Book: An Enemy To The King

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"Let me see the face that goes with that voice."

And he threw up the front of Barbemouche's hat with one hand, at the same
time raising the front of his own with the other. The two men regarded
each other for a moment.

"Praise to the God of Israel, we meet again!" cried Blaise, in a loud
voice, catching the other by the throat.

"Who are you?" demanded Barbemouche.

"The man on whom you left this mark,"--and Blaise pointed to his own
forehead,--"in Paris on St. Bartholomew's night thirteen years ago."

"Then I did not kill you?" muttered Barbemouche, glaring fiercely
at Blaise.

"God had further use for me," said Blaise.

De Berquin and I both stepped aside, perceiving that here was a matter in
which neither of us was concerned. But we looked on with some interest,
deferring until its adjustment our own conversation.

"Then it was you who spoiled my appearance for the rest of my days!"
cried Barbemouche. "May you writhe in the flames of hell!"

And, being without sword or other weapon, he aimed a blow of the fist at
Blaise's head. Blaise, disdaining to use steel against an unarmed
antagonist, contented himself with dodging the blow and dragging
Barbemouche to a place where an opening in the courtyard wall overlooked
a steep, rocky descent which was for some distance without vegetation.
Here the two men grappled. There was some hard squeezing, some quick
bending either way, a final powerful forcing forward of the arms on the
part of Blaise, a last violent propulsion of the same arms, and
Barbemouche was thrown backward down the precipice. Blaise stood for a
time looking oven. We heard a series of dull concussions, a sound of the
flight of detached small stones, and then nothing.

"God giveth the battle to the strong!" said Blaise, and he came away from
the precipice.

De Berquin shrugged his shoulders, and turned again to me.

"As I said, monsieur," he began, "I have come here to do you a service."

"Indeed!" said I, coldly, choosing to assume indifference and ignorance.
"I knew not that I was in need of any."

"Your need of it is all the greater for that," said De Berquin, quietly.
"Monsieur, I would hinder some one from doing you a foul deed, though to
do so I must rob that person of your esteem."

"Speak clearly, M. de Berquin," said I, thinking that he was taking the
wrong way to get my confidence. "It is impossible that any one having my
esteem should need hindrance from a foul deed."

De Berquin stood perfectly still and looked me straight in the
face, saying:

"Is it a foul deed to betray a man into the hands of his enemies?"

"Yes," said I, thoughtfully, wondering that he should try to begin that
very act by accusing some one else of intending it.

"Then, monsieur," he went on, "look to yourself."

But I looked at him instead, with some amazement at the assurance with
which he continued to face me.

"And what man of my following would you accuse of intending to betray
me?" I asked.

"No man, monsieur," he said, still meeting my gaze steadily, and not
changing his attitude.

"No man?" I repeated, for a moment puzzled. "Oh, ho! The boy, Pierre,
perhaps, who left us while we were at the inn by the forest road! Well,
monsieur, you speak falsely. I would stake my arm on his loyalty."

"It is not to tell you of any boy that I have sought you these many days
in this wilderness," said De Berquin, all the time standing as motionless
as a statue, and speaking in a very low voice. "It is not a boy that has
come from M. de la Chatre, the governor of the province, to betray you."

"Not man nor boy," I said, curious now to learn what he was aiming at.
"What, then? Mademoiselle's maid, honest Jeannotte? You must take the
trouble to invent something else, M. de Berquin. You become amusing."

"Not the maid, monsieur," he replied, very quietly, putting a stress on
the word "maid," and facing me as boldly as ever.

Slowly it dawned on me what he meant. Slowly a tremendous indignation
grew in me against the man who dared to stand before me and make that
accusation. Yet I controlled myself, and merely answered in a tone as low
as his, but slowly drawing my sword:

"By God, you mean _her_!"

"Mlle. de Varion," he answered, never quailing.

Filled with a, great wrath, my powers of thought for the time paralyzed,
my mind capable of no perception, but that of mademoiselle's sweetness
and purity opposed to this horrible charge of black treason, I could
answer only:

"Then the devil is no more the king of liars, unless you are the devil!
Come, Monsieur de Berquin, I will show you what I think of the service
you would do me!"

With drawn sword in hand, I walked across the courtyard and pointed to
the way leading around the side of the château to an open space in one
part of the garden. I knew that there we should not be interrupted.

As I waited for De Berquin to precede me, I chanced to look at
Blaise. A strange, thoughtful expression was on his face. He, too,
stood quite still.

