“QUICK!” I WHISPERED; “OPEN THE DOOR BEYOND, AND GO
OUT BY THE PRIVATE WAY.”—Page [8].]

THE TRAITOR’S
WAY

By

S. LEVETT-YEATS

Author of “THE HONOUR OF SAVELLI,” ETC.

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY
W. B. GILBERT

NEW YORK · FREDERICK A.
STOKES COMPANY · PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1901,
BY
FRANK A. MUNSEY

Copyright, 1901,
BY
S. LEVETT-YEATS

Copyright, 1901, by
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

CONTENTS

THE TRAITOR’S WAY

CHAPTER I
SOWING THE WINDS

I suppose there is no man who would care to have sunlight in all his life; but I hardly think there is one who could have sunk to the deep as I did, and yet have been coward enough to live, as I do—I, Gaspard de Vibrac.

As I write these lines in my study in lonely Vibrac, the four white stars on my shield, carved in relief above the fireplace, seem to burn red with the memory of my shame, and nothing can wipe out that stain in my ’scutcheon—nothing, nothing!

Thank God! I am the last of my house! Thank God! No young feet patter up and down the long corridors; no young voices shrill through these silent rooms. They would grow up to know me as the “Shame of Vibrac.” The very villagers, my serfs, dogs, whom I could send to the carcau with a nod of my head, scowl as they doff their caps to me, and the children shiver and shrink behind their mothers’ skirts on those rare occasions when I come out of the château. I suppose they know the story—and I live!

And is this the pity of God? He has spared my life. Good men, honorable gentlemen, my friends—I had such friends once—have died like vermin. The Lake of Geneva holds all that is left of Maligny, le beau cadet, as we called him; the Vidame died at the galleys, chained to the scum of mankind. But he died, Maligny died, even Achon died, that merciless priest! And I live as a leper! I have come to know that death is the pity of God.

Forty years back there was life and strength, a hot heart, and no count kept of the score. Since then I have paid and paid; but the hideous total of my debt yet looms as large as ever.

As I look back into the past, it seems but as yesterday to me that gray afternoon, the day following the St. Germain’s Affair, when Court and city were alike convulsed with terror at the discovery of the conspiracy that was to end in the shambles at Amboise, and I rode from the Louvre, through the buzzing streets of Paris, to my house in the Rue Coquillière.

Of course I was hilt deep in the matter, and, even as I rode, there was a list of names in my pocket that would have brought the heads of the owners thereof to the block did but the Cardinal of Lorraine or Catherine de Medicis cast but an eye on the scroll. Prudence had counselled me to leave Paris, as most of the others had done; but as yet I was sure that the Flies of Guise had not settled upon me, and again, when a man is four-and-twenty and in love, prudence is cast to the four winds of heaven. And so I risked my neck for a pair of blue eyes, as many another man has done, and will do, and whilst I rode I placed my hand at my breast pocket, not to feel if the scroll of names was safe, but to assure myself that a letter and a delicate embroidered glove lay there over my heart. They were there; but even through my madness I felt a touch of shame, and my hand dropped to my side, for glove and letter had come from another man’s wife—and he was my friend.

In a few yards I was at my own gates, and riding into the courtyard, dismounted and hurried within. I wanted to gaze upon the glove again, to read the letter once more, and to think—if ever man had need for reflection I had then.

In my study I found Majolais, the dumb, black dwarf, whom I had purchased as a gift for the Princess of Condé. He lay asleep, with his head, hideous as that of a gargoyle, resting upon a cushion of yellow satin. Ringing for my equerry, I gave orders for the dwarf to be sent at once to the Princess, and it took two men to remove him, for the creature seemed to have become attached to me in a strange, wild way, and fought like a mad thing to gain my side, uttering strange sounds from his tongueless throat as he struggled with a wonderful strength to gain my side.

At last, however, he was taken away, and I was alone. Flinging myself into a chair by the window I took out the glove and the letter. The glove I kissed and placed on a table beside me, and the letter I read again and again.

It was a mad, pitiful letter, and in the blurred and hasty lines were words that could only have been written by a woman who for the moment had lost all power of reason, and was ready to leap into the abyss from which there is no return. I will speak no more of it. I should have destroyed it then and there, but that I too had lost all control over myself, and for the sake of Marie de Marcilly was ready to deceive my friend and beggar myself of my honor. When I thought of her and her unhappiness all thought of Jean de Marcilly was lost, although I had first seen war under him at the Escaillon and at Renty, though we had ridden side by side, the day he took “The Emperor’s Pistols,” though he had saved my life in the trenches before Thionville—though, in short, he was a brave and noble gentleman and my friend. At that moment, however, he was to me the man who stood between me and my love. I had not reached this stage at once. I had fought and struggled with myself and lost. And now I was ready to take the downward steps to guilt, and descending is always easy.

It was in this frame of mind that I slowly folded the letter and put it back when the door opened, and Badehorn, my equerry, a stolid German, stepped in.

“A lady to see monsieur.”

“A lady!” I half stammered, rising from my chair, with the wildest thoughts running through my mind.

“Monsieur!”

“Show her in, please,” I said, my voice shaking, my hands stone-cold. Badehorn bowed and retired. For an instant I stood in breathless expectation, then the door opened again, and the woman I loved stood before me.

I can see her now as in a mirror, tall and slight, with the fair hair and blue eyes that came to her from her English mother. The hood of the long, gray cloak she wore was thrown back, her cheeks were pale and the red gone out of the perfect bow of her lips.

“Madame,” I began, hardly knowing what to say; but she came forward with hasty steps.

“Monsieur de Vibrac—I have come to warn you. You are amongst the suspected—you must leave Paris at once.”

“Monsieur de Vibrac,” I repeated a little bitterly; but she took no notice, and continued in the same quick, hurried manner.

“Go! I implore you! Go! It will be too late to-morrow. They have taken the Vidame, and my—my husband has fled.”

“Marcilly gone! And left you!”

A rush of color came to her cheeks.

“I warned him. It was the merest chance that I found out—and—and——”

She made no answer, and then, with the room swimming around me, I dropped on my knee before her, and, taking her hand—it was as cold as mine—pleaded with all my soul.

“Madame! I have got your letter, and I know now all your unhappiness—and I know, too, another thing—else you had not come here to save my life. Oh, Madame!” And rising, I stood beside her. “The world is not made for sorrow——”

“You are mad,” she murmured, but her hand still lay in mine. I was mad, and she spoke the truth, and the desperate words burst from me.

“Marie, I love you. Come with me, and let us end this life of misery for you and for me. You love me—”

“I have never said so——”

“Does man or woman ever need to be told that, Marie? You have saved my life. Let me devote that life to you, and give you life and happiness. I will leave Paris to-night. There is a wicket gate in the gardens of the Louvre beyond the riding school. I have the key. Meet me there at compline, and when the sun rises to-morrow we will be safe from pursuit, and then, Marie—and then—happiness for you and for me——”

I stopped, for her face was as marble, and with a shiver she murmured to herself,

“What shall I do? What shall I do?”

“Marie!” I began; but she stayed me with a gesture, and putting her hands on my shoulders, looked straight into my eyes.

