The Helmet of Navarre

by Bertha Runkle

  XIV

  _In the oratory._

  "Here, Pierre!" M. de Brie called to the head lackey, "here's acandidate for a hiding. This is a cub of that fellow Mar's. He reckonedwrong when he brought his insolence into this house. Lay on well, boys;make him howl."

  Brie would have liked well enough, I fancy, to come along and see thefun, but he conceived that his duty lay in the salon. Pierre, the samewho had conducted me to Mlle. de Montluc, now led the way into a longoak-panelled parlour. Opposite the entrance was a huge chimney carvedwith the arms of Lorraine; at one end a door led into a little oratorywhere tapers burned before the image of the Virgin; at the other, beforethe two narrow windows, stood a long table with writing-materials.Chests and cupboards nearly filled the walls. I took this to be a sortof council-room of my Lord Mayenne.

  Pierre sent one of his men for a cane and to the other suggested that heshould quench the Virgin's candles.

  "For I don't see why this rascal should have the comfort of a light inthere," he said. "As for Madonna Mary, she will not mind; she has amillion others to see by."

  I was left alone with him and I promised myself the joy of one good blowat his face, no matter how deep they flayed me for it. But as I gatheredmyself for the rush he spoke to me low and cautiously:

  "Now howl your loudest, lad; and I'll not lay on too hard."

  My clinched fist dropped to my side.

  "You never did me any harm," he muttered. "Howl till they think you halfkilled, and I'll manage."

  I gaped at him, not knowing what to make of it. But this is the way ofthe world; if there is much cruelty in it, there is much kindness, too.

  "Here's the cane, nom d'un chien!" Pierre exclaimed boisterously. "Giveit here, Jean; there'll not be much of it left when I get through."

  "You'll strip his coat off?" said the second lackey, from the oratory.

  "My faith! no; I should kill him if I did, and the duke wants him,"Pierre retorted. So without more ado the two men tied my wrists in frontof me, and Jean held me by the knot while Pierre laid on. And he, goodfellow, grasping my collar, contrived to pull my loose jerkin away frommy back, so that he dusted it down without greatly incommoding me. Somehard whacks I did get, but they were nothing to what a strong man couldhave given in grim earnest.

  I trust I could have taken a real flogging with as close lips asanybody, but if my kind succourer wanted howls, howls he should have. Iyelled and cowered and dodged about, to the roaring delight of Jean andhis mate. Indeed, I had drawn a crowd of grinning varlets to the doorbefore my performance was over. But at length, when I thought I had doneenough for their pleasure and that of the nobles in the salon, I droppeddown on the floor and lay quiet, with shut eyes.

  "He has had his fill, I trow; we must not spoil him for the master,"Pierre said.

  "Oh, he'll come to in a minute," another answered. "Why, you have noteven drawn blood, Pierre!" He laid his hand on my back, whereat Igroaned my hollowest.

  "It will be many a day before he cares to have his back touched,"laughed Pierre. "Here, men, lend a hand. Pardieu! I wonder what Our Ladythinks of some of the devotees we bring her."

  As they lifted me he took my hand with an inquiring squeeze; and Isqueezed back, grateful, if ever a boy was. They flung me down on theoratory floor and left me there a prisoner.

  I spent the next hour or so trying to undo the knot of my handcuff withmy teeth; and failing that, to chew the stout rope in two. I was mindedas I worked of Lucas and his bonds, and wondered whether he had managedto rid himself of their inconvenience. He went straightway, doubtless,to some confederate who cut them for him, and even now was planningfresh evil against the St. Quentins. I remembered his face as he criedto M. le Comte that they should meet again; and I thought that M.Etienne was likely to have his hands full with Lucas, without thisunlucky tanglement with Mlle. de Montluc. In the darkness and solitude Icalled down a murrain on his folly. Why could he not leave the girlalone? There were other blue eyes in the world. And it would be hard onhumanity if there were none kindlier.

  He had been at it three years, too. For three long years this girl'sfair face had stood between him and his home, between him and action,between him and happiness. It was a fair face, truly; yet, in myopinion, neither it nor any maid's was worth such pains. If she hadloved him it had not been worth it, but this girl spurned and floutedhim. Why, in the name of Heaven, could he not put the jade out of hismind and turn merrily to St. Denis and the road to glory? When I gotback to him and told him how she had mocked him, hang me but he should,though!

