Read the book: «Vayenne», page 9

"You do not answer my question," said the dwarf solemnly.

"Why should I be whipped?" said Felix.

"Because there was never man born yet that didn't deserve it. Have I your leave to go?"

"For a while, yes; but you shall come to honor, Jean. There shall be honor in the title of 'The Duke's Fool.'" And Felix struck a gong which stood on the table. "Jean has my leave to go anywhere in the castle," he said to the soldier who entered. "See that this is known – anywhere, at any time, and may come to me without hindrance when he chooses. But he may not leave the castle on any pretext whatever. See that a lodging is found for him."

Jean rose to his feet, and bowed low.

"Some men never reach their ambition," he said, "but I soar far above it. Have the colored tunic and the bell toy made. My highest hope was to wander at will in God's house of St. Etienne, but behold I live to be the fool of a Duke!"

And that night, when the castle slept, Jean had to leave it by the way he had taken Roger Herrick.

CHAPTER XV
THE COUNT LOSES HIS SWORD

At dawn Jean was in the castle again, but Herrick and Christine had heard what had happened to Lemasle. To Lemasle's cell the dwarf also gained admittance, for the Count's orders had been peremptory. Jean had a part to play, and he meant to make the most of it.

"The making or marring of you is in my hands," he boasted in the guard-rooms, "so if you're wise you'll make much of me. The Count and I are brother gossips, and when I get my robes of office, you'll hardly tell one from the other."

So Herrick was able to send his message to Lemasle, and the plot against the Count ripened to its gathering.

Two days later the castle was full of guests and their suites, come to the burial of the Duke, which was to take place on the morrow. There were signs of mourning in the streets through which the cortége would pass, and the great Church of St. Etienne was draped in black. In a few hours men would be busy packing away these death trappings and making ready festive trophies to grace the coronation; such is the kaleidoscope of existence.

The morning broke, heavy and cloudy, and rain fell at intervals. There were those who spoke of the dead man as the great Duke, and these saw a fitness in the sombre day on which he should pass for the last time through the streets of Vayenne.

Jean, by permission, had left the castle to-day, and stood near the great west doors of St. Etienne. Above him tolled the great bell, rung only when a duke came to his last resting-place; and across its solemn sounding the joyous music of the carillon burst out at frequent intervals. The cadences seemed to fall from high heaven, the dwarf thought, as though there were joy there, no matter how great a sorrow there might be upon the earth. Dim lights gleamed in the great nave, low music tumbled from the misty darkness, sad music, yet ever and anon a wave of harmony that had triumph in it, a sudden certainty that to life was the victory though for a while the pageantry of death was supreme.

Into the church came all who were great and powerful in Montvilliers, men whose fathers had fought side by side with other dukes, men whose names and honors had been handed down through the centuries. Among them came the de Bornais, his suite halting on one side of the great doors. Jean's sharp eyes scanned each man that stood there, resting at last upon one whom he watched until the end.

Presently came the cortége – nay, two – drawn by horses in waving plumes and black trappings. Only yesterday was it known throughout Vayenne that the marred body of the young Duke had been found in the forest and brought to the city by Captain Barbier. One great funeral for father and son – the solemnity of the occasion appealed to the people. A silence was in the streets and tears on some faces. To-day the Duke is dead – and buried; to-morrow, "Long live the Duke." Before nightfall there was laughter in the castle halls and corridors. Men must eat and drink though dukes die, and women's eyes will sparkle even though tears were in them a little while since.

Felix moved from group to group, solemn, yet smooth-tongued. His ears were keen to catch whispers, his eyes quick to note each man's expression.

"Felix."

His name was whispered as he passed through the entrance of the great hall, and he turned quickly.

"Elisabeth."

"I must see you alone," she said. "I have that to tell you which you ought to hear without delay."

"Christine?" he asked.

Elisabeth nodded, and then as the Count turned and led her away, the dwarf came from a dark corner where he had stood watching the Countess.

"This means mischief," he said, and went quickly down the corridor.

Many had looked for Mademoiselle de Liancourt at the castle that night, and marvelled that she was not present. Felix recognized only too well that her absence was unfavorable to him, and, if necessary, would certainly have used force to bring her to the castle had he known where to find her.

