CADETS OF GASCONY

Novels of Love and Adventure

AT ODDS WITH THE REGENT

BY BURTON E. STEVENSON

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50

THE DAUGHTERS OF BABYLON

BY WILSON BARRETT AND ROBERT HICHENS

Frontispiece. Cloth, $1.50

WHEN BLADES ARE OUT AND LOVE’S AFIELD

BY CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50

THE LAST BUCCANEER

BY L. COPE CORNFORD

Cloth, $1.50

THE RED MEN OF THE DUSK

THE LOVER FUGITIVES

THE STORY OF A SCOUT

BY JOHN FINNEMORE

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50 each

THE INEVITABLE

BY PHILIP V. MIGHELS

Frontispiece. Cloth, $1.50

MLLE. FOUCHETTE

BY CHARLES T. MURRAY

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50

A TAR-HEEL BARON

BY MABELL S. C. PELTON

Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50

Oh, but he was a man!—a match for both of us almost

Page [167]

CADETS OF GASCONY

Two Stories of Old France

BY
BURTON E. STEVENSON
AUTHOR OF “AT ODDS WITH THE REGENT,” “A SOLDIER
OF VIRGINIA,” “THE HERITAGE,” ETC.

Illustrated by
ANNA WHELEN BETTS

PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1904

Copyright, 1904
By J. B. Lippincott Company
Published March, 1904
Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A.

TO THE
SPIRIT OF YOUTH
OF WHICH MAY WE ALL
PARTAKE

CONTENTS

MARSAN
CHAPTER	PAGE
I.—	I chance upon an Adventure	[ 13]
II.—	I walk into a Hornet’s Nest	[ 28]
III.—	I find the Key to the Puzzle	[ 41]
IV.—	I meet a Kindred Spirit	[ 55]
V.—	The Ride to Cadillac	[ 67]
VI.—	I taste of Roquefort’s Temper	[ 79]
VII.—	A Vision in the Night	[ 90]
VIII.—	Marleon!	[ 104]
IX.—	The Den of the Wolf	[ 115]
X.—	The Question	[ 125]
XI.—	Roquefort’s Price	[ 135]
XII.—	A Message from Without	[ 149]
XIII.—	The Wheel turns	[ 162]
XIV.—	The Door in the Cliff	[ 174]
XV.—	Roquefort exacts a Promise	[ 182]
XVI.—	Madame la Duchesse de Roquefort	[ 196]
XVII.—	A Ten Years’ Vengeance	[ 202]
XVIII.—	Light!	[ 214]
A CHILD OF THE NIGHT
I.—	An Encounter in the Streets	[ 223]
II.—	I find Myself Brother to an Enchanting Girl	[ 234]
III.—	I find my Part a Difficult One	[ 242]
IV.—	In which I come to Paris	[ 253]
V.—	M. Ribaut is Obdurate	[ 266]
VI.—	Ribaut plays a Card	[ 276]
VII.—	I am Fortunate in finding a New Friend	[ 284]
VIII.—	I keep an Appointment	[ 292]
IX.—	A Descent into a Cesspool	[ 299]
X.—	Mère Fouchon scores	[ 309]
XI.—	Torture	[ 316]
XII.—	A Child of the Night	[ 329]
XIII.—	A Night of Agony	[ 339]
XIV.—	Greater Love than Mine	[ 350]
XV.—	To the Church of St. Landry	[ 358]
XVI.—	M. D’Argenson’s Coup	[ 370]
	Envoy	[ 377]

ILLUSTRATIONS

MARSAN

A ROMANCE OF THE MIDI

CHAPTER I
I CHANCE UPON AN ADVENTURE

It was at the corner of the Rue Gogard that I saw her first. You may, perhaps, recall the place, if you know Montauban. A great barrack of a building, time-stained and neglected, blocks the way as one turns into it from the Rue Pluvois. Before the house is a high wall, pierced by a single gateway. The door is of oak, four inches thick and heavily barred with iron,—Vincennes has few stronger,—wherefrom it may be seen that he who built the structure was a man who had his enemies.

The door held my eye, as I turned the corner, by its very massiveness, and just as I reached it, it was flung open with a crash, and a girl rushed into the street. She stopped as she saw me standing there, and my hat was sweeping the pavement as I caught her eyes on mine.

“You seem a man of honor,” she said, and pressed her hand against her breast as though to calm the beating of her heart.

“A thousand thanks, Mademoiselle,” I answered, and I saw that even the stark emotion which possessed her could not bemask the beauty of her face. “Believe me, I shall be most happy to prove it.”

“You have a sword?” she asked, still eying me with attention.

I threw back my cloak and touched the hilt.

“And know how to use it?”

“Try me, Mademoiselle,” I said simply.

The color swept back into her face and her eyes narrowed with sudden resolution.

“Then follow me, Monsieur,” she said, and turned back through the gateway.

I was at her heels as she ran across the little court and plunged into a dark doorway beyond. I paused an instant to draw my sword, dropping my cloak that it might not cumber me, and then clattered up the stair behind her. It was dark and narrow and of many turnings, so that she, who knew the place, had reached the top while I was stumbling along midway, cursing the darkness. But she awaited me, and as I reached her side held out her hand to me. My own closed over it in an instant and found it soft and warm and trembling. Here was an adventure after my own heart, and I had had so few adventures!

