“If I had a sword!” Tignonville hissed, his face livid with rage. “You call me coward, because I will not die to please you. But give me a sword, and I will show you if I am a coward!”
Tavannes stood still. “You are there, are you?” he said in an altered tone. “I—”
“Give me a sword,” Tignonville repeated, holding out his open trembling hands. “A sword! A sword! ’Tis easy taunting an unarmed man, but—”
“You wish to fight?”
“I ask no more! No more! Give me a sword,” he urged, his voice quivering with eagerness. “It is you who are the coward!”
Count Hannibal stared at him. “And what am I to get by fighting you?” he reasoned slowly. “You are in my power. I can do with you as I please. I can call from this window and denounce you, or I can summon my men—”
“Coward! Coward!”
“Ay? Well, I will tell you what I will do,” with a subtle smile. “I will give you a sword, M. de Tignonville, and I will meet you foot to foot here, in this room, on a condition.”
“What is it? What is it?” the young man cried with incredible eagerness. “Name your condition!”
“That if I get the better of you, you find me a minister.”
“I find you a—”
“A minister. Yes, that is it. Or tell me where I can find one.”
The young man recoiled. “Never!” he said.
“You know where to find one.”
“Never! Never!”
“You can lay your hand on one in five minutes, you know.”
“I will not.”
“Then I shall not fight you!” Count Hannibal answered coolly; and he turned from him, and back again. “You will pardon me if I say, M. de Tignonville, that you are in as many minds about fighting as about dying! I do not think that you would have made your fortune at Court. Moreover, there is a thing which I fancy you have not considered. If we fight you may kill me, in which case the condition will not help me much. Or I — which is more likely—” he added, with a harsh smile, “may kill you, and again I am no better placed.”
The young man’s pallid features betrayed the conflict in his breast. To do him justice, his hand itched for the sword-hilt — he was brave enough for that; he hated, and only so could he avenge himself. But the penalty if he had the worse! And yet what of it? He was in hell now, in a hell of humiliation, shame, defeat, tormented by this fiend! ’Twas only to risk a lower hell.
At last, “I will do it!” he cried hoarsely. “Give me a sword and look to yourself.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, yes, I promise!”
“Good,” Count Hannibal answered suavely, “but we cannot fight so, we must have more light.”
And striding to the door he opened it, and calling the Norman bade him move the table and bring candles — a dozen candles; for in the narrow streets the light was waning, and in the half-shuttered room it was growing dusk. Tignonville, listening with a throbbing brain, wondered that the attendant expressed no surprise and said no word — until Tavannes added to his orders one for a pair of swords.
Then, “Monsieur’s sword is here,” Bigot answered in his half-intelligible patois. “He left it here yester morning.”
“You are a good fellow, Bigot,” Tavannes answered, with a gaiety and good-humour which astonished Tignonville. “And one of these days you shall marry Suzanne.”
The Norman smiled sourly and went in search of the weapon.
“You have a poniard?” Count Hannibal continued in the same tone of unusual good temper, which had already struck Tignonville. “Excellent! Will you strip, then, or — as we are? Very good, Monsieur; in the unlikely event of fortune declaring for you, you will be in a better condition to take care of yourself. A man running through the streets in his shirt is exposed to inconveniences!” And he laughed gaily.
While he laughed the other listened; and his rage began to give place to wonder. A man who regarded as a pastime a sword and dagger conflict between four walls, who, having his adversary in his power, was ready to discard the advantage, to descend into the lists, and to risk life for a whim, a fancy — such a man was outside his experience, though in Poitou in those days of war were men reckoned brave. For what, he asked himself as he waited, had Tavannes to gain by fighting? The possession of Mademoiselle? But Mademoiselle, if his passion for her overwhelmed him, was in his power; and if his promise were a barrier — which seemed inconceivable in the light of his reputation — he had only to wait, and to-morrow, or the next day, or the next, a minister would be found, and without risk he could gain that for which he was now risking all.
Tignonville did not know that it was in the other’s nature to find pleasure in such utmost ventures. Nevertheless the recklessness to which Tavannes’ action bore witness had its effect upon him. By the time the young man’s sword arrived something of his passion for the conflict had evaporated; and though the touch of the hilt restored his determination, the locked door, the confined space, and the unaccustomed light went a certain distance towards substituting despair for courage.
The use of the dagger in the duels of that day, however, rendered despair itself formidable. And Tignonville, when he took his place, appeared anything but a mean antagonist. He had removed his robe and cowl, and lithe and active as a cat he stood as it were on springs, throwing his weight now on this foot and now on that, and was continually in motion. The table bearing the candles had been pushed against the window, the boarding of which had been replaced by Bigot before he left the room. Tignonville had this, and consequently the lights, on his dagger hand; and he plumed himself on the advantage, considering his point the more difficult to follow.
Count Hannibal did not seem to notice this, however. “Are you ready?” he asked. And then —
“On guard!” he cried, and he stamped the echo to the word. But, that done, instead of bearing the other down with a headlong rush characteristic of the man — as Tignonville feared — he held off warily, stooping low; and when his slow opening was met by one as cautious, he began to taunt his antagonist.