“Vibrac, you know not what you say. You are as mad as I am. Think what this will mean to you and to me! Think what the world will say!”

“I have thought, and I care not. What is the world to me, or I to the world? I am not mad. Let me save you from a life you hate. I will save you—there is not one who shall stand between me and the woman I love.”

“You love?” Her voice was so low the words might have been a whisper.

“Aye, love! And with a love you do not dream of, dear.”

“It will spoil your life—I cannot—I cannot!”

“Marie! it will make my life—come!”

She said nothing, but stood still as a stone, her bosom heaving, and her eyes wet with tears. I tried to draw her towards me, to kiss her, but she shrank back.

“Not now,” she whispered, and my arm dropped to my side, and we stood gazing at each other, two wandering souls that had passed out into the unknown seas. At last she spoke again, her words coming slowly and with an effort.

“You will never regret, Vibrac? Will you?”

“My queen! Can you ask?” And bending low I touched her hand with my lips. She drew back once more quickly, and pulling her hood up, held the folds at her neck with her hand as she said:

“I must go—let me go now.”

“Until compline—and you will be at the wicket gate?”

She but bent her head in reply, and turned as if to go. It was at this moment that we heard voices in the corridor outside, and then a hurried knocking at the door. Marie ran back to my side with a little gasp.

“They are come to take you—oh, Vibrac!”

But there was no tread of spurred heels, no clash of arms, only that insistent knocking, and then a voice:

“Vibrac! Vibrac! It is I—Marcilly!”

We two but glanced at each other, a guilty shrinking glance. Then springing forward, I took Marie by the arm, and almost dragged her across the room to where a curtained archway separated my study from a dressing-room.

“In there! Quick!” I whispered; “open the door beyond, and go out by the private way; I will stop him here.”

She fled through the passage, and letting the curtain fall I walked up to the door with a trembling heart, and drew back the bolt, to find Marcilly before me, with Badehorn standing behind him, a look of alarm in his face.

“You! In Paris!” I exclaimed.

“Not by my own will,” he laughed grimly; “but, thanks to this dress, I am still safe,” and then for the first time I noticed that he was clad in the black and yellow of Guise.

“Let no one interrupt us, Badehorn,” I said; and with an affected cordiality—I seemed to learn without effort to play the hypocrite—I took Marcilly’s arm and drew him within whilst he continued talking.

“I had this dress ready for an emergency, and actually helped to batter in my own doors. Then seeing a chance of getting away I slipped up here, where I knew I would be safe for an hour or so,” and with these words he flung himself into the chair near the window, and began playing with the glove I had left on the table.

Sick at heart as I was with the fear that he would recognize the glove, I could not help, even then, noticing the extraordinary resemblance that he bore to the Prince of Condé, the secret chief of our conspiracy, a resemblance that had given Marcilly the nickname of “The Shadow of Condé.” And as I stared at him he glanced up at me, running his eyes over my gay court dress.

“You are safe as yet, I see,” he said, “and have time for these things,” and he flicked the glove from side to side.

“I leave Paris to-night. I am no longer safe.”

“Then we will go together and join the Prince. It must be open war now. Thank God! The Cardinal is a poltroon, and has lost his head, else they would have trapped us like rabbits—but there are still some men amongst the Guisards, and they may be here any moment. Come!” And he started up, the glove still in his hand. “Let us be off!”

For an instant I knew not what to say; then recovering myself with an effort I told him: “I will meet you at compline—at the Porte St. Victor.” It was the gate opposite to that by which I meant to leave Paris.

“At compline! Between this and compline we may have lodgings in the Châtelet—what bee have you got in your head to stay here now?”

Unconsciously my eyes fell on the glove in his hand, and following my glance he jumped to a conclusion.

“I see,” he said with a bitter laugh, “this trifle! A pretty toy,” and then, looking at it curiously, “’tis almost small enough to fit her hand.”

Did the man suspect or know? Was he trifling with me? For the moment I thought he was, and watched him with a new-born cowardice in my heart. Even as I did so I thought I heard a movement in the room within, and glanced round with a guilty start. Surely Marie had not stayed? It could not be! And then I turned again to Marcilly. He had not observed that start and backward look. He was staring at the glove in his hand.

“The very perfume she uses,” he murmured to himself, and, laying the glove gently on the table, he looked me full in the face, saying—

“I wish you all happiness, Vibrac, if it is as I think. More happiness than has fallen to me!”

“You! You are the most fortunate of men.”

He laughed shortly and sadly.

“Fortunate! Do you call that man fortunate who has seen his wife’s love pass from him?”

“Pass from him?”

“Yes! Do you call that man happy who, loving his wife as I do, sees day by day a gulf opening between them. Bah! You must have known all this—you, and all the rest. Else why do I live in the Rue Bourgogne and my wife at the Louvre?”

“It will pass away. There must be some mistake.”

“It will pass when I die—and I have sought for death for long. God knows! I would have let myself be taken to-day but that she herself wrote to warn me—and that letter which I have here” (he placed his hand to his heart) “has given me some hope. It came to me like a ray of sunshine—she would not have written if she did not care.”

I felt my forehead burn with shame. I was as yet too new at the game to play the villain without remorse. For an instant, when I thought of what this man had been to me, my old leader, my friend, I saw my infamy in all its meanness, and I was within an ace of telling him all, and asking him to slay me where I stood; and then, like lightning, there came to me the other thought—no—I would not yield her—for her I would pay any price. But I could not bear to have the man before me longer. It was unendurable, and to cover the expression on my face I stepped to the window. “It rains,” I said for want of something to say, and he was by my side in a moment.

“There is nothing like rain to clear the streets and give us a chance. Let us go now.”

I turned on him almost savagely.

“I have an appointment that I must keep; that I will keep if I die for it; but you, Marcilly—why stay? Outside Paris there is safety, and as you yourself have said, you have begun to hope again. There is danger here, but danger that I must face. Take my advice and go now.”

“I cannot desert you.”

I blazed up in sudden wrath. Would I never be free of this accusing presence?

“Monsieur le Comte, I have not asked your aid—my business is private.”

We stared at each other, surprise and anger in his glance. For an instant I almost hoped he was going to draw on me, for there was no more fierce spirit than Jean de Marcilly; but he controlled himself with a mighty effort.

“Forgive me, Gaspard!” he said, “we are too old in friendship to quarrel. Au revoir! I will meet you at the Porte St. Victor.”

“No!” I said, “I cannot promise to be there. Ride straight from Paris—go straight to the Prince. There are blows to be struck. I—-I will join you later. But leave me now. This house is no refuge, and our ways must be separate.”

“I will wait in any case until compline at the Porte St. Victor,” he repeated, and held out his hand.

I nerved myself to take it, and two minutes later saw him trot out of the courtyard into the street.

CHAPTER II
THE RUE DES LAVANDIERES

The first thing I did after Marcilly’s departure was to replace the glove in my pocket, then I lifted the curtain and walked into my dressing-room. I had a mad thought that Marie might still be there. But I was mistaken. The room was empty. I stepped up to the door leading to the private passage and tried to open it. It was locked from the inside and refused to yield. In her hurry, Marie must have taken the key with her, and turned it in the lock after her when she went.

