St. Denis and Navarre!

As the gates clanged into place behind us, Gilles stopped short in his tracks to say, as if addressing the darkness before him:

“Am I, Gilles, awake or asleep? Are we in Paris, or are we on the St. Denis road?”

“Oh, come, come!” Mademoiselle hastened us on, murmuring half to herself as we went: “O you kind saints! I saw he could not make us out for friends or foes; I thought my name might turn the scale. Mayenne always gives a name for a countersign; to-night, by a marvel, it was mine!”

I like not to think often of that five-mile tramp to St. Denis. The road was dark, rutty, and in places still miry from Monday night’s rain. Strange shadows dogged us all the way. Sometimes they were only bushes or wayside shrines, but sometimes they moved. This was not now a wolf country, but two-footed wolves were plenty, and as dangerous. The hangers-on of the army beggars, feagues, and footpads hovered, like the cowardly beasts of prey they were, about the outskirts of the city. Did a leaf rustle, we started; did a shambling shape in the gloom whine for alms, we made ready for onset. Gilles produced from some place of concealment his jerkin, or his leggings, or somewhere a brace of pistols, and we walked with finger on trigger, taking care, whenever a rustle in the grass, a shadow in the bushes, seemed to follow us, to talk loud and cheerfully of common things, the little interests of a humble station. Thanks to this diplomacy, or the pistol-barrels shining in the faint starlight, none molested us, though we encountered more than one mysterious company. We never passed into the gloom under an arch of trees without the resolution to fight for our lives. We never came out again into the faint light of the open road without wondering thanks to the saints silent thanks, for we never spoke a word of any fear, Gilles and I. I trow mademoiselle knew well enough, but she spoke no word either. She never faltered, never showed by so much as the turn of her head that she suspected any danger, but, eyes on the distant lights of St. Denis, walked straight along, half a step ahead of us all the way. Stride as we might, we two strong fellows could never quite keep up with her.

The journey could not at such pace stretch out forever. Presently the distant lights were no longer distant, but near, nearer, close at hand the lights of the outposts of the camp. A sentinel started out from the quoin of a wall to stop us, but when we had told our errand he became as friendly as a brother. He went across the road into a neighbouring tournebride to report to the officer of the guard, and came back presently with a torch and the order to take us to the Duke of St. Quentin’s lodging.

It was near an hour after midnight, and St. Denis was in bed. Save for a drowsy patrol here and there, we met no one. Fewer than the patrols were the lanterns hung on ropes across the streets; these were the only lights, for the houses were one and all as dark as tombs. Not till we had reached the middle of the town did we see, in the second story of a house in the square, a beam of light shining through the shutter-chink.

“Some one in mischief.” Gilles pointed.

“Aye,” laughed the sentry, “your duke. This is where he lodges, over the saddler’s.”

He knocked with the butt of his musket on the door. The shutter above creaked open, and a voice Monsieur’s voice asked, “Who’s there?”

Mademoiselle was concealed in the embrasure of the doorway; Gilles and I stepped back into the street where Monsieur could see us.

“Gilles Forestier and Felix Broux, Monsieur, just from Paris, with news.”

“Wait.”

“Is it all right, M. lé Duc?” the sentry asked, saluting.

“Yes,” Monsieur answered, closing the shutter.

The soldier, with another salute to the blank window, and a nod of “Good-by, then,” to us, went back to his post. Left in darkness, we presently heard Monsieur’s quick step on the flags of the hall, and the clatter of the bolts. He opened to us, standing there fully dressed, with a guttering candle.

“My son?” he said instantly.

Mademoiselle, crouching in the shadow of the door-post, pushed me forward. I saw I was to tell him.

“Monsieur, he was arrested and driven to the Bastille to-night between seven and eight. Lucas Paul de Lorraine went to the governor and swore that M. Etienne killed the lackey Pontou in the house in the Rue Coupejarrets. It was Lucas killed him Lucas told Mayenne so. Mlle. de Montluc heard him, too. And here is mademoiselle.”

