The Arm and the Darkness

by Taylor Caldwell

  “I ought to accompany you, Monsieur,” whispered Paul.

  “No. The fewer who leave the less the danger, my dear Paul.” As he had embraced Arsène, but now with an even deeper love, the Duc embraced the young Comte, who was in tears.

  The four silent guards who were to accompany the Duc and the Comte van Tets were all faithful and devoted Huguenots, friends of Paul, himself. Intrepid and powerful swordsmen, their eyes gleamed in the vagrant beams of moonlight that fell from the trees. The Duc, who was studying them critically, was satisfied. Two of them were slightly known to him.

  “Ah, my dear de Longueville, and my dear de Condé! We have a hard journey before us.”

  The men drew their swords, and silently kissed them before returning them to their scabbards.

  Taking final leave of Paul de Vitry, the six horsemen left the city by the Barriere St. Denis. They did not speak, but crouched in their saddles wrapped in their cloaks, their hats pulled far over their faces. No one accosted them. The streets were silent and deserted, washed in alternate silver moonlight and intense black shadow.

  They maintained silence as they galloped swiftly through the hushed countryside, not feeling safe until Paris was a lost dream behind them. The guards glanced warily at every copse of trees, fearing ambush. De Longueville and de Condé rode ahead, the Duc and the Comte came next, and the other two guardsmen followed. Every hand held a pistol. Wrapped in their cloaks, fleeing like shadows under the moon, the horses’ hoofs padding through the warm summer dust, they were spectral horsemen, their faces hidden under their hats. They passed hamlets sunken in sleep; the roofs of small churches were silver in the moonlight. Crickets murmured incessantly in the tall waving grass.

  Once they dismounted to drink of the cool waters of a little running stream, and here the Duc lit his pipe for a brief moment. The curling smoke turned white as moonbeams touched it. The horses panted and bent their heads to the water. Even yet they dared speak hardly above whispers.

  They rode on like the wind. At length the sky paled, and birds broke into passionate choruses of song, and the air became cool as water. Now along the distant low horizon a pale flickering fire began to run, and from the earth rose a poignant scent. The wind quickened; the trees murmured hoarsely before it. At length the eastern sky became like an opal conflagration, and the zenith was as white as milk. They heard the lowing of distant cattle, and the crowing of cocks. The breeze in their tired faces was filled with a thousand fresh cool odors.

  At seven in the morning they saw the distant spires of Chantilly, the crosses and the pointed steeples bright red in the brightening morning. But they avoided the town itself, skirting by it. They were to pause briefly at de Vitry’s estates, where fresh horses were waiting for them. At half-past seven they arrived at these estates. It was a small village set in green meadows and fields, the low hills beyond them mauve and pink in the morning. The Duc glanced about him with deep satisfaction. Here there were no wattled huts, but strong low stone houses surrounded by gardens and white fences. The small church, exquisite, seemed formed of the very stone of the earth itself, small but sturdy and simple. The cross glittered in the new sun, and from the church came the deep slow voice of the priest.

  They arrived at a small neat tavern with a painted goat swinging in the fresh sweet wind. The cobbled yard was empty, except for a servant girl drawing water from a well by a creaking chain. She lifted a round rosy face alertly as the six horsemen rode into the yard, then, bending her head, she ran into the quiet tavern. A moment later a huge fat giant of a man emerged. He had an enormous bald head and his face was fierce and taciturn. When he saw the horsemen, he came himself, but slowly and insolently, and helped them dismount. He had small bright brown eyes which sparkled with a choleric humor, thick pouting lips, a snout of a nose, and a deeply wrinkled forehead. He did not appear pleased at these guests, but he said nothing, merely jerking his head towards the tavern. Then he grasped the bridles of the horses in each hand, and so tremendous was his strength that the exhausted animals did not resist him, did not throw up their heads in protest at a strange touch. He headed them to the stables nearby, removed their saddles, gave them food, locked the stable doors carefully, and proceeded to the tavern. As he walked, he swung his bare arms like a gorilla, and the muscles in his arms and thighs bulged and swelled.

