“Impossible!” said Pavannes quietly, when I spoke.
“Why?” I asked with warmth.
“Firstly,” he replied, “because I have given my word to go with the Vidame to Cahors.”
My face flushed hotly. But I cried, “What of that? You were taken by treachery! Your safe conduct was disregarded. Why should you be scrupulous? Your enemies are not. This is folly?”
“I think not. Nay,” Louis answered, shaking his head, “you would not do it yourself in my place.”
“I think I should,” I stammered awkwardly.
“No, you would not, lad,” he said smiling. “I know you too well. But if I would do it, it is impossible.” He turned in the saddle and, shading his eyes with his hand from the level rays of the sun, looked back intently. “It is as I thought,” he continued. “One of those men is riding grey Margot, which Bure said yesterday was the fastest mare in the troop. And the man on her is a light weight. The other fellow has that Norman bay horse we were looking at this morning. It is a trap laid by Bezers, Anne. If we turned aside a dozen yards, those two would be after us like the wind.”
“Do you mean,” I cried, “that Bezers has drawn his men forward on purpose?”
“Precisely;” was Louis’s answer. “That is the fact. Nothing would please him better than to take my honour first, and my life afterwards. But, thank God, only the one is in his power.”
And when I came to look at the horsemen, immediately before us, they confirmed Louis’s view. They were the best mounted of the party: all men of light weight too. One or other of them was constantly looking back. As night fell they closed in upon us with their usual care. When Bure joined us there was a gleam of intelligence in his bold eyes, a flash of conscious trickery. He knew that we had found him out, and cared nothing for it.
And the others cared nothing. But the thought that if left to myself I should have fallen into the Vidame’s cunning trap filled me with new hatred towards him; such hatred and such fear — for there was humiliation mingled with them — as I had scarcely felt before. I brooded over this, barely noticing what passed in our company for hours — nay, not until the next day when, towards evening, the cry arose round me that we were within sight of Cahors. Yes, there it lay below us, in its shallow basin, surrounded by gentle hills. The domes of the cathedral, the towers of the Vallandre Bridge, the bend of the Lot, where its stream embraces the town — I knew them all. Our long journey was over.
And I had but one idea. I had some time before communicated to Croisette the desperate design I had formed — to fall upon Bezers and kill him in the midst of his men in the last resort. Now the time had come if the thing was ever to be done: if we had not left it too long already. And I looked about me. There was some confusion and jostling as we halted on the brow of the hill, while two men were despatched ahead to announce the governor’s arrival, and Bure, with half a dozen spears, rode out as an advanced guard.
The road where we stood was narrow, a shallow cutting winding down the declivity of the hills. The horses were tired, It was a bad time and place for my design, and only the coming night was in my favour. But I was desperate.
Yet before I moved or gave a signal which nothing could recall, I scanned the landscape eagerly, scrutinizing in turn the small, rich plain below us, warmed by the last rays of the sun, the bare hills here glowing, there dark, the scattered wood-clumps and spinneys that filled the angles of the river, even the dusky line of helm-oaks that crowned the ridge beyond — Caylus way. So near our own country there might be help! If the messenger whom we had despatched to the Vicomte before leaving home had reached him, our uncle might have returned, and even be in Cahors to meet us.
But no party appeared in sight: and I saw no place where an ambush could be lying. I remembered that no tidings of our present plight or of what had happened could have reached the Vicomte. The hope faded out of life as soon as despair had given it birth. We must fend for ourselves and for Kit.
That was my justification. I leaned from my saddle towards Croisette — I was riding by his side — and muttered, as I felt my horse’s head and settled myself firmly in the stirrups, “You remember what I said? Are you ready?”
He looked at me in a startled way, with a face showing white in the shadow: and from me to the one solitary figure seated like a pillar a score of paces in front with no one between us and it. “There need be but two of us,” I muttered, loosening my sword. “Shall it be you or Marie? The others must leap their horses out of the road in the confusion, cross the river at the Arembal Ford if they are not overtaken, and make for Caylus.”
