The Chevalier d'Auriac

Near the Pré-aux-clercs, hundreds of long-robed students were assembled, and the windows of many of the great houses, including the Logis de Nevers, were hung with black. It was strange to see Paris, always so bright and gay, with this solemn air upon it. No notice was taken of us as we rode on, the knots of people merely moving aside to let us pass, and answering Jacques' cheerful 'good-day 'with a silent inclination of the head or a chill indifference.

'Pardieu, monsieur,' exclaimed Jacques, as we turned up the Rue de la Harpe, hard by the Hôtel de Cluny, 'one would think the King himself were dead, these gentry pull such long faces.' My servant's chance observation sent a sudden shock through me. What if Henry was dead! What if I had got only one thread of the plot that was weaving at Anet? I did not answer Jacques; but observing a Capuchin priest advancing in my direction, I reined in Couronne, and giving him the day, asked what it was that had befallen the city. He looked up at me in a slight surprise, and then, observing my travel-stained appearance, replied:

'I see you are a stranger, sir; but have you not heard the news – it should have gone far by this?'

'I have not, as you see – but what is it? Surely the King is not dead?'

'God forbid,' he answered, 'no, not the King; but she who in a few weeks would have been Queen of France.'

'The Duchesse de Beaufort?'

'Exactly.'

'I knew that; but you don't mean to say that the city is in mourning for the mistress of the King?'

He looked at me straight in the face, and stroked his white beard thoughtfully. He was a tall, a very tall, thin man, and his eyes, of the clearest blue, seemed to lighten with a strange light.

'No, my son, not for the mistress of the King, as you call her, but for the open hand and the generous heart, for the kindly soul that never turned from suffering or from sorrow, for Magdalen bountiful, and, let us hope, Magdalen repentant.'

'But – '

'Adieu, my son – think of what I have said. Is your own heart so pure that you can afford to cast a stone at the dead?' And without waiting for a further answer he went onwards. I turned and watched the tall, slim figure as it moved through the crowd, the people making way for him on every side as if he were a prince of the church.

But though he was slowly passing out of sight, he had left words behind him that were at their work. This was the woman whom I had openly-reviled as fallen and beyond the pale – had I any right to cast stones? For a moment I was lost in myself, when Jacques' voice cut into my thoughts.

'That must have been a cardinal at least, monsieur, though he does not look like the Cardinal du Perron, whom we heard preach at Rheims – I will ask,' and he inquired who the Capuchin was, of a man who had just come up.

'That is the père Ange, monsieur,' was the answer, and the man went on, leaving Jacques' thanks in the air.

The père Ange. The name brought back a host of recollections to me as I shook up Couronne's reins and headed her towards the Pont St. Michel. I saw myself a boy again in the suite of Joyeuse, and remembered with what awe I used to gaze on the brilliant de Bouchage, his brother, who was a frequent visitor at Orleans. His splendid attire, his courtly air, the great deeds he had done were in all men's mouths. We youngsters, who saw him at a respectful distance, aped the cut of his cloak, the tilt of his sword, the cock of his plumed hat. If we only knew how he made love, we would have tried to do so in like manner; but for this each one of us had to find out a way of his own.

All at once it was rumoured that the chevalier had vanished, disappeared mysteriously, and that every trace of him was lost. There were men who whispered of the Chatelet, or, worse still, the Bastille; others who said the Seine was very deep near the mills by the Pont aux Meunniers; others who put together the sudden retreat from the court of the brilliant but infamous Madame de Sauves, the Rose of Guise, with the disappearance of de Bouchage, and shook their heads and winked knowingly. They were all wrong. Gradually the truth came out, and it became known that the polished courtier, the great soldier, and the splendid cavalier had thrown away the world as one would fling aside an old cloak, and buried himself in a cloister.

It was a ten days' wonder; then other things happened, and perhaps not one in ten thousand remembered, in the saintly père Ange, the once fiery prince of the house of Joyeuse.

I have mentioned this because of his reproof to me. Day by day my education was progressing, and I began to recognise that my virtue was pitiless, that I was too ready to judge harshly of others. Père Ange's reproof was a lesson I meant to profit by; and now – to the abode of Maître Pantin.

