An Enemy to the King

by Robert Neilson Stephens

  CHAPTER XIII.

  HOW DE BERQUIN INVITED DEATH

  "Mademoiselle!" I whispered, starting up and taking her hand.

  She trembled slightly, and averted her look. But she did not drawaway her hand.

  "You are still disturbed by Marianne's news," I said. "But you havelittle more reason to fear when M. de la Chatre is at Clochonne than ifhe were at the other end of the province."

  "Yet I do fear, monsieur," she said, in a low tone, "for your sake."

  "Then if you will fear," said I, "I take great happiness in knowing thatit is for me. But this is no place or time for fear. Look and listen. Themoonlight, the sounds of the forest, the song of the nightingale, allspeak of peace."

  "The song of the nightingale may give place to the clash of swords andthe cries of combat," she replied. "And because you have delayed herewith me, you now risk the peril you are in."

  "Peril is familiar company to me, mademoiselle," I said, gaily. "Itcomes and it goes. It is a very welcome guest when it brings with it thesweetest lady in the world."

  Talking thus, I led her around the side of the chateau to the old gardenappertaining to it, a place now wild with all kinds of forest growth, itsformer use indicated by a broken statue, a crumbling grotto, and in itscentre an old sun-dial overgrown with creepers. The path to the sun-dialwas again passable, thanks to my frequent visits to the spot since myfirst arrival at Maury. It was up this path that we now went.

  The moonlight and the presence of mademoiselle made the place a veryparadise to me. We two were alone in the garden. The moon spread beautyover the broken walls of the chateau on one side, and the greenvegetation around us leaving some places in mysterious shade. Thesun-dial was all in light, and so was mademoiselle standing beside it. Ibreathed sweet wild odors from the garden. From some part of the chateaucame the soft twang of the strings responding to the fingers of thegypsy, I held the soft hand of mademoiselle. I raised it to my lips.

  "I love you, I love you!" I whispered.

  She made no answer, only looked at me with a kind of mingled grief andjoy, bliss embittered by despair.

  "It cannot be," I went on, "that Heaven would permit so great a love tofind no response. Will you not answer me, mademoiselle?"

  "What answer would you have?" she asked, in a perturbed voice.

  "I would have love for love."

  Her answer was arrested by the sound of the gypsy's voice, which at thatinstant rose in an old song, that one in which a woman's love is likenedto a light or a fire. These are the first words:

  "Bright as the sun, more quick to fade; Fickle as marsh-lights prove; Where brightest, casting deepest shade-- False flame of woman's love."

  "Heed the song, monsieur," said mademoiselle, in the tone of one whowarns vaguely of a danger which dare not be disclosed openly.

  "It is an old, old song," I answered. "The raving of some misanthrope ofbygone time."

  "It has truth in it," she said.

  "Nay, he judged all women from some bitter experience of his own. Hissong ought to have died with him, ought to be shut up in the gravewherein he lies, with his sins and his sorrows."

  "Though the man is dead, the truth he sang is not. Heed it, monsieur, asa warning from the dead to the living, a warning to all brave men whounwarily trust in women!"

  "I needed no song to warn me, mademoiselle," I said, thinking of Mlle.d'Arency and M. de Noyard. "I have in my own time seen something of thetreachery of which some women are capable."

  "You have loved other women?" she said, quickly.

  "Once I thought I loved one, until I learned what she was."

  "What was she?" she asked, slowly, as if divining the answer, anddreading to hear it.

  "She was a tool of Catherine de Medici's," said I, speaking with all themore contempt when I compared the guileful court beauty, Mlle. d'Arency,with the pure, sweet woman before me; "one of those creatures whomCatherine called her Flying Squadron, and she betrayed a very honestgentleman to his death."

  "Betrayed him!" she repeated.

  "Yes, by a pretended love tryst."

  Mademoiselle trembled, and held out her hand to the dial for support.

  Something in her attitude, something in the pose of her slender figure,something in her white face, her deep, wide-open eyes, so appealed to mylove, to my impulse to protect her, that I clasped her in my arms, anddrew her close to me. She made no attempt to repulse me, and into hereyes came the look of surrender and yielding.

  "Ah, mademoiselle, Julie," I murmured, for she had told me her name,"you do not shrink from me, your hand clings to mine, the look inyour eyes tells what your lips have refused to utter. The truth isout, you love me!"

  She closed her eyes, and let me cover her face with kisses.

  Presently, still holding her hand in mine, I stepped to the other sideof the sun-dial, so that we stood with it between us, our handsclasped over it.

  "There needs no oath between us now," said I, "yet here let us vow by themoonlight and the sunlight that mark the time on this old dial. I pledgeyou here, on the symbol of time, to fidelity forever!"

