From the Memoirs of a Minister of France by Stanley Weyman (page 2)

“Ay.”

“But I am the Mayor–I,” Grabot answered eagerly, tapping himself on the breast in the most absurd manner. “Don’t you know me, my friend?”

“I never saw you before, to my knowledge,” the rascal answered contemptuously; “and I know this country pretty well. I should think that you have been crossing St. Brieuc’s brook, and forgotten to say your–“

“Hush!” the stout player interposed with some sharpness. ” Let him alone. LE BON DIEU knows that such a thing may happen to the best of us.”

The Mayor clapped his hand to his head. “Sir,” he said almost humbly, addressing the last speaker, “I seem to know your voice. Your name, if you please?”

“Fracasse,” he answered pleasantly. “I am Mayor of Gol.”

“You–Fracasse, Mayor of Gol?” Grabot exclaimed between rage and terror. “But Fracasse is a tall man. I know him as well as I know my brother.”

The pseudo-Fracasse smiled, but did not contradict him.

The Mayor wiped the moisture from his brow. He had all the characteristics of an obstinate man; but if there is one thing which I have found in a long career more true than another, it is that no one can resist the statements of his fellows. So much, I verily believe, is this the case, that if ten men maintain black to be white, the eleventh will presently be brought into their opinion. Besides, the Mayor had a currish side. He looked piteously from one to another of us, his cheeks seemed to grow in a moment pale and flabby, and he was on the point of whimpering, when at the last moment he bethought him of his servant, and turned to him in a spurt of sudden thankfulness. “Why, Jehan, man, I had forgotten you,” he said. “Are these men mad, or am I?”

But Jehan, a simple rustic, was in a state of ludicrous bewilderment. “Dol, master, I don’t know,” he stuttered, rubbing his head.

“But I am myself,” the Mayor cried, in a most ridiculous tone of remonstrance.

“Dol, and I don’t know,” the man whimpered. “I do believe that there is a change in you. I never saw you look the like before. And I never said any PATER either. Holy saints!” the poor fool continued piteously, “I wish I were at home. And there, for all I know, my wife has got another man.”

He began to blubber at this; which to us was the most ludicrous thought, so that it was all we could do to restrain our laughter. But the Mayor saw things in another light. Shaken by our steady persistence in our story, and astounded by our want of respect, the defection of his follower utterly cowed him. After staring wildly about him for a moment, he fairly turned tail, and sat down on an old box by the door, where with his hands on his knees, he looked out before him with such an expression of chap- fallen bewilderment as nearly discovered our plot by throwing us into fits of laughter.

Still he was not persuaded; for, from time to time, he roused himself, and lifting his head cast suspicious glances at our party. But the two strollers, who were now in their element, played their parts with so much craft and delicacy, and with such an infinity of humour besides, that everything he overheard plunged him deeper in the slough. They knew something of local affairs, and called one another Mayor very naturally; and mentioning their wives, let drop other scraps of information that, catching his ear, made the wretched man every now and then sit up as if a wasp had stung him. One story in particular which the false Mayor told–and which, it appeared, was to the knowledge of all the country round the real Mayor’s stock anecdote–had an absurd effect upon him. He straightened himself, listened as if his life depended upon it, and when he heard the well-known ending, uttered, doubtless, in something of his old tone, he collapsed into himself like a man who had no longer faith in anything.

Presently, however, an effort of common-sense would again disperse the fog. He would raise his head, his eye grow bright, something of his old pugnacity would come back to him. He would appear–this more than once–to be on the point of rising to challenge us. But these occasions were as skilfully met as they were easily detected; and as the rogues had invariably some stroke in reserve that in a twinkling flung him back into his old state of dazed bewilderment, while it well-nigh killed us with stifled mirth, they only gave ever new point to the jest.

This, to be brief, was carried on until I retired; and probably the two strollers would have kept it up longer if the ludicrous doubt whether he was himself, which they had lodged in the Mayor’s mind, had not at last spurred him to action. An hour before midnight, feeling it rankle intolerably, I suppose, he sprang up on a sudden, dragged the door open, darted out with the air of a madman, and in a moment was lost in the darkness of the moor.

When I rose in the morning, therefore, I found him gone, the strollers looking glum, and the good-wife and her girl between tears and reproaches. I could not but feel, on my part, that I had somewhat stooped in the night’s diversion; but before I had time to reflect much on that an unexpected trait in the strollers’ conduct reconciled me to this odd experience. They proposed to leave when I did; but a little before the start they came to me, and set before me very ingenuously that the woman of the house might suffer through our jest; if I would help her therefore, they would subscribe two crowns so that she might have a substantial sum to offer on account of her debt. As I took this to be the greater part of their capital, and judged for other reasons that the offer was genuine, I received it in the best part, and found their good-nature no less pleasant than their foolery. I handed over three crowns for our share, and on that we parted; they set out with their bundles strapped to their backs, and I waited somewhat impatiently for La Trape and the Breton to bring round the horses.

Before these appeared, however, La Font, who was at the door, cried out that the two players were coming hack; and going to the window I saw with astonishment a whole troop, some mounted and some on foot, hurrying down the hill after them. For a moment I felt some alarm, supposing it to be a scheme of Epernon’s to seize my person; and I cursed the imprudence which had led me to expose myself in this solitary place. But a second glance showing me that the Mayor of Bottitort was among the foremost, I repented almost as seriously of the unlucky trifling that had landed me in this foolish plight.

I even debated whether I should mount and, if it were possible, get clear before they arrived; but the rueful faces of the two players as they appeared breathless in the doorway, and the liking I had taken for the rascals, decided me to stand my ground “What is it?” I said.

“The Mayor, monsieur,” Philibert answered, while Pierre pursed up his lips with gloomy gravity. “I fear it will not stop at the stocks this time,” the rogue continued with a grimace.

His comrade muttered something about a rod and a fool’s back; but M. Grabot’s entrance cut his witticism short. The Mayor, between shame and rage, and the gratification of his revenge, was almost bursting, and the moment he caught sight of us opened fire. “All, M. de Gol; we have them all!” he cried exultingly. “Now they shall smart for it! Depend upon it, it is some deep-laid scheme of that party. I have said so.”

But the Mayor of Gol, a stout, big, placid man, looked at us doubtfully. “Well,” he said, “I know these two; they are strolling mountebanks, honest knaves enough but always in some mischief.”

“What, strolling clowns?” M. Grabot rejoined, his face falling.

“Ay, and you may depend upon it it is some joke of theirs,” his friend answered, his eyes twinkling. “I begin to think that you would have done better if you had waited a little before bringing M. le Comte into the matter.”

“Ah, but there are these two,” M. Grabot cried, as he recovered from the momentary panic into which the other’s words had thrown him. “Depend upon it they are the chief movers. What else but treason could they mean by asserting that one of them was Mayor of Bottitort? By denying my title? By setting up other officers than those to whom his Gracious Majesty has delegated his authority?”

“Umph!” his brother Mayor said, “I don’t know these gentlemen.”

“No!” his companion cried in triumph. “But I intend to know them; and to know a good deal about them. Guard the window there,” he continued fussily. “Where is my clerk? Is M. de Laval coming?”

Two or three cried obsequiously that he had crossed the hill; and would arrive immediately.

Hearing this, and thinking it more becoming not to enter into an altercation, I kept my seat and the scornful silence I had hitherto maintained. The two Mayors had brought with them a posse of busybodies–huissiers, constables, tip-staves, and the like; and these all gaped upon us as if they saw before them the most notable traitors of the age. The women of the house wept in a corner, and the strollers shrugged their shoulders and strove to appear at their ease. But the only person who felt the indifference which they assumed was La Font; who, obnoxious to none of the annoyances which I foresaw, could hardly restrain his mirth at the DENOUEMENT which he anticipated.

Meanwhile the Mayor, foreseeing a very different issue, stood blowing out his cheeks and fixing us with his little eyes with an expression of dignity that would have pleased me vastly if I had been free to enjoy it. But the reflection that Laval’s presence, which would cut the knot of our difficulties, would also place me at the mercy of his wit, did not enable me to contemplate it with entire indifference.

By-and-by we heard him dismount, and a moment later he came in with a gentleman and two or three armed servants. He did not at once see me, but as the crowd made way for him he addressed himself sharply to M. Grabot. “Well, have you got them?” he said.

“Certainly, M. le Comte.”

“Oh! very well. Now for the particulars, then. You must state your charge quickly, for I have to be in Vitre to-day.”

“He alleged that he had been appointed Mayor of Bottitort,” Grabot answered pompously.

“Umph! I don’t know?” M. de Laval muttered, looking round with a frown of discontent. “I hope that you have not brought me hither on a fool’s errand. Which one?”

“That one,” the Mayor said, pointing to the solemn man, whose gravity and depression were now something preternatural.

“Oh!” M. de Laval grumbled. “But that is not all, I suppose. What of the others?”

M. Grabot pointed to me. “That one,” he said–

He got no farther; for M. de Laval, springing forward, seized my hand and saluted me warmly. “Why, your excellency,” he cried, in a tone of boundless surprise, “what are you doing in this GALERE! All last evening I waited for you, at my house, and now–“

“Here I am,” I answered jocularly, “in charge it seems, M. le Comte!”

“MON DIEU!” he cried. “I don’t understand it!”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Don’t ask me,” I said. “Perhaps your friend the Mayor call tell you.”