  The Duc was in no wise prepossessed by this surly and tactiturn man, but Paul de Vitry, with a smile, had described him as an unreconciled, violent but honest man, whom all his own blandishments had not conquered or softened.

  “You are Crequy?” asked the Duc, abruptly, his sunken eyes sparkling with weariness.

  The man muttered an affirmative. He eyed the Duc and his companions with visible aversion and ill-nature.

  “We will have our breakfast, and our fresh horses,” said the Duc, wondering if Paul had not been mistaken, and they might be betrayed by this knave.

  The host said nothing. He retired behind his counter, hoisted himself upon his stool, and sat glaring at them un-blinkingly like a huge wrinkled statue. The serving girl entered with a tray of food, which she laid on the table before the six gentlemen. They ate in nervous silence, for they did not like the unwinking stare of mine host. He did not move even an eyelash as he contemplated them with open savagery.

  “Zounds!” muttered de Longueville, “the rascal destroys my appetite.” The food was simple and good. They had fresh eggs and ham, milk and newly baked bread. The small mullioned windows of the inn turned bright gold, and hot gusts of wind blew in through the opened door.

  Then Crequy, still silent, led them out into the courtyard and up an outside staircase to the floor above. He showed them into bare but spotless chambers, containing only clean beds and rough blankets. Here they threw themselves prone. They heard mine host locking the doors behind them. Then they heard his rough harsh voice speaking to the serving girl.

  “There is no one in these rooms, Roselle. No one came this morning. You understand? If you speak, I shall strangle you.”

  He must have made a threatening gesture with his vast hands, for the girl uttered a squeak, a cry, and they heard her running footsteps.

  Reassured, the Duc turned on his side and fell into a deep sleep. But Longueville took turns with the others on keeping guard.

  It was gray twilight when the Duc and the Comte awoke. A key turned in the lock, and the host entered with a gigantic pitcher of water and some towels. These he laid on the single bare table in the room, and disappeared again. Stiff and sore, they all washed. They waited. It was not until night had actually fallen that the man reappeared, and beckoned to them. They found a sturdy repast waiting for them, and fresh horses.

  The Duc opened his purse to pay the host, but the man gestured aside the golden crowns with a contemptuous motion. He looked the Duc fully in the eyes, and grimaced.

  “Monsieur the Comte de Vitry is a fool. But he is a good man. I take no money from his guests, even if they, too, are fools,” he said. And now he scowled at them with ferocity.

  “I shall not forget your kindness,” said the Duc, nonplussed, glancing at his wary companions.

  The man snorted, and gestured them to the door. He followed them. Fresh, fine horses awaited them, and they mounted. The host watched until they had disappeared in the darkness.

  “I like not that Crequy,” remarked young de Condé. “I should have spit him upon my sword for his insolence. De Vitry has been remiss in the training of his peasants.”

  “I suspect him,” agreed de Longueville.

  “We must not look for enemies ambushed in shadows,” the Duc rebuked them. He turned to the Comte van Tets, who rode at his side. “Monsieur, you are enduring the journey well.”

  The Dutchman, who had spoken rarely during all the hours he had spent with his companions, smiled heavily. “There is nothing too arduous to endure in this cause, Monsieur le Duc,” he answered. He caught his breath in something that was between a sob and a sigh, and bestowed a deep glance up
on the Duc.

  “Monsieur, my country is eternally grateful to you. I can say no more.”

  The Duc reached over and laid his gloved hand for an instant on the other’s. He saw that the Dutchman had sunken again into his mournful reveries.

  The moon sailed over the massed treetops which lined the rutted road. Once they heard the distant howl of a wolf as the country became wilder, more desolate, more formless and menacing. They could see great moors spread about them, and never a comforting light shining through a window. The sound of rushing water filled the chill air. Very often they lost the road, and came back to it over sharp half-concealed rocks, twisting roots of trees and through broken forests.

