Historical Romances: Under the Red Robe, Count Hannibal, A Gentleman of France

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER VI.

  MY MOTHER'S LODGING.

  Travelling by way of Chatelherault and Tours, we reached theneighbourhood of Blois a little after noon on the third day withoutmisadventure or any intimation of pursuit. The Norman proved himself acheerful companion on the road, as I already knew him to be a man ofsense and shrewdness; while his presence rendered the task of keepingmy men in order an easy one. I began to consider the adventure aspractically achieved; and regarding Mademoiselle de la Vire as alreadyin effect transferred to the care of M. de Rosny, I ventured to turnmy thoughts to the development of my own plans and the choice of ahaven in which I might rest secure from the vengeance of M. deTurenne.

  For the moment I had evaded his pursuit, and, assisted by theconfusion caused everywhere by the death of Guise, had succeeded inthwarting his plans and affronting his authority with seeming ease.But I knew too much of his power and had heard too many instances ofhis fierce temper and resolute will to presume on short impunity or toexpect the future with anything but diffidence and dismay.

  The exclamations of my companions on coming within sight of Bloisaroused me from these reflections. I joined them, and fully sharedtheir emotion as I gazed on the stately towers which had witnessed somany royal festivities, and, alas! one royal tragedy; which hadsheltered Louis the Well-beloved and Francis the Great, and rung withthe laughter of Diana of Poitiers and the second Henry. The play offancy wreathed the sombre building with a hundred memories grave andgay. But, though the rich plain of the Loire still swelled upward asof old in gentle homage at the feet of the gallant town, the shadow ofcrime seemed to darken all, and dim even the glories of the royalstandard which hung idly in the air.

  We had heard so many reports of the fear and suspicion which reignedin the city and of the strict supervision which was exercised over allwho entered--the king dreading a repetition of the day of theBarricades--that we halted at a little inn a mile short of the gateand broke up our company. I parted from my Norman friend with mutualexpressions of esteem, and from my own men, whom I had paid off in themorning, complimenting each of them with a handsome present, with afeeling of relief equally sincere. I hoped--but the hope was not fatedto be gratified--that I might never see the knaves again.

  It wanted less than an hour of sunset when I rode up to the gate, afew paces in front of mademoiselle and her woman; as if I had reallybeen the intendant for whom the horse-dealer had mistaken me. We foundthe guardhouse lined with soldiers, who scanned us very narrowly as weapproached, and whose stern features and ordered weapons showed thatthey were not there for mere effect. The fact, however, that we camefrom Tours, a city still in the king's hands, served to allaysuspicion, and we passed without accident.

  Once in the streets, and riding in single file between the houses, tothe windows of which the townsfolk seemed to be attracted by theslightest commotion, so full of terror was the air, I experienced amoment of huge relief. This was Blois--Blois at last. We were within afew score yards of the Bleeding Heart. In a few minutes I shouldreceive a quittance, and be free to think only of myself. Nor was mypleasure much lessened by the fact that I was so soon to part fromMademoiselle de la Vire. Frankly, I was far from liking her. Exposureto the air of a court had spoiled, it seemed to me, whatever graces ofdisposition the young lady had ever possessed. She still maintained,and had maintained throughout the journey, the cold and suspiciousattitude assumed at starting; nor had she ever expressed the leastsolicitude on my behalf, or the slightest sense that we were incurringdanger in her service. She had not scrupled constantly to prefer herwhims to the common advantage, and even safety; while her sense ofself-importance had come to be so great, that she seemed to holdherself exempt from the duty of thanking any human creature. I couldnot deny that she was beautiful--indeed, I often thought, whenwatching her, of the day when I had seen her in the King of Navarre'sante-chamber in all the glory of her charms. But I felt none the lessthat I could turn my back on her--leaving her in safety--withoutregret; and be thankful that her path would never again cross mine.

  With such thoughts in my breast I turned the corner of the Rue de St.Denys and came at once upon the Bleeding Heart, a small butdecent-looking hostelry situate near the end of the street andopposite a church. A bluff, grey-haired man, who was standing in thedoorway, came forward as we halted, and looking curiously atmademoiselle asked what I lacked; adding civilly that the house wasfull and they had no sleeping room, the late events having drawn agreat assemblage to Blois.

  'I want only an address,' I answered, leaning from the saddle andspeaking in a low voice that I might not be overheard by thepassers-by. 'The Baron de Rosny is in Blois, is he not?'

  The man started at the name of the Huguenot leader, and looked roundhim nervously. But, seeing that no one was very near us, he answered:'He was, sir; but he left town a week ago and more. There have beenstrange doings here, and M. de Rosny thought that the climate suitedhim ill.'

