Cardillac E-Book

Robert Barr

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Robert Barr (1849–1912) was a Scottish-Canadian short story writer and novelist, born in Glasgow, Scotland who relocated to London in 1881 where he founded the magazine „The Idler” in 1892 in collaboration with Jerome K Jerome. In 1895 he retired from its co-editorship and became a prolific novelist. His famous detective character Eugéne Valmont, fashioned after Sherlock Holmes, is said to be the inspiration behind Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot. Some of his works include: „In the Midst of Alarms”, a story of the attempted Fenian invasion of Canada in 1866; „A Woman Intervenes”, a story of love, finance, and American journalism; and „Countess Tekla”, a historical novel. Mr. Robert Barr’s „ Cardillac” is a machine-made historical tale of the time of King Louis XIII, set in old France.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER I

THE LETTER THAT WAS A JOKE

Victor de Cardillac had remained motionless so long that, in the gathering darkness, he seemed but a carved stone figure on the bridge. He was leaning forward, arms folded on the top of the parapet, gazing steadily at the swirling water below, which at last became invisible save for the quivering reflection of yellow lights from the windows of the palaces on either bank.

It is doubtful if in all Paris there was to be found another whose thoughts were more bitter than those of the young man who leaned against the parapet that July evening. It was not so much the loss of all his money, which was little enough to begin with, nor the waste of his time, which was of no particular value, nor even his disappointment at not getting a place in Paris, nor his chagrin at being kept uselessly loitering round the doors and in the antechambers of the great, without ever receiving a message or a word from the nobleman he sought, that wrought up this young man of twenty-four to the dangerous pitch in which we find him. That afternoon, at four o’clock, he had discovered that the letter which lured him to Paris had been but a joke, and, carrying it about in his pocket for nearly four months, he, a Gascon, had never seen the point of it.

The rigid, motionless posture of Cardillac was caused by the intensity of his thoughts, as he cast his mind backward over the past few months, and meditated savagely on the fool’s errand which had brought him to Paris; on the weeks and weeks of humiliating dangling at the Luynes Palace; on the final stinging insult of the jocular letter.

The rise of Charles d’Albert of Luynes had been bewilderingly rapid, even for France, where favouritism, and not merit, was the elevating power. As a boy Luynes had come up from the south, from Aix in Provence, had obtained a place as page in the service of the Count de Lude, and had attracted the attention of Henri IV, who made young Luynes companion to his weakly son, Louis.

Over the infantile mind of the young Dauphin, Luynes attained complete ascendency. When Louis was nine years old, that great King, his father, was assassinated, and the widowed Queen, Marie de Médicis, an Italian woman, became ruler of France as Regent. Marie became the most detested of the foreigners who from time to time had governed France. She appointed as her Prime Minister a worthless Florentine named Concini, and together these two Italians, woman and man, tyrannised the land for seven years.

All this time Charles d’Albert, the suave, sport-loving, plebeian young man from the south, was unknown to the world. No one paid the slightest attention to the influence he had obtained over the lad who, some day, would be King as Louis XIII, nor realised what this influence might mean in the future. The Italian man and the Italian woman seemed securely entrenched in absolute power. Concini swaggered about Paris with a retinue of fifty swordsmen to guard him, as if he were King in name as well as reality, when suddenly the unknown struck, and struck with finality.

Concini was shot dead in the midst of his fifty protectors, in the courtyard of the Louvre, and no defender drew a sword, as indeed would have been useless when their chief lay prone on the pavement. The Queen Mother was deported from Paris, and imprisoned in the royal château at Blois. Louis XIII, proclaimed King, set his sole favourite, d’Albert, in the saddle of power, as worthless and arrogant as the man he had eliminated, but French, nevertheless. If we must be ruled by scoundrels, let us choose our own countrymen.

The affair was bewildering in its speed and completeness; no one had time to hedge. If courtiers had but guessed what was going to happen, sycophant place-hunters might have made friends with this unheeded young man while he was in obscurity. As it was, d’Albert found himself under obligations to no one, except the assassin, and him he paid in gold and protection.

Then began a balmy period for poverty-stricken Provence. Up to Paris came troops of cousins, second cousins, fortieth cousins, and each of them got a place under the patronage of Charles d’Albert of Luynes.