Half unconsciously I leaned against the door, and, I was sure of it, the faint sound of receding footsteps came to me from the stairway beyond. If I heard right she must have waited until the last moment, and heard every word of what had passed between her husband and myself—and—what a villain I must have seemed!

I could bear to be there no longer, but hastened back to the study and rang for Badehorn. He was faithful and discreet, and I could trust him with my life.

“Badehorn,” I said when he came, “we must leave Paris to-night.”

“Monsieur!”

“Can you get three horses without any one in the house knowing it?”

“Monsieur has forgotten that there are horses of his kept ready at Maître Barov’s.”

“Ah! I grow foolish! Is there one fit for a lady to ride?”

“There is the gray that Madame de Marcilly rode——”

“Enough! Be in waiting for me with the horses under the limes, near the riding school of the Louvre, by nine to-night. I will join you there—and Badehorn—not a word to a soul—this is life or death.”

“Does Monsieur mistrust me?”

I looked at the resolute face and honest eyes. There was no treachery there.

“No, Badehorn—not you.”

He was sparing of speech, and said nothing; but his face brightened like that of a faithful dog caressed by its master, and I went on.

“I am going out now—on foot—let it be thought that I am returning shortly—give me my cloak.”

As he helped me on with my cloak, he said, “Monsieur, Billot has just returned from the Louvre, and says that they are taking the King at once to Blois, and that the Cardinal has gone already.”

“The Cardinal gone?”

“Monsieur—and the whole place in an uproar.”

“It will give us breathing space, and more chance of escape then,” I muttered. Then with a last word of caution to Badehorn, I left the room, and walked down the wide stairway I was never to see again.

Across the flagged courtyard, and into the street I went, and was soon lost in the throng of humanity that surged down toward the river face and the palace. I made no attempt at concealment. There was concealment enough in being an atom of that heaving mass, and the eyes would have been sharp indeed that could have recognized any one in the streets, where the drizzle blurred out everything an arm’s length ahead, though here and there a faint splash of blue in the monotonous gray overhead showed that it was likely to clear soon. Under the dripping eaves, beneath the shelter of the overhanging windows, within and about the doors of shops and cabarets, groups of people were assembled, all talking eagerly and in an excited manner of the events of the past two days. Despite the rain the streets were crowded with ever-moving waves of passers-by, and now and then above the swish of the rain, above the continuous and insistent hum of voices, one could hear a shout of “Down with the tiger of Lorraine!”—a cry that would be replied to at once by an answering, “A Guise! A Guise! Death to the Huguenots!” Then would follow a roar of many throats that showed that the passions of the mob were rising to fever heat.

I paid no attention, however, to what was passing, but went steadily onward toward the Rue des Lavandières. In that quiet street was an inn, kept by one who was a secret agent of our party, and I judged that in his house I would be safe from observation until the hour came for me to meet Marie. I was in a frame of mind not easy to describe. I was conscious that I had played an utterly despicable part toward my friend, whilst at the same time I fully believed that I was justified in rescuing Marie—so I put it to myself—from her unhappy condition, and I had persuaded myself moreover that any means were justifiable to attain that end and give me the woman I loved. That love for her had grown to be part of my life. How it all came about I know not; but it was on my return from the campaign in the Milanese that I met her, frivolous and gay, amongst the gay and brilliant beauties of the “Queen-Mother’s Squadron.” She had been but lately married to the Comte de Marcilly, a family arrangement, and though there was love on his side there was none on hers—as she thought—and they slowly drifted apart. It was the case of a wife, feather-brained, but good at heart, with just enough imagination to make it a peril, and of a husband who could neither come down to his wife’s level nor lift her to his. And the result was unhappiness. It was at this moment that we met, and one of those friendships that will spring up between man and woman sprang up between us, and inch by inch we drifted nearer to danger without either suspecting it. Then came the revelation, and I learned what she was to me—and she—to this day I know not if she ever loved me—but for the moment she was as mad as I was, and am still, when I think of her. As I walked on, however, I was sore at heart. My conscience was still awake within me, though its voice was unheeded, and I went on, sullen and resolved on my course, one whom it would have been dangerous to cross at the moment. I went straight onward until I came to the river face, and then turning sharply to the left followed the Vallée de Misère until I reached the mouth of the Rue des Lavandières.

The street was almost deserted, and as I slowly picked my way along the narrow pavement toward the Bouton d’Or, as my inn was called, I noticed that the rain had ceased and that the sky was opening above, showing the eternal blue beyond and casting a mellow light on the winding street, and on the gray and mottled façades of the old houses that towered on either hand.

The Bouton d’Or was situated about the middle of the street, a little beyond the hôtel of the Sieur de Richelieu. As I came up to it, I heard the sounds of a gay chorus from within, and hesitated a moment, doubtful if, under the circumstances, I should venture in. It was whilst I stood thus that I was startled by a voice.

“Alms! Alms! He who giveth unto the poor lendeth unto the Lord!”

I turned, and saw the lean figure of a Capuchin at my elbow. His hood, drawn up, almost concealed his features; but I caught a glimpse of a face, strangely pale, and of two fiery eyes that flashed out from beneath the shadow of his cowl. Though I was of the New Faith, I gave him some silver, and as he mumbled a benediction the chorus burst out again from within.

“They are gay,” I muttered to myself; but, low as my tone was, the words caught the ears of the friar.

“There is a time to be gay, and a time to be grave, my son—and ’tis better to drink than to conspire.”

And with these words he abruptly turned from me, and crossing the narrow road, began to descend the street, beating with his stick on the pavement, like a blind man feeling his way.

There was something so ominous in the tone of the man’s voice, so curious in his manner, that for a moment I had more than a mind to follow him and make him show his face and explain his words. But as I made a step forward, he accosted another passer-by with his strange call for alms, staying him by placing upon his shoulder a hand so thin and white that it seemed almost transparent.

“Bah!” I said to myself, as the new victim fumbled in his pocket, with an ill grace, to pay his dole. “’Tis a mad friar, after all!” And without more ado I entered the inn, to come face to face with the last man I desired to meet at the time. It was the young Baron de St. Cyergue, the son of Bohier, the late Receiver General of Normandy, and though good-hearted, he was a scandal-monger and a gossip, though amusing enough in his way, being much given to vaunting his exploits with the dice-box, in arms, and in love. He prided himself on being a viveur, and had almost dissipated a fine inheritance. It was this cackler that I met, standing in the hall, with a bottle of wine in each hand, and a face red and flushed.

“Vibrac!” he exclaimed, “welcome! welcome! I saw you at the Louvre this morning, and meant to ask you to join our party here, but you were engaged, and I could not get a chance to put in a word,” and he leered at me cunningly.

Cursing my ill-fortune at having fallen into the hands of this bore, I was about to make my excuses and exit at the same time; but he put a bottle on the floor and seized me by the lapel of my cloak.

“Now you are not going to say you have another engagement! You must come and join us. There is Lignières, the brightest wit in Paris, and some one you will be glad to see, no less than your old friend Ponthieu of the Trans-Alpine Infantry, who served with you in Milan and the Sicilies; he is my mother’s cousin, and but arrived in Paris this morning.”

