DRAWING NEAR.
Two days later, when again the wintry evening was fast approaching,
St. Georges, by now alone, drew near to the ancient city of Troyes. So
near, indeed, had he arrived that its walls and fortifications were
plainly visible to him, and from its steeples the bells could be
heard, either chiming the hour or summoning the inhabitants to evening
worship. Beneath his cloak, as ever, he bore his precious burden, who
showed no signs of being fatigued by the long journey she had made in
so rough a fashion, but often woke up and, thrusting her little head
from out the folds of the cloak, smiled up into the face of her
father.
He had parted with Boussac at Bar, leaving him there surrounded by his
comrades of two troops of the Mousquetaires Noirs, from whom he had
received the joyful intelligence that they were soon to move on to
Paris, to be quartered at Versailles, while two other troops of the
"Gris" were to replace them--a piece of news that had given St.
Georges almost as much pleasure as it had done to the other. For it
seemed to him that, should aught take him away from Paris when he had
left the child in the house of the Sieur Blecy in the Rue de
Timoleon, there was one faithful friend on whom he could rely to keep
watch over it and see to its welfare.
"And be sure," said the mousquetaire, "that I will do so. Monsieur St.
Georges, we are friends now in spite of our difference in military
rank; we have fought side by side; if you are not there to guard your
child, I shall be. Meanwhile, prosecute your inquiries as to the rank
and position--ay, and the fortune!--you believe, is yours, and may the
good God put you in the right way! Farewell, monsieur, and Heaven
bless you! You know where I may be communicated with; let me know also
where I may send to you," and he stooped down and kissed the child ere
he grasped the other's hand as he prepared to mount his horse.
"Adieu," St. Georges said, "adieu, friend. You helped me to save her
life once. For that I thank you, am bound to you forever. I pray
Heaven that, if she should need it, you may be by to do so again."
Whereon, with a farewell to his new friend and to several officers and
men who had all testified as much interest in him and his charge as
those others had done at Chatillon, he set forth once more upon
another stage of his journey.
Both at Chatillon and in Bar, which he was now leaving behind, he and
Boussac had spoken to those whose duty it was to keep an eye to the
safety of the highroads, and had informed the captain of the
_marechausse_--or mounted patrol of the highroads--of the attack that
had been made on them. But this official had only shrugged his
shoulders and remarked that "it was possible, very possible."
"Louvois," he said, "is responsible for all. Either he denudes the
country of men to send on his campaigns, so that none are left to
guard it, or, the campaigns being over, he pours back into it
thousands of disbanded soldiers who, for want of aught else to do,
become _filous_ and _spadassins_. What would you? And according to
your own account, monsieur, you and your friend, the mousquetaire,
could take good care of yourselves."
"These were neither _filous_ nor _spadassins_," replied St. Georges,
"or at least the leader was not. Oh! that I may meet him again, and
when I am not encumbered with a harmless child to protect!"
"You know him, then, monsieur?"
"No. And since he carefully disguised his face as well as protected
his head, I may not even assert that I have ever seen him. But I
suspect."
"Tell me the name of him you suspect, and I may do something--may call
upon him to answer your charge."
"Nay," replied St. Georges, "that cannot be. For I must not tarry
here; I have the king's orders to ride straight for my destination,
halting no more than is necessary; and so, perforce, I must go on. But
should you hear of a man wearing an ancient burganet whose appearance
in your neighbourhood seems suspicious, and who"--remembering the
description given by the man they had gagged and left tied to the tree
at Aignay-le-Duc--"is young, with a brown beard cropped close and gray
eyes, I pray you question him as to his doings two nights ago. It may
save your roads from further brigandage, and--should you confine him
for any length of time--his life from my sword. For, I promise you, if
ever I encounter him again, and am sure of my man, he shall not escape
a second time."
"_Mon Dieu!_" replied the captain of the _marechausse_, "if he falls
into our hands I will warrant him against your sword. If we can but
bring his attack on you at Aignay-le-Duc home to him, it will be the
wheel and not the sword with which he will find his account."
"So best. Yet I doubt your catching him, and must believe and hope the
punishment he deserves shall reach him through my hand. If it is he
whom I think, he is of high position."
