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CHAPTER XIII

"She knows," Emérance muttered to herself as she sought her own rooms from which, in fact, she had only been brought forth by the noise and chattering in the passages and the sounds that issued from the Duchess's salon, owing to the door being open. "She knows-in part-what I am. That look from those dark, haughty eyes told all. Yes, she knows something-but only something; not all. She cannot know of the Great Attempt."

She took up now a little hand-bell from the table and, ringing it, brought forth her maid from the bedroom where she was engaged in arranging that apartment; after which Emérance said: -

"What means this turmoil in the inn, this hurly-burly on the stairs and in the passages? Know you aught?"

"Madame," the woman replied, only too willing to talk, "there are strange happenings in this house. The retinue of the Duchesse de Castellucchio have mostly deserted her. They are missing."

"Missing!" Emérance exclaimed, while her face blanched. "Missing! Her retinue missing. Explain to me."

"Ah! Madame la Marquise. They are gone, vanished. All except one-the lowest of them. The handsome young man so gay and debonnair, with shoulders so broad and stalwart and such soft, dark eyes, is gone-"

"Proceed. No matter for his looks."

"Also the captain. He who was like a bull. Also the great swashbuckler, le fanfaron, with the red-brown hair."

"The captain gone," Emérance muttered to herself, "and Fleur de Mai gone too. 'Tis strange. Wondrous strange."

"And, above all," the girl persisted, determined that the one who had been so gentle and courteous to her, so much of an admirer, should not be overlooked, "the young seigneur, madame! The handsome, courtly one."

"Bah!" Emérance exclaimed, "his looks count not." Nor, in truth, would the looks of any man in all the world have counted with this woman who had no thoughts or eyes for the beauty of any, or only one, man. Then, continuing, she said: "And that other? The lowest of them, as you term him. Where is he?"

"He saddles his horse below. He rides to the Syndic to beseech his help in finding them; the Syndic whose lodge is outside the walls upon the route de France, a league or so from here. He does so, having spoken first with the venerable father of Madame la Marquise. The illustrious Seigneur de Châteaugrand."

"Ah! yes. My father. The Seigneur de Châteaugrand!" and now there came a look upon her face vastly different from the look of a few minutes before-one which seemed to speak of some internal spasm of pain, or regret or self-reproach, so different from this which was one of irony, of contempt. "Where is he?"

"He prepares to descend to madame from his room above. He wishes to know something of these strange doings. He will be here ere many moments more are past."

"So be it. He will find me. Now make me ready for the day. Put out my clothes and toilette necessaries. My father," with a scornful smile, "hates ever to see a woman in disarray."

That "father" made his appearance, as the maid had said would be the case, ere many moments were passed, yet when he did so the interview that was to take place-if it was an interview-was not of long duration. Emérance, who was in the bedroom in the hands of the maid when she heard the door of the salon open, called out to know if it was he, and, on discovering such to be the case, had her dress put on hastily and then went to him. After which, without salutation or greeting, she went close to Van den Enden and, speaking to him in almost a whisper-for, which there was scarcely any need since she had carefully shut the door between them and the maid-she said: -

"What is this report? And-what does it mean? Where are they all? All?"

But the Jew made no reply. Which abstention from speech was, in truth, the most pregnant of replies.

"I understand, or almost understand," Emérance whispered, while as she did so she stepped back some paces from Van den Enden and, perhaps unconsciously, drew the skirts of her gown closer round her. "We have been overheard, were overheard, and-and, after you left me last night you and La Truaumont discovered such to be the case. And-and-and-"

But still Van den Enden uttered no word but stood looking strangely at the woman.

"Ah," she gasped. "And De Beaurepaire? Louis? Is he safe? Will he be safe?"

A moment later, though still the old man had uttered no word but only let his eyes meet hers, she murmured, "Ah! malheur! Yet-yet-there is none to harm him now."

* * * * *

Ere Humphrey sought his room the previous afternoon, there to carry out his determination of keeping a watchful ear open, from then till the morning, over all that might transpire in the next one to him, he whispered a last word to Jacquette.

"Sweetest and dearest," he said, "say no word to the Duchess on what I am about to do, give her no inkling. Tell her what you will, excepting only that."

"What shall I say? I would not willingly deceive her. 'Specially since she trusts me so."

"Nor would I have you deceive her. She is too good and kind to have deception practised on her. Yet, remember, you have said that, if she were forced to know of what I think is being plotted, she would find means to bring the news to the King's ears. And that would not take long in the doing. A trusty messenger, a swift horse or so, and, ere a week was past, that which hath been plotted here in this out-of-the-world Swiss place would be known in Paris. And-and-if she has never loved the King she is well nigh the only one of all women near him since his youth who has not done so. She would not spare De Beaurepaire whom, in very fact, she does not love, but has only used for her purpose of escape from her mad husband."