He hesitated. I do not know whether it had anything to do with his hesitation that at that moment the cathedral bell in the town below us began to ring slowly for Vespers. Yes, he hesitated. He — a Caylus. Turning to him again, I repeated my question impatiently. “Which shall it be? A moment, and we shall be moving on, and it will be too late.”
He laid his hand hurriedly on my bridle, and began a rambling answer. Rambling as it was I gathered his meaning. It was enough for me! I cut him short with one word of fiery indignation, and turned to Marie and spoke quickly. “Will you, then?” I said.
But Marie shook his head in perplexity, and answering little, said the same. So it happened a second time.
Strange! Yet strange as it seemed, I was not greatly surprised. Under other circumstances I should have been beside myself with anger at the defection. Now I felt as if I had half expected it, and without further words of reproach I dropped my head and gave it up. I passed again into the stupor of endurance. The Vidame was too strong for me. It was useless to fight against him. We were under the spell. When the troop moved forward, I went with them, silent and apathetic.
We passed through the gate of Cahors, and no doubt the scene was worthy of note; but I had only a listless eye for it — much such an eye as a man about to be broken on the wheel must have for that curious instrument, supposing him never to have seen it before. The whole population had come out to line the streets through which we rode, and stood gazing, with scarcely veiled looks of apprehension, at the procession of troopers and the stern face of the new governor.
We dismounted passively in the courtyard of the castle, and were for going in together, when Bure intervened. “M. de Pavannes,” he said, pushing rather rudely between us, “will sup alone to-night. For you, gentlemen, this way, if you please.”
I went without remonstrance. What was the use? I was conscious that the Vidame from the top of the stairs leading to the grand entrance was watching us with a wolfish glare in his eyes. I went quietly. But I heard Croisette urging something with passionate energy.
We were led through a low doorway to a room on the ground floor; a place very like a cell. Were we took our meal in silence. When it was over I flung myself on one of the beds prepared for us, shrinking from my companions rather in misery than in resentment.
No explanation had passed between us. Still I knew that the other two from time to time eyed me doubtfully. I feigned therefore to be asleep, but I heard Bure enter to bid us good-night — and see that we had not escaped. And I was conscious too of the question Croisette put to him, “Does M. de Pavannes lie alone to-night, Bure?”
“Not entirely,” the captain answered with gloomy meaning. Indeed he seemed in bad spirits himself, or tired. “The Vidame is anxious for his soul’s welfare, and sends a priest to him.”
They sprang to their feet at that. But the light and its bearer, who so far recovered himself as to chuckle at his master’s pious thought, had disappeared. They were left to pace the room, and reproach themselves and curse the Vidame in an agony of late repentance. Not even Marie could find a loop-hole of escape from here. The door was double-locked; the windows so barred that a cat could scarcely pass through them; the walls were of solid masonry.
Meanwhile I lay and feigned to sleep, and lay feigning through long, long hours; though my heart like theirs throbbed in response to the dull hammering that presently b
egan without, and not far from us, and lasted until daybreak. From our windows, set low and facing a wall, we could see nothing. But we could guess what the noise meant, the dull, earthy thuds when posts were set in the ground, the brisk, wooden clattering when one plank was laid to another. We could not see the progress of the work, or hear the voices of the workmen, or catch the glare of their lights. But we knew what they were doing. They were raising the scaffold.
CHAPTER XII.
JOY IN THE MORNING.
I was too weary with riding to go entirely without sleep. And moreover it is anxiety and the tremor of excitement which make the pillow sleepless, not, heaven be thanked, sorrow. God made man to lie awake and hope: but never to lie awake and grieve. An hour or two before daybreak I fell asleep, utterly worn out. When I awoke, the sun was high, and shining slantwise on our window. The room was gay with the morning rays, and soft with the morning freshness, and I lay a while, my cheek on my hand, drinking in the cheerful influence as I had done many and many a day in our room at Caylus. It was the touch of Marie’s hand, laid timidly on my arm, which roused me with a shock to consciousness. The truth broke upon me. I remembered where we were, and what was before us. “Will you get up, Anne?” Croisette said. “The Vidame has sent for us.”