It was at this time that the old lord of Cardillac, poor of purse, but proud of pedigree, looking about for a position that his son, aged twenty-four, might fill with profit, remembered that Charles d’Albert had been sent years before by his father to Bordeaux, and had received hospitality at Cardillac Castle. The Marquis of Cardillac had persuaded the youth not to blight his future prospects by engaging in commerce and immuring himself in a provincial city like Bordeaux, but to journey north to Tours, at that moment occupied by the Court. He had given the boy a letter to his friend, the Count de Lude, which had secured him the post of page, and now it seemed that d’Albert, with whose name all France was ringing, was a man who believed that one good turn deserved another. Therefore old Cardillac caused his son to write to the new favourite, recounting these circumstances, and asking if Charles d’Albert of Luynes would counsel the young man to go to Paris, as the young man’s father had counselled d’Albert himself to visit Tours. In due time the reply came:

Paris, by all means. It is a delightful city, where young men enjoy themselves, and become rich. I long to embrace the founder of my fortune.

Luynes.

This letter appeared to be cordial enough, and on the strength of it young Cardillac went to Paris. If the truth be told, he was rather elated at possessing so intimate a communication from the most powerful man in France, and in the certainty of an early appointment he refused to give up the letter to any underling, demanding immediate admittance to the presence of Charles d’Albert of Luynes.

This pretence was ignored, and young Cardillac found himself left out in the cold, passed by and neglected, while his purse was running lower and lower, and his costume, which had never compared with the brilliancy of Paris wear, was becoming shabbier and shabbier.

Earlier in the afternoon on which we find Cardillac leaning over the parapet of the bridge, an old warder of the entrance hall, who had observed him there, day by day, for months, growing thinner and gaunter as time wore uselessly on, being from the country himself, and seeing plainly that the young man showed little knowledge of Paris, approached him and spoke.

“Sir, whence do you come?”

“From Cardillac, in Gascony.”

“I am from Avignon. We are both of the south, although you live on the western border of France, and I on the eastern. Sir, can I serve you?”

“I should be delighted if you did, but, as a preamble, I must honestly say that I possess no money to part with.”

“I knew that before you spoke,” replied the other. “You wish to see my master, perhaps?”

“It is for that purpose I have been here these many days.”

“May I examine your credentials?–for none get beyond this point who are not well provided with them. You seem to be ignorant of the customs at Court.”

“Surely I am that, yet my credentials are the best that could be required, being no other than an invitation from Luynes himself, asking me to Paris.”

“Sir, will you show me the document?”

“With pleasure,” and Cardillac handed the old man his precious letter. The official read it over slowly, but gently shook his head as he returned it.

“I fear it will be of little use to you, sir. This document is not in the handwriting of Monsieur de Luynes.”

The young man started to his feet.

“A forgery!” he cried.

“No, not a forgery. A communication sent under command of my master, but written by one of his secretaries.”

“To an honourable man, and I trust Luynes is such, the obligation is the same.”

“True, but there is much press of business since my master undertook the huge task which is before him. The moment he attained his present position, there sprang up in all quarters of France, and here in Paris itself, by the hundreds, people who said they had been of assistance to him during his years of nonentity. I presume you preferred a similar claim.”

“But my claim was a just one.”

“Sir, I fully believe you, but the others held their claims were just also, and they demand compensation now that Monsieur de Luynes is in a position to requite.”

“I demanded nothing,” proclaimed the young man, hotly, “but merely reminded him of the introduction and advice my father had given him, which put his foot on the first rung of the ladder. I then asked if he advised me to proceed to Paris, and this is his answer. Do you say it means nothing?”

“It is not for me to pass judgment,” said the old man slowly. “The secretaries of Monsieur de Luynes are very methodical. You may see at the top of the page the number 97, which means that ninety-six persons have received a similar letter previous to this one being sent to you. I advise you not to build upon the document. It is, indeed, nothing but a joke.”

“Nothing but a joke?” cried the proud Cardillac. “Surely you yourself but jest. He would not dare!”

“Dare what?” asked the old man, lifting his eyebrows.

“Dare to jest with one of my name and house.”

“I am ignorant of the standing of the house of Cardillac in Gascony,” returned the ancient quietly, with nevertheless a trace of sarcasm in his tone, “but my master dares jest with representatives of the first families in France, and they have the courtesy to laugh heartily, even if the point is turned against them.”

“If he turns the point of a witticism against me,” cried Cardillac, “he’ll meet the point of my sword in return.”

“Tut-tut,” cautioned the old man, “do not speak so loud.”