"What then shall I say?" asked Jacquette, grasping the force and truth of her lover's words.

"What you will. That I have ridden forth to see the beauties of this great river out there; or to mount to the cathedral, or that I am indisposed, which in truth I am since I am indisposed to be prevented from overhearing these tricksters."

"Short of absolute falsehood, I will tell her," Jacquette said with a smile; after which, since now they were near the Krone, the girl added, "Farewell until to-morrow, Humphrey, and may heaven bless you, my sweet. Oh! I do pray that what you are about to do-it is in a good cause, He above knows! – may bring no harm to you. Farewell until to-morrow. To-night I will pray for you, and all night, too."

So, with a blessing on him from the woman he loved so fondly and truly, Humphrey West set about his task.

When he was in his room, after pausing until Jacquette had had time to rejoin the Duchess, he sat down in the one chair the place possessed and wondered how long he would have to wait ere anything should happen in the next one that, by being overheard, might be of service to him. The day was still young, it being no later than four o'clock, and he knew that it was more than probable that neither La Truaumont nor that horrible-looking old man with the vulpine features and the repellent leer-whom he felt sure was one of those most concerned in what was hatching-would visit the woman in the next room until late at night and when most of those in the house had retired.

One thing, however, he did at once, after observing that his chamber was made ready for the night-the bed turned down, the ewer filled and so forth. He quietly lifted his chair up to the wall which divided his room from the next one and placed it against the wainscot. Thus he would be nearer to any sound that issued from the lips of those in that next room and, also, if necessary, he could stand with his head underneath the frowsy tapestry, and between it and the panelling, and so hear still better. Next, he locked his door while determining that, no matter who should come to it, he would give no answer. Those outside might think that he was absent, or asleep, or what they would, but he would not reply.

At first, he thought of sitting down and writing to his mother in England a long account of his doings of late-there was a standish on the rickety table, under one leg of which some previous traveller had thrust a piece of folded paper to steady it, and, in the standish, was some half-dried ink as well as one or two pens much mended and worn, and a little jar of sand; but he desisted from following this idea. He would have to bring the chair back again to do so; if, while writing, he should move it unthinkingly, it would grate and rasp upon the parquet floor and warn any who might be in the next room that he was here, while, also, to obtain his writing-paper (with which educated travellers always provided themselves ere setting out) he would have to unroll his valise, the doing which might also betray him if he made any noise.

"Therefore," he thought to himself, "I will lie down a little while. It may hap I shall be awake most of the night, so best that I refresh myself ere night comes. While if I sleep I will do so like a dog, with one eye and both ears open. A whisper will awaken me if 'tis loud enough to penetrate through the tapestry on t'other side and on this."

That he had slept he discovered later when, suddenly opening his eyes, he heard the deep-toned clock of the cathedral striking the four quarters, and, after counting the strokes of the hour, learnt that it was nine o'clock. He noticed, too, at once-though even now but half-awake-that the room was in darkness, that night had come. Upon which he lay quite still a little while, his ears on the alert to discover if there were any persons in the room to his left.

There was, however, nothing to tell him that such was the case, though, from the other side of his room he could hear, in the apartments of the Duchess, her lute being softly played and the light tones of her voice as she hummed the words of an Italian canzone to its accompaniment. Once, too, he heard her call to Jacquette and say something about her cavalier costume in which he knew that, on the next day, she purposed setting forth on her long dreary ride across the Alps-no carriages being possible for that journey. He also heard her tell Jacquette to bid Suzanne bring a flask of Muscat.

Then, suddenly, he knew that a door on his left had opened and shut gently; he heard a voice speaking which he had never, so far as he knew, heard before.

"If," that voice said, it being a low rasping one, "they set forth to-morrow, the captain should be here almost at once. They sup at eight and should be abed soon after. There is much to talk over since we all separate to-morrow. La Truaumont's band sets out to escort madame to Milan, he to go hot foot to Paris afterwards, and then to Normandy-I to Paris direct and-"

"I to Paris and Paradise since De Beaurepaire is there."

That enraptured voice told him at once who this speaker was, it being the same he had overheard the night before. It was, he knew, the voice of the woman who occupied those rooms, the woman to whom La Truaumont had said half-sinisterly, half-warningly, "You may yet pay a dear price for your happiness."

