I suppose they knew that no friend would ride for Meudon at that pace, for they dashed at me six abreast with a shout of triumph; and before I could count a score we met. The Cid was still running strongly, and I had not thought to stay him, so that I had no time to use my pistols. My sword I had out, but the sun dazzled me and the men wore corslets, and I made but poor play with it; though I struck out savagely, as we crashed together, in my rage at this sudden crossing of my hopes when all seemed done and gained. The Cid faced them bravely — I heard the distant huzza of the Huguenots — and I put aside one point which threatened my throat. But the sun was in my eyes and something struck me on the head. Another second, and a blow in the breast forced me fairly from the saddle. Gripping furiously at the air I went down, stunned and dizzy, my last thought as I struck the ground being of mademoiselle, and the little brook with the stepping-stones.
CHAPTER XXXV. ‘LE ROI EST MORT!’
It was M. d’Agen’s breastpiece saved my life by warding off the point of the varlet’s sword, so that the worst injury I got was the loss of my breath for five minutes, with a swimming in the head and a kind of syncope. These being past, I found myself on my back on the ground, with a man’s knee on my breast and a dozen horsemen standing round me. The sky reeled dizzily before my eyes and the men’s figures loomed gigantic; yet I had sense enough to know what had happened to me, and that matters might well be worse.
Resigning myself to the prospect of captivity, I prepared to ask for quarter; which I did not doubt I should receive, since they had taken me in an open skirmish, and honestly, and in the daylight. But the man whose knee already incommoded me sufficiently, seeing me about to speak, squeezed me on a sudden so fiercely, bidding me at the same time in a gruff whisper be silent, that I thought I could not do better than obey.
Accordingly I lay still, and as in a dream, for my brain was still clouded, heard someone say, ‘Dead! Is he? I hoped we had come in time. Well, he deserved a better fate. Who is he, Rosny?’
‘Do you know him, Maignan?’ said a voice which sounded strangely familiar.
The man who knelt; upon me answered, ‘No, my lord. He is a stranger to me. He has the look of a Norman.’
‘Like enough!’ replied a high-pitched voice I had not heard before. ‘For he rode a good horse. Give me a hundred like it, and a hundred men to ride as straight, and I would not envy the King of France.’
‘Much less his poor cousin of Navarre,’ the first speaker rejoined in a laughing tone, ‘without a whole shirt to his back or a doublet that is decently new. Come, Turenne, acknowledge that you are not so badly off after all!’
At that word the cloud which had darkened my faculties swept on a sudden aside. I saw that the men into whose hands I had fallen wore white favours, their leader a white plume; and comprehended without more that the King of Navarre had come to my rescue, and beaten off the Leaguers who had dismounted me. At the same moment the remembrance of all that had gone before, and especially of the scene I had witnessed in the king’s chamber, rushed upon my mind with such overwhelming force that I fell into a fury of impatience at the thought of the time I had wasted; and rising up suddenly I threw off Maignan with all my force, crying out that I was alive — that I was alive, and had news.
The equerry did his best to restrain me, cursing me under his breath for a fool, and almost; squeezing the life out of me. But in vain, for the King of Navarre, riding nearer, saw me struggling. ‘Hallo! hallo! ’tis a strange dead man,’ he cried, interposing. ‘What is the meaning of this? Let him go! Do you hear, sirrah? Let him go!’
The equerry obeyed and stood back sullenly, and I staggered to my feet, and looked round with eyes which still swam and watered. On the instant a cry of recognition greeted me, with a hundred exclamations of astonishment. While I heard my name uttered on every side in a dozen different tones, I remarked that M. de Rosny, upon whom my eyes first fell, alone stood silent, regarding me with a face of sorrowful surprise.
‘By heavens, sir, I knew nothing of this!’ I heard the King of Navarre declare, addressing himself to the Vicomte de Turenne. ‘The man is here by no connivance of mine. Interrogate him yourself, if you will. Or I will. Speak, sir,’ he continued, turning to me with his countenance hard and forbidding. ‘You heard me yesterday, what I promised you? Why, in God’s name, are you here to-day?’