  "False flame of woman's love!"

  came the song of the gypsy, before mademoiselle could answer.

  The look of unresisting acquiescence faded from her face. She startedbackward, drew her hand quickly from mine, and with the words, "Oh,monsieur, monsieur!" glided swiftly from the garden and around thechateau. In perplexity, I followed. When I reached the courtyard she wasnot there. She had gone in, and to her chamber.

  But I was happy. I felt that now she was mine. Her face, her attitude,had spoken, if not her lips. As for her breaking away, I thought that dueto a last recurrence of her old scruples concerning the barrier betweenus. I did not attribute it to the effect of the sudden intrusion of thegypsy's song. It was by mere accident, I told myself, that her scrupleshad returned at the moment of that intrusion. What was there in her lovethat I need fear? She had told me to heed the song as a warning. Iconsidered this a mere device on her part to check the current of mywooing. Her old scruples or her maidenly impulses might cause her to usefor that purpose any device that might occur. But, how long she mightpostpone the final confession of surrender, it must come at last, for thesurrender itself was already made. Her heart was mine. What mattered itnow though the governor had come to Clochonne solely in quest of me? Whatthough he knew my hiding-place, discovered by the persistent De Berquin,and its location by him communicated through Barbemouche? For, I said tomyself, if De Berquin had sent word to the governor, Barbemouche musthave been the messenger, for the three rascals now held at Maury couldnot have been relied on, and they had the appearance of having wanderedin the forest several days.

  I was just about to summon Blaise, that I might learn the result of hisinterrogations, when I heard the voice of Maugert, who was lying in watchby the forest path, call out:

  "Who goes there?"

  "We are friends," came the answer, quickly.

  This voice also I knew, as well as Maugert's. It was that of De Berquin.

  I ran to the gate and heard him tell Maugert, who covered him with anarquebus, match lighted, that he was seeking the abode of the Sieur de laTournoire, for whom he had important news.

  "Let him come, Maugert!" I called from the gate.

  I stepped back into the courtyard. At that moment Blaise came out of thechateau. Very soon De Berquin strode in through the gateway, followed bythe burly Barbemouche. Both looked wayworn and fatigued.

  "Monsieur de la Tournoire," said De Berquin, saluting me with fine graceand a pleasant air,--he never lost the ways of a gallant gentleman,--"Ihave come here to do you a service."

  So! thought I, does he really intend to seek my confidence and try tobetray me, after all? Admirable self-assurance!

  I was about to answer, when Barbemouche put in;

  "So you, whom it was in my power to kill a hundred times over that night,are the very Tournoire whom I chased from one end of France to the othereight years ago?
" And he looked me over with a frank curiosity.

  "Yes," I said, with a smile, "after you had destroyed the home of myfathers. And at last you have found me."

  "I was but the servant of the Duke of Guise then," said Barbemouche.

  At this point Blaise, who, in all our experiences with De Berquin and hishenchmen, had not while sober come within hearing of Barbemouche's voice,or within close sight of him, stepped up and said, coolly:

  "Let me see the face that goes with that voice."

  And he threw up the front of Barbemouche's hat with one hand, at the sametime raising the front of his own with the other. The two men regardedeach other for a moment.

  "Praise to the God of Israel, we meet again!" cried Blaise, in a loudvoice, catching the other by the throat.

  "Who are you?" demanded Barbemouche.

  "The man on whom you left this mark,"--and Blaise pointed to his ownforehead,--"in Paris on St. Bartholomew's night thirteen years ago."

  "Then I did not kill you?" muttered Barbemouche, glaring fiercelyat Blaise.

  "God had further use for me," said Blaise.

  De Berquin and I both stepped aside, perceiving that here was a matter inwhich neither of us was concerned. But we looked on with some interest,deferring until its adjustment our own conversation.

  "Then it was you who spoiled my appearance for the rest of my days!"cried Barbemouche. "May you writhe in the flames of hell!"

  And, being without sword or other weapon, he aimed a blow of the fist atBlaise's head. Blaise, disdaining to use steel against an unarmedantagonist, contented himself with dodging the blow and draggingBarbemouche to a place where an opening in the courtyard wall overlookeda steep, rocky descent which was for some distance without vegetation.Here the two men grappled. There was some hard squeezing, some quickbending either way, a final powerful forcing forward of the arms on thepart of Blaise, a last violent propulsion of the same arms, andBarbemouche was thrown backward down the precipice. Blaise stood for atime looking over. We heard a series of dull concussions, a sound of theflight of detached small stones, and then nothing.