Palin's directions were clear, and after crossing the Pont St. Michel, a wooden bridge, we kept to the south of Ste. Chapelle, and then, after many a twist and turn, found ourselves in the Rue des Deux Mondes, before the doors of Pantin's house.

The master himself answered my knock and stood in the doorway, a small, wizened figure, looking at us cautiously from grey eyes, shadowed by bushy white brows.

'Good-day, monsieur – what is it I can do for you?'

'You are Maître Pantin?'

'At your service.'

'And I am the Chevalier d'Auriac. I have come to Paris from Bidache on business, and need a lodging. Maître Palin has recommended me to you.'

'Enough, monsieur le chevalier. My friend Palin's name is sufficient, and I have need of clients, for the house is empty. If Monsieur's servant will lead the horses through that lane there, he will find an entrance to the stables – and will Monsieur step in and take a seat while I summon my wife – Annette! Annette!'

I limped in and sat down, escorted by expressions of compassion from Pantin, who mingled these with shouts for Annette. In a little time Madame Pantin appeared, and never have I seen so great a resemblance between husband and wife as between these two. There was the same small, shrivelled figure, the same clear-cut features, the same white eyebrows standing prominently out over the same grey eyes – their height, walk, and tone of voice even, was almost the same. Madame, however, had an eye to business, which her husband, although I understood him to be a notary, had not discovered to me, and whilst he went off to see, as he said, to the arrangements for the horses, Madame Annette struck a bargain with me for my lodging, which I closed with at once, as I was in sufficient funds to be a little extravagant. This matter being arranged by my instant agreement to her terms, she showed me to my rooms, which were on the second floor, and commanded a good view of the river face; and, pocketing a week's rental in advance, the old lady retired, after recommending me to an ordinary where the food was excellent and the Frontignac old.

I spent the remainder of the day doing nothing, going forth but to sup quietly at the Two Ecus, which I found fully upheld the good name Madame Pantin had given it, and returning early to my rooms.

Sitting in an easy chair at a window overlooking the Seine, I lost myself for a while in a dreamland of reverie. Let it be remembered that I was a man of action, who had been awakened by the love he bore for a woman to a sense of his own unfitness, and it will be realised how difficult it was for me to look into myself. I tried to tick off my failings in my mind, and found they were hydra-headed. There were some that I alone could not combat, and I hated myself for my want of moral strength. I had groped towards religion for aid, to the faith of my fathers; but there were doctrines and canons there that I could not reconcile with my inward conscience. I could not believe all I was asked to take on trust, and I felt I was insensibly turning towards the simpler faith of the Huguenot. But here, again, I was in troublous waters. I had got over the sinful pride that prevented me from approaching my God in humbleness, but I found that prayer, though it gave momentary relief, did not give permanent strength to resist, and a sort of spiritual despair fell upon me. Along with this was an unalterable longing to be near the woman I loved, to feel her presence about me, to know that she loved me as I loved her, and, in short, I would rather go ten times up to a battery of guns than feel over again the desolation and agony of spirit that was on me then. So I spent an hour or so in a state of hopeless mental confusion, and at last I cut it short by pulling myself up abruptly. Win or lose, I would follow the dictates of my conscience. If I could, I would win the woman I loved, and with God's help and her aid lead such a life as would bring us both to Him when we died. It was a quick, unspoken prayer that went up from me, and it brought back in a moment its comfort.

Jacques' coming into the room at this juncture was a relief. He lit the tall candles that stood in the grotesque bronze holders that projected from the wall, and then, drawing the curtains, inquired if I needed his services further that night.

'I don't think so, Jacques – but stay!'

'Monsieur.'

'How do we stand?'

'Oh, well enough, monsieur. Better really than for a long time. We have three horses and their equipment – although one of Monsieur's pistols is broken – and a full hundred and fifty crowns.'

'A perfect fortune – are you sure of the crowns?'

'As I am of being here, monsieur.'

'Well, then, there is something I want you to do, and attend with both ears.'

'Monsieur.'

'I want you to take the two horses we got at Evreux and fifty crowns, and go back to Ezy. Keep ten crowns for yourself and give forty to the smith and his daughter, and take them with you to Auriac. The forester's lodge is vacant – let them live there, or, if they like, there is room enough in the château. I will give you a letter to Bozon. He wants help, and these people will be of service to him. After you have done this, sell one of the horses – you may keep the proceeds, and come back to me. If I am not here you will get certain news of me, and can easily find me out – you follow?'