I would have shaken him off but for the mention of Ponthieu’s name. He was Gascon of good family, an old friend of mine, and one of the most trusted agents of our party—a man whose reckless daring often succeeded where skilful plans failed, and it would, perhaps, be well to meet him. I hesitated and was lost, for St. Cyergue shouted out.

In a moment the door of an adjoining room opened, and half a dozen men crowded around me, and I found myself shaking hands with Ponthieu, who asked twenty questions in a breath, and five minutes later we were seated round a table pledging our host’s health. To tell the truth, now that I had joined the party, I felt the better for it. It took me out of myself, and it was a pleasure to meet Ponthieu. We were able to exchange a word or so, and the Gascon told me he was leaving Paris that very night.

“If you are caught, it will be Montfauçon!” I said, and Ponthieu smiled.

“Mon ami! I am leaving Paris in the train of Catherine herself.” I looked at him hardly, and was about to express my surprise and add another warning when St. Cyergue cut in, the wine passed, and the conversation became general.

Now, in the strangeness of things, what followed was to affect the whole of my future, and it is necessary that I should go into some detail. The room in which we sat opened out into a small courtyard surrounded by a high wall. A side door gave access to the street, and near it grew a stunted apple-tree that somehow lived and thrived amidst its sterile surroundings. Beneath the apple-tree was a rustic seat and a table, and as we drank and talked I observed the side door open, and the Capuchin entered and called for alms. The innkeeper went out, not best pleased to attend to him, but it was dangerous to cross a priest then. He motioned the friar to a seat on the bench and served him—as sparingly as possible. As I looked the vague mistrust I had of that strange figure when we first met came upon me once more, and I said, as I pointed to him:

“See there! He might be a spy for all we know.”

“He is welcome to spy here,” said St. Cyergue, “we but conspire against red wine.”

“Let us call the friar and make him drink our health,” said some one.

“Bah!” exclaimed Lignières, who had hitherto kept silent, contenting himself with filling his glass each time the bottle passed him. “Waste wine on a friar? Not I! ’Twould be better to drink to the bright eyes of our mistresses. Would it not, Vibrac?” I shrugged my shoulders and laughed; but the man, being a little in his cups, went at me with the persistence of a fly.

“Yes! we will toast our mistresses, and the last-comer shall have the place of honor, and toast her first. Go on, Vibrac, name her—fill your glasses, gentlemen!”

“We will toast her without naming her,” said Ponthieu, and the others laughed in approval as St. Cyergue cut in.

“By far the best plan. I, for one, would find it difficult to name my particular star.”

“You change her every day with your hat and cloak, eh, baron?” sneered Lignières, who was beginning to be quarrelsome; “you are not like our Strephon here, constant only to his Chloe.”

“Monsieur le Vicomte, you go too far,” I warned him, but he laughed recklessly.

“If you do not name her, I will, and put you to shame as a chicken-livered lover,” and he rose to his feet with his glass held out at arm’s length before him. St. Cyergue tried to stop him, but it was useless.

“Gentlemen!” he said, “here’s to Chloe of the blue eyes and fair hair. Here’s to sweet Ma——!” He spoke no more, for I had risen in uncontrollable anger and flung the glass I held in my hand in his face, and he stood, sober enough now, wiping his bleeding lips with the back of his hand and looking at me with death in his eyes. Then, with a little gasp, for he was almost speechless with rage, he pointed to the courtyard.

“Now,” he said, and with a bow I replied, “I am at your service, monsieur.”

Not a word more was said, and we passed out silently into the courtyard. The landlord, seeing what was about to happen, would have raised an outcry, but Ponthieu sternly bade him be silent, and he slunk shivering against the lee of the wall. I took off my coat and vest, and as I flung them on the rustic bench noticed that the friar was still there—he was standing calmly staring at us.

“Mon père!” said St. Cyergue, “you had better go.”

And the reply came in deep, stern tones:

“There may be work for a priest when this is done.”

“Let him stay. If he goes, he may call the watch,” said one of those present, and St. Cyergue turned on his heel with a shrug of his shoulders.

Lignières had followed my example, and stripped to his shirt, then came the few brief preliminaries, and Ponthieu’s sharp

“Allez, messieurs!”

For a little we tried to feel each other’s strength, and it was nothing but pretty sword-play. But it soon came to deadly earnest, for I was in a white heat with rage, and almost beside myself with the events of the day; whilst Lignières—well—he meant to kill me as he had killed others before.

But it was his hour; and it was all over in five minutes. He thrust too low in quarto, I parried, and with the riposte ran him through, and with a gasp he flung his sword into the air, and fell backward, rolling limply on his side as he touched the flagstones.

I stood over him, my red sword quivering in my hand, and the others crowded round, grave and pale.

Ponthieu was kneeling by the fallen man, his hand to his heart, a troubled look on his face. And now the tall figure of the Capuchin stole silently up, and bending down, he said to Ponthieu, “I said there would be work for me.”

Then passing his arm round Lignières’ neck, he raised his head, and held a crucifix before those glazing eyes, which opened once, to close again forever. There was a sigh, a quiver of the limbs, and a strong man was dead—slain for a light word and a foolish jest.

It was then that Ponthieu caught me by the arm.

“Go!” he said. “We will see to the rest.”

“You bear witness, gentlemen, that he forced it on me—that it was in fair fight,” I said hoarsely, and there was a murmur of assent.

“Go!” repeated Ponthieu, and I walked to the bench for my hat and coat. As I stooped to get them, I found the Capuchin by my side. He helped me with my things, and as he did so whispered low:

“There is no need to fear: Monsieur did the Queen-Mother and the State a great service when he took off his coat for this little affair,” and he half turned toward the group gathered in the centre of the courtyard. I barely caught the words, though they came back to me with their full force very shortly. At the time, however, all that I wanted was to put a distance between myself and the still figure lying there, that but a moment before had been so full of life and strength. I made no answer to the friar, spoke no word of farewell to the others; but fastening the clasp of my cloak, and pulling my hat over my brows, went out, red-handed, into the street.

CHAPTER III
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

I walked rapidly toward the Vallée Misère, looking neither to the right nor to the left of me. What had happened had not been my fault. The quarrel was none of my seeking, and Lignières would have surely killed me if the luck had been with him. And yet I shuddered at it all. Though I had taken life before, it was in the heat of battle, and the thing had left no impression upon me. But work of this kind was new to me, and, despite my four campaigns and a soldier’s life, it was the first time that a man had died thus at my hands. I felt it as a presage of ill-fortune to come, and full of useless regrets and gloomy forebodings, I moodily paced the foreshore of the river watching the sunset fade from gold to purple, and from purple to gray, that lightened again as the moon rose and hung heavily in the sky, throwing her soft beams on the shadowy, irregular lines of the city and gleaming in scales of silver on the lapping waters of the Seine.

It was whilst I stood thus for a moment that I once more heard the voice of the Capuchin uttering his dismal cry:

“Alms! Alms! He who giveth unto the poor, lendeth unto the Lord.”