“Cautiously, Monsieur!” she whispered, and led the way along a narrow hall to the right. The darkness was absolute, the atmosphere close and stifling. I began to wonder if I had walked into a trap, but that warm little hand in mine reassured me. Besides, who could know my errand from Marsan, and, not knowing it, who would set a trap for so small a bird as I? Then, suddenly, as we turned a corner, I heard the sound of angry voices and saw a light streaming redly through an open doorway. In a moment we had reached it, and I paused in astonishment as I saw what lay within.

There was a great fire blazing on the hearth, which threw into sharp relief a bed with disordered hangings, an open desk with papers overflowing from it to the floor, a chair overturned, even the faded tapestry upon the walls. But it was at none of these I looked, though I found them all bit into my memory afterwards. It was at a man bound to a chair, at two others who were glancing hastily through the papers they were pulling from the drawers of the desk, at a fourth who was making an iron turn white in the glow of the fire. The man in the chair was watching the door with agonized eyes, but of the faces of the others I could see nothing, for they were masked.

Even as I stood there, palsied by astonishment, the man at the fire drew forth the iron and turned with it sputtering in his hand.

“Come, M. le Comte,” he said, “I think this will answer,” and he advanced towards the prisoner.

But the girl was through the doorway ere he had taken a second step.

“You curs! You cowards!” she screamed, and ran at him as though to wrench the hissing iron from his hands.

Her voice had loosed the chains which bound me, and I sprang after her, drew her back with one hand, and while the man stood for an instant agape at this intrusion, ran him through the breast. As he felt my sword in his flesh he raised his hand and threw the iron full at me, but I stepped aside and avoided it, and he fell in a heap on the hearth. The others were upon me almost before I could turn, and with the suddenness of their rush drove me into a corner, where, in truth, I was very glad to go and get my back snugly against the wall. The moment I felt their blades against my own I knew I had swordsmen to deal with. For a breath I held them off, then I saw them exchange a glance, and as one knocked up my blade, the other ran me through the shoulder. It had been my heart, but that I sprang to the right. In the instant that followed I saw my chance and thrust full at my opponent, who had left his breast uncovered, but my point rang against a net of steel and the blade shivered in my grasp.

“Well thrust,” he said, laughing harshly. “’Tis a pity so pretty a swordsman must die so young. Come, Gaspard, let us finish,” and he advanced to thrust again. I had my poniard out, but knew it would be of little service.

And then, as I steeled myself for this last attack, commending my soul to the Virgin, I saw a white arc of sputtering iron sweep through the air and hiss deep into the cheek of the man in armor. He fell back with a terrible cry, and, dropping his sword, clapped his hands to his face. The other stood for an instant dazed, then, with an oath, caught up his companion and plunged into the darkness of the hall without. I heard his footsteps echoing along it for a moment, then all was still. Only the girl stood there with the bar of iron still in her hand.

“I thank you, Mademoiselle,” I said. “In another moment I had been beyond assistance.”

She smiled at me faintly, tremulously, and cast the iron down upon the hearth. Plainly, she was not used to scenes of violence, and had small relish for them.

“Come,” I continued, “let us release the prisoner,” and with my poniard I cut the ropes which bound him. He arose from the chair unsteadily, stretched his limbs, and looked at me with a good-humored light in his eyes.

“In faith, Monsieur,” he said, “you arrived most opportunely. I admit I have no appetite for white-hot iron. I am a man of the pen, not of the sword. Accept my thanks,” and he bowed with a certain dignity.

I bowed in return, not to be outdone in courtesy; then, of a sudden I felt my strength drop from me, and sat down limply on the chair from which I had just released him.

“Oh, you are wounded!” cried the girl. “See, uncle, here in his shoulder,” and before I could prevent it she had sunk to her knees beside me and was tearing away my doublet. In a trice my shoulder was bare, and she examined the wound with compressed lips, touching it with intelligent fingers that bespoke her convent training.

“It is nothing,” I protested weakly. “A mere flesh-wound. Do not trouble about it, I beg of you, Mademoiselle. I shall be better in a moment.”

But the man interrupted me.

“Nonsense!” he said curtly, and he too looked at the wound. “Claire,” he added, “bring a basin of water and clean linen. We will soon repair this damage.”

I followed her with my eyes as she ran to do his bidding. So her name was Claire, and I repeated it over and over to myself, as a man rolls wine in his mouth to get the full flavor. She was soon back, and the wound washed clean and deftly bandaged.

“There,” he said at last, “I think that will do. I do not believe the hurt a dangerous one, Monsieur, but you would best consult without delay a more skilful surgeon than either Claire or I. One thing more I can do for you,” and he opened a cupboard in the wall and brought out a flask of wine. “Drink this,” he said, and handed me a glass brimming over. I drained it at a draught—how good it tasted!

“A thousand thanks,” I said. “I am quite myself again. I trust Mademoiselle will pardon my momentary weakness.”