'Exactly.'

'Then when will you be prepared to start?'

'As soon as Monsieur le Chevalier is suited with another man as faithful as I.'

'Eh!'

'Sangdieu! monsieur, I shall never forget what père Michel and the old steward Bozon said when I came home last without you. I believe if I were to do so again the good cure would excommunicate me, and Maître Bozon would have me flung into the bay to follow. If I were to go back and leave you alone in Paris anything might happen. No! no! My fathers have served Auriac for two hundred years, and it shall never be said that Jacques Bisson left the last of the old race to die alone – never!'

'My friend, you are mad – who the devil talks of dying?'

'Monsieur, I am not such a fool as perhaps I look. Do I not understand that Monsieur has an affair in hand which has more to do with a rapier than a ribbon? If not, why the night ride, why the broken pistol, and the blood-stained saddle of Couronne? If Monsieur had come to Paris in the ordinary way, we would have been at court, fluttering it as gaily as the rest, and cocking our bonnets with the best of them – instead of hiding here like a fox in his lair.'

'You are complimentary; but it is to help me I want you to do this.'

'The best help Monsieur can have is a true sword at his elbow – Monsieur will excuse me, but I will not go,' and, angry as his tone was, there were tears in the honest fellow's eyes. Of course I could have dismissed the man; but I knew him too well not to know that nothing short of killing him would rid me of him. Again I was more than touched by his fidelity. Nevertheless, I was determined to carry out my project of making up to Marie in some way for the death of Nicholas, and resolved to temporise with Jacques. There was no one else to send, and it would have to be my stout-hearted knave; but the business was to get him to go.

'Very well, Jacques; but remember, if I get other temporary help that you approve of you will have to go.'

'In that case, monsieur, it is different.'

'Then it must be your business to see to this, and now good night.'

'Good night, monsieur,' and he took himself off.

I had made up my mind to lay my information before Sully. That he was in Paris I knew, having obtained the information from Pantin, and it was my intention to repair the next day to the Hôtel de Béthune, and tell the minister all. The night was one of those in which sleep would not come, not because the place was a strange one – I was too old a campaigner to lose rest because the same feather pillow was not under my head every night – but because my thoughts kept me awake. What these were I have already described, and they were in force sufficient to banish all sleep until the small hours were well on, and I at last dropped off, with the solemn notes of the Bourdon ringing in my ears.

It was about ten o'clock the next morning that I mounted Couronne, and, followed by Jacques, well armed, took my way towards the Hôtel de Béthune. We found the Barillierie thronged with people on their way to St. Denis to witness the burial of Madame de Beaufort, and the Pont au Change was so crowded that we had to wait there for a full half-hour. At last we got across the bridge, on which in their eagerness for gain the money-changers had fixed their stalls, and pushed and struggled and fought over their business on each side of the narrow track they left for the public. Finally, we passed the grey walls of the Grand Chatelet, and turning to our right, past St. Jacques, the Place de Gréve, and the Hôtel de Ville, got into the Rue St. Antoine by a side street that ran from St. Gervais to the Baudets. Here we found the main street almost deserted, all Paris having crowded to the funeral, and a quarter-mile or so brought us to the gates of the Hôtel de Béthune.

Sully had just received the Master-Generalship of the Ordnance, and at his door was a guard of the regiment of La Ferte. I knew the blue uniforms with the white sashes well, and they had fought like fiends at Fontaine Française and Ham. The officer on guard very civilly told me that the minister did not receive that day, but on my insisting and pointing out that my business was of the utmost importance, he gave way with a shrug of his shoulders. 'Go on, monsieur le chevalier, but I can tell you it is of no use; however, that is a business you must settle with Ivoy, the duke's secretary.'

I thanked him, and, dismounting and flinging the reins to Jacques, passed up the courtyard and up the stone steps to the entrance door. Here I was met by the same statement, that Sully was unable to receive to-day; but, on my insisting, the secretary Ivoy appeared and asked me my name and business.

