THE LAST CHANCE.
Outside the court all was sunshine and brightness on that June
evening, and all the people streaming out in the warm air--that yet
seemed fresh and cool after the stuffiness within--chattered and
laughed and chuckled at the exciting day they had had.
"For, _figurez vous_," said one, a hideous creature, "when we went to
see the marchioness tried we could only hope she would be condemned,
though all the while we know well that for the _noblesse_ there is no
serious punishment. _Ma foi!_ what a punishment! Twenty pistoles--a
sum she pays weekly, I'll be sworn, for absolution--and a _retraite_
from Paris for a year. _Tiens!_ she was not ill favoured, that
marchioness; she will doubtless have a score of lovers follow her into
the country. Say, Babette," and she turned to a pale-faced girl by her
side, "shall we go to the Place de Greve to see that villain broken?
Daybreak, after forty-eight hours; that will be daybreak on Monday.
To-day is Friday!"
"Not I," the pale-faced girl replied. "For my part I could pity
him--only that he fought against France. _Il etait beau, cet homme la
bas._ His mustache was enough to set a girl dreaming. And his eyes!
_Ciel!_ what eyes, when he faced the old _herisson_, De Rennie!"
"Ah, bah! His eyes! Curse them, and him, too! He is a traitor."
"All the same, he is handsome. I wonder how many women love him?"
But now they stood apart from the courtyard to look at a troop of the
Mousquetaires Noirs riding away from the precincts of the court
itself--where they had been on guard all day--and to admire their
trappings and bravery. And the pale-faced girl, who seemed--like many
other pale-faced, cadaverous girls!--to have a great appreciation of
manly beauty, tugged at her companion's arm, and bade her observe the
two handsome officers in conversation under the gateway.
"See, Manon, see!" she exclaimed. "There is the one who said he was
son to the Duc de----"
"I hate all dukes," interrupted the other, "and all the _noblesse_.
They grind the poor."
"Yet he seemed kind. He would have saved that one, I do believe, if he
could. And how he spoke to the judge--as he himself speaks to
others--like to a dog! And his companion, the officer of Mousquetaires
who does not follow the troop. _Mon Dieu! il est beau aussi._ How many
handsome men we see to-day!"
"_Ah! voyons_," exclaimed the other, grimacing irritably, "_les beaux!
les beaux_! Nothing but _les beaux_! Some day, Babette, you will
regret your admiration of the men."
"He looks pale and troubled, does that mousquetaire," the girl
replied, taking no heed of the elder woman's reproofs; and then they
passed on to the foul quarter of Paris where they dwelt, and where
dukes' sons and handsome mousquetaires did not often obtrude
themselves.
Had she been able to overhear the commencement of the conversation
between De Mortemart and that officer of Mousquetaires she would
probably not have wondered at the pallor which overspread the latter's
face, nor at his look of trouble.
When the young fellow had fled out of the court, unable to remain and
hear that doom pronounced on St. Georges, which he knew must come, he
had gone straight to the guardroom with the intention of removing the
three men of his troop whom he had brought with him to Paris in charge
of their prisoner. Their work was done in Paris, he knew; it was best
they should take the road hack to Rambouillet at once. It was but
eight leagues, and the summer nights were long; they could ride that
easily and regain their quarters almost without halting.
But as he entered the room set apart for officers preparatory to
summoning his men, he saw that which prevented him from doing so for
some little time longer. He saw, seated in a deep wooden chair, his
wig off, and fast asleep in that chair--with a flask of wine by his
side--an officer of the guard for the day, whose face he knew very
well indeed. The Regiment de Grance was not always quartered at such
dead-and-alive places as Rambouillet; it was sometimes accorded the
privilege of being in attendance on the court itself--since it was
officered from the aristocrats as a rule, the colonel generally being
an exception, and selected because of his services--and at Versailles
it had, not long ago, been thrown in with the Mousquetaires Noirs.
"_Tiens_, Boussac!" the young fellow cried, slapping the sleeping
officer on the shoulder, and disturbing his slumbers; "rouse yourself,
man; the court will be up directly--already your brother officer is
chuckling that his guard hour will not last half a one."
