“These,” he reflected, “must be destroyed. The first sheet, which holds nothing of peril to anyone, must be sent to Madame de Chevreuse as evidence that the work is done. Good.”
He mounted and retraced his way along the road toward Paris. In half a mile he came to an inn at a cross-roads. Dismounting, he entered. A fire was burning below the spit in the hearth, and going to it, he placed the rolled sheets of vellum on the flames, watched them writhe and fall into ashes, and then turned to the host of the inn.
“Monsieur,” he said, “half a mile from here a gentleman lies in the road, dead. He is a noble, a man of family, and a favorite of Cardinal de Richelieu. I advise you to send for his body, communicate with the authorities, and forget having seen me.
And with this he returned to his horse and mounted.
He had been successful in his mission. The document was destroyed, the queen was saved—but d’Artagnan felt no exultation. On the contrary, he vowed that upon returning to Paris he would have ten masses said at St. Sulpice for the repose of the soul of Comte de Riberac, who had been a gallant gentleman. Upon reflection, however, he changed this vow to one mass only; for one would undoubtedly be as efficient as ten, and at one-tenth the cost.
At five o’clock that afternoon, with rain still threatening and black clouds massing, d’Artagnan rode into the little park occupied by the chateau of Helene de Sirle. He found the gates standing wide open, as though he were expected. As he entered, the first spattering raindrops began to fall. A groom came to take his horse, and a lackey appeared as he mounted the steps to the entrance.
“Mlle. de Sirle?” he inquired. “I am M. d’Artagnan, Lieutenant of Musketeers.”
“Will you have the goodness to enter, monsieur?” said the lackey.
D’Artagnan followed him. Here was the identical house Athos had described—the curving staircase, the corridor, the dark library of which d’Artagnan had a glimpse in passing. He was ushered into a charming little salon, hung with yellow satin, and filled with the most beautiful furniture and bibelots.
Our Musketeer was distinctly on his guard; he was alert, wary, suspicious. The tale of Athos was vividly in his mind, in each terrible detail. The beauty and peace of this charming place only served to enhance his caution. Yet, when his hostess appeared, he was staggered; susceptible young man that he was there arose within him a cry of protest against such things being possible of this creature.
She was younger than the tale of Athos had led him to suppose very young, indeed, pale and beautiful, in her delicate features an air of vivacity which was tempered by a frank and openinnocence—the most charming thing in the world to the eye of d’Artagnan.
“You desired to see me, monsieur?” she asked in a low and musical voice.
“Yes, mademoiselle—I have the honor to be the bearer of a letter from His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu—”
“Ah!” She started, and broke into a smile that dazzled the young man. “Then it is my sister Helene you desired! I am Eugenie de Sirle, monsieur. I regret that my sister went to Paris this morning and has not yet returned. Give me the letter—I will place it on her escritoire.”
Having no instructions restricting the delivery of the letter, d’Artagnan produced it.
“One moment, monsieur, if you please,” said she, and departed with a lithe step and so radiant a smile that d’Artagnan remained spellbound where he stood. That smile—did it promise anything? Instinctively he twirled his mustache, brushed a speck of dust from the silver facing of his coat, and his heart leaped.
Danger was suddenly banished—the perilous woman was away, his name had created no impression and was evidently not known to this girl. He was, therefore, running no immediate risk.
“Decidedly,” he reflected, “I am not a fool! When a woman looks at me, I can read the message in her eyes—if there is one there. If I leave this house instantly and ride away, what good? I am in the enemy’s country, and it is the first rule of war to profit by the enemy wherever possible! And what delicious—”
He checked his thoughts, and decided that he must be a fool after all. Yet he could not gainsay the hammering of his pulses, the flame of his imagination, caused by the eyes of this girl. That she was not the lady of Athos’ tale, caused him inexpressible happiness.
It must be confessed that Monsieur d’Artagnan had not wasted his time since coming to Paris. It was a period when a young and gallant man was appreciated to the full, and was indeed more sought after than seeking; a period when the privilege of the aristocracy was unlimited, and when impulse was better comprehended than discretion. It is true that the unperfumed feet of Bassompierre cost him the love of a queen; but to atone for this the gallant Lorrainer made more than one conquest at first sight.