But for the promise given to Herrick, it is doubtful whether Christine would have remained in her hiding-place to-day. Her uncle had been very good to her; had loved her, perhaps, more than he had loved any one else in the world; had listened to her pleading when none else dared approach him, and many a man had her to thank for saving him from the Duke's anger. Christine's heart was heavy because she could not pay her last respects to the dead, and there was rage, too, in her soul that Felix had dared to take some marred corpse and bury it in pomp and state, declaring it to be Maurice's body. She longed to rush out into the street and proclaim his treachery to every passer-by.

To-night Christine stood by the open window of her room deep in thought, yet attentive to any sound in the garden below. Many things might have happened to-day, and Jean might bring her news at any moment. The tolling of the great bell at St. Etienne had ceased long ago, only the faint music of the carillon wove itself into her thoughts. She glanced back into the room where Lucille sat bending over a book. The girl had been with her ever since Countess Elisabeth had gone out. Christine had thought nothing of this fact at first, but when Lucille so persistently stayed with her, following her if she went from one room to another, she began to wonder if the girl were not carrying out some instructions she had received. Christine felt that there had not been a true ring about the Countess's welcome the other night, and since then there had been many signs of uncertainty and effort in her conversation and in her actions.

"Are not your eyes weary of reading, Lucille?" Christine asked suddenly.

"No," answered the girl, looking up; "but I would rather talk."

"Talk! Of what? Prisons and death?"

"Oh, but there are other things. Why should we talk of death or a prison?"

"Come here, Lucille." And Christine put her arm round her, and drew her to the window. "Isn't the city quiet to-night? It seems a sentient thing, awestruck and keeping silent because it knows that death is in it."

"I have known it as quiet other nights," the girl answered.

"What were your dreams then?"

"The Countess called them a silly girl's dreams, because I told her," said Lucille, a blush dyeing her fair face.

"Tell me. Perhaps I shall understand better."

"I wonder if you would! You know my little history – that I am the last of a family once rich and famous in Montvilliers. Long, long ago some ancestor of mine displeased some ancestor of yours, who was Duke then, and we lost honor and estates, and we have never risen again. Yet there has always been a legend that we should come to honor once more, and, strangely, that it should come through a woman. I am the only one left, so I dream."

"Of what?"

"Sometimes of a great deed that I shall do, and perhaps suffer for, but which shall make my name famous through all the world. And sometimes it is different."

"Well, Lucille?"

"Sometimes it is love," the girl whispered, "and I dream of a prince who shall come, who shall pass by all the rich and beautiful women, and kneel to me. So we may win back honor that way. Do you call them a silly girl's fancies?"

"No. Youth will dream of love, it cannot help it."

"Do you?" Lucille asked.

"That, I should confess to you, was not in the bargain," said Christine. "Some day perhaps I may help you to your ambition."

"Will you?" was the eager question.

"We will talk of it another time. To-night I can only think of death and a prison – death in the city, a prison in this house."

"This house a prison!" exclaimed the girl.

"I have a mind to go out for a little while."

"The garden is dark and wet. It has rained much to-day."

"The garden will not satisfy me – I mean in the streets. Yes, I think I will go."

"Oh, no, you must not," said Lucille.

"Why not?"

"The Countess said – "

"That I was not to be allowed to leave the house," Christine said. "Was that her command?"

"She meant for your own sake."

"Did she? Are you clever enough to read all that is in Countess Elisabeth's mind?"

"She has been very good to me," the girl answered. "I would not disobey her."

"I am not blaming you. You shall keep me prisoner. I will not go out to-night."

"Thank you; and you will – "

Lucille stopped. There was a knocking at the door, and a servant entered.

"Mademoiselle! – I mean Mademoiselle Lucille."

"What is it?"

"A man would speak with – with you."

"Or with me?" asked Christine sharply.

"With – with – "

"Bring him here," said Christine. "We will see him together."

"I cannot – I – Ah! He is here already!"

From the darkness of the passage without a priest advanced into the room. His cloak was wrapped closely round him and the hood drawn low over his face.

"Leave us, Lucille," said Christine. "A priest may enter anywhere, even to a prisoner."

"The Countess said – "

"Go! You may lose the friendship of the Countess to find a better one. Christine de Liancourt has still power in Vayenne. Go! You shall have excuse. See, I force you from the room!" And she gently pushed her out, shut the door, and locked it.

As she turned Herrick threw back his hood, and let the cloak fall apart.

"Again as a priest I come to you, mademoiselle."

"But this house is dangerous for you. Only to-night I have learned that I am virtually a prisoner in it."