“But, Monsieur, I do not understand,” the Mayor answered piteously, his mouth agape with horror, his fat cheeks turning in a moment all colours. “This gentleman, whom you seem to know, Monsieur le Comte–“

“Is the Marquis de Rosny, President of the Council, blockhead!” Laval cried irately. “You madman! you idiot!” he continued, as light broke in upon him, and he saw that it was indeed on a fool’s errand that he had been roused so early. “Is this your conspiracy? Have you dared to bring me here–“

But I thought that it was time to interfere. “The truth is,” I said, “that M. Grabot here is not so much to blame. He was the victim of a trick which these rascals played on him; and in an idle moment I let it go on. That is the whole secret. However, I forgive him for his officiousness since it brings us together, and I shall now have the pleasure of your company to Vitre.”

Laval assented heartily to this, and I did not think fit to tell him more, nor did he inquire; the Mayor’s stupidity passing current for all. For M. Grabot himself, I think that I never saw a man more completely confounded. He stood staring with his mouth open; and, as much deserted as the statesman who has fallen from office, had not the least credit even with his own sycophants, who to a man deserted him and flocked about the Mayor of Gol. Though I had no reason to pity him, and, indeed, thought him well punished, I took the opportunity of saying a word to him before I mounted; which, though it was only a hint that he should deal gently with the woman of the house, was received with servility equal to the arrogance he had before displayed; and I doubt not it had all the effect I desired. For the strollers, I did not forget them, but bade them hasten to Vitre, where I would see a performance. They did so, and hitting the fancy of Zamet, who chanced to be still there, and who thought that he saw profit in them, they came on his invitation to Paris, where they took the Court by storm. So that an episode trifling in itself, and such as on my part requires some apology, had for them consequences of no little importance.

IV. LA TOUSSAINT.

Towards the autumn of 1601, when the affair of M. de Biron, which was so soon to fill the mouths of the vulgar, was already much in the minds of those whom the King honoured with his confidence, I was one day leaving the hall at the Arsenal, after giving audience to such as wished to see me, when Maignan came after me and detained me; reporting that a gentleman who had attended early, but had later gone into the garden, was still in waiting. While Maignan was still speaking the stranger himself came up, with some show of haste but none of embarrassment; and, in answer to my salutation and inquiry what I could do for him, handed me a letter. He had the air of a man not twenty, his dress was a trifle rustic; but his strong and handsome figure set off a face that would have been pleasing but for a something fierce in the aspect of his eyes. Assured that I did not know him, I broke the seal of his letter and found that it was from my old flame Madame de Bray, who, as Mademoiselle de St. Mesmin, had come so near to being my wife; as will be remembered by those who have read the early part of these memoirs.

The young man proved to be her brother, whom she commended to my good offices, the impoverishment of the family being so great that she could compass no more regular method of introducing him to the world, though the house of St. Mesmin is truly respectable and, like my own, allied to several of the first consequence. Madame de Bray recalled our old TENDRESSE to my mind, and conjured me so movingly by it–and by the regard which her family had always entertained for me–that I could not dismiss the application with the hundred others of like tenor that at that time came to me with each year. That I might do nothing in the dark, however, I invited the young fellow to walk with me in the garden, and divined, even before he spoke, from the absence of timidity in his manner, that he was something out of the common. “So you have come to Paris to make your fortune?” I said.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“And what are the tools with which you propose to do it?” I continued, between jest and earnest.

“That letter, sir,” he answered simply; “and, failing that, two horses, two suits of clothes, and two hundred crowns.”

“You think that those will suffice?” I said, laughing.

“With this, sir,” he answered, touching his sword; “and a good courage.”

I could not but stand amazed at his coolness; for he spoke to me as simply as to a brother, and looked about him with as much or as little curiosity as Guise or Montpensier. It was evident that he thought a St. Mesmin equal to any man under the King; and that of all the St. Mesmins he did not value himself least.

“Well,” I said, after considering him, “I do not think that I can help you much immediately. I should be glad to know, however, what plans you have formed for yourself.”

“Frankly, sir,” he said, “I thought of this as I travelled; and I decided that fortune can be won by three things–by gold, by steel, and by love. The first I have not, and for the last I have a better use. Only the second is left. I shall be Crillon.”

I looked at him in astonishment; for the assurance of his manner exceeded that of his words. But I did not betray the feeling. “Crillon was one in a million,” I said drily.

“So am I,” he answered.

I confess that the audacity of this reply silenced me. I reflected that the young man who–brought up in the depths of the country, and without experience, training or fashion–could so speak in the face of Paris was so far out of the common that I hesitated to dash his hopes in the contemptuous way which seemed most natural. I was content to remind him that Crillon had lived in times of continual war, whereas now we were at peace; and, bidding him come to me in a week, I hinted that in Paris his crowns would find more frequent opportunities of leaving his pockets than his sword its sheath.

He parted from me with this, seeming perfectly satisfied with his reception; and marched away with the port of a man who expected adventures at every corner, and was prepared to make the most of them. Apparently he did not take my hint greatly to heart, however; for when I next met him, within the week, he was fashionably dressed, his hair in the mode, and his company as noble as himself. I made him a sign to stop, and he came to speak to me.

“How many crowns are ]eft?” I said jocularly.

“Fifty,” he answered, with perfect readiness.

“What!” I said, pointing to his equipment with something of the indignation I felt, “has this cost the balance?

“No,” he answered. “On the contrary, I have paid three months’ rent in advance and a month’s board at Zaton’s; I have added two suits to my wardrobe, and I have lost fifty crowns on the dice.”

“You promise well!” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders quite in the fashionable manner. “Always courage!” he said; and he went on, smiling.

I was walking at the time with M. de Saintonge, and be muttered, with a sneer, that it was not difficult to see the end, or that within the year the young braggart would sink to be a gaming- house bully. I said nothing, but I confess that I thought otherwise; the lad’s disposition of his money and his provision for the future seeming to me so remarkable as to set him above ordinary rules.

From this time I began to watch his career with interest, and I was not surprised when, in less than a month, something fell out that led the whole court to regard him with a mixture of amusement and expectancy.

One evening, after leaving the King’s closet, I happened to pass through the east gallery at the Louvre, which served at that time as the outer antechamber, and was the common resort as well of all those idlers who, with some pretensions to fashion, lacked the ENTREE, as of many who with greater claims preferred to be at their ease. My passage for a moment stilled the babel which prevailed. But I had no sooner reached the farther door than the noise broke out again; and this with so sudden a fury, the tumult being augmented by the crashing fall of a table, as caused me at the last moment to stand and turn. A dozen voices crying simultaneously, “Have a care!” and “Not here! not here!” and all looking the same way, I was able to detect the three principals in the FRACAS. They were no other than M. de St. Mesmin, Barradas–a low fellow, still remembered, who was already what Saintonge had prophesied that the former would become–and young St. Germain, the eldest son of M. de Clan.

I rather guessed than heard the cause of the quarrel, and that St. Mesmin, putting into words what many had known for years and some made their advantage of, had accused Barradas of cheating. The latter’s fury was, of course, proportioned to his guilt; an instant challenge while I looked was his natural answer. This, as he was a consummate swordsman, and had long earned his living as much by fear as by fraud, should have been enough to stay the greediest stomach; but St. Mesmin was not content. Treating the knave, the word once passed, as so much dirt, he transferred his attack to St. Germain, and called on him to return the money he had won by betting on Barradas.

St. Germain, a young spark as proud and headstrong as St. Mesmin himself, and possessed of friends equal to his expectations, flung back a haughty refusal. He had the advantage in station and popularity; and by far the larger number of those present sided with him. I lingered a moment in curiosity, looking to see the accuser with all his boldness give way before the almost unanimous expression of disapproval. But my former judgment of him had been correctly formed; so far from being browbeaten or depressed by his position, he repeated the demand with a stubborn persistence that marvellously reminded me of Crillon; and continued to reiterate it until all, except St. Germain himself, were silent. “You must return my money!” he kept on saying monotonously. “You must return my money. This man cheated, and you won my money. You must pay or fight.”

“With a dead man?” St. Germain replied, gibing at him.

“No, with me.”

“Barradas will spit you!” The other scoffed. “Go and order your coffin, and do not trouble me.”

“I shall trouble you. If you did not know that he cheated, pay; and if you did know, fight.”

“I know?” St. Germain retorted fiercely. “You madman! Do you mean to say that I knew that he cheated?”

“I mean what I say!” St. Mesmin returned stolidly. “You have won my money. You must return it. If you will not return it, you must fight.”

I should have heard more, but at that moment the main door opened, and two or three gentlemen who had been with the King came out. Not wishing to be seen watching the brawl, I moved away and descended the stairs; and Varenne overtaking me a moment later, and entering on the Biron affair–of which I had just been discussing the latest developments with the King–I forgot St. Mesmin for the time, and only recalled him next morning when Saintonge, being announced, came into my room in a state of great excitement, and almost with his first sentence brought out his name.

“Barradas has not killed him then?” I said, reproaching myself in a degree for my forgetfulness.

“No! He, Barradas!” Saintonge answered.

“No?” I exclaimed.

“Yes!” he said. “I tell you, M. le Marquis, he is a devil of a fellow–a devil of a fellow! He fought, I am told, just like Crillon; rushed in on that rascal and fairly beat down his guard, and had him pinned to the ground before he knew that they had crossed swords!”

“Well,” I said, “there is one scoundrel the less. That is all.”

“Ah, but that is not all!” my visitor replied more seriously. “It should be, but it is not; and it is for that reason I am come to you. You know St. Germain?”

“I know that his father and you are–well, that you take opposite sides,” I said smiling.

“That is pretty well known,” he answered coldly. “Anyway, this lad is to fight St. Germain to-morrow; and now I hear that M. de Clan, St. Germain’s father, is for shutting him up. Getting a LETTRE DE CACHET or anything else you please, and away with him.”

“What! St. Germain?” I said.

“No!” M. de Saintonge answered, prolonging the sound to the utmost. “St. Mesmin!”

“Oh,” I said, “I see.”

