Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  And yet, if he dared adopt the latter course, if he dared give the word to seize, there was a chance, and a good chance, that he would find the remedium in the casket; for with a little arrangement Basterga might be arrested out of doors, or be allured to a particular place and there be set upon. But in that way lay risk; a risk that chilled the current of the Syndic’s blood. There was the chance that the attempt might fail; the chance that Basterga might escape; the chance that he might have the remedium about him — and destroy it; the chance that he might have hidden it. There were so many chances, in a word, that the Syndic’s heart stood still as he enumerated them, and pictured the crash of his last hope of life.

  He could not face the risk. He could not. Though duty, though courage dictated the venture, craven fear — fear for the loss of the new-born hope that for a week had buoyed him up — carried it. Hurriedly at last, as if he feared that he might change his mind, he pronounced his decision.

  “I doubt the wisdom of touching him,” he said. “To seize him if he be guilty proclaims our knowledge of the plot; it will be laid aside, and another, of which we may not be informed, will be hatched. But let him be watched, and it will be hard if with the knowledge we have we cannot do something more than frustrate his scheme.”

  After an interval of silence, “Well,” Fabri said, drawing a deep breath and looking round, “I believe you are right. What do you say, Messer Baudichon?”

  “Messer Blondel knows the man,” Baudichon answered drily. “He is, therefore, the best judge.”

  Blondel reddened. “I see you are determined to lay the responsibility on me,” he cried.

  “The responsibility is on you already!” Petitot retorted. “You have decided. I trust it may turn out as you expect.”

  “And as you do not expect!”

  “No; but you see” — and again the Inquisitor looked over his glasses— “you know the man, have been to his lodging, have conversed with him, and are the best judge what he is! I have had naught to do with him. By the way,” he turned to Fabri, “he is at Mère Royaume’s, is he not? Is there not a Spaniard of the name of Grio lodging there?”

  Blondel did not answer and the secretary looked up from his register. “An old soldier, Messer Petitot?” he said. “Yes, there is.”

  “Perhaps you know him also, Messer Blondel?”

  “Yes, I know him. He served the State,” Blondel answered quietly. He had winked at more than one irregularity on the part of Grio, and at the sound of the name anger gave place to caution. “I have also,” he continued, “my eye upon him, as I shall have it upon Basterga. Will that satisfy you, Messer Petitot?”

  The councillor leaned forward. “Fac salvam Genevam!” he replied in a voice low and not quite steady. “Do that, keep Geneva safe — guard well our faith, our wives and little ones — and I care not what you do!” And he rose from his seat.

  The Fourth Syndic did not answer. Those few words that in a moment raised the discussion from the low level of detail on which the Inquisitor commonly wasted himself, and set it on the true plane of patriotism — for with all his faults Petitot was a patriot — silenced Blondel while they irritated and puzzled him. Why did the man assume such airs? Why talk as if he and he alone cared for Geneva? Why bear himself as if he and he alone had shed and was prepared to shed his blood for the State? Why, indeed? Blondel snarled his indignation, but made no other answer.

  A few minutes later, as he descended the stairs, he laughed at the momentary annoyance which he had felt. What did it matter to him, a dying man, who had the better or who the worse, who posed, or who believed in the pose? It was of moment indeed that his enemies had contrived to fix him with the responsibility of arresting Basterga, or of leaving him at large: that they had contrived to connect him with the Paduan, and made him accountable to an extent which did not please him for the man’s future behaviour. But yet again what did that matter — after all? Of what moment was it — after all? He was a dying man. Was anything of moment to him except the one thing which Basterga had it in his power to grant or to withhold, to give or to deny?

  Nothing! Nothing!

  He pondered on what had passed, and wondered if he had not done foolishly. Certainly he had let slip a grand, a unique opportunity of seizing the man and of snatching the remedium. He had put the chance from him at the risk of future blame. Now he was of two minds about it. Of two minds: but of one mind only about another thing. As he veered this way and that in his mind, now cursing his cowardice, and now thanking God that he had not taken the irrevocable step,

  Opportunity That work’st our thoughts into desires, desires To resolutions,

  kindled in him a burning impatience to act. If he did not act, if he were not going to act, if he were not going to take some surer and safer step, he had been foolish and trebly foolish to let slip the opportunity that had been his.

