Читать книгу At Odds with the Regent - Burton Egbert Stevenson - Страница 3

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Night had already come as I drew my cloak more closely about me and stepped forth into the street. I had lingered long over my meal, as a man will who has been alone all the day and sees little chance of companionship before him. For in all the city I knew no one, and there seemed small prospect of the night bringing any enjoyment with it. I turned to the left, away from that dingy house in the Rue Bailleul, which was the only home I had thus far found in Paris, determined to forget, for a time at least, its narrow entrance leading to the dirty interior court, where a thousand odors struggled ceaselessly for mastery; the dark staircase mounting steeply upward, and the close little room, which a single week’s occupancy had sufficed to render loathsome to me. Ah! it was different from the wide, sweet valley of the Loire.

At the outset of my career in Paris I had been confronted by a problem which demanded immediate solution. I might lodge well and dress poorly, or I might dress well and lodge poorly, but I had not money enough to do both well. After mature deliberation, I had chosen the latter course and expended my money upon my wardrobe, reasoning that all the world would notice my attire, while no one would penetrate to my lodging. My neighbors in the Rue Bailleul had not yet recovered from the astonishment with which my advent had filled them, and still gazed wonderingly and suspiciously after me whenever I chanced to pass.

So I strode through the night away from that shabby garret, and as I went I thought somewhat bitterly of the high hopes I had brought with me to the city a week before,—hopes of adventure and glory, after the fashion, doubtless, of every youth who came to Paris from the provinces. But a week had passed without adventure, and as for glory, it seemed farther away than ever. In faith, those same hopes were about my only possession, a fact brought painfully to my attention when I had opened my purse ten minutes since to pay my score, and something must needs happen soon or—well, I had seen a man taken from the Seine the day before and his face seemed peaceful. At least, I would never go back to the narrow life which I had always hated.

A splash into a pool of mud brought me out of my thoughts. I stopped and looked about me, but did not recognize the street, which seemed a very squalid one. The dilapidated wooden buildings with their plastered fronts tottered together over my head. A putrid stream filled the central gutter, giving forth an odor which reminded me forcibly of the court below my window. I started to retrace my steps and return to a more inviting quarter of the city, when a hand was laid suddenly upon my shoulder.

“Ah, monsieur,” said a pleasant voice, “you seem to have lost your way.”

“’Tis not a difficult task in Paris,” I replied, and as I did so, threw off the man’s hand and stepped quickly back to have my sword arm free in case of need.

“I should be pleased to conduct monsieur wherever he might wish to go,” continued the voice, the face of whose owner I tried in vain to distinguish.

“A thousand thanks,” I answered. “If monsieur will tell me the shortest way of reaching the Rue St. Denis I need trouble him no further.”

“With pleasure. Take the first street to the right, then onward three blocks, and monsieur is there,” said my strange companion; and then as I turned away, “There is one formality which monsieur has overlooked.”

“And what is that?” I questioned, sharply.

“Monsieur’s purse. No gentleman ever leaves the presence of Cartouche with his purse in his possession.”

“And is this Cartouche?” I asked, more to gain time than for any other reason, for light as my purse was, I could ill afford to part with it, even to the most famous thief in Paris.

“Assuredly,” answered the fellow, and he held out his hand with an air of nonchalance which exasperated me. Cartouche’s fame had travelled far, and he had spoken truth when he said that all men with whom he talked left their purses with him, yet I was in mood for an adventure, and reflected that a man were better dead than penniless.

“I fear that you will have to break your rule in this instance, monsieur,” I said, after a moment’s silence, during which his attitude had lost nothing of its gay assurance. “The contents of my purse are of infinitely greater value to me than they can be to you. Hence I must beg leave to retain it.”

“Does monsieur count the cost?” he asked, quietly.