“Yes,” the Marquis retorted pettishly, “but I don’t. I don’t see. And I beg to remind you, M. de Rosny, that this lad is my wife’s second cousin through her step-father, and that I shall resent any interference with him. I have spent enough and done enough in the King’s service to have my wishes respected in a small matter such as this; and I shall regard any severity exercised towards my kinsman as a direct offence to myself. Whereas M. de Clan, who will doubtless be here in a few minutes, is–“

“But stop,” I said, interrupting him, “I heard you speaking of this young fellow the other day. You did not tell me then that he was your kinsman.”

“Nevertheless he is; my wife’s second cousin,” he answered with heat.

“And you wish him to–“

“Be let alone!” he replied interrupting me in his turn more harshly than I approved. “I wish him to be let alone. If he will fight St. Germain, and kill or be killed, is that the King’s affair that he need interfere? I ask for no interference,” M. de Saintonge continued bitterly, “only for fair play and no favour. And for M. de Clan who is a Republican at heart, and a Bironist, and has never done anything but thwart the King, for him to come now, and–faugh! it makes me sick.”

“Yes,” I said drily; “I see.”

“You understand me?”

“Yes,” I said, “I think so.”

“Very well,” he replied haughtily–he had gradually wrought himself into a passion; “be good enough to bear my request in mind then; and my services also. I ask no more, M. de Rosny, than is due to me and to the King’s honour.”

And with that, and scarcely an expression of civility, he left me. Some may wonder, I know, that, having in the Edict of Blois, which forbade duelling and made it a capital offence, an answer to convince even his arrogance, I did not use this weapon; but, as a fact, the edict was not published until the following June, when, partly in consequence of this affair and at my instance, the King put it forth.

Saintonge could scarcely have cleared the gates before his prediction was fulfilled. His enemy arrived hot foot, and entered to me with a mien so much lowered by anxiety and trouble that I hardly knew him for the man who had a hundred times rebuffed me, and whom the King’s offers had found consistently obdurate. All I had ever known of M. de Clan heightened his present humility and strengthened his appeal; so that I felt pity for him proportioned not only to his age and necessity, but to the depth of his fall. Saintonge had rightly anticipated his request; the first, he said, with a trace of his old pride, that he had made to the King in eleven years: his son, his only son and only child–the single heir of his name! He stopped there and looked at me; his eyes bright, his lips trembling and moving without sound, his hands fumbling on his knees.

“But,” I said, “your son wishes to fight, M. de Clan?”

He nodded.

“And you cannot hinder him?”

He shrugged his shoulders grimly. “No,” he said; “he is a St. Germain.”

“Well, that is just my case,” I answered. “You see this young fellow St. Mesmin was commended to me, and is, in a manner, of my household; and that is a fatal objection. I cannot possibly act against him in the manner you propose. You must see that; and for my wishes, he respects them less than your son regards yours.”

M. de Clan rose, trembling a little on his legs, and glaring at me out of his fierce old eyes. “Very well,” he said, “it is as much as I expected. Times are changed–and faiths–since the King of Navarre slept under the same bush with Antoine St. Germain on the night before Cahors! I wish you good-day, M. le Marquis.”

I need not say that my sympathies were with him, and that I would have helped him if I could; but in accordance with the maxim which I have elsewhere explained, that he who places any consideration before the King’s service is not fit to conduct it, I did not see my way to thwart M. de Saintonge in a matter so small. And the end justified my inaction; for the duel, taking place that evening, resulted in nothing worse than a serious, but not dangerous, wound which St. Mesmin, fighting with the same fury as in the morning, contrived to inflict on his opponent.

For some weeks after this I saw little of the young firebrand, though from time to time he attended my receptions and invariably behaved to me with a modesty which proved that he placed some bounds to his presumption. I heard, moreover, that M. de Saintonge, in acknowledgment of the triumph over the St. Germains which he had afforded him, had taken him up; and that the connection between the families being publicly avowed, the two were much together.

Judge of my surprise, therefore, when one day a little before Christmas, M. de Saintonge sought me at the Arsenal during the preparation of the plays and interludes–which were held there that year–and, drawing me aside into the garden, broke into a furious tirade against the young fellow.

“But,” I said, in immense astonishment, “what is this? I thought that he was a young man quite to your mind; and–“

“He is mad!” he answered.

“Mad?” I said.

“Yes, mad!” he repeated, striking the ground violently with his cane. “Stark mad, M. de Rosny. He does not know himself! What do you think–but it is inconceivable. He proposes to marry my daughter! This penniless adventurer honours Mademoiselle de Saintonge by proposing for her!”

“Pheugh!” I said. “That is serious.”

“He–he! I don’t think I shall ever get over it!” he answered.

“He has, of course, seen Mademoiselle?”

M. de Saintonge nodded.

“At your house, doubtless?”

“Of course!” he replied, with a snap of rage.

“Then I am afraid it is serious,” I said.

He stared at me, and for an instant I thought that he was going to quarrel with me. Then he asked me why.

I was not sorry to have this opportunity of at once increasing his uneasiness, and requiting his arrogance. “Because,” I said, “this young man appears to me to be very much out of the common. Hitherto, whatever he has said he would do, he has done. You remember Crillon? Well, I trace a likeness. St. Mesmin has much of his headlong temper and savage determination. If you will take my advice, you will proceed with caution.”

M. de Saintonge, receiving an answer so little to his mind, was almost bursting with rage. “Proceed with caution!” he cried. “You talk as if the thing could be entertained, or as if I had cause to fear the coxcomb! On the contrary, I intend to teach him a lesson a little confinement will cool his temper. You must give me a letter, my friend, and we will clap him in the Bastille for a month or two.”

“Impossible,” I said firmly. “Quite impossible, M. le Marquis.”

M. de Saintonge looked at me, frowning. “How?” he said arrogantly. “Have my services earned no better answer than that?”

“You forget,” I replied. “Let me remind you that less than a month ago you asked me not to interfere with St. Mesmin; and at your instance I refused to accede to M. de Clan’s request that I would confine him. You were then all for non-interference, M. de Saintonge, and I cannot blow hot and cold. Besides, to be plain with you,” I continued, “even if that were not the case, this young fellow is in a manner under my protection; which renders it impossible for me to move against him. If you like, however, I will speak to him.”

“Speak to him!” M. de Saintonge cried. He was breathless with rage. He could say no more. It may be imagined how unpalatable my answer was to him.

But I was not disposed to endure his presumption and ill-temper beyond a certain point; and feeling no sympathy with him in a difficulty which he had brought upon himself by his spitefulness, I answered him roundly. “Yes,” I said,” I will speak to him, if you please. But not otherwise. I can assure you, I should not do it for everyone.”

But M. de Saintonge’s chagrin and rage at finding himself thus rebuffed, in a quarter where his haughty temper had led him to expect an easy compliance, would not allow him to stoop to my offer. He flung away with expressions of the utmost resentment, and even in the hearing of my servants uttered so many foolish and violent things against me, that had my discretion been no greater than his I must have taken notice of them. As, however, I had other and more important affairs upon my hands, and it has never been my practice to humour such hot-heads by placing myself on a level with them, I was content to leave his punishment to St. Mesmin; assured that in him M. Saintonge would find an opponent more courageous and not less stubborn than himself.

The event bore me out, for within a week M. de St. Mesmin’s pretensions to the hand of Mademoiselle de Saintonge shared with the Biron affair the attention of all Paris. The young lady, whose reputation and the care which had been spent on her breeding, no less than her gifts of person and character, deserved a better fate, attained in a moment a notoriety far from enviable; rumour’s hundred tongues alleging, and probably with truth–for what father can vie with a gallant in a maiden’s eyes?–that her inclinations were all on the side of the pretender. At any rate, St. Mesmin had credit for them; there was talk of stolen meetings and a bribed waiting-woman; and though such tales were probably as false as those who gave them currency were fair, they obtained credence with the thoughtless, and being repeated from one to another, in time reached her father’s ears, and contributed with St. Mesmin’s persecution to render him almost beside himself.

Doubtless with a man of less dogged character, or one more amenable to reason, the Marquis would have known how to deal; but the success which had hitherto rewarded St. Mesmin’s course of action had confirmed the young man in his belief that everything was to be won by courage; so that the more the Marquis blustered and threatened the more persistent the suitor showed himself. Wherever Mademoiselle’s presence was to be expected, St. Mesmin appeared, dressed in the extreme of the fashion and wearing either a favour made of her colours or a glove which he asserted that she had given him. Throwing himself in her road on every occasion, he expressed his passion by the most extravagant looks and gestures; and protected from the shafts of ridicule alike by his self-esteem and his prowess, did a hundred things that rendered her conspicuous and must have covered another than himself with inextinguishable laughter.

In these circumstances M. de Saintonge began to find that the darts which glanced off his opponent’s armour were making him their butt; and that he, who had valued himself all his life on a stately dignity and a pride: almost Spanish, was rapidly becoming the laughing-stock of the Court. His rage may be better imagined than described, and doubtless his daughter did not go unscathed. But the ordinary contemptuous refusal which would have sent another suitor about his business was of no avail here; he had no son, while St. Mesmin’s recklessness rendered the boldest unwilling to engage him. Saintonge found himself therefore at his wits’ end, and in this emergency bethought him again of a LETTRE DE CACHET. But the King proved as obdurate as his minister; partly in accordance with a promise he had made me about a year before that he would not commonly grant what I had denied, and partly because Biron’s affair had now reached a stage in which Saintonge’s aid was no longer of importance.