“Why should I not speak at the top of my voice, here or elsewhere? The castle of Cardillac has been in the possession of my family for fourteen generations, and this man is but the son of a corn-chandler in Aix, who had saved enough money to buy the insignificant property of Luynes, from which he now names himself. This man was destined by his father to be a wine merchant in Bordeaux!”

“Sir,” said the dignified official solemnly, “you are hot-headed and injudicious. I fear your career in Paris will be short.”

“You would not say so if you knew how adept I am with the sword.”

“Hush!” commanded the venerable. “You are attracting attention to us. If you refuse to take thought for yourself, at least show some consideration for me. You are in Paris for the purpose of advancing yourself. Day after day you have attended these assemblies. How many friends have you made?”

“Not one.”

“How many enemies, then?”

“Not one, either. I have spoken to none.”

“Then, sir, you have most vilely misused both time and opportunity. Being a man well on in years, my own inclination leans towards the making of friends, but, next to a friend, an enemy is useful for one who wishes to mount the ladder. If you are so good a swordsman as you hint, why have you let all these weeks pass without proving it? A man’s word goes for nothing here in Paris. I dare swear there are ten thousand swords within a mile of the Court better than yours.”

Cardillac drew himself up haughtily, but doubtless on second thought considered it better to make no remark.

“You may shout your prowess from the housetops, and no one will believe you. They will laugh at you.”

“No man laughs twice at me,” said Cardillac, “and your master will yet learn that I have not forgotten his epistolary joke.”

“There is Denarac, for instance, accounted a pretty swordsman. It happens that my master looks upon him with suspicion, for Denarac is supposed to favour the Queen Mother, now residing in Blois, when he should be a loyal subject of our most gracious King, Louis XIII, whom God preserve. Now, Denarac is ready enough with his laugh, and if you crossed his path would doubtless favour you with his merriment. If thereupon you issued your challenge, and ran him through at the hour appointed, Monsieur de Luynes would speedily send for you, instead of allowing you to cool your heels in his vestibule. If a man’s sword is swift and sure, he needs no letter of introduction here in Paris.”

“Sir, I am not a swashbuckler, swaggering round to find my enemies or friends. If a man insults me, why, that’s a different thing. Let him then depend on his sword to defend him from the mistake made by his tongue.”

“Well, young sir, good swords will be needed before long in this land of France. By the way, how stand you? For the Queen Mother, or for your lawful King?”

“I trust I am for my lawful King; otherwise what should I do here in Paris?”

“There are many in Paris who hold a contrary opinion, but the people of France as a whole will never again allow themselves to be ruled by an Italian woman. The young King is a Frenchman, whatever else may be said of him.”

“Only half French, I think. His mother is the Italian woman you speak of.”

The old man looked critically at his younger vis-à-vis before he replied:

“But his father was Henri the Great, and the son is Frenchman enough to imprison his Italian mother.”

“It was Luynes did that.”

“Young man,” said the guard with asperity, “for one so little versed in the ways of the world, you are overfond of contradicting.”

For the first time during their conversation the young man laughed lightly.

“Perhaps I am,” he said. “Go on. I think you have something to propose. I shall not contradict you again. I am too anxious for work to do, and will not again jeopardise my chance.”

“I am a distant cousin of Monsieur de Luynes. When there is any transaction to be carried through which requires secrecy, caution and dispatch, it is to me he entrusts its execution.”

The old Provençal gave utterance to this statement with an air of gentle pride, not untainted by the boastfulness of the south. Cardillac, whose self-conceit had been grievously wounded by the revelation that the letter on which he had depended as a guide-post on the road to fortune was merely a trap to delude the gullible, looked his interlocutor up and down with a somewhat critical regard, not unmixed with incredulity. The young man was shrewd, even if he had been taken in by the apparent cordiality of this bogus letter, and it seemed to him rather odd that the dictator of France should entrust his secret schemes to a garrulous old braggart who conversed about them with a stranger of whom he knew nothing. It seemed to Cardillac that if the man in power had surrounded himself with country relatives so communicative as this official, he might soon expect a downfall as sudden and complete as his uprising. The old man saw the expression of disbelief that came into the younger’s face.

“I see you do not believe me,” he said, “but that is merely because you do not understand our situation here.”

The old retainer drew him towards a corner of the hall that was deserted, and the two sat down on a bench far apart from the rapidly lessening throng in the waiting-chamber.

