“But that is no concern of mine!” he cried.
“It is so much your concern that if you commit so egregious a blunder as to denounce yourself, you will have ruined yourself, without materially benefitting me.”
He still objected, but in this strain I argued for some time, and to such good purpose that in the end I made him realize that by betraying himself he would not save me, but only join me on the journey to the scaffold.
“Besides, gentlemen,” I pursued, “my case is far from hopeless. I have every confidence that, as matters stand, by putting forth my hand at the right moment, by announcing my identity at the proper season, I can, if I am so inclined, save my neck from the headsman.”
“If you are so inclined?” they both cried, their looks charged with inquiry.
“Let that be,” I answered; “it does not at present concern us. What I desire you to understand, Monsieur de Lesperon, is that if I go to Toulouse alone, when the time comes to proclaim myself, and it is found that I am not Rene de Lesperon, of Lesperon in Gascony, they will assume that you are dead, and there will be no count against me.
“But if you come with me, and thereby afford proof that you are alive, my impersonation of you may cause me trouble. They may opine that I have been an abettor of treason, that I have attempted to circumvent the ends of justice, and that I may have impersonated you in order to render possible your escape. For that, you may rest assured, they will punish me.
“You will see, therefore, that my own safety rests on your passing quietly out of France and leaving the belief behind you that you are dead — a belief that will quickly spread once I shall have cast off your identity. You apprehend me?”
“Vaguely, monsieur; and perhaps you are right. What do you say, Stanislas?”
“Say?” cried the fiery Marsac. “I am weighed down with shame, my poor Rene, for having so misjudged you.”
More he would have said in the same strain, but Lesperon cut him short and bade him attend to the issue now before him. They discussed it at some length, but always under the cloud in which my mysteriousness enveloped it, and, in the end, encouraged by my renewed assurances that I could best save myself if Lesperon were not taken with me, the Gascon consented to my proposals.
Marsac was on his way to Spain. His sister, he told us, awaited him at Carcassonne. Lesperon should set out with him at once, and in forty-eight hours they would be beyond the reach of the King’s anger.
“I have a favour to ask of you, Monsieur de Marsac,” said I, rising; for our business was at an end. “It is that if you should have an opportunity of communicating with Mademoiselle de Lavedan, you will let her know that I am not — not the Lesperon that is betrothed to your sister.”
“I will inform her of it, monsieur,” he answered readily; and then, of a sudden, a look of understanding and of infinite pity came into his eyes. “My God!” he cried.
“What is it, monsieur?” I asked, staggered by that sudden outcry.
“Do not ask me, monsieur, do not ask me. I had forgotten for the moment, in the excitement of all these revelations. But—” He stopped short.
“Well, monsieur?”
He seemed to ponder a moment, then looking at me again with that same compassionate glance, “You had better know,” said he. “And yet — it is a difficult thing to tell you. I understand now much that I had not dreamt of. You — you have no suspicion of how you came to be arrested?”
“For my alleged participation in the late rebellion?”
“Yes, yes. But who gave the information of your whereabouts? Who told the Keeper of the Seals where you were to be found?”
“Oh, that?” I answered easily. “Why, I never doubted it. It was the coxcomb Saint-Eustache. I whipped him—”
I stopped short. There was something in Marsac’s black face, something in his glance, that forced the unspoken truth upon my mind.
“Mother in heaven!” I cried. “Do you mean that it was Mademoiselle de Lavedan?”
He bowed his head in silence. Did she hate me, then, so much as that? Would nothing less than my death appease her, and had I utterly crushed the love that for a little while she had borne me, that she could bring herself to hand me over to the headsman?
God! What a stab was that! It turned me sick with grief — aye, and with some rage not against her, oh, not against her; against the fates that had brought such things to pass.