Thus repulsed, the Marquis made up his mind to carry his daughter into the country; but St. Mesmin meeting this with the confident assertion that he would abduct her within a week, wherever she was confined, Saintonge, desperate as a baited bull, and trembling with rage–for the threat was uttered at Zamet’s and was repeated everywhere–avowed equally publicly that since the King would give him no satisfaction he would take the law into his own hands, and serve this impudent braggart as Guise served St. Megrin. As M. le Marquis maintained a considerable household, including some who would not stick at a trifle, it was thought likely enough that he would carry out his threat; especially as the provocation seemed to many to justify it. St. Mesmin was warned, therefore; but his reckless character was so well known that odds were freely given that he would be caught tripping some night–and for the last time.

At this juncture, however, an unexpected ally, and one whose appearance increased Saintonge’s rage to an intolerable extent, took up St. Mesmin’s quarrel. This was young St. Germain, who, quitting his chamber, was to be seen everywhere on his antagonist’s arm. The old feud between the Saint Germains and Saintonges aggravated the new; and more than one brawl took place in the streets between the two parties. St. Germain never moved without four armed servants; he placed others at his friend’s disposal; and wherever he went he loudly proclaimed what he would do if a hair of St. Mesmin’s head were injured.

This seemed to place an effectual check on M. de Saintonge’s purpose; and my surprise was great when, about a week later, the younger St. Germain burst in upon me one morning, with his face inflamed with anger and his dress in disorder; and proclaimed, before I could rise or speak, that St. Mesmin had been murdered.

“How?” I said, somewhat startled. “And when?”

“By M. de Saintonge! Last night!” he answered furiously. “But I will have justice; I will have justice, M. de Rosny, or the King–“

I checked him as sternly as my surprise would let me; and when I had a little abashed him–which was not easy, for his temper vied in stubbornness with St. Mesmin’s–I learned the particulars. About ten o’clock on the previous night St. Mesmin had received a note, and, in spite of the remonstrances of his servants, had gone out alone. He had not returned nor been seen since, and his friends feared the worst.

“But on what grounds?” I said, astonished to find that that was all.

“What!” St. Germain cried, flaring up again. “Do you ask on what grounds? When M. de Saintonge has told a hundred what he would do to him! What he would do–do, I say? What he has done!”

“Pooh!” I said. “It is some assignation, and the rogue is late in returning.”

“An assignation, yes,” St. Germain retorted; “but one from which he will not return.”

“Well, if he does not, go to the Chevalier du Guet,” I answered, waving him off. “Go! do you hear? I am busy,” I continued. “Do you think that I am keeper of all the young sparks that bay the moon under the citizens’ windows? Be off, sir!”

He went reluctantly, muttering vengeance; and I, after rating Maignan soundly for admitting him, returned to my work, supposing that before night I should hear of St. Mesmin’s safety. But the matter took another turn, for while I was at dinner the Captain of the Watch came to speak to me. St. Mesmin’s cap had been found in a bye-street near the river, in a place where there were marks of a struggle; and his friends were furious. High words had already passed between the two factions, St. Germain openly accusing Saintonge of the murder; plainly, unless something were done at once, a bloody fray was imminent.

“What do you think yourself, M. le Marchand?” I said, when I had heard him out.

He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I think, your Excellency?” he said. “What else was to be expected?”

“You take it for granted that M. de Saintonge is guilty?”

“The young man is gone,” he answered pithily.

In spite of this, I thought the conclusion hasty, and contented myself with bidding him see St. Germain and charge him to be quiet; promising that, if necessary, the matter should be investigated and justice done. I still had good hopes that St. Mesmin’s return would clear up the affair, and the whole turn out to be a freak on his part; but within a few hours tidings that Saintonge had taken steps to strengthen his house and was lying at home, refusing to show himself, placed a different and more serious aspect on the mystery. Before noon next day M. de Clan, whose interference surprised me not a little, was with me to support his son’s petition; and at the King’s LEVEE next day St. Germain accused his enemy to the King’s face, and caused an angry and indecent scene in the chamber.

When a man is in trouble foes spring up, as the moisture rises through the stones before a thaw. I doubt if M. de Saintonge was not more completely surprised than any by the stir which ensued, and which was not confined to the St. Germains’ friends, though they headed the accusers. All whom he had ever offended, and all who had ever offended him, clamoured for justice; while St. Mesmin’s faults being forgotten and only his merits remembered, there were few who did not bow to the general indignation, which the young and gallant, who saw that at any moment his fate might be theirs, did all in their power to foment. Finally, the arrival of St. Mesmin the father, who came up almost broken- hearted, and would have flung himself at the King’s feet on the first opportunity, roused the storm to the wildest pitch; so that, in the fear lest M. de Biron’s friends should attempt something under cover of it, I saw the King and gave him my advice. This was to summon Saintonge, the St. Germains, and old St. Mesmin to his presence and effect a reconciliation; or, failing that, to refer the matter to the Parliament.

He agreed with me and chose to receive them next day at the Arsenal. I communicated his commands, and at the hour named we met, the King attended by Roquelaure and myself. But if I had flattered myself that the King’s presence would secure a degree of moderation and reasonableness I was soon undeceived; for though M. de St. Mesmin had only his trembling head and his tears to urge, Clan and his son fell upon Saintonge with so much violence–to which he responded by a fierce and resentful sullenness equally dangerous–that I feared that blows would be struck even before the King’s face. Lest this should happen and the worst traditions of old days of disorder be renewed, I interposed and managed at length to procure silence.

“For shame, gentlemen, for shame!” the King said, gnawing his moustachios after a fashion he had when in doubt. “I take Heaven to witness that I cannot say who is right! But this brawling does no good. The one fact we have is that St. Mesmin has disappeared.”

“Yes, sire; and that M. de Saintonge predicted his disappearance,” St. Germain cried, impulsively. “To the day and almost to the hour.”

“I gather, de Saintonge,” the King said, turning to him, mildly, “that you did use some expressions of that kind.”

“Yes, sire, and did nothing upon them,” he answered resentfully. But he trembled as he spoke. He was an older man than his antagonist, and the latter’s violence shook him.

“But does M. de Saintonge deny,” St. Germain broke out afresh before the King could speak, “that my friend had made him a proposal for his daughter? and that he rejected it?”

“I deny nothing!” Saintonge cried, fierce and trembling as a baited animal. “For that matter, I would to Heaven he had had her!” he continued bitterly.

“Ay, so you say now,” the irrepressible St. Germain retorted, “when you know that be is dead!”

“I do not know that he is dead,” Saintonge answered. “And, for that matter, if he were alive and here now he should have her. I am tired; I have suffered enough.”

“What! Do you tell the King,” the young fellow replied incredulously, “that if St. Mesmin were here you would give him your daughter?”

“I do–I do!” the other exclaimed passionately. “To be rid of him, and you, and all your crew!”

“Tut, tut!” the King said. “Whatever betides, I will answer for it, you shall have protection and justice, M. de Saintonge. And do you, young sir, be silent. Be silent, do you hear! We have had too much noise introduced into this already.”

He proceeded then to ask certain details, and particularly the hour at which St. Mesmin had been last seen. Notwithstanding that these facts were in the main matters of common agreement, some wrangling took place over them; which was only brought to an end at last in a manner sufficiently startling. The King with his usual thoughtfulness had bidden St. Mesmin be seated. On a sudden the old man rose; I heard him utter a cry of amazement, and following the direction of his eyes I looked towards the door. There stood his son!

At an appearance so unexpected a dozen exclamations filled the air; but to describe the scene which ensued or the various emotions that were evinced by this or that person, as surprise or interest or affection moved them, were a task on which I am not inclined to enter. Suffice it that the foremost and the loudest in these expressions of admiration was young St. Germain; and that the King, after glancing from face to face in puzzled perplexity, began to make a shrewd guess at the truth.

“This is a very timely return, M. de St. Mesmin,” he said drily.

“Yes, sire,” the young impertinent answered, not a whit abashed.

“Very timely, indeed.”

“Yes, sire. And the more as St. Germain tells me that M. de Saintonge in his clemency has reconsidered my claims; and has undertaken to use that influence with Mademoiselle which–“

But on that word M. de Saintonge, comprehending the RUSE by which he had been overcome, cut him short; crying out in a rage that he would see him in perdition first. However, we all immediately took the Marquis in hand, and made it our business to reconcile him to the notion; the King even making a special appeal to him, and promising that St. Mesmin should never want his good offices. Under this pressure, and confronted by his solemn undertaking, Saintonge at last and with reluctance gave way. At the King’s instance, he formally gave his consent to a match which effectually secured St. Mesmin’s fortunes, and was as much above anything the young fellow could reasonably expect as his audacity and coolness exceeded the common conceit of courtiers.

Many must still remember St. Mesmin; though an attack of the small-pox, which disfigured him beyond the ordinary, led him to leave Paris soon after his marriage. He was concerned, I believe, in the late ill-advised rising in the Vivarais; and at that time his wife still lived. But for some years past I have not heard his name, and only now recall it as that of one whose adventures, thrust on my attention, formed an amusing interlude in the more serious cares which now demand our notice.

V. THE LOST CIPHER.

I might spend many hours in describing the impression which this great Sovereign made upon my mind; but if the part which she took in the conversation I have detailed does not sufficiently exhibit those qualities of will and intellect which made her the worthy compeer of the King my master, I should labour in vain. Moreover, my stay in her neighbourhood, though Raleigh and Griffin showed me every civility, was short. An hour after taking leave of her, on the 15th of August, 1601, I sailed from Dover, and crossing to Calais without mishap anticipated with pleasure the King’s satisfaction when he should hear the result of my mission, and learn from my mouth the just and friendly sentiments which Queen Elizabeth entertained towards him.