  Ah, but when was I to get back to him? That rested not with me but withmy dangerous host, the League's Lieutenant-General, dark-minded Mayenne.What he wanted with me he had not revealed; nor was it a pleasantsubject for speculation. He meant me, of course, to tell him all I knewof the St. Quentins; well, that was soon done; belike he understood morethan I of the day's work. But after he had questioned me, what?

  Would he consider, with his servant Pierre, that I had never done himany harm? Or would he--I wondered, if they flung me out stark into somealley's gutter, whether M. le Comte would search for me and claim mycarcass? Or would he, too, have fallen by the blades of the League?

  I was shuddering as I waited there in the darkness. Never, not even thismorning in the closet of the Rue Coupejarrets, had I been in such mortaldread. I had walked out of that closet to find M. Etienne; but I was notlikely to happen on succour here. Pierre, for all his kind heart, couldnot save me from the Duke of Mayenne.

  Then, when my hope was at its nadir, I remembered who was with me in thelittle room. I groped my way to Our Lady's feet and prayed her to saveme, and if she might not, then to stand by me during the hard moment ofdying and receive my seeking soul. Comforted now and deeming I couldpass, if it came to that, with a steady face, I laid me down, my head onthe prie-dieu cushion, and presently went to sleep.

  I was waked by a light in my face, and, all a-quiver, sprang up to meetmy doom. But it was not the duke or any of his hirelings who bent overme, candle in hand; it was Mlle. de Montluc.

  "Oh, my boy, my poor boy!" she cried pitifully, "I could not save youthe flogging; on my honour, I could not. It would have availed younothing had I pleaded for you on my bended knees."

  With bewilderment I observed that the tears were brimming over herlashes and splashing down into the candle-flame. I stared, too confusedfor speech, while she, putting down the shaking candlestick on thealtar, as she crossed herself, covered her face with her hands,sobbing.

  "Mademoiselle," I stammered, "it is not worth mademoiselle's tears! Theman, Pierre, he told me to scream, so they would think he was halfflaying me. But in truth he did not strike very hard. He did not hurt somuch."

  She struggled to check the rising tempest of her tears, and presentlydropped her hands and looked at me earnestly from out her shining weteyes. "Is that true? Are you not flayed?" And to make sure, she laid herhand delicately on my back.

  "They have whacked your coat to ribbons, but, thank St. Genevieve, theyhave not brought the blood. I saw a man flogged once--" she shut hereyes, shuddering, and her mouth quivered anew. "But I am not much hurt,mademoiselle," I answered her.

  She took out her film of a handkerchief to wipe her wet cheeks, her handstill trembling. I could think of nothing but to repeat:

  "I am not in the least hurt, mademoiselle."

  "Ah, but if they have spared you the flogging to take your life!" shebreathed.

  It was not a heartening suggestion. To my astonishment, suddenly I foundmyself, frightened victim, striving to comfort this noblewoman for mydeath.

  "Nay, I am not afraid. Since mademoiselle weeps over me, I can diehappily."

  She sprang toward me as if to protect me with her body from somemenacing thrust.

  "They shall not kill you!" she cried, her eyes flashing blue fire. "Theyshall not! Mon dieu! is Lorance de Montluc so feeble a thing that shecannot save a serving-boy?"

  She fell back a pace, pressing her hands to her
temples as if to stifletheir throbbing.

  "It was my fault," she cried--"it was all my fault. It was my vanity andsilliness brought you to this. I should never have written thatletter--a three years' child would have known better. But I had not seenM. de Mar for five weeks--I did not know, what I readily guess now, thathe had taken sides against us. M. de Lorraine played on my pique."

  "Mademoiselle," I said, "the worst has not followed, since M. Etiennedid not come himself."

  "You are glad for that?"

  "Why, of course, mademoiselle. Was it not a trap for him?"

  She caught her breath as if in pain.

  "I knew that as soon as I saw that my cousin Mayenne was not angry. WhenI told what I had done and he smiled at me and said I should have mygloves, why, then I thought my heart would stop beating. I saw what Ihad accomplished--mon dieu, I was sick with repentance of it!"

  I had to tell her I had not thought it.