Almost ere the man could make any reply to that remark, another, a deeper, more profound voice seemed to obliterate all other sounds except those of a second gentle opening and shutting of the door; a voice, the full though mellow tones of which the owner was undoubtedly endeavouring to soften. The voice of La Truaumont.

"So," Humphrey heard the captain say, "we meet to decide all. Now, Van den Enden, unfold. Speak, and to the purpose. What is done? What will Spain and Holland do?"

"To commence with," Humphrey heard the unknown voice of the Jew say, "I have the money-all of it-in safe keeping."

"In safe keeping," murmured La Truaumont. "In safe keeping. Where?"

"Some in the hands of the party. Some in mine."

"I'll be sworn, and deeply too."

"Some for those bold hearts who help us with their hands and heads."

"Good! Good!" the voice, which sounded like the soft rumbling of a cathedral organ afar off, murmured.

"Some," Van den Enden went on, as though pleased with his own words, "put aside for fair ones who, also, have helped and can help well. For beauty's coaxings and câlineries; for love professed; for love false as beauty's oath or vow-"

"And as true, too!" Humphrey heard the woman exclaim.

"All can play their part and play it well, and earn their guerdon," Van den Enden continued.

"And the rest? Where is it? Hein?" La Truaumont asked in tones that, though low, did not disguise the cynicism beneath them.

"The rest! Why in the hands of Le Dédaigneux."

"So!" exclaimed La Truaumont. "So! Good. That binds him. He is committed to us."

"He needs no binding, no earnest. He is heart and soul with us. And you know it," the listener heard the woman say sharply.

"And the sum total?" La Truaumont asked, ignoring her.

"A million of livres."

"Half of what we asked! Half of what is necessary."

"Added to six thousand Spaniards on board the Dutch Fleet; arms for twenty thousand men; weapons and instruments of siege against the fortresses of Quillebeuf and Honfleur."

"Enough to begin with at least if not enough to complete the glorious task. Now unfold all that is decided on."

CHAPTER XIV

"Le Dédaigneux!" Humphrey said to himself. "Le Dédaigneux. Some man, some great one masquerading under a sobriquet, a nom de guerre! Who can it be but one! Who but the one whose proud family motto almost speaks of their disdain for even kings; whose own life bespeaks his scorn for all who are not of his blood; who looks down on other men as other men look down on the insects crawling in their path! Who can it be but he? Yet-does he lead these conspirators or is he led by them? Is he their chief or cat's-paw? I must know that."

"Listen," he heard Van den Enden saying now. "Briefly, all that is devised is as follows."

"Those men, that money, and the Dutch Fleet are in our hands, at our service," Van den Enden continued next; "the moment that your Normandy is prepared to rise against this tyrant whose tyranny is greater than was the tyranny of Richelieu, of Mazarin, or of both combined. If your chiefs, your great noblesse, your merchants of Rouen, Havre and other cities-all groaning under this tyrant's unjust taxation of them, specially for his wars; all hating his wantons, his mad extravagance and love of splendour-are ready to rise and form themselves into a Republic which shall at last be a Republic formed of the whole of France, then the Spaniards and Hollanders are ready to play their part."

"Republics have heads, dictators, rulers, as well as monarchies. Men who are yet monarchs though without crowns, or thrones, or rights hereditary. Whom does Spain produce?" La Truaumont asked.

"De Montérey at first stipulated for the head of the house of-Le Dédaigneux. The Duke-"

"Ah!" whispered Humphrey to himself.

"But finding that this might not be, that the Duke refuses since he would have to throw too heavy a stake to win even so great a prize as this, they will accept him."

"They must," the listener heard the woman say. "He must be head or nothing."

"They have agreed," Van den Enden continued. "They desire Quillebeuf, De Montérey avers, more than all the places of which Le Roi Soleil has despoiled them. They wish to form a Republic rivalling that of Venice, one that, in being with them, shall crush all who are against them."

"And Louis! The King. What of him?"

"Listen. His guards have been dispatched to join the army. Le Dédaigneux as their colonel has taken care of that."

"My God!" Humphrey whispered to himself. "He is in it. The chief conspirator and no tool!"

"The King will," Van den Enden went on, "be either at St. Germain or Fontainebleau for the next few weeks or months. And then-then-"

"Then?" said La Truaumont.

"Then five hundred Norman gentlemen will subdue the courtiers and seize on him. We shall have him. Hold him."

"Go on!" La Truaumont muttered, his voice husky and deep. "What next? What will you do with him?"

"He will sign a renunciation of his throne or-"

"Or?"

"He will go to the Bastille, or Pignerol-Pignerol is safer; it is afar off, out of, lost to, the world. He will experience that which he has caused countless others to experience. And, later, he will-die."

