A pretty situation, truly! And yet not unexpected. Long ago I had foreseen that such would be the end of the vile life I had led, ever since my father had thrust me from his house in just and righteous anger.
Aye, I had seen it coming. Step by step I had come down the steep incline of knavery and dishonour, clearly beholding that which lay below, yet never striving by a single effort to stay my infamous descent. Possibly the devil had courted a greater blackguard, probably he had not.
Was there any degradation left through the mire of which I might still drag the proud old name of Huldenstein and my besmirched escutcheon? Methought not. I was like a man who had sunk into a morass — too deep to ever extricate himself, too firmly gripped to be able to push on, and for whom there is no choice but to await the end in the foul spot he has floundered upon.
But if I must wait, I would not wait in Schwerlingen where I was known, and where every glance bestowed upon me would henceforth be an insult. I must go at once! Go where?
This was indeed an unanswerable question.
Then a sudden longing seized me. A longing to behold again the castle of my father in the province of Hattau, the home that had once been mine, and that belonged to all who bore my name, saving myself — the outcast. I grew suddenly eager to see those from whom I had been separated twelve years ago.
There was my old father. Who could tell? — perchance old age had softened his heart, and the approach of death would cast a forgiving mood upon him. There were my sisters; Esther, the eldest — she would be grey by now — and little Stephanie, who cried the night I left the castle. Then there was Fritz. Would he still remember the big brother who had been the first to teach him to sit a horse and hold a sword? I shook my head in doubt. Twelve years had slipped away since then, and Fritz was a boy of ten in those far-off days. He would be a grown man ere now!
As I brooded over all these things the resolve grew strong within me. I would go, I would set out at once! Then suddenly I came to a standstill, and a groan escaped me.
How was I to go? I had no horse — I had sold my last one a fortnight before; I had no money; I might almost say that I had no raiment. The very doublet on my back was threadbare and worn to its extremity; my breeches were in no better plight, and my boots were such as any groom might blush to own.
And yet go I must, and, by the Mass, go I would — aye even if — . Horror-stricken I checked the ugly thought. A while ago I thought there was no quality of dishonour that I had not tasted. I was mistaken; there was still one. I might still become a thief, and demand money at the sword point. But I could not do it! I was still something of a Huldenstein!
Then I laughed — or was it through my lips, perchance, that the very devil mocked my better self? I know not. Suffice it that I derided my own scruples. I had grown over-nice in my conscience of a sudden, that I shrank from wresting an over-loaded purse from some rich fool who would not miss it. I had done deeds as foul if in a different way. Why should I stop at this? To a man whose honour was clean, it would be indeed, impossible; but to me — Bah! ’Twas the only course, and it would lead me — home.
I had wandered aimlessly through the streets during my ill-starred musings, and meanwhile night had fallen and it had grown late. The air I clearly recollect was sharp and frosty, although we were in April.
I came to a halt before the Church of St. Oswald, and stood for a moment with bent head, whilst the Tempter wrestled with my Guardian Angel. For the nonce the Spirit of Evil was overcome, and I turned at length, and wended my way towards the dismal house in the Mondstrasse, wherein I occupied a room on the ground floor. My way lay through the Northern quarter of the town, in which no lamps were hung until Wallenheim became minister in 1645 — two years later than the events I now set down. There was a fair moon, however, and the sky being clear, the light was tolerably good — would that it had been otherwise!
I turned the corner of the Mondstrasse with a brisk step, and was already within fifty paces of my own door, when my attention was drawn to a tall cavalier approaching from the opposite end of the narrow street. His cloak fluttered behind him in the breeze, and the silver lace on his doublet glinted in the moonlight. That it was that, coupled with his stately bearing, made me suppose him a bird worth plucking, and — again fostering the vile intention which awhile ago I had stifled — drove me back into the shadow of a doorway.
I glanced up and down the street. Not another being was in sight. Absolute silence reigned, saving only the ring of his spurred heel on the uneven pavement. Of a truth the devil was in the business to deliver him thus into my hands!
