Читать книгу At Odds with the Regent - Burton Egbert Stevenson - Страница 6

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I awoke betimes the next morning, but did not immediately arise. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity to thoroughly review my position and decide how best to steer my course. Here, then, was I, Jean de Brancas, poor in everything but spirit, who, the day before, had been tramping the streets of Paris friendless and well-nigh penniless, and who had even thought of the Seine as a last place of refuge. Since then, by the merest good fortune, which I had done little to merit, I had gained the friendship of Richelieu, the man in all the kingdom whom I most admired. I had been given entrance, if not to the society of Sceaux, at least to the Paris salon of Madame du Maine. I had met Mlle. de Launay, copies of whose witty letters had found their way even to Poitiers, where I had read them until I knew them by rote. I had been admitted to the secret of the Cellamare conspiracy, and this, I confess, rather stuck in my throat. Open combat and the bright flash of swords I would have welcomed gladly, but I had small relish for intrigue and conspiracy and the considerations which sometimes make it necessary to stab in the dark. And, in truth, I had little hope that the conspiracy would succeed, for it seemed founded on selfishness, and the French nation would forget its hostility to the regent once a Spanish army was on its soil. Yet it mattered not to me who was regent, Philip of Orleans or Philip of Spain, and I reflected that even if Richelieu fell, he would not fall far. He had shown me kindness and good will, and these I was determined to repay as best I could. At worst, I could lose nothing but my life, and the prize was worth the risk.

It was late when I arose, but Richelieu had not yet appeared, and I descended into the court, attracted by the busy life which I saw there. An army of servants was running hither and thither, grooming and exercising horses, cleaning harness, polishing the gilding on half a dozen coaches, sprinkling clean, white sand along the walks, sweeping and dusting the wide entrance, and doing a hundred other things which attested the care and attention given to every detail of the management of this great house. At one side of the court I was surprised to see standing a coach to which two horses were harnessed. The driver was on the box, and the equipage was apparently ready to take the road at a moment’s notice.

“Does M. le Duc go abroad this morning?” I asked of a man who was standing near.

“I really do not know, monsieur,” he answered, politely.

“For whom, then, is the coach waiting?” and I indicated it with a gesture.

He glanced at me in surprise.

“Monsieur must be new to the hotel,” he said. “Whenever M. le Duc is at home a carriage is kept waiting in the court, in case he might have use for it.”

I turned away with a new understanding of the character and resources of the remarkable man whose guest I was, and returned slowly to the great reception-hall, where Jacques was awaiting me. Richelieu himself appeared soon after, and I was relieved to find that his manner preserved the hearty cordiality of the night before. I had been half afraid—though I would not admit it even to myself—that the morning might in some way bring disillusion with it and send toppling the pretty castles which I had been building in the air. Breakfast was soon served. We lingered over the meal, during which I gave the duke a little history of my family, and noon was striking as we left the house.

“We go to the Café Procope,” said Richelieu. “It is in a new style which is becoming very popular, and I fancy we shall find some one there who can tell us the news of the court.”

We entered the carriage which was in waiting, drove out through the central gate, the army of lacqueys bowing on either side, and across Paris towards the Rue Saint Germain-des-Pres, where the café stood, and which it bade fair to render one of the most fashionable quarters of the city. The café had, as the duke said, inaugurated a new style, and there was only one other in Paris at the time, the Café de la Regence, whose name was sufficient of itself to keep my companion away from it.

A drive of ten minutes brought us to the suburb where the café stood, and the throng of carriages before the door told of the crowd within. A perfect babel greeted us as we entered, for it had become the fashion for each person to do his best to out-talk his neighbors. We found with some difficulty an unoccupied table, and Richelieu motioned me to a seat while he took the one opposite.

“There is no coffee made in Paris which compares with that served here,” he remarked, and as he summoned a waiter I looked about me. The room was large, and was rendered even larger in appearance by the numerous richly-carved mirrors which embellished the walls. Through an open doorway at the back came the click of dice and much loud laughter. Gayly attired parties were continually entering and leaving the private cabinets, and trills of feminine laughter mingled with the harsher voices of the men.

“Ah, de Rey,” cried Richelieu at that moment to a gentleman sitting at the next table, “Mlle. de Launay was telling us a clever story at your expense last night.”

“And what was it, may I ask?” questioned de Rey, a tall, black-moustachioed man, whom I thought ungainly.

“She accuses you of fickleness in your love-affairs,” replied the duke, and he related the geometrical sally.

“What would you have, monsieur?” cried de Rey, as the story was finished, laughing as heartily as any one. “A man never knows to-day whom he will meet to-morrow, and not knowing that, how can he be certain whom he will love?”

While he was speaking three men had entered and taken seats at a neighboring table. They commenced conversing in voices which seemed to me unnecessarily loud, and I could not avoid overhearing them.