She smiled happily as she looked at me.

“Oh, yes, Monsieur,” she answered softly; “I think I could find it in my heart to pardon a much more serious offence,” and her face grew rosy with sudden blushes, in fear, doubtless, that she had said too much. I could guess that she had seen little of the world, and that its strangeness frightened her.

Her companion forestalled me before I could find words for a reply.

“May I ask the name of our rescuer? We shall wish always to remember it with gratitude.”

“Paul de Marsan,” I answered simply.

He started, and I saw the girl’s face turn white.

“Liege to the Comte de Cadillac?” he asked quickly.

I bowed.

“I came to Montauban to see him,” I said, wondering at his emotion.

“But must you see him?” he persisted.

“At the earliest moment.”

He waved his hand with a gesture of despair and stood for a little time, his head bent in thought.

“M. de Marsan,” he began at last, “I fear we have done you ill service by calling you here to-day——”

But I stopped him before he could say more.

“Ill service!” I cried. “Ill service to give my sword a chance at three consummate scoundrels, and me an opportunity of meeting Mademoiselle! Do me a thousand such ill services, Monsieur!”

His was a merry spirit when no danger threatened, and I saw a jest spring to life in his eyes.

“A chance to meet a thousand pretty girls?” he asked.

But he was not to catch me so.

“On the contrary, a thousand chances to meet Mademoiselle,” I answered boldly, though the boldness was no deeper than the lips, and from the corner of my eye I saw the girl blush hotly.

He glanced from me to her and back again. The mirth died out of his face, as heat from a bed of ashes, and left it cold and gray.

“I fear that may not be, Monsieur,” he said gravely. “Our way is not your way, as you will soon know for yourself. But, at least, I can give you a friend in place of the one you have lost here in our service.”

He signed to Claire, and she ran to an adjoining room, returning in a moment with a sword in a scabbard of stout leather.

“Gird him,” he said.

She came to me shyly, and taking the old scabbard from my belt, clasped the new one there. I trembled at the touch of her fingers, and gripped my hands behind me to keep my arms from about her. I could see the red blood surging in waves over cheek and neck as I looked down at her, but only when she had finished the task did she lift her eyes to mine for an instant. What eyes they were—dark, lustrous, with the white soul looking out!

“Draw your blade,” commanded the other.

As I obeyed and its polished sides caught the firelight I saw it was no ordinary weapon.

“Test it,” he said.

She came to me shyly

I bent it to left and right. It gave in my hands like some living thing.

“’Twill take a stout coat of mail to turn it aside,” he said. “’Tis a Toledo.”

I flushed with joy at possessing such a treasure and tried to stammer my thanks, but he cut me off.

“There, there,” he said, not unkindly. “Keep your thanks. I doubt you will soon find you have little enough cause for gratitude. But ’tis the utmost I can do for you, for ’tis very unlike we shall ever meet again.”

“But your name,” I stammered. “Surely I may know your name.”

He hesitated a moment, then shook his head impatiently, as though casting some weakness from him.

“My name is of small moment,” he said. “You may call me Duval. That will serve as well as any other.”

“But, Monsieur,” I protested, “I hope to see you many times again—you and Mademoiselle,” and I stole a glance at her, but her eyes were fixed on the floor.

Duval came to me and took my hand.

“Believe me, M. de Marsan,” he said earnestly, “I honor you and value your friendship highly, but for your own sake you must not meet us again. Indeed, ’twill do you little good to try, since by to-morrow we shall be far from here, in a country it were death for you to penetrate.”

I gazed at him, too astonished to reply.

“I will ask you one more favor,” he added. “Will you assist me in carrying yonder fellow to the bed? We must give him a chance, if he hath a spark of life left in him.”

“Willingly,” I answered, and between us we raised the man, who lay where he had fallen, and stretched him on the couch. He gave no sign of life and I thought him done for, but when the doublet was stripped from his breast I saw that the blood was still slowly oozing from the wound which my sword had made. Duval hesitated an instant and then lifted the mask from his face. I had never seen the man before, but he had a strong, bold countenance, with something of rough power in it.

“That was the master against whose cuirass you broke your sword, M. de Marsan,” remarked Duval, and then as he met my inquiring glance he added, “Believe me, I appreciate your courtesy, Monsieur, in keeping back the questions which must be on your lips; but ’tis a matter you are ignorant of, even were I at liberty to explain it. And now I must ask you to leave us, for we have much to do.”

“We will meet again,” I said earnestly as I took his hand.

But he merely shook his head.

“Claire will accompany you to the street,” he said, and turned away to his disordered desk.

I followed her without a word along the hallway and down the dark stair; but at the foot I caught her hand and held it.

“Can it be, Mademoiselle,” I asked, “that this is adieu? Surely you do not believe so!”

“I fear I must believe so, Monsieur,” she answered softly. “Only I wish myself to thank you for your gallantry and courage. They were given to a good cause.”

“And will be given again to the same cause!” I cried. “I warn you, Mademoiselle, that I shall not submit so tamely to this decree of separation.”

She pressed my fingers gently and withdrew her hand.