  "No," she answered; "I had got you into this by my foolishness; I mustneeds try to get you out by my wits. Brie, the one who took you by thethroat--there has been bad blood between him and your lord thistwelvemonth; only last May M. le Comte ran him through the wrist. Had Iinterfered for you," she said, colouring a little, "M. de Brie wouldhave inferred interest in the master from that in the man, and he hadseen to your beating himself."

  It suddenly dawned on me that this M. de Brie was the "little cheese" ofguard-room gossip. And I thought that the gentleman would hardly displayso much venom against M. Etienne unless he were a serious obstacle tohis hopes. Nor would mademoiselle be here at midnight, weeping over aserving-lad, if she cared nothing for the master. If she had not wornher heart on her sleeve before the laughing salon, mayhap she would showit to me.

  "Mademoiselle," I cried, "when the billet was brought him M. Etiennerose from his bed at once to come. But he was faint from fatigue andloss of blood; he could not walk across the room. But he bade me try tomake mademoiselle believe his absence was no fault of his. He wrote hera month ago; he found to-day the letter was never delivered."

  "Is he hurt dangerously?"

  "No," I admitted reluctantly; "no, I think not. He was wounded in theright forearm, and again pinked in the shoulder; but he will recover."

  "You said," she went on, the tears standing in her eyes, "that he waspenniless. I have not much, but what I have is freely his."

  She advanced upon me holding out her silken purse which she had takenfrom her bosom; but I retreated.

  "No, no, mademoiselle," I cried, ashamed of my hot words; "we are notpenniless--or if we are, we get on very well sans le sou. They doeverything for monsieur at the Trois Lanternes, and he has only toreturn to the Hotel St. Quentin to get all the gold pieces he can spend.Oh, no; we are in no want, mademoiselle. I was angry when I said it; Idid not mean it. I cry mademoiselle's pardon."

  She looked at me a little hesitatingly.

  "You are telling me true?"

  "Why, yes, mademoiselle; if my monsieur needed money, indeed, indeed, Iwould not refuse it."

  "Then if you cannot take it for him, you can take it for yourself. Itwill be strange if in all Paris you cannot find something you like as atoken from me." With her own white fingers she slipped some tinklingcoins into my pouch, and cut short my thanks with the little wailingcry:

  "Oh, your poor, bound hands! I have my poniard in my dress. I could freethem in a second. But if they knew I had been here with you they neverwill let you go."

  "If mademoiselle is running into danger staying here, I pray her to goback to bed. M. Etienne did not send me hither to bring her grief andtrouble."

  "Who are you?" she asked me abruptly. "You have never been here beforeon monsieur's errands?"

  "No, mademoiselle; I came up only yesterday from Picardie. I belong onthe St. Quentin estate. My name is Felix Broux."

  "Alack, you have chosen a bad time to visit Paris!"

  "I came up to see life," I said, "and mordieu! I am seeing it."

  "I pray God you may not see death, too," she answered soberly.

  She stood looking at me helplessly.

  "I am in my lord's black books," she said slowly, as if to herself; "butI might weep Francois de Brie's rough heart to softness. Then it is aquestion whether he could turn Mayenne. I wish I knew whether the dukehimself or only Paul de Lorraine has planned this move to-night. Thatis," she added, blushing, but speaking out candidly, "whether theyattack M. de Mar as the League's enemy or as my lover."

  "This M. Paul de Lorraine," said I, speaking as respectfully as I knewhow, but eager to find out all I could for M. Etienne--"this M. deLorraine is mademoiselle's lover, too?"

  She shrugged her shoulders, neither assenting nor denying. "We are allpawns in the game for M. de Mayenne to push about as he chooses. For atime M. de Mar was high in his favour. Then my cousin Paul came backafter a two years' disappearance, and straightway he was up and M. deMar was down. And then Paul vanished again as suddenly as he had come,and it became the turn of M. de Brie. Now to-night Paul walked in assuddenly as he had left and at once played on me to write that unluckyletter. And what it bodes for _him_ I know not."

  She spoke with amazing frankness; yet, much as she had told me, the factof her telling it told me even more. I saw that she was as lonely inthis great house as I had been at St. Quentin. She would have talkeddelightedly to M. le Comte's dog.

  "Mademoiselle," I said, "I would like well to tell you what has beenhappening to my M. Etienne this last month, if you are not afraid tostay long enough to hear it."

  "Oh, every one is asleep long ago; it is past two o'clock. Yes, you maytell me if you wish."