  "God giveth the battle to the strong!" said Blaise, and he came away fromthe precipice.

  De Berquin shrugged his shoulders, and turned again to me.

  "As I said, monsieur," he began, "I have come here to do you a service."

  "Indeed!" said I, coldly, choosing to assume indifference and ignorance."I knew not that I was in need of any."

  "Your need of it is all the greater for that," said De Berquin, quietly."Monsieur, I would hinder some one from doing you a foul deed, though todo so I must rob that person of your esteem."

  "Speak clearly, M. de Berquin," said I, thinking that he was taking thewrong way to get my confidence. "It is impossible that any one having myesteem should need hindrance from a foul deed."

  De Berquin stood perfectly still and looked me straight in theface, saying:

  "Is it a foul deed to betray a man into the hands of his enemies?"

  "Yes," said I, thoughtfully, wondering that he should try to begin thatvery act by accusing some one else of intending it.

  "Then, monsieur," he went on, "look to yourself."

  But I looked at him instead, with some amazement at the assurance withwhich he continued to face me.

  "And what man of my following would you accuse of intending to betrayme?" I asked.

  "No man, monsieur," he said, still meeting my gaze steadily, and notchanging his attitude.

  "No man?" I repeated, for a moment puzzled. "Oh, ho! The boy, Pierre,perhaps, who left us while we were at the inn by the forest road! Well,monsieur, you speak falsely. I would stake my arm on his loyalty."

  "It is not to tell you of any boy that I have sought you these many daysin this wilderness," said De Berquin, all the time standing as motionlessas a statue, and speaking in a very low voice. "It is not a boy that hascome from M. de la Chatre, the governor of the province, to betray you."

  "Not man nor boy," I said, curious now to learn what he was aiming at."What, then? Mademoiselle's maid, honest Jeannotte? You must take thetrouble to invent something else, M. de Berquin. You become amusing."

  "Not the maid, monsieur," he replied, very quietly, putting a stress onthe word "maid," and facing me as boldly as ever.

  Slowly it dawned on me what he meant. Slowly a tremendous indignationgrew in me against the man who dared to stand before me and make thataccusation. Yet I controlled myself, and merely answered in a tone as lowas his, but slowly drawing my sword:

  "By God, you mean _her_!"

  "Mlle. de Varion," he answered, never quailing.

  Filled with a great wrath, my powers of thought for the time paralyzed,my mind capable of no perception, but that of mademoiselle's sweetnessand purity opposed to this horrible charge of black treason, I couldanswer only:

  "Then the devil is no more the king of liars, unless you are the devil!Come, Monsieur de Berquin, I will show you what I think of the serviceyou would do me!"

  With drawn sword in hand, I walked across the courtyard and pointed tothe way leading around the side of the chateau to an open space in onepart of the garden. I knew that there we should not be interrupted.

  As I waited for De Berquin to precede me, I chanced to look atBlaise. A strange, thoughtful expression was on his face. He, too,stood quite still.

  De Berquin looked at my face for a moment longer, then seemed to realizethe hopelessness of his attempt to make me credit his accusation,shrugged his shoulders and said, courteously:

  "As you will, monsieur!"

  And he walked before me around the side of the chateau to the barespace in the garden. Blaise, having received no orders, did not presumeto follow.

  We took off our doublets and other encumbrances, De Berquin raising hissheathed sword and very gracefully unsheathing by throwing the scabbardoff into the air, so that it fell some distance away in the garden.

  Twice before that night it had been shown that I was the more skilfulswordsman, yet now he stood without the least sign of fear. If he hadformerly retreated, on being disarmed, it was from situations in which hehad figured ridiculously, and could not endure to remain beforeMademoiselle de Varion. Also, he had sought to preserve his life, so thathe might have revenge. But now that events had taken their turn, heshowed himself not afraid to face death.

  "It is a pity," I said, "that a brave man should be so great a liar."

  "Rather," he said, "that so brave a man"--and his look showed that healluded to me--"should be so easily fooled; and that so fair a womanshould be so vile a traitor."

  And, seeing that I was ready, he put himself into a posture of defence.

  The cup of my resentment having been already filled to overflowing, itwas impossible for me to be further angered by this. But there came onme a desire to let him know that I was not as ill-informed as he hadthought me; that perhaps he was the greater fool. So, holding my swordlowered, I said:

  "You should know, monsieur, that I am aware who undertook the task ofbetraying me to La Chatre."

  "And yet you say that I lie," he replied.

  "I know even how the matter was to be conducted," I went on. "The spywas first to learn my place of refuge and send the information to LaChatre. The governor was then to come to Clochonne. The governor isalready at Clochonne. The spy, doubtless, learned where I hid, and sentword to La Chatre."

