A few days later we saw the cliffs
of Chateaudon, from whose heights the stronghold of
Dunois looks down upon the town crouching beneath.
On arrival we found a lodging in the little square
below the castle, and here I thought it necessary
to call a halt for a couple of days. Thus far
our journey to Paris had been free from serious misadventure;
but I was full of fears, for I knew not what folly
De Ganache might commit in his madness, and the
evil phantom of Simon was ever grinning over my shoulder.
I, therefore, judged it prudent to write to Le Brusquet,
begging him to inform the Queen how far I had come;
and, as difficulties might arise in regard to my entry
into Paris, I suggested that mademoiselle should be
met by an escort either at Etampes or Montlhery; and,
commending myself to his friendship, begged the favour
of his losing no time in aiding me in this matter.
This letter I entrusted to Capus, bidding him meet
me with the answer at Etampes, where he would find
me at the Toison d’Or.
As soon as mademoiselle, chiefly upon
whose account I had halted, was sufficiently rested
to continue the journey we started once more, and
quitting the vine country entered the smiling Beauce.
It was towards the end of June, and our way led through
the granary of France, with its long green reaches
of meadow and rich cornland. Here, under the
clear blue of the sky, and in an air like crystal,
stretched endless fields of corn, swaying gently in
the gentle breeze, and chequered with vivid patches
of blue cornflower and red poppy. After the seared
plains of Poitou the freshness, the peace, and the
plenty around us struck us in convincing contrast,
nor could I help thinking what a little it would take
to make the sad Poitevin plain smile like this.
We travelled by easy stages, reaching
Etampes about the sixth day, and here, on arrival
at the Toison d’Or, I was disappointed to
get no news of Capus. There was nothing for
it but to wait, and a few days passed pleasantly enough
in the curious old town. One incident that occurred
is, perhaps, worthy of notice. Almost opposite
our inn was a forbidding-looking house, without arms
or escutcheon of any kind upon the gate. To
all appearance it was uninhabited, but from the balcony
of the inn mademoiselle and I observed a lady dressed
in black who daily paced for an hour or so on the
terrace overlooking the garden of the house.
We could not distinguish her features, for she was
ever closely veiled, but her attitude and mien marked
the deepest dejection. To the idle all things
are of interest, and our curiosity was excited; so
on one occasion, as the lady paced mournfully on the
terrace, mademoiselle asked the landlord who she was.
“That, mademoiselle, is the Duchess herself.”
“The Duchess!”
“Yes, mademoiselle; the Duchess
d’Etampes. She has lived here in the strictest
seclusion ever since the late King’s death.
She receives no one, and yet for miles around she
is blessed for her charity. ’Tis said,
however,” and he dropped his voice, “that
she is a Christaudin; but of this I know nothing.”
And so this sad, dark-robed spectre
was the once brilliant and beautiful De Helly!
I went back in my mind to the gay days when she reigned
as queen. It was not so long ago, and I could
recall all that throng of syrens. There was
Canaples, star of the morning; the lovely St. Pol,
star of the evening; Rieux, Tallard, Lestrange; but
one only of that galaxy was left, the loveliest and
the worst Diane, whom men called the crescent
moon. For her I wondered what fate was in store.
The next day, towards sunset, mademoiselle
and I were once again upon the balcony of the inn,
when I saw a horseman trotting past the parvis of
St. Martin. I was sure it was Capus, and my doubts
were soon at rest, for as he rounded the corner and
came up the Rue St. Jacques I saw it was he, and signalled
to him. He lifted his arm in the air in answer
to my signal, and spurring his beast drew up a minute
or so after at the door of the inn.
“What news, Capus?” I
called out; and he waved a letter that he held in
his hand. Making an excuse to mademoiselle I
ran down to meet him, and soon had Le Brusquet’s
letter in my hands. He had done as I asked, and
we were to be met at Longpont, near Montlhery; and
in a postscript he added that Olden Hoorn had sent
him the two hundred crowns I had asked for from Poitiers a
piece of news not without interest to me. When
I had finished Capus said:
“I came with the escort, monsieur,
as far as Montlhery. It is commanded by the
Sieur de Lorgnac. There are ten lances and
two court ladies and a dozen or so of sumpter horses a
brave show. They all lie at the priory at Longpont.”