"De Mortemart!" cried Boussac, springing from his seat and grasping
the newcomer's hand with his own, while with the other he clapped his
wig on. "De Mortemart--what brings you here? Have you got the route,
is the regiment returned to Paris?"
"No such chance, _mon ami_, our luck is out. Neither Paris, nor, _ma
foi_! a campaign for us--we are stewed up in Rambouillet for another
year. And, _peste_! the only woman there worth a pistole has turned
out the vilest of creatures. We cannot even sup with her now, or take
a glass of ratafia or a cup of chocolate from her hands."
"That is not well. But what--what--brings you here? Come, tell me,"
and drawing the wine flask toward him he poured out a drink for his
comrade. "And you look sad, De Mortemart; is it because of the 'vilest
of creatures'?"
Then, without more ado, his friend told what had brought him to Paris
and in the vicinity of the _cours criminel_.
As he proceeded with his story--telling it all from the beginning,
when la belle Louvigny had sent to the commandant, apprising him of an
escaped _galerien_ in her house--he marvelled at the excitement which
took possession of his auditor. At the statement that the betrayed man
was branded, was in truth an escaped galley slave, Boussac had sprung
to his feet and commenced to pace the guardroom; when he described the
scene he had witnessed between him and Madame de Louvigny, he could
contain himself no longer.
"The man, De Mortemart, the man!" he broke out, "describe him to me."
And without giving his friend time to do so, he went on:
"Tall, slight, long brown hair, curling at the ends, gray eyes--deep
and clear. Gentleman to the tips of his fingers; a soldier above all."
"Ay, he has been a soldier."
"And his name--his name, my friend. It must be St. Georges. Come from
England, you say, with the English fleet. It _is_ St. Georges!"
"Nay, his name he will not tell. But this I know: he was once of the
Chevaux-Legers of Nivernois."
"My God! it is he!" and overcome with excitement Boussac sank back
into his seat again.
Rapidly De Mortemart told the rest--the coxswain's evidence; the
certain doom that must be St. Georges's must be pronounced by now,
since, outside, the clatter of the Mousquetaires could be heard,
proclaiming already clearly enough that the court was up, the sentence
awarded.
"I must know all!" Boussac cried, and followed by the other he rushed
out. And then he learned the _galerien's_ doom--wheel on the third
morning from now.
No wonder the pale-faced girl thought he looked sad as he stood in the
gateway bidding De Mortemart a hasty farewell.
"If I can," he said, "I must save him; must if necessary see the king.
I am mousquetaire--I have the right of audience."
"Nothing can save him," the other replied. "He has served Louis, and
he has fought against him--on the conquering side. That is enough!"
"Yet," said Boussac, "I will try. I can tell Louis something of his
history that may--though the chance is poor, God knows!--induce him to
hold his hand. Or, at least, to let the doom be something less awful
than the wheel."
So they parted, the one to take his men back to Rambouillet, the other
to try and save St. Georges, vain as he feared the attempt would be.
First, he sought a messenger, a trusty honest man he knew of, himself
an old disbanded soldier, and told him he must ride that night on a
message of life and death. Would he promise to let nothing stand in
his way?--he should be well rewarded.
"Never fear, monsieur. To where must I ride?"
"To Troyes. You can obtain a good horse?"
"Ay! or get a _renfort_ on the road. 'Tis thirty leagues, but I will
manage it. What have I to do when there?"
"This. Make for the Manoir de Roquemaure, then see at once _la
chatelaine_, Mademoiselle de Roquemaure--she rules it since her
mother's death. Next, give her this. Put it into her own hand and no
other. In the name of God fail not! Again I say, it is life or death!"
"Fear not. I will not fail. In half an hour I am on the road. Hark!
the clock strikes from the Tour St. Jacques; 'tis seven o'clock--ere
it strikes the same hour in the morning I shall be there and to
spare--or dead."
"Brave man! Good soldier! I believe you. Go."