'I have given my name twice already, monsieur,' I answered. 'I am the Chevalier d'Auriac, and as for my business it is of vital import, and is for Monseigneur's ear alone – you will, therefore, excuse me if I decline to mention it to you.'

Ivoy bowed. 'It will come to me in its own good time, monsieur. Will you be seated? I will deliver your message to the duke; but I am afraid it will be of little use.'

'I take the risk. Monsieur d'Ivoy.'

'But not the rating, chevalier,' and the secretary, with a half-smile on his face, went out and left me to myself. In a few minutes he returned.

'The duke will see you, monsieur – this way, please.'

'Pardieu!' I muttered to myself as I followed Ivoy, 'he keeps as much state as if he were the chancellor himself. However, I have a relish for Monseigneur's soup.'

Ivoy led the way up a winding staircase of oak, so old that it was black as ebony, and polished as glass. At the end of this was a landing, where a couple of lackeys were lounging on a bench before a closed door. They sprang up at our approach, and Ivoy tapped gently at the door.

'Come in,' was the answer, given in a cold voice, and the next moment we were in the room.

'Monsieur le Chevalier d'Auriac,' and Ivoy had presented me.

Sully inclined his head frigidly to my bow, and then motioned to Ivoy to retire. When we were alone, he turned to me with a brief 'Well?'

'I have information of the utmost importance which I wish to lay before you.'

'I hear that ten times a day from people. Will your story take long to tell?'

'That depends.'

'Then be seated for a moment, whilst I write a note.'

I took the chair he pointed out, and he began to write rapidly. Whilst he was doing this I had a glance round the room. It was evidently the duke's working cabinet, and it bore everywhere the marks of the prim exactness of its master's character. There was no litter of papers on the table. The huge piles of correspondence on it were arranged neatly, one file above the other. All the books in the long shelves that lined the walls were numbered, the curtains were drawn back at exact angles to the curtain poles, the chairs were set squarely, there was not a thing out of place, not a speck of dust, not a blot on the brown leather writing-pad, on the polished walnut of the table before which Sully sat. On the wall opposite to him was a portrait of Madame de Sully. It was the only ornament in the room. The portrait itself showed a sprightly-looking woman with a laughing eye, and she looked down on her lord and master from the painted canvas with a merry smile on her slightly parted lips. As for the man himself, he sat squarely at his desk, writing rapidly with an even motion of his pen. He was plainly but richly dressed, without arms of any kind. His collar was ruffed in the English fashion, but worn with a droop, over which his long beard, now streaked with grey, fell almost to the middle of his breast. He was bald, and on each side of his high, wrinkled forehead there was a thin wisp of hair, brushed neatly back. His clear eyes looked out coldly, but not unkindly, from under the dark, arched eyebrows, and his short moustaches were carefully trimmed and twisted into two points that stuck out one on each side of his long straight nose. The mouth itself was small, and the lips were drawn together tightly, not, it seemed, naturally, but by a constant habit that had become second nature. It was as if there were two spirits in this man. One a genial influence that was held in bonds by the other, a cold, calculating, intellectual essence. Such was Maximilian de Béthune, Marquis de Rosny and Duc de Sully. He was not yet nominally chief minister. But it was well known that he was in the King's inmost secrets, and that there was no man who held more real power in the State than the Master-General of the Ordnance. As I finished my survey of him, he finished his despatch, and after folding and addressing it he turned it upside down and said to me:

'Now for your important news, monsieur. It must be very important to have brought you here.'

'I do not understand?'

He looked at me, a keen inquiry in his glance. 'You do not understand?' he said.

'Indeed, no, monseigneur.'

'Hum! You are either deeper than I take you to be, or a born fool. Look, you, are you not Alban de Breuil, Sieur d'Auriac, who was lately in arms in the service of Spain against France as a rebel and a traitor?'

'I was on the side of the League.'

'Monsieur, the League died at Ivry – '

'But not for us.'

He made an impatient gesture. 'We won't discuss that. Are you not the man I refer to? Say yes or no.'

'I am d'Auriac – there is no other of my name – but no more a rebel or traitor than Messieurs de Guise, de Mayenne, and others. The King's Peace has pardoned us all. Why should I fear to come to you? I have come to do you a service, or rather the King a service.'