“Thanks, Capus. Go now
and rest.” And as the man went I stood
for a little looking after him, and then went back
to the balcony, the letter in my hand. As I
came up mademoiselle called out to me:
“See!” she cried, “there
is the new moon; turn over the money in your pocket,
and wish.”
I laughed. “There is little
enough to turn, mademoiselle; but for my wish it
is all good fortune and happiness to you.”
“Now you will bring me ill-luck
for having spoken your wish aloud. Oh, monsieur!”
“Heaven forbid! But have
you wished, may I ask?” She turned away with
a little sigh, and looked out into the violet evening,
where the slender sickle of the moon shone silver
bright. Down below the twilight darkled in the
streets. Figures moved like shadows, and now
and again a light flashed out. Tall and slight,
she stood out against the darkening sky, her face
half averted from me, and I knew not what it was,
but an almost irresistible impulse came on me to put
my fortune to the touch. But I thought of De
Ganache. She was his promised wife.
I thought of what I had to offer, and this and that
gave me strength, and so I held back.
“Mademoiselle,” I said
with an effort, “this is our last evening, and
my wardship ends to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes; the Queen has sent an escort to meet you
at Longpont.”
“She is most kind!”
“And as I may not have the chance of speaking
to you alone again ”
“Why that?” she interrupted
quickly. “You will be in Paris. You
will be at the Court. I counted upon having
at least one friend there.”
“You will have more than one
friend there, mademoiselle, and more than one enemy,
I fear; but I was about to say that I leave Paris the
day after I reach there for Italy.”
“For Italy?”
“Yes; I follow M. de Montluc
there. You see, old as I am, I have to begin
life over again, and there is many a fair fortune yet
waiting to be sliced out of the Romagna.”
She said never a word, and I continued:
“It will be long ere I see France again perhaps
never; and so, mademoiselle, I once more wish you
all that is good, and I offer my congratulations I
have not ventured to do so before.”
She spoke now. “Monsieur,
I thank you! I will not pretend not to understand
your last words; but there are some good wishes that
may mean misfortune, and it grows late. Good-night!”
She slid by me, and was gone almost
before I realised it.
It was just past the dawn the next
morning when we left Etampes. There were but
five leagues or so to cover ere we reached Montlhery,
and for almost the whole way we could see before us
the castle that crowned the hill. At the ford
of the Orge we saw a small group of horsemen,
their arms shining in the sunlight.
“’Tis the escort,”
said Capus, and quickening our pace we were soon with
them, and I handed over my charge to De Lorgnac.
There were with him two of the Queen’s
ladies Madame de Montal, and the bright-eyed
Cypriote, Mademoiselle Davila, she who had escaped
from the sack of Cyprus and these two immediately
appropriated mademoiselle, asking ten questions in
a breath, never waiting for answer, and detailing
the hardships of their own journey of four leagues
or so from Paris. I had no chance of another
word with her, and rode morosely by Lorgnac’s
side.
That night we lay at the priory of
Longpont; but I saw nothing of mademoiselle, for the
ladies both dined and supped by themselves, leaving
De Lorgnac and myself to our own devices. After
supper, as we paced the garden together, De Lorgnac
gave me the news of the day, mentioning, amongst other
things, that Vendome had returned to the Court once
more, and that all differences between him and the
Duchess de Valentinois appeared to have been buried.
I glanced at the signet that I wore on my finger,
Vendome’s gift to me, saying:
“That is, perhaps, the best
thing that could have happened for me; but I little
dreamed that Vendome would ever have joined hands with
Diane.”
“As to that,” he said,
“I have long ceased to be surprised at anything.
Poor Le Brusquet was in disgrace for a whole day for
suggesting a new device for the Duke a
weathercock on a steeple.” And he laughed
as he added: “The Duke came back almost
a week ago, with five hundred gentlemen in his train amongst
others the late rebel De Ganache, for whom he
has obtained a pardon.”
“De Ganache!”
“Yes; there has been a turn
of the wheel, and for the moment the new religion
is in favour. What it means I know not; but as
for De Ganache, the Court gossips are already
linking his name with Diane’s. ’Tis
certain he is ever at her heels.”
“The weathercock would suit
him as well as Vendome,” I said a little bitterly;
“but it is good news that even for the moment
the new faith is in favour. It removes one danger,
and the other is ”
“Back in Paris,” interrupted De Lorgnac.
“You mean my brother?”
