Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “At Rochechouart I was told that the roads in that direction were not over safe.”

  The Vicomte laughed in his sardonic fashion. “They begin to cry out, do they?” he said. “The fat burgesses who fleece us? Not very safe, ha, ha! The roads! Not so safe as their back-shops where they lend to us at cent per cent!” — with bitterness. “It is well that there is some one to fleece them in their turn!”

  “They told me as much as that,” des Ageaux replied with gravity. “So much, indeed, that I was surprised to find your gates still open! They gave me to understand that no man slept without a guard within four leagues of Vlaye.”

  “They told you that, did they?” the Vicomte answered. And he chuckled, well satisfied. It pleased him to think that if he and his could no longer keep Jacques Bonhomme in order, there were others who could. “They told you not far from the truth. A little later, and you had been barred out even here. Not that I fear the Captain of Vlaye. Hawks pike not out hawks’ eyes,” with a lifting of the head, and an odd show of arrogance. “We are good friends, M. de Vlaye and I.”

  “Still you bar your gates, soon or late?” the Lieutenant replied with a smile.

  A shadow fell across the Vicomte’s face. “Not against him,” he said shortly.

  “No, of course not,” des Voeux replied. “I had forgotten. You have the Crocans also at no great distance. I was forgetting them.”

  The sudden rigidity of his younger listeners, and the silence which fell on all, warned him, as soon as he had spoken, that he had said something amiss. Nor was the silence all. When his host next spoke — after an interval — it was with a passion as far removed from the cynical rudeness to which he had treated his children as are the poles apart. “That name is not named in this house!” he cried, his voice thin and tremulous. “By no one!” he struck the table with a shaking hand. “Understand me, sir, by no one! God’s curse on them! Ay, and on all who — —”

  “No, sir, no!” The cry came from the girl. “Do not curse him!”

  She was on her feet. For an instant the Lieutenant, seeing her father’s distorted face, feared that he would strike her. But the result was different. The opposition that might have maddened the angry man, had the effect of sobering him. “Sit down!” he muttered, passing his napkin over his face. “Sit down, fool! Sit down! And you” — he paused a moment, striving to regain the gibing tone that was habitual to him— “you, sir, may now see how it is. I told you we had no manners. You have now the proof of it. I doubt I must keep you, until the Abbess, my daughter, pays her next visit, that you may see at least one Villeneuve who is neither clown nor dotard!”

  Man of the world as he was, the King’s Lieutenant knew not what to say to this outburst. He murmured a vague apology, and thought how different all was from the anticipations which the scent of hay and the farmyard peace had raised in him on his arrival. This old man, rotting in the husk of his former greatness, girding at his helpless children, gnawing, in the decay of his family’s grandeur, on his heart and theirs, returning scorn for scorn, and spite for spite, but on those who were innocent of either, ignorant of either — this was a picture to the painting of which the most fanciful must have brought some imagination. Under the surface lay something more; something that had to do with the Crocans. He fancied that he could make a guess at the secret; and that it had to do with the girl’s lover. But the meal was closing, the Vicomte’s rising interrupted his thoughts, and whatever interest the question had for him, he was forced to put it away for the time.

  The Vicomte bowed a stiff good-night. “Boor as he is, I fear that you must now put up with my son,” he said, smiling awry. “He has the Tower Room, where, in my time, I have known the best company in the province lie, when good company was; it has been scarce,” he continued bitterly, “since Coutras. He will find you a lodging there, and if the accommodation be rough, and your room-fellow what you see him,” shrugging his shoulders, “at least you will have space enough and follow good gentry. I have known the Governor of Poitou and the Lieutenant of Périgord, with two of the Vicomtes of the Limousin, lie there — and fourteen truckle-beds about them. In those days was little need to bar our gates at night. Solomon! The lanthorn, fool! I bid you good-night, sir!”