Eugenie returned and came up to d’Artagnan.
“Will you not sit down, monsieur?” she said sweetly. “I believe my sister will return soon, and she will not forgive me if I let you depart. Or perhaps you would prefer a turn in the gardens—the rain ceased almost as it began, and the house is oppressive.”
A turn in the gardens was exactly to the mind of d’Artagnan. What could be more attractive than those secluded paths among the lilacs. with this charming creature on his arm! He hoped, his hope became conviction; his conviction became daring. In a word, ambition seized upon him.
At the rear of the gardens, built against a corner of the walls, was an exquisite little pavilion, furnished in the most superb manner imaginable. A patter of rain was heard on the leaves; conducting his companion to the shelter of this pavilion, d’Artagnan was soon left in no doubt whatever as to her feelings for him or her capability of affection. He was transported to the seventh heaven; his heart was bursting with happiness.
Suddenly, an expression of fright crossing her face, she escaped from his arms.
“Oh!” she murmured. “My sister—I hear the gates opening! If we are discovered here then you are lost, I am lost! You do not know of what she is capable!”
D’Artagnan flung himself at her feet.
“Only tell me where and how our happiness may be completed!” he implored fervently, and seizing her hand, covered it with kisses. She lifted him, gently.
“Come, then—there is not a moment to lose!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “I hear the coach entering—you must remain here hidden, wait!”
“With all my heart,” cried d’Artagnan, bursting with joy at this prospect of happiness. He followed her to a small room, adjoining the bedroom of the pavilion; this little chamber was built against the corner of the garden walls, had no window, and was furnished as a tiny household chapel—apparently little used for this purpose, however.
“I will come for you later—this pavilion is my own abode,” whispered the girl in some agitation. For one brief moment she yielded as d’Artagnan clasped her in his arms; her lips sent the wine of passion leaping through his veins; then she was gone, and the door closed.
Next instant the young man was transfixed—he heard, outside, a short peal of merry laughter, as the lock of the door clicked.
“A pleasant wait to you, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” came a faintly mocking voice. “You shall have the pleasure of Tantalus in hearing how another enjoys what you desire—turn the crucifix on its pedestal. A pleasant evening, monsieur! We were expecting you—”
And with another peal of laughter, the lady departed.
D’Artagnan was absolutely frozen with horror for a moment; he was incapable of movement; he could feel her kisses burning his lips while her words sent ice into his very soul.
Too late, he recalled the warnings of Athos, and a groan burst from him. This was no sister, then, but Helene de Sirle herself; she had caught him in a network, had trapped him like a sturgeon in the fisher’s weir! He thought of her beauty, of her innocence, of her half-timid, half-yielding embrace—and with an oath, he flung himself at the door.
It was massive, locked, unyielding.
CHAPTER XIII
ONE MEANS OF ADM
ISSION TO THE ORDER OF THE HOLY GHOST
When the first emotion of d’Artagnan had passed, he sat down upon a prie-dieu in the darkness, and, faced by a situation of extreme peril, almost at once regained all his coolness and aplomb.
At this moment d’Artagnan was extremely dangerous. It is the prerogative of youth that it may overlook insults, forget hatred, forgive injury; but when its self-steem is wounded, vengeance is invariably exacted. D’Artagnan had seen himself in possession of the fruits of a superb conquest—only to find it delusion. He had arrived here fully warned, exercising extreme caution; without the least effort, he had been tricked and duped by the very person he had supposed vanquished. His person was unharmed, but his vanity had received a blow that penetrated to every fibre of his spirit.
“Good!” he said calmly. “At all events, I now know with whom I am dealing. There is a score to settle on behalf of Athos, and a score to settle on my own behalf. Certainly she has not poisoned me; if I am in prison, at least I have my sword.”
He set about thinking how he could use this sword.