I got to my feet, and buckled on my sword. Croisette was leaning against the wall, pale and downcast. Bure filled the open doorway, his feathered cap in his hand, a queer smile on his face. “You are a good sleeper, young gentleman,” he said. “You should have a good conscience.”
“Better than yours, no doubt!” I retorted, “or your master’s.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and, bidding us by a sign to follow him, led the way through several gloomy passages. At the end of these, a flight of stone steps leading upwards seemed to promise something better; and true enough, the door at the top being opened, the murmur of a crowd reached our ears, with a burst of sunlight and warmth. We were in a lofty room, with walls in some places painted, and elsewhere hung with tapestry; well lighted by three old pointed windows reaching to the rush-covered floor. The room was large, set here and there with stands of arms, and had a dais with a raised carved chair at one end. The ceiling was of blue, with gold stars set about it. Seeing this, I remembered the place. I had been in it once, years ago, when I had attended the Vicomte on a state visit to the governor. Ah! that the Vicomte were here now!
I advanced to the middle window, which was open. Then I started back, for outside was the scaffold built level with the floor, and rush-covered like it! Two or three people were lounging on it. My eyes sought Louis among the group, but in vain. He was not there: and while I looked for him, I heard a noise behind me, and he came in, guarded by four soldiers with pikes.
His face was pale and grave, but perfectly composed. There was a wistful look in his eyes indeed, as if he were thinking of something or some one far away — Kit’s face on the sunny hills of Quercy where he had ridden with her, perhaps; a look which seemed to say that the doings here were nothing to him, and the parting was yonder where she was. But his bearing was calm and collected, his step firm and fearless. When he saw us, indeed his face lightened a moment and he greeted us cheerfully, even acknowledging Bure’s salutation with dignity and good temper. Croisette sprang towards him impulsively, and cried his name — Croisette ever the first to speak. But before Louis could grasp his hand, the door at the bottom of the hall was swung open, and the Vidame came hurriedly in.
He was alone. He glanced round, his forbidding face, which was somewhat flushed as if by haste, wearing a scowl. Then he saw us, and, nodding haughtily, strode up the floor, his spurs clanking heavily on the boards. We gave us no greeting, but by a short word dismissed Bure and the soldiers to the lower end of the room. And then he stood and looked at us four, but principally at his rival; and looked, and looked with eyes of smouldering hate. And there was a silence, a long silence, while the murmur of the crowd came almost cheerfully through the window, and the sparrows under the eaves chirped and twittered, and the heart that throbbed least painfully was, I do believe, Louis de Pavannes’!
At last Bezers broke the silence.
“M. de Pavannes!” he began, speaking hoarsely, yet concealing all passion under a cynical smile and a mock politeness, “M. de Pavannes, I hold the king’s commission to put to death all the Huguenots within my province of Quercy. Have you anything to say, I beg, why I should not begin with you? Or do you wish to return to the Church?”
Louis shrugged his shoulders as in contempt, and held his peace, I saw his captor’s great hands twitch convulsively at this, but still the Vidame mastered himself, and when he spoke again he spoke slowly. “Very well,” he continued, taking no heed of us, the silent witnesses of this strange struggle between the two men, but eyeing Louis only. “You have wronged me more than any man alive. Alive or dead! or dead! You have thwarted me, M. de Pavannes, and taken from me the woman I loved. Six days ago I might have killed you. I had it in my power. I had but to leave you to the rabble, remember, and you would have been rotting at Montfaucon to-day, M. de Pavannes.”
“That is true,” said Louis quietly. “Why so many words?”
But the Vidame went on as if he had not heard. “I did not leave you to them,” he resumed, “and yet I hate you — more than I ever hated any man yet, and I am not apt to forgive. But now the time has come, sir, for my revenge! The oath I swore to your mistress a fortnight ago I will keep to the letter. I — Silence, babe!” he thundered, turning suddenly, “or I will keep my word with you too!”