“Properly to understand the situation, you must know the manner of man my cousin Luynes is. You must estimate the effect of his upbringing and his education.”

“I understand,” interrupted Cardillac, “that he has had little education and no upbringing, while by birth he is a peasant.”

The old man indulged in the superior smile of one who knows, but is indulgent to youthful ignorance and youthful hot-headedness.

“We should judge education by its results. As you yourself have several times pointed out, he is a man of no family; therefore, coming to Court in a menial position, he is entirely unheeded by those above him and around him. He comes, as you say, from the peasant class: a class in which each individual is remarkable for his keen judgment of his fellows; a class whose livelihood depends on well-laid plans, unwaveringly carried out. Always he is unheeded, mind you that, and before this unaccounted lad, this youth, this growing man, there passes continually the pageant of the Court of France. In his mind, wax to receive and marble to retain, the human items of this procession are noted, estimated, and set down at their proper value, for he has seen them and heard them at unguarded moments. He knows thoroughly the pawns with which he will yet play the game of life when the proper moment arrives, and look you how he struck, my lord of Cardillac. The foolish Queen, drunk with seven years of unquestioned power, France groaning under her tyrannical sway, tightens her grip upon the unfortunate land.”

“How?”

“By sending her strongest partisans here, there and everywhere, to suppress ruthlessly the slightest attempt at revolt. That strong man, the Duke d’Epernon, is made governor of the impregnable castle of Loches; his crafty son is promoted to the archbishopric of Toulouse. The father is sent west, the son is sent south. And so it is in other quarters of the realm. Her powerful champion in Paris is the Duke de Montreuil, who is so rich that he does not wish a distant governorship, but desires to remain in Paris. To all the world, inside or outside of Paris, the Regency seemed as solid as the Pyramids of Egypt; to all the world, that is, except one man–Charles d’Albert of Luynes, the peasant’s son. With a wave of his wand the whole system collapses like a house of cards.”

“With the shot of a musket, you mean,” corrected Cardillac grimly.

“My young sir, the sound of the musket was but the trumpet blast before the walls of Jericho. A musket shot–an assassination, if you like to call it so–but brings confusion, unless the after-plans are perfected. Like armed warriors springing from the ground, as in the classic fable, that portion of the army on which Luynes knew he could depend emerges from the forest, and masses itself around the castle of Blois. That checkmates Epernon in his strong tower at Loches. Blois stands between him and Paris, and his strength is nullified. He dare not march to the succour of the Queen.”

“And yet,” said Cardillac, deeply interested in this exposition of Luynes’s mentality, “and yet, when I came up to Paris from Bordeaux, more than two months ago, I sat on my horse and saw the young archbishop of Toulouse marching at the head of five hundred men, on his way to Loches, to reinforce his father’s garrison. This junction you were unable to prevent.”

Again the indulgent smile illuminated the gentle countenance of the veteran.

“The young archbishop, thank God, may have five hundred men, or five thousand, but he does not possess the brains of his father. Luynes had a messenger ride hot-haste to Toulouse from Blois. Arriving at the southern city, he, being a man of Loches, had no difficulty in persuading the archbishop that he came from the Duke d’Epernon, his father, with orders, verbal because he dare not trust them to writing, asking the archbishop to bring to Loches all the men he could gather round him, and thus we have imprisoned the archbishop and his five hundred men.”

“Imprisoned? Surely that is not the word to use.”

“They are as safely imprisoned in Loches as if we had them in the Bastille. What now think you is the key to the whole situation?”

“I do not know,” replied Cardillac.

“Why, it is Paris; it is turbulent, uncertain Paris. Luynes and the young King must make sure of Paris, and the rest of the country may go hang, as has always been the case. Look you at the situation. There are Epernon and his son, with all their men, in Loches Castle, out of which they dare not move. They know the castle is impregnable, and once they leave it to fight in the open, Luynes has double their number of men at Blois waiting to meet them. Since then he has stationed five thousand men at Tours, within striking distance of Loches, and now, if the Duke d’Epernon dare leave that fortress, these men of Tours will not attempt to fight him, but will instantly occupy the town and castle he has abandoned, and that without taking a single man away from Blois, where they guard the imprisoned Queen.

