Yet they had escaped. But what next? What of their companion? The moment the door shut behind them they would have rushed out again, ay, to certain death, so strongly had the soldier’s trust appealed to their confidence. But they had the body in their arms; and by the time it was laid on the stairs, a score of men had passed. The opportunity was over. They could do nothing but listen. “Heaven help him!” fell from the clerk’s quivering lips. Pulling the door ajar, they stood, looking each moment to hear a challenge, a shot, the clash of swords. But no. They did hear the party halt under the gallows, and pass some brutal jest, and go on. And that was all.
They could scarcely believe their ears; no, nor even their eyes, when a few minutes later the street being now quiet, they passed out, and stood in it shuddering. For there still swung the corpse dimly outlined above them! There! Certainly there! The clerk seized his companion’s arm and drew him back. “It was the fiend!” he stammered. “See, your father is still there! It was the fiend who helped us!”
But suddenly the figure they were watching became agitated; another instant and it slid gently to the ground. It was the soldier. “O ye gods!” he cried, bent double with silent laughter. “Saw you ever such a trick? How I longed to kick if it were but my toe at them, and I forbore! Fools that they were! Did man ever see a body hung in its sword? But it was a good trick, eh?” appealing to them with a simple pride in his invention. “I had the rope loose in my hand when they came, and I drew it twice round my neck — and one arm trust me — and swung off gently. It is not every one who would have thought of that, my children.”
It was odd. They still shook with fear, and he with laughter. He did not seem to give a thought to the danger he had escaped. Pride in his readiness and a keen sense of the humorous side of the incident entirely possessed him. At the very door of the house he still chuckled from time to time; muttering between the ebullitions, “Ah, I must tell Diane! Diane will be pleased!”
Once inside, however, he acted with more delicacy than might have been expected. He stood aside while the other two carried the body upstairs; and himself waited patiently in the bare room below, which showed signs of occasional use as a stable. Here the clerk Adrian presently found him, and murmured some apology. Mistress Marie, he said, had fainted.
“A matter which afflicts you, my friend,” the soldier replied with a grimace, “about as much as your master’s death. Pooh, man, do not look fierce! Good luck to you. Only if — but this is no house for gallantry to-night — I had spruced myself, you had had to look to your ewe lamb!”
The clerk turned pale and red by turns. This man seemed to read his thoughts as if he had indeed been the fiend. “What do you wish?” he stammered.
“Only shelter until the early morning when the streets are most quiet; and a direction to the Rue des Lombards.”
“The Rue des Lombards?”
“Yes, why not?” But though the soldier still smiled, the lines of his mouth hardened suddenly. “Why not to the Rue des Lombards?”
“I know no reason why you should not be going there,” replied the clerk boldly. “It was only that the street is near; and a friend of my late master’s lives in it.”
“His name?”
The clerk started; the question was put so abruptly, and in a tone so imperious. “Nicholas Toussaint,” he answered involuntarily.
“Ay?” replied the other, raising his hand to his chin meditatively and glancing at Adrian with a look that for all the world reminded him of an old print of the eleventh Louis, which hung in a room at the Hôtel de Ville. “Your master, young man, was of the moderate party — a Politique?”
“He was.”
“A good man and a Catholic? one who loved France? A Leaguer only in name?” he continued with vividness.
“Yes, that is so.”
“But his son? He is a Leaguer out and out — one who would rise to fortune on the flood tide of the mob? A Sorbonnist? The priests have got hold of him? He would do to others as they have done to his father? A friend of Le Clerc and Boucher?”
Adrian nodded reluctantly. This strange man confounded and yet fascinated him: this man so reckless and gay one moment, so wary the next: exchanging in an instant the hail of a boon companion for the tone of a noble.
“And is your young master also a friend of this Nicholas Toussaint?” was the next question.
“No,” said Adrian, “he has been forbidden the house. M. Toussaint does not approve of his opinions.”
“Ha! That is so, is it,” rejoined the stranger with his former gayety. “And now enough: where will you lodge me until morning?”
