The Grey Cloak

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER VI

  AN ACHATES FOR AN AENEAS

  "What are you doing here?" demanded the Chevalier roughly.

  "Paul," sadly, "you are drunk."

  "So I am," moodily. "How long ago since I was sober? Bah! every porein my body is a voice that calls loudly for wine. Drunk? My faith,yes! You make me laugh, Victor. When was I ever sober? As a boy Iused to fall asleep in the cellars of the chateau. But you . . . Whatare you doing here in Rochelle?"

  "I am here to command your immediate return to Paris."

  "Paris? Body of Bacchus! but it is fine gratitude on your part toaccept this mission. So his Eminence thinks that I shall be safer inthe Bastille? What a compliment!"

  "No, Paul. He wishes simply to exonerate you and return to you yourprivileges. Ah! how could you do it?"

  "Do what?" sinking upon one of the benches and striving to put togetherhis wine-befuddled thoughts.

  "Take the brunt of a crime you supposed I had done?"

  "Supposed? Come, now; you are laughing!"

  "Word of honor: supposed I had done. It was not till a week ago that Ilearned what you had done. How I galloped back to Paris! It wasmagnificent of you; it was fine."

  "But you? And that cloak which I lent to you?"

  "Well, I was as little concerned as you, which I proved to Mazarin. Iwas at my sister's wedding at Blois. Your grey cloak was stolen frommy room the day before De Brissac met his violent end. My lad, Hector,found the cloak in a tavern. How, he would not say. He dared not keepit, so sent it to the Candlestick in care of another lad. Heunderstood that its disappearance might bring harm to you. I trouncedhim well for his carelessness in permitting the cloak to be stolen."

  "This is all very unusual. Stolen, from you?" bewildered.

  "Yes."

  "And it was not you?"

  "Am I a killer of old men? No, Paul. De Brissac and I were onexcellent terms. You ought to know me better. I do not climb intowindows, especially when the door is always open for me. I am like mysword, loyal, frank, and honest; we scorn braggart's cunning, darkalleys, stealth; we look not at a man's back but into his face; weprefer sunshine to darkness. And listen," tapping his sword: "he whohas done this thing, be he never so far away, yet shall this long swordof mine find him and snuff his candle out."

  "Good lad, forgive! I am drunk, atrociously drunk; and I have beendrunk so long!" The Chevalier swept the hair out of his eyes. "Haveyou an enemy? Have I?"

  "Enemies, enemies? If you but knew how I have searched my memory for asign of one! The only enemy I could find was . . . myself. Here isyour signet-ring, the one you pawned at Fontainebleau. You see,Mazarin went to the bottom of things."

  The Chevalier slipped the ring on his finger, twirled it, and remainedsilent.

  "Well?" said Victor, humorously.

  "You never told me about Madame de Brissac." The Chevalier held theberyl of the ring toward the light and watched the flames dance uponits surface.

  "Why should I have told you? I knew how matters stood between you andmadame; it would have annoyed you. It was not want of confidence,Paul; it was diffidence. Are you sober enough to hear all about itnow?"

  "Sober? Well, I can listen." The Chevalier was but half awakementally; he still looked at Victor as one would look at an apparition.

  "So. Well, then," Victor began, "once upon a time there lived a greatnoble. He was valiant in wars and passing loves. From the age ofeighteen to sixty, Mars nor Venus had withheld their favors. He was aHenri IV without a crown."

  "Like that good father of mine," said the Chevalier, scowling.

  "His sixtieth birthday came, and it was then he found that the gardenof pleasure, that had offered so many charming flowers for hisplucking, had drawn to its end. Behind, there were only souvenirs;before, nothing but barren fields. Suddenly he remembered that he hadforgotten to marry. A name such as his must not sink into oblivion.He must have a wife, young and innocent. He did not seek love; in thishis heart was as a cinder on a dead hearth. He desired an ornament tograce his home, innocence to protect his worldly honor. Strange, howthese men who have tasted all fruits, the bitter and the sweet, shouldin their old age crave the companionship of youth and innocence. So hecast about. Being rich, he waived the question of any dowry savebeauty and birth. A certain lady-in-waiting, formerly, to the queen,solved the problem for him. In a month her daughter would leave herconvent, fresh and innocent as the dews of morning."

  "O rare poet!" interrupted the Chevalier, with a droll turn of the head.

  "This pleased the noble greatly. Men who have never found their idealsgrow near-sighted at sixty. The marriage was celebrated quietly; fewpersons had ever heard of Gabrielle de Montbazon. Monsieur le Comtereturned to Paris and reopened his hotel. But he kept away from courtand mingled only with those who were in disfavor. Among his friends hewore his young wife as one would wear a flower. He evinced the samepride in showing her off as he would in showing off a fine horse, afamous picture, a rare drinking-cup. Madame was at first dazzled; itwas such a change from convent life. He kept wondrous guard over herthe first year. He never had any young companions at the hotel; theywere all antique like himself. Paul, there is something which agerefuses to understand. Youth, like a flower, does not thrive in dustynooks, in dark cellars."

