The Chevalier d'Auriac Part 15

'You have flown your hawk at too high a quarry, monsieur.'

'Then that painted ape, d'Ayen, told a true tale,' I burst out in uncontrollable anger. 'Monseigneur, do what you will to me. Remember that you help to the eternal dishonour of the King.'

The words. .h.i.t him, and the blood flushed darkly under the pale olive of the man's cheek.

'Monsieur, you forget yourself.'

'It is not I, but you who do so--you who forget that your name is Bethune. Yes, touch that bell. I make no resistance. I presume it will be the Chatelet?'

His hand, half stretched towards the b.u.t.ton of the call-bell before him, suddenly stayed itself.

'Were my temper as hasty as your tongue, monsieur, it would have been the Chatelet in half an hour.'

'Better that----' I began, but he interrupted me with a quick wave of his hand.

'Monsieur d'Auriac, a time will come when you will have reason to regret the words you have used towards me. I do not mean regret them in the place you have mentioned, but in your heart. In this business the honour of Bethune as well as the honour of the King is at stake.

Do you think I am likely to throw my hazard like an infant?'

I was silent, but a dim ray of hope flickered up in my heart as I looked at the man before me, and felt, I know not why, in the glance of his eye, in the tone of the voice, in his very gestures, that here was one who had conquered himself, and who knew how to rule.

'Now, sir,' he went on, the animation in his tone dropping to a cold and frigid note, 'proceed with your tale.'

It was a thing easier ordered than done, but I managed it somehow, trying to be as brief as possible, without missing a point. Sully listened without a movement of his stern features, only his eyes seemed to harden like crystal as I spoke of Biron and Zamet. When I told what I heard of the death of Madame de Beaufort, he turned his head to the open window and kept it thus until I ended. When he looked back again at me, however, there was not a trace of emotion in his features, and his voice was as cold and measured as ever as he asked:

'And your reward for this news, chevalier?'

'Is not to be measured in pistoles, monseigneur.'

'I see; and is this all?'

His tone chilled me. 'It is all--no,' and with a sudden thought, 'give me twenty men, and in a week I put the traitors in your hands.'

He fairly laughed out. '_Corb[oe]uf!_ Monsieur le chevalier, do you want to set France ablaze?'

'It seems, monseigneur, that the torch is held at Anet,' I answered a little sulkily.

'But not lighted yet; leave the dealing with that to me. And, monsieur, the King is at Fontainebleau, and for a month nothing can be done. And see here, monsieur, I can do nothing for you; you follow. At the end of a month go and see the King. Tell him your story, and, if he believes you, claim your reward. I will go so far as to promise that you will be received.'

All the little hope I had begun to gather fluttered away at these words like a sc.r.a.p of paper cast in the wind. 'Monseigneur,' I said, and my voice sounded strangely even to my own ears, 'in a month it will be too late.'

'Leave that to me,' he answered. 'I have a reminder always before my eyes,' and he pointed through the open window in the direction of a house that towered above the others surrounding it.

'I do not follow,' I stammered.

'That is the Hotel de Zamet,' he said grimly, and I thought I understood why he had turned to the window when I spoke of Madame de Beaufort's death.

I rose with a sigh I could barely repress: 'Then there is nothing for me to do but to wait?'

'You will not lose by doing so.'

'I thank you, monseigneur; but there is one little favour I ask.'

'And that is?'

'The King's Peace until I see the King.'

'You will be safer in the Chatelet, I a.s.sure you, but as you wish--stay, there is one thing. Not a word of your interview with me, even to the King.'

My hopes rose again. 'On my faith as a gentleman, I will not mention it.'

As I finished he struck his bell sharply twice, and Ivoy entered.

'Ivoy, do me the favour to conduct Monsieur d'Auriac to the gates yourself, and impress upon him the necessity of keeping to his lodging. The air of Paris out-of-doors is unhealthy at present.

Good-day, monsieur.'

