Orrain Part 40

"Your name, monsieur."

"G.o.defrey de la Mothe, chaplain to Monseigneur the Duke of Bourbon Vendome."

"And yours?"

From my seat in the shadow I answered: "Bertrand d'Orrain."

La Mothe started and half faced me, but held himself in, and the officer, having made his note, turned his back upon us and withdrew, followed by his men. We heard the door shut, a drawing of bolts, a rattling of keys, and then came silence and darkness.

No!--not utter darkness; for through the narrow slit in the wall a ray of moonlight fell, lighting the figure of La Mothe where he stood, almost in the centre of the dungeon. He was looking towards me, his eyes expectant and s.h.i.+ning; but I could not speak, and sat like a stone.

At length he made a step in my direction.

"Orrain," he said, "have we met at last?"

With an effort I rose and took his outstretched hands, and in that moment I knew that the past was bridged over and my sin forgiven.

For long we sat together on the stone bench, and La Mothe told me of his life. How, though all thought him mortally wounded, he had rallied at last, and, in thankfulness for his escape, resolved to devote the remainder of his days to G.o.d. The spirit of the age fell on his mind, keen and ecstatic at once. In every trivial event he saw the hand of the Almighty, but he saw too the corruption around him. It was for such as he that the light of the new faith shone with an alluring radiance, and soon there was no voice that spoke more loudly for the truth than that of G.o.defrey de la Mothe. A fatalist above all things, even now, when everything seemed lost, he did not despair.

"Nay," he said, "the hour has not come for us to die. G.o.d has not brought us together to perish." And the words carried hope with them, even amidst the darkness and lowering prison walls. Then he knelt down and prayed; but I could not, for my heart was raging within me.

At length he rose from his knees. "The Lord will hear and answer," he said simply; but I made no reply, sitting with my head between my hands, staring in front of me. So till the moon set; and I must have slept. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and started up. It was La Mothe.

"Hark!" he said. "Do you not hear?"

I listened. There was a distinct murmuring, the clattering of hoofs, the neigh of a horse, and then a cry, faint but distinct:

"Vendome! Vendome! Bourbon! Notre Dame!"

We sprang to our feet. "The Lord, who preserved His chosen from out of the land of bondage, hath heard my cry, and we are saved!" exclaimed La Mothe, and making our way to the door we listened. All was stillness once more, a stillness that seemed to last for hours, though it was but for a few minutes. At last we heard the tramp of many feet, louder and louder they grew, and then there was a rattling of chains, and our prison door fell open, letting in a stream of light. In the blaze in the doorway stood Vendome and Martines, and behind them a crowd of eager faces.

"These are the prisoners, Monseigneur!" said Martines.

"And I, Antony de Bourbon-Vendome, First Prince of the Blood Royal of France, stand here on my right and claim them. Gentlemen," and he turned to us, "you are free; follow me!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE ARM OF G.o.d

Four days had pa.s.sed since that dreadful night in the Rue des Mathurins--days the memory of which can never be effaced whilst I live.

No tidings were obtainable of mademoiselle, save that she was amongst the prisoners who were being tried in secret by De Mouchy, and all efforts to communicate with her had been in vain. This much, however, leaked out: that owing to the whispers that had got abroad--none knew how--the prisoners, with the exception of one or two, were not of importance; but this in itself made the matter worse for mademoiselle, and gave the mock court of justice--it could be called by no other name--every opportunity of veiling its real purpose. In this De Mouchy was managing the trial with great skill. The prisoners of no account--the scrivener's clerk, the poor shopkeeper, the small mercer--got the benefit of plea and quibble! G.o.d knows, I did not grudge them that! But each acquittal, p.r.o.nounced loudly in the name of the King's mercy, with high-flown words about the love of the King for his people, led step by step to the real object for which the infamous triangle worked. Already the gossips were beginning to wag their tongues at the leniency shown. It was said in the cabarets and public places that the memory of the tailor of St. Antoine haunted the King, and that he and the Queen were, in secret, heretics.

At the last acquittal the cruel mob of Paris had actually dared to parade the streets, with angry cries at being deprived of the hideous spectacle of an expiation. "_Au feu, au feu_! Death to the Christaudins!" I still seem to hear their voices.