"Many of high position have come to the wheel when in our grip," said
the fierce old captain, a man who had followed his trade under Conde.
"_Ma foi!_ we have great powers, we of the _marechausse_, and for
brigandage on the king's highway we use those powers swiftly. Poof! If
we catch him and bring his vagabondage home to him, he will be broken
all to pieces before his position is of any avail."
So in this frame of mind St. Georges left the old man, and now, as
night drew on, he neared Troyes.
All day he had pondered on the meeting that was before him--on the
fact that he was about to encounter the woman who had once loved so
dearly the man he believed to be his father. For, that he would meet
her, stand face to face with her, he supposed was certain. She would
scarce let an officer of the _chevaux-legers_ stay in her house--sent
there by the king's orders--and not summon him to her presence.
Moreover, did he not go there, as that evil-seeming bishop had said,
so that he might also hear a word possessing great significance to
both the king and his minister? A word of similar import to the one
the bishop had himself sent!
"Yet," he pondered, as now the hum from the busy old city reached his
ears and he saw its smoke rising in the evening air, "yet, does she
know who I am, whom I believe myself to be? Ha!" as a thought struck
him, "how else should it be? If De Roquemaure, her son, or stepson,
knows, then she must know too. And--and does she, too, wish me
dead--and you--you, also, my darling," with a pressure of his arm
against his burden, "as well? _Mon Dieu!_ If that is so, then it is to
the lion's jaws I am going in entering this manoir of hers. No matter!
I will do it. It is in the king's name I present myself; let us see
who dares assault his messenger. And," he muttered fiercely to
himself, "if her whelp, De Roquemaure, is the man with the brown
beard--the man whose voice I shall know in a thousand, although it
reached me before through iron bars--he shall have one more chance at
my life in spite of his lady mother." And he clinched his white teeth
as he reflected thus.
Knowing what he did, namely, that "the whelp, De Roquemaure," as he
had termed him, was heir in a year or two to De Vannes's great
fortune, and coupling with that fact that he and his child had been
attacked in a neighbourhood at no great distance from Troyes, he had
begun on his solitary ride this day to speculate as to whether the
whole of his journey, his sudden summons from Pontarlier to Paris, was
not some deeply devised plot to remove him out of existence. For,
although he had long suspected who and what he was, might it not be
the case that those in whose light he stood had only recently learned
that such was the case? And, if such were the fact, what a revelation,
what a blow, such knowledge would be to them! They had doubtless long
looked forward to the enjoyment of the Duc de Vannes's wealth; if they
had now discovered that the possession of that wealth might be
disputed, what more likely than that they should endeavour to remove
for ever from their path the two--himself and his child--who could so
dispute it with them?
"Yet," he had mused all through that day, "how know it since I, of all
people, have no certain knowledge; how, above all, learn that their
opportunity had come? How know that I who stand between them and their
greed should pass upon their way, come across their path? Bah!" he
finally exclaimed, "it is a coincidence that I should so travel their
road, seek shelter in the house that my father's heir dwells in. It
may be that when I see this young De Roquemaure he shall in no way
resemble that night assassin who attacked me; it may be that his
mother no more dreams that she is about to see the son of the man she
loved than that she will ever see him again in life."
Yet, even as he so decided, he knew that there was more than
coincidence in it. He knew that those who had attacked him and Boussac
at Aignay-le-Duc were more than common bravos. Otherwise the child's
life would not have been sought as fiercely as his own; the spy,
whomsoever he might be, would not have ridden so many leagues from
Dijon to carry the news of his approach.
Therefore, in spite of his attempted dismissal of all his doubts and
suspicions, he resolved that, above all, he would be cautious as
regarded one thing--his child. She, at least, was under no orders to
seek shelter in the manoir; the roof that covered this marquise and
her stepson should never be slept under by Dorine.
"All women's hearts," he murmured, "go out to my motherless babe,
strangers though they be. There must be many such in this old city,
and one such I will find. If as--God help me!--I must suppose, this
she-wolf and her husband's son seek our lives, at least they shall get
no chance at hers. The mistress of a common inn, a warder's wife, will
keep her in greater safety than she may be under the roof-tree of
madame la marquise."
