The Bright Face of Danger
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The Bright Face of Danger
_Being an Account of Some Adventures of Henri de Launay, Son of theSieur de la Tournoire. Freely Translated into Modern English_
By Robert Neilson Stephens
_Author of_ "An Enemy to the King," "Philip Winwood," "The Mystery ofMurray Davenport," etc.
_Illustrated by_ H. C. Edwards
_Boston_L. C. Page & Company_Mdcccciiii_
_Copyright, 1904_By L. C. Page & Company
_Entered at Stationers' Hall, London__All rights reserved_
Published April, 1904Colonial Press
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.Boston. Mass., U.S.A.
_THE BRIGHT FACE OF DANGER is, in a distant way, a sequel to "An Enemy to the King," but may be read alone, without any reference to that tale. The title is a phrase of Robert Louis Stevenson's._
_THE AUTHOR._
"'I GIVE YOU ONE CHANCE FOR YOUR LIFE,' SAID I QUICKLY."]
CONTENTS
I. MONSIEUR HENRI DE LAUNAY SETS OUT ON A JOURNEY
II. A YOUNG MAN WHO WENT SINGING
III. WHERE THE LADY WAS
IV. WHO THE LADY WAS
V. THE CHATEAU DE LAVARDIN
VI. WHAT THE PERIL WAS
VII. STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES
VIII. MATHILDE
IX. THE WINDING STAIRS
X. MORE THAN MERE PITY
XI. THE RAT-HOLE AND THE WATER-JUG
XII. THE ROPE LADDER
XIII. THE PARTING
XIV. IN THE FOREST
XV. THE TOWER OF MORLON
XVI. THE MERCY OF CAPTAIN FERRAGANT
XVII. THE SWORD OF LA TOURNOIRE
XVIII. THE MOUSTACHES OF BRIGNAN DE BRIGNAN
XIX. AFTERWARDS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"'I GIVE YOU ONE CHANCE FOR YOUR LIFE,' SAID I QUICKLY"
"'AND NOW SHE WILL WAIT FOR HIM IN VAIN!'"
"WE WERE INTERRUPTED BY A LOW CRY"
"'THE WRETCHES!' SAID THE TORTURED COUNT, STAGGERING TO HIS FEET"
"I LEAPED OVER THE BED, AND UPON THE MAN WHO WAS TRYING TO STRANGLE THECOUNTESS"
"MY FATHER'S THRUSTS BECAME NOW SO QUICK AND CONTINUOUS"
THE BRIGHT FACE OF DANGER
CHAPTER I.
MONSIEUR HENRI DE LAUNAY SETS OUT ON A JOURNEY
If, on the first Tuesday in June, in the year 1608, anybody had asked meon what business I was riding towards Paris, and if I had answered, "Tocut off the moustaches of a gentleman I have never seen, that I may tossthem at the feet of a lady who has taunted me with that gentleman'ssuperiorities,"--if I had made this reply, I should have been taken forthe most foolish person on horseback in France that day. Yet the answerwould have been true, though I accounted myself one of the wisest younggentlemen you might find in Anjou or any other province.
I was, of a certainty, studious, and a lover of books. My father, theSieur de la Tournoire, being a daring soldier, had so often put himselfto perils inimical to my mother's peace of mind, that she had guided myinclinations in the peaceful direction of the library, hoping not tosuffer for the son such alarms as she had undergone for the husband. Ihad grown up, therefore, a musing, bookish youth, rather shy andsolitary in my habits: and this despite the care taken of my educationin swordsmanship, riding, hunting, and other manly accomplishments, bothby my father and by his old follower, Blaise Tripault. I acquired skillenough to satisfy these well-qualified instructors, but yet a volume ofPlutarch or a book of poems was more to me than sword or dagger, horse,hound, or falcon. I was used to lonely walks and brookside meditationsin the woods and meads of our estate of La Tournoire, in Anjou; and itcame about that with my head full of verses I must needs think upon somelady with whom to fancy myself in love.
Contiguity determined my choice. The next estate to ours, separated fromit by a stream flowing into the Loir, had come into the possession of arich family of bourgeois origin whom heaven had blessed (or burdened, assome would think) with a pretty daughter. Mlle. Celeste was a small,graceful, active creature, with a clear and well-coloured skin, andquick-glancing black eyes which gave me a pleasant inward stir the firsttime they rested on me. In my first acquaintance with this young lady,the black eyes seemed to enlarge and soften when they fell on me: sheregarded me with what I took to be interest and approval: her face shonewith friendliness, and her voice was kind. In this way I was led on.