  "Doubtless," he replied, impassively, "inasmuch as you speak of one ofmademoiselle's boys having left you. He was probably the messenger."

  "Monsieur," I said, "you desire to leave a slander of mademoiselle thatmay afflict me or her after your death; but your quickness to perceivecircumstances that seemingly fit your lie will not avail you. A thousandfacts might seem to bear out your falsehood, yet I would not heed them. Iwould know them to be accidental. For every lie there are manycircumstances that may be turned to its support. So do not, in dying,felicitate yourself on leaving behind you a lie that will live to injureher or me. Your lie shall die with you."r />
  "You tire me with reiterations, monsieur," he replied, calmly. "Since youwill maintain that I have lied, do so. It is you who will suffer for yourblindness, not I. I told you the truth, not really because I wished to doyou a kindness, but because there was a chance of its serving my ownpurpose. The woman came here to find your hiding-place, and betray you tothe governor. La Chatre engaged her to do so. His secretary, Montignac,took it into his head that he would like to become sole possessor ofmademoiselle's time and attractions. But he could not undo the governor'splans, nor could he hope for the woman's cooperation, as she seems tohave taken a dislike to him. It had been agreed that, when she had turnedyou over to the governor's soldiers, she should go to Fleurier to receiveher reward. She had made this condition so that she might keep out of theway of Montignac. Now he dared not interfere to prevent her from doingthe governor's errand, but he hoped to see more of her after that shouldbe completed. Such, as it was necessary for him to tell me, was the stateof his mind when I came along--I, ordered from court, hounded from Parisby creditors, ragged and ready for what might turn up. Near FleurierMontignac turned up, in La Chatre's cavalcade. He wanted me to become thewoman's escort to Clochonne, keep my eyes on her, know when she hadsettled your business, and, when she was about to start for Fleurier,keep her as his guest in a house that I was to hire in Clochonne. But whydo I grow chilly telling you all this, when you do not intend to believeme? Shall we not begin, monsieur?"

  "Doubtless you are vain of your skill at fabrication, monsieur," I said,wishing to deprive him of the satisfaction of thinking me deceived byhis story, "but you have no reason to be. That a woman should be sent tobetray an outlaw, and then a man sent to keep her in view and finallyhold her,--it is complicated, to say the least. Why should you not havebeen sent to take me?" I thought that I had touched him here.

  "That is what I asked Montignac," he replied. "But he told me that shehad already been commissioned to hunt you down, before he had made up hismind to possess her by force. Moreover, it would not do to disturb thegovernor's plan, on which the governor was mightily set, though Montignachimself had suggested it. 'And,' said Montignac, 'you have not a woman'swit to find his hiding-place, or a woman's means of luring him from hismen.' And yet, you will remember that when I thought you were a lackey,and you offered to deliver La Tournoire to me, I grasped at the chance,for I knew that, however set the governor might be on having the ladytake you, he would be glad enough to have you taken by any one, and if Itook you and got the reward I could afford to bear Montignac'sdispleasure. I think Montignac's desire to have the lady take you was dueto his having suggested the plan. He wanted both the credit of havingdevised your capture and the pleasure of mademoiselle's society. Yes,when you held out to me the possibility, I was willing to riskMontignac's resentment and take La Tournoire myself. Before that, I hadconfined myself to the task of following mademoiselle. At first you andyour supposed master were in my way. I had hoped to get her from you, andto obtain her esteem by the mock rescue, but this was spoiled first by mymen and then by you. After that failure, I could merely follow and hopethat chance would enable me to do Montignac's will."

  "You cleverly mix truth and fiction, monsieur," I said. "You interestme. Go on."

  It is true that he did interest me, so ingenious did I think his recital.