I felt the hot blood surging to my head — driven there by shame for myself and the vile act which circumstances seemed impelling me to perform. The air was full of mocking sounds, even the faint rustling of the wind seemed to hum the word “thief” about my ears.
I loosened my sword in its scabbard and stood waiting. How slowly he came! I put my hand to my brow, and withdrew it moist with perspiration — the cold perspiration of horror. Pshaw! I was a fool, a sickly coward! Life is a game and the dice had fallen against me.
He was abreast of me, walking with bent head, and humming softly as he went.
Deaf to the last appealing cry of honour and conscience, I sprang out from the shadow, and drawing my sword I set the point against his breast, and barred his way.
He looked up, throwing back his head like a horse that has been suddenly reined in, and showed me a thin, aquiline countenance and pointed beard.
His lips parted, but before he could speak —
“If you utter a cry, as God lives, I’ll drive this home!” I said fiercely.
“You are a bold knave,” he murmured in tones that were light with easy banter, “but you are presumptuous. Holy Virgin, do I look like a woman, that you fear I shall cry for help at the sight of a single scare-crow?”
“Bravely and most wisely spoken, O fool!” I answered, stung not a little by his attitude and words. “Maintain that reasonable frame of mind, and our business will soon be settled.”
He smiled serenely, the condescending, tolerant smile that a great lord might bestow upon a horseboy.
“You speak of business, may I inquire its nature?”
“Your purse and jewels. Quick!”
“If that be all,” he said, composedly, drawing a couple of rings from his fingers, “we need waste no time.”
He held out the trinkets, and I put forth my hand to receive them, keeping my eyes on his the while. One of the rings dropped into my palm, the other brushed against the edge of my hand, and fell to the ground. Instinctively I attempted to follow it with my eyes. That was my undoing. Quick as lightning, he availed himself of my momentary inattention, and knocking up my sword, he sprand back with a laugh.
Before I quite realised what had taken place, and the trick that had been played upon me, he had whipped out his rapier and thrown himself into a defensive attitude.
“Now, my master,” he jeered, “I am in a better position to discuss with you the question of right to my purse — if, indeed,” he added with fine scorn, “you still be minded to pursue the argument.”
I was loath to do it, but there was no help. Courage, or rather the contempt of death, which only those who own a worthless life can know — was the last semblance of a virtue left me. To be held a coward, even in the estimation of one who knew me not, I would not suffer.
My sword clattered against his, and there we stood, engaged, with every nerve alert, and every muscle ready. Then of a sudden the priest’s malediction recurred to me, and struck a chill through me. Was that glittering point that danced before me in the moonlight, destined to carry out the Capuchin’s curse?
I shook the grim thought from me. Indeed, he forced me to it. It would need all my wit and strength if I would keep my life, for if ever Caspar von Huldenstein met his match ’twas then.
Up and down that silent street we went in our fierce combat, with set teeth and stertorous breathing. Trick after
trick I essayed to circumvent his guard, and yet, for all he had a parry and a counter. Moreover the light was bad and the ground uncertain. But in the end I coaxed him to attempt a lengthy lunge; I swerved aside; he over-reached himself, and before he could recover I had run him through from breast to back.
He sank down at my feet with a stifled groan, and there lay still.
I glanced about me with a feeling that was near akin to dread. There was no one in sight.
Then I knelt down beside him, and scarce knowing what I did, I completed my vile task, and stripped him of his jewels and a heavy purse. I arose staggering to my feet, and looked again fearfully about me. For a moment it occurred to me to attempt to dress his wound; but I dismissed the notion. I knew the nature of the hurt from the course my sword had taken. Why prolong his agony?
Next a wild panic seized me, and I fled madly down the street to my miserable lodging, which was but a dozen paces from the spot where he lay.