“Yes; the Vidame came back
a trifle over a fortnight ago with an arm very much
hurt and one-third of his usual following of cut-throats.”
“He will not have much trouble
in filling his vacancies; but is he much hurt?”
And I smiled grimly to myself.
“Oh! he was badly pinked; but
his arm is out of its sling now. There is some
devil’s broth preparing, and he and Diane are
the cooks. Le Brusquet, however, has sworn to
put his ladle into it, and so we shall see things
ere long.”
“Not I,” I laughed. “I shall
be in Italy with Montluc.”
“You may not,” was the
dry answer. “Recollect that the Queen has
the first claim on you, and the war between her and
Diane will soon be open war. Up to now it has
been a kiss and a stab, but soon it will be all stab.”
And so we talked until a late hour,
and little did I think, as I retired to sleep, that
Lorgnac’s doubt about my Italian journey would
come to be true.
It was well on towards the afternoon
that we reached the Porte St. Michel, for we had started
late, and Madame de Montal would on no account be
parted from the sumpter horses, whose rate of progress
was necessarily slow. M. Agrippa de Pavanes
was at the gate, and as we filed in, I last of all,
he looked hard at me; but I had other business on
hand, and could not at the moment spare time to devote
to this gentleman. It was clear, however, that
he owed me a grudge over the affair of the King’s
letter. As it happened, we never met again; and
Pavanes, if he still lives, must look upon his account
with me as one of his unsettled scores.
A few yards from the gate the road
narrowed, and at the corner where the little Rue Poiree
strikes off between two rows of tumble-down houses
to join the Rue St. Jacques there was somewhat of a
block. I had fallen back behind the sumpter
horses, and halted for a moment, when I felt a hand
rest lightly on my stirrup. I looked down, and,
as I live, it was La Marmotte.
“You!” I exclaimed. “In Paris!”
“Monsieur,” she said hurriedly,
her face pale and haggard, “this meeting is
not chance. Ask for me tomorrow at vespers at
the shop of Barou the armourer in the Rue Tire Boudin.
If you do not do this you will never cease to regret
it. Fail not!” And she made as if to draw
away.
“A word,” I said. “Trotto does
he live?”
“Oh! he lives. Thanks, monsieur, a thousand
thanks!”
I had placed a piece of money in her
hand, to take off any suspicion, and, rising to her
part, she seized it, calling down blessings on me,
and stepped back into the crowd.
Our party had gone a little ahead,
and I did not overtake them until almost opposite
the Cordeliers, where I joined De Lorgnac.
“That was a strange-looking beggar,” he
remarked.
“She was no beggar, De Lorgnac;
but of her I will tell you when you, Le Brusquet,
and I are once more together.”
“I shall try to wait until then;
it will be in less than an hour.”
We then joined the ladies, and rode
by them, all outwardly in high spirits. As we
rode past the tennis courts the sumpter horses were
diverted to enter the Louvre by the gate near the riding-school,
but we ourselves rode directly towards the main entrance.
On arrival there we noticed a large crowd of sightseers
at the gates, and our further progress was stopped
by a carriage, surrounded by a troop of the King’s
guards, that came slowly out of the gate. In
the carriage sat, or rather reclined, a woman robed
in black and white a woman with sullen,
dark eyes and a face lovely in its pride. It
was the crescent moon Diane herself.
The carriage came out slowly, as I have said, the
horses walking, and from where I rode beside mademoiselle
I saw her clearly. She was toying with a little
dog she held under her arm and talking to a young
man who sat facing her a man whose face
burned like fire, and the laugh on whose lips died
away when he saw us for it was De Ganache.
The Duchess followed his glance, and turned in our
direction. As her fathomless eyes fell on mademoiselle
her lips parted in a smile.
“St. Siege! it must be your
little heiress. Come, tell me, De Ganache is
it not so?”
Her voice, clear as a bell, came to
us distinctly. The veiled scorn and mockery
in her glance was not to be mistaken, and then the
horses were whipped up, and she was gone. It
was all over in a moment; but I saw the riding-whip
in mademoiselle’s hand trembling, and she kept
her face from me, looking straight between her horse’s
ears.
“Do you know who that was?”
I asked in a low voice; but she made no answer, and
I went on:
“Remember the prophecy you told
me of, and be on your guard against the
woman in black and white. That was Diane of Valentinois.”