  But he would act. For a fortnight he had abstained from visiting Basterga, and had even absented himself from the neighbourhood of the house lest the scholar’s suspicions should be wakened. But to what purpose if he were not going to act? If he were not going to build on the ground so carefully prepared, to what end this wariness and this abstention?

  Within an hour the Syndic, long so wary, had worked himself into a fever and, rather than remain inactive, was ripe for any step, however venturesome, provided it led to the remedium. He had still the prudence to postpone action until night; but when darkness had fairly set in and the bell of St. Peter, inviting the townsfolk to the evening preaching, had ceased to sound — an indication that he would meet few in the streets — he cloaked himself, and, issuing forth, bent his steps across the Bourg du Four in the direction of the Corraterie.

  Even now he had no plan in his mind. But amid the medley of schemes that for a week had been hatching in his brain, he hoped to be guided by circumstances to that one which gave surest promise of success. Nor was his courage as deeply rooted as he fancied: the day had told on his nerves; he shivered in the breeze and started at a sound. Yet as often as he paused or hesitated, the words “A dying man! A dying man!” rang in his ears and urged him on.

  CHAPTER VII.

  A SECOND TISSOT.

  Messer Blondel’s sagacity in forbearing completely and for so long a period the neighbourhood of Basterga proved an unpleasant surprise to one man; and that was the man most concerned. For a day or two the scholar lived in a fool’s paradise, and hugging himself on certain success, anticipated with confidence the entertainment which he would derive from the antics of the fish as it played about the bait, now advancing and now retreating. He had formed a low opinion of the magistrate’s astuteness, and forgetting that there is a cunning which is rudimentary and of the primitives, he entertained for some time no misgiving. But when day after day passed by and still, though more than a week had elapsed, Blondel did not appear, nor make any overture, when, watch he never so carefully in the dusk of the evening or at the quiet hours of the day, he caught no glimpse of the Syndic’s lurking figure, he began to doubt. He began to fear. He began to wait about the door himself in the hope of detecting the other: and a dozen times between dawn and dark he was on his feet at the upper window, looking warily down, on the chance of seeing him in the Corraterie.

  At last, slowly and against his will, the fear that the fish would not bite began to take hold of him. Either the Syndic was honest, or he was patient as well as cunning. In no other way could Basterga explain his dupe’s inaction. And presently, when he had almost brought himself to accept the former conclusion, on an evening something more than a week later, a thing happened that added sharpness to his anxiety. He was crossing the bridge from the Quarter of St. Gervais, when a man cloaked to the eyes slipped from the shadow of the mills, a little before him, and with a slight but unmistakable gesture of invitation proceeded in front of him without turning his head.

  There was mist on the face of the river that rushed in a cataract below; a steady rain was falling, and darkness itself was not far o
ff. There were few abroad, and those were going their ways without looking behind them. A better time for a secret rendezvous could not be, and Messer Basterga’s heart leapt up and his spirits rose as he followed the cloaked figure. At the end of the bridge the man turned leftwards on to a deserted wharf between two mills; Basterga followed. Near the water’s edge the projecting upper floor of a granary promised shelter from the rain; under this the stranger halted, and turning, lowered with a brusque gesture his cloak from his face. Alas, the eager “Why, Messer Blondel — —” that leapt to Basterga’s lips died on them. He stood speechless with disappointment, choking with chagrin. The stranger noted it and laughed.

  “Well,” he said in French, his tone dry and sarcastic, “you do not seem overpleased to see me, Monsieur Basterga! Nor am I surprised. Large promises have ever small fulfilments!”

  “His Highness has discovered that?” Basterga replied, in a tone no less sarcastic. For his temper was roused.

