I started from my seat, and Camus,
with a turn and a step, reached the window, where,
resting his hands on the mullions, he leaned far out.
I was on his heels; but the window was narrow, a
mere slit, and so I could see nothing below.
Late as it was the cry had, however, reached other
ears than ours as well. Here and there a dim
light glowed for an instant or so in an overhanging
window. Here and there a shadowy figure appeared
at a balcony, only to vanish like a ghost after peering
for a moment in the direction of the sound. This
was all the interest, all the attention it excited,
and this spoke for the times.
“What is it? Can you see
anything?” I asked, craning over Camus’
shoulder; and, as if in answer to my question, the
cry rang out again, just below the window:
“A moi! Au secours!”
Then came an oath, and the rasp of steel.
“They are killing someone there,”
said Camus; “killing with clumsy steel.
Well! ’tis an affair for the watch.”
And with a shrug of his lean shoulders he turned
back. But I waited to hear no more. Drawing
my sword I made all haste down the stairway and into
the street, and there before me, where the moonlight
glistened on the mud and on the green and slimy cobble
stones of the Rue des Lavandières, two
men, their backs to the wall, fought for their lives
against four, whilst a fifth, who seemed to direct
them, stood a little apart.
The odds were heavy against the two.
All the heavier because one, dressed in the bizarre
attire of jester, had no sword but only a dagger for
defence. Nevertheless, with his short cloak wrapped
over his left arm, and the dagger in his right hand,
he held his own with skill and courage.
The attack, however, was chiefly directed
upon his companion, a fair-haired man, with a short
moustache and beard. He had lost his hat.
There was a red line of blood on his face from a wound
in the forehead, and a twitching smile on his lips;
but he fought silent as a wolf.
A thrust that would have found his
heart was parried, but not by him. Quick as thought,
the swordless man by his side hit up the bravo’s
rapier with his left arm, and the blade, stabbing the
air, struck and bent against the stones of the wall
just over shoulder-height.
“Sus! sus!”
cried the leader of the night-hawks; and he ran forward.
Clearly it was time that help came.
So I passed my sword through one of the bravos, and
as the others, surprised and disconcerted, gave way
a little, I ranged myself beside the two.
“Courage!” I said, “affairs are
more equal now.”
Cursing and growling, spitting like
so many cats, the villains came on with a rush, their
leader first. A long arm and a long sword are,
however, great advantages in affairs of this kind,
and I took him on the riposte. A cry and a gasp,
a sword clattered on to the pavement, and the stricken
man spun round and, holding his hand to his side,
tried to stagger off, but after stumbling a few steps
he fell in a heap in the shadow.
This settled the matter. The
others, seeing their leader hit, waited for no more,
but fled. There was no pursuit. For a few
brief seconds we heard the patter of running feet,
and then all was still.
We stood, all three staring at each
other, and then the fair-haired man held out his hand,
saying simply: “I thank you, monsieur!”
I met his grasp, expressing at the
same time my concern for his wound.
“It is not much, I think all
due to a weak parry on my part.” And he
strove with a gold-laced handkerchief to staunch the
blood that was flowing somewhat freely. I was
about to offer what help I could when the jester cut
in.
“Faith of a fool!” he
said, sheathing his dagger, “my gossip here is
apt to make light of these scratches; but I would give
my cap and bells now for a little salve.”
“If you will come into my house,
messieurs ’tis but a step we
will see to the hurt.”
I almost repented of my offer the
moment after I made it, for I caught the jester plucking
at my friend’s sleeve in warning; but the other
laughed, and, addressing me in a high and gracious
way, said:
“Monsieur, once more thanks!
I accept your offer. Of a truth!” and
he ruefully looked at his handkerchief, “this
is a trifle too much cupping for me.”
I bowed, and led the way across the
road; but the jester stayed us, calling out in his
high-pitched tones:
“Just a look at this carrion!
One may as well see upon whom our friend here has
put his mark.” So saying he stooped and
turned over the man, the first of the two who had
fallen. He lay half in a stagnant pool of water,
and was quite dead, as we could see, for the moon fell
clearly on his evil and distorted face and horny,
film-covered eyes.
“As dead as imperial Caesar,”
said the jester; “nor can I say who or what
he was. St. Siege! Stay see
this!” And throwing back the man’s cloak,
which half covered his breast, he pointed with his
fingers at a crest embroidered on the doublet.
It was a crescent in silver, with a scroll beneath
it, and as we all stooped down to see, the jester’s
keen eyes met those of his companion.
“The scroll explains all,”
he said, as if in reference to the attack upon them:
“it is totum donec impleat orbem.”