At the word she came out of the shadow and slowly over the threshold.

Her alarm and passion had swept her to the door of the Hotel St. Quentin as a whirlwind sweeps a leaf. She had come without thought of herself, without pause, without fear. But now the first heat of her impulse was gone. Her long tramp had left her faint and weary, and here she had to face not an equery and a page, hers to command, but a great duke, the enemy of her house. She came blushfully in her peasant dress, shoes dirty from the common road, hair ruffled by the night winds, to show herself for the first time to her lover’s father, opposer of her hopes, thwarter of her marriage. Proud and shy, she drifted over the door-sill and stood a moment, neither lifting her eyes nor speaking, like a bird whom the least movement would startle into flight.

But Monsieur made none. He kept as still, as tongue-tied, as she, looking at her as if he could hardly believe her presence real. Then as the silence prolonged itself, it seemed to frighten her more than the harsh speech she may have feared; with a desperate courage she raised her eyes to his face.

The spell was broken. Monsieur stepped forward at once to her.

“Mademoiselle, you have come a journey. You are tired. Let me give you some refreshment; then will you tell me the story.”

It was an unlucky speech, for she had been on the very point of unburdening herself; but now, without a word, she accepted his escort down the passage. But as she went, she flung me an imploring glance; I was to come too. Gilles bolted the door again, and sat down to wait on the staircase; but I, though my lord had not bidden me, followed him and mademoiselle. It troubled me that she should so dread him him, the warmest-hearted of all men. But if she needed me to give her confidence, here I was.

Monsieur led her into a little square parlour at the end of the passage. It was just behind the shop, I knew, it smelt so of leather. It was doubtless the sitting-and eating-room of the saddler’s family. Monsieur set his candle down on the big table in the middle; then, on second thought, took it up again and lighted two iron sconces on the wall.

“Pray sit, mademoiselle, and rest,” he bade, for she was starting up in nervousness from the chair where he had put her. “I will return in a moment.”

When he had gone from the room, I said to her, half hesitating, yet eagerly:

“Mademoiselle, you were never afraid on the way, where there was good cause for fear. But now there is nothing to dread.”

She rose and fluttered round the walls of the room, looking for something. I thought it was for a way of escape, but it was not, for she passed the three doors and came back to her place with an air of disappointment, smoothing the loose strands of her hair.

“I never before went anywhere unmasked,” she murmured.

Monsieur entered with a salver containing a silver cup of wine and some Rheims biscuit. He offered it to her formally; she accepted with scarcely audible thanks, and sat, barely touching the wine to her lips, crumbling the biscuit into bits with restless fingers, making the pretence of a meal serve as excuse for her silence. Monsieur glanced at her, puzzled-wise, waiting for her to speak. Had the Infanta Isabella come to visit him, he could not have been more surprised. It seemed to him discourteous to press her; he waited for her to explain her presence.

I wanted to shake mademoiselle. With a dozen swift words, with a glance of her blue eyes, she could sweep Monsieur off his feet as she had swept Vigo. And instead, she sat there, not daring to look at him, like a child caught stealing sweets. She had found words to defend herself from the teasing tongues at the Hotel de Lorraine, to plead for me, to lash Lucas, to move Mayenne himself; but she could not find one syllable for the Duke of St. Quentin. She had been to admiration the laughing coquette, the stout champion, the haughty great lady, the frank lover; but now she was the shy child, blushing, stammering, constrained.

Had Monsieur attacked her with blunt questions, had he demanded of her up and down what had brought her this strange road at such amazing hour and in such unfitting company, she must needs have answered, and, once started, she would quickly have kindled her fire again. Had he, on other part, with a smile, an encouraging word, given her ever so little a push, she had gone on easily enough. But he did neither. He was courteous and cold. Partly was his coldness real; he could not look on her as other than the daughter of his enemy’s house, ward of the man who had schemed to kill him, will-o’-the-wisp who had lured his son to disaster. Partly was it mere absence; M. Etienne’s plight was more to him than mademoiselle’s. When she spoke not, he turned impatiently to me.