“And look you now at the craft of Luynes’s treatment of the Queen. Instead of placing her here in the Bastille, where she might at any time be rescued by an uprising in Paris, he moved her, just as if she were on a chess-board, down to Blois, as near as possible to her principal supporter, Epernon, at Loches. Thus Paris is tranquil. An insurrection here could not help the Queen. Thus we have the Queen herself imprisoned in Blois; her favourite, Concini, always hated by the people, is dead; her only general with brains and knowledge of strategy holds the strongest castle in France, and his very strength is his weakness, because he dare not leave it and allow it to fall into our hands. If he leaves it, he is crushed in the field by our superior numbers; if he stays there, he is nullified.”

“It seems to me,” said Cardillac, “that there can be no other outcome than civil war.”

“You but voice the general opinion,” replied the old man complacently, “but those who hold that opinion do not know Luynes. He has decided that there shall be no civil war; he holds with Sully the belief that France’s salvation rests with the plough and the cow. For the first time in the history of France, there comes to the head of its government a man with the intellect and knowledge of a peasant, who nevertheless knows every twist and turn of nobility’s mind; of the minds of those who have hitherto ruled this kingdom. He regards the peasants, quite rightly, as producers; he regards the nobles, and quite rightly, too, as the spenders. His theory is that France needs but tranquillity to become prosperous. For barely three months he has been in the saddle, and what already is the condition of affairs? All over France the nobles, like Epernon in Loches, are hemmed up in this fortress or that, each with his handful of men. They cannot spend money, even if they had millions at their disposal, for it is only in Paris that fortunes are lost or won in a day. In France, then, peasants are producing wealth which nobles cannot spend. It needs only a few years of this condition, and France becomes the most wealthy and prosperous country in the world.”

“A civil war will soon dissipate the prosperity and the wealth.”

“You speak truly; but, as I told you, Luynes has determined there shall be no civil war.”

“How can one man, and that man, as you admit, peasant-born, be assured that civil war will not break out?” cried Cardillac, with some impatience. “The aristocracy for centuries have been the governing body, just as the peasants have been the working body of the state. It is never the peasants who bring about a civil war. It is always some proud and rebellious noble who lights the torch of civil war, and the unhappy peasant, who is but a slave, must, perforce, follow to victory or to destruction, as the case may be.”

“Sir, it astonishes me that one who can speak so sanely of the causes of turbulence should yet possess a mind biassed by the prejudice of his class to such an extent that he is unable to give proper weight to the epoch-making change that has taken place in the government. Monsieur de Luynes is providentially granted exactly the opportunity he requires. All he needs in addition is time. Every day that passes strengthens him, and when the aristocracy has awakened to its error, Charles d’Albert de Luynes will be in a position to crush every member of it back into the ranks of the proletariat from which the ancestors of the aristocracy originally sprung, if he chooses to do so.”

“Well, he has his work cut out for him,” said Cardillac, with an incredulous smile, “and you seem to forget that while Charles d’Albert of Luynes may, and doubtless will, inherit the corn traffic of his father, he has not inherited the crown of France, even though, for the moment, the Queen Mother is his prisoner.”

“The crown of France,” said the elder solemnly, bowing his grey head at the mention of this insignia, “rests on the head of its rightful heir, Louis XIII, whom God preserve, who in two months’ time will be seventeen years old, who is infirm in body, and whose mind is what Monsieur de Luynes has made it. For a dozen years Luynes has been his constant companion, his only playmate, the one person on earth who has invariably been kind to him, and who was, furthermore, appointed by Henri IV, whose memory young Louis reveres. The crown, you say? How could the crown be placed to better advantage for Monsieur de Luynes than where it is? If it were offered to him, he would refuse it as that strong man Cæsar did. No. The safety of the aristocracy lies in the ambition of Charles d’Albert de Luynes. The stupidity of the nobles would cause their downfall, were it not for Monsieur de Luynes’s determination to leave the ranks of the peasantry, and join the ranks of the aristocracy. He will found a house able to hold up its head amongst the proudest seigneurs of France.”

Cardillac laughed scornfully, which seemed to irritate his elderly, loquacious friend.

“Look you, young sir: Luynes is betrothed to the daughter of the Duke de Montbazon, one of the heiresses of France, whose father is among the few who guess in what direction the wind is blowing. The King has promised Luynes the estate of Maille, on the Loire, seven miles below Tours, an estate which surrounds the most noble feudal castle in France. Laugh now, my Gascon lad.”

“I hope you do not use the word Gascon otherwise than as a term of compliment and honour,” said the young man with some asperity.

“No, oh, no!” responded the elder in haste.