'Thank you. May I ask if you did not receive a warning at La Fère, and another at Bidache?'

'From M. d'Ayen – yes. Monseigneur, I refuse to believe what I heard.'

'And yet your name heads a list of half a dozen whom the King's Peace does not touch. One of my reasons for receiving you was to have you arrested.'

'It is a high honour, all this bother about a poor gentleman of Normandy, when Guise, de Mayenne, Epernon, and others keep their skins whole.'

'You have flown your hawk at too high a quarry, monsieur.'

'Then that painted ape, d'Ayen, told a true tale,' I burst out in uncontrollable anger. 'Monseigneur, do what you will to me. Remember that you help to the eternal dishonour of the King.'

The words hit him, and the blood flushed darkly under the pale olive of the man's cheek.

'Monsieur, you forget yourself.'

'It is not I, but you who do so – you who forget that your name is Béthune. Yes, touch that bell. I make no resistance. I presume it will be the Chatelet?'

His hand, half stretched towards the button of the call-bell before him, suddenly stayed itself.

'Were my temper as hasty as your tongue, monsieur, it would have been the Chatelet in half an hour.'

'Better that – ' I began, but he interrupted me with a quick wave of his hand.

'Monsieur d'Auriac, a time will come when you will have reason to regret the words you have used towards me. I do not mean regret them in the place you have mentioned, but in your heart. In this business the honour of Béthune as well as the honour of the King is at stake. Do you think I am likely to throw my hazard like an infant?'

I was silent, but a dim ray of hope flickered up in my heart as I looked at the man before me, and felt, I know not why, in the glance of his eye, in the tone of the voice, in his very gestures, that here was one who had conquered himself, and who knew how to rule.

'Now, sir,' he went on, the animation in his tone dropping to a cold and frigid note, 'proceed with your tale.'

It was a thing easier ordered than done, but I managed it somehow, trying to be as brief as possible, without missing a point. Sully listened without a movement of his stern features, only his eyes seemed to harden like crystal as I spoke of Biron and Zamet. When I told what I heard of the death of Madame de Beaufort, he turned his head to the open window and kept it thus until I ended. When he looked back again at me, however, there was not a trace of emotion in his features, and his voice was as cold and measured as ever as he asked:

'And your reward for this news, chevalier?'

'Is not to be measured in pistoles, monseigneur.'

'I see; and is this all?'

His tone chilled me. 'It is all – no,' and with a sudden thought, 'give me twenty men, and in a week I put the traitors in your hands.'

He fairly laughed out. 'Corbœuf! Monsieur le chevalier, do you want to set France ablaze?'

'It seems, monseigneur, that the torch is held at Anet,' I answered a little sulkily.

'But not lighted yet; leave the dealing with that to me. And, monsieur, the King is at Fontainebleau, and for a month nothing can be done. And see here, monsieur, I can do nothing for you; you follow. At the end of a month go and see the King. Tell him your story, and, if he believes you, claim your reward. I will go so far as to promise that you will be received.'

All the little hope I had begun to gather fluttered away at these words like a scrap of paper cast in the wind. 'Monseigneur,' I said, and my voice sounded strangely even to my own ears, 'in a month it will be too late.'

'Leave that to me,' he answered. 'I have a reminder always before my eyes,' and he pointed through the open window in the direction of a house that towered above the others surrounding it.

'I do not follow,' I stammered.

'That is the Hôtel de Zamet,' he said grimly, and I thought I understood why he had turned to the window when I spoke of Madame de Beaufort's death.

I rose with a sigh I could barely repress: 'Then there is nothing for me to do but to wait?'

'You will not lose by doing so.'

'I thank you, monseigneur; but there is one little favour I ask.'

'And that is?'

'The King's Peace until I see the King.'

'You will be safer in the Chatelet, I assure you, but as you wish – stay, there is one thing. Not a word of your interview with me, even to the King.'

My hopes rose again. 'On my faith as a gentleman, I will not mention it.'

As I finished he struck his bell sharply twice, and Ivoy entered.

'Ivoy, do me the favour to conduct Monsieur d'Auriac to the gates yourself, and impress upon him the necessity of keeping to his lodging. The air of Paris out-of-doors is unhealthy at present. Good-day, monsieur.'