St. Martin's Summer Part 39

"It was Garnache," said Fortunio, "and if the information will serve you, it was I who slew him."

"You?" cried Florimond. "Tell me of it, I beg you."

"Do you fool us?" questioned Marius in a rage that overmastered his astonishment, his growing suspicion that here all was not quite as it seemed.

"Fool you? But no. I do but wish to show you something that I learned in Italy. Tell me how you slew him, Monsieur le Capitaine."

"I think we are wasting time," said the captain, angry too. He felt that this smiling gentleman was deriding the pair of them; it crossed his mind that for some purpose of his own the Marquis was seeking to gain time. He drew his sword.

Florimond saw the act, watched it, and his eyes twinkled. Suddenly Marius's sword shot out at him. He leapt back beyond the table, and threw himself on guard, his lips still wreathed in their mysterious smile.

"The time has come, messieurs," said he. "I should have preferred to know more of how you slew that Monsieur de Garnache; but since you deny me the information, I shall do my best without it. I'll try to conjure up his ghost, to keep you entertained, Monsieur le Capitaine." And then, raising his voice, his sword, engaging now his brother's:

"Ola, Monsieur de Garnache!" he cried. "To me!"

And then it seemed to those a.s.sa.s.sins that the Marquis had been neither mad nor boastful when he had spoken of strange things he had learned beyond the Alps, or else it was they themselves were turned light-headed, for the doors of a cupboard at the far end of the room flew open suddenly, and from between them stepped the stalwart figure of Martin de Garnache, a grim smile lifting the corners of his mustachios, a naked sword in his hand flashing back the sunlight that flooded through the window.

They paused, aghast, and they turned ashen; and then in the mind of each arose the same explanation of this phenomenon. This Garnache wore the appearance of the man who had announced himself by that name when he came to Condillac a fortnight ago. Then, the sallow, black-haired knave who had last night proclaimed himself as Garnache in disguise was some impostor. That was the conclusion they promptly arrived at, and however greatly they might be dismayed by the appearance of this ally of Florimond's, yet the conclusion heartened them anew. But scarce had they arrived at it when Monsieur de Garnache's crisp voice came swiftly to dispel it.

"Monsieur le Capitaine," it said, and Fortunio shivered at the sound, for it was the voice he had heard but a few hours ago, "I welcome the opportunity of resuming our last night's interrupted sword-play." And he advanced deliberately.

Marius's sword had fallen away from his brother's, and the two combatants stood pausing. Fortunio without more ado made for the door.

But Garnache crossed the intervening s.p.a.ce in a bound.

"Turn!" he cried. "Turn, or I'll put my sword through your back. The door shall serve you presently, but it is odds that it will need a couple of men to bear you through it. Look to your dirty skin!"

CHAPTER XXII. THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH

A couple of hours after the engagement in the Marquis de Condillac's apartments at the Sanglier Noir at La Rochette, Monsieur de Garnache, attended only by Rabecque, rode briskly into France once more and made for the little town of Cheylas, which is on the road that leads down to the valley of the Isere and to Condillac. But not as far as the township did he journey. On a hill, the slopes all cultivated into an opulent vineyard, some two miles east of Cheylas, stood the low, square grey building of the Convent of Saint Francis. Thither did Monsieur de Garnache bend his horse's steps. Up the long white road that crept zigzag through the Franciscans' vineyards rode the Parisian and his servant under the welcome sunshine of that November afternoon.

Garnache's face was gloomy and his eyes sad, for his thoughts were all of Valerie, and he was prey to a hundred anxieties regarding her.

They gained the heights at last, and Rabecque got down to beat with his whip upon the convent gates.

A lay-brother came to open, and in reply to Garnache's request that he might have a word with the Father Abbot, invited him to enter.

Through the cloisters about the great quadrangle, where a couple of monks, their habits girt high as their knees, were busy at gardeners'

work, Garnache followed his conductor, and up the steps to the Abbot's chamber.

The master of the Convent' of Saint Francis of Cheylas a tall, lean man with an ascetic face, prominent cheekbones, and a nose not unlike Garnache's own--the nose of a man of action rather than of prayer--bowed gravely to this stalwart stranger, and in courteous accents begged to be informed in what he might serve him.