When he first entered this room, there had been a little light; an opening six inches square, high in one wall, supplied air. Now darkness had completely fallen, and from the little opening he could hear the steady thrum of the beating rain. At this instant a flash of lightning lighted up the chapel. Except for the prie-dieu on which he had been sitting, and a small altar against one wall, the place was bare. Above the altar hung an ivory crucifix.
Catching sight of this crucifix by light of the bolt, d’Artagnan remembered the last words his jailer had flung at him. Plunged once more into intense darkness, he made his way toward the spot. What she had meant by turning the crucifix, by her mocking words, he could not tell.
His groping fingers encountered the ivory image, seemingly fixed in the wall. He found that it turned about, apparently upon a hinge or pivot. Exploring, he discovered that the crucifix opened from the wall like a door, leaving a slot in the stones, an inch wide and three inches high. The meaning of this remained inscrutable, for it was quite dark, contained nothing, and his fingers could not reach through the hole.
“Cadedis! I’m a rat in a trap,” he reflected, found his way back to the prie-dieu, and sat down, gloomily. There was only one egress from this chamber, and that was blocked solidly by the massive locked door.
The prisoner was, as has been said, entirely calm. He was even cheerful; for the chief portion of his mission had been accomplished. The essential part of the Thounenin will was destroyed, the plans of Richelieu were checkmated, the queen was saved. Having leisure to consider private affairs, d’Artagnan considered them.
“If I could get out of this place,” he murmured, “I would find myself without a horse; for it would be impossible to get my own animal from the stables. On the other hand, I would find no difficulty in getting away, since this storm drowns out everything. But I do not desire to escape, since I have my sword. I cannot kill that woman, since she is a woman; besides, she deserves a very different sort of fate—”
His reflections were interrupted by a ray of light falling across his prison cell. This ray came from the slot in the wall, which he had left open.
Starting to his feet, he approached the opening, and a sudden trembling seized upon him. He heard the voice of Helene de Sirle, and her voice wakened in him all the emotion he had felt in her presence, at her kisses, at the pressure of her fingers. True, he burned to avenge himself, but when it is a question of a woman, a gentleman has other means of vengeance than a sword.
Putting his eye to the hole in the wall, d’Artagnan repressed an exclamation. This opening pierced through to another chamber in which a tapestry had just been drawn aside, giving him a view of the room, bright with candelabra. This room was a salle-a-manger; directly before d’Artagnan was set a table, with places for two, glittering with gold and silver dishes. At this table, but with her back to him, sat Helene de Sirle; and, facing d’Artagnan, Marshal de Bassompierre.
D’Artagnan stared in utter amazement. He knew Bassompierre too well to be mistaken; he knew that somewhat stout figure, that powerful, gay countenance with its carefully brushed mustaches, far too well. Bassompierre had laid aside a cloak, and wore a magnificent suit thickly sewn with seed pearls—similar to the famous suit for which he had paid fourteen thousand crowns, but certainly not the same, since Bassompierre never wore the same suit more than once.
A moment later the tapestry was drawn on the other side of the hole, and d’Artagnan was again in darkness.
Through the aperture d’Artagnan could now hear everything, but he could see nothing.
Biting his nails in fury, he made his way back to his seat. He comprehended now the full extent of the lady’s cruelty—and he comprehended a good deal besides. This, for example, fully explained why Bassompierre had remained for the night in Paris.
“And I—I must sit here like a snail!” thought d’Artagnan in despair and rage.
His chagrin was complete. From the adjoining room he could hear the voices plainly, now low, now high; he could hear the suave, merry tones of Bassompierre, he could hear the soft laughter of Helene de Sirle, he could even catch the savor of the exquisite viands that were served—viands which Bassompierre, one of the first epicures of his day, applauded with vehemence.
Further, d’Artagnan could comprehend even more than this. From what he had seen of this pavilion, knowing that his prison-cell lay in a corner of the wall against which the pavilion was built, he understood that its bedroom lay on the opposite side. His cell, in effect, lay between dining-room and bedroom. The cruelty of the fair one was complete.