"To-night I believe Count Felix has learned that you are here," said Herrick.

"From whom?"

"From the Countess Elisabeth. Jean saw her approach the Count, heard your name mentioned. That is why I have come. I thought it might be that as a priest I should more easily gain admittance, and Jean borrowed the cloak for me."

"But they may be here at any moment if the Countess has betrayed me."

"That is why I have come," Herrick answered.

"You must not stay. Felix will not really harm me, but you – "

"Have no fear, mademoiselle. I go armed, as you see. This dress proclaims me in the suite of De Bornais, and to-day no one has recognized the man they took for a spy in it. I have come from the castle. I am lodged there – a guest."

Christine turned again to the door to make certain it was locked, and then ran to the window, and closed it.

"I am afraid," she said, a color in her cheeks; "Jean climbed in this way, and bid me remember that an enemy might do the same. Oh, why have you come! Could you not have sent a messenger, could you not have sent Jean?"

"No, mademoiselle. I could trust none with my message to-night."

"Tell me," she said. "Tell me quickly. Every passing moment makes me more afraid."

"In three days Count Felix will be formally proclaimed Duke," said Herrick. "The blow we have planned will be struck then. It is a desperate venture; it may fail, but it is the only way."

"And if it fails?" said Christine.

"To-night the Count is almost certain to send for you," Herrick went on, as though he did not hear her question. "If you will not go willingly, he will probably have ordered that you shall be taken by force. No one knows better than he does how much questioning there is at your absence from the castle at this time. Your presence must help him, and I could have wished that you had not been there until the day he is proclaimed. As it is, you must go willingly."

"And then?"

"Wait, mademoiselle."

"What part have I to play?" said Christine.

"Ours is a scheme in which little can be arranged beforehand," Herrick answered. "Much of our action must be decided by the events of the moment. If I fail – "

"Yes; if you fail?"

"Who can tell, mademoiselle? Even then luck may show me a way out," said Herrick. "A man who hopes to achieve never allows himself to consider what may happen in the case of failure. It would make a coward of him."

"But those who – others – his friends may think for him," she answered.

"We will not think of failure."

"Let me judge. Tell me the whole plot."

"Mademoiselle, I came myself to-night, so that you might understand. In the hut yonder in the forest you accepted my service. The other night when I sent you a message which must have sounded strangely like a command, you sent me an answer, obedience and trust. Even as Jean gave it me I could see you smile at the promise to obey."

"I did not smile. I meant it. Witness that I am here to-night."

"And trust, did you mean that too?" asked Herrick.

"Yes."

"I am going to try your trust to the utmost limit. I cannot tell you the plot. I cannot tell you what I intend to do."

"Why not?"

"Do not ask me. I cannot answer."

"The trust is to be all on my side," said Christine slowly.

"And it may be strained to breaking point. You may – indeed, I fear you will – find it difficult to believe in me. I am here to-night to tell you so. For no duke am I doing this thing, but for you – you. There will be plenty of tongues to fill your ears with evil thoughts of me; then remember what I have said to-night. Circumstances have forced me into this part that I must play, circumstances and a woman – you."

"Circumstances; yes, I understand that; but – "

"But the other you cannot understand," said Herrick quickly. "Is it anything to me, do you suppose, who rules in Montvilliers?"

"Did I not urge that upon you in the forest?" said Christine.

"Yes; and I gave you an answer. My whim compelled me to see the game to the end. There was truth in that answer, but not all the truth. Did you guess that?"

"I thought of it afterward," she answered.

"Circumstances I might break through," Herrick went on. "They may still be looking for a priest in Vayenne, but this dress of the De Bornais would pass me out of the gates. In a few hours I might be across the frontier."

"Why not go?" she asked, looking suddenly up into his eyes.

"Because you hold me."

"And Captain Lemasle, who is a prisoner, trusts you," said Christine. "You are not the man to leave a comrade like that."

"For the moment I had forgotten him," said Herrick. "You reprove me in kindly fashion; but after to-night we may never speak again as we are now, you and I alone – man and woman. It is nothing to me that you are the greatest lady in this land; to me you are only the woman I love, the lady I worship. I am dedicated to your service. The avowal is wrung from me to-night because – because failure may bring death – at the best flight, and success may bring your contempt."

"Death!" she said slowly.

"That were better than your contempt," he answered.

"I shall not easily hate you," she returned.

"I shall remember always that you have confessed so much," he said quietly, kneeling to kiss her hand.