Unfortunately I was not able to impart these on the instant. During my absence a trifling matter had carried the King to Dieppe, whence his anxiety on the queen’s account, who was shortly to be brought to bed, led him to take the road to Paris. He sent word to me to follow him, but necessarily some days elapsed before we met; an opportunity of which his enemies and mine were quick to take advantage, and that so insidiously and with so much success as to imperil not my reputation only but his happiness.

The time at their disposal was increased by the fact; that when I reached the Arsenal I found the Louvre vacant, the queen, who lay at Fontainebleau, having summoned the King thither. Ferret, his secretary, however, awaited me with a letter, in which Henry, after expressing his desire to see we, bade me nevertheless stay in Paris a day to transact some business. “Then,” he continued, “come to me, my friend, and we will discuss the matter of which you know. In the meantime send me your papers by Ferret, who will give you a receipt for them.”

Suspecting no danger in a course which was usual enough, I hastened to comply. Summoning Maignan, who, whenever I travelled, carried my portfolio, I unlocked it, and emptying the papers in a mass on the table, handed them in detail to Ferret. Presently, to my astonishment, I found that one, and this the most important, was missing. I went over the papers again, and again, and yet again. Still it was not to be found.

It will be remembered that whenever I travelled on a mission of importance I wrote my despatches in one of three modes, according as they were of little, great, or the first importance; in ordinary characters that is, in a cipher to which the council possessed the key, or in a cipher to which only the King and I held keys. This last, as it was seldom used, was rarely changed; but it was my duty, on my return from each mission, immediately to remit my key to the King, who deposited it in a safe place until another occasion for its use arose.

It was this key which was missing. I had been accustomed to carry it in the portfolio with the other papers; but in a sealed envelope which I broke and again sealed with my own signet whenever I had occasion to use the cipher. I had last seen the envelope at Calais, when I handed the portfolio to Maignan before beginning my journey to Paris; the portfolio had not since been opened, yet the sealed packet was missing.

More than a little uneasy, I recalled Maignan, who had withdrawn after delivering up his charge, “You rascal!” I said with some heat. “Has this been out of your custody?”

“The bag?” he answered, looking at it. Then his face changed. “You have cut your finger, my lord,” he said.

I had cut it slightly in unbuckling the portfolio, and a drop or two of blood had fallen on the papers. But his reference to it at this moment, when my mind was full of my loss, angered me, and even awoke my suspicions. “Silence!” I said, “and answer me. Have you let this bag out of your possession?” This time he replied straightforwardly that he had not.

“Nor unlocked it?”

“I have no key, your excellency.”

That was true; and as I had at bottom the utmost confidence in his fidelity, I pursued the inquiry no farther in that direction, but made a third search among the papers. This also failing to bring the packet to light, and Ferret being in haste to be gone, I was obliged for the moment to put up with the loss, and draw what comfort I could from the reflection that, no despatch in the missing cipher was extant. Whoever had stolen it, therefore, another could be substituted for it and no one the worse. Still I was unwilling that the King should hear of the mischance from a stranger, and be led to think me careless; and I bade Ferret be silent about it unless Henry missed the packet, which might not happen before my arrival.

When the secretary, who readily assented, had given me his receipt and was gone, I questioned Maignan afresh and more closely, but with no result. He had not seen me place the packet in the portfolio at Calais, and that I had done so I could vouch only my own memory, which I knew to be fallible. In the meantime, though the mischance annoyed me, I attached no great importance to it; but anticipating that a word of explanation would satisfy the King, and a new cipher dispose of other difficulties, I dismissed the matter from my mind.

Twenty-four hours later, however, I was rudely awakened. A courier arrived from Henry, and surprising me in the midst of my last preparations at the Arsenal, handed me an order to attend his Majesty; an order couched in the most absolute and peremptory terms, and lacking all those friendly expressions which the King never failed to use when he wrote to me. A missive so brief and so formal–and so needless, for I was on the point of starting– had not reached me for years; and coming at this moment when I had no reason to expect a reverse of fortune, it had all the effect of a thunder-bolt in a clear sky. I stood stunned, the words which I was dictating to my secretary dying on my lips. For I knew the King too well, and had experienced his kindness too lately to attribute the harshness of the order to chance or forgetfulness; and assured in a moment that I stood face to face with a grave crisis, I found myself hard put to it to hide my feelings from those about me.

Nevertheless, I did so with all effort; and, sending for the courier asked him with an assumption of carelessness what was the latest news at Court. His answer, in a measure, calmed my fears, though it could not remove them. He reported that the queen had been taken ill or so the rumour went.

“Suddenly?” I said.

“This morning,” he answered.

“The King was with her?”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“Had he left her long when he sent this letter?”

“It came from her chamber, your excellency.”

“But–did you understand that her Majesty was in danger?” I urged.

As to that, however, the man could not say anything; and I was left to nurse my conjectures during the long ride to Fontainebleau, where we arrived in the cool of the evening, the last stage through the forest awakening memories of past pleasure that combated in vain the disorder and apprehension which held my spirits. Dismounting in the dusk at the door of my apartments, I found a fresh surprise awaiting me in the shape of M. de Concini, the Italian; who advancing to meet me before my foot was out of the stirrup, announced that he came from the King, who desired my instant attendance in the queen’s closet.

Knowing Concini to be one of those whose influence with her Majesty had more than once tempted the King to the most violent measures against her–from which I had with difficulty dissuaded him–I augured the worst from the choice of such a messenger; and wounded alike in my pride and the affection in which I held the King, could scarcely find words in which to ask him if the queen was ill.

“Indisposed, my lord,” he replied carelessly. And he began to whistle.

I told him that I would remove my boots and brush off the dust, and in five minutes be at his service.

“Pardon me,” he said, “my orders are strict; and they are to request you to attend his Majesty immediately. He expected you an hour ago.”

I was thunderstruck at this–at the message, and at the man’s manner; and for a moment I could scarcely restrain my indignation. Fortunately the habit of self-control came to my aid in time, and I reflected that an altercation with such a person could only lower my dignity. I contented myself, therefore, with signifying my assent by a nod, and without more ado followed him towards the queen’s apartments.

In the ante-chamber were several persons, who as I passed saluted me with an air of shyness and incertitude which was enough of itself to put me on my guard. Concini attended me to the door of the chamber; there he fell back, and Mademoiselle Galigai, who was in waiting, announced me. I entered, assuming a serene countenance, and found the King and queen together, no other person being present. The queen was lying at length on a couch, while Henry, seated on a stool at her feet, seemed to be engaged in soothing and reassuring her. On my entrance, he broke off and rose to his feet.

“Here he is at last,” he said, barely looking at me. “Now, if you will, dear heart ask him your questions. I have had no communication with him, as you know, for I have been with you since morning.”

The queen, whose face was flushed with fever, made a fretful movement but did not answer.

“Do you wish me to ask him?” Henry said with admirable patience.

“If you think it is worth while,” she muttered, turning sullenly and eyeing me from the middle of her pillows with disdain and ill-temper.

“I will, then,” he answered, and he turned to me. “M. de Rosny,” he said in a formal tone, which even without the unaccustomed monsieur cut me to the heart, “be good enough to tell the queen how the key to my secret cipher, which I entrusted to you, has come to be in Madame de Verneuil’s possession.”

I looked at him in the profoundest astonishment, and for a moment remained silent, trying to collect my thoughts under this unexpected blow. The queen saw my hesitation and laughed spitefully. “I am afraid, sire,” she said, “that you have overrated this gentleman’s ingenuity, though doubtless it has been much exercised in your service.”

Henry’s face grew red with vexation. “Speak, man!” he cried. “How came she by it?”

“Madame de Verneuil?” I said.

The queen laughed again. “Had you not better take him out first, sir,” she said scornfully, “and tell him what to say?”

“‘Fore God, madame,” the King cried passionately, “you try me too far! Have I not told you a hundred times, and sworn to you, that I did not give Madame de Verneuil this key?”

“If you did not give her that,” the queen muttered sullenly, picking at the silken coverlet which lay on her feet, “you have given her all else. You cannot deny it.”

Henry let a gesture of despair escape him. “Are we to go back to that?” he said. Then turning to me, “Tell her,” he said between his teeth; “and tell me. VENTRE SAINT GRIS–are you dumb, man?”

Discerning nothing for it at the moment save to bow before this storm, which had arisen so suddenly, and from a quarter the least expected, I hastened to comply. I had not proceeded far with my story, however–which fell short, of course, of explaining how the key came to be in Madame de Verneuil’s hands–before I saw that it won no credence with the queen, but rather confirmed her in her belief that the King had given to another what he had denied to her. And more; I saw that in proportion as the tale failed to convince her, it excited the King’s wrath and disappointment. He several times cut me short with expressions of the utmost impatience, and at last, when I came to a lame conclusion–since I could explain nothing except that the key was gone–he could restrain himself no longer. In a tone in which he had never addressed me before, he asked me why I had not, on the instant, communicated the loss to him; and when I would have defended myself by adducing the reason I have given above, overwhelmed me with abuse and reproaches, which, as they were uttered in the queen’s presence, and would be repeated, I knew, to the Concinis and Galigais of her suite, who had no occasion to love me, carried a double sting.

Nevertheless, for a time, and until he had somewhat worn himself out, I let Henry proceed. Then, taking advantage of the first pause, I interposed. Reminding him that he had never had cause to accuse me of carelessness before, I recalled the twenty-two years during which I had served him faithfully, and the enmities I had incurred for his sake; and having by these means placed the discussion on a more equal footing, I descended again to particulars, and asked respectfully if I might know on whose authority Madame de Verneuil was said to have the cipher.

“On her own!” the queen cried hysterically. “Don’t try to deceive me,–for it will be in vain. I know she has it; and if the King did not give it to her, who did?”

“That is the question, madam,” I said.

“It is one easily answered,” she retorted. “If you do not know, ask her.”