“Diane?”
“Yes; Diane de Poitiers Diane,
Duchess of Valentinois Diane, the curse
of France! But I should play the Caliph Aaron
no more, and keep home of nights; better still, take
horse with the dawn for Navarre!”
There was a strange earnestness in
the speaker’s voice. There he was, one
knee to ground, a finger resting on the ill-omened
crest of the mistress of the King, the moon shining
on his rich dress of black and gold, on the sharp,
weasel-like face, and keen eyes that looked up at
his friend.
“There is more in this than
I thought at first,” I said to myself, and scanned
the features of the dead man more closely. He
looked like a foreigner, and, saying that I was going
to see after the other, I turned away, but with my
ears skinned, as I began to dislike the affair exceedingly.
As I suspected, the jester began to
warn his friend once more.
“Monseigneur, there has been
enough folly for tonight, and your wound is but slight.
Go not into the house! Let us thank him reward
him if you will but let us be off!”
“Hush, Le Brusquet!” said
the other in the same low tone. “There
is no fear, and if there is danger I turn not from
it.”
I had heard enough, and seen enough
too. The other man had got off somehow.
He had fallen, it is true, but recovered himself sufficiently
to make away. One can never be sure of the riposte
in an uncertain light, and uncertain moonlight is
worst of all.
“He has got off,” I said
as I returned; “and ’twere well to have
your wound looked after, if you mean to have it done.”
With this I led the way to the door
of my house, and opening it bade them enter.
The fair-haired man passed in at once, but I caught
a gleam in Le Brusquet’s hand as he followed.
He had drawn his dagger once more.
My first thought had been, much as
I disliked him, to ask Camus to help me in dressing
the wound; but upon consideration, and chiefly, after
I had heard Le Brusquet address his friend as “Monseigneur,”
I deemed it preferable that I should see to it myself.
I had some experience in these things. A soldier
should know how to stop as well as to let blood; and
by way of precaution I always keep a little store of
remedies at hand, for one never knows when they may
be needed, as they were then. With this in my
mind I led the way up into my apartment. Here,
I may mention, I had established myself modestly but
comfortably. It is true that the walls were bare,
except for a demi-suit of mail, a couple of swords,
and a banner I had taken at Cerisolles; but for the
rest, what with my books I had five in all and
my lute, I flattered myself that I had all that a
man needed.
Pierrebon was asleep on a settle,
and I had to call twice ere I could wake him, for
he slept like the dead. But he rose quickly enough,
and lit the candles. Then, bidding him fetch
me materials for dressing a cut, I begged my guests
to be seated. It was the first chance we had
of really seeing each other. The jester Le Brusquet
I did not recognize at all, though I noticed the royal
cipher on his pourpoint. As for the other, there
is only one house in France that bears such features,
and the greatest of them all is now King, and owes
his being to the man who stood before me.
As the lights fell on us I noticed
a quick glance pass between the two, and Le Brusquet’s
hand moved beneath his cloak. It was as if suspicion
were gone and he had resheathed his poniard.
I smiled to myself; but Pierrebon now entered with
a ewer and the things I required. He placed
these on the table, and at a look from me, which he
understood, vanished again.
I set myself at once to dress the
wound, which was, after all, but a slight affair,
though it had bled freely. I said so as I finished,
adding that if it had been a trifle deeper the business
would have been serious; but, as it was, a couple
of days would mend matters entirely, except for a
patch.
“Not Frenel himself could have
tended me better,” said the wounded man.
“Monsieur, I am deeply obliged to you.”
And Pierrebon entering at this time
with some wine I begged them to do me the honour to
drink a cup.
This they willingly assented to, and
filling three cups from the flagon I raised mine on
high.
“Messieurs, a toast for all
good Christians! Down with the crescent!”
They understood and drank Le
Brusquet with a searching look in his eyes and a smile
on his lips, and his companion with a reckless laugh.
And now they rose. “Monsieur,”
said the wounded man, “will you add to your
kindness by telling us to whom we are indebted?
You are a soldier I can see that and
I can keep that sword of yours from rusting if you
will.”
So he had not recognised me!
Well, ten years make a difference! And yet,
if once, he had seen me a hundred times in the days
when his valiant brother Enghien lived. I began
to feel sure that if he did not know me I was safe
indeed; but I had no mind to change my present peace
for any other life, and so made answer:
“Monseigneur, it were idle for
me to say that I do not know you. Rest assured
that were I so minded I could follow no braver or more
generous prince than Antony of Vendome, but my sword
is hung to the wall. My name is Broussel.