  Des Ageaux bowed his acknowledgements, and following in the train of an older serving-man than he had yet seen; who, bearing a lanthorn, led him up a small staircase. Roger the hapless followed. On the first floor the guest noted the doors of four rooms, two on either side of a middle passage, that got its light from a window at the end of the house. Such rooms — or rooms opening one through the other — were at that date reserved for the master and mistress of the château, and their daughters, maiden or married. For something of the old system which secluded women, and a century before had forbidden their appearance at Court, still prevailed; nor was the Lieutenant at all surprised when his guide, turning from these privileged apartments, led him up a flight of four or five steps at the hither end of the passage. And so through a low doorway.

  He passed the door, and was surprised to find himself in the open air on the roof of the hall, the stars above him, and the night breeze cooling his brow. The steeply-pitched lead ended in a broad, flat gutter, fenced by a rail fixed in the parapet. The servant led him along the path which this gutter provided to a door in the wall of the great round tower that rose twenty feet above the house. This gave entrance to a small chamber — one of those commonly found between the two skins of such old buildings — which served both for landing and ante-room. From it the dark opening of a winding staircase led upwards on one hand; on the other a low-browed door masked the course of the downward flight.

  Across this closet — bare as bare walls could make it — the grey-bearded servant led him in two strides, and opening a farther door introduced him into the chamber which had seen so much good company. It was a gloomy, octagonal room of great size, lighted in the daytime by four deep-sunk windows, and occupying — save for such narrow closets as that through which they entered — a whole storey of the tower. The lanthorn did but make darkness visible, but Solomon proceeded to light two rushlights that stood in iron sconces on the wall, and by their light the Lieutenant discerned three truckle-beds laid between two of the windows. He could well believe, so vast was the apartment, that fourteen had not cumbered its bareness. At this date a couple of chests, as many stools, a bundle of old spears and a heavy three-legged table made up, with some dingy, tattered hangings, the whole furniture of the chamber.

  The old serving-man set down the lanthorn and looked about him sorrowfully.

  “Thirty-four I’ve seen sleep here,” he said. “The Governor of Poitou, and the Governor of Périgord, and the four Vicomtes of the Limousin, and twenty-eight gentles in truckles.”

  “Twenty-eight?” the Lieutenant questioned, measuring in some astonishment the space with his eye. “But your master said — —”

  “Twenty-eight, by your leave,” the man answered obstinately. “And every man his dog! A gentleman was a gentleman then, and a Vicomte a Vicomte. But since that cursed battle at Coutras set us down and put these Huguenots up, there is an end of gentry almost. Ay, thirty — was it thirty, I said?”

  “Four, you said. Thirty-four,” des Ageaux answered, smiling. “Good-night.”

  The man shook his head sombrely, bade them goodnight, and closed the door on them.

  An instant later he could be heard groping his way back through the closet and over the roof. The Lieutenant, as soon as the sound ceased, looked round and thought that he had seldom lain in a gloomier place. The windows were but wooden lattices innocent of glass, and through the slats of the nearest a strong shoot of ivy grew into the room. The night air entered with it and stirred the ragged hangings that covered a part of the walls; hangings that to add to the general melancholy had once been black, a remnant, it is possible, of the funeral trappings of some dead Vicomte. Frogs croaked in a puddle without; one of the lattices creaked open at intervals, only to clos
e again with a hollow report; the rushlights flared sideways in the draught. Des Ageaux had read of such a room in the old romances, in Bevis of Hampton, or the History of Armida; a room of shadows and gloom, owl-flittings and dead furnishings. But he smiled at the thoughts it called up. He had often lain in his cloak under the sky amid dead men. Nevertheless, “Do you sleep here alone?” he asked, turning to his companion, who had seated himself despondently on one of the beds.

  The lad, oppressed by what had gone forward downstairs, barely looked up. “Yes,” he began, “since” — and then, breaking off, he added sullenly, “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you don’t lack courage!” des Ageaux replied.

  “People sleep well when they are tired,” the youth returned, “as I am to-night.”