When she saw how far she had drawn me, her manner changed: she becamewhimsical, never the same for five minutes: sometimes indifferent,sometimes disdainful, sometimes gay at my expense. This treatmenttouched my pride, and would have driven me off, but that still, when inher presence, I felt in some degree the charm of the black eyes, thewell-chiselled face, the graceful swift motions, and what else I knownot. When I was away from her, this charm declined: nevertheless I choseto keep her in my mind as just such a capricious object of adoration aspoets are accustomed to lament and praise in the same verses.
But indeed I was never for many days out of reach of her attractivepowers, for several of her own favourite haunts were on her side of thebrook by which I was in the habit of strolling or reclining for somepart of almost every fair day. Attended by a fat and sleepy oldwaiting-woman, she was often to be seen running along the grassy bankwith a greyhound that followed her everywhere. For this animal sheshowed a constancy of affection that made her changefulness to me themore heart-sickening.
Thus, half in love, half in disgust, I sat moodily on my side of thestream one sunny afternoon, watching her on the other side. She had beenrunning a race with the dog, and had just settled down on the greenbank, with the hound sitting on his haunches beside her. Both dog andgirl were panting, and her face was still merry with the fun of thescamper. Her old attendant had probably been left dozing in some otherpart of the wood. Here now was an opportunity for me to put in a sweetspeech or two. But as I looked at her and thought of her treatment ofme, my pride rebelled, and I suppose my face for the moment wore acloud. My expression, whatever it was, caught the quick eyes of Mlle.Celeste. Being in merriment herself, she was the readier to make scornof my sulky countenance. She pealed out a derisive laugh.
"Oh, the sour face! Is that what comes of your eternal reading?"
I had in my hand a volume of Plutarch in the French of Amyot. Herridicule of reading annoyed me.
"No, Mademoiselle, it isn't from books that one draws sourness. I findmore sweetness in them than in--most things." I was looking straight ather as I said this.
She pretended to laugh again, but turned quite red.
"Nay, forgive me," I said, instantly softened. "Ah, Celeste, you knowtoo well what is the sweetest of all books for my reading." By my lookand sigh, she knew I meant her face. But she chose to be contemptuous.
"Poh! What should a pale scholar know of such books? I tell you,Monsieur de Launay, you will never be a man till you leave your booksand see a little of the world."
Though she called me truly enough a pale scholar, I was scarlet for amoment.
"And what do you know of the world, then?" I retorted. "Or of meneither?"
"I am only a girl. But as to men, I have met one or two. There is yourfather, for example. And that brave and handsome Brignan de Brignan."
Whether I loved or not, I was certainly capable of jealousy; andjealousy of the fiercest arose at the name of Brignan de Brignan. I hadnever seen him; but she had
mentioned him to me before, too many timesindeed for me to hear his name now with composure. He was a younggentleman of the King's Guard, of whom, by reason of a distantrelationship, her family had seen much during a residence of severalmonths in Paris.
"Brignan de Brignan," I echoed. "Yes, I dare say he has looked more intothe faces of women than into books."
"And more into the face of danger than into either. That's what has madehim the man he is."
"Tut!" I cried, waving my Plutarch; "there's more manly action in thisbook than a thousand Brignans could perform in all their lives--moredanger encountered."
"An old woman might read it for all that. Would it make her manly? Well,Monsieur Henri, if you choose to encounter danger only in books, there'snobody to complain. But you shouldn't show malice toward those whoprefer to meet it in the wars or on the road."
"Malice? Not I. What is Brignan de Brignan to me? You may say what youplease--this Plutarch is as good a school of heroism as any officer ofthe King's Guard ever went to."
"Yet the officers of the King's Guard aren't pale, moping fellows likeyou lovers of books. Ah, Monsieur Henri, if you mean to be a monk, welland good. But otherwise, do you know what would change your complexionfor the better? A lively brush with real dangers on the field, or inParis, or anywhere away from your home and your father's protection.That would bring colour into your cheeks."
"You may let my cheeks alone, Mademoiselle."
"You may be sure I will do that."
"I'm quite satisfied with my complexion, and I wouldn't exchange it forthat of Brignan de Brignan. I dare say his face is red enough."
"Yes, a most manly colour. And his broad shoulders--and powerfularms--and fine bold eyes--ah! there _is_ the picture of a hero--and hissuperb moustaches--"
Now I was at the time not strong in respect of moustaches. I wasextremely sensitive upon the point. My frame, though not above middlesize, was yet capable of robust development, my paleness was not beyondremedy, and my eyes were of a pleasant blue, so there was little torankle in what she said of my rival's face and body; but as to themoustaches----!
I scrambled to my feet.
"I tell you what it is, Mademoiselle. Just to show what your Brignanreally amounts to, and whether I mean to be a monk, and what a reader ofbooks can do when he likes, I have made up my mind to go to Paris; andthere I will find your Brignan, and show my scorn of such an illiteratebravo, and cut off his famous moustaches, and bring them back to you forproof! So adieu, Mademoiselle, for this is the last you will see of metill what I have said is done!"