  Now a floating mist rose from the moors, twisting into a thousand ghostly shapes under the mysterious moon. De Condé, who was superstitious, crossed himself frequently, forgetting that long ago he had abandoned the Church. The Duc smiled to himself at these nervous gestures. But the profound silence, the drifting misty forms illuminated by moonlight, the black forest all about them, which they dared not abandon for more open places, the immensity of the stricken plains in the distance, all weighed heavily upon him, and filled him with crushing foreboding. He came to believe that in some fashion they had left the world of men, light, laughter and city, and had been transplanted to some wild uninhabited planet full of danger, death and drifting apparitions.

  “We shall reach Beauvais at dawn,” he said. No one answered him.

  He comforted himself with the thought that that night they would reach St. Omer, and a little later, Calais. That would be sixty leagues in all, a prodigious feat of riding.

  But in spite of his efforts, his forebodings increased. Soon they would reach the edge of the forest, and in the most dangerous hours, be forced to ride in the open as they neared St. Omer. He ridiculed himself, in an effort to raise his courage. Who knew of their going? It was true that the Cardinal had his spies, but if the Cardinal had heard of their mysterious journey he would not know their mission. At the worst, he would have them followed to Calais, itself. But they would be on shipboard and still the spies would know no more except that the Duc and his companions had sailed for England. Certainly, that was dangerous knowledge for the Cardinal to possess, in itself. But upon the Duc’s return, not even the Cardinal would dare question him. In spite of the strained relations between England and France, hundreds of Frenchmen and Englishmen crossed the Channel every day on diplomatic or private business.

  Yet, though he reassured himself, he would frequently strain his ears for the sound of pursuers or ambushes.

  Now he was eager for the towns. The silence, the moonlight, the moors and the drifting darkness began to chill him to the very soul. He wished that the young men, de Longueville and de Condé, were more gay, might sing or chaff each other in the manner of youth. But they, too, were silent, bending over their saddles, their gleaming eyes searching the night.

  The moon disappeared, and now there was a deep roll of thunder, and a mutter of rising wind. Suddenly Van Tets reined in his horse and spoke quickly and quietly to the Duc: “Monsieur, I have the strangest premonition that if you do not abandon me now, and turn back, we shall die. I am not given to fancies. Abandon me, I beseech you!”

  His voice became more urgent, and the Duc could hear his hard breath in the black of the night.

  “Abandon you, my dear friend? That is absurd. Within two hours we shall be in St. Omer, and safe. It is only the night that has unnerved you.”

  The others heard this conversation, and drew in their horses. They stood, huddled together, hardly able to distinguish each other in the gathering darkness. The Duc felt their fear and their irresolution. He knew how to appeal to these.

  He laughed a little. “Monsieur, you are impugning the courage and the gallantry of these Frenchmen! Under more favorable circumstances every one of these gentlemen would demand satisfaction for an affront which only your weariness and past suffering can pardon. Is it not so, Messieurs?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then the young men answered emphatically: “Assuredly, Monsieur le Duc!” And they heard the swift movement of swords in scabbards.

  Van Tets said nothing more, and they rode on in renewed silence.

  The storm was rising. The moon, at intervals, burst wildly from ambuscades of black ragged clouds, fleeing into other ambuscades. During these moments her light was vivid and desolate, shining on the white faces of the horsemen, before plunging them again into the thick obscurity. Now drops of cold rain lashed their faces, and the horses, frightened, whinnied and increased their exhausted pace.

  The moon emerged again, with a light resembling steel upon which the sun glitters. It was then that de Longueville, who had the keenest eyes of all, saw a glint in the thick shrubbery to the right, down the twisting road.

  He uttered a faint low warning, and they drew in their horses.

  Though they could barely see him, they discerned that he was pointing ahead. He whispered: “I saw a glint, as of a musket, Monsieur le Duc!”

  They drew their horses together. Every heart thundered. Every hand reached for sword and pistol. But it was too late.

  The shrubbery suddenly blazed. The wet dark air was torn asunder by volleys of sound. The terrified horses reared and plunged, striking each other with their hoofs. There was another blaze, another crash of sound. Confusion burst all about them, the singing of bullets, the screaming of the horses, the shouts and cries of the ambushed and the ambushers. The horsemen were trapped. On each side of the road high stony banks enclosed them, prevented their escape. They could not wheel and flee. The Duc heard a sharp groan near him, and felt, rather than saw, Van Tets slide ponderously to the ground under his slain horse.