De Berquin looked at my face for a moment longer, then seemed to realize
the hopelessness of his attempt to make me credit his accusation,
shrugged his shoulders and said, courteously:

"As you will, monsieur!"

And he walked before me around the side of the château to the bare
space in the garden. Blaise, having received no orders, did not presume
to follow.

We took off our doublets and other encumbrances, De Berquin raising his
sheathed sword and very gracefully unsheathing by throwing the scabbard
off into the air, so that it fell some distance away in the garden.

Twice before that night it had been shown that I was the more skilful
swordsman, yet now he stood without the least sign of fear. If he had
formerly retreated, on being disarmed, it was from situations in which he
had figured ridiculously, and could not endure to remain before
Mademoiselle de Varion. Also, he had sought to preserve his life, so that
he might have revenge. But now that events had taken their turn, he
showed himself not afraid to face death.

"It is a pity," I said, "that a brave man should be so great a liar."

"Rather," he said, "that so brave a man"--and his look showed that he
alluded to me--"should be so easily fooled; and that so fair a woman
should be so vile a traitor."

And, seeing that I was ready, he put himself into a posture of defence.

The cup of my resentment having been already filled to overflowing, it
was impossible for me to be further angered by this. But there came on
me a desire to let him know that I was not as ill-informed as he had
thought me; that perhaps he was the greater fool. So, holding my sword
lowered, I said:

"You should know, monsieur, that I am aware who undertook the task of
betraying me to La Chatre."

"And yet you say that I lie," he replied.

"I know even how the matter was to be conducted," I went on. "The spy
was first to learn my place of refuge and send the information to La
Chatre. The governor was then to come to Clochonne. The governor is
already at Clochonne. The spy, doubtless, learned where I hid, and sent
word to La Chatre."

"Doubtless," he replied, impassively, "inasmuch as you speak of one of
mademoiselle's boys having left you. He was probably the messenger."

"Monsieur," I said, "you desire to leave a slander of mademoiselle that
may afflict me or her after your death; but your quickness to perceive
circumstances that seemingly fit your lie will not avail you. A thousand
facts might seem to bear out your falsehood, yet I would not heed them. I
would know them to be accidental. For every lie there are many
circumstances that may be turned to its support. So do not, in dying,
felicitate yourself on leaving behind you a lie that will live to injure
her or me. Your lie shall die with you."

"You tire me with reiterations, monsieur," he replied, calmly. "Since you
will maintain that I have lied, do so. It is you who will suffer for your
blindness, not I. I told you the truth, not really because I wished to do
you a kindness, but because there was a chance of its serving my own
purpose. The woman came here to find your hiding-place, and betray you to
the governor. La Chatre engaged her to do so. His secretary, Montignac,
took it into his head that he would like to become sole possessor of
mademoiselle's time and attractions. But he could not undo the governor's
plans, nor could he hope for the woman's cooperation, as she seems to
have taken a dislike to him. It had been agreed that, when she had turned
you over to the governor's soldiers, she should go to Fleurier to receive
her reward. She had made this condition so that she might keep out of the
way of Montignac. Now he dared not interfere to prevent her from doing
the governor's errand, but he hoped to see more of her after that should
be completed. Such, as it was necessary for him to tell me, was the state
of his mind when I came along--I, ordered from court, hounded from Paris
by creditors, ragged and ready for what might turn up. Near Fleurier
Montignac turned up, in La Chatre's cavalcade. He wanted me to become the
woman's escort to Clochonne, keep my eyes on her, know when she had
settled your business, and, when she was about to start for Fleurier,
keep her as his guest in a house that I was to hire in Clochonne. But why
do I grow chilly telling you all this, when you do not intend to believe
me? Shall we not begin, monsieur?"

"Doubtless you are vain of your skill at fabrication, monsieur," I said,
wishing to deprive him of the satisfaction of thinking me deceived by
his story, "but you have no reason to be. That a woman should be sent to
betray an outlaw, and then a man sent to keep her in view and finally
hold her,--it is complicated, to say the least. Why should you not have
been sent to take me?" I thought that I had touched him here.