He seemed to be coming my way, and the voice sounded quite close. I glanced back, but could see nothing for the quaking mist that rose slowly from the moist banks. Near me was a small boat, and, without more ado, I stepped in and told the boatman to row me down the river. I did this on the impulse of the moment, for I felt it was impossible for me to meet the friar again.

I was soon out in mid-stream, far from his presence and out of earshot of his doleful cry, and the boatman, resting on his oars, allowed the skiff to drift slowly down the current. Finally we floated opposite the façade of the Louvre. It was ablaze with light, and, from where I was, I could distinctly see dark shadows flitting hastily to and fro across the windows, and then the trumpets of the archers sounded the assemble, the brazen notes coming harshly to us across the night.

Leaning forward on his oars as we rocked on the waters, the boatman asked:

“The King goes to-night, does he not, monsieur?”

“So ’tis said,” I answered shortly, and then, “Take me back to the quay.”

The man shrugged his shoulders and did as he was bidden. It was none of his business where his fares wanted to be taken, as long as they paid him; and, as we touched the bank, I dropped a gold Henri into his palm and sprang ashore, leaving him alternately looking at the coin and staring after me in blank amazement as I hurried along the quay. I had, however, effected my object and avoided the Capuchin, and, in my present frame of mind, that was worth even more than the gold piece I placed in the boatman’s hands.

It now wanted but a half-hour to compline, and with a beating heart I hurried on to keep my tryst. The shortest way was by the old church of St. Thomas, and turning sharply to my right, I followed the narrow street until I had passed the Magasins. A little beyond was the riding school, and beyond that again the grove of lime-trees, in which I had told Badehorn to keep the horses. I hastened thither, and found him there.

He had left my house soon after I had, and could give me no news of what had happened since. But I afterward learned that shortly after I had gone, M. de Bresy, with some of the archer-guard, had arrived to effect my arrest, and failing in that, had destroyed almost everything they could lay their hands on. It was the fortune of war; but on a subsequent occasion I had my turn with de Bresy, as will be seen hereafter. Having seen that the horses were safe, I retraced my steps until I came to the wicket-gate. Opening it with my key, I stepped in, and found myself in the outer gardens of the Louvre. A long avenue of trees stretched before me, the grass-grown ride between them in checkered light and shade. To the left rose the walls of the riding school, and beyond was the gray line of the inner wall of the Louvre, and the terraces of the private gardens of the palace; but there was no soul to be seen.

“Marie! Marie!” I called out in a low but clear voice.

There was no answer. Overhead the leaves shivered, and from without the hum of the city came to me, rising and falling with the wind like the murmur of distant waves on a lone seashore.

Was she going to fail me? Had anything happened to prevent her coming? I felt my heart grow cold at the thought, and peering into the moonlit night listened and listened full of anxious fears; but I heard no sound of advancing footsteps, saw nothing but the ivy-grown walls of the riding school, the wavering trees, and the phantom outlines of the Louvre looming vast and gigantic in the night.

All at once from the Queen’s Terrace I heard the challenge of a sentry, and as it died away the bells of the Augustins began to sound the compline, and abbey and church took up the peal till all Paris rang with the musical chime of bells.

“She cannot be long now,” I muttered, to assure myself, and then my straining eyes saw a gray figure flit across a band of light in the avenue, and still keeping under cover of the trees I hastened toward it. Nearer and nearer came the figure. It was Marie, and stepping out from the shadow, I called:

“Marie! It is I—Vibrac.”

She stopped, hesitated, then came forward slowly, and taking her hand in mine, I drew her toward me. For one brief moment she remained thus, her head resting upon my shoulder, and strong man as I was, I stood there shivering at her touch like the leaves of the trees above me.

“At last!” I murmured, “at last!” But my voice seemed to bring her to herself. With a little gasp she freed herself from me, and when I would have restrained her she exclaimed:

“Let me go! I cannot talk like this. I want to tell you something.”

“Marie! There is but little time.”

“But time for what I have to say. Oh, Vibrac! Have you thought of what this will all lead to?”

“To happiness for us.”

“Happiness! Do you think there can be happiness when there will be nothing but useless regrets for the past that can never be undone. With time you will realize all this. You will hate and despise me.”

“Marie!”

“Yes, hate and despise me for what I am. And I—even now I hate—I despise myself.”

“Marie! What new madness is this? Surely you do not doubt me? I love you and you only. Far away from France what shall we care of babblers who talk? What is the world to us who are all in all to each other?” And in my eagerness I placed my hand on her arm.

“Yes, all in all in sin, and we cannot go away from ourselves. Don’t touch me now. I must say what I came to tell you. Monsieur, I will save you from yourself—I must save myself too!” And then, with pitiful entreaty in her voice, “Oh, Vibrac! Give me strength. Help me a little!”

“I—I do not understand,” I stammered, though I knew well what she meant.

“You do not understand? You must. Oh, Vibrac! Do you not see that in a moment of wicked folly we resolved to take a step from which there can be no withdrawal. Oh! I do not blame you. It was my fault to have listened to you, to have led you on unwittingly—and you are but a boy still! But I want you to be a brave man. Banish me from your thoughts! I am not what you think—but, God knows, I am not a bad woman—and there is time yet to draw back—to save myself and you.”

“You would desert me?” I asked bitterly, a dull despair in my heart.

“No!” she answered, the low, rich tones of her voice vibrating through the night. “I would stand by you and recall you to your strength. God would desert us if we did this thing.”

“We should have thought of that before—it is too late now.”

“No—it is not too late—you must do as I tell you.”

But I was not going to let her slip through my hands. I had paid for her with my honor. For her sake my hands were red, and Lignières lay stark and dead. I had earned my reward and would have it, and, mad at the thought of losing her, I gripped her by the arm, and—the shame of it—I told her I would slay her and myself, rather than lose her.

She made no answer, but remained calmly looking at me as I stood in front of her, the hot blood throbbing in my head, my breath coming thick and fast. There, as we faced each other, the moon passed the shadow of the trees and threw its light on her, keeping me still in darkness. She was pale as the dead, but she neither flinched nor showed the slightest sign of fear, and we remained thus for a minute—a minute that might have been an hour, so slowly did it pass. At last she spoke.

“Do you think I fear death? Not now, Vibrac! Not now! If it came it would be a just punishment—an expiation,” but even as she spoke I felt the sting of shame at my unmanly words, words uttered in the madness of one who was beside himself, and I loosed my hand from her arm.

“God forgive me!” I cried, “I did not mean that.”

“God has much to forgive us both, Vibrac. Oh, monsieur, we are both on the threshold of a great sin, and I am a weak woman and you a man. Give me strength! Help me to do what is right!”

Help her! It was I who needed help, not Marie.

“You never loved me!” I exclaimed in my bitterness.

“I cannot love you in the way you want,” and then coming closer to me she placed her hand on my shoulder with a tender, almost caressing touch, and looked into my eyes. “Listen, monsieur!” she said. “If it will help you to be yourself I will tell you of myself. I never knew my own heart until I left you to-day—and I left you after hearing every word that passed between you and my husband. I thought his love was gone from me, and it was a desperate, foolish woman who promised you what she did. I know now that Marcilly loves me still, and with God’s help I mean to be a better woman and deserve his love. On the brink of the precipice I have saved myself and saved you, and, monsieur, my weakness has passed now, and I will do what is right.”