“Come,” she said, “I must return,” and she went on across the little court and to the gate, which still hung open as we had left it. “Adieu, Monsieur,” she added, and held out her hand again.

I raised it to my lips and kissed it.

“It is not adieu,” I said. “I will not have it so. I shall see you again many times,” but as I looked into her eyes I felt my certainty slipping from me, and with it my self-control.

Perhaps she read my thought, for she drew her hand away and made ready to close the gate.

“Adieu, Monsieur,” she repeated, and I saw that her eyes were bright with tears.

I sprang to her and caught both her hands in mine.

“But, Claire,” I cried, “at least, tell me that you are sorry; tell me that you care; tell me that you would not have it so!”

She looked up into my face and her lips were quivering.

“I have had many disappointments,” she said. “One more will matter little. You must go, Monsieur. To detain me here is to endanger both of us.”

“As you will,” I said, a little bitterly, and I dropped her hands and turned to the gate. “Only in this, Mademoiselle, you shall not be disappointed. I swear it. Au revoir.”

I stepped through to the street and turned with bared head and trembling hands for a last glimpse of her. For an instant she held the gate half open and gazed into my eyes. Then she shut it fast, the bar dropped into place, and I heard her footsteps slowly cross the court.

CHAPTER II
I WALKED INTO A HORNETS’ NEST

The vesper bell of a near-by priory waked me out of my thoughts. I remembered with a start that the business which had brought me to Montauban was as yet undone, and I hastened my steps towards the hotel of the Comte de Cadillac, which stood, as I very well knew, on the right bank of the Tarn, as one approaches it from the south along the Rue du Midi. It was not till then that the increasing cold of evening drew my attention to the fact that I no longer had my cloak about me, and I remembered that I had not thought to pick it up again as I passed the place where I had dropped it, so absorbed had I been in my companion. I reflected with satisfaction that I had chosen an old one in which to make this journey, not only that I might be the less an object of notice, but also because I did not know to what vicissitude of weather I might be subjected ere I was back again beside the fire at Marsan.

Night had settled upon the town before I reached the Rue du Midi and turned up towards the river, but I did not slacken my pace until I saw gleaming before me the great torches which at night-time always flamed on either side the wide gate to the Hotel de Cadillac. Far in the distance, beyond the high-arched bridge which spans the river, I could catch the glitter of light about the great château of my master’s friend and ally, M. le Comte de Toulouse; and away, on either side, the warm lights of the town; but I paused for only a glance at them as I turned towards the gate before me. There was the usual crowd of lacqueys and men-at-arms loitering about it, and I made my way through them without hinderance, across the inner court, and up the steps to the great doorway. Here a sentry stopped me.

“I wish to see M. le Comte,” I said. “I have an urgent message for him from Marsan.”

The fellow looked me over for a moment, plainly little impressed by my appearance.

“Very well, Monsieur,” he said at last. “Come with me.”

Midway of the hall a group had gathered about a man who was talking excitedly, and from the faces of his listeners I judged it to be no ordinary bit of gossip he was imparting. I caught a few words as we made a way through the crowd.

“It is most curious,” the speaker was saying. “No one can imagine how it occurred.”

“What is it?” I asked my guide when once we were past the crowd. “What has happened?”

But he merely shook his head, as though it were not his business nor mine, and kept on without replying. I promised myself that I would some day repay him twice over for his insolence. The blood is warm at twenty!

He turned to the right through an open doorway and stopped before a man who was walking soberly up and down, his chin in his hand, his brows knitted.

“M. d’Aurilly,” he said, “here is a youngster who says he has a message for M. le Comte.”

My cheeks flushed at his tone, and I bit my lips to keep back the retort which would have burst from them.

D’Aurilly stopped abruptly in his walk and looked at me.

“That will do, Briquet,” he said to the sentry after a moment, and stood looking at me until the sound of his footsteps died away down the corridor. I could see that he was searching me through and through, and no whit abashed, for I come of as good blood as any in Gascony, I gave him look for look.

“So you have a message?” he asked at last.

“Yes, Monsieur,” I answered, and as I looked into his face I saw that his eyes glittered under half-closed lids, that his nose arched like an eagle’s beak, and that the thick moustachio could not wholly conceal the cruel lines of the mouth. Verily, I thought, there seem to be few pleasant people in the household of M. le Comte de Cadillac.

“And where is this message from?” he continued.

“From Marsan, Monsieur.”

“And you are?”

“Paul de Marsan, Monsieur.”

He looked at me yet a moment, his eyes glittering behind their veil of lashes like snakes in ambush.

“Very well,” he said abruptly. “Give me this message. I will deliver it to M. le Comte.”

And he held out his hand.

“Impossible, Monsieur,” I answered. “I was instructed to deliver it only to M. le Comte himself.”

Again he paused to look me up and down, and I saw the hot color of the south leap to his cheeks.

“Perhaps you do not know that I am the Vicomte d’Aurilly,” he sneered at last.

“I heard the sentry call you so, Monsieur,” I answered, bowing. I did not add that I thought it strange he should be in the household and seemingly so near the person of M. le Comte—for his estates lay far south on the border of the Pyrenees, and had always been reckoned more Spanish than French.