"Die! How?"

"As others have died," the Jew hissed. "As all die who suffer under his tyranny. By his own hands, or-will-appear-to have done so."

"My horse is in its stall," Humphrey thought to himself now; "my rapier to my hand. It is time, and full time, too, for me to be on my way. On my way to France-thank heaven the frontier is so near at hand! To Paris, to the King. There is no time to lose. The King to be seized and, later, the country invaded; the fortresses taken! And I know all the scheme. All, as well as the names of all concerned."

"Yet," he went on, "I must contain myself longer. To leave this room now, however softly; to attempt to unbar the door of this closed house, if it is yet shut; to saddle 'Soupir' and ride off now is to tell those wretches in there that they are blown upon. I must wait-wait till full night has come, till midnight at earliest, or even until later and, then, off and away. Away through the mountains, over the plains-on-on-till I stand face to face with the King and tell him all. Heaven above be praised, he knows me and my name: he has befriended me and been good to my mother. It will not be hard to do. Oh! that I could creep out now, at once, so as to waste no precious moment."

For an instant, as thus he communed with himself, there had come to him a thought that he would endeavour to communicate with the Duchess by tapping gently on the door that was between their rooms; by attracting the attention of her or Jacquette, both of whom were probably at supper now in their salon; and by stealing away in that manner. But no sooner had this idea come to him than it was discarded. The tapping, or scratching, he must make to call their attention to him would equally summon the attention of those in that other room, and might, indeed, reach their ears sooner than it would reach the ears of the others whose notice he desired to attract. No! he must stay quiet until, at least, those in the next room had separated, which, judging by the words he had heard the once unknown voice utter to the effect that La Truaumont and his party should be abed before ten-would undoubtedly not be long now.

Meanwhile, as these reflections passed through his mind his ears were still on the alert; even as he thought, so he could listen, too, and not only hear but grasp what was the subject of conversation between the conspirators in that room.

From the absolute conspiracy itself the talk had now wandered to other matters, and at this moment Humphrey heard La Truaumont say: -

"I ride with this heroine of romance-this folle who is covered with jewels but, sangdieu! will not have more than a change of linen with her-as far as Martigny. There I shall be taken with sudden illness, the vapours, the falling sickness-the megrims-one will do as well as t'other, and so I shall be left behind. And then, when they are gone, hey! for France, for Normandy."

A moment later, the opening and shutting gently of the door was heard by Humphrey; a stealthy though heavy tread in the corridor was also apparent to the young man's ears: he knew, he felt sure he knew, that the man had left the room. The plot was laid bare by Van den Enden, the meeting over.

The other two in that room continued, however, to remain in it, and more than once Humphrey heard the rasping tones of the voice which he felt sure belonged to the old man who had descended from the French coach, and the softer, sweeter ones of the woman who inhabited those apartments and, as far as he knew, never stirred out of them. But, though he heard the tones, the words that were uttered were now unintelligible, and it flashed instantly into Humphrey's mind that the pair were whispering to each other.

"Whispering," he said to himself. "Whispering! Yet why now, when the worst is told and has been told openly and, beyond uncertainty, without fear of that worst being overheard? Why have the two to speak in whispers now since, when they were three, they said nothing that-as they thought-needed suppression?"

He heard, however, something further. He heard shuffling feet which, Humphrey did not doubt, were the feet of the old man moving about the room; a piece of furniture-a chair as it seemed to him-moved from one part of the apartment to another; a smooth, rubbing sound on the other side of the wainscot against which he leant with his head beneath the folds of the frouzy, dusty tapestry, and once-or twice-a word or the fragments of a question.

"Are you sure? Certain? It is death if so," the rasping, or feeble, voice asked, not in one sentence but in three exclamations, while the clearer, more fresh voice replied, also interjectedly. "Service, I tell you. Safe. Covered. Impossible."

To what these words might refer Humphrey could not conceive, no more than he could conceive to what those various movements in the room applied. Neither could he form any opinion as to the meaning of what he next heard clearly and distinctly, since, forgetting himself for the moment, the man said: -

"No chance if that is done. The swiftest portion of the Rhine is quickly reached by that brawling, rushing river outside. I know, I have been a refugee in this city ere now-and then, once there, the secret is hidden for ever. The swirl at that spot is worse than the grave, since the latter can be made to give up its dead or what is left of them, but it never."

Of this speech Humphrey could understand nothing; it conveyed naught to his mind. Or, if it did convey anything, only the thought that some proof of their secret, something which he could not guess at or surmise, was to be consigned to an eternal and unyielding oblivion.