“Fully,” I answered, and, leaping back a pace, drew my sword and stood on guard. At the same instant he placed a whistle to his lips and blew one shrill blast. I heard the sound of hastening footsteps, and half a dozen blackguards, who had doubtless been concealed near by, were upon me, while Cartouche stood calmly to one side and watched the conflict. The foremost ran on my sword as upon a spit, and as he fell with a single, sobbing cry, I stepped back against the wall, prepared to give the others a warm argument. Yet I knew I must be overpowered in the end by sheer weight of numbers, and it was reputed that Cartouche had only one penalty for resistance. For some minutes I managed to keep the space in front of me clear, running one of the scoundrels through the shoulder before they saw they had a swordsman to deal with and retired to a safer distance. I heard windows near by opening, and looked for assistance from that direction, but in a moment they were closed again. Evidently no one dared interfere with Cartouche.

Then back at me his rascals came, all together, and evidently counting on overwhelming me in the rush, as, indeed, I thought they must do. Another fellow felt the point of my sword in his thigh, but matters were growing desperate, for I had myself been stabbed in the arm and was fast becoming winded. This was hotter work than I had ever done.

“What have we here?” suddenly rang out a new voice above the clash of swords. “An honest gentleman beset by knaves? A moment, monsieur, and I am with you.”

I discerned a dim figure running towards us, a sword flashed in the air, and its owner was at my side against the wall. He saw that I needed time to breathe and made play in front of me, while I stood with my mouth open, gasping like a fish. But it was only for a moment, and I was back in the fray again. That moment’s rest had given me time to see that my companion was a master of fence, and when the need to shield me was past and his blade was free to thrust, he ran one of the thieves through the breast without more ado. This reduced their number to three, and they gave back a little, evidently appalled at our swordsmanship.

“A pistol-shot!” cried one of the rogues to Cartouche. “A pistol-shot! ’Twill settle the business quickly.”

With an indescribable gesture Cartouche drew his pistols from his belt.

“So let it be,” he said. “Your deaths on your own heads, my braves,” and my heart stood still as I heard him pull back the triggers.

“Come!” I cried to my companion; “charge him. We cannot remain here to be shot down like dogs.”

He responded with a merry laugh.

“Why, this is better than the Comédie,” he said, speaking for the first time since he had entered the fray. “It thrills the nerves and makes the heart beat high. But all things must end, and so, M. Cartouche, I think it would be just as well to put up your pistols and call your scoundrels off. You will get no purses here this evening.”

“De Richelieu!” cried Cartouche; and then in a tone of deepest concern, “Believe me, M. le Duc, I did not recognize you in the darkness, nor did I know this gentleman to be a friend of yours, else this would not have happened.”

“Enough, enough,” laughed my companion, as Cartouche’s men slunk back into the gloom. “A man could not recognize his mistress on a night like this. My friend and I bid you adieu,” and sheathing his sword and motioning me to follow, he turned away without once looking back. I admit that for my part I lacked his assurance, and more than once glanced over my shoulder to make certain that I was not about to receive a stab in the back. But my fears were seemingly groundless, for I saw no more of Cartouche or his men.

It was not until we reached a more frequented street that I turned my thoughts to my companion. I glanced at him with no little curiosity, for I knew the young Duc de Richelieu by reputation, as, indeed, did every other gentleman in the kingdom, yes, and all the ladies, too. A grandnephew of the Great Cardinal, he resembled in many ways that intrepid and indomitable man. A fine swordsman, gallant lover, and brave gentleman,—that is what report said of him,—and I could wish no better epitaph upon my gravestone, should I ever merit one. I saw a straight, slight, handsome man of twenty-two or three, with blue eyes and smiling lips. His hat was worn well down over his forehead and his cloak pulled negligently about his chin, as though he knew the need of disguise and yet disdained to use it, which in the end I found to be the case. There was something strangely familiar in the face, but I banished the thought in a moment, for I knew very well that I had never before met the Duc de Richelieu.

