THE BOASTING OF GILLES DE SILLÉ
But, as fate would have it, it was not in the Hotel de Pornic nor yet
in the city of Paris that Laurence O'Halloran was destined to enter
the service of the most mighty Marshal de Retz.
Not till three days after his converse with the prisoner did Laurence
find an opportunity of escaping from the house in the street of the
Ursulines. Sholto and his father meantime kept their watch upon the
mansion of the enemy, turn and turn about; but without discovering
anything pertinent to their purpose, or giving Laurence a chance to
get clear off with Gilles de Sillé. The Lord James had also frequently
adventured forth, as he declared, in order to spy out the land, though
it is somewhat sad to relate that this espionage conducted itself in
regions which gave more opportunities for investigating the peculiar
delights of Paris than of discovering the whereabouts of Maud Lindesay
and his cousin, the Fair Maid of Galloway.
The head of Gilles de Sillé was still swathed in bandages when, with
an additional swaddling of disguise across his eyes, he and Laurence,
that truant scion of the house of O'Halloran, stole out into the
night. A frosty chill had descended with the darkness, and a pale,
dank mist from the marshes of the Seine made the pair shiver as arm in
arm they ventured carefully forth.
Laurence was doing a foolish, even a wicked, thing in thus, without
warning, deserting his companions. But he was just at the age when it
is the habit of youth to deceive themselves with the thought that a
shred of good intent covers a world of heedless folly.
The fugitives found the Hotel de Pornic practically deserted. They
approached it cautiously from the back, lest they should run into the
arms of any of the numerous enemies of its terrible lord, who, though
not abhorred in Paris as in most other places which he favoured with
his visits, had yet little love spent upon him even there.
The custodian in the stone cell by the gate came yawning out to the
bars at the sound of Gilles de Sillé's knocking, and after a growl of
disfavour admitted the youth and his companion.
"What, gone--my master gone!" cried Gilles, striking his hand on his
thigh with an astounded air, "impossible!"
"It was, indeed, a thing particularly unthoughtful and discourteous of
my Lord de Retz, Marshal of France and Chamberlain of the King, to
undertake a journey without consulting you," replied the man, who
considered irony his strong point, but feebly concealing his pleasure
at the favourite's discomfiture; "we all know upon what terms your
honourable self is with my lord. But you must not blame him, for he
waited whole twenty-four hours for news of you. It was reported that
you were set upon by four giants, and that your bones, crushed like a
filbert, had been discovered in the horse pond at the back of the
Convent of the Virgins of Complaisance."
Gilles de Sillé looked as if he could very well have murdered the
speaker on the spot. His favour with his lord was evidently not a
thing of repute in his master's household. So much was clear to
Laurence, who, for the first time, began to have fears as to his own
reception, having such an unpopular person as voucher and introducer.
"If you do not keep a civil tongue in your head, sirrah Labord,"--the
youth hissed the words through his clenched teeth,--"I will have your
throat cut."
"Ah, I am too old," said the man, boldly; "besides, this is Paris, and
I have been twenty years concierge to his Grace the Duke of Orleans. I
and my wife have his secrets even as you, most noble Sire de Sillé,
possess those of my new master. You, or he either, by God's grace,
will think twice before cutting my throat. Moreover, you will be good
enough at this point to state your business or get to bed. For I am
off to mine. I serve my master, but I am not compelled to spend the
night parleying with his lacqueys."
Now the concierges of Paris are very free and independent personages,
and their tongues are accustomed to wag freely and to some purpose in
their heads.
"Whither has my master gone?" asked de Sillé, curbing his wrath in
order to get an answer.
"He _said_ that he went to Tiffauges. Whether that be true, you have
better means of knowing than I."
The swarthy youth turned to Laurence.
"How much money have you, Master O'Halloran? I have spent all of mine,
and this city swine will not lend me a single sou for my expenses. We
must to the stables and follow the Sieur de Retz forthwith to
Brittany."
"I have ten golden angels which the prior of the convent gave me at
my departure," said Laurence, with some pride.
His companion nodded approvingly.
"So much will see us through--that is, with care. Give them here to
me," he added after a moment's thought; "I will pay them out with more
economy, being of the country through which we pass."
But Laurence, though sufficiently headlong and reckless, had not been
born a Scot for naught.