“If my closet will serve you,” Felix answered with a hesitation he would not have felt a few minutes before, “it is at your will. I will bring some food there at once, and will let you out if you please at five.” And Adrian added some simple directions, by following which his guest might reach the Rue des Lombards without difficulty.
An hour later if the thoughts of those who lay sleepless under that roof could have been traced, some strange contrasts would have appeared. Was Felix Portail thinking of his dead father, or of his sweetheart in the Rue des Lombards, or of his schemes of ambition? Was he blaming the crew of whom until to-day he had been one, or sullenly cursing those factious Huguenots as the root of the mischief? Was Adrian thinking of his kind master, or of his master’s daughter? Was the guest dreaming of his narrow escape? or revolving plans beside which Felix’s were but the schemes of a rat in a drain? Perhaps Marie alone — for Susanne slept a child’s sleep of exhaustion — had her thoughts fixed on him, who so few hours before had been the centre of the household.
But such is life in troubled times. Pleasure and pain come mingled together, and men snatch the former even from the midst of the latter with a trembling joy; knowing that if they wait to go a pleasuring until the sky be clear, they may wait until nightfall.
When Adrian called his guest at cock-crow the latter rose briskly and followed him down to the door. “Well, young sir,” he said on the threshold, as he wrapped his cloak round him and took his sheathed sword in his hand, “I am obliged to you. When I can do you a service, I will.”
“You can do me one now,” replied the clerk bluntly, “It is ill work having to do with strangers in these days. You can tell me who you are, and to which side you belong.”
“Which side? I have told you — my own. And for the rest,” continued the soldier, “I will give you a hint.” He brought his lips near the other’s ear, and whispered, “Kiss Marie — for me!”
The clerk looked up aflame with anger, but the other was already gone striding down the street. Yet Adrian received an answer to his question. For as the stranger disappeared in the gloom, he broke out with an audacity that took the listener’s breath away into a well-known air,
“Hau! Hau! Papegots!
Faites place aux Huguenots!”
and trilled it as if he had been in the streets of Rochelle.
“Death!” exclaimed the clerk, getting back into the house, and barring the door, “I thought so. He is a Huguenot. But if he takes his neck out of Paris unstretched, he will have the fiend’s own luck, and the Béarnais’ to boot!”
II.
When the clerk went upstairs, again, he heard voices in the back room. Felix and Marie were in consultation. The girl was a different being this morning. The fire and fury of the night had sunk to a still misery: and even to her it seemed over dangerous to stay in the house and confront the rage of the mob. Mayenne might not after all return yet: and in that case the Sixteen would assuredly wreak their spite on all, however young or helpless, who might have had to do with the removal of the body. “You must seek shelter with some friend,” Felix proposed, “before the city is astir. I can go to the University. I shall be safe there.”
“Could you not take us with you?” Marie suggested meekly.
He shook his head, his face flushing. It was hard to confess that he had power to destroy, but none to protect. “You had bette
r go to Nicholas Toussaint’s,” he said. “He will take you in, though he will have nothing to do with me.”
Marie assented with a sigh, and rose to make ready. Some few valuables were hidden or secured, some clothes taken; and then the little party of four passed out into the street, leaving but one solemn tenant in their home. The cold light of a November morning gave to the lane an air even in accustomed eyes of squalor and misery. The kennel running down the middle was choked with nastiness, while here and there the upper stories leaned forward so far as to obscure the light.
The fugitives regarded these things little after the first shivering glance, but hurried on their road; Felix with his sword, and Adrian with his club marching on either side of the girls. A skulking dog got out of their way. The song of a belated reveller made them shrink under an arch. But they fell in with nothing more formidable until they came to the high wooden gates of the courtyard in front of Nicholas Toussaint’s house.