We walked for a time in silence, and as I glanced at him again I recalled with amusement the story of his début at Marly, seven or eight years before, when Madame de Maintenon had pronounced him “the dearest doll in the world.” He had found favor with the ladies from the first, and, so the story ran, had made such violent love to the Duchess of Burgundy that he was dismissed from the court and sent home under guard, together with a lettre-de-cachet which had compelled his father to take him to the Bastille, where he had been imprisoned more than a year. The story had been repeated in all four corners of the kingdom, and his reputation was made from that moment. I could not but admit his comeliness, and of his courage I had already sufficient proof. With this man for a friend, I reflected, even a youth from the provinces might go far. My arm was giving me some pain where it had been wounded, but I managed to bind my handkerchief about it under my cloak and determined that it must wait a more convenient season for attention. It was Richelieu who broke the silence.

“’Twas fortunate I had some business in this quarter of the town to-night and chanced to pass this way,” he said, with a light laugh. “Cartouche is an old friend of mine. I did him a service once,—saved him from the wheel, in fact,—and since then he has been kind enough not to trouble me or my friends; a forbearance which they greatly value, and which may account, in part, for my having so many. You perhaps heard him call my name and so know who I am. May I ask whom I had the honor of rescuing?”

“In faith, it was no less than a rescue,” I answered, warmly, “for the rogues had me all but overcome. I am Jean de Brancas, at your service, M. le Duc.”

“Jean de Brancas?” and Richelieu glanced at me with a little air of surprise. “You are from Poitiers?”

“Yes, from Poitiers,” I answered, looking at him with astonishment. “But may I ask how you know that, monsieur?”

“And you are new to Paris, I suppose?” he continued, smiling and disregarding my question.

“I came here but a week ago, monsieur.”

“May I ask for what?” and he smiled yet more broadly. “But I do not need to ask. It was for adventure, was it not? So many youths come here for that; and though most of them find adventures in great number, they are seldom to their liking.”

“That is my case precisely, monsieur,” I said, “with the exception of this evening, which is greatly to my liking.”

“Perhaps I may find you more of the same kind,” and his face darkened grimly. “There are many such, if one but knows where to look for them. May I ask concerning your family, monsieur?”

“My father died a week before I started for Paris,” I answered, simply. “My mother had preceded him to the grave by two years. I had no brothers nor sisters.”

“Ah,” he said, not unkindly, “and what heritage did your father leave you?”

“An honorable name, his sword and some skill in wielding it, monsieur,” I answered, proudly.

“Heritage enough for any gentleman of spirit,” cried the duke, heartily. “In truth, M. de Brancas, I think we shall be friends.”

“My heritage is at your service, monsieur,” I said. “I could ask no better employment for it.”

“’Tis done,” and Richelieu laughed gayly. “Here, strike hands upon it. Henceforth M. de Brancas is the friend of Richelieu. He will use his heritage in Richelieu’s service. And in return Richelieu will see that M. de Brancas has many chances to use this heritage and to make good returns upon it. Is it agreed?”

“With all my heart!” I cried, and we paused to clasp hands, to the infinite astonishment of the passers-by.

We had traversed a number of streets as we had talked, whose names I did not know, but I saw that we were entering a better quarter of the town. A moment later, we came out in front of a long row of stately buildings which I knew to be the Tuileries. At one of the pavilions, which seemed more brilliantly lighted than the others, the duke entered, and, as I hesitated, bade me enter with him.

“There is no need to postpone your appearance upon the future scene of your adventures,” he said, as we crossed the wide vestibule, the lackeys on either side bowing before him. “Besides, we will tarry but a moment. We are both somewhat travel-stained, ’tis true, but that will count rather in our favor than against us, for men of action have come into fashion with the need for them, and one good swordsman is valued more highly than a dozen poets.”

My eyes caught the sumptuous details of the place as we ascended the broad staircase, where many people were hurrying up and down, all apparently upon some business. But none of them was too hurried to bow to my companion as to a person of importance and to glance curiously at me.

“And what is this place we are about to enter?” I asked, as we paused at the stair-head.

“It is the salon of Madame du Maine,” said Richelieu, and in another moment we had entered the brilliant room.