Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  I took a step forward.

  He recoiled a pace, his face ghastly. “Patience, excellency,” he said, hoarsely. “I shall drink it. But I want to speak first.”

  “Speak!” the King answered.

  “If there is death in it, I take God to witness that I know nothing, and knew nothing! There is some witch’s work here it is not the first time that I have come across this devil’s milk to-day! But I take God to witness I know nothing! Now it is here I will drink it, and—”

  He did not finish the sentence, but drawing a deep breath raised the cup to his lips. I saw the apple in his throat rise and fall with the effort he made to swallow, but he drank so slowly that it seemed to me that he would never drain the cap. Nor did he, for when he had swallowed, as far as I could judge from the tilting of the cup, about half of the milk, Henry rose suddenly and, seizing it, took it from him with his own hand.

  “That will do,” the King said. “Do you feel ill?”

  La Trape drew a trembling hand across his brow, on which the sweat stood in beads; but instead of answering he remained silent, gazing fixedly before him. We waited and watched, and at length, when I should think three minutes had elapsed, he changed his position for one of greater ease, and I saw his face relax. The unnatural pallor faded, and the open lips closed. A minute later he spoke. “I feel nothing, sire,” he said.

  The King looked at me drolly. “Then take five minutes more,” he said. “Go, and stare at Judith there, cutting off the head of Holofernes” — for that was the story of the tapestry— “and come when I call you.”

  La Trape went to the other end of the chamber. “Well,” the King said, inviting me by a sign to sit down beside him, “is it a comedy or a tragedy, my friend? Or, tell me, what was it he meant when he said that about the other milk?”

  I explained, the matter seeming so trivial now that I came to tell it — though it; had doubtless contributed much to La Trape’s fright — that I had to apologize.

  “Still it is odd,” the King said. “These drinks were not here, at that time, of course?”

  “No, sire; they have been brought up within the hour.”

  “Well, your butler must explain it.” And with that he raised his voice and called La Trape back; who came, looking red and sheepish.

  “Not dead yet?” the King said.

  “No, sire.”

  “Nor ill?”

  “No, sire.”

  “Then begone. Or, stay!” Henry continued. “Throw the rest of this stuff into the fire-place. It may be harmless, but I have no mind to drink it by mistake.”

  La Trape emptied the cup among the green boughs that filled the hearth, and hastened to withdraw. It seemed to be too late to make further inquiries that night; so after listening to two or three explanations which the King hazarded, but which had all too fanciful an air in my eyes, I took my leave and retired.

  Whether, however, the scene had raised too violent a commotion in my mind, or I was already sickening for the illness I have mentioned, I found it impossible to sleep; and spent the greater part of the night in a fever of fears and forebodings. The responsibility which the King’s presence cast upon me lay so heavily upon my waking mind that I could not lie; and long before the King’s usual hour of rising I was at his door inquiring how he did. No one knew, for the page whose turn it was to sleep at his feet had not come out; but while I stood questioning, the King’s voice was heard, bidding me enter. I went in, and found him sitting up with a haggard face, which told me, before he spoke, that he had slept little better than I had. The shutters were thrown wide open, and the cold morning light poured into the room with an effect rather sombre than bright; the huge figures on the tapestry looming huger from a drab and melancholy background, and the chamber presenting all those features of disorder that in a sleeping-room lie hid at night, only to show themselves in a more vivid shape in the morning.

  The King sent his page out, and bade me sit by him. “I have had a bad night,” he said, with a shudder. “Grand Master, I doubt that astrologer was right, and I shall never see Germany, nor carry out my designs.”

  Seeing the state in which he was, I could think of nothing better than to rally him, and even laugh at him. “You think so now, sire,” I said. “It is the cold hour. By and by, when you have broken your fast, you will think differently.”

  “But, it may be, less correctly,” he answered; and as he sat looking before him with gloomy eyes, he heaved a deep sigh. “My friend,” he said, mournfully, “I want to live, and I am going to die.”