“Tell me, Felix, all about it.”

Before I could answer him the door behind us opened to admit two gentlemen, shoulder to shoulder. They were dressed much alike, plainly, in black. One was about thirty years of age, tall, thin-faced, and dark, and of a gravity and dignity beyond his years. Living was serious business to him; his eyes were thoughtful, steady, and a little cold. His companion was some ten years older; his beard and curling hair, worn away from his forehead by the helmet’s chafing, were already sprinkled with gray. He had a great beak of a nose and dark-gray eyes, as keen as a hawk’s, and a look of amazing life and vim. The air about him seemed to tingle with it. We had all done something, we others; we were no shirks or sluggards: but the force in him put us out, penny candles before the sun. I deem not Jeanne the Maid did any marvel when she recognized King Charles at Chinon. Here was I, a common lout, never heard a heavenly voice in all my days, yet I knew in the flick of an eye that this was Henri Quatre.

I was hot and cold and trembling, my heart pounding till it was like to choke me. I had never dreamed of finding myself in the presence. I had never thought to face any man greater than my duke. For the moment I was utterly discomfited. Then I bethought me that not for God alone were knees given to man, and I slid down quietly to the floor, hoping I did right, but reflecting for my comfort that in any case I was too small to give great offence.

Mademoiselle started out of her chair and swept a curtsey almost to the ground, holding the lowly pose like a lady of marble. Only Monsieur remained standing as he was, as if a king was an every-day affair with him. I always thought Monsieur a great man, but now I knew it.

The king, leaving his companion to close the door, was across the room in three strides.

“I am come to look after you, St. Quentin,” he cried, laughing. “I cannot have my council broken up by pretty grisettes. The precedent is dangerous.”

With the liveliest curiosity and amusement he surveyed the top of mademoiselle’s bent head, and Monsieur’s puzzled, troubled countenance.

“This is no grisette, Sire,” Monsieur answered, “but a very high-born demoiselle indeed cousin to my Lord Mayenne.”

Astonishment flashed over the king’s mobile face; his manner changed in an instant to one of utmost deference.

“Rise, mademoiselle,” he begged, as if her appearance were the most natural and desirable thing in the world. “I could wish it were my good adversary Mayenne himself who was come to treat with us; but be assured his cousin shall lack no courtesy.”

She swayed lightly to her feet, raising her face to the king’s. Into his countenance, which mirrored his emotions like a glass, came a quick delight at the sight of her. The colour waxed and waned in her cheeks; her breath fluttered uncertainly; her eyes, anxious, eager, searched his face.

“I cry your Majesty’s good pardon,” she faltered. “I had urgent business with M. de St. Quentin I did not guess he was with your Majesty

“The king’s business is glad to step aside for yours, mademoiselle.”

She curtseyed, blushing, hiding her eyes under their sooty lashes; thinking as I did, I made no doubt, here was a king indeed. His Majesty went on:

“I can well believe, mademoiselle, ’tis no trifling matter brings you at midnight to our rough camp. We will not delay you further, but be at pains to remember that if in anything Henry of France can aid you he stands at your command.”

He made her a noble bow and took her hand to kiss, when she, like a child that sees itself losing a protector, clutched his hand in her little trembling fingers, her wet eyes fixed imploringly on his face. He beamed upon her; he felt no desire whatever to be gone.

“Am I to stay?” he asked radiantly; then with grave gentleness he added: “Mademoiselle is in trouble. Will she bring her trouble to the king? That is what a king is for to ease his subjects’ burdens.”

She could not speak; she made him her obeisance with a look out of the depths of her soul.

“Then are you my subject, mademoiselle?” he demanded slyly.

She shook the tears from her lashes, and found her voice and her smile to answer his:

“Sire, I was a true Ligueuse this morning. But I came here half Navarraise, and now I swear I am wholly one.”