“In like manner, when I employ the word Provençal, it is to bestow upon my phrase the quality of admiration.”

The old gentleman bowed profoundly.

“It requires, then, the vivid imagination of a Provençal poet to see anything of stability in the position of Charles d’Albert de Luynes. The place he occupies was produced by a musket, and is supported by a prison. Of the former twin rulers of France, one is in the grave, the other in a cell. What a musket has done, a musket can do. He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword, and it is the fashion of prisons to release a victim that it may embrace that victim’s jailor.”

The elder set his hand lightly on the younger’s shoulder, with a gesture that was fatherly.

“My eloquent lad,” he said, “Gascony has produced poets which rival those of Provence. You and I are of the south and understand one another, yet I find it difficult to convey to your mind a true comprehension of the case. Monsieur de Luynes has put no one in prison.”

“You hold me gullible indeed,” cried the young man angrily, shaking the hand from his shoulder. “All France knows that Marie de Médicis, the Queen Mother, has been imprisoned in Blois these two months past.”

“The Château of Blois is not a prison, but a palace. It has ever been the favourite residence of the kings of France. Louis XIII has bestowed upon his mother the most beautiful and the most luxurious house he possesses, and that there may be no diminution in the estate to which she has been accustomed, he has furnished her with retinue, with guards of honour, forming a pageant equal to that which surrounded her here in Paris.”

“A pageant of jailors and spies!”

“Nonsense, my over-emphatic young friend. All courts are permeated by spies, and, in a manner, every court is a prison, with the king its chief inmate. Marie de Médicis has made no protest against her change of residence, and, indeed, why should she? Blois is a delightful place, Touraine one of the most charming provinces in France, and the château, as I have hinted, is even more luxurious than the Palace of the Louvre.”

“If what you say is true,” commented Cardillac, “why then all these military preparations by Luynes, of which you boasted a while since? Why is an army stationed at Blois, and another at Tours?”

The elder man shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, and still another, that I have not mentioned, ready to pounce on Epernon the moment he quits his shelter at Loches. All these are simply Monsieur de Luynes’s precautions, taken against disturbance; precautions rendered necessary by the fact that others besides yourself may imagine the Queen a prisoner. If such a delusion should cause activity among the Queen’s partisans, we on our part must be ready to convince them of their error by annihilating them. Our good will towards Marie de Médicis is shown by our generous conduct to her. Oh, no, Monsieur de Cardillac, there is no Queen imprisoned in France. Indeed, the remarkable thing about this change of government is that it has furnished but one prisoner.”

“And who is he?”

“I must not mention names, and, indeed, I exaggerate when I call her a prisoner, for she is merely sent to a convent, where I trust she will receive many advantages that will be of benefit to her, if she follow the example set before her by the noble ladies who are sisters of the order.”

“Ah, another woman in jail! I am getting much insight into the character of Luynes. He is a brave fighter with women, and holds his place through the favour of an imbecile boy.”

“My impetuous friend, you are skirting dangerously near to treason, if, indeed, you have not already trespassed upon perilous ground. Imbecility and royalty are not to be mentioned in the same sentence. Monsieur de Luynes is as brave as you are, and so you will find if you ever encounter him in anger.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“Then I shall see that you are given an early opportunity of meeting him, and making your words good.”

“Again I say nothing would give me greater pleasure, and I shall remind you of your promise, if you are not the braggart you have hinted that I am. Indeed, I doubt if you have any influence at all with the usurper Luynes, the man of practical jokes and insincere letters.”

“Ah, you haven’t forgotten that yet. It seems to rankle. But, bless you, you should have seen him when he caused to be congregated in the courtyard some thirty-five men who held similar letters to yours. They thought he was about to receive them in audience, but he merely appeared at the grotesque gathering concealed among the curtains of one of the windows, and laughed until I thought his sides would split. The King, too, was highly amused at the spectacle.”

Cardillac gritted his teeth, and his lips compressed to a thin line. His tormentor was watching him closely, but when the old man spoke it was in the suavest accents of the south.

“Pardon me,” he said, “I spoke thoughtlessly. It is perhaps the case that you were one of the thirty-five?”

“Sir, you need no pardon. The honour of providing mirth for His Majesty and the favourite was not vouchsafed to me, and, truth to tell, I find it difficult to credit that this pair should be so heartless; therefore I fall back upon my first suspicion that you know little either of the King or Luynes.”