As the moments passed, d’Artagnan felt his own hunger more acutely, for he had not eaten since leaving the hotel of St. Luc. Evidently Bassompierre was not sparing the wine, for its effects sharpened the tones of both hostess and guest, and gay sallies were interspersed with bursts of laughter. D’Artagnan pricked up his ears, as he heard a well-known name uttered.
“Richelieu? Bah! You have dismissed the servants, I think?”
“We are alone, my love,” returned the voice of Helene.
“Listen, then! You have heard rumors today?” said Bassompierre.
“That the king is ill.”
“Ill? Ventre de St. Gris!” cried Bassompierre, who affected the favorite oath of Henri IV. “He is better than ill, upon my honor! He is dying—at this moment he is doubtless dead. That is why I spur to Lyon tomorrow—that is why I must leave you with dawn, my sweet charmer! Death of my life—who is king, think you, but Gaston of Orleans? Well, I bear his order to arrest Richelieu. There’s a secret for you! A kiss for it—a kiss!”
D’Artagnan sat transfixed. So the Duc d’Orleans, who would be king the moment Louis XIII was dead, had given Bassompierre an order for Richelieu’s arrest! This explained everything; the gathering of the princes, the mad haste in which Bassompierre was riding at dawn.
“Orleans has signed the order?” came the voice of Helene sharply.
“Doubtless. It will be awaiting me at the Hotel de St. Luc, with my horses and gentlemen,” said Bassompierre, whose tongue was thickening. “But come! One more glass of this marvelous vintage and then, my charmer—and then Paradise!”
D’Artagnan almost lost sight of his own chagrin in view of what he had just heard. Chaillot lay outside Paris. Bassompierre had come here to Passy, and at dawn would go to the Hotel de St. Luc—ah! This meant that the Englishman was concerned in the matter somewhere! Well, so much the worse for Richelieu, at whose door lay the assassination of Buckingham.
Suddenly d’Artagnan started to his feet. He had remembered something—he had remembered meeting with Sieur de Roquemont outside these gates. And Helene de Sirle was certainly the agent of Richelieu. A dreadful suspicion seized upon the young man; he stood trembling, indecisive, hesitant.
At this moment a cry sounded from the other room—a cry, the sound of a laughing struggle, the sound of a glass smashing on the floor. A peal
of thunder, a vivid lightning-stroke, drowned all else. In the ensuing silence, he heard the laughing voice of the lady.
“No, no—impatient lover!” Another laugh, and d’Artagnan judged shrewdly that not Bassompierre alone had misused the wine. “I demand five minutes of grace, M. le Marechal, before surrendering my defenses!”
“I demand an unconditional capitulation!” thundered Bassompierre, and roared with laughter. “Good, then—you have five minutes of grace, no more! But I have no guide to Paradise, my angel—”
“The door will lie before you, monsieur,” came the answer, and then an interval of silence.
D’Artagnan comprehended. Helene de Sirle had preceded her lover. With a muttered oath, the young man came back to his own situation, and cursed his own blind folly.
“Charming creature!” soliloquized Bassompierre’s voice. “A charming repast, charming food, a charming end to the evening—let the tempest howl, and devil take all poor souls who lack the luck of Bassompierre! One more glass—”
D’Artagnan considered speaking through the aperture, giving the marshal warning—but of what? Bassompierre was, to put it bluntly, drunk; and when in liquor, was famed for his blind rages. Undoubtedly he would be unable to think or act coherently. Before d’Artagnan could decide, the moment of opportunity had flown. He heard Bassompierre stumbling from the next room into the corridor.
“Fool that I am!” exclaimed d’Artagnan in despair. What mattered the marsbal to him, after all? His own fate was the thing at issue. He ground his teeth at thought of the chagrin Helene de Sirle was heaping upon him—
The key was turned in the lock of his door.
D’Artagnan started to his feet, his rapier bared. Had they come to assassinate him, then? Undoubtedly. He had witnessed the prelude to the comedy; now, in refinement of cruelty, her men were about to put an end to him.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 112
