the Marquise de
Roquemaure--may be able to enlighten me. She was, if all reports are
true, beloved by De Vannes once, and I have heard loved him. Yet they
never married--perhaps because they were of different faith--and she
instead married De Roquemaure, De Vannes's cousin and heir. He left a
son by his first wife, who is now that heir in his place. Boussac,
does any light break in on you now--can you conceive why I and my
little darling asleep under my cloak should run hourly, daily risks of
assassination--ay! even as to-night we have run them?"
"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Boussac, "yes. You stand in the path of----"
"Precisely. Hush! See, the gate is open. We may enter."
The soldiers of the guard saluted St. Georges as he rode in, followed
by the mousquetaire, while the officer of the night, after bowing
politely to him, held out his hand, as greeting to a comrade.
"Monsieur has had a cold journey, though fine--Heavens!" he exclaimed,
as he saw that the other had a strange burden under his cloak, "what
does monsieur carry there?"
"A harmless child," St. Georges said, while the men of the garrison
gathered round to peer at the little creature whose blue eyes were now
staring at them in the rays of the great lantern that swung over the
gateway. "My child, whose life would have been taken to-night by five
desperadoes had it not been for this honest mousquetaire who, by
Heaven's providence, happened to be riding my road."
From the soldiers around the newcomers--some risen half asleep from
their wooden planks in the guard room, some already on duty and with
every sense awake to its utmost--there rose a murmur of indignation
that was not at all extinguished by Boussac's description of the
attack in the graveyard, and at the passes made more than once at
Dorine under his own guard and the _chevau-leger's_ arm.
"_Grand Dieu!_" exclaimed the officer, "five men attack two, and one
burdened with a little child under his arm. Of what appearance were
these assassins?"
St. Georges described them as well as he could--mentioning in
particular the leader, who wore the burganet, and the fellow who
skulked outside the fight--the man who, the comrades knew, had brought
the news from Dijon that they were on the road. And then from all who
surrounded those fresh comers there arose a hubbub, a babel of sound
that drowned everything like intelligible question or answer.
"A man who wore a burganet," one cried; "a rusty thing that would have
disgraced the days of the Bearnais." "_Fichte!_" hissed another, "you
have come an hour too late." "'Twas but at midnight," exclaimed a
third, "that he rode through--ten minutes of midnight. And, by good
chance for him, it was to-night, since 'tis the last of our New-Year
carousals; to-morrow the town will be closed at dusk as usual."
"But where--where is he gone?" asked St. Georges.
"_Corbleu!_" exclaimed the officer, "we had no right to ask him, since
both this and the other gates were open. Yet, stay; has he left the
town yet? It may be not."
"Ay! but he has, though," exclaimed a boyish young officer who at this
moment joined the group. "In truth, he has. I was at the north gate as
he clattered up to it, calling out that he must go through. 'And why
the devil must you?' I asked, not liking the fellow's tone, which
sounded hollow enough through the rusty iron pot on his head. 'I have
been attacked,' he said;' nigh murdered by some ruffians, and am
wounded. I must get me home.' 'And where is your home?' I asked.
'Beyond Bar,' he replied; 'for Heaven's sake, do not stop me!'
Whereon," continued the young officer, "since I had no right whatever
to prevent his exit, I let him go, and a second afterward the clock
struck midnight, and we clapped the gate behind him. Yet, ere that was
done, I saw him spurring along the north road as though the devil, or
a king's exempt, were after him."
"The north road!" St. Georges said in a low voice to Boussac. "The
north road! You hear? And the north road leads to De Roquemaure's
manoir."