She paused as if waiting for an answer, but I could say nothing. In my heart I knew she was right. Yet it was as if all the brightness had gone out of my life, and I stood there numbed and speechless.

“Say something, Vibrac!” she exclaimed. “Tell me you have forgiven an erring woman, who has caused you all this pain. Say, you will try and do what I ask, and forget me!”

I turned from her, and walked slowly across the ride, my head held down, my hands clenched in an agony. All that was good in me rose and clamored for her pleading. The strength that had come to her seemed to bring strength to me, and when I faced her again I was victor over myself.

“Let it be as you wish,” I said hoarsely. “Good-by!”

“Good-by!” And our hands met. And then womanlike she spoke again.

“Monsieur! You must never see me again. But I will hear of you, and let me hear you are still, what I have always heard and known you to be—a brave and noble gentleman.”

Bowing low I touched her hand with my lips, and then releasing it, stepped aside and lifted my hat.

“Good-by!” she said again softly, and turning, passed swiftly and silently, like a ghost, up the long avenue. Once she stopped, where the moonlight shone brightly, and looked back, and then she was gone.

Near me lay the mouldering trunk of a fallen tree. I sat down there and stared stupidly before me. Something of the resolve, something of the unspoken promise I had made to her, came to me to give me strength. Yes, I would forget her. I would carry with me into my new life no memory of her. I slipped my hand in my breast pocket for the letters and the glove—to destroy them. They were gone, and with them the scroll of names. In my horror at the loss I sprang to my feet, and searched around me; but with no avail; and then, the parting words of the Capuchin came to me, and for the first time I grasped their full meaning. I had indeed done the Queen-Mother and the tyrants of Guise a service, when I left my coat by the side of the spy—for a spy he must have been—and he had the letters, and the scroll with the list of names.

Cursing my folly a hundred times as I reflected how useless it would be to try and find the man now, I hurried back to Badehorn, and half an hour later had left Paris forever.

And so came the parting of the ways. Full of resolve to conquer the past, I flung myself heart and soul into the great enterprise that ended in disaster at Amboise. By strange fortune, I served again with Marcilly, and strove to efface by my loyalty and zeal the memory of the wrong I would have done him. Then I heard that husband and wife were reconciled, though she still remained at Orleans with the Court, and the thought that she had hopelessly passed out of my life maddened and tortured me beyond endurance. I began slowly to fall back into my former state. I began to absolutely hate Marcilly as the man who had taken away from me my only chance of happiness, and after that I was ready to yield to temptation.

Things went against us, as all the world knows. Then came the news of the arrest and imprisonment of the Prince of Condé. It came to us at Châtillon, whither the Princess of Condé had sought refuge with a few devoted adherents, amongst whom was Jean de Marcilly; and there, too, befell that which led me, step by step, along the Traitor’s Way.

CHAPTER IV
WHAT MAJOLAIS SAW

It was Majolais, the black dwarf, who first pointed it out. We, that is, Lanoy, the Comte de Marcilly, who was known as “The Shadow of Condé,” myself, and lastly Majolais, who had no business to be there, were on the platform of the stone cavalier, built up against the keep of Châtillon, where the walls fell sheer into the Indre.

A little to our right was a projecting oriel window, in the bay of which sat the Princess, Condé’s wife, with avid eyes that looked ever to the north. It was partly to escape those eyes, which implored and upbraided at once, whenever they fell on us, that we had come out, and were pacing backward and forward, trying to talk, with hearts as heavy as lead. But we had to flog ourselves for this, the effort to speak was so painful, and at last there was a dead silence, and we tramped up and down, in a sullen and speechless way.

Finally Lanoy and the Comte, separating from me, leaned over the battlements, and looked down into the town below, at the pointed gables, the red and gray roofs, and the narrow, winding streets, where the people were as ants moving restlessly to and fro.

And I, I was left to my thoughts, such thoughts as a man has who has sinned and regretted, and then sinned again. They sting like an adder now when I recall them, and they hurt even then; but I shook them from me as a dog shakes the water from his coat, and, standing still, looked aimlessly around.

It was winter, but the sun was out, and the air crisp. I glanced up at the spread of the sky, half filled with a mountainous pile of soft white clouds glistening in the light, and wondered to myself that the sun could shine on such a hell as lay beneath it. The sky was as blue, the clouds as silver white in the north, as in the south, the east, the west. And yet the heavens should have been black there, above Amboise and the Orléanais, black as a pall, and lit only by the pitying eyes of the stars, for there the Italian woman and the Lorrainers were shedding the best blood of France like water.

Let me stop for a moment to explain in a few words why we were as we were. The King—he was barely sixteen, and already dying of a terrible disease—together with Mary of Scotland, his young Queen, were in the hands of the brothers of Guise and Catherine, and Lorrainer and Italian were both, for the present, partners. The country was bankrupt. In the King’s name they reduced it to beggary. The people were starving. They let them die. They seem to have gone blood mad in their thirst for power. It was nothing but “Kill! kill!” Add to this a religious persecution of the most intolerable kind, and the picture of the times is roughly outlined.

The most fiendish cruelties were inflicted in the name of the Law, and of God, against the followers of the New Faith, or rather of the Old Faith that was found anew. “Huguenots!” they called us in derision, after the wretched farthing piece, or, as some say, after the goblin King of Tours—I neither know nor care which—the name was yet to be one of terror to the Woman of Babylon.

The chiefs of the old nobility, and Princes of the blood, found themselves prisoners, or practically exiles. Their hereditary rights were denied to them, they were cut off from the State. It is not strange that all the liberalism, all the patriotism in France, saw with horror the coming ruin of their country, and forgetting, for the moment, differences of creed, coalesced with one accord against the tyrants. The outcome of this was the attempt of Amboise—and its results are known.

The Right had lost, by the will of God, and now the conquerors were slaking their vengeance in blood, and in the name of the child King condemning their victims to hideous tortures and to awful deaths. In the history of my country there is but one crime darker than this, one page more stained with sin. But the day was yet far distant when the bells of St. Germain l’Auxerrois were to clang out the signal for the Feast of St. Bartholomew, and we, who stood gasping with horror, thought that the worst had befallen France.

The one hope of all Frenchmen who loved their country, Louis of Condé, was in the hands of the Guisards. His life hung by a hair, and on that life hung, as we thought then, the safety of France. We were powerless to help, and here at Châtillon we, who had escaped disaster as yet, were practically prisoners, for de Termes held us in check from Ligueil, and the lances of Montluc gleamed from every tower from Buzançais to St. Aignan. We were, in short, caged. We could run about in our cage but not beyond its bars. We were in a trap—like rats in a trap.

The Princess of Condé, Eleanore de Roye, had sunk into a speechless grief that was terrible to witness. Every day brought danger nearer and nearer, and yet she refused to move, refused to make any attempt at escape; we might have twice made a dash for Poitou, where the Admiral and the Rhinegrave were still in some force. She, however, declined point blank, and sat like a Penelope, weaving endless plans to free her husband, each one more hopeless than the other.