  "I have no wish to prolong the life of one of us by this talk," hereplied, "but a tale once begun should be finished. You know how youpromised to deliver up La Tournoire to me. I grant that you kept thepromise to the letter. During the rest of that night I lay quiet with mymen. We heard your departure the next morning, and when the way was clearwe followed in your track. We could do so quietly, for we were afoot; wehad left our horses in another part of this wilderness the day before. Weheard you greeted by your sentinel, and guessed that you were near yourburrow. We came no further, but looked around and found a projectingrock, under which to lie hidden, and a tree from whose top this placecould be seen. So we have lodged under the rock, one of us keeping watchnight and day from the tree. I hoped thus to be able to know when youshould be taken, so that I might then look to the lady. But no soldierscame for you, neither you nor the lady departed from the place, no signcame to indicate an attack or a flight. You can imagine, monsieur, how agentleman accustomed to court pleasures and Parisian fare enjoyed thekind of life that we have been leading for these several days. Now andthen one of us would crawl forth to a stream for water, or forage fornuts and berries, and we snared a few birds, which we had to eat raw, notdaring to make a fire. This existence became tiresome. This afternoonthree of my knaves deserted. What was I to do? It was useless to go backto Montignac without having done his work. To stay there awaiting yourcapture or the lady's departure was perhaps to starve. To go any distancefrom this place was to lose sight of the woman, who might leave at anytime, and we could not know what direction she might take. The enterprisehad been at best a scurvy one, fit only for a man at the end of hisresources. In fine, monsieur, when the last of my men threatened tofollow his comrades, I crawled out of my hole, stretched my aching bones,and resolved to let Montignac's business go to the devil. There was nochance for me in the service of the French King, therefore I came tooffer myself as a member of your company. In the Huguenot cause I mightearn back some of the good things of life. It no longer matters on whichside I fight. 'Twas the same with Barbemouche. And, inasmuch as I haddecided to cast in my fortunes with yours, I naturally wished you well.Thus it was my own interest I sought to serve, as well as yours, when Itold you that this woman came here to betray you to La Chatre."

  "You told me that," said I, calmly, "for one or both of twopurposes,--the first, to make me withdraw my protection from the lady, inorder that she might be at your disposal; the second, to get myconfidence, in order that you yourself might betray me to La Chatre."

  De Berquin laughed. "Am I, then, such a fool as to think that the waryTournoire could be put off his guard by a man? No, no. The governor orMontignac was wise in choosing a woman for that delicate task. It is onlyby a Delilah that a Samson can be caught!"

  "Monsieur," I said, with ironical admiration, "you are indeed as artfulin your lies as you are bold. You have constructed a story that everycircumstance seems to bear out. Yet one circumstance you have forgotten,or you are not aware of it. It destroys your whole edifice. The father ofMlle. de Varion is now a prisoner, held by the governor's order, on acharge of treason for having harbored Huguenots. Would his daughterundertake to do the work of a spy and a traitor for that governor againsta Huguenot? Now for your ingenuity, monsieur!"

  "Such things have been known," he answered, not at all discomfited. "Hisdaughter may not have her father's weakness for Huguenots, and if shebears resentment against the governor on her father's account, her desireof the reward may outweigh that resentment. Covetousness is strong inwomen. You would not expect great filial devotion in a hired spy andtraitress. Moreover, for all I know, this woman may not be Mlle. deVarion, although Montignac so named her to me. She may have assumed thatcharacter at his suggestion, in order to get your confidence andsympathy, not daring to pretend to be a Huguenot, lest some habitual actmight betray the deception."

  "Enough, M. de Berquin," I said. "I do your wit the credit of admittingthat so well-wrought a lie was never before told. Only two things preventits being believed. It is to me that you tell it, and it is of Mlle. deVarion! You complained a while ago of being chilly. Let us now warmourselves!"

  And so we went at it. I had no reason now to repeat the trick by which Ihad before disarmed him. Indeed, I wished him to keep sword in hand thatI might have no scruples about killing him. I never could bring myself togive the death thrust to an unarmed man. Yet I was determined that thebrain whence had sprung so horrible a story against my beloved shouldinvent no more, that the lips which had uttered the accusation should notspeak again. Yet he gave me a hard fight. It was for his life that he nowwielded sword, and he was not now taken by surprise as he had been in ourformer meetings, or unsteadi
ed by a desire of making a great flourishbefore a lady. He now brought to his use all his training as a fencer. Hehad a strong wrist and a good eye, despite the dissolute life that he hadled. For some minutes our swords clashed, our boots beat the ground, andour lungs panted as we fought in the moonlight. I was anxious to have thething over quickly, lest the noise we made might reach the ears ofmademoiselle, and perhaps bring her to the scene. I knew that Blaisewould keep the men away, but he would not presume to restrainmademoiselle. I wished, too, to have the thrust made before my antagonistshould begin to show weakness of body or uncertainty of eye. But hemaintained a good guard, and also required me to give much time andattention to my own defence. Indeed, his point once passed through myshirt under my left shoulder, my left arm being then raised. But at lastI caught him between two ribs as he was coming forward, and it wasalmost as though he had fallen on my sword. I missed his own sword onlyby quickly turning sidewise so that his weapon ran along the front of mybreast without touching me.

  He uttered one shriek, I drew my sword out of his body, and he fell in alimp heap. With a convulsive motion he straightened out and was still. Iturned his body so that his face was towards the sky, and I went back tothe courtyard, leaving him alone in the moonlight.