“Come!” he cried, and feinted half-heartedly. “Come, Monsieur, are we going to fight, or play at fighting?”
“Fight yourself, then!” Tignonville answered, his breath quickened by excitement and growing hope. “’Tis not I hold back!” And he lunged, but was put aside.
“Ça! ça!” Tavannes retorted; and he lunged and parried in his turn, but loosely and at a distance.
After which the two moved nearer the door, their eyes glittering as they watched one another, their knees bent, the sinews of their backs straining for the leap. Suddenly Tavannes thrust, and leapt away, and as his antagonist thrust in return the Count swept the blade aside with a strong parry, and for a moment seemed to be on the point of falling on Tignonville with the poniard. But Tignonville retired his right foot nimbly, which brought them front to front again. And the younger man laughed.
“Try again, M. le Comte!” he said. And, with the word, he dashed in himself quick as light; for a second the blades ground on one another, the daggers hovered, the two suffused faces glared into one another; then the pair disengaged again.
The blood trickled from a scratch on Count Hannibal’s neck; half an inch to the right and the point had found his throat. And Tignonville, elated, laughed anew, and swaying from side to side on his hips, watched with growing confidence for a second chance. Lithe as one of the leopards Charles kept at the Louvre, he stooped lower and lower, and more and more with each moment took the attitude of the assailant, watching for an opening; while Count Hannibal, his face dark and his eyes vigilant, stood increasingly on the defence. The light was waning a little, the wicks of the candles were burning long; but neither noticed it or dared to remove his eyes from the other’s. Their laboured breathing found an echo on the farther side of the door, but this again neither observed.
“Well?” Count Hannibal said at last. “Are you coming?”
“When I please,” Ti
gnonville answered; and he feinted but drew back.
The other did the same, and again they watched one another, their eyes seeming to grow smaller and smaller. Gradually a smile had birth on Tignonville’s lips. He thrust! It was parried! He thrust again — parried! Tavannes, grown still more cautious, gave a yard. Tignonville pushed on, but did not allow confidence to master caution. He began, indeed, to taunt his adversary; to flout and jeer him. But it was with a motive.
For suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he repeated the peculiar thrust which had been successful before. This time, however, Tavannes was ready. He put aside the blade with a quick parade, and instead of making a riposte sprang within the other’s guard. The two came face to face and breast to shoulder, and struck furiously with their daggers. Count Hannibal was outside his opponent’s sword and had the advantage. Tignonville’s dagger fell, but glanced off the metalwork of the other’s hilt; Tavannes’ fell swift and hard between the young man’s eyes. The Huguenot flung up his hands and staggered back, falling his length on the floor.
In an instant Count Hannibal was on his breast, and had knocked away his dagger. Then —
“You own yourself vanquished?” he cried.
The young man, blinded by the blood which trickled down his face, made a sign with his hands. Count Hannibal rose to his feet again, and stood a moment looking at his foe without speaking. Presently he seemed to be satisfied. He nodded, and going to the table dipped a napkin in water. He brought it, and carefully supporting Tignonville’s head, laved his brow.
“It is as I thought,” he said, when he had stanched the blood. “You are not hurt, man. You are stunned. It is no more than a bruise.”
The young man was coming to himself. “But I thought—” he muttered, and broke off to pass his hand over his face. Then he got up slowly, reeling a little, “I thought it was the point,” he muttered.
“No, it was the pommel,” Tavannes answered dryly. “It would not have served me to kill you. I could have done that ten times.”
Tignonville groaned, and, sitting down at the table, held the napkin to his aching head. One of the candles had been overturned in the struggle and lay on the floor, flaring in a little pool of grease. Tavannes set his heel upon it; then, striding to the farther end of the room, he picked up Tignonville’s dagger and placed it beside his sword on the table. He looked about to see if aught else remained to do, and, finding nothing, he returned to Tignonville’s side.
“Now, Monsieur,” he said in a voice hard and constrained, “I must ask you to perform your part of the bargain.”
A groan of anguish broke from the unhappy man. And yet he had set his life on the cast; what more could he have done?
“You will not harm him?” he muttered.
“He shall go safe,” Count Hannibal replied gravely.
“And—” he fought a moment with his pride, then blurted out the words, “you will not tell her — that it was through me — you found him?”
“I will not,” Tavannes answered in the same tone. He stooped and picked up the other’s robe and cowl, which had fallen from a chair — so that as he spoke his eyes were averted. “She shall never know through me,” he said.
And Tignonville, his face hidden in his hands, told him.
CHAPTER XVIII. ANDROMEDA, PERSEUS BEING ABSENT.
Little by little — while they fought below — the gloom had thickened, and night had fallen in the room above. But Mademoiselle would not have candles brought. Seated in the darkness, on the uppermost step of the stairs, her hands clasped about her knees, she listened and listened, as if by that action she could avert misfortune; or as if, by going so far forward to meet it, she could turn aside the worst. The women shivering in the darkness about her would fain have struck a light and drawn her back into the room, for they felt safer there. But she was not to be moved. The laughter and chatter of the men in the guard-room, the coming and going of Bigot as he passed, below but out of sight, had no terrors for her; nay, she breathed more freely on the bare open landing of the staircase than in the close confines of a room which her fears made hateful to her. Here at least she could listen, her face unseen; and listening she bore the suspense more easily.