"That is what I asked Montignac," he replied. "But he told me that she
had already been commissioned to hunt you down, before he had made up his
mind to possess her by force. Moreover, it would not do to disturb the
governor's plan, on which the governor was mightily set, though Montignac
himself had suggested it. 'And,' said Montignac, 'you have not a woman's
wit to find his hiding-place, or a woman's means of luring him from his
men.' And yet, you will remember that when I thought you were a lackey,
and you offered to deliver La Tournoire to me, I grasped at the chance,
for I knew that, however set the governor might be on having the lady
take you, he would be glad enough to have you taken by any one, and if I
took you and got the reward I could afford to bear Montignac's
displeasure. I think Montignac's desire to have the lady take you was due
to his having suggested the plan. He wanted both the credit of having
devised your capture and the pleasure of mademoiselle's society. Yes,
when you held out to me the possibility, I was willing to risk
Montignac's resentment and take La Tournoire myself. Before that, I had
confined myself to the task of following mademoiselle. At first you and
your supposed master were in my way. I had hoped to get her from you, and
to obtain her esteem by the mock rescue, but this was spoiled first by my
men and then by you. After that failure, I could merely follow and hope
that chance would enable me to do Montignac's will."

"You cleverly mix truth and fiction, monsieur," I said. "You interest
me. Go on."

It is true that he did interest me, so ingenious did I think his recital.

"I have no wish to prolong the life of one of us by this talk," he
replied, "but a tale once begun should be finished. You know how you
promised to deliver up La Tournoire to me. I grant that you kept the
promise to the letter. During the rest of that night I lay quiet with my
men. We heard your departure the next morning, and when the way was clear
we followed in your track. We could do so quietly, for we were afoot; we
had left our horses in another part of this wilderness the day before. We
heard you greeted by your sentinel, and guessed that you were near your
burrow. We came no further, but looked around and found a projecting
rock, under which to lie hidden, and a tree from whose top this place
could be seen. So we have lodged under the rock, one of us keeping watch
night and day from the tree. I hoped thus to be able to know when you
should be taken, so that I might then look to the lady. But no soldiers
came for you, neither you nor the lady departed from the place, no sign
came to indicate an attack or a flight. You can imagine, monsieur, how a
gentleman accustomed to court pleasures and Parisian fare enjoyed the
kind of life that we have been leading for these several days. Now and
then one of us would crawl forth to a stream for water, or forage for
nuts and berries, and we snared a few birds, which we had to eat raw, not
daring to make a fire. This existence became tiresome. This afternoon
three of my knaves deserted. What was I to do? It was useless to go back
to Montignac without having done his work. To stay there awaiting your
capture or the lady's departure was perhaps to starve. To go any distance
from this place was to lose sight of the woman, who might leave at any
time, and we could not know what direction she might take. The enterprise
had been at best a scurvy one, fit only for a man at the end of his
resources. In fine, monsieur, when the last of my men threatened to
follow his comrades, I crawled out of my hole, stretched my aching bones,
and resolved to let Montignac's business go to the devil. There was no
chance for me in the service of the French King, therefore I came to
offer myself as a member of your company. In the Huguenot cause I might
earn back some of the good things of life. It no longer matters on which
side I fight. 'Twas the same with Barbemouche. And, inasmuch as I had
decided to cast in my fortunes with yours, I naturally wished you well.
Thus it was my own interest I sought to serve, as well as yours, when I
told you that this woman came here to betray you to La Chatre."

"You told me that," said I, calmly, "for one or both of two
purposes,--the first, to make me withdraw my protection from the lady, in
order that she might be at your disposal; the second, to get my
confidence, in order that you yourself might betray me to La Chatre."

De Berquin laughed. "Am I, then, such a fool as to think that the wary
Tournoire could be put off his guard by a man? No, no. The governor or
Montignac was wise in choosing a woman for that delicate task. It is only
by a Delilah that a Samson can be caught!"

"Monsieur," I said, with ironical admiration, "you are indeed as artful
in your lies as you are bold. You have constructed a story that every
circumstance seems to bear out. Yet one circumstance you have forgotten,
or you are not aware of it. It destroys your whole edifice. The father of
Mlle. de Varion is now a prisoner, held by the governor's order, on a
charge of treason for having harbored Huguenots. Would his daughter
undertake to do the work of a spy and a traitor for that governor against
a Huguenot? Now for your ingenuity, monsieur!"

"Such things have been known," he answered, not at all discomfited. "His
daughter may not have her father's weakness for Huguenots, and if she
bears resentment against the governor on her father's account, her desire
of the reward may outweigh that resentment. Covetousness is strong in
women. You would not expect great filial devotion in a hired spy and
traitress. Moreover, for all I know, this woman may not be Mile, de
Varion, although Montignac so named her to me. She may have assumed that
character at his suggestion, in order to get your confidence and
sympathy, not daring to pretend to be a Huguenot, lest some habitual act
might betray the deception."

