Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  I bowed my acknowledgments.

  ‘This fellow,’ I said, ‘is he much hurt?’

  ‘Tut, tut! I thought I had saved the marshal all trouble, M. Francois replied. ‘Is he not dead, Gil?’

  The poor wretch made answer for himself, crying out piteously, and in a choking voice, for a priest to shrive him. At that moment Simon Fleix returned with our torch, which he had lighted at the nearest cross-streets, where there was a brazier, and we saw by this light that the man was coughing up blood, and might live perhaps half an hour.

  ‘Mordieu! That comes of thrusting too high!’ M. Francois muttered, regretfully. An inch lower, and there would have been none of this trouble! I suppose somebody must fetch one. Gil,’ he continued, ‘run, man, to the sacristy in the Rue St. Denys, and get a Father. Or — stay! Help to lift him under the lee of the wall there. The wind cuts like a knife here.’

  The street being on the slope of the hill, the lower part of the house nearest us stood a few feet from the ground, on wooden piles, and the space underneath it, being enclosed at the back and sides, was used as a cart-house. The servants moved the dying man into this rude shelter, and I accompanied them, being unwilling to leave the young gentleman alone. Not wishing, however, to seem to interfere, I walked to the farther end, and sat down on the shaft of a cart, whence I idly admired the strange aspect of the group I had left, as the glare of the torch brought now one and now another into prominence, and sometimes shone on M. Francois’ jewelled fingers toying with his tiny moustache, and sometimes on the writhing features of the man at his feet.

  On a sudden, and before Gil had started on his errand, I saw there was a priest among them. I had not seen him enter, nor had I any idea whence he came. My first impression was only that here was a priest, and that he was looking at me — not at the man craving his assistance on the floor, or at those who stood round him, but at me, who sat away in the shadow beyond the ring of light!

  This was surprising; but a second glance explained it, for then I saw that he was the Jacobin monk who had haunted my mother’s dying hours. And, amazed as much at this strange RENCONTRE as at the man’s boldness, I sprang up and strode forwards, forgetting, in an impulse of righteous anger, the office he came to do. And this the more as his face, still turned to me, seemed instinct to my eyes with triumphant malice. As I moved towards him, however, with a fierce exclamation on my lips, he suddenly dropped his eyes and knelt. Immediately M. Francois cried ‘Hush!’ and the men turned to me with scandalised faces. I fell back. Yet even then, whispering on his knees by the dying man, the knave was thinking, I felt sure, of me, glorying at once in his immunity and the power it gave him to tantalise me without fear.

  I determined, whatever the result, to intercept him when all was over; and on the man dying a few minutes later, I walked resolutely to the open side of the shed, thinking it likely he might try to slip away as mysteriously as he had come. He stood a moment speaking to M. Francois, however, and then, accompanied by him, advanced boldly to meet me, a lean smile on his face.

  ‘Father Antoine,’ M. d’Agen said politely,’ tells me that he knows you, M. de Marsac, and desires to speak to you, MAL-A-PROPOS as is the occasion.’

  ‘And I to him,’ I answered, trembling with rage, and only restraining by an effort the impulse which would have had me dash my hand in the priest’s pale, smirking face. ‘I have waited long for this moment,’ I continued, eyeing him steadily, as M. Francois withdrew out of hearing, ‘and had you tried to avoid me, I would have dragged you back, though all your tribe were here to protect you.’

  His presence so maddened me that I scarcely knew what I said. I felt my breath come quickly, I felt the blood surge to my head, and it was with difficulty I restrained myself when he answered with well-affected sanctity, ‘Like mother, like son, I fear, sir. Huguenots both.’

  I choked with rage. What!’ I said, ‘you dare to threaten me as you threatened my mother? Fool! know that only to-day for the purpose of discovering and punishing you I took the rooms in which my mother died.’

  ‘I know it,’ he answered quietly. And then in a second, as by magic, he altered his demeanour completely, raising his head and looking me in the face. ‘That, and so much besides, I know,’ he continued, giving me, to my astonishment, frown for frown, ‘that if you will listen to me for a moment, M. de Marsac, and listen quietly, I will convince you that the folly is not on my side.’