  “Highwaymen!” thought the Duc. But he knew in his heart that these were not highwaymen.

  There was another cry, and de Longueville and de Condé seemed to leap from their horses. They crashed into the bushes, and lay still. The moon shone more vividly now, escaping from her clouds. The Duc saw that the shrubbery was alive with at least a dozen crouching and armed men. It was the end.

  He glanced about him, in pure terror and despair. And as he did so, the other two frantic horsemen fell from their horses and rolled under the plunging hoofs.

  “Halt!” he cried. “It is I, the Duc de Tremblant! Touch me, at your peril!”

  Now, all was darkness and confusion again. The Duc saw a flash of scarlet light, and felt a sudden burning in his breast. A whirlpool of blackness shot with flame engulfed him. He threw up his arms and fell to the ground, silent and motionless.

  Lightning darted across the sky, penetrated into the broken roof of the forest. Twelve men cautiously emerged from the thickets and stood near the heap of dead men and horses. One of them, the leader, turned the dead Duc on his back and peered down at his face.

  “The Huguenot swine!” he muttered, and kicked the helpless face brutally with his booted foot.

  He gestured, and his men bent over the dead men and rifled their pockets of purses and papers, which they thrust into their own pockets. They worked swiftly and in silence. They dragged the slain companions into the thickets where pits had already been dug in grisly readiness. They threw the bodies into the pits. Rain and wind and lightning mingled as they hurried about their tasks. The gale caught their cloaks and whirled about them, so that they resembled huge bats. They shoveled earth over the bodies, strewed branches and stones over the hasty flat graves. Then, mounting horses which they had tethered at a distance, they dragged away the dead horses of the Duc and his companions until they came to a great crooked ravine. Down this crevice they tumbled the bleeding animals. Then, bending over their horses they rode away into the night.

  The storm broke in all its madness.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  The frightful storm had passed at dawn. Now the earth was sweet and fresh in the glittering morning. Arsène de Richepin and the Comte de Vitry rode out towards Chantilly just as all the bells of Paris were
ringing in happy exuberance.

  Arsène’s nature was so volatile that he had rid himself of the doubts and fears of the previous night. He began to sing, slapping the reins on the neck of his horse and cavorting about the wide smooth road in an ecstasy of light-heartedness and gaiety. Even the dull and hopeless laborers repairing the roads looked up with a smile after his passage. He galloped and cavorted; he waved his hat in the air. Then he would rein in his horse, impatient and laughing, for the more sedate Paul to reach him.

  “You jog like a curé on an ass!” he exclaimed.

  Paul, who was younger than he by at least two years, smiled. “What it is to be young in heart!” he replied. He did not speak of the Duc de Tremblant, for he did not wish to shadow that radiant vitality which emanated from his friend.

  He had his own thoughts, which seemed to bestow a secret pleasure upon his tired and thoughtful face. Arsène at length became conscious that Paul was giving him furtive but delighted glances, as though in possession of some information that gave him affectionate joy. As time passed, this expression became more marked, and once or twice Paul laughed softly as if at some personal jest, which was without malice, and only with disinterested love.

  “You are smug, Paul,” remarked Arsène, at last.

  Paul inclined his head and gazed at his friend with such a light in his eyes that it quite startled the young man. “You are about to give joy to two old friends of yours,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Ah, do not press me. But I shall be sorely disappointed if you are not as delighted as they.”

  Then, as he spoke, a faint dimness as though a sad thought had occurred to him, passed over the light in his luminous gray eyes. He sighed, spurred his horse, and now he, instead of Arsène, rode a little ahead.

  Arsène was devoured by curiosity. But the early morning was so fair that he could not be piqued at all this mystery. He had the happy faculty of being able to forget all distressing thoughts at will. He had already forgotten that tomorrow was his wedding day. He would not allow himself to think of the Duc de Tremblant. When the thought did occur to him, he repeated to himself all the reassurances of Paul de Vitry.