“What shall we do, Michelot?” I groaned, appealing in my despair to my henchman.
“Might it not be well to seek speech with M. de Montrésor?” quoth he.
I shrugged my shoulders. Nevertheless, after a moment’s deliberation I determined to make the attempt; if I succeeded something might come of it.
And so I pushed on to Blois with my knaves close at my heels.
Up the Rue Vieille we proceeded with caution, for the hostelry of the Vigne d’Or, where Michelot had hired me a room, fortunately overlooking the street, fronted the Lys de France, where St. Auban and his men were housed.
I gained that room of mine without mishap, and my first action was to deal summarily with a fat and well-roasted capon which the landlord set before me — for an empty stomach is a poor comrade in a desperate situation. That meal, washed down with the best part of a bottle of red Anjou, did much to restore me alike in body and in mind.
From my open window I gazed across the street at the Lys de France. The door of the common-room, opening upon the street, was set wide, and across the threshold came a flood of light in which there flitted the black figures of maybe a dozen amazed rustics, drawn thither for all the world as bats are drawn to a glare.
And there they hovered with open mouths and stupid eyes, hearkening to the din of voices that floated out on the tranquil air, the snatches of ribald songs, the raucous bursts of laughter, the clink of glasses, the clank of steel, the rattle of dice, and the strange soldier oaths that fell with every throw, and which to them must have sounded almost as words of some foreign tongue.
Whilst I stood by my window, the landlord entered my room, and coming up to me —
“Thank Heaven they are not housed at the Vigne d’Or,” he said. “It will take Maître Bernard a week to rid his house of the stench of leather. They are part of a stray company that is on its way to fight the Spaniards,” he informed me. “But methinks they will be forced to spend two or three days at Blois; their horses are sadly jaded and will need that rest before they can take the road again, thanks to the pace at which their boy of an officer must have led them. There is a gentleman with them who wears a mask. ‘T is whispered that he is a prince of the blood who has made a vow not to uncover his face until this war be ended, in expiation of some sin committed in mad Paris.”
I heard him in silence, and when he had done I thanked him for his information. So! This was the story that the crafty St. Auban had spread abroad to lull suspicion touching the real nature of their presence until their horses should be fit to undertake the return journey to Paris, or until he should have secured the person of M. de Canaples.
Towards eleven o’clock, as the lights in the hostelry opposite were burning low, I descended, and made my way out into the now deserted street. The troopers had apparently seen fit — or else been ordered — to seek their beds, for the place had grown silent, and a servant was in the act of making fast the door for the night. The porte-cochère was half closed, and a man carrying a lantern was making fast the bolt, whistling aimlessly to himself. Through the half of the door that was yet open, I beheld a window from which the light fell upon a distant corner of the courtyard.
I drew near the fellow with the lantern, in whom I recognised René, the hostler, and as I approached he flashed the light upon my face; then with a gasp— “M. de Luynes,” he exclaimed, remembering me from the time when I had lodged at the Lys de France, three months ago.
“Sh!” I whispered, pressing a louis d’or into his hand. “Whose window is that, René?” And I pointed towards the light.
“That,” he replied, “is the room of the lieutenant and the gentleman in the mask.”
“I must take a look at them, René, and whilst I am looking I shall search my pocket for another louis. Now let me in.”
“I dare not, Monsieur. Maître Bernard may call me, and if the doors are not closed—”
“Dame!” I broke in. “I shall stay but a moment.”
“But—”
“And you will have easily earned a louis d’or. If Bernard calls you — peste, tell him that you have let fall something, and that you are seeking it. There, let me pass.”
I got past him at last, and made my way swiftly towards the other end of the quadrangle.
As I approached, the sound of voices smote my ear, for the lighted window stood open. I stopped within half a dozen paces of it, and climbed on to the step of a coach that stood there. Thence I could look straight into the room, whilst the darkness hid me from the eyes of those I watched.
Three men there were; Montrésor, the sergeant of his troop, and a tall man dressed in black, and wearing a black silk mask. This I concluded to be St. Auban, despite the profusion of fair locks that fell upon his shoulders, concealing — I rightly guessed — his natural hair, which was as black as my own. It was a cunning addition to his disguise, and one well calculated to lead people on to the wrong scent hereafter.
Presently, as I watched them, St. Auban spoke, and his voice was that of a man whose gums are toothless, or else whose nether lip is drawn in over his teeth whilst he speaks. Here again the dissimulation was as effective as it was simple.
“So; that is concluded,” were the words that reached me. “To-morrow we will install our men at the château, for while we remain here it is preposterous to lodge them at an inn. On the following day I hope that we may be able to set out again.”
“If we could obtain fresh horses—” began the sergeant, when he of the mask interrupted him.
“Sangdieu! Think you my purse is bottomless? We return as we came, with the Cardinal’s horses. What signify a day or two, after all? Come — call the landlord to light me to my room.”
I had heard enough. But more than that, whilst I listened, an idea had of a sudden sprung up in my mind which did away with the necessity of gaining speech with Montresor — a contingency, moreover, that now presented insuperable difficulties.