“But, perhaps, madam, she will not answer,” I ventured.

“Then command her to answer in the King’s name!” the queen replied, her cheeks burning with fever. “And if she will not, then has the King no prisons–no fetters smooth enough for those dainty ankles?”

This was a home question, and Henry, who never showed to less advantage than when he stood between two women, cast a sheepish glance at me. Unfortunately the queen caught the look, which was not intended for her; and on the instant it awoke all her former suspicions. Supposing that she had discovered our collusion, she flung herself back with a cry of rage, and bursting into a passion of tears, gave way to frantic reproaches, wailing and throwing herself about with a violence which could not but injure one in her condition.

The King stared at her for a moment in sheer dismay. Then his chagrin turned to anger; which, as he dared not vent it on her, took my direction. He pointed impetuously to the door. “Begone, sir!” he said in a passion, and with the utmost harshness. “You have done mischief enough here. God grant that we see the end of it! Go–go!” he continued, quite beside himself with fury. “Send Galigai here, and do you go to your lodging until you hear from me!”

Overwhelmed and almost stupefied by the catastrophe, I found my way out I hardly knew how, and sending in the woman, made my escape from the ante-chamber. But hasten as I might, my disorder, patent to a hundred curious eyes, betrayed me; and, if it did not disclose as much as I feared or the inquisitive desired, told more than any had looked to learn. Within an hour it was known at Nemours that his Majesty had dismissed me with high words–some said with a blow; and half a dozen couriers were on the road to Paris with the news.

In my place some might have given up all for lost; but in addition to a sense of rectitude, and the consciousness of desert, I had to support me an intimate knowledge of the King’s temper; which, though I had never suffered from it to this extent before, I knew to be on occasion as hot as his anger was short lived, and his disposition generous. I had hopes, therefore– although I saw dull faces enough among my suite, and some pale ones–that the King’s repentance would overtake his anger, and its consequences outstrip any that might flow from his wrath. But though I was not altogether at fault in this, I failed to take in to account one thing–I mean Henry’s anxiety on the queen’s account, her condition, and his desire to have an heir; which so affected the issue, that instead of fulfilling my expectations the event left me more despondent than before. The King wrote, indeed, and within the hour, and his letter was in form an apology. But it was so lacking in graciousness; so stiff, though it began “My good friend Rosny,” and so insincere, though it referred to my past services, that when I had read it I stood awhile gazing at it, afraid to turn lest De Vic and Varennes, who had brought it, should read my disappointment in my face.

For I could not hide from myself that the gist of the letter lay, not in the expressions of regret which opened it, but in the complaint which closed it; wherein the King sullenly excused his outbreak on the ground of the magnitude of the interests which my carelessness had endangered and the opening to harass the queen which I had heedlessly given. “This cipher,” he said, “has long been a whim with my wife, from whom, for good reasons well known to you and connected with the Grand Duke’s Court, I have thought fit to withhold it. Now nothing will persuade her that I have not granted to another what I refused her. I tremble, my friend, lest you be found to have done more ill to France in a moment of carelessness than all your services have done good.”

It was not difficult to find a threat underlying these words, nor to discern that if the queen’s fancy remained unshaken, and ill came of it, the King would hardly forgive me. Recognising this, and that I was face to face with a crisis from which I could not escape but by the use of my utmost powers, I assumed a serious and thoughtful air; and without affecting to disguise the fact that the King was displeased with me, dismissed the envoys with a few civil speeches, in which I did not fail to speak of his Majesty in terms that even malevolence could not twist to my disadvantage.

When they were gone, doubtless to tell Henry how I had taken it, I sat down to supper with La Font, Boisrueil, and two or three gentlemen of my suite; and, without appearing too cheerful, contrived to eat with my usual appetite. Afterwards I withdrew in the ordinary course to my chamber, and being now at liberty to look the situation in the face, found it as serious as I had feared. The falling man has few friends; he must act quickly if he would retain any. I was not slow in deciding that my sole chance of an honourable escape lay in discovering–and that within a few hours–who stole the cipher and conveyed it to Madame de Verneuil; and in placing before the queen such evidence of this as must convince her.

By way of beginning, I summoned Maignan and put him through a severe examination. Later, I sent for the rest of my household– such, I mean, as had accompanied me–and ranging them against the walls of my chamber, took a flambeau in my hand and went the round of them, questioning each, and marking his air and aspect as he answered. But with no result; so that after following some clues to no purpose, and suspecting several persons who cleared themselves on the spot, I became assured that the chain must be taken up at the other end, and the first link found among Madame de Verneuil’s following.

By this time it was nearly midnight, and my people were dropping with fatigue. Nevertheless, a sense of the desperate nature of the case animating them, they formed themselves voluntarily into a kind of council, all feeling their probity attacked; in which various modes of forcing the secret from those who held it were proposed–Maignan’s suggestions being especially violent. Doubting, however, whether Madame had more than one confidante, I secretly made up my mind to a course which none dared to suggest; and then dismissing all to bed, kept only Maignan to lie in my chamber, that if any points occurred to me in the night I might question him on them.

At four o’clock I called him, and bade him go out quietly and saddle two horses. This done, I slipped out myself without arousing anyone, and mounting at the stables, took the Orleans road through the forest. My plan was to strike at the head, and surprising Madame de Verneuil while the event; still hung uncertain, to wrest the secret from her by trick or threat. The enterprise was desperate, for I knew the stubbornness and arrogance of the woman, and the inveterate enmity which she entertained towards me, more particularly since the King’s marriage. But in a dangerous case any remedy is welcome.

I reached Malesherbes, where Madame was residing with her parents, a little before seven o’clock, and riding without disguise to the chateau demanded to see her. She was not yet risen, and the servants, whom my appearance threw into the utmost confusion, objected this to me; but I knew that the excuse was no real one, and answered roughly that I came from the King, and must see her. This opened all doors, and in a moment I found myself in her chamber. She was sitting up in bed, clothed in an elegant nightrail, and seemed in no wise surprised to see me. On the contrary, she greeted me with a smile and a taunting word; and omitted nothing that might evince her disdain or hurt my dignity. She let me advance without offering me a chair; and when, after saluting her, I looked about for one, I found that all the seats except one very low stool had been removed from the room.

This was so like her that it did not astonish me, and I baffled her malice by leaning against the wall. “This is no ordinary honour–from M. de Rosny!” she said, flouting me with her eyes.

“I come on no ordinary mission, madame,” I said as gravely as I could.

“Mercy!” she exclaimed in a mocking tone. “I should have put on new ribbons, I suppose!”

“From the King, madame,” I continued, not allowing myself to he moved, “to inquire how you obtained possession of his cipher.”

She laughed loudly. “Good, simple King,” she said, “to ask what he knows already!”

“He does not know, madame,” I answered severely.

“What?” she cried, in affected surprise. “When he gave it to me himself!”

“He did not, madame.”

“He did, sir!” she retorted, firing up. “Or if he did not, prove it–prove it! And, by the way,” she continued, lowering her voice again, and reverting to her former tone of spiteful badinage, “how is the dear queen? I heard that she was indisposed yesterday, and kept the King in attendance all day. So unfortunate, you know, just at this time.” And her eyes twinkled with malicious amusement.

“Madame,”I said, “may I speak plainly to you?”

“I never heard that you could speak otherwise,” she answered quickly. “Even his friends never called M. de Rosny a wit; but only a plain, rough man who served our royal turn well enough in rough times; but is now growing–“

“Madame!”

“A trifle exigeant and superfluous.”

After that, I saw that it was war to the knife between us; and I asked her in very plain terms If she were not afraid of the queen’s enmity, that she dared thus to flaunt the King’s favours before her.

“No more than I am afraid of yours,” she answered hardily.

“But if the King is disappointed in his hopes?”

“You may suffer; very probably will,” she answered, slowly and smiling, “not I. Besides, sir–my child was born dead. He bore that very well.”

“Yet, believe me, madame, you run some risk.”

“In keeping what the King has given me?” she answered, raising her eyebrows.

“No! In keeping what the King has not given you!” I answered sternly. “Whereas, what do you gain?”

“Well,” she replied, raising herself in the bed, while her eyes sparkled and her colour rose, “if you like, I will tell you. This pleasure, for one thing–the pleasure of seeing you there, awkward, booted, stained, and standing, waiting my will. That– which perhaps you call a petty thing–I gain first of all. Then I gain your ruin, M. de Rosny; I plant a sting in that woman’s breast; and for his Majesty, he has made his bed and may lie on it.”

“Have a care, madame!” I cried, bursting with indignation at a speech so shameless and disloyal. “You are playing a dangerous game, I warn you!”

“And what game have you played?” she replied, transported on a sudden with equal passion. “Who was it tore up the promise of marriage which the King gave me? Who was it prevented me being Queen of France? Who was it hurried on the match with this tradeswoman, so that the King found himself wedded, before he knew it? Who was it–but enough; enough!” she cried, interrupting herself with a gesture full of rage. “You have ruined me, you and your queen between you, and I will ruin you!”

“On the contrary, madame,” I answered, collecting myself for a last effort, and speaking with all the severity which a just indignation inspired, “I have not ruined you. But if you do not tell me that which I am here to learn–I will!”

She laughed out loud. “Oh, you simpleton!” she said. “And you call yourself a statesman! Do you not see that if I do not tell it, you are disgraced yourself and powerless, and can do me no harm? Tell it you? When I have you all on the hip–you, the King, the queen! Not for a million crowns, M. de Rosny!”

“And that is your answer, madame?” I said, choking with rage. It had been long since any had dared so to beard me.