The thing had come into my head in one hot moment, indeed it formeditself as I spoke it; and so I, the quiet and studious, stood committedto an act which the most harebrained brawler in Anjou would have deemedchildish folly. Truly, I did lack knowledge of the world.
I turned from Mlle. Celeste's look of incredulous wonderment, and wentoff through the woods, with swifter strides than I usually took, to ourchateau. Of course I dared not tell my parents my reason for wishing togo to Paris. It was enough, to my mother at least, that I should desireto go on any account. The best way in which I could put my resolution tothem, which I did that very afternoon, on the terrace where I found themsitting, was thus:
"I have been thinking how little I know of the world. It is true, youhave taken me to Paris; but I was only a lad then, and what I saw waswith a lad's eyes and under your guidance. I am now twenty-two, and manya man at that age has begun to make his own career. To be worthy of myyears, of my breeding, of my name, I ought to know something of lifefrom my own experience. So I have resolved, with your permission, mydear father and mother, to go to Paris and see what I may see."
My mother had turned pale as soon as she saw the drift of my speech, andwas for putting every plea in the way. But my father, though he lookedserious, seemed not displeased. We talked upon the matter--as to howlong I should wish to stay in Paris, whether I had thought of aiming atany particular career there, and of such things. I said I had formed noplans nor hopes: these might or might not come after I had arrived inParis and looked about me. But see something of the world I must, ifonly that I might not be at disadvantage in conversation afterward. Itwas a thing I could afford, for on the attainment of my majority myfather had made over to me the income of a portion of our estate, asmall enough revenue indeed, but one that looked great in my eyes. Hecould not now offer any reasonable objection to my project, and he pleadmy cause with my mother, without whose consent I should not have had theheart to go. Indeed, knowing what her dread had always been, and seeingthe anxious love in her eyes as she now regarded me, I almost wavered.But of course she was won over, as women are, though what tears heracquiescence caused her afterwards when she was alone I did not like tothink upon.
She comforted herself presently with the thought that our faithfulBlaise Tripault should attend me, but here again I had to oppose her.For Blaise, by reason of his years and the service he had done my fatherin the old wars, was of a dictatorial way with all of us, and I knew hewould rob me of all responsibility and freedom, so that I should beagain a lad under the thumb of an elder and should profit nothing inself-reliance and mastership. Besides this reason, which I urged upon myparents, I had my own reason, which I did not urge, namely, that Ishould never dare let Blaise know the special purpose of my visit toParis. He would laugh me out of countenance, and yet ten to one he wouldin the end deprive me of the credit of keeping my promise, by taking itsperformance upon himself. That I might be my own master, therefore, Ichose as my valet the most tractable fellow at my disposal, one Nicolas,a lank, knock-kneed jack of about my own age, who had hitherto madehimself of the least possible use, with the best possible intentions,between the dining-hall and the kitchen. And yet he was clever enoughamong horses, or anywhere outdoors. My mother, though she wondered at mychoice and trembled to think how fragile a reed I should have to relyon, was yet not sorry, I fancy, at the prospect of ridding her house ofpoor blundering Nicolas in a kind and creditable way. I had reason tothink Nicolas better suited for this new service, and, by insisting, Igained my point in this also.
I made haste about my equipment, and in a few days we set forth, myselfon a good young chestnut gelding, Nicolas on a strong black mule, whichcarried also our baggage. Before I mounted, and while my mother, doingher best to keep back her tears, was adding some last article of comfortto the contents of my great leather bag, my father led me into thewindow recess of the hall, and after speaking of the letters ofintroduction with which he had provided me, said in his soldierly,straightforward manner:
"I know you have gathered wisdom from books, and it will serve you well,because it will make you take better heed of experience and see moremeaning in it. But then it will require the experience to give yourbook-learned wisdom its full force. Often at first, in the face ofemergency, when the call is for action, your wisdom will fly from yourmind; but this will not be the case after you have seen life foryourself. Experience will teach you the full and living meaning of muchthat you now know but as written truth. It may teach you also somethings you have never read, nor even dreamt of. What you have learned bystudy, and what you must learn by practice only, leave no use for anygood counsel I might give you now. Only one thing I can't help saying,though you know it already and will doubtless see it proved again andagain. There are many deceivers in the world. Don't trust the outwardlook of things or people. Be cautious; yet conceal your caution undercourtesy, for nothing is more boorish than open suspicion. And remember,too, not to think bad, either, from appearances alone. You may doinjustice that way. Hold your opinion till the matter is tested. Whenappearances are fair, be wary without showing it; when they are bad,regard your safety but don't condemn. In other words, always minglecaution with urbanity, even with kindness.--I need not speak of the nameyou have to keep unsullied. Honour is a thing about which you require noadmonitions. You know that it consists as much in not giving affronts asin not enduring them, though many who talk loudest about it seem tothink otherwise
. Indeed this is an age in which honour is prated of mostby those who practise it least. Well, my son, there are a thousandthings I would say, but that is all I shall say. Good-bye--may the goodGod bless and protect you."