I am bourgeois, as you see, and having a small estate
of fifty écus have all that suffices for the simple
needs of a citizen such as I. Monseigneur, the little
service I rendered is small; let it be forgotten.
Nevertheless, I thank you for the kind offer you
have made.”
I delivered this speech with a respectful
air, but yet in a tone that carried the conviction
that my resolve was unchangeable.
“As you will,” said the
Duke, with some coldness of manner. “A
Bourbon does not offer twice. And so, farewell!
I fear ’tis a long road and an ugly road we
have yet to travel, thanks to my folly eh,
Le Brusquet?”
Out of the tail of my eye I had been
watching Le Brusquet. All this time he had been
engaged in examining the silver cup from which he had
drunk his wine a relic of my past splendour.
He toyed with it this way and that, looking at the
arms engraved thereon, and comparing them with those
on the flagon. Then his little eyes stole a swift,
searching glance at me, and a smile just
the shadow of a smile flickered over his
lips. He had not, however, lost a word of what
was passing between Vendome and myself, and on the
Duke addressing him he put down the cup he held in
his hand, saying quietly: “If Monsieur
Broussel will add to his kindness by lending me a sword
it may, perhaps, be better for us, and I promise faithfully
to return it.”
Without a word I took a sword from
the wall and handed it to Le Brusquet, who received
it with a bow, and then, turning to the Duke, I offered
to accompany them to the end of the street, which was
an evil place even by day. I added that a little
beyond the end of the street was the Gloriette,
where the guards of Monsieur the Lieutenant of the
Chatelet were to be found, and that thence their way
would be safe.
The Duke pulled a long face, apparently
at the thought of having to disclose his identity
to the guards of the Chatelet, but Le Brusquet cut
in with a “Let it be so, Monseigneur. Three
are better than two, except in love-making.”
At this the Duke laughed, and agreed,
and we all three went out into the street, which twisted
and wound its crooked way towards the river face between
two rows of overhanging houses, that seemed as if they
were ever threatening to fall over and bury it in their
ruins.
For a little we walked without a word;
for Antony of Vendome fickle and vain,
at once the hope and despair of his time felt
himself hurt and aggrieved by the refusal of his offer,
and for a space preserved a sulky silence. Ere
we had gone a quarter mile, however, his temper variable
as the wind began to change and his kindly
nature to reassert itself. We were passing the
house of the Duplessis Richelieu when he spoke.
“Eh bien, Monsieur Broussel,
change your mind and think better of my offer.
What with one thing and another there is steel in
the air at present, and a stout heart and a good sword
such as you are may make an estate of fifty écus
five hundred or more. Come, think of it!”
I felt my blood warm within me in
spite of my fancied devotion to my contented life;
but I thought of that affair of the duel, of the judgment
of the Chambre Ardente, and above all, of
Simon and the cards he held against me. Besides,
I knew Vendome, and so I refused once more.
“Well, well,” he said,
“as you will; but never say Antony of Vendome
was ungrateful.”
We had by this time reached the point
where the road opened out upon the river face, and
halted together in the moonlight.
A little distance from us lay the
Seine, shining in scales of hammered brass.
The convicts were still on the Gloriette.
Poor wretches! They slaved there day and night,
and lights were moving to and fro amongst them as
the guards watched them at their toil. They were
singing a weird refrain a chorus ever
and again interrupted by yells and curses as the lash
of the task-master fell on some victim of his hatred
or sluggard at work.
“Here we part, Monseigneur!”
I said. “The lieutenant of the Chatelet
will give you guards to escort you farther.”
I bowed to both, and would have gone for
I thought it well not to be mixed up further in this
matter but the Duke stayed me. He
had taken off his glove, and was fumbling with a ring
on his finger. This he drew off and thrust into
my hand.
“Keep this, monsieur.
Remember, if ever you want a friend you have but to
send it to me. Farewell!”
“Au revoir!” cried
Le Brusquet, who had up to now preserved silence.
“Remember, Le Brusquet is also your debtor doubly once
for a life and once for a sword and forget
not my address is the sign of the Crescent.”
With this mocking allusion to the
Louvre and to Diane de Poitiers’ influence there,
he followed on the heels of Vendome, leaving me with
the ring in my hand.
I watched them until they were lost
in the shivering haze. They never sought the
Gloriette, but kept on the right, making directly
for the Louvre.
Then I looked at the ring. It
was light enough for me to see that it was a plain
gold signet in the shape of a shield, with the arms
of Béarn two cows on a field Or cut
thereon.
“Perhaps,” I said to myself,
“I shall need it some day.” With
this I slipped it on my finger, and went back.