  He said this with so much meaning, as well as concern that he shouldnot be overheard, that, though I was taken aback and bitterlydisappointed, I succeeded in restraining all exclamations and evenshow of feeling. After a pause of dismay, I asked whither M. de Rosnyhad gone.

  'To Rosny,' was the answer.

  'And Rosny?'

  'Is beyond Chartres, pretty well all the way to Mantes,' the mananswered, stroking my horse's neck. 'Say thirty leagues.'

  I turned my horse, and hurriedly communicated what he said tomademoiselle, who was waiting a few paces away. Unwelcome to me, thenews was still less welcome to her. Her chagrin and indignation knewno bounds. For a moment words failed her, but her flashing eyes saidmore than her tongue as she cried to me: 'Well, sir, and what now? Isthis the end of your fine promises? Where is your Rosny, if all be nota lying invention of your own?'

  Feeling that she had some excuse I suppressed my choler, and humblyrepeating that Rosny was at his house, two days farther on, and that Icould see nothing for it but to go to him, I asked the landlord wherewe could find a lodging for the night.

  'Indeed, sir, that is more than I can say,' he answered, lookingcuriously at us, and thinking, I doubt not, that with my shabby cloakand fine horse, and mademoiselle's mask and spattered riding-coat, wewere an odd couple. 'There is not an inn which is not full to thegarrets--nay, and the stables; and, what is more, people are chary oftaking strangers in. These are strange times. They say,' he continuedin a lower tone, 'that the old queen is dying up there, and will notlast the night.'

  I nodded. 'We must go somewhere,' I said.

  'I would help you if I could,' he answered, shrugging his shoulders.'But there it is! Blois is full from the tiles to the cellars.'

  My horse shivered under me, and mademoiselle, whose patience was gone,cried harshly to me to do something. 'We cannot spend the night in thestreets,' she said fiercely.

  I saw that she was worn out and scarcely mistress of her-self. Thelight was falling, and with it some rain. The reek of the kennels andthe close air from the houses seemed to stifle us. The bell at thechurch behind us was jangling out vespers. A few people, attracted bythe sight of our horses standing before the inn, had gathered roundand were watching us.

  Something I saw must be done, and done quickly. In despair, and seeingno other resort, I broached a proposal of which I had not hithertoeven dreamed. 'Mademoiselle,' I said bluntly, 'I must take you to mymother's.'

  'To your mother's, sir?' she cried, rousing herself. Her voice rangwith haughty surprise.

  'Yes,' I replied brusquely; 'since, as you say, we cannot spend thenight in the streets, and I do not know where else I can dispose ofyou. From the last advices I had I believe her to have followed thecourt hither. My friend,' I continued, turning to the landlord, 'doyou know by name a Madame de Bonne, who should be in Blois?'

  'A Madame de Bonne?' he muttered, reflecting. 'I have heard the namelately. Wait a moment.' Disappearing into the house, he returnedalmost immediately, followed by a lank
y pale-faced youth wearing atattered black soutane. 'Yes,' he said nodding, 'there is a worthylady of that name lodging in the next street, I am told. As ithappens, this young man lives in the same house, and will guide you,if you like.'

  I assented, and, thanking him for his information, turned my horse andrequested the youth to lead the way. We had scarcely passed the cornerof the street, however, and entered one somewhat more narrow and lessfrequented, when mademoiselle, who was riding behind me, stopped andcalled to me. I drew rein, and, turning, asked what it was.

  'I am not coming,' she said, her voice trembling slightly, but whetherwith alarm or anger I could not determine. 'I know nothing of you, andI--I demand to be taken to M. de Rosny.'

  'If you cry that name aloud in the streets of Blois, mademoiselle,' Iretorted, 'you are like enough to be taken whither you will not careto go! As for M. de Rosny, I have told you that he is not here. He hasgone to his seat at Mantes.'

  'Then take me to him!'

  'At this hour of the night?' I said drily. 'It is two days' journeyfrom here.'

  'Then I will go to an inn,' she replied sullenly.

  'You have heard that there is no room in the inns,' I rejoined withwhat patience I could. 'And to go from inn to inn at this hour mightlead us into trouble. I can assure you that I am as much taken abackby M. de Rosny's absence as you are. For the present, we are close tomy mother's lodging, and----'

  'I know nothing of your mother!' she exclaimed passionately, her voiceraised. 'You have enticed me hither by false pretences, sir, and Iwill endure it no longer. I will----'

  'What you will do, I do not know then, mademoiselle,' I replied,quite at my wits' end; for what with the rain and the darkness, theunknown streets--in which our tarrying might at any moment collect acrowd--and this stubborn girl's opposition, I knew not whither toturn. 'For my part I can suggest nothing else. It does not become meto speak of my mother,' I continued, 'or I might say that evenMademoiselle de la Vire need not be ashamed to accept the hospitalityof Madame de Bonne. Nor are my mother's circumstances,' I addedproudly, 'though narrow, so mean as to deprive her of the privilegesof her birth.'