  Amazed at his new manner, in which there was none of the madness that had marked him at our first meeting, but a strange air of authority, unlike anything I had associated with him before, I signed to him to proceed.

  ‘You think that I am in your power?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I think,’ I retorted swiftly, ‘that, escaping me now, you will have at your heels henceforth a worse enemy than even your own sins.’

  ‘Just so,’ he answered, nodding. ‘Well, I am going to show you that the reverse is the case; and that you are as completely in my hands, to spare or to break, as this straw. In the first place, you are here in Blois, a Huguenot!’

  ‘Chut!’ I exclaimed contemptuously, affecting a confidence I was far from feeling. ‘A little while back that might have availed you. But we are in Blois, not Paris. It is not far to the Loire, and you have to deal with a man now, not with a woman. It is you who have cause to tremble, not I.’

  ‘You think to be protected,’ he answered with a sour smile, ‘even on this side of the Loire, I see. But one word to the Pope’s Legate, or to the Duke of Nevers, and you would see the inside of a dungeon, if not worse. For the king—’

  ‘King or no king!’ I answered, interrupting him with more assurance than I felt, seeing that I remembered only too well Henry’s remark that Rosny must not look to him for protection, ‘I fear you not a whit! And that reminds me. I have heard you talk treason — rank, black treason, priest, as ever sent man to rope, and I will give you up. By heaven I will!’ I cried, my rage increasing, as I discerned, more and more clearly, the dangerous hold he had over me. ‘You have threatened me! One word, and I will send you to the gallows!’

  ‘Sh!’ he answered, indicating M. Francois by, a gesture of the hand. ‘For your own sake, not mine. This is fine talking, but you have not yet heard all I know. Would you like to hear how you have spent the last month? Two days after Christmas, M. de Marsac, you left Chize with a young lady — I can give you her name, if you please. Four days afterwards you reached Blois, and took her to your mother’s lodging. Next morning she left you for M. de Bruhl. Two days later you tracked her to a house in the Ruelle d’Arcy, and freed her, but lost her in the moment of victory. Then you stayed in Blois until your mother’s death, going a day or two later to M. de Rosny’s house by Mantes, where mademoiselle still is. Yesterday you arrived in Blois with M. de Rosny; you went to his lodging; you—’

  ‘Proceed, I muttered, leaning forward. Under cover of my cloak I drew my dagger half-way from its sheath. ‘Proceed, sir, I pray,’ I repeated with dry lips.

  ‘You slept there,’ he continued, holding his ground, but shuddering slightly, either from cold or because he perceived my movement and read my design in my eyes.

  ‘This morning you remained here in attendance on M. de Rambouillet.’

  For the moment I breathed freely again, perceiving that though he knew much, the one thing on which M. de Rosny’s design turned had escaped him. The secret interview with the king, which compromised alike Henry himself and M. de Rambouillet, had apparently passed unnoticed and unsuspected. With a sigh of intense relief I slid back the dagger, which I had fully made up my mind to use had he known all, and drew my cloak round me with a shrug of feigned indifference. I sweated to think what he did know, but our interview with the king having escaped him, I breathed again.

  ‘Well, sir,’ I said curtly, ‘I have listened. And now, what is the purpose of all this?’

  ‘My purpose?’ he answered, his eyes glittering. ‘To show you that you are in my power. You are the agent of M.
de Rosny. I, the agent, however humble, of the Holy Catholic League. Of your movements I know all. What do you know of mine?’

  ‘Knowledge,’ I made grim answer, ‘is not everything, sir priest.’

  ‘It is more than it was,’ he said, smiling his thin-lipped smile. ‘It is going to be more than it is. And I know much — about you, M. de Marsac.’

  ‘You know too much!’ I retorted, feeling his covert threats close round me like the folds of some great serpent. ‘But you are imprudent, I think. Will you tell me what is to prevent me striking you through where you stand, and ridding myself at a blow of so much knowledge?’

  ‘The presence of three men, M. de Marsac,’ he answered lightly, waving his hand towards M. Francois and the others, ‘every one of whom would give you up to justice. You forget that you are north of the Loire, and that priests are not to be massacred here with impunity, as in your lawless south-country. However, enough. The night is cold, and M. d’Agen grows suspicious as well as impatient. We have, perhaps, spoken too long already. Permit me — he bowed and drew back a step— ‘to resume this discussion to-morrow.’