Into Christine's thoughts came the memory of Lucille's dream and the prince who knelt to her, bringing the fulfilment of all her desires.

"Far from hating you, I might confess more," she whispered, bending over his bowed head.

"Christine!"

The next moment Herrick had sprung to his feet. There were heavy steps in the corridor without, rapidly approaching the room.

"Quick, the window!" said Christine.

"Open it wide," said Herrick, pulling his hood over his head, and noiselessly drawing his sword from its sheath. His cloak was a heavy double one, and the inner part he fastened to conceal his dress, the outer folds he drew together to hide the drawn sword.

"What will you do? Go. No harm can happen to me," said Christine.

The door was rattled sharply.

"Open! Open!"

"Go," Christine whispered. "They will kill you."

"They might insult you," he answered. "Open the door."

"For my sake, go," she said, pointing to the window.

"Open the door," Herrick repeated.

"Open! Open!" came from without as the door was rattled fiercely again.

"Go," she said, her arm stretched out to him. "Just now you said – I thought you meant you – "

"I did mean it," Herrick answered. "Christine, I love you. Now open the door."

She hesitated a moment, then unlocked it, and threw it open, and Felix strode into the room.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she asked.

The Count did not answer her, but advanced toward Herrick.

"Whom have we here masquerading as a priest?"

"You have been looking for me, Count; now you have found me. You came to speak to Mademoiselle. You could hardly have expected to find me here."

By a sudden movement Christine placed herself between the two men.

"What do you want with me, Felix?"

"You will go with me presently to the castle."

"I will go with you now."

"Presently," said Felix.

"Mademoiselle, summon the young girl who was here with you just now," said Herrick. "You may go together to the castle."

The Count's sword rang from its scabbard as a fierce oath left his lips.

"Stay!" Herrick said, his sword's point flashing instantly toward the Count's breast. "Would you fight in the presence of this lady?"

Lucille hurried in with a pale face.

"You must be my maid to-night and come with me to the castle," said Christine.

"Go quickly," said Herrick.

"Felix, you shall go with us," said Christine.

"I will follow," he answered, his eyes fixed on Herrick. "Go. No one will stop you. You are expected at the castle."

"Obedience and trust," said Herrick quietly.

For a moment Christine hesitated, then she went out quickly with Lucille, closing the door.

"Now, Count, I am at your service," said Herrick. "What is our quarrel?"

"It lies too deep for words," said Felix, attacking his adversary hotly. "Say it concerns a woman's honor, if you will."

"Say rather that it springs from the Duke Maurice, whom you have buried in St. Etienne to-day," Herrick answered sternly.

Had he sought to put his adversary off his guard, he could have chosen no better way than the sudden utterance of these words. Mad with rage, and with the consciousness that it was in this man's power to betray him, he rushed upon Herrick wildly, bent on silencing so dangerous a foe at once and forever. The next instant his sword clattered to the floor, and a moment later Herrick had tossed it through the window into the garden.

"This is not to be a fight to the death, Count," he said. "Yours is a small hurt. I will leave you to bind it up."

"Curse you!"

"Curses fall lightly on honest men," Herrick answered, retreating backward to the door, his sword still in his hand. "You would not have come alone had you expected to find me here; therefore I am fortunate, and in your present humor, mademoiselle is fortunate too in not having your escort back to the castle. There you will hardly dare to insult her."

While Herrick spoke he had opened the door, and fitted the key into the lock on the outside. Now he went out quickly, and locked the door after him.

"Good-night," he called out. "When you have bound up your wound, no doubt some one will come to your shouting."

"Curse you!" came the answer. "The future shall make you regret your present luck."

Herrick laughed, and went quickly down into the hall.

"There is a sword in the garden," he said to the sleepy porter, who was still wondering at the sudden coming and going. "Take a lantern and find it. Count Felix, who is up-stairs, will be calling for it presently."

Once out of the house, Herrick walked rapidly away, and a little later walked in at the castle gate; but no longer a priest. The cloak lay behind the wall of a garden near the old markets, and was destined to cause much wonder when it was found next day.

Jean shuffled along near him as Herrick went to his quarters.

"Mademoiselle came to the castle not long since. Is all well?"

"Yes."

"And the Count?"

"I left him binding a cut in his wrist."

"Good, friend Roger, though it might have saved trouble if you had made a slit in his heart which could not be bound." And Jean turned aside, and was lost in the shadows.