The door was locked, and I had not the courage to knock, lest whoever came to open should see the figure on the ground. I struck my hand against the window. It proved to be unfastened, and opened to my touch. A moment later I stood in my room, shivering with the full consciousness of the foul deed. I flung away the purse as if it burnt me. My God, what had I done? Would I ever dare to go home now, and clasp my father’s honourable hand in mine — mine that was now soiled with this double crime? How long I stood there thinking over what I had done, and sorrowing that it was not I who lay out yonder, I cannot tell.
Ah! Shall I ever forget those terrible moments? Shall I ever forget how the sudden realisation of the long career of sin and debauchery that lay behind me — the career that had culminated in the vile act just committed — how it overcame me and shook me with a strange, unknown terror — a feeling that the monk’s malediction had in truth been the malediction of God? No; all this I am certain to remember until my dying day. Nor shall I ever forget how those dreadful fears for a moment passed away to give place to old memories that were as beautiful as they were sad. I lived fleetingly through the years which had preceded my downfall; and it was just those placid, trivial hours, when we neither enjoy deeply nor are deeply pained, that came back to me with such poignant force. For are they not the happiest hours of life — those hours of mere peace and content? All this swept through my brain in a few moments, and once again the present, with its peril and crime, returned, and, rousing myself with an effort, I crossed the room and groped for the tinder box. With trembling hands I struck the flint perhaps a dozen times before I succeeded in lighting the taper that stood upon the table. I flung myself down on the nearest chair, and burying my face in my hands, I sat there until a light tap at the door made my heart stand still. I sprang up to listen. Perchance I had been seen, and the guard had been summoned. If it were so — who knew? — perchance the monk would make his appeal to the king, and the edict would be enforced. I should die the felon’s death at the hangman’s hands, and then truly would his malediction fall upon me.
Then I laughed at my fears. Pshaw! The law came not with so timid a knock. Again I heard it, and unable to endure the suspense, I seized the taper, and went to the door. As I opened it a body fell across the lintel. It was my whilom opponent, and at the sight of him I shuddered, beset by a thousand fears.
He must indeed be a man of strong vitality to have dragged himself thus far. Was it mere chance that brought him to my door? It must be so.
Quick, before he could raise his eyes, I had let the taper fall and extinguished it with my foot. Then I knelt beside him and raised his head.
“Thanks, friend,” he murmured faintly. “The light from your window guided me hither. I am dying. I was set upon by a robber in the street. He has given me my death wound in exchange for what money I possessed.”
“Let me see to it,” I answered, dissembling my voice.
“’Tis useless; you will but waste time, and I have not many moments left. Listen, I have something to say.”
He paused for a moment, then —
“Do you know in this Schwerlingen a man named Huldenstein — Caspar von Huldenstein?”
“I have heard of him,” I answered, with a vague tightening at the heart.
“Then seek him out. Tell him — tell him that he is now the Lord of Huldenstein. Tell him that his father died a week ago, and, dying, forgave him all. With his last breath he charged me with this message, and I came hither rejoicing that I might convey to one who, I believe, is destitute the news of his altered fortunes. As you see, he will never hear the message from my lips, but promise me that you will deliver it to him tomorrow. Promise me!”
“In God’s name, who are you?” I cried.
“I am Fritz von Huldenstein, his brother,” he gasped. He added something which I did not catch, then his head fell forward, and he lay still in my arms. I dimly recollect how — almost bereft of reason — I relighted the taper, and closely scanned the face of my dead brother, seeking to find some traces of the features of the boy I had known and loved. Then I flung away the light, and with a wild, mad shriek I fled from the house leaving the door wide open.
And that is how it came to pass that at sunrise I fell fainting on the threshold of the convent of the Capuchins at Loebli, and that today Caspar von Huldenstein is no more.
In his place there is Caspar, the lay brother, who in sack-cloth, with vigils and scourge, with fasting and prayer, seeks to make some atonement for the past; whilst waiting for the hour of his deliverance from the mental anguish for which there is only one cure.