I controlled myself while their eyes were yet upon me. I went to the door and held it open for them, and they, perceiving something of my disorder, were courteous enough to omit the protracted leave-takings that under other auspices there might have been. Marsac paused a moment on the threshold as if he would have offered me some word of comfort. Then, perceiving, perhaps, how banal must be all comfort that was of words alone, and how it might but increase the anger of the wound it was meant to balm, he sighed a simple “Adieu, monsieur!” and went his way.
When they were gone, I returned to the table, and, sitting down, I buried my head in my arms, and there I lay, a prey to the most poignant grief that in all my easy, fortunate life I had ever known. That she should have done this thing! That the woman I loved, the pure, sweet, innocent girl that I had wooed so ardently in my unworthiness at Lavedan, should have stooped to such an act of betrayal! To what had I not reduced her, since such things could be!
Then, out of my despair grew comfort, slowly at first, and more vigorously anon. The sudden shock of the news had robbed me of some of my wit, and had warped my reasoning. Later, as the pain of the blow grew duller, I came to reflect that what she had done was but a proof — an overwhelming proof — of how deeply she had cared. Such hatred as this can be but born of a great love; reaction is ever to be measured by the action that occasions it, and a great revulsion can only come of a great affection. Had she been indifferent to me, or had she but entertained for me a passing liking, she would not have suffered so.
And so I came to realize how cruel must have been the pang that had driven her to this. But she had loved me; aye, and she loved me still, for all that she thought she hated, and for all that she had acted as if she hated. But even if I were wrong — even if she did hate me — what a fresh revulsion would not be hers when anon she learnt that — whatever my sins — I had not played lightly with her love; that I was not, as she had imagined, the betrothed of another woman!
The thought fired me like wine. I was no longer listless — no longer indifferent as to whether I lived or died. I must live. I must enlighten the Keeper of the Seals and the judges at Toulouse concerning my identity. Why, indeed, had I ever wavered? Bardelys the Magnificent must come to life again, and then — What then?
As suddenly as I had been exalted was I cast down. There was a rumour abroad that Bardelys was dead. In the wake of that rumour I shrewdly guessed that the report of the wager that had brought him into Languedoc would not be slow to follow. What then? Would she love me any the better? Would she hate me any the less? If now she was wounded by the belief that I had made sport of her love, would not that same belief be with her again when she came to know the truth?
Aye, the tangle was a grievous one. Yet I took heart. My old resolve returned to me, and I saw the need for urgency — in that alone could lie now my redemption in her eyes. My wager must be paid before I again repaired to her, for all that it should leave me poor indeed. In the mean while, I prayed God that she might not hear of it ere I returned to tell her.
CHAPTER XI. THE KING’S COMMISSIONER
For that most amiable of Gascon cadets, Monsieur de Castelroux, I have naught but the highest praise. In his every dealing with me he revealed himself so very gallant, generous, and high-minded a gentleman that it was little short of a pleasure to be his prisoner. He made no inquiries touching the nature of my interview with those two gentlemen at the Hotel de la Couronne, and when at the moment of leaving I requested him to deliver a packet to the taller of those same two he did so without comment or question. That packet contained the portrait
of Mademoiselle de Marsac, but on the inner wrapper was a note requesting Lesperon not to open it until he should be in Spain.
Neither Marsac nor Lesperon did I see again before we resumed our journey to Toulouse.
At the moment of setting out a curious incident occurred. Castelroux’s company of dragoons had ridden into the courtyard as we were mounting. They lined up under their lieutenant’s command, to allow us to pass; but as we reached the porte-cochere we were delayed for a moment by a travelling-carriage, entering for relays, and coming, apparently, from Toulouse. Castelroux and I backed our horses until we were in the midst of the dragoons, and so we stood while the vehicle passed in. As it went by, one of the leather curtains was drawn back, and my heart was quickened by the sight of a pale girl face, with eyes of blue, and brown curls lying upon the slender neck. Her glance lighted on me, swordless and in the midst of that company of troopers, and I bowed low upon the withers of my horse, doffing my hat in distant salutation.