I tried to answer, but Maignan had so handled me that I had not breath enough, and stood panting.
‘Your Highness’s clemency in this matter,’ M. de Turenne said, with a sneer, ‘has been so great he trusted to its continuance. And doubtless he thought to find you alone. I fear I am in the way.’
I knew him by his figure and his grand air, which in any other company would have marked him for master; and forgetting the impatience which a moment before had consumed me — doubtless I was still light-headed — I answered him. ‘Yet I had once the promise of your lordship’s protection,’ I gasped.
‘My protection, sir?’ he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming angrily.
‘Even so,’ I answered. ‘At the inn at Etampes, where M. de Crillon would have fought me.’
He was visibly taken aback. ‘Are you that man?’ he cried.
‘I am. But I am not here to prate of myself,’ I replied. And with that — the remembrance of my neglected errand flashing on me again — I staggered to the King of Navarre’s side, and, falling on my knees, seized his stirrup. ‘Sire, I bring you news! great news! dreadful news!’ I cried, clinging to it. ‘His Majesty was but a quarter of an hour ago stabbed in the body in his chamber by a villain monk. And is dying, or, it may be, dead.’
‘Dead? The King!’ Turenne cried with an oath. ‘Impossible!’
Vaguely I heard others crying, some this, some that, as surprise and consternation, or anger, or incredulity moved them. But I did not answer them, for Henry, remaining silent, held me spellbound and awed by the marvellous change which I saw fall on his face. His eyes became on a sudden suffused with blood, and seemed to retreat under his heavy brows; his cheeks turned of a brick-red colour; his half-open lips showed his teeth gleaming through his beard; while his great nose, which seemed to curve and curve until it well-nigh met his chin, gave to his mobile countenance an aspect as strange as it was terrifying. Withal he uttered for a time no word, though I saw his hand, grip the riding-whip he held in a convulsive grasp, as though his thought were ‘’Tis mine! Mine! Wrest it away who dares!’
‘Bethink you, sir,’ he said at last, fixing his piercing eyes on me, and speaking in a harsh, low tone, like the growling of a great dog, ‘this is no jesting-time. Nor will you save your skin by a ruse. Tell me, on your peril, is this a trick?’
‘Heaven forbid, sire!’ I answered with passion. ‘I was in the chamber, and saw it; with my own eyes. I mounted on the instant, and rode hither by the shortest route to warn your Highness to look to yourself. Monks are many, and the Holy Union is not apt to stop half-way.’
I saw he believed me, for his face relaxed. His breath seemed to come and go again, and for the tenth part of a second his eyes sought M. de Rosny’s. Then he looked at me again.
‘I thank you, sir, he said, bowing gravely and courteously, ‘for your care for me — not for your tidings, which are of the sorriest. God grant my good cousin and king may be hurt only. Now tell us exactly — for these gentlemen are equally interested with myself — had a surgeon seen him?’
I replied in the negative, but added that the wound was in the groin, and bled much.
‘You said a few minutes ago, “dying or already dead!”’ the King of Navarre rejoined. ‘Why?’
‘His Majesty’s face was sunken,’ I stammered.
He nodded. ‘You may be mistaken,’ he said. ‘I pray that you are. But here comes Mornay. He may know more.’
In a moment I was abandoned, even by M. de Turenne, so great was the anxiety which possessed all to learn the truth. Maignan alone, under pretence of adjusting a stirrup, remained beside me, and entreated me in a low voi
ce to begone. ‘Take this horse, M. de Marsac, if you will,’ he urged, ‘and ride back the way you came. You have done what you came to do. Go back, and be thankful.’
‘Chut!’ I said, ‘there is no danger.’
‘You will see,’ he replied darkly, ‘if you stay here. Come, come, take my advice and the horse,’ he persisted, ‘and begone! Believe me, it will be for the best.’
I laughed outright at his earnestness and his face of perplexity. ‘I see you have M. de Rosny’s orders to get rid of me,’ I said. ‘But I am not going, my friend. He must find some other way out of his embarrassment, for here I stay.’