“Now, that is good hearing!” the king cried. “Such a recruit from Mayenne! Also is it heartening to discover that my conversion is not the only sudden one in the world. It has taken me five months to turn my coat, but here is mademoiselle turns hers in a day.”

He had glanced over his shoulder to point this out to his gentleman, but now he faced about in time to catch his recruit looking triste again.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “you are beautiful, grave; but, as you had the graciousness to show me just now, still more beautiful, smiling. Now we are going to arrange matters so that you will smile always. Will you tell me what is the trouble, my child?”

“Gladly, Sire,” she answered, and dropped down a moment on her knees before him, to kiss his hand.

I marvelled that Mayenne and all his armies had been able to keep this man off his throne and in his saddle four long years. It was plain why his power grew stronger every day, why every hour brought him new allies from the ranks of the League. You had only to see him to adore him. Once get him into Paris, the struggle would be over. They would put up with no other for king.

“Sire,” mademoiselle said with hesitancy, “I shall tire you with my story.”

“I am greatly in dread of it,” the king answered, ceremoniously placing her in a chair before seating himself to listen. Then, to give her a moment, I think, to collect herself, he turned to his companion:

“Here, Rosny, if you ache to be grubbing over your papers, do not let us delay you.”

“I am in no haste, Sire,” his gentleman answered, unmoving.

“Which is to say, you dare not leave me alone,” the king laughed out. “I tell you, St. Quentin, if I am not dragooned into a staid, discreet, steady-paced monarch, ’twill be no lapse of Whip-King Rosny’s. I am listening, mademoiselle.”

She began at once, eager and unfaltering. All her confusion was gone. It had been well-nigh impossible to tell the story to M. de St. Quentin, impossible to tell it to this impassive M. de Rosny. But to the King of France and Navarre it was as easy to talk as to one’s playfellow.

“Sire, I am Lorance de Montluc. My grandfather was the Marshal Montluc.”

“Were to-day next Monday, I could pray, ‘God rest his soul,’” the king rejoined. “But even a heretic may say that he was a gallant general, an honour to France. He married a sister of Francois lé Balafre? And mademoiselle is orphaned now, and my friend Mayenne’s ward?”

“Yes, Sire. I came here, Sire, to tell M. de St. Quentin concerning his son. And though I am talking of myself, it is all the same story. Three years ago, after the king died, M. de Mayenne was endeavouring with all his might to bring the Duke of St. Quentin into the League. He offered me to him for his son, M. de Mar.”

“And you are still Mlle. de Montluc?”

She turned to Monsieur with the prettiest smile in the world.

“M. de St. Quentin, though he has not fought for you, Sire, has ever been whole-heartedly loyal.”

“Ventre-saint-gris!” the king exclaimed. “He is either an incredible loyalist or an incredible ass!”

Even the grave Rosny smiled, and the victim laughed as he defended himself.

“That my loyalty may be credible, Sire, I make haste to say that I had never seen mademoiselle till this hour.”

“I know not whether to think better of you for that, or worse,” the king retorted. “Had I been in your place, beshrew me but I should have seen her.”

Monsieur smiled and was silent, with anxious eyes on mademoiselle.

“M. de St. Quentin withdrew to Picardie, Sire, but M. de Mar stayed in Paris. And my cousin Mayenne never gave up entirely the notion of the marriage. He is very tenacious of his plans.”

“Aye,” said the king, with a grimace. “Well I know.”

“He blew hot and cold with M. de Mar. He favoured the marriage on Sunday and scouted it on Wednesday and discussed it again on Friday.”

“And what were M. de Mar’s opinions?”

She met his probing gaze blushing but candid.

“M. de Mar, Sire, favoured it every day in the week.”

“I’ll swear he did!” the king cried.

“When M. lé Duc came back to Paris,” mademoiselle went on, “and it was known he had espoused your cause, Sire, Mayenne was so loath to lose the whole house of St. Quentin to you that he offered to marry me out of hand to M. de Mar. And he refused.”