Hat in hand, Garnache took a step forward in that bare, scantily furnished little room, permeated by the faint, waxlike odour that is peculiar to the abode of conventuals. Without hesitation he stated the reason of his visit.

"Father," said he, "a son of the house of Condillac met his end this morning at La Rochette."

The monk's eyes seemed to quicken, as though his interest in the outer world had suddenly revived.

"It is the Hand of G.o.d," he cried. "Their evil ways have provoked at last the anger of Heaven. How did this unfortunate meet his death?"

Garnache shrugged his shoulders.

"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," said he. His air was grave, his blue eyes solemn, and the Abbot had little cause to suspect the closeness with which that pair of eyes was watching him. He coloured faintly at the implied rebuke, but he inclined his head as if submissive to the correction, and waited for the other to proceed.

"There is the need, Father, to give his body burial," said Garnache gently.

But at that the monk raised his head, and a deeper flush the flush of anger--spread now upon his sallow cheeks. Garnache observed it, and was glad.

"Why do you come to me?" he asked.

"Why?" echoed Garnache, and there was hesitancy now in his voice. "Is not the burial of the dead enjoined by Mother Church? Is it not a part of your sacred office?"

"You ask me this as you would challenge my reply," said the monk, shaking his head. "It is as you say, but it is not within our office to bury the impious dead, nor those who in life were excommunicate and died without repentance."

"How can you a.s.sume he died without repentance?"

"I do not; but I a.s.sume he died without absolution, for there is no priest who, knowing his name, would dare to shrive him, and if one should do it in ignorance of his name and excommunication, why then it is not done at all. Bid others bury this son of the house of Condillac; it matters no more by what hands or in what ground he be buried than if he were the horse he rode or the hound that followed him."

"The Church is very harsh, Father," said Garnache sternly.

"The Church is very just," the priest answered him, more sternly still, a holy wrath kindling his sombre eyes.

"He was in life a powerful n.o.ble," said Garnache thoughtfully. "It is but fitting that, being dead, honour and reverence should be shown his body."

"Then let those who have themselves been honoured by the Condillacs honour this dead Condillac now. The Church is not of that number, monsieur. Since the late Marquis's death the house of Condillac has been in rebellion against us; our priests have been maltreated, our authority flouted; they paid no t.i.thes, approached no sacraments. Weary of their unG.o.dliness the Church placed its ban upon them under this ban it seems they die. My heart grieves for them; but--"

He spread his hands, long and almost transparent in their leanness, and on his face a cloud of sorrow rested.

"Nevertheless, Father," said Garnache, "twenty brothers of Saint Francis shall bear the body home to Condillac, and you yourself shall head this grim procession."

"I?" The monk shrank back before him, and his figure seemed to grow taller. "Who are you, sir, that say to me what I shall do, the Church's law despite?"

Garnache took the Abbot by the sleeve of his rough habit and drew him gently towards the window. There was a persuasive smile on his lips and in his keen eyes which the monk, almost unconsciously, obeyed.

"I will tell you," said Garnache, "and at the same time I shall seek to turn you from your harsh purpose."

At the hour at which Monsieur de Garnache was seeking to persuade the Abbot of Saint Francis of Cheylas to adopt a point of view more kindly towards a dead man, Madame de Condillac was at dinner, and with her was Valerie de La Vauvraye. Neither woman ate appreciably. The one was oppressed by sorrow, the other by anxiety, and the circ.u.mstance that they were both afflicted served perhaps to render the Dowager gentler in her manner towards the girl.

She watched the pale face and troubled eyes of Valerie; she observed the almost lifeless manner in which she came and went as she was bidden, as though a part of her had ceased to exist, and that part the part that matters most. It did cross her mind that in this condition mademoiselle might the more readily be bent to their will, but she dwelt not overlong upon that reflection. Rather was her mood charitable, no doubt because she felt herself the need of charity, the want of sympathy.

She was tormented by fears altogether disproportionate to their cause.

A hundred times she told herself that no ill could befall Marius.

Florimond was a sick man, and were he otherwise, there was still Fortunio to stand by and see to it that the right sword pierced the right heart, else would his pistoles be lost to him.

Nevertheless she was fretted by anxiety, and she waited impatiently for news, fuming at the delay, yet knowing full well that news could not yet reach her.