  The Lieutenant accepted the hint, and postponed until the morrow the questions he had it in his mind to ask. Nodding a good-humoured assent he proceeded to his simple arrangements for the night, placed his sword and pistols beside the truckle-bed, and in a few minutes was sleeping as soundly on his thin palliasse as if he had been in truth the poverty-stricken gentleman of Brittany he once had been and still might be again.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE TOWER CHAMBER.

  An hour or two later the Lieutenant awoke suddenly. He rose on his elbow, and listened. Inured to a life of change which had cast him many times into strange beds and the company of stranger bed-fellows, he had not to ask himself where he was, or how he came to be there. He knew these things with a soldier’s instinct, before his eyes were open. That which he did ask himself was, what had roused him.

  For it was still the dead of night, and all in the château, and all without, save the hoarse voices of the frogs, seemed quiet. Through the lattice that faced him the moonbeams fell on the floor in white, criss-cross patterns; which the pointed shape of the windows made to resemble chequered shields — the black and white escutcheons of his native province. These patches of light diffused about them a faint radiance, sufficient, but no more than sufficient, to reveal the outlines of the furniture, the darker masses of the beds, and even the vague limits of the chamber. He marked nothing amiss, however, except that which had probably roused him. The nearest lattice, that one through which he had noted the ivy growing, stood wide open. Doubtless the breeze, light as it was, had swung the casement inwards, and the creak of the hinge, or the coolness of the unbroken stream of air which blew across his bed, had disturbed him.

  Satisfied with the explanation, he lay down with a sigh of content, and was about to sink into sleep when a low, sibilant sound caught his ear, fretted him awhile, finally dragged him up, broadly awake. What was it? What caused it? The gentle motion of the loosened ivy on the sill? Or the wind toying with the leaves outside? Or the stir of the ragged hangings that moved weirdly on the wall? Or was some one whispering?

  The last was the fact, and, assured of it, des Ageaux peered through the gloom at the nearer pallet, and discovered that it was empty. Then he reflected. The ivy, which grew through the window, must have held the lattice firm against a much stronger breeze than was blowing. It followed that the casement had been opened by some one; probably by some one who had entered the room that way.

  It might be no affair of his, but on the other hand it might be very much his affair. He looked about the room, making no sound, but keeping a hand raised to seize his weapons on the least alarm.

  He could discover neither figure nor any sign of movement in the room. Yet the whispering persisted. More puzzled, he raised himself higher, and then a streak of light which the low, lumpy mass of one of the truckle-beds had hidden, broke on him. It shone under the door by which he had entered, and proceeded, beyond doubt, from a lanthorn or rushlight in the antechamber.

  What was afoot? It is not as a rule for good that men whisper at dead of night, nor to say their prayers that they steal from their beds in the small hours. Des Ageaux was far from a timid man — or he had not been Lieutenant-Governor of Périgord — but he knew himself alone in a strange house, and a remote corner of that house; and though he believed that he held the map of the country he might be deceiving himself. Possibly, though he had seen no sign of it, he was known. His host styled himself the Captain of Vlaye’s friend; he might think to do Vlaye a kindness at his guest’s expense. Nor was that all. Lonely travellers ran risks in those days; it was not only from inns that they vanished and left no sign. He bore, it was true, not much of price about him, and riding without attendance might be thought to have less. But, all said and done, the house was remote, the Vicomte poor and a stranger. It might be as well to see what was passing.

  He rose noiselessly to his feet, and, taking his sword, crept across the floor. He had lain down in the greater part of his clothes, and whatever awaited him, he was ready. As he drew near the door, the whispering on the farther side persisted. But it was low, the sound lacked menace, and before he laid his ear to the oak some shame of the proceeding seized him.

  His scruples were wasted. He could not, even when close, distinguish a word; so wary were the speakers, so low their voices. Then the absurdity of his position, if he were detected and the matter had naught to do with him, took him by the throat. The chamber, with its patches of moonlight and its dim spaces, was all quiet about him, and either he must rest content with that, or he must open and satisfy himself. He took his resolution, found the latch, and opened the door.