It seemed as if, now, those two were about to separate for the night. In still broken, still interjected sentences and scraps of sentences and stray words, Humphrey could understand that they were telling each other their future plans. He gathered that the woman had promised to set out the next day in her coach for Paris, that she would wait at Mülhausen till the French coach from Basle arrived when she would take her confederate into her own carriage and convey him with her. He also found out for certainty what the old man's name was.

"I will not have you masquerading as my father," he heard the woman whisper. "You need be no longer the Seigneur de Châteaugrand. Your own name of Van den Enden will do very well, since nothing connects you with us or Normandy."

"It will do very well for me, too," Humphrey said to himself, "since I know both of them now. And yours also, my lady, thanks to your chattering maid and your travelling necessaries."

A moment later he once more heard the door opened and shut, gently as ever, and knew that the woman was left alone. Still another moment, and he heard her cross the floor of her salon and knew by the sound of a closing door-the different sound made by a different door-that she had entered another room, the one in which she doubtless slept.

It was now ten o'clock, as Humphrey heard plainly from all the various clocks in the city, and he knew that he must, as yet, have no thought of setting out for France. By the absence of all movement whatever in the Duchess's room to the right he recognised that she had not yet sought her bed; he heard, too, all the sounds rising up the stairs from the ground portion of the inn which told him that there was as yet no likelihood of the place being closed for the night. There were, he knew well, no other travellers, or at least none of importance, staying in the house, yet-even in this rigid and now harsh and severe Protestant city that, nearly a hundred years after Calvin's death, had not yet shaken off the gloomy asceticism with which he had dyed and imbued it, as well as Geneva and others-there were wassailers and carousers who came here to drink nightly. He had seen them and heard them, too, the evening before, as, also, he had seen Fleur de Mai and Boisfleury drinking with them. He knew, also, that until midnight, or at least as long as the landlord would allow them to remain, which was so long as they would drink and sup, the house would not be closed and these topers sent forth.

"Therefore," thought Humphrey, "I must possess my soul in patience. There is naught else for it." Though, even as he so thought, there came another reflection to his mind.

"Foregad!" he said to himself, "if I stay in here until the house is closed, I am as like not to be unable to leave it. Therefore let me consider what is best. Either to quit the house before it is shut up for the night, to get to the stables and remain in them till all is quiet and then steal away on 'Soupir'-she is fleet of foot and, once off, none will catch us! – or wait here till all are gone to their beds and take my chance of finding an exit? Which shall I do?"

Suddenly, however, he made his final decision. To stay here and risk being unable to obtain that exit was folly. Better walk about the streets for hours and then return and make his way to the stables and obtain his horse-if the stables were not themselves made fast for the night-than stay here to be shut in till the morning. Consequently, he decided he would go in an hour's time if not sooner. And, also, it might be best that then, if he could get into the stables, he should saddle "Soupir," at once, lead her out gently, and, mounting her without delay, ride forth out of the town. That he would have to pass the gate he knew, but, with the passport he carried in his pocket signed by D'Argenson for the King-the King whom, if possible, he went forth to warn and save-this would be easy.

So that he should make no noise which might inform the woman he was there, if at any minute she should return to the room next to him, he took off his long boots and walked softly about seeking the few necessaries which he must take with him: to wit, his rapier, his pistols and cloak and hat. The other things he had with him, which were contained in the little valise for strapping in front of the saddle, he would leave behind. Jacquette, he knew, would understand in the morning, when he was found to be missing, that he had purposely left them and would see that they were placed in safe custody, while, even if she did not do so, their loss would be no serious thing.

Humphrey went to the door now, turning the key back as softly as might be so as to make no noise, and, next, took it from the inside and inserted it in the lock on the outside and pushed the door-to without shutting it, after which he drew his boots on once more and crept softly out. Then he locked the door and, dropping the key into his pocket, descended the stairs.

He met no one on them and, so far as he knew, no one saw him. The landlord was not in his room, as he could see through the glass window giving on to the passage: the door of the great general room was shut, though from it there issued a hum of voices, above all of which he could distinguish the loud boasting tones of Fleur de Mai as, doubtless, he indulged in some of his usual rhodomontades. Likewise, and he thanked heaven for it, the street door still stood wide open as though inviting custom. To add to his satisfaction the oil-lamp in the passage was extinct, it having probably been blown out by the warm southerly breeze that had arisen with the coming of the night.

"All is very well," Humphrey said to himself. "Yet a few moments more and 'Soupir' and I shall be on our road for Paris. Then, catch who can."

And he stepped out on to the place between the inn and the river.