  The stranger’s eyes flickered, as if the other’s words touched a sore. “His Highness is growing impatient!” he returned, his tone somewhat warmer. “That is what he has sent me to say. He has waited long, and he bids me convey to you that if he is to wait longer he must have some security that you are likely to succeed in your design.”

  “Or he will employ other means?”

  “Precisely. Had he followed my advice,” the stranger continued with an air of lofty arrogance, “he would have done so long ago.”

  “M. d’Albigny,” Basterga answered, spreading out his hands with an ironical gesture, “would prefer to dig mines under the Tour du Pin near the College, and under the Porte Neuve! To smuggle fireworks into the Arsenal and the Town House; and then, on the eve of execution, to fail as utterly as he failed last time! More utterly than my plan can fail, for I shall not put Geneva on its guard — as he did! Nor set every enemy of the Grand Duke talking — as he did!”

  M. d’Albigny — for he it was — let drop an oath. “Are you doing anything at all?” he asked savagely, dropping the thin veil of irony that shrouded his temper. “That is the question. Are you moving?”

  “That will appear.”

  “When? When, man? That is what his Highness wants to know. At present there is no appearance of anything.”

  “No,” Basterga replied with fine irony. “There is not. I know it. It is only when the fireworks are discovered and the mines opened and the engineers are flying for their lives — that there is really an appearance of something.”

  “And that is the answer I am to carry to the Grand Duke?” d’Albigny retorted in a tone which betrayed how deeply he resented such taunts at the lips of his inferior. “That is all you have to tell him?”

  Basterga was silent awhile. When he spoke again, it was in a lower and more cautious tone. “No; you may tell his Highness this,” he said, after glancing warily behind him. “You may tell him this. The longest night in the year is approaching. Not many weeks divide us from it. Let him give me until that night. Then let him bring his troops and ladders and the rest of it — the care whereof is your lordship’s, not mine — to a part of the walls which I will indicate, and he shall find the guards withdrawn, and Geneva at his feet.”

  “The longest night? But that is some weeks distant,” d’Albigny answered in a grumbling tone. Still it was evident that he was impressed by the precision of the other’s promise.

  “Was Rome built in a day? Or can Geneva be destroyed in a day?” Basterga retorted.

  “If I had my hand on it!” d’Albigny answered truculently, “the task would not take more than a day!” He was a Southern Frenchman and an ardent Catholic; an officer of high rank in the employ of Savoy; for the rest, proud, brave, and difficult.

  “Ay, but you have not your hand on it, M. d’Albigny!” Basterga retorted coolly. “Nor will you ever have your hand on it, without help from me.”

  “And that is all you have to say?”

  “At present.”

  “Very good,” d’Albigny replied, nodding contemptuously. “If his Highness be wise — —”

  “He is wise. At least,” Basterga continued drily, “he is wiser than M. d’Albigny. He knows that it is better to wait and win, than leap and lose.”

  “But what of the discontented you were to bring to a head?” d’Albigny retorted, remembering with relief another head of complaint, on which he had been charged to deliver himself. “The old soldiers and rufflers whom the peace has left unemployed, and with whom the man Grio was to aid you? Surely waiting will not help you with them! There should be some in Geneva who like not the rule of the Pastors and the drone of psalms and hymns! Men who, if I know them, must be on fire for a change! Come, Monsieur Basterga, is no use to be made of them?”

  “Ay,” Basterga answered, after stepping back a pace to assure himself by a careful look that no one was remarking a colloquy which the time and the weather rendered suspicious. “Use them if you please. Let them drink and swear and raise petty riots, and keep the Syndics on their guard! It is all they are good for, M. d’Albigny; and I cannot say that aught keeps back the cause so much as Grio’s friends and their line of conduct!”

  “So! that is your opinion, is it, Monsieur Basterga?” d’Albigny answered. “And with it I must go as I came! I am of no use here, it seems?”