“Yes,” she replied stoutly; “it is! Or, stay; you shall not go empty-handed.” And thrusting her arm under the pillow she drew out, after a moment’s search, a small packet, which she held out towards me. “Take it!” she said, with a taunting laugh. “It has served my turn. What the King gave me, I give you.”

Seeing that it was the missing key to the cipher, I swallowed my rage and took it; and being assured by this time that I could effect nothing by staying longer, but should only expose myself to fresh insults, I turned on my heel, with rudeness equal to her own, and, without taking leave of her, flung the door open and went out. I heard her throw herself back with a shrill laugh of triumph. But as, the moment the door fell to behind me, my thoughts began to cast about for another way of escape–this failing–I took little heed of her, and less of the derisive looks to which the household, quickly taking the cue, treated me as I passed. I flung myself into the saddle and galloped off, followed by Maignan, who presently, to my surprise, blurted out a clumsy word of congratulation.

I turned on him in amazement, and, swearing at him, asked him what he meant.

“You have got it,” he said timidly, pointing to the packet which I mechanically held in my hand.

“And to what purpose?” I cried, glad of this opportunity of unloading some of my wrath. “I want, not the paper, but the secret, fool! You may have the paper for yourself if you will tell me how Madame got it.”

Nevertheless, his words led me to look at the packet. I opened it, and, having satisfied myself that it contained the original and not a copy, was putting it up again when my eyes fell on a small spot of blood which marked one corner of the cover. It was not larger than a grain of corn, but it awoke, first, a vague association and then a memory, which as I rode grew stronger and more definite, until, on a sudden, discovery flashed upon me–and the truth. I remembered where I had seen spots of blood before –on the papers I had handed to Ferret and remembered, too, where that blood had come from. I looked at the cut now, and, finding it nearly healed, sprang in my saddle. Of a certainty this paper had gone through my hands that day! It had been among the others; therefore it must have been passed to Ferret inside another when I first opened the bag! The rogue, getting it and seeing his opportunity, and that I did not suspect, had doubtless secreted it, probably while I was attending to my hand.

I had not suspected him before, because I had ticked off the earlier papers as I handed them to him; and had searched only among the rest and in the bag for the missing one. Now I wondered that I had not done so, and seen the truth from the beginning; and in my impatience I found the leagues through the forest, though the sun was not yet high and the trees sheltered us, the longest I had ridden in my life. When the roofs of the chateau at length appeared before us, I could scarcely keep my pace within bounds. Reflecting how Madame de Verneuil had over- reached herself, and how, by indulging in that last stroke of arrogance, she had placed the secret in my hands, I had much ado to refrain from going to the King booted and unwashed as I was; and though I had not eaten since the previous evening. However, the habit of propriety, which no man may lightly neglect, came to my aid. I made my toilet, and, having broken my fast standing, hastened to the Court. On the way I learned that the King was in the queen’s garden, and, directing my steps thither, found him walking with my colleagues, Villeroy and Sillery, in the little avenue which leads to the garden of the Conciergerie. A number of the courtiers were standing on the low terrace watching them, while a second group lounged about the queen’s staircase. Full of the news which I had for the King, I crossed the terrace; taking no particular heed of anyone, but greeting such as came in my way in my usual fashion. At the edge of the terrace I paused a moment before descending the three steps; and at the same moment, as it happened, Henry looked up, and our eyes met. On the instant he averted his gaze, and, turning on his heel in a marked way, retired slowly to the farther end of the walk.

The action was so deliberate that I could not doubt he meant to slight me; and I paused where I was, divided between grief and indignation, a mark for all those glances and whispered gibes in which courtiers indulge on such occasions. The slight was not rendered less serious by the fact that the King was walking with my two colleagues; so that I alone seemed to be out of his confidence, as one soon to be out of his councils also.

I perceived all this, and was not blind to the sneering smiles which were exchanged behind my back; but I affected to see nothing, and to be absorbed in sudden thought. In a minute or two the King turned and came back towards me; and again, as if he could not restrain his curiosity, looked up so that our eyes met. This time I thought that he would beckon me to him, satisfied with the lengths to which he had already carried his displeasure. But he turned again, with a light laugh.

At this a courtier, one of Sillery’s creatures, who had presumed on the occasion so far as to come to my elbow, thought that he might safely amuse himself with me. “I am afraid that the King grows older, M. de Rosny,” he said, smirking at his companions. “His sight seems to be failing.”

“It should not be neglected then,” I said grimly. “I will tell him presently what you say.”

He fell back, looking foolish at that, at the very moment that Henry, having taken another turn, dismissed Villeroy, who, wiser than the puppy at my elbow, greeted me with particular civility as he passed. Freed from him, Henry stood a moment hesitating. He told me afterwards that he had not turned from me a yard before his heart smote him; and that but for a mischievous curiosity to see how I should take it, he would not have carried the matter so far. Be that as it may–and I do not doubt this, any more than I ever doubted the reality of the affection in which he held me–on a sudden he raised his hand and beckoned to me.

I went down to him gravely, and not hurriedly. He looked at me with some signs of confusion in his face. “You are late this morning,” he said.

“I have been on your Majesty’s business,” I answered.

“I do not doubt that,” he replied querulously, his eyes wandering. “I am not–I am troubled this morning.” And after a fashion he had when he was not at his ease, he ground his heel into the soil and looked down at the mark. “The queen is not well. Sillery has seen her, and will tell you so.”

M. de Sillery, whose constant opposition to me at the council- board I have elsewhere described, began to affirm it. I let him go on for a little time, and then interrupted him brusquely. “I think it was you,” I said, “who nominated Ferret to be one of the King’s clerks.”

“Ferret?” he exclaimed, reddening at my tone, while the King, who knew me well, pricked up his ears.

“Yes,” I said; “Ferret.”

“And if so?” Sillery asked, haughtily. “What do you mean?”

“Only this,” I said. “That if his Majesty will summon him to the queen’s closet, without warning or delay, and ask him in her presence how much Madame de Verneuil gave him for the King’s cipher, her Majesty, I think, will learn something which she wishes to know.”

“What?” the King cried. “You have discovered it? But he gave you a receipt for the papers he took.”

“For the papers he took with my knowledge–yes, sire.”

“The rogue!” Sillery exclaimed viciously. “I will go and fetch him.”

“Not so–with your Majesty’s leave,” I said, interposing quickly. “M. de Sillery may say too much or too little. Let a lackey take a message, bidding him go to the queen’s closet, and he will suspect nothing.”

The King assented, and bade me go and give the order. When I returned, he asked me anxiously if I felt sure that the man would confess.

“Yes, if you pretend to know all, sire,” I answered. “He will think that Madame has betrayed him.”

“Very well,” Henry said. “Then let us go.”

But I declined to be present; partly on the ground that if I were there the queen might suspect me of inspiring the man, and partly because I thought that the rogue would entertain a more confident hope of pardon, and be more likely to confess, if he saw the King alone. I contrived to keep Sillery also; and Henry giving the word, as he mounted the steps, that he should be back presently, the whole Court remained in a state of suspense, aware that something was in progress but in doubt what, and unable to decide whether I were again in favour or now on my trial.

Sillery remained talking to me, principally on English matters, until the dinner hour; which came and went, neglected by all. At length, when the curiosity of the mass of courtiers, who did not dare to interrupt us, had been raised by delay to an almost intolerable pitch, the King returned, with signs of disorder in his bearing; and, crossing the terrace in half a dozen strides, drew me hastily, along with Sillery, into the grove of white mulberry trees. There we were no sooner hidden in part, though not completely, than he threw his arms about me and embraced me with the warmest expressions. “Ah, my friend,” he said, putting me from him at last, “what shall I say to you?”

“The queen is satisfied, sire?”

“Perfectly; and desires to be commended to you.”

“He confessed, then?”

Henry nodded, with a look in his face that I did not understand. “Yes,” he said, “fully. It was as you thought, my friend. God have mercy upon him!”

I started. “What?” I said. “Has he–“

The King nodded, and could not repress a shudder. “Yes,” he said; “but not, thank Heaven, until he had left the closet. He had something about him.”

Sillery began anxiously to clear himself; but the King, with his usual good nature, stopped him, and bade us all go and dine, saying that we must be famished. He ended by directing me to be back in an hour, since his own appetite was spoiled. “And bring with you all your patience,” he added, “for I have a hundred questions to ask you. We will walk towards Avon, and I will show you the surprise which I am preparing for the queen.”

Alas, I would I could say that all ended there. But the rancour of which Madame de Verneuil had given token in her interview with me was rather aggravated than lessened by the failure of her plot and the death of her tool. It proved to be impenetrable by all the kindnesses which the King lavished upon her; neither the legitimation of the child which she soon afterwards bore, nor the clemency which the King–against the advice of his wisest ministers extended to her brother Auvergne, availing to expel it from her breast. How far she or that ill-omened family were privy to the accursed crime which, nine years later, palsied France on the threshold of undreamed-of glories, I will not take on myself to say; for suspicion is not proof. But history, of which my beloved master must ever form so great a part, will lay the blame where it should rest.

VI. THE MAN OF MONCEAUX.

In the month of August of this year the King found some alleviation of the growing uneasiness which his passion for Madame de Conde occasioned him in a visit to Monceaux, where he spent two weeks in such diversions as the place afforded. He invited me to accompany him, but on my representing that I could not there–so easily as in my own closet, where I had all the materials within reach–prepare the report which he had commanded me to draw up, he directed me to remain in Paris until it was ready, and then to join him.