  My last words appeared to make some impression upon my companion. Sheturned and spoke to her woman, who replied in a low voice, tossing herhead the while and glaring at me in speechless indignation. Had therebeen anything else for it, they would doubtless have flouted my offerstill; but apparently Fanchette could suggest nothing, and presentlymademoiselle, with a sullen air, bade me lead on.

  Taking this for permission, the lanky youth in the black soutane, whohad remained at my bridle throughout the discussion, now listening andnow staring, nodded and resumed his way; and I followed. Afterproceeding a little more than fifty yards he stopped before amean-looking doorway, flanked by grated windows, and fronted by alofty wall which I took to be the back of some nobleman's garden. Thestreet at this point was unlighted, and little better than an alley;nor was the appearance of the house, which was narrow and ill-looking,though lofty, calculated, as far as I could make it out in thedarkness, to allay mademoiselle's suspicions. Knowing, however, thatpeople of position are often obliged in towns to lodge in poor houses,I thought nothing of this, and only strove to get mademoiselledismounted as quickly as possible. The lad groped about and found tworings beside the door, and to these I tied up the horses. Then,bidding him lead the way, and begging mademoiselle to follow, Iplunged into the darkness of the passage and felt my way to the footof the staircase, which was entirely unlighted, and smelled close andunpleasant.

  'Which floor?' I asked my guide.

  'The fourth,' he answered quietly.

  'Morbleu!' I muttered, as I began to ascend, my hand on the wall.'What is the meaning of this?'

  For I was perplexed. The revenues of Marsac, though small, should havekept my mother, whom I had last seen in Paris before the Nemoursedict, in tolerable comfort--such modest comfort, at any rate, ascould scarcely be looked for in such a house as this--obscure,ill-tended, unlighted. To my perplexity was added, before I reachedthe top of the stairs, disquietude--disquietude on her account as wellas on mademoiselle's. I felt that something was wrong, and would havegiven much to recall the invitation I had pressed on the latter.

  What the young lady thought herself I could pretty well guess, as Ilistened to her hurried breathing at my shoulder. With every step Iexpected her to refuse to go farther. But, having once made up hermind, she followed me stubbornly, though the darkness was such thatinvoluntarily I loosened my dagger, and prepared to defend myselfshould this turn out to be a trap.

  We reached the top, however, without accident. Our guide knockedsoftly at a door and immediately opened it without waiting for ananswer. A feeble light shone out on the stair-head, and bending myhead, for the lintel was low, I stepped into the room.

  I advanced two paces and stood looking about me in angry bewilderment.The bareness of extreme poverty marked everything on which my eyesrested. A cracked earthenware lamp smoked and sputtered on a stool inthe middle of the rotting floor. An old black cloak nailed to thewall, and flapping to and fro in the draught like some deadgallowsbird, hung in front of the unglazed window. A jar in a cornercaught the drippings from a hole in the roof. An iron pot and a secondstool--the latter casting a long shadow across the floor--stood besidethe handful of wood ashes, which smouldered on the hearth. And thatwas all the furniture I saw, except a bed which filled the farther endof the long narrow room, and was curtained off so as to form a kind ofmiserable alcove.

  A glance sufficed to show me all this, and that the room was empty, orapparently empty. Yet I looked again and again, stupefied. At lastfinding my voice, I turned to the young man who had brought us hither,and with a fierce oath demanded of him what he meant.

  He shrank back behind the open door, and yet answered with a kind ofsullen surprise that I had asked for Madame de Bonne's, and this wasit.

  'Madame de Bonne's!' I muttered. 'This Madame de Bonne's!'

  He nodded.

  'Of course it is! And you know it!' mademoiselle hissed in my ear, hervoice, as she interposed, hoarse with passion. 'Don't think that youcan deceive us any longer. We know all! This,' she continued, lookinground, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes ablaze with scorn, 'is yourmother's, is it! Your mother who has followed the court hither--whosemeans are narrow, but not so small as to deprive her of the privilegesof her rank! This is your mother's hospitality, is it? You are acheat, sir! and a detected cheat! Let us begone! Let me go, sir, Isay!'

  Twice I had tried to stop the current of her words; but in vain. Nowwith anger which surpassed hers a hundredfold--for who, being a man,would hear himself misnamed before his mother?--I succeeded. 'Silence,mademoiselle!' I cried, my grasp on her wrist. 'Silence, I say! This_is_ my mother!'

  And running forward to the bed, I fell on my knees beside it. A feeblehand had half withdrawn the curtain, and through the gap my mother'sstricken face looked out, a great fear stamped upon it.