So I got down softly from my perch and made my way out of the yard, and, after fulfilling my part of the bargain with René, across to the Vigne d’Or and to my room, there to sit and mature the plan that of a sudden I had conceived.
CHAPTER XXIV. OF THE PASSING OF ST. AUBAN
Dame! What an ado there was next day in Blois, when the news came that the troopers had installed themselves at the Château de Canaples and that the Chevalier had been arrested for treason by order of the Lord Cardinal, and that he would be taken to Paris, and — probably — the scaffold.
Men gathered in little knots at street corners, and with sullen brows and threatening gestures they talked of the affair; and the more they talked, the more clouded grew their looks, and more than one anti-cardinalist pasquinade was heard in Blois that day.
Given a leader those men would have laid hands upon pikes and muskets, and gone to the Chevalier’s rescue. As I observed them, the thought did cross my mind that I might contrive a pretty fight in the rose garden of Canaples were I so inclined. And so inclined I should, indeed, have been but for the plan that had come to me like an inspiration from above, and which methought would prove safer in the end.
To carry out this plan of mine, I quitted Blois at nightfall, with my two knaves, having paid my reckoning at the Lys de France, and given out that we were journeying to Tours. We followed the road that leads to Canaples, until we reached the first trees bordering the park. There I dismounted, and, leaving Abdon to guard the horses, I made my way on foot, accompanied by Michelot, towards the garden.
We gained this, and were on the point of quitting the shadow of the trees, when of a sudden, by the light of the crescent moon, I beheld a man walking in one of the alleys, not a hundred paces from where we stood. I had but time to seize Michelot by the collar of his pourpoint and draw him towards me. But as he trod precipitately backwards a twig snapped ‘neath his foot with a report that in the surrounding stillness was like a pistol shot.
I caught my breath as he who walked in the garden stood still, his face, wrapped
in the shadows of his hat, turned towards us.
“Who goes there?” he shouted. Then getting no reply he came resolutely forward, whilst I drew a pistol wherewith to welcome him did he come too near.
On he came, and already I had brought my pistol to a level with his head, when fortunately he repeated his question, “Who goes there?” — and this time I recognised the voice of Montrésor, the very man I could then most wish to meet.
“Hist! Montrésor!” I called softly. “‘T is I — Luynes.”
“So!” he exclaimed, coming close up to me. “You have reached Canaples at last!”
“At last?” I echoed.
“Whom have you there?” he inquired abruptly.
“Only Michelot.”
“Bid him fall behind a little.”
When Michelot had complied with this request, “You see, M. de Luynes,” quoth the officer, “that you have arrived too late.”
There was a certain coldness in his tone that made me seek by my reply to sound him.
“Indeed, I trust not, my friend. With your assistance I hope to get M. de Canaples from the clutches of St. Auban.”
He shook his head.
“It is impossible that I should help you,” he replied with increasing coldness. “Already once for your sake have I broken faith to those who pay me, by setting you in a position to forestall St. Auban and get M. de Canaples away before his arrival. Unfortunately, you have dallied on the road, M. de Luynes, and Canaples is already a prisoner — a doomed one, I fear.”
“Is that your last word, Montrésor?” I inquired sadly.
“I am sorry,” he answered in softened tones, “but you must see that I cannot do otherwise. I warned you; more you cannot expect of me.”
I sighed, and stood musing for an instant. Then— “You are right, Montrésor. Nevertheless, I am still grateful to you for the warning you gave me in Paris. God pity and help Canaples! Adieu, Montrésor. I do not think that you will see me again.”
He took my hand, but as he did so he pushed me back into the shadow from which I had stepped to proffer it him.
“Peste!” he ejaculated. “The moon was full upon your face, and did St. Auban chance to look out, he must have seen you.”
I followed the indication of his thumb, and noted the lighted window to which he pointed. A moment later he was gone, and as I joined Michelot, I chuckled softly to myself.
For two hours and more I sat in the shrubbery, conversing in whispers with Michelot, and watching the lights in the château die out one by one, until St. Auban’s window, which opened on to the terrace balcony, was the only one that was not wrapt in darkness.
I waited a little while longer, then rising I cautiously made a tour of inspection. Peace reigned everywhere, and the only sign of life was the sentry, who with musket on shoulder paced in front of the main entrance, a silent testimony of St. Auban’s mistrust of the Blaisois and of his fears of a possible surprise.
Satisfied that everyone slept I retraced my steps to the shrubbery where Michelot awaited me, watching the square of light, and after exchanging word with him, I again stepped forth.
When I was half way across the intervening space of garden, treading with infinite precaution, a dark shadow obscured the window, which a second later was thrown open. Crouching hastily behind a boxwood hedge, I watched St. Auban — for I guessed that he it was — as he leaned out and gazed skywards.
For a little while he remained there, then he withdrew, leaving the casement open, and presently I caught the grating of a chair on the parquet floor within. If ever the gods favoured mortal, they favoured me at that moment.
Stealthily as a cat I sprang towards the terrace, the steps to which I climbed on hands and knees. Stooping, I sped silently across it until I had gained the flower-bed immediately below the window that had drawn me to it. Crouching there — for did I stand upright my chin would be on a level with the sill — I paused to listen for some moments. The only sound I caught was a rustle, as of paper. Emboldened, I took a deep breath, and standing up I gazed straight into the chamber.