  "How about mushrooms? They grow in cellars; and the thought of themmakes my mouth water."

  "Paul, you are unkind to laugh."

  "Have I not told you that I am drunk? Go on."

  "Well, then, youth is like a flower; it must have air and sunshine, thefreedom of its graceful stem. Nature does not leap from May toDecember. The year culminates in the warm breath of summer. Youthculminates in the sunshine of love. The year bereft of summer is lessmournful than youth deprived of love. So. A young girl, married to aman old enough to be her grandsire, misses the glory of her summer, therealization of her convent dreams. Gradually she comprehends that shehas been cheated, cruelly cheated. What happens? She begins bycomparing her husband who is old to the gallants who are young. Thisis but natural."

  "And exciting," interpolated the Chevalier.

  "By and by, the world as contrived by man shows her many loopholesthrough which she may pass without disturbing her conscience. Ah, butthese steps are so imperceptible that one does not perceive how far onegoes till one looks back to find the way closed. Behold the irony offate! During the second year Monsieur le Comte falls in love with oneof Scudery's actresses, and, commits all sorts of follies for her sake.Ah well, there were gallants enough. And one found favor in madame'seyes; at least, so it seemed to him. In the summer months theypromenaded the gardens of La Place Royale, on the Cours de la Reine,always at dusk. When it grew colder this gallant, who was of apoetical turn of mind, read her verses from Voiture, Malherbe, orRonsard . . ."

  "Not to mention Saumaise," said the Chevalier.

  "He was usually seated at her feet in her boudoir. Sometimes theydiscussed the merits of Ronsard, or a novel by the Marquis d'Urfe. Onmy word of honor, Paul, to kiss her hand was the limit of my courage.She fascinated; her eyes were pitfalls; men looked into them but totumble in. Gay one moment, sad the next; a burst of sunshine, a cloud!"

  "What! you are talking about yourself?" asked the Chevalier. "Poetthat you are, how well you tell a story! And you feared to offend me?I should have laughed. Is she pretty?"

  "She is like her mother when her mother was twenty: the handsomestwoman in Paris, which is to say, in all France."

  "And you love her?"

  "So much as that your poet's neck is very near the ax," lowly.

  "Eh? What's that?"

  The poet glanced hastily about. There was no one within hearing. "Iasked Mazarin for this mission simply because I feared to remain inParis and dare not now return. Your poet put his name upon a piece ofpaper which might have proved an epic but which has turned out to bepretty poor stuff. This paper was in De Brissac's care; wa
s, I say,because it was missing the morning after his death. To-morrow, a weekor a month from now, Mazarin will have it. And . . ." Victor drew hisfinger across his throat.

  "A conspiracy? And you have put your name to it, you, who have neverbeen more serious than a sonnet? Were you mad, or drunk?"

  "They call it madness. Madame's innocent eyes drew me into it. I'veonly a vague idea what the conspiracy is about. Not that madame knewwhat was going on. Politics was a large word to her, embracing allthose things which neither excited nor interested her. Lord love you,there were a dozen besides myself, madame's beauty being the magnet."

  "And the plot?"

  "Mazarin's abduction and forced resignation, Conde's return from Spainand Gaston's reinstatement at court."

  "And your reward?"

  "Hang me!" with a comical expression, "I had forgotten all about thatend of it. A captaincy of some sort. Devil take cabals! And madame,finding out too late what had been going on, and having innocentlyattached her name to the paper, is gone from Paris, leaving advice forme to do the same. So here I am, ready to cross into Spain the momentyou set out for Paris. Mazarin has taken it into his head to imitateRichelieu: off with the head rather than let the state feed thestomach."

  "So that is why De Beaufort, thinking me to be the guilty man, soughtme out and demanded the paper? My faith, this grows interesting. Butoh! wise poet, did you not hear me tell you never to sign your name toanything save poetry?"

  "It might have been a poem . . . I wonder whither madame has flown?By the way, Mademoiselle de Longueville gave me a letter to give toyou. It is unaddressed. I promised to deliver it to you."

  The Chevalier took the letter and opened it carelessly; but no soonerdid he recognize the almost illegible but wholly aristocratic pothooksthan a fit of trembling seized him. The faint odor of vervain filledhis nostrils, and he breathed quickly.

  "_Forgive! How could I have doubled so gallant a gentleman! You haveasked me if I love you. Find me and put the question again. I leaveParis indefinitely. France is large. If you love me you will find me.You complain that I have never permitted you to kiss me. Read. Inthis missive I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times. Diane._"

  A wild desire sprang into the Chevalier's heart to mount and ride toParis that very night. The storm was nothing; his heart was warm,sending a heat into his cheeks and a sparkle into his dull eyes.

  "Horns of Panurge! you weep?" cried Victor jestingly. "Good! You aremaudlin. What is this news which makes you weep?"