I stood, as I have said, on the cavalier, looking aimlessly at the sky, and then made a half movement to join my friends, when I was arrested by a cry, such a cry as might come from the throat of a tongueless man, and, turning round, saw Majolais on the carriage of a brass carronade, pointing eagerly at something. The wind had caught his short red cloak, blowing it out like a banner, and the hooded falcon he held in leash was screaming and fluttering overhead, the full length of his tether. There the creature stood, distorted and misshapen, uttering his strange cries, now looking at me, then turning his yellow eyes down the St. Aignan road, and swinging his arms wildly.

I hastened toward him, Lanoy and Marcilly after me, and we three tried to follow the Moor’s glance, but could make out nothing, although Majolais, in his eagerness to show us what he saw, now plucked at our sleeves, now leaned half out of the embrasure, his arm stretched out toward the plain beneath him, the falcon screaming overhead, and he gibbering the whole time like the wild thing he was.

At last I saw it—I, the youngest of the three. Running my eyes along the white, glistening road I made out a small speck. Seizing the dwarf’s hand I held it out in that direction and, nodding assent, he fairly danced with joy.

“There!” I cried, “that little speck beyond the wood there! ’Tis that the imp means.”

Then they saw too, and shading his eyes with his hands Lanoy looked hard and earnestly.

“Some one rides there for his life,” he said. “I would we had the tube Cortoni made for the King. We would see him then as close as my hand.”

“Perhaps he comes from Orleans. He may be for us,” I hazarded.

They did not answer, but we craned our necks and strained our eyes, whilst the spot flew faster and faster, and grew bigger and bigger, until at last we all saw clearly that it was a man on horseback, and that he was heading straight for Châtillon, for he passed the cross-road to Tours.

The Princess and her ladies, observing the dwarf’s gestures and our movements, came out to join us, and we all watched in an excited but silent group. It was not a wonderful thing, this sight of a man riding at full speed; but somehow we all felt, though we did not say so, that he was riding for us.

She, the Princess of Condé, stood with her hands on the brass gun, leaning slightly forward, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes straining. It was as if she was striving to read on the rider’s face the message he bore.

On a sudden Mademoiselle de Mailly, who was next to her, called out:

“See! He wears a white scarf! Look, madame! Look!”

True enough. Across his left shoulder, and streaming a yard behind him, was a white scarf, the emblem of our party.

“He is for us,” the girl called out shrilly; “he must be from Orleans, madame. Ah, madame!” and she turned half round with clasped hands; but the Princess made no answer, staring straight at the coming man with hot eyes, eyes that burned with eagerness, eyes that blazed with a hundred questions at once.

“The fool!” muttered Lanoy. “The idiot! To wear that scarf now! If any of Montluc’s troopers are skulking in that wood he is lost.”

Jean de Marcilly touched me softly on the shoulder, and our glances met. I knew what he meant, and answered with the positive assurance of youth.

“It is needless. He is perfectly safe, and we will have only our labor for our pains. I rode through the wood but two hours ago. There was no one there, and Coqueville tells me Montluc’s bees are hiving elsewhere to-day.”

“That is my latest news. It would almost seem that we have yet another chance to go if we wanted,” said a quiet voice, and the Captain of Châtillon joined us.

It was as if Lanoy was about to speak, when Marcilly cut in impatiently.

“Bees or no bees, I go!” And he looked at me again. I made a step forward, and then, in a flash, there came a strange and wicked whisper to my soul.

“Let him go. He may die—may get killed, and you and she will be free.”

It was almost as if a living voice hissed this into my ear, and I clung to the thought. I would not meet Marcilly’s eyes, though I watched him beneath my glance, and with a laugh and a lifting of his brows he was gone.

“Take Badehorn and Schoner, the German reiter, with you,” called Coqueville after him, and we heard him halloo back as he sped down the winding stair. I was glad of this. It removed attention from me. Although I was aware that no one had noticed us, I felt as if all eyes were on me when Marcilly spoke. I found myself near Majolais, and the dwarf winked at me as if he knew. I turned with a muttered curse, and sought refuge next to Yvonne de Mailly. I do not know how it was, but in her eagerness perhaps to see, she leaned forward, and her hand rested lightly on my arm. I caught the dwarf’s glance again, and he laughed to himself. I could have flung him from the battlements.

In a moment more we saw Marcilly crossing the bridge. Neither Badehorn nor Schoner were with him. He was alone, and I waited and watched.

Now the wood mentioned above was a part of the forest of Châtillon that stretched eastward, extending an arm, as it were, to the St. Aignan road, a bit of which it hid from our view. As Marcilly crossed the bridge the stranger passed behind the trees, and then we heard the distant crack of an arquebus, and a suppressed cry burst from the Princess.

CHAPTER V
POUR MA FOY, ET MON ROY

“He is lost! Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “Ah! Monsieur de Vibrac!” And she just looked at me; but such a look.

There was a clattering of spurred heels as Coqueville and Lanoy rushed to the stairway; but, trembling and hot with shame, I remained chained by the horrible thought that had taken possession of me. I knew what the Princess meant. I had said that the wood was safe, and yet I had not searched there in that long, narrow neck of forest before us, and our man was lost. Yet no! He was out again; but this time not alone, for three men were at his heels, three men with fresh horses. One came alongside. Our man leaned out sideways with extended arm—a glint of steel—and it was a riderless horse that galloped by his side, with long, loose, trailing reins; and then it fell, and, scrambling up, stood stupidly by the side of the road.

Yvonne de Mailly’s white fingers tightened over my arm, and I saw her pale a little as she gave a quick gasp. The dwarf almost screamed, and I thought I heard the echo of a prayer from the Princess. I watched with dry, parched lips, and hell in my heart.

It was still two to one, and these were heavy odds; but Marcilly was not far, and going like the wind. The two pursuers hung closely behind the fugitive—there was a long, dark thing in the snow, athwart the road, where the third lay, still and motionless. But the two, intent and eager, took no note of Jean, saw nothing of Lanoy and Coqueville and the half-dozen others who spurred behind them. Our man did, however; he bent forward in his saddle, and his good horse seemed to fly.

We watched in a breathless silence. And then—it had come and gone in a moment. The fugitive was safe. He had passed Marcilly and was close to the others. But Jean—my breath came thick and fast. Was it to be, after all? The leading horse against Marcilly swerved to one side. Its rider, seeing the succor at hand, turned off to his left and made for the wood; and Lanoy—there was no mistaking the bay horse, and tall, thin figure—cut across country to intercept him. I saw no more of that. All my eyes were for Marcilly and his adversary.

There was no better sword than Jean in France. I could have sworn that, until now. But what was this? There was a circle of light as they came together, something flashed downward, and Marcilly was disarmed. And then—it was all in a hand-turn, remember—a strange thing happened. Marcilly’s adversary raised his sword to the salute and, leaving him harmless, rode straight on toward Coqueville and his men. He broke right through them, and, pulling across the road, galloped off at a break-neck pace toward Tours. There was no attempt to follow. They all gathered in a group round some one who had fallen. Once the man faced half round, and shook his clenched fist behind him, and then there was the light of his red plume, and we lost him to view in the thickets and low forest that fringed the river—and he escaped.