THE MARQUIS’ COACH
Ainslee’s, January 1901
Paris had suddenly become unhealthy for the Chevalier Gaston de Brissac. Why this was so, it is not my present duty to chronicle. In passing, I may mention that André de St. Auger was abed with a nasty sword wound in that part of the body known to physicians as the right breast, but which Brissac would more significantly speak of as “low tierce.”
Chance took him to Autune, in Provence. Chance led him to visit Antoine Moret.
With the fortune which his father — an armorer of some repute — was said to have amassed during the siege of La Rochelle, Antoine Moret had withdrawn from Paris, and come to Autune, to build himself a square white house beyond the village, and dream himself a seigneur.
It was no more than natural that M. de Brissac, who had been one of old Moret’s best customers in days gone by — before the Cardinal made war upon duellists — should, when he heard of Antione’s so-called Château be curious to ascertain how the armorer’s son bore the airs of a country gentleman.
Three months before Moret had married the daintiest maid Autune could boast of, and for a brief while life for him had lain along a rose-strewn path. Often as he looked into his wife’s gentle eyes, and stroked the fair head that nestled to his breast, he had sighed the sigh of a heart that holds more joy than it can carry. Often he had murmured fears — idly and without attaching faith to them — that their happiness might be too great to endure.
And now the blow had fallen. Fallen with brutal suddenness. Come upon him like a thunderbolt out of a serene sky. His wife was gone — stolen by the Marquis de Taillandier.
Thus was he found by M. de Brissac, and into the courtier’s ear he poured the bitter story of his shame. He looked for sympathy. He found contempt.
“Ventegris, Master Moret,” quoth Gaston, flashing a scornful eye upon the simpering fool, “can you do no more than sit and mope and groan like a newly-birched schoolboy when your wife has been stolen from you? Pardieu, meseems that one who can do so little to keep a wife has but scant right to wed one.”
A dull flush showed through the tan on Moret’s cheeks, and for a moment he forgot grief in resentment.
“I might have known it,” he exclaimed. “Fool that I was to tell you of it! You are all alike, you fine gentlemen—”
“And a bourgeois is always a bourgeois,” Gaston broke in sharply. “Ever a clown with the body of an elephant and t
he heart of a rabbit. Pah! You make me sick!”
And before the fellow could stay him, Gaston took his plumed hat from the table and setting it jauntily upon his curls, strode gayly away.
But as he went forth it occurred to Brissac that he had been cruel — that he might have spoken softer words to the honest fool, and even proffered him assistance. Then realizing the drift his thoughts were taking, he laughed aloud. It was something for Brissac, the scoffer, to find himself wasting pity upon a man whose wife had been stolen.
Still, in the present instance, he felt a pity for Moret, despite himself. The fellow was so helpless, and Taillandier so powerful, that his sense of chivalry which — whatever may have been his sins — ever drove him to espouse the weaker cause, was strongly appealed to.
And presently, as chance would have it, the veriest accident came to decide the matter and to enlist the Chevalier in the service of Moret.
As he strode into the inn of the “Clef d’Or,” where he had taken up his lodging, he was much surprised to find the common room occupied by a slender, over-dressed young man, all lace and fripperies, who carried with him an atmosphere of musk, and whose pose and gestures — as he conversed with the obsequious host — would have been in better tune with the ante-chamber of the Luxembourg or a lady’s boudoir, than the dingy common room of a country inn.
With increasing wonder, Gaston recognized in this pretty fellow the Vicomte de Vilmorin, a former acquaintance, and — he suddenly remembered — Taillandier’s cousin. This Vilmorin was a proverbial coward who had fled from Paris a year before, and repaired to his estate in Provence, to hide the weals of a horsewhipping which he had received — it was rumored — at the hands of the beautiful Mademoiselle de Grandcourt.
He raised his head languidly as Gaston entered, and their eyes met. He started slightly at the unexpected rencontre, and bit his lip in annoyance.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 498