The curtain dropped again, and eclipsed the face of the woman that had betrayed me. With my mind full of wild surmisings as to what emotions might have awakened in her upon beholding me, I rode away in silence at Monsieur de Castelroux’s side. Had she experienced any remorse? Any shame? Whether or not such feelings had been aroused at sight of me, it certainly would not be long ere she experienced them, for at the Hotel de la Couronne were those who would enlighten her.
The contemplation of the remorseful grief that might anon beset her when she came to ponder the truth of matters, and, with that truth, those things that at Lavedan I had uttered, filled me presently with regret and pity. I grew impatient to reach Toulouse and tell the judges of the mistake that there had been. My name could not be unknown to them, and the very mention of it, I thought, should suffice to give them pause and lead them to make inquiries before sending me to the scaffold. Yet I was not without uneasiness, for the summariness with which Castelroux had informed me they were in the habit of dealing with those accused of high treason occasioned me some apprehensive pangs.
This apprehension led me to converse with my captor touching those trials, seeking to gather from him who were the judges. I learnt then that besides the ordinary Tribunal, a Commissioner had been dispatched by His Majesty, and was hourly expected to arrive at Toulouse. It would be his mission to supervise and direct the inquiries that were taking place. It was said, he added, that the King himself was on his way thither, to be present at the trial of Monsieur le Duc de Montmorency. But he was travelling by easy stages, and was not yet expected for some days. My heart, which had leapt at the news, as suddenly sank again with the consideration that I should probably be disposed of before the King’s arrival. It would behoove me, therefore, to look elsewhere for help and for some one to swear to my identity.
“Do you know the name of this King’s Commissioner?” I asked.
“It is a certain Comte de Chatellerault, a gentleman man said to stand very high in His Majesty’s favour.”
“Chatellerault!” I cried in wondering joy.
“You know him?”
“Most excellently!” I laughed. “We are very intimately acquainted.”
“Why, then, monsieur, I augur you this gentleman’s friendship, and that it may pilot you through your trouble. Although—” Being mercifully minded, he stopped short.
But I laughed easily. “Indeed, my dear Captain, I think it will,” said I; “although friendship in this world is a thing of which the unfortunate know little.”
But I rejoiced too soon, as you shall hear.
We rode diligently on, our way lying along the fertile banks of the Garonne, now yellow with the rustling corn. Towards evening we made our last halt at Fenouillet, whence a couple of hours’ riding should bring us to Toulouse.
At the post-house we overtook a carriage that seemingly had halted for relays, but upon which I scarce bestowed a glance as I alighted.
Whilst Castelroux went to arrange for fresh horses, I strode into the common room, and there for some moments I stood discussing the viands with our host. When at last I had resolved that a cold pasty and a bottle of Armagnac would satisfy our wants, I looked about me to take survey of those in the room. One group in a remote corner suddenly riveted my attention to such a degree that I remained deaf to the voice of Castelroux, who had just entered, and who stood now beside me. In the centre of this group was the Comte de Chatellerault himself, a thick-set, sombre figure, dressed with that funereal magnificence he affected.
But it was not the sight of him that filled me with amazement. For that, Castelroux’s information had prepared me, and I well understood in what capacity he was there. My surprise sprang rather from the fact that amongst the half-dozen gentlemen about him — and evidently in attendance — I beheld the Chevalier de Saint-Eustache. Now, knowing as I did, the Chevalier’s treasonable leanings, there was ample cause for my astonishment at finding him in such company. Apparently, too, he was on very intimate terms with the Count, for in raising my glance I had caught him in the act of leaning over to whisper familiarly in Chatellerault’s ear.
Their eyes — indeed, for that matter the eyes of the entire company — were turned in my direction.
Perhaps it was not a surprising thing that Chatellerault should gaze upon me in that curious fashion, for was it not probable that he had heard that I was dead? Besides, the fact that I was without a sword, and that at my side stood a King’s officer, afforded evidence enough of my condition, and well might Chatellerault stare at beholding me so manifestly a prisoner.