  “Of what?” I asked, gaily.

  “I do not know; but I dreamed last night that a house fell on me in the Rue de la Ferronerie, and I cannot help thinking that I shall die in that way.”

  “Very well,” I said. “It is well to know that.”

  He asked me peevishly what I meant.

  “Only,” I explained, “that, in that case, as your Majesty need never pass through that street, you have it in your hands to live for ever.”

  “Perhaps it may not happen there — in that very street,” he answered.

  “And perhaps it may not happen yet,” I rejoined. And then, more seriously, “Come, sire,” I continued, “why this sudden weakness? I have known you face death a hundred times.”

  “But not after such a dream as I had last night,” he said, with a grimace — yet I could see that he was already comforted. “I thought that I was passing along that street in my coach, and on a sudden, between St. Innocent’s church and the notary’s — there is a notary’s there?”

  “Yes, sire,” I said, somewhat surprised.

  “I heard a great roar, and something struck me down, and I found myself pinned to the ground, in darkness, with my mouth full of dust, and an immense beam on my chest. I lay for a time in agony, fighting for breath, and then my brain seemed to burst in my head, and I awoke.”

  “I have had such a dream, sire,” I said, drily.

  “Last night?”

  “No,” I said, “not last night.”

  He saw what I meant, and laughed; and being by this time quite himself, left that and passed to discussing the strange affair of La Trape and the milk. “Have you found, as yet, who was good enough to supply it?” he asked.

  “No, sire,” I answered. “But I will see La Trape, and as soon as I have learned anything, your majesty shall know it.”

  “I suppose he is not far off now,” he suggested. “Send for him. Ten to one he will have made inquiries, and it will amuse us.”

  I went to the door and, opening it a trifle, bade the page who waited send La Trape. He passed on the message to a crowd of sleepy attendants, and quickly, but not before I had gone back to the King’s bedside, La Trape entered.

  Having my eyes turned the other way, I did not at once remark anything. But the King did; and his look of astonishment, no less than the exclamation which accompanied it, arrested my attention. “St. Gris, man!” he cried. “What is the matter? Speak!”

  La Trape, who had stopped just within the door, made an effort to do so, but no sound passed his lips; while his pallor and the fixed glare of his eyes filled me with the worst apprehensions. It was impossible to look at him and not share his fright, and I stepped forward and cried out to him to speak. “Answer the King, man,” I said. “What is it?”

  He made an effort, and with a ghastly grimace, “The cat is dead!” he said.

  For a moment we were all silent. Then I looked at the King, and he at me, with gloomy meaning in our eyes. He was the first to speak. “The cat to whom you gave the milk?” he said.

  “Yes, sire,” La Trape answered, in a voice that seemed to come from his heart.

  “But still, courage!” the King cried. “Courage, man! A dose that would kill a cat may not kill a man. Do you feel ill?”

  “Oh, yes, sire,” La Trape moaned.

  “What do you feel?”

  “I have a trembling in all my limbs, and ah — ah, my God, I am a dead man! I have a burning here �
�� a pain like hot coals in my vitals!” And, leaning against the wall, the unfortunate man clasped his arms round his body and bent himself up and down in a paroxysm of suffering.

  “A doctor! a doctor!” Henry cried, thrusting one leg out of bed. “Send for Du Laurens!” Then, as I went to the door to do so, “Can you be sick, man?” he asked. “Try!”

  “No, no; it is impossible!”

  “But try, try! when did this cat die?”

  “It is outside,” La Trape groaned. He could say no more.

  I had opened the door by this time, and found the attendants, whom the man’s cries had alarmed, in a cluster round it. Silencing them sternly, I bade one go for M. Du Laurens, the King’s physician, while another brought me the cat that was dead.