  Despite his politeness and the hollow civility with which he thus sought; to close the interview, the light of triumph which shone in his eyes, as the glare of the torch fell athwart them, no less than the assured tone of his voice, told me clearly that he knew his power. He seemed, indeed, transformed: no longer a slinking, peaceful clerk, preying on a woman’s fears, but a bold and crafty schemer, skilled and unscrupulous, possessed of hidden knowledge and hidden resources; the personification of evil intellect. For a moment, knowing all I knew, and particularly the responsibilities which lay before me, and the interests committed to my hands, I quailed, confessing myself unequal to him. I forgot the righteous vengeance I owed him; I cried out helplessly against the ill-fortune which had brought him across my path. I saw myself enmeshed and fettered beyond hope of escape, and by an effort only controlled the despair I felt.

  ‘To-morrow?’ I muttered hoarsely. ‘At what time?’

  He shook his head with a cunning smile. ‘A thousand thanks, but I will settle that myself!’ he answered. ‘Au revoir!’ and uttering a word of leave-taking to M. Francois d’Agen, he blessed the two servants, and went out into the night.

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE OFFER OF THE LEAGUE.

  When the last sound of his footsteps died away, I awoke as from an evil dream, and becoming conscious of the presence of M. Francois and the servants, recollected mechanically that I owed the former an apology for my discourtesy in keeping him standing in the cold. I began to offer it; but my distress and confusion of mind were such that in the middle of a set phrase I broke off, and stood looking fixedly at him, my trouble so plain that he asked me civilly if anything ailed me.

  ‘No,’ I answered, turning from him impatiently; ‘nothing, nothing, sir. Or tell me,’ I continued, with an abrupt change of mind, ‘who is that; who has just left us?’

  ‘Father Antoine, do you mean?’

  ‘Ay, Father Antoine, Father Judas, call him what you like,’ I rejoined bitterly.

  ‘Then if you leave the choice to me,’ M. Francois answered with grave politeness, ‘I would rather call him something more pleasant, M. de Marsac — James or John, let us say. For there is little said here which does not come back to him. If walls have ears, the walls of Blois are in his pay. But I thought you knew him,’ he continued. ‘He is secretary, confidant, chaplain, what you will, to Cardinal Retz, and one of those whom — in your ear — greater men court and more powerful men lean on. If I had to choose between them, I would rather cross M. de Crillon.’

  ‘I am obliged to you,’ I muttered, checked as much by his manner as his words.

  ‘Not at all,’ he answered more lightly. ‘Any information I have is at your disposal.’

  However, I saw the imprudence of venturing farther, and hastened to take leave of him, persuading him to allow one of M. de Rambouillet’s servants to accompany him home. He said that he should call on me in the morning; and forcing myself to answer him in a suitable manner, I saw him depart one way, and myself, accompanied by Simon Fleix, went off another. My feet were frozen with long standing — I think the corpse we left was scarce colder — but my head was hot with feverish doubts and fears. The moon had sunk and the streets were dark. Our torch had burned out, and we had no light. But where my followers saw only blackness and vacancy, I saw an evil smile and a lean visage fraught with menace and exultation.

  For the more closely I directed my mind to the position in which I stood, the graver it seemed. Pitted against Bruhl alone, amid strange surroundings and in an atmosphere of Court intrigue, I had thought my task sufficiently difficult and the disadvantages under which I laboured sufficiently serious before this interview. Conscious of a certain rustiness and a distaste for finesse, with resources so inferior to Bruhl’s that even M. de Rosny’s liberality had not done much to make up the difference, I had accepted the post offered me rather readily than sanguinely; with joy, seeing that it held out the hope of high reward, but with no certain expectation of success. Still, matched with a man of violent and headstrong character, I had seen no reason to despair; nor any why I might not arrange the secret meeting between the king and mademoiselle with safety, and conduct to its end an intrigue simple and unsuspected, and requiring for its execution rather courage and caution than address or experience.