"Enough, M. de Berquin," I said. "I do your wit the credit of admitting
that so well-wrought a lie was never before told. Only two things prevent
its being believed. It is to me that you tell it, and it is of Mile, de
Varion! You complained a while ago of being chilly. Let us now warm
ourselves!"

And so we went at it. I had no reason now to repeat the trick by which I
had before disarmed him. Indeed, I wished him to keep sword in hand that
I might have no scruples about killing him. I never could bring myself to
give the death thrust to an unarmed man. Yet I was determined that the
brain whence had sprung so horrible a story against my beloved should
invent no more, that the lips which had uttered the accusation should not
speak again. Yet he gave me a hard fight. It was for his life that he now
wielded sword, and he was not now taken by surprise as he had been in our
former meetings, or unsteadied by a desire of making a great flourish
before a lady. He now brought to his use all his training as a fencer. He
had a strong wrist and a good eye, despite the dissolute life that he had
led. For some minutes our swords clashed, our boots beat the ground, and
our lungs panted as we fought in the moonlight. I was anxious to have the
thing over quickly, lest the noise we made might reach the ears of
mademoiselle, and perhaps bring her to the scene. I knew that Blaise
would keep the men away, but he would not presume to restrain
mademoiselle. I wished, too, to have the thrust made before my antagonist
should begin to show weakness of body or uncertainty of eye. But he
maintained a good guard, and also required me to give much time and
attention to my own defence. Indeed, his point once passed through my
shirt under my left shoulder, my left arm being then raised. But at last
I caught him between two ribs as he was coming forward, and it was
almost as though he had fallen on my sword. I missed his own sword only
by quickly turning sidewise so that his weapon ran along the front of my
breast without touching me.

He uttered one shriek, I drew my sword out of his body, and he fell in a
limp heap. With a convulsive motion he straightened out and was still. I
turned his body so that his face was towards the sky, and I went back to
the courtyard, leaving him alone in the moonlight.




CHAPTER XIV.

"GOD GRANT I DO NOT FIND YOU FALSE!"


In the courtyard was mademoiselle, very pale and agitated, standing by
Blaise and grasping his arm as if for support. She still had on the gown
of pale green that she had worn earlier in the evening. Her head was
uncovered, her hair in some disorder, and this, with the pallor of her
face and the fright in her wide-open eyes, gave her some wildness of
appearance. It was De Berquin's piercing death-cry that had blanched her
cheek and made her clutch Blaise's arm.

"You have killed him!" she said, in a voice little above a whisper.

"You ought not to be here, mademoiselle," I replied.

"From my chamber window I saw you talking with M. de Berquin. What he
said I know not, but you drew your sword and went away with him. I
waited for a long time in anxiety until I heard the sound of swords. I
came down, and would have gone to beg you to stop, but when I heard
that awful shriek I could not go any further. Oh, monsieur, you have
killed him!"

"He brought it on himself, mademoiselle," was all that I could say.

And here Blaise did what I thought a strange and presumptuous thing.
He approached mademoiselle, and, looking her keenly in the eyes,
said, gravely:

"He said that you came from the governor of the province to betray M. de
la Tournoire!"

"Blaise!" I cried, in great astonishment and anger. "How dare you even
utter the calumny he spoke? Go you and look to the disposal of his body."
And I motioned him away with a wrathful gesture.

He looked frowningly at mademoiselle and then at me, and went off, with a
shrug of his shoulders, to the place where De Berquin lay.

I turned to mademoiselle; she stood like a statue, her eyes fixed on the
empty air before her. Yet she seemed to know when my look fell on her,
for at that instant a slight tremor passed through her.

"Tremble not for M. de Berquin, mademoiselle," said I, thinking of that
divine gentleness in a woman which makes her pity even those who have
persecuted her. "Indeed, he must have wished to die. He well knew that a
certain way to death was to tempt my sword with a black lie of the truest
lady in France."

"You killed him," she murmured, in a low, pitying voice, "because he
said--I came from the governor--to betray you!"

"Why else, mademoiselle? What is the matter? Why do you look so?"

For all life and consciousness seemed to be about to leave her
countenance.

"_Mon dieu_!" she said, weakly, "I cannot tell--I--"

I hastened to put my arms about her, that she might not fall.