‘Well, your blood be on your own head,’ Maignan retorted, swinging himself into the saddle with a gloomy face. ‘I have done my best to save you!’
‘And your master!’ I answered, laughing.
For flight was the last thing I had in my mind. I had ridden this ride with a clear perception that the one thing I needed was a footing at Court. By the special kindness of Providence I had now gained this; and I was not the man to resign it because it proved to be scanty and perilous. It was something that I had spoken to the great Vicomte face to face and not been consumed, that I had given him look for look and still survived, that I had put in practice Crillon’s lessons and come to no harm.
Nor was this all. I had never in the worst times blamed the King of Navarre for his denial of me, I had been foolish, indeed, seeing that it was in the bargain, had I done so; nor had I ever doubted his good-will or his readiness to reward me should occasion arise. Now, I flattered myself, I had given him that which he needed, and had hitherto lacked — an excuse, I mean, for interference in my behalf.
Whether I was right or wrong in this notion I was soon to learn, for at this moment Henry’s cavalcade, which had left me a hundred paces behind, came to a stop, and while some of the number waved to me to come on, one spurred back to summon me to the king. I hastened to obey the order as fast as I could, but I saw on approaching that though all was at a standstill till I came up, neither the King of Navarre nor M. de Turenne was thinking principally of me. Every face, from Henry’s to that of his least important courtier, wore an air of grave preoccupation; which I had no difficulty in ascribing to the doubt present in every mind, and outweighing every interest, whether the King of France was dead, or dying, or merely wounded.
‘Quick, sir!’ Henry said with impatience, as soon as I came within hearing. ‘Do not detain me with your affairs longer than is necessary. M. de Turenne presses me to carry into effect the order I gave yesterday. But as you have placed yourself in jeopardy on my account I feel that; something is due to you. You will be good enough, therefore, to present yourself at once at M. la Varenne’s lodging, and give me your parole to remain there without stirring abroad until your affair is concluded.’
Aware that I owed this respite, which at once secured my present safety and promised well for the future, to the great event that, even in M. de Turenne’s mind, had overshadowed all others, I bowed in silence. Henry, however, was not content with this. ‘Come, sir,’ he said sharply, and with every appearance of anger, ‘do you agree to that?’
I replied humbly that I thanked him for his clemency.
‘There is no need of thanks,’ he replied coldly. ‘What I have done is without prejudice to M. de Turenne’s complaint. He must have justice.’
I bowed again, and in a moment the troop were gone at a gallop towards Meudon, whence, as I afterwards learned, the King of Navarre, attended by a select body of five-and-twenty horsemen, wearing private arms, rode on at full speed to St. Cloud to present himself at his Majesty’s bedside. A groom who had caught the Cid, which had escaped into the town with no other injury than a slight wound in the shoulder, by-and-by met me with the horse; and in this way I was enabled to render myself with some decency at Varenne’s lodging, a small house at the foot of the hill, not far from the Castle-gate.
Here I found myself under no greater constraint than that which my own parole laid upon me; and my room having the conveniency of a window looking upon the public street, I was enabled from hour to hour to comprehend and enter into the various alarms and surprises which made that day remarkable. The manifold reports which flew from mouth to mouth on the occasion, as well as the overmastering excitement which seized all, are so well remembered, however, that I forbear to dwell upon them, though they served to distract my mind from my own position. Suffice it that at one moment we heard that His Majesty was dead, at another that the wound was skin deep, and again that we might expect him at Meudon before sunset. The rumour that the Duchess de Montpensier had taken poison was no sooner believed than we were asked to listen to the guns of Paris firing FEUX DE JOIE in honour of the King’s death.
The streets were so closely packed with persons telling and hearing these tales that I seemed from my window to be looking on a fair. Nor was all my amusement withoutdoors; for a number of the gentlemen of the Court, hearing that I had been at St. Cloud in the morning, and in the very chamber, a thing which made me for the moment the most desirable companion in the world, remembered on a sudden that they had a slight acquaintance with me, and honoured me by calling upon me and sitting a great part of the day with me. From which circumstance I confess I derived as much hope as they diversion; knowing that courtiers are the best weather-prophets in the world, who hate nothing so much as to be discovered in the company of those on whom the sun does not shine.