But our man was safe, no thanks to me. He reined up at the bridge, crossing it slowly, and then we saw him rock in his saddle.

“He is hurt!” exclaimed the Princess: but I heard no more. I was down the long stairway three steps at a time, and, hurrying across the flagged court, was just able to meet the stranger, for, as I reached the castle gates, he entered, his horse stopping under the stone archway of its own accord, with head held down and heaving flanks, while the rider hung low over the saddle. Seeing me approach, however, he steadied himself with an effort, answering my “Well ridden and bravely done, monsieur,” with a white smile and a hoarse, “’Twas between the skin and the flesh.” As he spoke I thought he would have fallen, and rushed to his side.

“Back!” I shouted to those who crowded round. “Back! Give room!” and, helping him to dismount, and lending him my arm, for he was very faint, and kept up only by his courage, we crossed the yard slowly, and began to ascend the stone steps of the main entrance, where I already saw the Princess with a group round her. As we reached the steps, she called out in sudden recognition:

“It is Maligny! Maligny!” And she ran down to us. “Speak, man! Speak! My husband—Condé—what of him?”

He bit his dry lips and looked around, then answered thickly:

“The King has agreed to his death; but there is still hope. I bring his message to you. It is: Take the young child and flee into Egypt. And, madame—go now—for it will be too late to-morrow.” He said the last words quickly, as if he felt he would not have time to finish his speech, and then fell sideways into my arms like a dead man.

And now I saw what a good woman can do. Save for a rapid gesture of despair as Maligny gave his abrupt message, she made no sign, but bent over the fainting man, giving some orders about him as calmly as if he, and he alone, were the one object that filled her mind. We carried him to the nearest room—mine—and Chandieu, the Prince’s chaplain, a man skilled in wounds, was soon by his side. To our intense relief, he pronounced Maligny merely faint from fatigue, saying that the wound on his arm was nothing, and that he would be as well as ever in a few hours. Then he took charge of him, driving us all from the room as he would be alone with his patient.

We gathered in a group on the rush-covered daïs of the great hall. We were all there except Marcilly, whom I saw nowhere. Lanoy had accounted for his man, and Coqueville was limping and bruised. It was he who had been ridden down, and it was thought killed, by the one who had escaped, but he had come to no hurt.

We were discussing Maligny’s tidings and Condé’s message, and Coqueville was earnest in his entreaty for the Princess to leave Châtillon at once.

“Madame,” he said, “it is not for ourselves I speak. There is monseigneur here to think of, the heir of the Sires des fleurs des lys.” As he spoke he placed his sunburnt hand lightly on the shoulder of the slender, fair-haired boy, her son, who stood by her side. He was not alone in pressing the matter, and it was for an hour or more, perhaps, that we discussed it, until we reached the last corner in madame’s patience, for she spoke firmly and crisply:

“Messieurs! Very well! I shall leave Châtillon now; but for Orleans. My place is there. I have neglected my duty too long.”

She was facing us, a small, slight woman she was, but for the moment she seemed to have grown absolutely tall. “As for Henri here,” she went on, stooping and giving the boy a fierce little kiss, “he must live for vengeance if need be.”

What more she would have said I know not, but now Maligny appeared, his arm bandaged, and leaning for support on Jean. Behind came Chandieu, a tall, dark figure. As they approached it was impossible not to be struck by Marcilly’s resemblance to Condé. In a crowd a hundred men would have sworn he was the Prince. He had the same slight, spare figure, the same red-brown hair, the same eyes, even his voice, his very gestures were the same.

In the moment of excitement I had forgotten about myself, else I had not dared to face Marcilly with the consciousness of my recent shameful action upon me. It is one crowning mercy that there are moments when even the most sinful forget—even I do sometimes—for a very little.

“Madame,” said Maligny, “I have come to finish what I fear I began too bluntly. It is true that the sentence has been passed, but the Chancellor has refused to affix the Great Seal, and no day has been appointed for——” and he hesitated a moment, and then went on, not finishing his sentence, though we all understood: “The King is very ill, and at any time may relent. Strange as it may seem, the Italian is veering round in our favor. The Guise grow too great, and she realizes now what that greatness will mean for her. The Admiral knows her mind, and ’tis said that the Constable will now move from Yvoy le Marron. There is a plan even now to save the Prince”; he looked at Marcilly, and then went on: “but, in the mean time, it is of the first importance that you and the young Prince should be safe from harm. Monseigneur kisses your hands, and begs you to leave Châtillon for St. Bauld, where d’Andelot lies with fifty horse to escort you to the Admiral and safety. There is one, too, who aids us in secret—I dare not give the name—and I tell you that no sword will be drawn to stay us if we leave within the next few hours. Who those wasps were who attacked me in the wood, I know not. They are done with, however, for the present. The danger now is in staying—none in going—but we must go now.”

The Princess hardly seemed to hear the latter portion of Maligny’s speech. “And so the King—that boy—has signed the warrant!” she said. “But Lorraine held the pen. But they dare not! They dare not! After Navarre he is the first Prince of the blood. And is that all you have to say? Oh! Take me to him!” And she looked imploringly at us.

“Madame,” began Maligny, but she broke in upon his speech.

“Wait! Let me think! I know you have nothing more to say except to urge me to desert my husband. I know you are going to repeat that. Your plans and politics will break my woman’s heart. Ah! I know he will die. Have ever the merciless shown mercy? He will die, I say; but I die with him. Now hear me, Monsieur le Vicomte—and all of you. I go to Orleans—Orleans—do you hear? And I leave in an hour’s time.”

She finished; her hands clenched, her cheeks white; but in the gray deep of her eyes such a mixture of rage, sorrow, irresolution, and despair as I hope never to see in a human glance again. The strain had been too much, and, highly as she spoke, I knew and felt that she would yet yield. It was the old story. It is not in a woman’s words, but in her eyes, that her heart lies.

As she stood there, silent and motionless, Marcilly leaned over the Vicomte’s shoulder, and whispered something. Then they both beckoned to Lanoy and Chandieu, and retired into the recess of the window, where they spoke in whispers, and, as I looked, I saw a smile on Lanoy’s dark face, a light in the Vicomte’s eyes—and a jealous anger came into my heart that I was not asked to share their confidences.

But here on the daïs, where through the open window the mellow sunlight fell on the rushes at our feet, and lit them up in gold and brown; where still we were partly in shadow, and partly in light, there was no word spoken, and the Princess stood, biting her lip and watching the four. So still was it one might have heard the fall of a silken glove.

Suddenly the falcon on Majolais’ wrist began to flutter its wings, and the sound, as it broke the stillness, brought the Princess to the moment. She turned to Coqueville and myself.

“Messieurs! You will excuse me—time presses.” With a slight bow to us, and a shrug of her shoulders in the direction of the four, she walked slowly down the hall, Yvonne de Mailly turning as she followed her, and throwing up the palms of her hands as if to say it was all over.

As the Princess passed the window, however, Lanoy and the Vicomte came up to her and spoke in low, rapid tones, Jean standing a little on one side playing with the hilt of his sword. What they said I could not catch, but they urged it again and again, and she put her hands to her face, exclaiming:

“No! No! I cannot—I cannot!”