To arouse him or his servants, however, without disturbing the neighborhood was another matter. There was no bell; only a heavy iron clapper. Adrian tried this cautiously, with little hope of being heard. But to his joy the hollow sound had scarcely ceased when footsteps were heard crossing the court, and a small trap in one of the gates was opened. An elderly man with high cheek bones and curly gray hair looked out. His eyes lighting on the girls lost their harshness. “Marie Portail!” he exclaimed. “Ah! poor thing, I pity you. I have heard all. I only returned to the city last night or I should have been with you. And Adrian?”
“We have come,” said the young man respectfully, “to beg shelter for Mistress Marie and her sister. It is no longer safe for them to remain in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec.”
“I can well believe it,” cried Toussaint vigorously. “I do not know where we are safe nowadays. But there,” he added in a different tone, “no doubt the Sixteen are acting for the best.”
“You will take them in then?” said Adrian, with gratitude.
But to his astonishment the citizen shook his head, while an awkward embarrassment twisted his features. “It is impossible!” he said reluctantly.
Adrian doubted if he had heard aright. Nicholas Toussaint was known for a bold man; one whom the Sixteen disliked, and even suspected of Huguenot leanings, but had not yet dared to attack. He was a dealer in Norman horses, and this both led him to employ many men, reckless daring fellows, and made him in some degree necessary to the army. Adrian had never doubted that he would shelter the daughter of his old friend; and his surprise on receiving this rebuff was extreme.
“But, Monsieur Toussaint—” he urged — and his face reddened with generous warmth as he stood forward. “My master is dead! Foully murdered! He lies who says otherwise, though he be of the Sixteen! My mistress has few friends now to protect her, and those of small power. Will you send her and the child from your door?”
“Hush, Adrian,” cried the girl, lifting her head proudly, yet laying her hand on the clerk’s sleeve with a tender touch of acknowledgment that brought the blood in redoubled force to his cheeks. “Do not press our friend overmuch. If he will not take us in from the streets, be sure he has some good reason to offer.”
But Toussaint was dumb. Shame — a shame augmented tenfold by the clerk’s fearlessness — was so clearly written on his face, that Adrian uttered none of the reproaches which hung on his lips. It was Felix who came forward, and said contemptuously, “So you have grown strangely cautious of a sudden, M. Toussaint?”
“Ha! I thought you were there, or thereabouts!” replied the horse-dealer, regaining his composure at once, and eyeing him with strong disfavor.
“But Felix and I,” interposed Adrian eagerly, “will fend for ourselves.”
Toussaint shook his head. “It is impossible,” he said surlily.
“Then hear me!” cried Felix with excitement. “You do not deceive me. It is not because of your daughter that you have forbidden me the house, and will not now protect my sister! It is because we shall learn too much. You have those under your roof, whom the crows shall pick yet! You, I will spare for Madeline’s sake; but your spies I will string up, every one of them by — —” and he swore a frightful oath such as the Romanists used.
Toussaint’s face betrayed both fear and anger. For an instant he seemed to hesitate. Then exclaiming “Begone, parricide! You would have killed your own father!” he slammed the trap-door, and was heard retreating up the yard with a clatter, which sufficiently indicated his uneasiness.
The four looked at one another. Daylight had fully come. The noise of the altercation had drawn more than one sleepy face to neighboring casements. In a short time the streets would be alive with people, and even a delay of a few minutes might bring immediate danger. They thought of this; and moved away slowly and reluctantly, Susanne clinging to Adrian’s arm, while Felix strode ahead scowling. When they had placed, however, a hundred yards or so between themselves and Toussaint’s gates, they stopped, a chill sense of desolation upon most of them. Whither were they to go? Felix urged curtly that they should seek other friends. But Marie declined. If Nicholas Toussaint dared not take them in, no other of their friends would. She had given up hope, poor girl, and longed only to get back to their home, and the still form, which it now seemed to her she should never have deserted.