  The page who had spent the night in the King’s chamber, fetched it. I told him to bring it in, and ordering the others to let the doctor pass when he arrived, I closed the door upon their curiosity, and went back to the King. He had left his bed and was standing near La Trape, endeavouring to hearten him; now telling him to tickle his throat with a feather, and now watching his sufferings in silence, with a face of gloom and despondency that sufficiently betrayed his reflections. At sight of the page, however, carrying the dead cat, he turned briskly, and we both examined the beast which, already rigid, with staring eyes and uncovered teeth, was not a sight to cheer anyone, much less the stricken man. La Trape, however, seemed to be scarcely aware of its presence. He had sunk upon a chest which stood against the wall, and, with his body strangely twisted, was muttering prayers, while he rocked himself to and fro unceasingly.

  “It’s stiff,” the King said in a low voice. “It has been dead some hours.”

  “Since midnight,” I muttered.

  “Pardon, sire,” the page, who was holding the cat, said; “I saw it after midnight. It was alive then.”

  “You saw it!” I exclaimed. “How? Where?”

  “Here, your excellency,” the boy answered, quailing a little.

  “What? In this room?”

  “Yes, excellency. I heard a noise about — I think about two o’clock — and his Majesty breathing very heavily, It was a noise like a cat spitting. It frightened me, and I rose from my pallet and went round the bed. I was just in time to see the cat jump down.”

  “From the bed?”

  “Yes, your excellency. From his Majesty’s chest, I think.”

  “And you are sure that it was this cat?”

  “Yes, sire; for as soon as it was on the floor it began to writhe and roll and bite itself, with all its fur on end, like a mad cat. Then it flew to the door and tried to get out, and again began to spit furiously. I thought that it would awaken the King, and I let it out.”

  “And then the King did awake?”

  “He was just awaking, your excellency.”

  “Well, sire,” I said, smiling, “this accounts, I think, for your dream of the house that fell, and the beam that lay on your chest.”

  It would have been difficult to say whether at this the King looked more foolish or more relieved. Whichever the sentiment he entertained, however, it was quickly cut short by a lamentable cry that drove the blood from our cheeks. La Trape was in another paroxysm. “Oh, the poor man!” Henry cried.

  “I suppose that the cat came in unseen,” I said; “with him last night, and then stayed in the room?”

  “Doubtless.”

  “And was seized with a paroxysm here?”

  “Such as he has now!” Henry answered; for La Trape had fallen to the floor. “Such as he has now!” he repeated, his eyes flaming, his face pale. “Oh, my friend, this is too much. Those who do these things are devils, not men. Where is Du Laurens? Where is the doctor? He will perish before our eyes.”

  “Patience, sire,” I said. “He will come.”

  “But in the meantime the man dies.”

  “No, no,” I said, going to La Trape, and touching his hand. “Yet, he is very cold.” And turning, I sent the page to hasten the doctor. Then I begged the King to allow me to have the man conveyed into another room. “His sufferings distress you, sire, and you do him no good,” I said.

  “No, he shall not go!” he answered. “Ventre Saint Gris! man, he is dying for me! He is dying in my place. He shall die here.”

  Still ill satisfied, I was about to press him farther, when La Trape raised his voice, and feebly asked for me. A page who had taken the other’s place was supporting his head, and two or three of my gentlemen, who had come in unbidden, were looking on with scared faces. I went to the poor fellow’s side, and asked what I could do for him.

  “I am dying!” he muttered, turning up his eyes. “The doctor! the doctor!”

  I feared that he was passing, but I bade him have courage. “In a moment he will be here,” I said; while the King in distraction sent messenger on messenger.

  “He will come too late,” the sinking man answered. “Excellency?”

  “Yes, my good fellow,” I said, stooping that I might hear him the better.

  “I took ten pistoles yesterday from a man to get him a scullion’s place; and there is none vacant.”

  “It is forgiven,” I said, to soothe him.

  “And your excellency’s favourite hound, Diane,” he gasped. “She had three puppies, not two. I sold the other.”

  “Well, it is forgiven, my friend. It is forgiven. Be easy,” I said kindly.