A turn in the staircase, with the noise which proceeded from the guard-room, rendered it difficult to hear what happened in the closed room below. But she thought that if an alarm were raised there she must hear it; and as the moments passed and nothing happened, she began to feel confident that her lover had made good his escape by the window.
Presently she got a fright. Three or four men came from the guard-room and went, as it seemed to her, to the door of the room with the shattered casement. She told herself that she had rejoiced too soon, and her heart stood still. She waited for a rush of feet, a cry, a struggle. But except an uncertain muffled sound which lasted for some minutes, and was followed by a dull shock, she heard nothing more. And presently the men went back whispering, the noise in the guard-room which had been partially hushed broke forth anew, and perplexed but relieved she breathed again. Surely he had escaped by this time. Surely by this time he was far away, in the Arsenal, or in some place of refuge! And she might take courage, and feel that for this day the peril was overpast.
“Mademoiselle will have the lights now?” one of the women ventured.
“No! no!” she answered feverishly, and she continued to crouch where she was on the stairs, bathing herself and her burning face in the darkness and coolness of the stairway. The air entered freely through a window at her elbow, and the place was fresher, were that all, than the room she had left. Javette began to whimper, but she paid no heed to her; a man came and went along the passage below, and she heard the outer door unbarred, and the jarring tread of three or four men who passed through it. But all without disturbance; and afterwards the house was quiet again. And as on this Monday evening the prime virulence of the massacre had begun to abate — though it held after a fashion to the end of the week — Paris without was quiet also. The sounds which had chilled her heart at intervals during two days were no longer heard. A feeling almost of peace, almost of comfort — a drowsy feeling, that was three parts a reaction from excitement — took possession of her. In the darkness her head sank lower and lower on her knees. And half an hour passed, while Javette whimpered, and Madame Carlat slumbered, her broad back propped against the wall.
Suddenly Mademoiselle opened her eyes, and saw, three steps below her, a strange man whose upward way she barred. Behind him came Carlat, and behind him Bigot, lighting both; and in the confusion of her thoughts as she rose to her feet the three, all staring at her in a common amazement, seemed a company. The air entering through the open window beside her blew the flame of the candle this way and that, and added to the nightmare character of the scene; for by the shifting light the men seemed to laugh one moment and scowl the next, and their shadows were now high and now low on the wall. In truth, they were as much amazed at coming on her in that place as she at their appearance; but they were awake, and she newly roused from sleep; and the advantage was with them.
“What is it?” she cried in a panic. “What is it?”
“If Mademoiselle will return to her room?” one of the men said courteously.
“But — what is it?” She was frightened.
“If Mademoiselle—”
Then she turned without more and went back into the room, and the three followed, and her woman and Madame Carlat. She stood resting one hand on the table while Javette with shaking fingers lighted the candles. Then —
“Now, Monsieur,” she said in a hard voice, “if you will tell me your business?”
“You do not know me?” The stranger’s eyes dwelt kindly and pitifully on her.
She looked at him steadily, crushing down the fears which knocked at her heart.
“No,” she said. “And yet I think I have seen you.”
“You saw me a week last Sunday,” the stranger answered sorrowfully. “My name is La Tribe. I preached that
day, Mademoiselle, before the King of Navarre. I believe that you were there.”
For a moment she stared at him in silence, her lips parted. Then she laughed, a laugh which set the teeth on edge.
“Oh, he is clever!” she cried. “He has the wit of the priests! Or the devil! But you come too late, Monsieur! You come too late! The bird has flown.”
“Mademoiselle—”
“I tell you the bird has flown!” she repeated vehemently. And her laugh of joyless triumph rang through the room. “He is clever, but I have outwitted him! I have—”
She paused and stared about her wildly, struck by the silence; struck too by something solemn, something pitiful in the faces that were turned on her. And her lip began to quiver.
“What?” she muttered. “Why do you look at me so? He has not” — she turned from one to another— “he has not been taken?”
“M. Tignonville?”
She nodded.
“He is below.”
“Ah!” she said.
They expected to see her break down, perhaps to see her fall. But she only groped blindly for a chair and sat. And for a moment there was silence in the room. It was the Huguenot minister who broke it in a tone formal and solemn.
“Listen, all present!” he said slowly. “The ways of God are past finding out. For two days in the midst of great perils I have been preserved by His hand and fed by His bounty, and I am told that I shall live if, in this matter, I do the will of those who hold me in their power. But be assured — and hearken all,” he continued, lowering his voice to a sterner note. “Rather than marry this woman to this man against her will — if indeed in His sight such marriage can be — rather than save my life by such base compliance, I will die not once but ten times! See. I am ready! I will make no defence!” And he opened his arms as if to welcome the stroke. “If there be trickery here, if there has been practising below, where they told me this and that, it shall not avail! Until I hear from Mademoiselle’s own lips that she is willing, I will not say over her so much as Yea, yea, or Nay, nay!”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 383