“Come,” he cried roughly, “enough of this play! Give me the message. M. le Comte is ill and will see no one.”

“Then I will wait till he is well again, Monsieur,” I said, as calmly as I could, and made for the door, head in air.

But his voice arrested me.

“Stop, you fool!” he cried.

I turned upon him, all my blood in my face.

“That is not the way one gentleman addresses another, Monsieur,” I said between my teeth. “I must ask Monsieur to apologize.”

“Apologize!” he cried, purple with rage. “Upon my word, these Gascon paupers are insufferable!”

But I could bear no more—no Marsan could endure an insult such as that—and I sprang upon him and struck him full in the mouth with my open hand. He had his poniard out in an instant and lunged at me,—which I thought a cowardly thing,—but I stepped back out of harm’s reach and whipped out my sword before he could strike a second time. He paused when he saw my point at his breast.

“Now,” I said, “perhaps Monsieur will draw and fight like a gentleman, not like a blackguard.”

I thought he would choke with rage. And at that instant an inner door opened and a man stepped through. He stopped in amazement as he saw our attitude.

“What is this, d’Aurilly?” he demanded sternly. “A duel—and in M. le Comte’s ante-chamber? Surely you know his need of quiet!”

D’Aurilly turned to the newcomer, his face working with passion.

“I was pressed beyond endurance, M. Letourge,” he said. “Look at this,” and he pointed to the mark of my hand still on his face.

“A blow!” and Letourge looked at me wrathfully. “Who are you, Monsieur, that you dare strike the Vicomte d’Aurilly?”

But my blood was up and my eyes were full on his. In my heart I knew that his eyes were honest eyes and his face an honest face, albeit a stern one.

“A gentleman whom he had insulted, Monsieur,” I answered proudly. “We of Marsan permit that from no man.”

But Letourge’s face had changed. He stood staring at me with starting eyes, as though not able to believe them. Then he pulled himself together and his face became like marble, lighted by two coals of fire.

“You are a bold man, Monsieur,” he said at last, in a voice that chilled me, “to set foot in this house. Methinks you will never leave it with your breath in your body.”

It was my turn to stare.

“Is M. le Comte de Cadillac a second Pharaoh,” I asked, “that he should slay his messengers? Had I known that, I had made less haste from Marsan in his service.”

Letourge had recovered his self-control, but I saw that his hands were trembling.

“From Marsan?” he repeated. “And when came you from Marsan?”

“An hour ago,” I answered.

“And you have a message?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“You lie!” he cried. “You must think our memories marvellous short! M. le Comte does not slay messengers, but he hangs spies. Do you not already feel the rope about your neck?”

I looked into his eyes and saw he was in earnest. What could the man mean? I realized that I had need to keep my wits about me.

“Monsieur,” I said, with what calmness I could muster, “you have used words to me which you will some day regret. I am Paul de Marsan and no spy. We of Marsan have been liege to Cadillac for two hundred years and have always aided them to fight their battles. I come to warn M. le Comte of a great danger which threatens him, but seem to have fallen into a nest of madmen.”

Letourge looked at me with working lips.

“Think not your tongue can save your head,” he sneered. “You have come to the end of the journey. Will you lay down your sword, or shall I call in a dozen lacqueys to take it from you?”

There was but one course for a gentleman to choose. I glanced desperately about the room. He and d’Aurilly stood between me and the door into the outer hall. There was only one other, the door through which he had entered.

“Monsieur,” I cried, “I shall not lay down my sword until my hand is powerless to hold it!”

With a cry of rage he sprang towards the hall to summon aid, while with one bound I was at the other door, and felt with joy that it yielded to my touch. As I slammed it shut behind me I saw that it had a bolt on the inner side, and shot it into place just as those without threw themselves against it. It could hold but a few moments at the most, and I cast my eyes about the room for some way of escape.

I saw that I was in a sleeping-room, the great, curtained bed occupying one side. A single candle burning on a table near it illumined the room but feebly, yet there was light enough to show me a window opposite the bed. I ran to it and threw back the shutter with a crash. The window was barred. I glanced again about the room. There was no other window—no other door but that by which I had entered, and which was already creaking under the blows rained upon it. I must die here, then, like a rat in a trap. Well, I would not die alone!

“What is this?” cried a voice from the bed. “Name of God! Did I not tell you, Gaspard, that I wanted quiet? Are you pulling the house down? Answer me, man!”

The curtains were jerked apart and a face appeared between them—a horrible face, swollen and bandaged. He listened a moment to the blows and cries without, then got unsteadily to his feet and took a sword from the chair at his bedside, cursing softly to himself the while. And as he turned his eyes fell upon me.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you here?”

A spark of hope sprang to life in my breast.

“I am Paul de Marsan,” I explained. “I have a message for M. le Comte de Cadillac.”

He sat down heavily upon a chair.

“Very well,” he said. “I am he. But that does not explain this cursed uproar.”

My hat was off and I was on my knee before him in an instant. Perhaps here I should get justice. The door was already splitting. I had need to speak quickly.