“Ventre-saint-gris!” Henry cried. “We will marry you to a king’s son. On my honour, mademoiselle

“Sire,” she pleaded, “you promised to hear me.”

“That I will, then. But I warn you I am out of patience with these St. Quentins.”

“Then you are out of patience with devotion to your cause, Sire.”

“What! you speak for the recreants?”

“I assure you, Sire, you have no more loyal servant than M. de Mar.”

“Strange I cannot recollect the face of my so loyal servant,” the king said dryly.

But she, with a fine scorn of argument, made the audacious answer:

“When you see it, you will like it, Sire.”

“Not half so well as I like yours, mademoiselle, I promise you! But he comes to me well commended, since you vouch for him. Or rather, he does not come. What is this ardent follower doing so long away from me? Where the devil does this eager partizan keep himself? St. Quentin, where is your son?”

“He had been with you long ago, Sire, but for the bright eyes of a lady of the League. And now she comes to tell me my page tells me he is in the Bastille.”

“Ventre-saint-gris! And how has that calamity befallen?”

She hesitated a moment, embarrassed by her very wealth of matter, confused between her longing to set the whole case before the king, and her fear of wearying his patience. But his glance told her she need have no misgiving. Had she come to present him Paris, he could not have been more interested.

In the little silence Monsieur found his moment and his words.

“Sire, may I interrupt mademoiselle? Last night, for the first time in a month, I saw my son. He was just returned from an adventure under her window. Mayenne’s guard had set on him, and he was escaped by the skin of his teeth. He declared to me that never till he was slain should he cease endeavour to win Mlle. de Montluc. And I? Marry, I ate my words in humblest fashion. After three years I made my surrender. Since you are his one desire, mademoiselle, then are you my one desire. I bade him God-speed.”

She gave her hand to Monsieur, sudden tears welling over her lashes.

“Monsieur, I thought to-night I had no friends. And I have so many!”

“Mademoiselle,” the king cried in the same breath, “fear not. I will get you your lover if I sell France for him.”

She brushed the tears away and smiled on him.

“I have no fear, Sire. With you and M. de St. Quentin to save him, I can have no fear. But he is in desperate case. Has M. de St. Quentin told you of his secretary Lucas, my cousin Paul de Lorraine?”

“Aye,” said the king, “it is a dolourous topic very painful! Eh, Rosny?”

“I do not shrink from my pains, Sire,” M. de Rosny answered quietly. “I hold myself much to blame in this matter. I thought I knew the Lucases root and branch I did not discover that a daughter of the house had ever been a friend to Henri de Guise.”

“And how should you discover it?” the king demanded. He had made the attack; now, since Rosny would not resent it, he rushed himself to the defence. “How were you to dream it? Henri de Guise’s side was the last place to look for a girl of the Religion. But I forgive him. If he stole a Rochelaise, we have avenged it deep: we have stolen the flower of Lorraine.”

“Paul Lucas Paul de Lorraine,” she went on eagerly, “was put into M. lé Duc’s house to kill him. He went all the more willingly that he believed M. de Mar to be my favoured suitor. He tried to draw M. de Mar into the scheme, to ruin him. He failed. And the whole plot came to naught.”

“I have learned that,” the king said. “I have been told how a country boy stripped his mask off.”

He glanced around suddenly at me where I stood red and abashed. He was so quick that he grasped everything at half a word. Instantly he had turned to the lady again. “Pray continue, dear mademoiselle.”

“Afterward that is, yesterday Paul went to M. de Belin and swore against M. de Mar that he had murdered a lackey in his house in the Rue Coupejarrets. The lackey was murdered there, but Paul de Lorraine did it. The man knew the plot; Paul killed him to stop his tongue. I heard him confess it to M. de Mayenne. I and this Felix Broux were in the oratory and heard it.”

“Then M. de Mar was arrested?”