  Now, however, I found that Bruhl was not my only or my most dangerous antagonist. Another was in the field — or, to speak more correctly, was waiting outside the arena, ready to snatch the prize when we should have disabled one another, From a dream of Bruhl and myself as engaged in a competition for the king’s favour, wherein neither could expose the other nor appeal even in the last resort to the joint-enemies of his Majesty and ourselves, I awoke to a very different state of things; I awoke to find those enemies the masters of the situation, possessed of the clue to our plans, and permitting them only as long as they seemed to threaten no serious peril to themselves.

  No discovery could be more mortifying or more fraught with terror. The perspiration stood on my brow as I recalled the warning which M. de Rosny had uttered against Cardinal Retz, or noted down the various points of knowledge which were in Father Antoine’s possession. He knew every event of the last month, with one exception, and could tell, I verily believed, how many crowns I had in my pouch. Conceding this, and the secret sources of information he must possess, what hope had I of keeping my future movements from him? Mademoiselle’s arrival would be known to him before she had well passed the gates; nor was it likely, or even possible, that I should again succeed in reaching the king’s presence untraced and unsuspected. En fin, I saw myself, equally with Bruhl, a puppet in this man’s hands, my goings out and my comings in watched and reported to him, his mercy the only bar between myself and destruction. At any moment I might be arrested as a Huguenot, the enterprise in which I was engaged ruined, and Mademoiselle de la Vire exposed to the violence of Bruhl or the equally dangerous intrigues of the League.

  Under these circumstances I fancied sleep impossible; but habit and weariness are strong persuaders, and when I reached my lodging I slept long and soundly, as became a man who had looked danger in the face more than once. The morning light too brought an accession both of courage and hope. I reflected on the misery of my condition at St. Jean d’Angely, without friends or resources, and driven to herd with such a man as Fresnoy. And telling myself that the gold crowns which M. de Rosny had lavished upon me were not for nothing, nor the more precious friendship with which he had honoured me a gift that called for no return, I rose with new spirit and a countenance which threw Simon Fleix who had seen me lie down the picture of despair — into the utmost astonishment.

  ‘You have had good dreams,’ he said, eyeing me jealously and with a disturbed air.

  ‘I had a very evil one last night,’ I answered lightly, wondering a little why he looked at me so, and why he seemed to resent my return to hopefulness
and courage. I might have followed this train of thought further with advantage, since I possessed a clue to his state of mind; but at that moment a summons at the door called him away to it, and he presently ushered in M. d’Agen, who, saluting me with punctilious politeness, had not said fifty words before he introduced the subject of his toe — no longer, however, in a hostile spirit, but as the happy medium which had led him to recognise the worth and sterling qualities — so he was pleased to say — of his preserver.

  I was delighted to find him in this frame of mind, and told him frankly that the friendship with which his kinsman, M. de Rambouillet, honoured me would prevent me giving him satisfaction save in the last resort. He replied that the service I had done him was such as to render this immaterial, unless I had myself cause of offence; which I was forward to deny.

  We were paying one another compliments after this fashion, while I regarded him with the interest which the middle-aged bestow on the young and gallant in whom they see their own youth and hopes mirrored, when the door was again opened, and after a moment’s pause admitted, equally, I think, to the disgust of M. Francois, and myself, the form of Father Antoine.

  Seldom have two men more diverse stood, I believe, in a room together; seldom has any greater contrast been presented to a man’s eyes than that opened to mine on this occasion. On the one side the gay young spark, with his short cloak, his fine suit; of black-and-silver, his trim limbs and jewelled hilt and chased comfit-box; on the other, the tall, stooping monk, lean-jawed and bright-eyed, whose gown hung about him in coarse, ungainly folds. And M. Francois’ sentiment on first seeing the other was certainly dislike. Is spite of this, however, he bestowed a greeting on the new-comer which evidenced a secret awe, and in other ways showed so plain a desire to please, that I felt my fears of the priest return in force. I reflected that the talents which in such a garb could win the respect of M. Francois d’Agen — a brilliant star among the younger courtiers, and one of a class much given to thinking scorn of their fathers’ roughness — must be both great and formidable; and, so considering, I received the monk with a distant courtesy which I had once little thought to extend to him. I put aside for the moment the private grudge I bore him with so much justice, and remembered only the burden which lay on me in my contest with him.