“M. le Comte,” I cried, “believe me, I am your faithful and devoted servant. I have journeyed fifty leagues to bring you a message of great moment to your house. Yet, when I came here and asked to see you that I might give you this message, I was called a spy, set upon, and threatened with the gibbet.”

“But why—why?” he asked.

“I do not know, Monsieur,” I answered.

He looked me for an instant in the eyes.

“M. de Marsan,” he said, “I believe you. Get behind my chair. I will protect you from these fools.”

It was time. Even as he spoke there came a mighty crash against the door, as of a heavy log hurled upon it, and it leaped from its hinges. The mob poured into the room, headed by d’Aurilly and Letourge. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, they did not see me standing there behind their master, then they were upon me with a yell of rage.

But M. le Comte was out of his chair, his sword advanced.

“One step more,” he cried, “and I strike! Letourge, d’Aurilly, you shall answer for this with your necks! Are you mad?”

The mob stopped on the instant. Plainly they knew that when their master struck, he struck home.

“He is a spy, Monsieur!” cried Letourge. “He hath come hither to assassinate you—to complete the work he began in the Rue Gogard!”

M. le Comte started round upon me, his eyes wild with passion. He snatched the candle from the table and thrust it near my face, his lips a-quiver. He held it a moment so, and then set it down again.

“Liar and traitor,” he said, in a voice shaking with rage, “what bravado brought you here I cannot guess, or what hope you could have had that once my hand was on you, you could escape my vengeance!”

I stood staring at him with open mouth. Had he too gone mad?

“Were it not for this wound which crazes me,” he went on after a moment, “I would have you hung this instant. But I myself am hungering to see you kick your life out at a rope’s end, so we will defer that pleasure till to-morrow. Take him, men!” he added, and stepped suddenly away from me.

They came on with a yell, and I had but time to slash open the face of the first one, when they had me down, and I thought for a moment would tear me limb from limb. But their master quieted them with the flat of his sword as he would have quieted a pack of hounds.

“To the lower dungeon with him!” he cried, and stood watching as they dragged me away, his hands to his face, his eyes dark with pain and rage. I would have spoken even then, and the words might have saved me, but that d’Aurilly clapped his hand upon my mouth, and with a curse bade me hold my tongue. Out into the hall they dragged me, using me more roughly now that they were from under their master’s eyes, and down a long flight of steps. At the stair-foot they paused a moment and I heard the rattle of bolts. A door was clanged back and I was pitched forward into the inky pit beyond.

CHAPTER III
I FIND THE KEY TO THE PUZZLE

I lay for some time where I had fallen, nursing my bruises and reflecting with bitterness upon the singular gratitude of princes. I was dazed by the suddenness, the unexpectedness, of it all. What had I done that I should be treated so? And then, in a breath, a flash of light broke in upon me and brought me to my feet. What was it Letourge had said, “He will finish the work he began in the Rue Gogard.” The Rue Gogard—but that was where I had met Claire. Could it be that it was Letourge and M. le Comte whom I had resisted there; that it was into the face of M. le Comte himself that white-hot iron had seared? I shuddered as I recalled the hiss of the iron into his flesh, the smell of burning, his cry of agony! Small wonder he should thirst for vengeance! Death on the gibbet would be merciful beside the torture which he had suffered and which he must suffer still.

I sat down again to think it out. Yes, there could be no doubt of it—I had been blind not to see it before. The man in armor had been styled “M. le Comte” in Duval’s room; he had called his companion Gaspard, and it was Gaspard whom he had cursed from his bed. Gaspard, of course, was Letourge. And then Duval’s despair when I had told him who I was—oh, there could be no doubt of it! And, in a flash, I saw the full peril of my position.

Here, then, was I, Paul de Marsan, about to be hanged by order of the Comte de Cadillac, whose family we of Marsan had served faithfully for two centuries and more, and whose favor I had thought to win. It had remained for me to be the first to betray him—though how was I to know?—and to be the first of the Marsans to die with a rope about his neck. I saw tumbling about my ears all those pretty castles in the air which I had spent so much time in building while floating along the Midouze or taking a lesson with the sword from old Maitre Perigneau, who had tested his art by my father’s side—and my grandfather’s, as well—in a hundred combats. It is not a pleasant thing when one is only twenty, with a heart warm for adventure, to see just ahead the end of the path—and such an end! More shaken than I cared to own, I rose again to my feet and determined to find out the nature of this place into which I had been cast. Perhaps I might yet escape, and M. le Comte would be less vengeful once his wound had healed.

The cell was not large, as I discovered by feeling my way along the walls, all of great stones, delicately fitted,—ten feet square at the most,—and the low, iron-studded door the only opening. Plainly, I could not go out until that door was opened, and the path from it to the gibbet seemed like to be a short one. I stood for a time leaning against it; at last, overcome by weariness and despair, I sank into one corner and dropped into a troubled sleep.

Then, of a sudden, I awoke to feel my wrists seized by iron hands and twisted behind me. I struggled till my heart seemed like to burst, certain that this was the end, but those great hands clung to me and would not be shaken off.

“Hold him so,” a voice whispered, and the hands tightened.