“Not then. The officers missed him. To-day he came to our house, dressed as an Italian jeweller, with a case of trinkets to sell. Madame admitted him; no one knew him but me and my chamber-mate. On the way out, Mayenne met him and kept him while he chose a jewel. Paul de Lorraine was there too. I was like to die of fear. I went in to M. de Mayenne; I begged him to come out with me to supper, to dismiss the tradespeople that I might talk with him there anything. But it availed not. M. de Mayenne spoke freely before them, as one does before common folk. Presently he led me to supper. Paul was left alone with M. de Mar and the boy. He recognized them. He was armed, and they were not, but they overbore him and locked him up in the closet.”

“Mordieu, mademoiselle! I was to rescue M. de Mar for your sake, but now I will do it for his own. I find him much to my liking. He came away clear, mademoiselle?”

“Aye, to be seized in the street by the governor’s men. When M. de Mayenne found how he had been tricked, Sire, he blazed with rage.”

“I’ll warrant he did!” the king answered, suppressing, however, in deference to her distress, his desire to laugh. “Ventre-saint-gris, mademoiselle! forgive me if this amuses me here at St. Denis. I trow it was not amusing in the Hotel de Lorraine.”

“He sent for me, Sire,” she went on, blanching at the memory; “he accused me of shielding M. de Mar. It was true. He called me liar, traitor, wanton. He said I was false to my house, to my bread, to my honour. He said I had smiling lips and a Judas-heart that I had kissed him and betrayed him. I had given him my promise never to hold intercourse with M. de Mar again, I had given my word to be true to my house. M. de Mar came by no will of mine. I had no inkling of such purpose till I beheld him before madame and her ladies. He came to entreat me to fly to wed him. I denied him, Sire. I sent him away. But was I to say to the guard, ’This way, gentlemen. This is my lover’?”

“Mademoiselle,” the king exclaimed, “good hap that you have turned your back on the house of Lorraine. Here, if we are but rough soldiers, we know how to tender you.”

“It was not for myself I came,” she said more quietly. “My lord had the right to chasten me. I am his ward, and I did deceive him. But while he foamed at me came word of M. de Mar’s capture. Then Mayenne swore he should pay for this dear. He said he should be found guilty of the murder. He said plenty of witnesses would swear to it. He said M. de Mar should be tortured to make him confess.”

With an oath Monsieur sprang forward.

“Aye,” she cried, starting up, “he swore M. de Mar should suffer the preparatory and the previous, the estrapade and the brodekins!”

“He dare not,” the king shouted. “Mordieu, he dare not!”

“Sire,” she cried, “you can promise him that for every blow he strikes Etienne de Mar you will strike me two. Mar is in his hands, but I am in yours. For M. de Mar, unhurt, you will deliver him me, unhurt. If he torture Mar, you will torture me.”

“Mademoiselle,” the king cried, “rather shall he torture every chevalier in France than I touch a hair of your head!”

“Sire ” the word died away in a sigh; like a snapt rose she fell at his feet.

The king was quick, but Monsieur quicker. On his knees beside her, raising her head on his arm, he commanded me:

“Up-stairs, Felix! The door at the back bid Dame Verney come instantly.”

I flew, and was back to find him risen, holding mademoiselle in his arms. Her hair lay loose over his shoulder like a rippling flag; her lashes clung to her cheeks as they would never lift more.

“St. Quentin,” his Majesty was saying, “I would have married her to a prince. But since she wants your son she shall have him, ventre-saint-gris, if I storm Paris to-morrow!” And as Monsieur was carrying her from the room, the king bent over and kissed her.

“Mademoiselle has dropped a packet from her dress,” M. de Rosny said. “Will you take it, St. Quentin?”

The king, who was nearest, turned to pass it to him; at the sight of it he uttered his dear “ventre-saint-gris!” It was a flat, oblong packet, tied about with common twine, the seal cut out. The king twitched the string off, and with one rapid glance at the papers put them into Monsieur’s hand.

“Take them, St. Quentin; they are yours.”