  He was more or less prepared for what he saw. Not so the three whom he surprised in their midnight conference. The girl whom he had seen at supper sprang with a cry of alarm from the step on which she had her seat, and retreating upwards as quickly as the cloak in which she was muffled would let her, made as if she would escape by the tower stairs. The two men — Roger, the son of the house, and another, a taller youth, who leant against the wall beside him — straightened themselves with a jerk; while the stranger, who had the air of being two or three years older than Roger, laid his hand on his weapon. A lanthorn which stood on the stone floor between the three, and was the only other object in the closet, cast its light upwards; which had the effect of distorting the men’s features, and exaggerating looks already disordered.

  The Lieutenant, we have said, was not wholly surprised. None the less the elder of the two young men was the first to find his tongue. “What do you here?” he cried, his eyes gleaming with resentment. “We came to be private here. What do you wish, sir?”

  Des Ageaux took one step over the threshold and bowed low. “To offer my apologies,” he replied, with a tinge of humour in his tone, “and then to withdraw. To be plain, sir, I heard whispering, and, half-roused, I fancied that it might concern me. Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he continued, directing an easy and not ungraceful gesture to the shrinking girl, who cowered on the dark stairs as if she wished they might swallow her. “Your pardon also, Monsieur Charles.”

  “You know my name?” the stranger exclaimed, with a swift, perturbed glance at the others.

  “Your name and no more,” des Ageaux answered, smiling and not a whit disturbed. His manner was perfectly easy. “I heard it as I opened. But be at rest, that which is not meant for me I do not keep. You will understand that the hour was late, I found the window open, I heard voices — some suspicion was not unnatural. Have no fear, however. To-morrow I shall only have had one dream the more.”

  “But dream or no dream,” the person he had addressed as Charles blurted out, “if you mention it — —”

  “I shall not mention it.”

  “To the Vicomte even?”

  “Not even to him! The presence of mademoiselle’s brother,” des Ageaux continued, with a keen glance at Roger, “were warrant for silence, had I the right to speak.”

  The girl started and the hood of her cloak fell back. With loosened hair and parted lips she looked so pretty that he was sorry he had struck at her ever so slightly. “You think, sir,” she exclaimed in a tone half-indignant, half-awestruck, “that this is my lover?”

  His eyes passed
from her to the taller young man. He bowed low. “I did,” he said, the courtesy of his manner redoubled. “Now I see that he is your brother. Forgive me, mademoiselle, I am unlucky this evening. Lest I offend again — and my presence alone must be an offence — I take my leave.”

  Charles stepped forward. “Not,” he said somewhat peremptorily, “before you have assured us again of your silence! Understand me, sir, this is no child’s play! Were my father to hear of my presence, he would make my sister suffer for it. Were he to discover me here — you do not know him yet — it might cost a life!”

  “What can I say more,” des Ageaux replied with a little stiffness, “than I have said? Why should I betray you?”

  “Enough, sir, if you understand.”

  “I understand enough!” And then, “If I can do no more than be silent — —”

  “You can do no more.”

  “I take my leave.” And, bowing, with an air of aloofness he stepped back and closed the door on them.

  When he had done so the three looked eagerly at one another. But they did not speak until his footsteps on the chamber floor had ceased to sound. Then, “What is this?” the elder brother muttered, frowning slightly at the younger. “There is something here I do not understand. Who is he? What is he? You told me that he was some poor gentleman adventuring alone, and without servants, and staying here for the night with a lame horse and an empty purse. But — —”

  “He was not like this at supper,” Roger replied, excusing himself.

  “But he has nothing of the tone of the man you described.”

  “Not now,” Bonne said. “But at supper he was different in some way.” And recalling how he had looked at her when he thought that Charles was her lover, she blushed.

  “He is no poor man,” Charles muttered. “Did you mark his ring?”

  “No.”

  “May-be at supper it was turned inward, but as he stood there with his hand on the door post, the light fell on it. Three leopards passant or on a field vert! I have seen that coat, and more than once!”