The gates of Troyes were not yet shut--the city having too much
traffic with the outlying hamlets to permit of their being closed
early--so that St. Georges rode in without any formalities beyond
replying to the usual questions as to who he was and what was his
business, and, passing slowly into the quaint streets, soon came to a
great _auberge_ which looked as though suitable for the purpose he
required, a shelter for the child. In the vast kitchen, or hall,
through whose diamond-paned windows he could see perfectly, he
perceived a young bare-armed woman cooking at a large fireplace, while
around her at wooden tables sat the usual company of such places--men
drinking in groups or eating from platters which another woman brought
from the first and set before them. So he rode in under the great
gateway and called loudly for an hostler to come.
At his summons a man came forth who, seeing his soldier-like
appearance, asked if he desired to rest there for the night, and
stated at the same time that the inn was very full.
"That may be so," replied St. Georges, "yet, perhaps, not so full but
that a child can be sheltered here for one night. See, friend," he
continued, opening his cloak, "I bear one here who has been carried
far by me. Think you the hostess will give her protection? She needs a
good bed sorely."
As it always was--to the credit of humanity--the sight of the little
helpless thing sleeping on its father's arm roused this man's sympathy
as it had roused that of all others.
"_Ma foi!_" he said, stooping to gaze at it as it lay on that arm, "a
rude cradle for _la petite_. Yet--there is no hostess; the landlord's
wife is dead. And why--why--do you leave it? Why not stay yourself?"
"I have to present myself to the Marquise de Roquemaure at her manoir.
Where is that manoir? Heaven grant I have not passed it on the road!"
"Half a league outside the city--to the north, on the Paris road. If
you have come from the south, you have not passed it."
"So! It is from the south I come. Now, quick, can I leave the child
here--in safety?"
"I will see. Wait." And he went away toward the kitchen, leaving St.
Georges standing by his horse easing its saddle, and then holding a
bucket of water, which he had picked up, to its thirsty mouth with his
disengaged hand.
Presently the man came back, followed by one of the young women whom
St. Georges had seen waiting on the company--a dark girl with her arms
bare--a girl whose face looked kind and honest. And again with her, as
with the others, her heart went out to the little child in the great
man's arms. The sense of helplessness, of dependence on so unusual a
nurse, touched all those hearts, especially feminine ones.
Briefly as might be he explained to her what it was he required--a
night's shelter for and watchfulness over the child, he having to
visit the Manoir de Roquemaure. Also, he said, he would come back
early in the morning to fetch it away.
"If," said the girl, a little hesitatingly, for she was but a waitress
at the inn, "monsieur will intrust the child to me--it is a pretty
thing, and see--see--how tired it is!--how it yawns!--then I will do
my best. It may sleep with me, and I am used to children. I have
several little sisters whom I saw to after my mother's death and
before I took service."
"I will intrust it to you most thankfully," St. Georges replied. "Your
face is honest, my girl, and true."
So--telling her, as he had told others on his road, that the child was
motherless--he kissed it, and bade it good-night, saying inwardly, as
he ever said when he parted from it, a little prayer that God would
guard and have it in his keeping, and so let the waitress take it
away. But, because something told him he was in a dangerous
neighbourhood, he impressed upon her that she should in no way leave
it more than was absolutely necessary; above all, he begged her and
the hostler, who was a witness to the proceedings, to remember that
they need say nothing about a child having been left in her care. And
they, with many protestations that they would not chatter, assured him
that he need be under no apprehension.
"I take my rest," the girl said, "at the close of day. The child shall
not leave me till I rise at dawn, nor, indeed, until monsieur returns.
I promise."
Then he let her go away with it, and busied himself next with his
horse, seeing that it was rubbed down and freshened with a feed.
"For," said he, patting its flank, "you have another league to do, my
friend, ere your rest comes." And the animal being refreshed, he gave
the hostler a piece of silver as earnest of more in the morning if he
found he had not been chattering, and so made for the North Gate.
"And now," he said to himself as he passed out, "for the house of the
woman De Vannes loved, the house of the man who, I believe, thirsts
for my life and the life of my child."