I lay still, the sweat starting from my forehead, waiting the blow that would end it. A hand tore the doublet from my breast,—there was a moment’s silence broken only by the crackling of a paper,—then the voice whispered again,—

“Strike him!”

A great blow fell upon my head.

I opened my eyes to find a tall fellow bending over me and dashing water into my face. Another stood near by holding a torch. A flare of light came from the doorway, and I heard voices and the clank of arms without.

“He’s coming round,” said the fellow with the torch, seeing my eyes open. “He must have struck his head when we pitched him in here. Lucky for us his skull is thick. Again, Blatot.”

And the other deluged me again with water.

I sat upright, sputtering, dazed, suffocated.

“What is it?” I asked, so soon as I could get my breath. “Do you wish to choke me?”

“No, we’ll leave that to the hangman,” answered Blatot grimly. “Just now we are to take you before M. le Comte. I advise you to go quietly.”

“I will go gladly,” I said, for I had feared another answer. Besides, now that I held the key to the puzzle, I might find a way out. “Lead the way.”

They fell into place about me and we toiled up the steps to the hall above. As we reached the stair-head I saw it was full day. Down the hall we turned, into the room where I had first met d’Aurilly, and across it to the chamber beyond.

It was crowded with M. le Comte’s retainers, and they must have got some wind of my adventure, for a hum of anger greeted my entrance. M. le Comte himself was seated in a great fauteuil, his face still bandaged, but seemingly giving him less pain than it had the night before. D’Aurilly stood beside him, and he smiled maliciously as he noted my torn and disordered clothing, drenched with water, and the bruises on my head and face. Plainly he had not forgot that blow on the mouth—at which I did not greatly wonder, for neither should I have forgot it.

“M. de Marsan,” said M. le Comte, when I stood before him, “I have had you brought here in place of ordering you straight to the gallows that you may answer certain questions I have to ask of you. ’Twill be wise on your part to answer them fully and truthfully.”

“I shall be glad to answer every question Monsieur may please to ask,” I answered, overjoyed that he should begin so mildly. “I shall be only too happy to tell Monsieur everything I know.”

“That is well,” and his brow cleared a little. “You may perhaps yet save your neck. Now answer me. Where was it you last saw the Duc de Roquefort?”

“M. le Comte,” I answered simply, “I have never in my whole life seen the Duc de Roquefort.”

His brow contracted and he brought his hand down with a crash upon the arm of his chair.

“By God! M. de Marsan,” he cried, “you seem to set small value on that head of yours! You will be denying next that it was you who came to the rescue of that cursed, cowardly henchman of his, Brissac, just when I had him where he must have given up certain papers. You will be denying that it was you who spitted Bastien, who caused me to suffer this wound across the face,” and he pointed to his bandaged cheek with a terrible gesture that sent the blood back to my heart.

“I deny nothing, Monsieur,” I protested, “but I beg you to believe that I did not know it was you I was resisting or your enemies I was aiding.”

“M. le Comte,” broke in d’Aurilly, with an evil light in his eyes, “has not this farce gone far enough? Why keep this liar longer from the rope?”

“Why, indeed?” repeated M. le Comte, looking at me darkly. “Do you persist in your denials, M. de Marsan?”

And then of a sudden I remembered the message. With feverish fingers I sought to draw it from my bosom—it was not there! In a flash I understood—the assault in the dungeon, the tearing of my doublet, the rustling of a paper!

“It has been stolen!” I cried hoarsely, my throat on fire. “Some one has stolen it from me!”

I caught d’Aurilly’s eyes on mine, and my heart grew hot with hate as I marked the sneer on his lips.

“What hath been stolen?” demanded M. le Comte impatiently. “No tricks, M. de Marsan!”

I clinched my hands to still their trembling, until the blood started beneath the nails.

“M. le Comte,” I began, “hear me to the end. I came to Montauban from Marsan as fast as horse could carry me that I might place in your hand a message which concerns you deeply. You know what my reception was, but you do not know that after I had been thrown into yonder dungeon some one crept upon me while I slept and tore the message from me. See, here is where I carried it. You have a traitor in your house, Monsieur!”

His face was red, and I could hear the stir in the circle of men-at-arms behind me. Only d’Aurilly laughed harshly.

“A pretty story!” he cried. “A brazen lie! Does not your patience near an end, M. le Comte?”

But I looked only at my master. Surely he must see that I spoke truth!

“M. le Comte will remember,” I concluded, “that I told him of this message in his sleeping-room, but he would not hear me out. The one who robbed me must have known I carried it, yet I told no one save yourself, the sentry at the outer door, M. Letourge, and—the Vicomte d’Aurilly.”

I was looking full at d’Aurilly now, and I think he read the meaning of my look, for his face went white, and I could see his hand gripping his sword-hilt. And in that instant I knew who the traitor was!

“Good God, M. le Comte!” he burst out, “do you permit us to be insulted by this scoundrel?”

But my master waved him to silence. His face was very stern and his voice cold as steel when he spoke again.

“You make grave charges, M. de Marsan,” he said; “so grave that either your head or another’s will fall. Do you know the contents of this message?”