The return of the King of Navarre, which happened about the middle of the afternoon, while it dissipated the fears of some and dashed the hopes of others, put an end to this state of uncertainty by confirming, to the surprise of many, that His Majesty was in no danger. We learned with varying emotions that the first appearances, which had deceived, not myself only, but experienced leeches, had been themselves belied by subsequent conditions; and that, in a word, Paris had as much to fear, and loyal men as much to hope, as before this wicked and audacious attempt.
I had no more than stomached this surprising information, which was less welcome to me, I confess, than it should have been, when the arrival of M. d’Agen, who greeted me with the affection which he never failed to show me, distracted my thoughts for a time. Immediately on learning where I was and, the strange adventures which had befallen me he had ridden off; stopping only once, when he had nearly reached me, for the purpose of waiting on Madame de Bruhl. I asked him how she had received him.
‘Like herself,’ he replied with an ingenuous blush. ‘More kindly than I had a right to expect, if not as warmly as I had the courage to hope.’
‘That will come with time,’ I said, laughing. ‘And Mademoiselle de la Vire?’
‘I did not see her,’ he answered, ‘but I heard she was well. And a hundred fathoms deeper in love,’ he added, eyeing me roguishly, ‘than when I saw her last.’
It was my turn to colour now, and I did so, feeling all the pleasure and delight such, a statement was calculated to afford me. Picturing mademoiselle as I had seen her last, leaning from her horse with love written so plainly on her weeping face that all who ran might read, I sank into so delicious a reverie that M. la Varenne, entering suddenly, surprised us both before another word passed on either side.
His look and tone were as abrupt as it was in his nature, which was soft and compliant, to make them. ‘M. de Marsac,’ he said, ‘I am sorry to put any constraint upon you, but I am directed to forbid you to your friends. And I must request this gentleman to withdraw.’
‘But all day my friends have come in and out,’ I said with surprise. ‘Is this a new order?’
‘A written order, which reached me no farther back than two minutes ago, ‘he answered plainly. ‘I am also directed to remove you to a room at the back of the house, that you may not overlook the street.’
‘But my parole was taken,’ I cried, with a natural feeling of indignation.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am sorry to say that I have nothing to do with that,’ he answered. ‘I can only obey
orders. I must ask this gentleman, therefore, to withdraw.’
Of course M. d’Agen had no option but to leave me; which he did, I could see, notwithstanding his easy and confident expressions, with a good deal of mistrust and apprehension. When he was gone, La Varenne lost no time in carrying out the remainder of his orders. As a consequence I found myself confined to a small and gloomy apartment which looked, at a distance of three paces, upon the smooth face of the rock on which the Castle stood. This change, from a window which commanded all the life of the town, and intercepted every breath of popular fancy, to a closet whither no sounds penetrated, and where the very transition from noon to evening scarcely made itself known, could not fail to depress my spirits sensibly; the more as I took it to be significant of a change in my fortunes fully as grave. Reflecting that I must now appear to the King of Navarre in the light of a bearer of false tidings, I associated the order to confine me more closely with his return from St. Cloud; and comprehending that M. de Turenne was once more at liberty to attend to my affairs, I began to look about me with forebodings which were none the less painful because the parole I had given debarred me from any attempt to escape.
Sleep and habit enabled me, nevertheless, to pass the night in comfort. Very early in the morning a great firing of guns, which made itself heard even in my quarters, led me to suppose that Paris had surrendered; but the servant who brought me my breakfast; declined in a surly fashion to give me any information. In the end, I spent the whole day alone, my thoughts divided between my mistress and my own prospects, which seemed to grow more and more gloomy as the hours succeeded one another. No one came near me, no step broke the silence of the house; and for a while I thought my guardians had forgotten even that I needed food. This omission, it is true, was made good about sunset, but still M. la Varenne did not appear, the servant seemed to be dumb, and I heard no sounds in the house.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 114