Ivoy bowed, with a slight upraising of his eyebrows, and we pa.s.sed out. Going down the stairway, he said to me with a smile: 'I see you dine at home to-day, chevalier.'

'At the Two Ecus,' I answered, pretending not to understand his allusion, and he chuckled low to himself. At the gates I observed that the guards were doubled, and a whispered word pa.s.sed between Ivoy and the officer in command. But of this also I took no notice, and, wishing them the day, rode back as I came.

CHAPTER X

AN OLD FRIEND

I was not the man to neglect Sully's warning, and, besides, there was an added reason for being careful of dark corners, as both Zamet and Lafin knew me, and were unlikely to lose any opportunity of doing me harm that might come their way. I could do nothing but wait and exercise patience until the month was over, and it was a hard enough task. Beyond my daily visits to my ordinary, I went nowhere and saw no one. I occasionally, of course, met my landlord and his wife, but few words pa.s.sed between us, and Jacques had become marvellously taciturn, so that I was alone as if I were in a desert in that vast city, where the roar of the day's traffic and the hum of voices seemed to vibrate through, and possess the stillest hours of the night. Doubtless there were men of my acquaintance in Paris, but I did not seek them, for the reasons already stated, and I lived as secluded a life as though I had taken the vows of a hermit.

In the meantime I was more than anxious that Jacques should execute my plan in regard to Marie. That I felt was a debt of honour to myself; but though I tried the threat of dismissal, he refused to go point blank, and I was weak enough to allow him his way. It was one of the many instances in which my firmness of temper failed, but it is not possible for a man always to keep his heart in a Milan corselet. I could not make out Sully's reasons for his action. It seemed to me that he had got all my information out of me without pledging himself to anything in return, and that he held me as safely as a cat does a wounded mouse. To save my own skin by quitting Paris was a thought I can honestly aver that never came to me. It could not, with the all-pervading presence of my love for Madame. It was for her sake I was here, and for her sake I would go cheerfully to the block if it need be; but it would not be without a try to save her, and if the worst came to the worst I should let all France know the infamy of her King. The hero-worship I had in my heart for him had given place to a bitter hatred for the man who was using his power to drive a woman to ruin, and inflict upon me the most bitter sorrow. All this may sound foolish, but such was my frame of mind, and I was yet to know how great the man was whom I hated--but of that on another day. In the meantime there was no news from Bidache, and I was kept on the cross with anxiety lest some danger had befallen my dear one there. Anet was not three hours' ride away, and at Anet was de Gomeron, unless indeed the conspirators had scattered, as was not at all unlikely, after the manner in which they had been discovered. My doubts in regard to Madame's safety were set at rest about three weeks after my interview with Sully. One evening Pantin knocked at my door, and, on my bidding him enter, came in with many apologies for disturbing me.

'But, chevalier,' he added, 'I have news that Monsieur will no doubt be glad to hear.'

'Then let me have it, Maitre Pantin, for good news has been a stranger to me for long.'

'It is this. Our friend Palin arrives in Paris to-morrow or the day after.'

'And stays here?'

'No, for he comes in attendance on Madame de la Bidache, and will doubtless live at the Rue Varenne.'

I half turned for a moment to the window to hide the expression of joy on my face I could not conceal otherwise. Were it daylight I might have been able to see the trees in the gardens of the Rue Varenne; but it was night, and the stars showed nothing beyond the white spectral outline of the Tour de Nesle beyond the Malaquais.

'Indeed, I am glad to hear this,' I said as I looked round once more; 'though Paris will be dull for Madame.'

'Not so, monsieur, for the King comes back tomorrow, and the gossips say that before another fortnight is out there will be another _maitresse en t.i.tre_ at the Louvre. _Ciel!_ How many of them there have been, from poor La Fosseuse to the D'Estrees.'

'Maitre Pantin, I forgot myself--will you help yourself to the Frontignac?'