  "Ah, lad," said the Chevalier, standing, "you have brought me more thanexoneration; you have brought me life, life and love. France is smallwhen a beloved voice calls. I shall learn who she is, this gloriouscreature. A month and I shall have solved the enchantment. Victor, Ihave told you of her. Sometimes it seems that I must wake to find itall a dream. For nearly a year she has kept me dangling in mid air.She is as learned as Aspasia, as holding as Calypso, as fascinating asCirce. She is loveliness and wisdom; and I love her madly."

  "And you will return to-morrow ?" asked Victor regretfully.

  "To-morrow! Blessed day! Back to life and love! . . . Forgive me,lad; joy made me forget! I will see you safely in Spain."

  Victor brooded for a space. "Horns of Panurge! Could I but lay myhands upon that paper!"

  "No moping, lad. The bowl awaits; trouble shall smother in the cup.We shall make this night one for memory. I have a chateau in theCevennes, and it shall be yours till all this blows over. Ah!"

  The door leading to the private assembly opened. On the thresholdstood a man of thirty-three or four, his countenance haughty and asclean cut as a Greek medallion. The eyes were large and black, thebrows slanting and heavy, the nose high-bridged and fierce, the chinaggressive. There lay over all this a mask of reckless humor andgaiety. It was the face of a man who, had he curbed his desires andwalked with circumspection, would have known enduring greatness as acaptain, as an explorer, as a theologian. Not a contour of the facehut expressed force, courage, daring, immobility of purpose.

  "Hurrah, Chevalier!" he cried; "the bowl will soon be empty."

  "The Vicomte d'Halluys?" murmured Victor. "Paul, there is anothergentleman bound for Spain. We shall have company."

  "What? The astute vicomte, that diplomat?"

  "Even so. The Vicomte d'Halluys, wit, duelist, devil-may-care,spendthrift. Ho, Vicomte!" the poet called.

  "Saumaise?" cried the man at the door, coming forward.

  "Go in, Paul," said the poet; "I want a word with him."

  The Chevalier passed into the private assembly. The vicomte and thepoet looked into each other's eyes for a moment. The vicomte slappedhis thigh and laughed.

  "Hang me from a gargoyle on Notre Dame," he broke forth, "if it isn'tthe poet!"

  "The same," less hilariously.

  "I thought you had gone to Holland?"

  "I can talk Spanish," replied Victor, "but not a word of Dutch. Andyou? Is it Spain?"

  "Nay; when the time comes I'm for New France. I have some propertythere; a fine excuse to see it. What a joke! How well it will read inMonsieur Somebody's memoirs! What is new?"

  "Mazarin has not yet come into possession of that paper. Beaufort willsee to that, so far as it lies in his power. I am all at sea."

  "And I soon shall be! Come on, then. We are making a night of it."And the vicomte caught the poet by the arm and dragged him into theprivate assembly.

  Around a huge silver bowl sat a company of roisterers, all flushed withwine and the attendant false happiness. Long clay pipes clouded thecandle-light; there was the jingle of gold and the purr of shufflingcards; and here and there were some given to the voicing of ribaldsongs. To Victor this was no uncommon scene; and it was not longbefore he had thrown himself with gay enthusiasm into this mad carouse.

  Shortly after the door had closed upon the company of merry-makers andtheir loud voices had resolved into untranslatable murmurs, three mencame into the public room and ranged themselves in front of the fire.The close fitting, long black cassocks, the wide-brimmed hats looped upat the sides, proclaimed two of them to belong to the Society of Jesus.The third, his body clothed in nondescript skins and furs, his feet inbeaded moccasins, his head hatless and the coarse black hair adornedwith a solitary feather from a heron's wing and glistening with meltingsnow, the color of his skin unburnished copper, his eyes black, fierce,restless,--all these marked the savage of the New World. Potboys,grooms, and guests all craned their necks to get a glimpse of thisstrange and formidable being of whom they had heard such stories ascurdled the blood and filled the night with troubled dreams. A crowdgathered about, whispering and nodding and pointing. The Iroquoisbeheld all this commotion with indifference not unmixed with contempt.When he saw Du Puys and Bouchard pressing through the crowd, his lipsrelaxed. These were men whom he knew to be men and tried warriors.After greeting the two priests, Du Puys led them to a table anddirected Maitre le Borgne to bring supper for three. The Iroquois,receiving a pleasant nod from Father Chaumonot, took his place at thetable. And Le Borgne, pale and trembling, took the red man's order formeat and water.

  "Ah, Captain," said Chaumonot, "it is good to see you again."

  "Major, Father; Major."

  "You have received your commission, then?"

  "Finally."

  "Congratulations! Will you direct me at once to the Hotel de Perigny?I must see the marquis to-night, since we sail to-morrow."

  "As soon as you have completed your supper," said Du Puys. Thenlowering his voice: "The marquis's son is in yonder room."

  "Then the marquis has a son?" said Brother Jacques, with anindescribable smile. "And by what name is he known?"

  "The Chevalier du Cevennes."

  Strange fires glowed in the young Jesuit's eyes. He plucked at hisrosary. "The Chevalier du Cevennes: the ways of God are inscrutable."

  "In what way, my son?" asked Chaumonot.

  "I met the Cheval
ier in Paris." Brother Jacques folded his arms andstared absently at his plate.