The Grey Cloak Part 32

At four the fencing bouts began between the gentlemen. There were some exciting contests, but ere half an hour was gone the number had resolved itself into two, Victor and the vicomte.

"Well, Monsieur," said the latter, pleasantly, "suppose we share the laurels?"

"We shall, with your permission, make the victory more definite,"

replied the poet, testing his foil and saluting the ladies above.

"As you please," and the vicomte stepped into position.

It was a pretty exhibition. For a long time it seemed that neither Victor nor the vicomte had any advantage. What Victor lacked in reach and height he made up in agility. He was as light on his feet as a cat. In and out he went, round and round; twice his b.u.t.ton came within an inch of the vicomte's breast. The second round brought no conclusion. As the foils met in the third bout, the vicomte spoke.

"Now, Monsieur," he said, but in so low a tone that only Victor heard him, "take care. You have made a brave showing, and, on my word, you hold a tolerable blade for a poet. Now then!"

Victor smiled, but a moment later his smile died away, and he drew his lips inward with anxiety. He felt a new power in the foil slithering up and down his own. Suddenly a thousand needles stung his wrist: his foil lay rolling about the deck. The vicomte bowed jestingly, stepped forward and picked up the foil, presenting it to its owner. Again they resumed guard. Quick as light the vicomte's foil went almost double against the poet's doublet. From this time on the poet played warily.

He maintained a splendid defense, so splendid that doubt began to gather in the vicomte's eyes. Twice Victor stooped and his foil slid under the vicomte's guard, touching him roughly on the thigh, But Victor was fighting against the inevitable. Gradually the vicomte broke down the defense, and again Victor's foil was wrested from his grasp. The contest came to an end, with seven points for the vicomte and two for the poet. The vicomte was loudly applauded, as was due a famous swordsman and a hail-fellow.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The Vicomte bowed jestingly."]

The Chevalier, who had followed each stroke with feverish eyes, sighed with chagrin. There were three strokes he had taught Victor, and the poet had not used one of them.

"Why did you let those opportunities pa.s.s?" he asked, petulantly.

"Some day I may need those strokes. The vicomte does not know that I possess them." Victor smiled; then he frowned. "He is made of iron; he is a stone wall; but he is not as brilliant and daring as you are, Paul."

"Let us prolong the truce indefinitely," said the vicomte, later.

Victor bowed without speaking. The courtesy had something non-committal in it, and it did not escape the keen eye of the vicomte.

"Monsieur, you are the most gallant poet I know," and the vicomte saluted gravely.

They were becalmed the next day and the day following. The afternoon of the second day promised to be dull and uninteresting, but grew suddenly pregnant with possibilities when the Comte d'Herouville addressed the vicomte with these words: "Monsieur, I should like to speak to the Chevalier du Cevennes. Will you take upon yourself the responsibility of conducting me to his cabin? It is not possible for me to ask the courtesy of Monsieur de Saumaise. My patience becomes strained at the sight of him."

"Certainly, Monsieur," answered the vicomte, pleasantly, though the perpendicular line above his nose deepened. "I dare venture that the matter concerns the coming engagement at Quebec, and you desire a witness."

"Your surmise is correct. I do not wish to take advantage of him. I wish to know if he believes he will be in condition."

"Follow me." The vicomte started toward the companionway.

The Chevalier lay in his bunk, in profound slumber. Breton was dozing over his Rabelais. The clothes on the hooks moved but slightly. As the two visitors entered, the lackey lifted his head and placed a finger against his lips.

"He sleeps?" whispered the vicomte.

Breton nodded, eying d'Herouville with disapproval.

The vicomte stared at the wan face on the pillow. He shrugged his shoulders, and there was an essence of pity in the movement. Meanwhile the count gazed with idle curiosity at the part.i.tions. He saw the Chevalier's court rapier with its jeweled hilt. The Chevalier's grandsire had flaunted the slender blade under the great Constable's nose in the days of Henri II. There had been a time when he himself had worn a rapier even more valuable; but the Jews had swallowed it even as the gaming tables had swallowed his patrimony. Next he fingered the long campaign rapier, and looked away as if trying to penetrate the future. A sharp gasp slipped past his lips.

"Boy," he said lowly and with apparent calm, "was not that a s.h.i.+p pa.s.sing?"

Breton looked out of the port-hole. As he did so the count grasped the vicomte's arm. The vicomte turned quickly, and for the first time his eyes encountered the grey cloak. His breath came sharply, while his hand stretched forth mechanically and touched the garment, sinister and repelling though it was. There followed his touch a crackling sound, as of paper. D'Herouville paled. On the contrary, the vicomte smiled.

"Messieurs," said Breton, "your eyes deceived you. The horizon is clear. But take care, or you will have monsieur's clothes from the hooks."

"Tell your master," said the vicomte, "that we shall pay him a visit later, when he wakes." He opened the door, and followed D'Herouville out.

Once outside the two men gazed into each other's eyes. Each sought to discover something that lay behind.

"The cloak!" D'Herouville ran his fingers through his beard. "The Chevalier has never searched the pockets."

"Let us lay the matter before him and acquaint him with our suspicions," said the vicomte, his eyes burning. "His comrade's danger is common to both of us. We will ask the Chevalier for his word, and he will never break it."

"No! a thousand devils, no! Place my neck under his heel? Not I."

"You have some plan?"

"Beaufort offers five thousand livres for that paper, and Gaston will give five thousand more to have proof that it is destroyed. That is ten thousand, Monsieur."

"Handsome!"

"And I offer to share with you."

"You do not need money, Monsieur."

"I? The Jews have me tied in a thousand knots!" replied the count, bitterly.

"I am not the least inclined toward partners.h.i.+p. You must manoeuver to reach the inside of that cloak before I do. There is nothing more to be said, Monsieur."

"Take care!" menacingly.

"Faith! Monsieur," the vicomte said, coolly, "my sword is quite as long as yours. And there is the Chevalier. You must fight him first."

"And if you find the paper?" forcing a calm into his tones.

"I shall take the next s.h.i.+p back to France. I will see Beaufort and Gaston, and the bubble will be p.r.i.c.ked."

"Perhaps you may never return."

"As to that, we shall see. Come, is there not something more than ten thousand livres behind that paper?"

"You banter. I do not understand."

"Is not madame's name there?"

"Well?"

"She is a widow, young, beautiful, and rich. And this incriminating signature of hers,--what a fine thing it would be to hold over her head! She is a woman, and a woman is easily duped in all things save love."

D'Herouville trembled. "You are forcing war."

"So be it," tranquilly. "I will make one compact with you; if I find the paper I will inform you. Will you accept a like?"