Orrain Part 34

"'I was but watching those birds, sire.' And I pointed at a shoal of swallows that darted hither and thither in the sunlight snapping up the flies.

"'Ah! The swallows! What of them?'

"'They are lovely birds, sire; but, you see, they spare nothing.' And even as I spoke there was the flash of a bronze-green wing, and a wretched moth that was fluttering in the air was borne away.

"The King took my meaning, and laughed uneasily.

"'You mean I have done wrong.'

"'The d.u.c.h.ess is a lovely woman, sire.' And I saw him flush with shame and anger--the anger of a weak man. He controlled himself with an effort, however, and said coldly:

"'Monsieur de Besme, have the goodness to strike that gong.'

"I did so, and in a moment the doors were flung open, showing the glittering throng without. The King kept his back turned towards me, and, taking the hint, I picked up the ape and withdrew. So, you see, my news is of the gravest, and Diane has won the rubber."

"You think so?"

"It is all over. The council to-day will revoke the suspension of the edicts, and once more the h.e.l.l-fires will be lit on the parvis of every church in Paris. I am off to grow pears at Besme. My office is for sale; but I will give it to you, with my cap and bells and baton, as a free gift if within two days you do not place a certain fair lady on a pillion behind you and ride for the Swiss cantons."

For a little there was a silence, and then I rose to my feet.

"I am going," I said. "What has to be done must be done quickly."

He nodded a.s.sent. "I shall come with you part of the way," he said, and called to his ape.

With this we descended from the wall, and walked back together to the Ladies' Terrace.

The gardens were full, for the perfect day had tempted all within the palace who could do so to come forth. Scattered here and there in the walks, or resting on the seats, were knots of people, the bright colours of their dresses all the brighter in the mellow sunshine. As we were pa.s.sing the fountain called the Three Graces we were stopped by a little man with a round face and bulging eyes. He was quite young, not more than four or five and twenty, but, young as he was, Monsieur de Brantome had already acquired the reputation of being an inveterate gossip, and was feared more than the plague. I had but a pa.s.sing acquaintance, two days' old, with him, but he seized Le Brusquet.

"_Eh bien_, Le Brusquet! I hear that you were with the King and madame early this morning, and that high words pa.s.sed. Is it true that you leave the Court?"

"I promise to leave it, monsieur, if you will but take my office."

"Your office!" said Brantome in surprise.

"Yes; I have always felt myself unworthy of it since I had the honour to meet you."

"Not at all, my friend," grinned Brantome; "you do yourself injustice.

The man who quarrels with madame has unequalled claims. You have no rival. _Au revoir_!"

And, chuckling to himself, the little abbe went on, leaving Le Brusquet biting his lip. Brantome stopped the next person he met to tell him of the pa.s.sage-at-arms, and turning the walk we found ourselves in front of the Ladies' Terrace.

Somewhat apart from the gay groups that crowded together in the centre of the Terrace was a solitary figure standing near the pedestal of a bronze satyr, cast for the late King by Messer Benvenuto the Florentine. It was mademoiselle herself, and with a word to Le Brusquet I left him and walked straight up to her.

"I was wondering to myself if I should see you here," she said as she greeted me.

"And I came specially to see you, so that Fate has been kind for once."

She smiled, and was about to make some answer, when there was a burst of laughter and the sound of many voices, and turning we saw Diane de Poitiers on the stairway leading down to the Terrace, surrounded, as usual, by a heedless and ever-laughing crowd. She stood for a moment, her Court around her, whilst the people on the other parts of the Terrace broke up their talk and came towards us. Then La Valentinois, who was robed in crimson, began to descend the marble steps slowly, and as she reached the Terrace all those a.s.sembled there bowed to her as though she were the Queen. All except myself and mademoiselle, who stood plucking at the ivy leaves on the pedestal of the statue beside her, apparently unconscious of La Valentinois' presence. Whether the d.u.c.h.ess noticed me or not I do not know, but I saw her eyes fixed on mademoiselle, and she stopped full, about two paces from her.