“In that case, sir, I must present to you proof of their confidence in me. Know, then, that I was given charge of the Queen Mother’s cavalcade from Paris to Blois, with a hundred soldiers under my command.”

“Again I have only your word for that,” objected the unconvinced Cardillac.

The other raised his eyebrows, and spread out his hands with a little gesture of protest.

“I thought so clever a young man as you would credit me because the truth or falsity of what I have stated is so easily ascertained. The cavalcade departed from Paris on the last day of April, in the most open manner, and practically all Paris was there to see. It was a gala occasion, for the Queen Mother was as unpopular as her favourite. My name is Tresor. If you make enquiry, all your misgivings will be dispelled, for there are thousands who saw me riding at the head of my troop.

“But, aside from this public mission, Monsieur de Luynes entrusted me with a private work of some delicacy, which was, without attracting attention, to detach from the Queen Mother’s entourage the only capable lady-in-waiting she possessed; to deliver her to the care of the strictest convent in France, a convent worthily presided over by a lady of the blood royal, and to overtake the procession before my absence was detected. That I accomplished successfully, and Monsieur de Luynes complimented me by saying I was the only person he knew who could have done so.”

“And what was the object of immuring a young lady in the cloisters?”

“The object was two-fold. Those who surround the Queen Mother are as stupid as herself; all of them are frivolous, most of them are beautiful, so there was no objection on the part of Monsieur de Luynes that these butterfly nonentities should share the Queen’s exile, if you choose to call it so, at Blois. The young woman of whom I speak, besides being beautiful, is capable, and if your conjecture that the Queen Mother is a prisoner was true, you will easily see that we did not wish to place beside her one with ingenuity enough to help her to escape. The second reason was that this girl’s father appears to be an important partisan of the Queen Mother. She is his only daughter, on whom he very foolishly dotes, which is a mistake if a man wishes to take an active part in French politics. Until he learns the fate of his daughter, we hold him helpless. He knows she is in our power, so he pretends affection for the new régime, and dare not openly take part with the supporters of Marie de Médicis.”

“And the truth of this latter narrative I suppose I may learn by asking all Paris?”

“No,” returned the old man, with the utmost suavity. It seemed impossible to anger him. “No; this, as I told you, was a secret mission, but, if you have the courage to question him, I shall indicate to you a man who can authoritatively corroborate my statements.”

“Who is that man?”

“His name is Monsieur Charles d’Albert de Luynes, whom you have expressed a desire to meet on terms of hostility. I shall be pleased to put you in a position to ask your questions at the point of the sword, if–my former proviso–you have the courage.”

“When?”

“To-night, at half-past ten o’clock.”

“Where?”

“If I am permitted to preface my answer by a few words of explanation, you will then comprehend more accurately than you do now the manner of man you will meet, and if this knowledge causes you to avoid the encounter, I, for one, should be the last to dub you coward, for I warn you Monsieur de Luynes is probably the bravest man in Paris, as well as one of its most skilful swordsmen.”

“Go on,” commented Cardillac shortly.

“Aside from this bravery and skill, which, if I understand rightly, you share with him, he possesses another quality which you hold in common. He is deeply distrustful of what is said to him by any except his immediate friends and confidants. It is, therefore, his habit to learn for himself, at first hand, what the ever-changing opinions of Paris are regarding current events, and he has, therefore, committed himself to a practice which all his friends who know of it, and they are few, consider highly dangerous. Have you ever met Monsieur de Luynes?”

“Never.”

“It would not much matter if you had. It is doubtful if you would recognise him in the circumstances at which I hint, for he disguises himself with some care. In one disguise or another he wanders about Paris alone at night, visiting taverns, wine-shops, cafés. Consequently no one has acquired such knowledge as Monsieur de Luynes of the capital of France. Never in its history has Paris been so quiet as since my master came into power, and this tranquillity is not understood, even by the police. But in whatever quarter of the city an insurrection is brewing, it is discovered that troops have silently taken possession of the street before the hour at which the outbreak was to have occurred, and more than one unfortunate wretch has been flung into the Seine because of the unjust suspicion that he has betrayed his comrades. You are of good family, a southerner, and therefore a man of honour, so I trust you with this secret in the utmost security, knowing you will not betray my confidence. Monsieur de Luynes is as merciful as he is expert and brave with his weapon, so I know I am not sending you to your death. He will merely run you through the arm.”