Croisette had muttered something, and this had drawn on him the glare of Bezers’ eyes. But the threat was effectual. Croisette was silent. The two were left henceforth to one another.
Yet the Vidame seemed to be put out by the interruption. Muttering a string of oaths he strode from us to the window and back again. The cool cynicism, with which he was wont to veil his anger and impose on other men, while it heightened the effect of his ruthless deeds, in part fell from him. He showed himself as he was — masterful, and violent, hating, with all the strength of a turbulent nature which had never known a check. I quailed before him myself. I confess it.
“Listen!” he continued harshly, coming back and taking his place in front of us at last, his manner more violent than before the interruption. “I might have left you to die in that hell yonder! And I did not leave you. I had but to hold my hand and you would have been torn to pieces! The wolf, however, does not hunt with the rats, and a Bezers wants no help in his vengeance from king or CANAILLE! When I hunt my enemy down I will hunt him alone, do you hear? And as there is a heaven above me” — he paused a moment— “if I ever meet you face to face again, M. de Pavannes, I will kill you where you stand!”
He paused, and the murmur of the crowd without came to my ears; but mingled with and heightened by some confusion in my thoughts. I struggled feebly with this, seeing a rush of colour to Croisette’s face, a lightening in his eyes as if a veil had been raised from before them. Some confusion — for I thought I grasped the Vidame’s meaning; yet there he was still glowering on his victim with the same grim visage, still speaking in the same rough tone. “Listen, M. de Pavannes,” he continued, rising to his full height and waving his hand with a certain majesty towards the window — no one had spoken. “The doors are open! Your mistress is at Caylus. The road is clear, go to her; go to her, and tell her that I have saved your life, and that I give it to you not out of love, but out of hate! If you had flinched I would have killed you, for so you would have suffered most, M. de Pavannes. As it is, take your life — a gift! and suffer as I should if I were saved and spared by my enemy!”
Slowly the full sense of his words came home to me. Slowly; not in its full completeness indeed until I heard Louis in broken phrases, phrases half proud and half humble, thanking him for his generosity. Even then I almost lost the true and wondrous meaning of the thing when I heard his answer. For he cut Pavannes short with bitter caustic gibes, spurned his proffered
gratitude with insults, and replied to his acknowledgments with threats.
“Go! go!” he continued to cry violently. “Have I brought you so far safely that you will cheat me of my vengeance at the last, and provoke me to kill you? Away! and take these blind puppies with you! Reckon me as much your enemy now as ever! And if I meet you, be sure you will meet a foe! Begone, M. de Pavannes, begone!”
“But, M. de Bezers,” Louis persisted, “hear me. It takes two to—”
“Begone! begone! before we do one another a mischief!” cried the Vidame furiously. “Every word you say in that strain is an injury to me. It robs me of my vengeance. Go! in God’s name!”
And we went; for there was no change, no promise of softening in his malignant aspect as he spoke; nor any as he stood and watched us draw off slowly from him. We went one by one, each lingering after the other, striving, out of a natural desire to thank him, to break through that stern reserve. But grim and unrelenting, a picture of scorn to the last, he saw us go.
My latest memory of that strange man — still fresh after a lapse of two and fifty years — is of a huge form towering in the gloom below the state canopy, the sunlight which poured in through the windows and flooded us, falling short of him; of a pair of fierce cross eyes, that seemed to glow as they covered us; of a lip that curled as in the enjoyment of some cruel jest. And so I — and I think each of us four saw the last of Raoul de Mar, Vidame de Bezers, in this life.
He was a man whom we cannot judge by to-day’s standard; for he was such an one in his vices and his virtues as the present day does not know; one who in his time did immense evil — and if his friends be believed, little good. But the evil is forgotten; the good lives. And if all that good save one act were buried with him, this one act alone, the act of a French gentleman, would be told of him — ay! and will be told — as long as the kingdom of France, and the gracious memory of the late king, shall endure.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 16