By the light of four tapers in heavy silver sconces, I beheld St. Auban seated at a table littered with parchments, over which he was intently poring. His back was towards me, and his long black hair hung straight upon his shoulders. On the table, amid the papers, lay his golden wig and black mask, and on the floor in the centre of the room, his back and breast of blackened steel and his sword.
It needed but little shrewdness to guess those parchments before him to be legal documents touching the Canaples estates, and his occupation that of casting up exactly what profit he would reap from his infamous work of betrayal.
So intent was the hound upon his calculations that my cautious movements passed unheeded by him as I got astride of the window ledge. It was only when I swung my right leg into the room that he turned his head, but before his eyes reached me I was standing upright and motionless within the chamber.
I have seen fear of many sorts writ large upon the faces of men of many conditions — from the awe that blanches the cheek of the boy soldier when first he hears the cannon thundering to the terror that glazes the eye of the vanquished swordsman who at every moment expects the deadly point in his heart. But never had I gazed upon a countenance filled with such abject ghastly terror as that which came over St. Auban’s when his eyes met mine that night.
He sprang up with an inarticulate cry that sank into something that I can but liken to the rattle which issues from the throat of expiring men. For a second he stood where he had risen, then terror loosened his knees, and he sank back into his chair. His mouth fell open, and the trembling lips were drawn down at the corners like those of a sobbing child; his cheeks turned whiter than the lawn collar at his throat, and his eyes, wide open in a horrid stare, were fixed on mine and, powerless to avert them, he met my gaze — cold, stern, and implacable.
For a moment we remained thus, and I marvelled greatly to see a man whose heart, if full of evil, I had yet deemed stout enough, stricken by fear into so parlous and pitiful a condition.
Then I had the explanation of it as he lifted his right hand and made the sign of the cross, first upon himself, then in the air, whilst his lips moved, and I guessed that to himself he was muttering some prayer of exorcising purport. There was the solution of the terror — sweat that stood out in beads upon his brow — he had deemed me a spectre; the spectre of a man he believed to have foully done to death on a spot across the Loire visible from the window at my back.
At last he sufficiently mastered himself to break the awful silence.
“What do you want?” he whispered; then, his voice gaining power as he used it— “Speak,” he commanded. “Man or devil, speak!”
I laughed for answer, harshly, mockingly; for never had I known a fiercer, crueller mood. At the sound of that laugh, satanical though may have been its ring, he sprang up again, and unsheathing a dagger he took a step towards me.
“We shall see of what you are made,” he cried. “If you blast me in the act, I’ll strike you!”
I laughed again, and raising my arm I gave him the nozzle of a pistol to contemplate.
“Stand where you are, St. Auban, or, by the God above us, I’ll send your ghost a-wandering,” quoth I coolly.
My voice, which I take it had nothing ghostly in it, and still more the levelled pistol, which of all implements is the most unghostly, dispelled his dread. The colour crept slowly back to his cheeks, and his mouth closed with a snap of determination.
“Is it, indeed, you, master meddler?” he said. “Peste! I thought you dead these three months.”
“And you are overcome with joy to find that you were in error, eh, Marquis? We Luynes die hard.”
“It seems so, indeed,” he answered with a cool effrontery past crediting in one who but a moment ago had looked so pitiful. “What do you seek at Canaples?”
“Many things, Marquis. You among others.”
“You have come to murder me,”
he cried, and again alarm overspread his countenance.
“Hoity, toity, Marquis! We do not all follow the same trade. Who talks of murder? Faugh!”
Again he took a step towards me, but again the nozzle of my pistol drove him back. To have pistoled him there and then as he deserved would have brought the household about my ears, and that would have defeated my object. To have fallen upon him and slain him with silent steel would have equally embarrassed me, as you shall understand anon.
“You and I had a rendezvous at St. Sulpice des Reaux,” I said calmly, “to which you came with a band of hired assassins. For this you deserve to be shot like the dog you are. But I have it in my heart to be generous to you,” I added in a tone of irony. “Come, take up your sword.”
“To what purpose?”
“Do you question me? Take up your sword, man, and do my bidding; thus shall you have a slender chance of life. Refuse and I pistol you without compunction. So now put on that wig and mask.”
When he obeyed me in this— “Now listen, St. Auban,” I said. “You and I are going together to that willow copse whither three months ago you lured Yvonne de Canaples for the purpose of abducting her. On that spot you and I shall presently face each other sword in hand, with none other to witness our meeting save God, in whose hands the issue lies. That is your chance; at the first sign that you meditate playing me any tricks, that chance is lost to you.” And I tapped my pistol significantly. “Now climb out through that window.”
When he had done so, I bade him stand six paces away whilst I followed, and to discourage any foolish indiscretion on his part I again showed him my pistol.
He answered me with an impatient gesture, and by the light that fell on his face I saw him sneer.
“Come on, you fool,” he snarled, “and have done threatening. I’ll talk to you in the copse. And tread softly lest you arouse the sentry on the other side.”
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 17