Cardillac squared back his shoulders, and a smile of derision curled his moustached lip, but he said nothing. Tresor took no notice, but continued in level tones:

“If you examine the rear of these premises you will find that a narrow lane divides the grounds of our palace from the backs of the opposite houses. Midway up the lane on your left is a door in the wall. At half-past ten o’clock to-night I open that door, step out, and look up and down the lane. If the way is apparently clear, Monsieur de Luynes will emerge and walk off to the right. There are numerous back entrances on the right hand of the lane, in one of which you may conceal yourself. In coming up with Monsieur de Luynes, I ask you not to accost him if there is anyone in sight. I advise that the conference be amicable, but if you are determined to receive a lesson in the use of the blade, then encounter him in fair fight, and you will be satisfied.”

“Monsieur, your confidences rather astound me, for we are not even acquaintances.”

“We are both of the south, nevertheless,” replied Monsieur Tresor ingratiatingly. “You fear that I am leading you into a trap?”

“Sir, I fear nothing.”

“No; fear was not the word I should have used. I have not won your confidence as you have won mine. You apprehend, then, that I am laying a trap for you? I shall not protest, because that would be useless, but I venture to point out that if I desired your harm, I have but to give the word, and cause you to be arrested on this bench, or when you leave the palace, or at your own lodgings, and you would disappear instantly from human knowledge. I do not need to entrap you, Monsieur de Cardillac, for you are now, and have been ever since you entered, entirely at my mercy. That, of itself, should quell your doubts. If it does not, then do not attend the rendezvous.”

“I will think over it,” said Cardillac, as he rose from the bench.

The hall was now deserted. Cardillac was the last man out, and with bowed head, pondering on what had been said to him, he wandered to the bridge, and, resting his arms on the parapet, gazed down at the water, until the late darkness of a midsummer night obscured his surroundings. Hunger would have tormented him had he allowed his mind to dwell upon it, but the rankling insults of the supposedly humorous letter obliterated all thoughts of anything else. Aside from this, there was scant use of his dwelling on the theme of hunger, because there was not a coin in his pocket with which to satisfy his craving.

Darker and darker grew the summer night, and at last the bells of Notre Dame, farther up the river, tolled the hour of ten. In thirty minutes, if what Tresor had said was true, this low-born night-walker would issue from his postern door, and Cardillac wished a word or two in private with the perambulating humourist. The young man drew himself up, and turned towards the direction of the palace.

“I shall run my blade through his jocular heart,” he muttered.

CHAPTER II

THE ENCOUNTER IN THE DARK

Cardillac, alertly on his guard, walked cautiously the length of the lane and satisfied himself that no one else was lurking within its limits. He scrutinised the one door on the left-hand side that led to the palace grounds, and also examined with care the half-dozen or more entrances that communicated with the smaller houses ranged along the right-hand side. The alley was not as dark as he had expected, for the numerous lights in the upper stories of the rear of the palace threw a dim radiance upon the uneven cobble-stones that paved the farther side of the narrow thoroughfare, which in some measure mitigated the obscurity of that portion of the lane which ran along the foot of the palace wall.

Into the embrasure formed by one of the recessed doorways on the right-hand side Cardillac felt his way with noiseless care. Silently he tried the door itself, but found it barred or locked. He now placed his back against it, assured that if any treachery were intended, the door could not be opened suddenly without his shoulders giving him some hint of the unfastening within. Stealthily he drew his sword from its scabbard, placing the latter under his left arm, holding the blade in a horizontal position ready for instant attack or defence. In the gloom of his ambush, he was invisible to any passer-by, yet his eyes, now accustomed to the murk, could see the postern door dimly on the opposite side of the way. His only danger, as he fancied, was that some person with a key might attempt to enter from the lane the house at his back, and the young man smiled grimly as he thought of that person’s astonishment as he met the point of a sword.

The stillness was complete; all Paris seemed to be asleep, and one by one the lights in the upper stories of the great building opposite him were going out. He stood there rigid, scarcely venturing to breathe deeply, and in his suspense it appeared that time had stopped, or else the guardians of it in the various church steeples had forgotten to mark its passing by the ringing of their bells.

Finally, however, the half-hour struck, and promptly to the moment the postern gate opened. The watcher recognised Tresor as he stepped across the threshold, looking up and down the lane. The old man made a slight motion with one hand, and Cardillac distinctly heard him whisper:

“Sir, the way is clear.”

A cloaked figure stepped out into the lane.