I had much to do to speak firmly and to perceive what I was about, intaking my leave, for my mother could no longer refrain from sobbing asshe embraced me at the last, and my young brother and sister, catchingthe infection, began to whimper and to rub their eyes with their fists.Knowing so much more of my wild purpose than they did, and realizingthat I might never return alive, I was the more tried in my resolutionnot to disgrace with tears the virgin rapier and dagger at my side. Butfinally I got somehow upon my horse, whose head Blaise Tripault washolding, and threw my last kisses to the family on the steps. I thenmanaged voice enough to say "Good-bye, Blaise," to the old soldier.
"Nay, I will walk as far as to the village," said he, in his gruff,autocratic way. "I have a word or two for you at parting."
Throwing back a somewhat pallid smile to my people, tearfully wavingtheir adieus, I turned my horse out of the court-yard, followed byNicolas on the mule, and soon emerging from the avenue, was upon theroad. Blaise Tripault strode after me. When I came in front of the innat the end of the village, he called out to stop. I did so, and Blaise,coming up to my stirrup, handed me a folded paper and thus addressed me:
"Of course your father has given you all the advice you need. Nobody ismore competent than he to instruct a young man setting out to see theworld. His young days were the days of hard knocks, as everybody knows.But as I was thinking of your journey, there came into my head an oldtale a monk told me once--for, like your father, I was never too much ofa Huguenot to get what good I might out of any priest or monk the Lordchose to send my way. It's a tale that has to do with travelling, andthat's what made me think of it--a tale about three maxims that somewise person once gave a Roman emperor who was going on a journey. I halfforget the tale itself, for it isn't much of a tale; but the maxims Iremembered, because I had had experience enough to realize their value.I've written them out for you there: and if you get them by heart, andnever lose sight of them, you'll perhaps save yourself much repentance."
He then bade me good-bye, and the last I saw of him he was entering theinn to drink to my good fortune.
When I had got clear of the village, I unfolded Blaise's paper and readthe maxims:
1. "_Never undertake a thing unless you can see your way to the end ofit._"
2. "_Never sleep in a house where the master is old and the wifeyoung._"
3. "_Never leave a highway for a byway._"
Very good counsel, thought I, and worth bearing in mind. It was true, myvery journey itself was, as to its foolhardy purpose, a violation of thefirst maxim. But that could not be helped now, and I could at least heedthat piece of advice, as well as the others, in the details of mymission. When I thought of that mission, I felt both foolish andheavy-hearted. I had not the faintest idea yet of how I should go aboutencountering Brignan de Brignan and getting into a quarrel with him, andI had great misgivings as to how I should be able to conduct myself inthat quarrel, and as to its outcome. Certainly no man ever took the roadon a more incredible, frivolous quest. Of all the people travelling myway, that June morning, T was probably one of the most thoughtful andjudiciously-minded; yet of every one but myself the business in beingabroad was sober and reasonable, while mine was utterly ridiculous andsilly. And the girl whose banter had driven me to it--perhaps she hadattached no seriousness whatever to my petulant vow and had even nowforgotten it. With these reflections were mingled the pangs of partingfrom my home and family; and for a time I was downcast and sad.
But the day was fine. Presently my thoughts, which at first had flownback to all I had left behind, began to concern themselves with thescenes around me; then they flew ahead to the place whither I wasbound:--this is usually the way on journeys. At least, thought I, Ishould see life, and perchance meet dangers, and so far be the gainer.And who knows but I might even come with credit out of the affair withMonsieur de Brignan?--it is a world of strange turnings, and the upshotis always more or less different from what has been predicted. So I tookheart, and already I began to feel I was not exactly the pale scholar ofyesterday. It was something to be my own master, on horseback andwell-armed, my eyes ranging the wide and open country, green and brownin the sunlight, dotted here and there with trees, sometimes traversedby a stream, and often backed by woods of darker green, which seemed tohold secrets dangerous and luring.
Riding gave me a great appetite, and I was fortunate in coming upon aninn at Durtal whose table was worthy of my capacity. After dinner, wetook the road again and proceeded at an easy pace toward La Fleche.
Toward the middle of the afternoon a vague uneasiness stole over me, asif some tragic circumstance lay waiting on the path--to meunknown--ahead.