  “Of great use presently, of none now,” Basterga replied with greater respect than he had hitherto exhibited. “Frankly, M. d’Albigny, they fear you and suspect you. But if President Rochette of Chambery, who has the confidence of the Pastors, were to visit us on some pretext or other, say to settle such small matters as the peace has left in doubt, it might soothe their spirits and allay their suspicions. He, rather than M. d’Albigny, is the helper I need at present.”

  D’Albigny grunted, but it was evident that the other’s boldness impressed him. “You think, then, that they suspect us?” he said.

  “How should they not? Tell me that. How should they not? Rochette’s task must be to lull those suspicions to sleep. In the meantime I — —”

  “Yes?”

  “Will be at work,” Basterga replied. He laughed drily as if it pleased him to baulk the other’s curiosity. Softly he added under his breath,

  “Captique dolis, lacrimisque coactis, Quos neque Tydides, nec Larrissæus Achilles Non anni domuere decem, non mille carinæ!

  D’Albigny nodded. “Well, I trust you are really counting on something solid,” he answered. “For you are taking a great deal upon yourself, Monsieur Basterga. I hope you understand that,” he added with a searching look.

  “I take all on myself,” the big man answered.

  The Frenchman was far from content, but he argued no more. He reflected a moment, considering whether he had forgotten anything: then, muttering that he would convey Basterga’s views to the Grand Duke, he pulled his cloak more closely about his face, and with a curt nod of farewell, he turned on his heel and was gone. A moment, and he was lost to sight between the wooden mills and sheds which flanked the bridge on either side, and rendered it at once as narrow and as picturesque as were most of the bridges of the day. Basterga, left solitary, waited a while before he left his shelter. Satisfied at length that the coast was clear, he continued his way into the town, and thinking deeply as he went came presently to the Corraterie. It cannot be said that his meditations were of the most pleasant; and perhaps for this reason he walked slowly. When he entered the house, shaking the moisture from his cloak and cap, he found the others seated at table and well advanced in their meal. He was twenty minutes late.

  He was a clever man. But at times, in moments of irritation, the sense of his cleverness and of his superiority to the mass of men led him to do the thing which he had better have left undone. It was so this evening. Face to face with d’Albigny, he had put a bold face on the difficulties which surrounded him: he had let no sign of doubt or uncertainty, no word of fear respecting the outcome escape him. But the moment he found himself at liberty, the critical situation of his aff
airs, if the Syndic refused to take the bait, recurred to his mind, and harassed him. He had no confidante, no one to whom he could breathe his fears, no one to whom he could explain the situation, or with whom he could take credit for his coolness: and the curb of silence, while it exasperated his temper, augmented a hundredfold the contempt in which he held the unconscious companions among whom chance and his mission had thrown him. A spiteful desire to show that contempt sparkled in his eyes as he took his seat at the table this evening; but for a minute or two after he had begun his meal he kept silence.

  On a mind such as his, outward things have small effect; otherwise the cheerful homeliness of the scene must have soothed him. The lamp, telling of present autumn and approaching winter, had been lit: a wood-fire crackled pleasantly in the great fireplace and was reflected in rows of pewter plates on either dresser: a fragrant stew scented the air; all that a philosopher of the true type could have asked was at his service. But Basterga belonged rather to the fifteenth century, the century of the south, which was expiring, than to the century of the north which was opening. Splendour rather than comfort, the gorgeousness of Venice, of red-haired dames, stiff-clad in Titian velvets, of tables gleaming with silk and gold and ruby glass, rather than the plain homeliness which Geneva shared with the Dutch cities, held his mind. To-night in particular his lip curled as he looked round. To-night in particular ill-pleased and ill-content he found the place and the company well matched, the one and the other mean and contemptible!

  One there — Gentilis — marked the great man’s mood, and, cringing, after his kind, kept his eyes low on his platter. Grio, too, knew enough to seek refuge in sullen silence. Claude alone, impatient of the constraint which descended on the party at the great man’s coming, continued to talk in a raised voice. “Good soup to-night, Anne,” he said cheerfully. For days past he had been using himself to speak to her easily and lightly, as if she were no more to him than to the others.