"Wait till there is necessity," he replied cautiously, "and the angels
shall not be lacking. Till then they are quite safe with me. For
security I carry them in a secret place ill to be gotten at hastily."
Gilles de Sillé turned away with some movement of impatience, yet
without saying another word upon the subject.
"To the stables," he said; then turning to the concierge he added, "I
suppose we can have horses to ride after my lord?"
"So far as I am concerned," growled Labord, "you can have all the
horses you want--and break your necks off each one of them if you
will. It will save some good hemp and hangman's hire. Such devil's
dogs as you two be bear your dooms ready written on your faces."
And this saying nettled our Laurence, who prided himself no little on
an allure blonde and gallant.
But Gilles de Sillé cared no whit for the servitor's sneers, so long
as they got horses between their knees and escaped out of Paris that
night. In an hour they were ready to start, and Laurence had expended
one of his gold angels on the provend for the journey, which his
companion and he stored in their saddle-bags.
And in this manner, like an idle lad who for mischief puts body and soul
in peril, went forth Laurence MacKim to take up service with the
redoubtable Messire Gilles de Laval, Sieur de Retz, High Chamberlain of
Charles the Seventh, Marshal of France, and lately companion-in-arms of
the martyred Maid of Orleans.
Now, before he went forth from the street of the Ursulines, he had
laid a sealed letter on the bed of his brother, which ran thus: "Ha,
Sir Sholto MacKim, while you stand about in the rain and shiver under
your cloak, I am off to find out the mystery. When I have done all
without assistance from the wise Sir Sholto, I will return. But not
before. Fare your knightship well."
Laurence and Gilles de Sillé rode out of Paris by the Versailles road,
and the latter insisted on silence till they had passed the forest of
St. Cyr, which was at that time exceedingly dangerous for horsemen not
travelling in large companies. Once they were fairly on the road to
Chartres, however, and clear of the valley of the Seine and its
tangled boscage of trees, Gilles relaxed sufficiently to break a
bottle of wine to the success of their journey and to the new service
and duty upon which Laurence was to enter at the end of it.
Having proposed this toast, he handed the bumper first to Laurence,
who, barely tasting the excellent Poitevin vintage, handed the
leathern bottle back to de Sillé. That sallow youth immediately,
without giving his companion a second chance, proceeded to quaff the
entire contents of the pigskin.
Then as the stiff brew penetrated downwards, it was not long before
the favourite of the marshal began to wax full of vanity and swelling
words.
"I tell you what it is," he said, "there would be trembling in the
heart of a very great man when the nine cravens returned without me.
For I am no shaveling ignoramus, but a gentleman of birth; aye, and
one who, though poor, is a near cousin of the marshal himself. I
warrant the rascals who ran away would smart right soundly for leaving
me behind. For Gilles de Sillé is no simpleton. He knows more than is
written down in the catechism of Holy Church. None can touch my favour
with my lord, no matter what they testify against me. For me I have
only to ask and have. That is why I take such pride in bringing you to
my Lord of Retz. I know that he will give you a post about his person,
and if you are not a simple fool you may go very far. For my master is
a friend of the King and, what is better, of Louis the Dauphin. He gat
the King back a whole province--a dukedom so they say, from the hands
of some Scots fool that had it off his grandfather for deeds done in
the ancient wars. And in return the King will protect my master
against all his enemies. Do I not speak the truth?"
Laurence hoped that he did, but liked not the veiled hints and
insinuations of some surprising secret in the life of the marshal,
possessed by his dear cousin and well-beloved servant Gilles de Sillé.
With an ever loosening tongue the favourite went on:
"A great soldier is our master--none greater, not even Dunois himself.
Why, he rode into Orleans at the right hand of the Maid. None in all
the army was so great with her as he. I tell you, Charles himself
liked it not, and that was the beginning of all the bother of talk
about my lord--ignorant gabble of the countryside I call it. Lord, if
they only knew what I know, then, indeed--but enough. Marshal Gilles
is a mighty scholar as well, and hath Henriet the clerk--a weak,
bleating ass that will some day blab if my master permit me not to
slice his gizzard in time--he hath him up to read aloud Latin by the
mile, all out of the books called Suetonius and Tacitus--such
high-flavoured tales and full of--well, of things such as my master
loves."
So ran Gilles de Sillé on as the miles fled back behind their horses'
heels and the towers of Chartres rose grey and solemn through the
morning mists before the travellers.