"You pity him," I said, "but there could be nothing of good in one who
could so slander you. Indeed, mademoiselle, you are ill. Let me lead you
in. Believe me, mademoiselle, he well deserved his death."

Thus endeavoring to calm and restore her mind, I led her slowly into the
château and up the steps to the door of her chamber. She followed as one
without will and with little strength. Hugo and Jeannotte, who had been
sitting on the landing outside her door, had risen as we came up the
stairs. When I took my arms from about mademoiselle, she leaned on the
maid's shoulder, and so passed into her chamber, giving me neither look
nor word. Leaving Hugo to keep his vigil outside her door, I went down to
the great hall of the château.

Several of the men lay on the floor, most of them asleep. I asked one of
them where Blaise had bestowed the three rascals who had become our
prisoners, and he rose and led the way to a dark chamber at the rear of
the hall. He took a torch that was stuck in the wall and followed me into
this chamber. It was my desire to learn from these men whether or not
Barbemouche, or one of them, had borne to M. de la Chatre an account of
my hiding-place; for there had been time for one to have done so and
returned. It might be that the original plan suggested to the governor by
Montignac had been altered and that some other step had been adopted for
my capture. The very visit of De Berquin, the very story he had told me,
might have been connected with this other step. One of his purposes, in
trying to make me think myself betrayed, may have been to induce me to
leave a place so inaccessible to attack. If a new plan had been put in
operation, these men might know something of it. I would question them
and then consult with Blaise, comparing the answers they should give me
with those they had given Blaise.

They lay snoring, their hands fastened behind their backs, their ankles
so tied that they could not stretch out their legs. The man with me said
that Blaise, after belaboring them and interrogating them to his heart's
content, had relented, and brought some cold meat and wine for them. I
suppose that the gentle spirit of his mother had obtained the
ascendency. They had devoured the food with the avidity of starving
dogs, and had lain down, full of gratitude, to sleep. Blaise had then
bound them up as a precaution against a too unceremonious departure. I
woke them one after another, with gentle kicks, and they stared up at
me, blinking in the torchlight. Submissively and readily, though
drowsily, they answered my questions. They swore that neither
Barbemouche nor any one of them, nor De Berquin himself, had borne any
message to the governor; that the five had remained together from the
first, living under the rock and keeping watch from the tree-top, as De
Berquin had narrated, until the previous afternoon, when the three had
deserted, only to fall into the hands of our sentinel. In every detail
their account agreed with that of their late master. When I accused them
of telling a prearranged lie, and threatened them with the torture, the
foppish fellow said:

"What more can a man tell than the truth? But if you're not satisfied
with it, monsieur, and let me know what you wish me to say, I'll say it
with all my heart, and swear to it on whatever you name."

From the faces of the others, I knew that they, too, were willing to tell
anything, true or false, to avoid torture, and so I could not but believe
their story. Therefore, said I to myself, Montignac's plan not adhered
to. De Berquin sent no one to the governor with information concerning
my hiding-place. La Chatre had come to Clochonne without having awaited
such information. De Berquin had been too slow. Perhaps, indeed, the plan
had been altered so as to omit the sending of this preliminary word to
the governor. A fixed time might have been set for the coming of the
governor to Clochonne. De Berquin had probably retained his men that he
might have one to use as messenger to the governor, in notifying La
Chatre where to place his ambuscade, and that he might have others to
waylay mademoiselle. His lie was doubtless a bold device to put
mademoiselle into his power, and to get entrance to my company. It was a
last resource, it was just as likely to bring death as to bring success,
but he had taken a gambler's chances. They had gone against him, and he
had uncomplainingly accepted his defeat.

So the governor's presence at Clochonne was not to be taken as reason for
great alarm, inasmuch as there seemed now no probability that he knew my
hiding-place. We were still safe at Maury. We should have only to
maintain greater vigilance. Failing to hear from his agent, who now lay
dead in the garden at Maury, and could never work us harm, the governor
would eventually take new measures for my capture, or, if I kept quiet
and my men left no traces, he would presently suppose that I had gone
from his province. As for mademoiselle, neither La Chatre nor Montignac
knew where she was. We might, therefore, have more of those delightful,
peaceful days at Maury. Moreover, what better time to surprise the
commandant of the Château of Fleurier than while La Chatre was at
Clochonne? My heart beat gaily at thought of how bright was the prospect.
I passed out by a back way to the garden, where Blaise had been looking
to the body of De Berquin.

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