This report which he was having written, not only for his own satisfaction but for the information of his heir, took the form of a recital of all the causes and events, spread over many years, which had induced him to take in hand the Great Design; together with a succinct account of the munitions and treasures which he had prepared to carry it out. As it included many things which were unknown beyond the council, and some which he shared only with me–and as, in particular, it enumerated the various secret alliances and agreements which he had made with the princes of North Germany, whom a premature discovery must place at the Emperor’s mercy–it was necessary that I should draw up the whole with my own hand, and with the utmost care and precaution. This I did; and that nothing might be wanting to a memorial which I regarded with justice as the most important of the many State papers which it had fallen to my lot; to prepare, I spent seven days in incessant labour upon it. It was not, therefore, until the third week in August: that I was free to travel to Monceaux.

I found my quarters assigned to me in a pavilion called the Garden House; and, arriving at supper time, sat down with my household with more haste and less ceremony than was my wont. The same state of things prevailed, I suppose, in the kitchen; for we had not been seated half an hour when a great hubbub arose in the house, and the servants rushing in cried out that a fire had broken out below, and that the house was in danger of burning.

In such emergencies I take it to be the duty of a man of standing to bear himself with as much dignity as is consistent with vigour; and neither to allow himself to be carried away by the outcry and disorder of the crowd, nor to omit any direction that may avail. On this occasion, however, my first thought was given to the memorial I had prepared for the King; which I remembered had been taken with other books and papers to a room over the kitchen. I lost not a moment, therefore, in sending Maignan for it; nor until I held it safely in my hand did I feel myself at liberty to think of the house. When I did, I found that the alarm exceeded the danger; a few buckets of water extinguished a beam in the chimney which had caught fire, and in a few moments we were able to resume the meal with the added vivacity which such an event gave to the conversation. It has never been my custom to encourage too great freedom at my table; but as the company consisted, with a single exception, of my household, and as this person–a Monsieur de Vilain, a young gentleman, the cousin of one of my wife’s maids-of-honour–showed himself possessed of modesty as well as wit, I thought that the time excused a little relaxation.

This was the cause of the misfortune which followed, and bade fair to place me in a position of as great difficulty as I have ever known; for, having in my good humour dismissed the servants, I continued to talk for an hour or more with Vilain and some of my gentlemen; the result being that I so far forgot myself, when I rose, as to leave the report where I had laid it on the table. In the passage I met a man whom the King had sent to inquire about the fire; and thus reminded of the papers I turned back to the room; greatly vexed with myself for negligence which in a subordinate I should have severely rebuked, but never doubting that I should find the packet where I had left it.

To my chagrin the paper was gone. Still I could not believe that it had been stolen, and supposing that Maignan or one of my household had seen it and taken it to my closet, I repaired thither in haste. I found Maignan already there, with M. Boisrueil, one of my gentlemen, who was waiting to ask a favour; but they knew nothing of the report, and though I sent them down forthwith, with directions to make strict but quiet inquiry, they returned at the end of half an hour with long faces and no news.

Then I grew seriously alarmed; and reflecting on the many important secrets which the memorial contained, whereof a disclosure must spoil plans so long and sedulously prepared, I found myself brought on a sudden face to face with disaster. I could not imagine how the King, who had again and again urged on me the utmost precaution, would take such a catastrophe; nor how I should make it known to him. For a moment, therefore, while I listened to the tale, I felt the hair rise on my head and a shiver descend my back; nor was it without an uncommon effort that I retained my coolness and composure.

Plainly no steps in such a position could be too stringent. I sent Maignan with an order to close all the doors and let no one pass out. Then I made sure that none of the servants had entered the room, between the time of my rising and return; and this narrowed the tale of those who could have taken the packet to eleven, that being the number of persons who had sat down with me. But having followed the matter so far, I came face to face with this difficulty: that all the eleven were, with one exception, in my service and in various ways pledged to my interests, so that I could not conceive even the possibility of a betrayal by them in a matter so important.

I confess, at this, the perspiration rose upon my brow; for the paper was gone. Still, there remained one stranger; and though it seemed scarcely less difficult to suspect him, since he could have no knowledge of the importance of the document, and could not have anticipated that I should leave it in his power, I found in that the only likely solution. He was one of the Vilains of Pareil by Monceaux, his father living on the edge of the park, little more than a thousand yards from the chateau; and I knew no harm of him. Still, I knew little; and for that reason was forward to believe that there, rather than in my own household, lay the key to the enigma.

My suspicions were not lessened when I discovered that he alone of the party at table had left the house before the doors were closed; and for a moment I was inclined to have him followed and seized. But I could scarcely take a step so decisive without provoking inquiry; and I dared not at this stage let the King know of my negligence. I found myself, therefore, brought up short, in a state of exasperation and doubt difficult to describe; and the most minute search within the house and the closest examination of all concerned failing to provide the slightest clue, I had no alternative but to pass the night in that condition.

On the morrow a third search seeming still the only resource, and proving as futile as the others, I ordered La Trape and two or three in whom I placed the greatest confidence to watch their fellows, and report anything in their bearing or manner that seemed to be out of the ordinary course; while I myself went to wait; on the King, and parry his demand for the memorial as well as I could. This it was necessary to do without provoking curiosity; and as the lapse of each minute made the pursuit of the paper less hopeful and its recovery a thing to pray for rather than expect, it will be believed that I soon found the aspect of civility which I was obliged to wear so great a trial of my patience, that I made an excuse and retired early to my lodging.

Here my wife, who shared my anxiety, met me with a face full of meaning. I cried out to know if they had found the paper.

“No,” she answered; “but if you will come into your closet I will tell you what I have learned.”

I went in with her, and she told me briefly that the manner of Mademoiselle de Mars, one of her maids, had struck her as suspicious. The girl had begun to cry while reading to her; and when questioned had been able to give no explanation of her trouble.

“She is Vilain’s cousin?” I said.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Bring her to me,” I said. “Bring her to me without the delay of an instant.”

My wife hastened to comply; and whatever had been the girl’s state earlier, before the fright of this hasty summons had upset her, her agitation when thus confronted with me gave me, before a word was spoken, the highest hopes that I had here the key to the mystery. I judged that it might be necessary to frighten her still more, and I started by taking a harsh tone with her; but before I had said many words she obviated the necessity of this by falling at my wife’s feet and protesting that she would tell all.

“Then speak quickly, wench!” I said. “You know where the paper is.”

“I know who has it!” she answered, in a voice choked with sobs.

“Who?”

“My cousin, M. de Vilain.”

“Ha! and has taken it to his house?”

But she seemed for a moment unable to answer this; her distress being such that my wife had to fetch a vial of pungent salts to restore her before she could say more. At length she found voice to tell us that M. de Vilain had taken the paper, and was this evening to hand it to an agent of the Spanish ambassador.

“But, girl,” I said sternly, “how do you know this?”

Then she confessed that the cousin was also the lover, and had before employed her to disclose what went on in my household, and anything of value that could be discovered there. Doubtless the girl, for whom my wife, in spite of her occasional fits of reserve and temper, entertained no little liking, enjoyed many opportunities of prying; and would have continued still to serve him had not this last piece of villainy, with the stir which it caused in the house and the rigorous punishment to be expected in the event of discovery, proved too much for her nerves. Hence this burst of confession; which once allowed to flow, ran on almost against her will. Nor did I let her pause to consider the full meaning of what she was saying until I had learned that Vilain was to meet the ambassador’s agent an hour after sunset at the east end of a clump of trees which stood in the park; and being situate between his, Vilain’s, residence and the chateau, formed a convenient place for such a transaction.

“He will have it about him?” I said.

She sobbed a moment, but presently confessed. “Yes; or it will be in the hollow of the most easterly tree. He was to leave it there, if the agent could not keep the appointment.”

“Good!” I said; and then, having assured myself by one or two questions of that, of which her state of distress and agitation left me in little doubt–namely, that she was telling the truth –I committed her to my wife’s care; bidding the Duchess lock her up in a safe place upstairs, and treat her to bread and water until I had taken the steps necessary to prove the fact, and secure the paper.

After this–but I should be tedious were I to describe the alternations of hope and fear in which I passed the period of suspense. Suffice it that I informed no one, not even Maignan, of what I had discovered, but allowed those in the secret of the loss still to pursue their efforts; while I, by again attending the Court, endeavoured at once to mitigate the King’s impatience and persuade the world that all was well. A little before the appointed time, however I made a pretext to rise from supper, and quietly calling out Boisrueil, bade him bring four of the men, armed, and Maignan and La Trape. With this small body I made my way out by a private door, and crossed the park to the place Mademoiselle had, indicated.

Happily, night had already begun to close in, and the rendezvous was at the farther side of the clump of trees. Favoured by these circumstances, we were able to pass round the thicket–some on one side and some on the other—without noise or disturbance; and fortunate enough, having arrived at the place, to discover a man walking uneasily up and down on the very spot where we expected to find him. The evening was so far advanced that it was not possible to be sure that the man was Vilain; but as all depended on seizing him before he had any communication with the Spanish agent, I gave the signal, and two of my men, springing on him from either side, in a moment bore him to the ground and secured him.

He proved to be Vilain, so that, when he was brought face to face with me, I was much less surprised than he affected to be. He played the part of an ignorant so well, indeed, that, for a moment, I was staggered by his show of astonishment, and by the earnestness with which he denounced the outrage; nor could Maignan find anything on him. But, a moment later, remembering the girl’s words, I strode to the nearest tree, and, groping about it, in a twinkling unearthed the paper from a little hollow in the trunk that seemed to have been made to receive it. I need not say with what relief I found the seals unbroken; nor with what indignation I turned on the villain thus convicted of an act of treachery towards the King only less black than the sin against hospitality of which he had been guilty in my house. But the discovery I had made seemed enough of itself to overwhelm him; for, after standing apparently stunned while I spoke, he jerked himself suddenly out of his captors’ hands, and made a desperate attempt to escape. Finding this hopeless, and being seized again before he had gone four paces, he shouted, at the top of his voice: “Back! back! Go back!”