And so the time was ripe for the law to claim its prey, for the shameless three to gather in their spoil, and for an evil, vindictive woman to accomplish her revenge. The King was at Fontainebleau, whither he had gone, accompanied by La Valentinois and the Court. The Queen was at St.

Germain-en-Laye, and the Louvre--except for its guards--was deserted. On the morning of the fifth day, however, the Queen returned, and although she knew what had happened she summoned me before her to hear the story from my lips. I found her in her study with three or four of her ladies.

Catherine looked pale and heavy-eyed, and there were hard lines about her mouth. It was said she had never smiled since the day of the masque. I for one am certain it was from that day her secretive nature took the dark and devious course that led her to be what she became; but now it was only the beginning.

I said what I had to say briefly, and when I was done the Queen looked up at me.

"Is this all?"

I bowed in silent response, and after a pause she continued:

"I know what you would ask. I have done my best. I have written to the King to pardon Mademoiselle de Paradis, as he forgave Madame de Rentigny.

I wrote at once, four days ago." And then she flushed to her temples as she added: "Up to now there has been no answer. It is useless to go myself----"

Her voice almost broke, and I looked aside, only to meet Mademoiselle Davila's eyes. They were swimming with tears.

It was now there arose an unusual bustle in the anteroom. The doors were thrown back, and in a loud voice the ushers announced the d.u.c.h.ess de Valentinois. For a moment Diane stood in the doorway, a little crowd behind her, and then, tall and stately, walked slowly up to the Queen and courtesied profoundly. Catherine remained frigidly still, as though oblivious of her presence, and amidst a dead silence Diane stood before the Queen, a faint smile playing on her lips, her eyelids drooped to cover the defiant fire of her glance. One might have counted ten as the two faced each other, and then Diane spoke:

"I have come, your Majesty, from the King."

Catherine's eyebrows arched, and a swift, lightning glance of hatred pa.s.sed between the two. Then Diane's lids drooped again, and her soft, flute-like voice continued:

"The King kisses your Majesty's hands, and says there is much wind and rain at Fontainebleau, but that he has slain three boars and five stags."

"He has slain three boars and five stags," repeated the Queen in an even monotone, and turning to Madame de Montal, who stood behind her chair, she said bitterly: "Why does not somebody cry, 'G.o.d save the King!'?"

"All France cries that, your Majesty," said Diane. "And further, the King once again kisses your Majesty's hands, and has received your gracious letter in regard to Mademoiselle de Paradis." And now her voice hardened to steel, and she dropped the studied courtesy of her address.

"That letter has been submitted to the council, and the King has decided to let the law take its course. G.o.d will not be insulted longer in this realm."

It is impossible to conceive the insolent malice that was thrown into La Valentinois' glance and voice, and the mockery of her bow, as she made this speech. And grey-haired Madame de Montal, gazing steadily at her, said:

"Madame, you speak to the Queen!"

"No, Montal," and Catherine rose, her face white as death, "you mistake; it is the Queen who speaks to me." And without so much as a glance in the direction of the d.u.c.h.ess she turned and left the apartment, followed by her ladies.

The favourite looked around her, a smile of triumph on her lips; but with the exception of myself the cabinet was empty, though a murmuring crowd filled the rooms without. It was then, and only then, she realised that the victory was not all hers, and felt the sting of the Parthian arrow shot by the Queen. Her cheeks burned red, and I saw the hand that held her fan tremble like a leaf in the wind. Then with an effort she recovered herself, and with another glance at me, full of superb disdain, swept from the room. As for me, my last hope had vanished, and I stood as in a dream, staring at the pattern on the carpet before me. How long I stood thus I do not know, but at last, from within the Queen's apartments, I heard someone weeping--heard even through the closed door and drawn curtains. It all but unmanned me; and then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looking up saw De Lorgnac.

"Orrain," he said, "come with me."

There was that in his eyes and voice which could not be mistaken.

"What has happened?" I asked hoa.r.s.ely, though I well knew what he meant.

"Come," he said, "be brave! You are a man, and as a man I tell you, you need all your courage now. The Court is thrown open, and in an hour De Mouchy delivers his sentence. The harlot of France is by his side----"

And he stopped, almost breaking down.

"Lorgnac, I am going there."

"It is useless. Le Brusquet is there. Come with me!"

But I turned on him fiercely. "I am going," I repeated, and, perhaps, he read what was in my heart, for he put his arm through mine.

"Come, then. I will come with you."