What the old soldier was to give into the hand of Aurelie de
Roquemaure was a letter containing the following hastily scribbled
words:
"MADEMOISELLE: You spoke to me once of an unhappy gentleman,
a _chevau-leger_; asked me if he was dead, and said you had
some news would make him happy if he knew it. Mademoiselle,
he is not dead, but dies on Monday, on the wheel--Monday
morning next at dawn! He has returned to France, fought
against Tourville on the high seas, is taken, and, as I say,
condemned. If you have any power with the king, if you know
aught that may weigh with him, I beseech you lose no effort.
It is Monday morning, I repeat, at dawn that he dies. Your
respectful servitor,
"BOUSSAC."
The messenger departed--and about his fidelity he had no doubt, so
well did he know him--Boussac mounted his horse and rode to where the
three troops of the Mousquetaires now in Paris on guard duty were
quartered. Then he made his way to the senior officer in command,
begged leave of him on urgent matters of the last importance--so
urgent, indeed, did he represent them to be that he stated he was
about to seek an after-supper audience of the king--obtained the
leave, and, procuring a fresh horse, set out for Versailles.
"I will tell him," he said, "who St. Georges is, whom he believes
himself to be. The late duke was Louis's friend in the days when the
king's heart was young and fresh--surely he will, at least, grant a
reprieve. More especially if I tell him all of De Roquemaure's
villainy. As for the sister--if she is what St. Georges told me in his
last letter he felt convinced she was--she will do nothing. Yet, _mon
Dieu! mon Dieu!_ who can look in those eyes as I have done and deem
her so vile? Surely, surely, though he stands in her way so much, she
will not let him go to his doom. Even though she knows for certain he
is De Vannes, she will strive to save him. She must!"
It was no easy thing to approach Louis at the after-supper audience,
free as the monarch generally made himself for an hour at that period,
and in spite of an officer of the Mousquetaires being a more or less
favoured person. For there were many who had greater claims than a
mousquetaire to the royal ear, the royal salutation--a finger to the
hat for a man, the hat lowered to the right ear for a lady--to the
royal smile.
There were, to wit, the bishops, the ladies of the court, the marshals
and the bastards, the ministers and many others. And to-night the king
was, and had been for some days, so depressed, so for him almost
angry, that few took this period for presenting petitions or requests.
His great fleet was shattered by the hereditary enemies of
France--since the Spanish Armada no fleet had ever been so
shattered!--his power and might were broken, even if for a time only;
and though he had told Tourville--with that royal graciousness which
scarcely ever deserted him--that he was satisfied "he had done his
best," he was in no humour for granting boons.
What hope was there that a mousquetaire should obtain aught from him
that night; should even be able to approach him? Above all, what hope
that such a request as Boussac's--that one of his own subjects who had
helped in the shattering of his great fleet should be pardoned--was
likely to be granted?
Yet, at last, the soldier who had waited so patiently for hours drew
nearer and nearer to the circle in which the arbiter of the destiny of
all in France sat, a crowd of courtiers and nervous petitioners behind
and round him; at last, after having seen countless others bowed and
smiled to, he was face to face with Louis, stammering and scarce
knowing how to begin his request.
But the finger went to the hat, the king's smile--perhaps a little
artificial now--shone on him, the king's soft, courtly voice said:
"Monsieur le lieutenant, have you a petition to make also? I am afraid
it cannot be granted. Is it for promotion?"
"No, sire. It is for a man's life," and before he thoroughly
understood, himself, what he was saying, he poured out his story
before the king and the astonished listeners. And, at last, in a
halting, laboured way it was told. Then the king spoke, while the
shoulder-shrugging, grinning courtiers held their breath to hear his
reply.
"_Mon brave mousquetaire_," he said, "you have been imposed on. De
Vannes never married. I know it well--know, too, the woman whom he
loved, who married De Roquemaure. And even if he had married and had
this son, do you think I would pardon him for doing that for which he
lies under sentence of death? Nay, were he my own I would not do so.
Ah!"--turning to a beautiful blue-eyed woman who stood by the side of
Boussac, "Madame de Verneuil"--and the hand went up to the hat and
lowered it till the fringe touched his right ear--"I rejoice to see
you here to-night." Boussac's audience was over.