“I do, Monsieur,” I answered, and I saw d’Aurilly go white again. “I have been trying to tell it you. I learned it by rote that I might repeat it in case I was intercepted and so compelled to destroy it. I had not foreseen it would be stolen from me at my journey’s end.”

“Well, repeat it then, man!” he cried, moving in his seat uneasily. “Out with it!”

“‘M. le Duc de Roquefort,’” I repeated, “‘has learned of the presence of Madame la Comtesse at the Château de Cadillac, together with Mademoiselle, her daughter. He has learned also that not above thirty men can be mustered to defend the place. He designs to carry it by surprise and to take prisoner Madame and Mademoiselle, confident that with them as hostages he can secure certain concessions from M. le Comte. There is need of haste!’”

I could hear the crowd behind me breathing hard. A murmur of rage and astonishment ran from mouth to mouth, and I caught the rattle of a hundred scabbards as hand fell to hilt. M. le Comte was trembling with emotion.

“And the signature!” he cried, bending down from his chair till his eyes glared into mine. “The signature!”

“I know nothing of the signature,” I said. “It was not given to me.”

“But whence came the message? Prove to me that it is genuine—that it may be believed!”

“M. le Comte,” I said, as calmly as I could, for the blood was beginning to sing in my ears, “permit me to tell my story. Three nights ago a stranger rode up to Marsan. He bore the message which I have just repeated. My father, who recognized the messenger by some secret sign which I know nothing of, ordered out his horse at once that he himself might bring it to Montauban. But my father is growing old, as you know, Monsieur; besides, in cold, wet weather his wounds trouble him greatly. I begged that I might come in his stead. I was eager to be of service to our master—to prove to him my loyalty and address. At last my father yielded. I should have his horse. The stranger gave me the paper sealed. He repeated to me its contents—three, four times, until I knew them word for word. Then he sprang to horse and disappeared in the night. Five minutes later I was on the road to Montauban. By noon of the next day I had reached the Losse, and here I was compelled to stop to rest my horse. Evening saw me en route again. At midnight I reached Comdan; dawn found me at Lestoure. An hour’s rest, and I pressed on. At noon I had reached the Garonne. I forded it, and thought soon to reach Montauban, when, of a sudden, my horse fell lame. He grew worse at every step, until he was no longer able to proceed. There was no house in sight, so I left him by the roadside and hastened on afoot. As evening came I entered Montauban from the west.”

I paused a moment at what I had yet to tell.

“Yes, yes!” cried my listener. “Continue; and then?”

“And then, M. le Comte,” I said, “as I was hastening along the Rue Gogard a woman burst from a gate and appealed to me for help. Without pausing to reflect, I followed her. The rest you know.”

He sat for a moment looking at me.

“In faith, Monsieur,” he said at last, “if what you say is true,—and it hath a certain ring of truth about it,—you are not so greatly at fault as I had thought. I reprieve you from the gallows till I have tested your story. M. de Fronsac,” he added, to a young man who stood near by, “I commit M. de Marsan to your care. See that he does not escape.”

Fronsac bowed and took his place at my side.

“See that he is provided with new equipage,” added M. le Comte, with a gleam of humor in his eye as he looked at me; “he hath need of it.” And then he rose from his seat and his voice took a sterner ring. “Messieurs,” he cried, “you have heard this message, and can guess how nearly it touches us. Whether it be true or false, we shall soon determine. Arm yourselves!”

D’Aurilly, leaning on his chair, interrupted him.

“Do you mean, M. le Comte,” he asked disdainfully, “that you intend to go forth on this fool’s errand?”

My master shot him a swift glance, in which I saw suspicion spring to life.

“It may be, as you say, a fool’s errand, M. le Vicomte,” he answered. “Should it prove so, this liar will lose his head. But should it appear that he spoke truth,”—he paused, his eyes still on d’Aurilly,—“should it appear that he spoke truth, it will not be his head that falls. In either case, a spy and traitor will get his dues.”

D’Aurilly’s eyes were on the floor, but he kept countenance well.

“I am quite ready for the test, M. le Comte,” he said quietly. “Nothing will delight me more than to see a traitor get his dues.”

“Nor me,” assented M. le Comte, and looked at him a moment longer. Then he turned again to his men with fire in his eyes. “Arm yourselves, Messieurs!” he cried. “In twenty minutes we must be en route to Cadillac. Should this dog of a Roquefort, who dares fight only women, have been there before us, we will follow him even to his den in the Pyrenees and drag him forth like the cur he is! À outrance!”

They heard him with gleaming eyes and mantling cheeks. I could hear their swords rattling, eager to leap from the sheath. The lust of blood was on them, and they caught up the cry as their master ended.

“À outrance!”

Up and down the corridors it echoed as they rushed for the door, cheering, shouting, cursing. They bore the news along the hall and out into the court, whence, in a moment, again came the cry,—

“À outrance!”

And the good people of Montauban, hearing it, hurried to their homes and barred their doors, for they knew that the hounds of Cadillac were loose again.

CHAPTER IV
I MEET A KINDRED SPIRIT