They were standing discussing this when a cry caused them to turn. A girl was running hatless along the street towards them; a girl tall and plump of figure in a dark blue robe, with a creamy slightly freckled face, a glory of wavy golden hair about it, and great gray eyes that could laugh and cry at once, even as they were doing now. “Oh, Marie,” she exclaimed taking her in her arms; “my poor little one! Come back! You are to come back at once!” Then disengaging herself, with a blushing cheek and more reserve she allowed Felix to embrace her. But though that young gentleman made full use of his permission, his face did not clear. “Your father has just turned my sister from his door, as he turned me a month ago,” he said bitterly.
Poor girl, she quailed; looking at him with a tender upward glance meant for him only. “Hush!” she begged him. “Do not speak so of him. And he has sent to fetch them back again. He says he cannot keep them himself, but if they will come in and rest he will see them safely disposed of later. Will not that do?”
“Excellently, Miss Madeline,” cried Adrian gratefully. “And we thank your father a thousand times.”
“Nay but—” she said slyly— “that permission does not extend to you,”
“What matter?” he said stoutly.
“What matter if Marie be safe you mean,” she replied demurely. “Well, I would I had so gallant a — clerk,” with a glance at her own handsome lover. “But come, my father is waiting at the gate for us.” Yet notwithstanding that she urged haste, she and Felix were the last to turn. When she at length ran after the others her cheeks betrayed her.
“I can see what you have been doing, girl,” her father cried angrily, meeting her just within the door. “For shame, hussy! Go to your room, and take your friends with you.” And he aimed a light blow at her, which she easily evaded.
“They will need breakfast,” she persisted bravely. She had seen her lover, and though the interview might have had its drawbacks — best known to herself — she cared little for a blow in comparison with that.
“They will take it in your room,” he retorted. “Come, pack, girl! I will talk to you presently,” he added, with meaning.
The Portails drew her away. To them her room was a haven of rest, where they felt safe, and could pour out their grief, and let her pity and indignation soothe them. The horror of the last twenty-four hours fell from them. They seemed to themselves to be outcasts no longer.
In the afternoon Toussaint reappeared. “On with your hoods,” he cried briskly, his good humor re-established. “I and half a dozen stout lads will see you to a place where you can lie snug for a week.”
Marie asked timidly about her father’s funeral. “I will see to it, little
one,” he answered. “I will let the curate of St. Germain know. He will do what is seemly — if the mob let him,” he added to himself.
“But father,” cried Madeline, “where are you going to take them?”
“To Philip Boyer’s.”
“What!” cried the girl in much surprise. “His house is small and Philip and his wife are old and feeble.”
“True,” answered Portail. “But his hutch is under the Duchess’s roof. There is a touch of our great man about Madame. Mayenne the crowd neither overmuch love, nor much fear. He will die in his bed. But with his sister it is a word and a blow. And the Sixteen will not touch aught that is under her roof.”
The Duchess de Montpensier was the sister of Henry Duke of Guise, Henry the Scarred, Our great man, as the Parisians loved to call him. He had been assassinated in the antechamber of Henry of Valois just a twelvemonth before this time; and she had become the soul of the League, having more of the headstrong nature which had made him popular, than had either of his brothers, Mayenne or D’Aumale.
“I see,” said Madeline, kissing the girls, “you are right, father.”
“Impertinent baggage!” he cried. “To your prayers and your needle. And see that while we are away you keep close, and do not venture into the courtyard.”
She was not a nervous girl, but the bare, roomy house seemed lonely after the party had set out. She wandered to the kitchen where the two old women-servants were preparing, with the aid of a turnspit, the early supper; and learned here that only old Simon, the lame ostler, was left in the stables, which stood on either side of the courtyard. This was not reassuring news: the more as Madeline knew her father might not return for another hour. She took refuge at last in the long eating-room on the first floor; which ran the full depth of the house, and had one window looking to the back as well as several facing the courtyard. Here she opened the door of the stove, and let the cheery glow play about her.
But presently she grew tired of this, and moved to the rearward window. It looked upon a narrow lane, and a dead wall. Still, there was a chance of seeing some one pass, some stranger; whereas the windows which looked on the empty courtyard were no windows at all — to Madeline.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 246