Mademoiselle, however, maintained her att.i.tude of total unconcern; but after a moment she looked up and the glances of the two crossed each other. Mademoiselle stared past the favourite as though she did not see her, and Diane's face became like ivory, and her dark eyes frosted with an icy hate--a hate cold and pitiless as everlasting snow. All eyes were fixed on them now, and there was a dead silence as the two--the woman and the girl--faced each other. But it was mademoiselle who was winning. Far away as her look was there was that in it that brought the colour back to Diane's cheeks, to make it go again. Her bosom rose and fell, she played nervously with her fan, and at last she spoke, with a voice that shook in spite of her efforts to restrain it:

"I hear, mademoiselle, that you do not find the Court to your liking."

And the reply was a simple bow.

The d.u.c.h.ess was all red and white now. The insult was open and patent; but worse was to follow, for she made a mistake, and went on, with a sneer:

"It is a pity they do not care more for the education of girls in Poitou; but I think you are right, mademoiselle. The Court is not suited to you. You should take the veil and the black robe."

"I should prefer the black robe to a crimson one, madame. The latter reminds one too much, amongst other things, of the blood of the martyrs."

It was a crushing retort, and one to which there was no answer, for the affair of the tailor of St. Antoine's was fresh in all minds.

Something like a murmur went up from those around. The d.u.c.h.ess gave a little gasp; but, preserving her composure with an effort, turned and walked away, her head in the air, but wounded to the quick. The crowd followed her, but one figure remained--a man with a white, drawn face and dark circles under his eyes. Thrice he made a movement as if to step up to us and say something, but each time his courage failed him; and then, turning, he too hastily followed the others. And from my soul I pitied De Ganache.

CHAPTER XXV

THE PACKET OF LETTERS

We were left alone together, the bronze satyr leering down upon us as if in mockery. La Valentinois stood at the other end of the Terrace surrounded by her Court, and ever and again there were whisperings amongst them, and strange glances bent towards us. We might have been plague-stricken, in such manner did all shrink from us.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "you have been too rash. Look!" And I glanced at the group around Diane de Poitiers. She followed my eyes, and a little smile played upon her lips.

"I care not, nor do I fear her."

"But, mademoiselle, there are others who fear for you, and that has happened which you must hear. Not here! Come away from this, where we will be secure from prying eyes."

For a little she seemed to hesitate, and then: "Very well, monsieur; the air will, perhaps, be purer away from here."

So, side by side, we went down the steps together, and I felt, rather than heard or saw, the mutterings and the glances that followed us.

On the other side of the lawn, facing the Ladies' Terrace and leading towards the riding-school, is a walk hedged in with high shrubbery on either hand. We followed this about half way up its length, and then pa.s.sing through a narrow wicket found ourselves in a part of the gardens to which few, if any, of the Court ever went. Here, amidst a bewildering maze of rose bushes running almost wild, stood an old oak.

There was a little clearing at its base, around which a rough seat was placed; and here, sitting by her side, I told mademoiselle what I knew, and of the crisis that had arrived.

Invisible ourselves, we could from where we were see the Gallery of Apollo and the council hall; and as I ended a figure appeared at one of the windows and waved a 'kerchief in the direction of the Ladies'

Terrace. It was the King.

"See!" and I pointed to the window, "there is the King, and you can guess to whom he signals. Whilst we talk here the council is over, and the peril is at hand."

She did not flinch nor change colour, for she was brave, but she rose and looked steadily at the council room, where we could now see other figures moving in the shadow behind the King. Then she turned to me.

I had risen too, and was standing beside her.

"Do you think they will begin at once?" she asked.

"I cannot say. They will undoubtedly begin as soon as they can."

"It is horrible! Can nothing be done? Oh! why am I so helpless? Why was I not born a man?"