Even as I watched him, he appeared to start at something that Saint-Eustache was saying, and a curious change spread over his face. Its whilom expression had been rather one of dismay; for, having believed me dead, he no doubt accounted his wager won, whereas seeing me alive had destroyed that pleasant conviction. But now it took on a look of relief and of something that suggested malicious cunning.
“That,” said Castelroux in my ear, “is the King’s commissioner.”
Did I not know it? I never waited to answer him, but, striding across the room, I held out my hand over the table — to Chatellerault.
“My dear Comte,” I cried, “you are most choicely met.”
I would have added more, but there was something in his attitude that silenced me. He had turned half from me, and stood now, hand on hip, his great head thrown back and tilted towards his shoulder, his expression one of freezing and disdainful wonder.
Now, if his attitude filled me with astonishment and apprehension, consider how these feelings were heightened by his words.
“Monsieur de Lesperon, I can but express amazement at your effrontery. If we have been acquainted in the past, do you think that is a sufficient reason for me to take your hand now that you have placed yourself in a position which renders it impossible for His Majesty’s loyal servants to know you?”
I fell back a pace, my mind scarce grasping yet the depths of this inexplicable attitude.
“This to me, Chatellerault?” I gasped.
“To you?” he blazed, stirred to a sudden passion. “What else did you expect, Monsieur de Lesperon?”
I had it in me to give him the lie, to denounce him then for a low, swindling trickster. I understood all at once the meaning of this wondrous make-believe. From Saint-Eustache he had gathered the mistake there was, and for his wager’s sake he would let the error prevail, and hurry me to the scaffold. What else might I have expected from the man that had lured me into such a wager — a wager which the knowledge he possessed had made him certain of winning? Would he who had cheated at the dealing of the cards neglect an opportunity to cheat again during the progress of the game?
As I have said, I had it in my mind to cry out that he lied — that I was not Lesperon; that he knew I was Bardelys. But the futility of such an outcry came to me simultaneously with the thought of it. And, I fear me, I stood before him and his satellites — the mocking Saint-Eustache amongst them — a very foolish figure.
�
��There is no more to be said,” I murmured at last.
“But there is!” he retorted. “There is much more to be said. You shall render yet an account of your treason, and I am afraid, my poor rebel, that your comely head will part company with your shapely body. You and I will meet at Toulouse. What more is to be said will be said in the Tribunal there.”
A chill encompassed me. I was doomed, it seemed. This man, ruling the province pending the King’s arrival, would see to it that none came forward to recognize me. He would expedite the comedy of my trial, and close it with the tragedy of my execution. My professions of a mistake of identity — if I wasted breath upon them would be treated with disdain and disregarded utterly. God! What a position had I got myself into, and what a vein of comedy ran through it — grim, tragic comedy, if you will, yet comedy to all faith. The very woman whom I had wagered to wed had betrayed me into the hands of the very man with whom I laid my wager.
But there was more in it than that. As I had told Mironsac that night in Paris, when the thing had been initiated, it was a duel that was being fought betwixt Chatellerault and me — a duel for supremacy in the King’s good graces. We were rivals, and he desired my removal from the Court. To this end had he lured me into a bargain that should result in my financial ruin, thereby compelling me to withdraw from the costly life of the Luxembourg, and leaving him supreme, the sole and uncontested recipient of our master’s favour. Now into his hand Fate had thrust a stouter weapon and a deadlier: a weapon which not only should make him master of the wealth that I had pledged, but one whereby he might remove me for all time, a thousandfold more effectively than the mere encompassing of my ruin would have done.
I was doomed. I realized it fully and very bitterly.
I was to go out of the ways of men unnoticed and unmourned; as a rebel, under the obscure name of another and bearing another’s sins upon my shoulders, I was to pass almost unheeded to the gallows. Bardelys the Magnificent — the Marquis Marcel Saint-Pol de Bardelys, whose splendour had been a byword in France — was to go out like a guttering candle.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 51