  “Ah, I have been a villain,” he groaned. “I have lived loosely. Only last night I kissed the butler’s wench, and—”

  “Be easy, be easy,” I said. “Here is the doctor. He will save you yet.”

  And I made way for M. Du Laurens, who, having saluted the King, knelt down by the sick man, and felt his pulse; while we all stood round, looking down on the two with grave faces. It seemed to me that the man’s eyes were growing dim, and I had little hope. The King was the first to break the silence. “You have hope?” he said. “You can save him?”

  “Pardon, sire, a moment,” the physician answered, rising from his knees. “Where is the cat?”

  Someone brought it, and M. Du Laurens, after looking at it, said curtly, “It has been poisoned.”

  La Trape uttered a groan of despair. “At what hour did it take the milk?” the physician asked.

  “A little before ten last evening,” I said, seeing that La Trape was too far gone for speech.

  “Ah! And the man?”

  “An hour later.”

  Du Laurens shook his head, and was preparing to lay down the cat, which he had taken in his hands, when some appearance led him to examine it again and more closely. “Why what is this?” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, as he took the body to the window. “There is a large swelling under its chin.”

  No one answered.

  “Give me a pair of scissors,” he continued; and then, after a minute, when they had been handed to him and he had removed the fur, “Ha!” he said gravely, “this is not so simple as I thought. The cat has been poisoned, but by a prick with some sharp instrument.”

  The King uttered an exclamation of incredulity. “But it drank the milk,” he said. “Some milk that—”

  “Pardon, sire,” Du Laurens answered positively. “A draught of milk, however drugged, does not produce an external swelling with a small blue puncture in the middle.”

  “What does?” the King asked, with something like a sneer.

  “Ah, that is the question,” the physician answered. “A ring, perhaps, with a poison-chamber and hollow dart.”

  “But there is no question of that here,” I said. “Let us be clear. Do you say that the cat did not die of the milk?”

  “I see no proof that it did,” he answered. “And many things to show that it died of poison administered by puncture.”

  “But then,” I answered, in no little confusion of thought, “what of La Trape?”

  He turned, and with him all eyes, to the unfortunate equerry, who still lay seemingly moribund, with his head propped on some cushions
. M. Du Laurens advanced to him and again felt his pulse, an operation which appeared to bring a slight tinge of colour to the fading cheeks. “How much milk did he drink?” the physician asked after a pause.

  “More than half a pint,” I answered.

  “And what besides?”

  “A quantity of the King’s posset, and a little lemonade.”

  “And for supper? What did you have?” the leech continued, addressing himself to his patient.

  “I had some wine,” he answered feebly. “And a little Frontignac with the butler; and some honey-mead that the gipsy-wench gave me.

  “The gipsy-wench?”

  “The butler’s girl, of whom I spoke.”

  M. Du Laurens rose slowly to his feet, and, to my amazement, dealt the prostrate man a hearty kick; bidding him at the same time to rise. “Get up, fool! Get up,” he continued harshly, yet with a ring of triumph in his voice, “all you have got is the colic, and it is no more than you deserve. Get up, I say, and beg his Majesty’s pardon!”

  “But,” the King remonstrated in a tone of anger, “the man is dying!”

  “He is no more dying than you are, sire,” the other answered. “Or, if he is, it is of fright. There, he can stand as well as you or I!”

  And to be sure, as he spoke, La Trape scrambled to his feet, and with a mien between shame and doubt stood staring at us, the very picture of a simpleton. It was no wonder that his jaw fell and his impudent face burned; for the room shook with such a roar of laughter, at first low, and then as the King joined in it, swelling louder and louder, as few of us had ever heard, Though I was not a little mortified by the way in which we had deceived ourselves, I could not help joining in the laugh; particularly as the more closely we reviewed the scene in which we had taken part, the more absurd seemed the jest. It was long before silence could be obtained; but at length Henry, quite exhausted by the violence of his mirth held up his hand. I seized the opportunity.