  She sat down on a praying-cushion, motioning me to the other, and Ibegan my tale. At first she listened with a little air of languor, as ifthe whole were of slight consequence and she really did not care at allwhat M. le Comte had been about these five weeks. But as I got into theaffair of the Rue Coupejarrets she forgot her indifference and leanedforward with burning cheeks, hanging on my words with eager questions.And when I told her how Lucas had evaded us in the darkness, she cried:

  "Blessed Virgin! M. de Mar has enough to contend with in this Lucas,without Paul de Lorraine, and Brie, and the Duke of Mayenne himself."

  I was silent, being of her opinion. Presently she asked reluctantly:

  "Does your master think this Lucas a tool of M. de Mayenne's?"

  "Yes, mademoiselle. He says secretaries do not plot against dukedoms fortheir own pleasure."

  "Asassination was not wont to be my cousin Mayenne's way," she said withan accent of confidence that rang as false as a counterfeit coin. I sawwell enough that mademoiselle did fear, at least, Mayenne's guilt. Ithought I might tell her a little more.

  "M. le Comte told me that since his father's coming to Paris M. deMayenne made him offers to join the League, and he refused them. So thenM. de Mayenne, seeing himself losing the whole house of St. Quentin,invented this."

  "But it failed. Thank God, it failed! And now he will leave Paris. Hewill--he must!"

  "He did mean to seek Navarre's camp to-morrow," I answered; "but--"

  "But what?"

  "But then the letter came."

  "But that makes no difference! He must go for all that. The time is overfor trimming. He must stand on one side or the other. I am a Ligueuseborn and bred, and I tell him to go to King Henry. It is his father'sside; it is his side. He cannot stay in Paris another day."

  "I do not think he will go, mademoiselle."

  "But he must!" she cried with vehemence. "Paris is not safe for him. Ifhe cannot stand for his wound, he must go. I will send him a lettermyself to tell him he must."

  "Then he will never go."

  "Felix!"

  "He will not. He was going because he thought his lady flouted him; whenhe finds she does not--well, if he budges a step out of Paris, I do notknow him. When he thought himself despised--"

  "And why did I turn his suit into laughter in the salon if I did notmean that I despised him? I did it f
or you to tell him how I made a mockof him, that he might hate me and keep away from me."

  "Oh," I said, "mademoiselle is beyond me; I cannot keep up with her."

  "And you believed it! But you must needs spoil all by flaring out withimpudent speech."

  "I crave mademoiselle's pardon. I was wrong and insolent. But she playedtoo well."

  "And if it was not play?" she cried, rising. "If I do--well, I will notsay despise him--but care nothing for him? Will he then go to St. Denis?Then tell him from me that he has my pity as one cruelly cozened, and myesteem as a one-time servant of mine, but never my love. Tell him Iwould willingly save him alive, for the sake of the love he once boreme. But as for any answering love in my bosom, I have not one spark.Tell him to go find a new mistress at St. Denis. He might as well cryfor the moon as seek to win Lorance de Montluc."

  "That may be true," I said; "but all the same he will try. Canmademoiselle suppose he will go out of Paris now, and leave her to marryBrie and Lorraine?"

  "Only one," she protested with the shadow of a smile; and then a suddenrush of tears blinded her. "I am a very miserable girl," she saidwoefully, "for I bring nothing but danger to those that love me."

  I dropped on my knees before her and kissed the hem of her dress.

  "Ah, Felix," she said, "if you really pitied me, you would get him outof Paris!" And she fell to weeping as if her heart would break.

  I had no skill to comfort her. I bent my head before her, silent. Atlength she sobbed out:

  "It boots little for us to quarrel over what you shall say to M. de Mar,when we know not that you will ever speak to him again. And it was allmy fault."

  "Mademoiselle, it was the fault of my hasty tongue."

  But she shook her head.

  "I maintained that to you, but it was not true. Mayenne had something inhis mind before. A general holds his schemes so dear and lives so cheap.But I will do my utmost, Felix, lad. It is not long to daylight now. Iwill go to Francois de Brie and we'll believe I shall prevail."

  She took up her candle and said good night to me very gently andquietly, and gave me her hand to kiss. She opened the door,--with myfettered wrists I could not do the office for her,--and on the thresholdturned to smile on me, wistfully, hopefully. In the next second, with agasp that was half a cry, she blew out the light and pushed the doorshut again.