“Have you heard,” one of them asked, “of the disposition the regent is to make of his daughter, Mlle. de Valois?”

I glanced at Richelieu and saw that he also had heard. His face was white with anger, and I saw he knew the men and did not doubt that they had come there purposely to insult him.

“Proposals for her hand have been received from the King of Sardinia,” continued the speaker, “and the regent is only too glad to get rid of the fair Charlotte. She seems destined to become even more troublesome than Madame du Berri,” and the speaker laughed, with an insolent note in his voice, and glanced meaningly in our direction. A sudden stillness had fallen upon the crowd.

“By my word,” cried the other, looking full at Richelieu, “’twill be bad news to a certain gentleman whose name begins with R, and who, I have heard, has been dying of love for the Valois this month past.”

The duke was out of his chair in an instant, but I was before him.

“Monsieur will doubtless give me the pleasure of a moment’s conversation outside?” I inquired, courteously.

“And who the devil may you be?” he asked, in an insolent tone.

“Perhaps this will tell you,” I cried, red with anger at the insult, and I struck him fairly in the mouth with my open hand.

He leaped from his chair and drew his sword with a furious gesture, nor did mine linger in its sheath. Tables were overturned, chairs were thrown aside, and our swords had already engaged, when a little fat man, with prodigiously long moustachios, came running up.

“Not in here, messieurs! Not in here, I beg of you!” he cried, wringing his hands. “It would ruin my business should those devils of Hérault ever hear of it.” I remembered that Hérault was lieutenant of police.

“He is right,” I said, dropping my point. “Let us adjourn to the street, monsieur. There, at least, we shall injure no one but ourselves.”

We had already commenced the combat, and I admit that I took my chance in lowering my guard, but I was not prepared for the act of cowardice which followed. For before I could recover myself I felt rather than saw my antagonist thrust at me, and I involuntarily closed my eyes as I waited to feel his sword in my flesh. But at that instant there came a ringing clash of steel on steel, and I opened my eyes to see the scoundrel’s weapon flying over the heads of the spectators.

“Ah, de Gare,” cried Richelieu, for it was he who had disarmed him, “and yet you dare associate with gentlemen! If I gave you your deserts I would run you through where you stand. But I prefer killing you with your sword in your hand, so follow me to the street and we will finish this argument. Stand back, de Brancas,” he continued to me, as I attempted to interfere. “This is my quarrel. It was I whom they insulted.”

The Comte de Gare, foaming with rage, picked up his sword and followed to the street. The sentiment of the crowd was plainly with Richelieu, and a moment later when I looked about for de Gare’s companions they had disappeared. A ring of curious spectators formed around the two men, and their swords were ringing together in an instant. Before a moment passed I saw that de Gare had found his master. He realized it, too, and his face went from red to white as he felt the duke’s iron wrist and saw the implacable purpose in his eyes. Plainly it was only the question of a few moments. The duke was playing with him, parrying almost carelessly his savage thrusts, and advancing his own point nearer and nearer to his heart. The onlookers waited with bated breath for the thrust which they knew would be fatal.

“You shall see, gentlemen,” cried Richelieu, gayly, for his self-possession had returned the instant he felt his adversary’s sword against his own, “the proper way to deal with cowards. This fellow has presumed to be seen in the company of gentlemen, and I am glad that it was reserved for my sword to punish him. Ah, you break!” he cried again, for the other had given back a step. I, who was standing at the duke’s side, saw a kind of ferocity spring to life in de Gare’s eyes, and I noticed that his left hand was no longer behind him, but was concealed in the folds of his doublet. Something, I know not what, made me suspect the man.

“Be on guard, monsieur!” I cried to Richelieu, “he means some treachery,” and even as I spoke he drew forth his hand and threw a poniard full at Richelieu’s heart. At the same instant, comprehending de Gare’s purpose, I pushed Richelieu to one side. I felt a sharp, hot pain in my right shoulder, and knew that the dagger had wounded me. With a terrible cry Richelieu sprang forward, and fairly beating down his guard, plunged his sword to the hilt in his breast. De Gare made a desperate effort to keep his feet, grasped the sword, drew it from the wound, and fell to the street, the blood gushing forth in a torrent. He breathed convulsively once or twice, with the crowd looking down upon him, his eyes glazed, a shudder ran through his body, and he was dead.

“Thus perish all cowards,” said Richelieu. And then, turning to me, “You saved my life, de Brancas. ’Twas a brave act.”

“No more than you have twice done for me, monsieur,” I answered. “I have only half paid my debt.”

“But you are wounded!” he cried, seeing that I held my handkerchief to my shoulder and that it was red with blood. “The dagger struck you, then? Let me see how serious it is,” and he was tearing the doublet away from my shoulder ere I had time to protest.

“’Tis only a flesh wound, monsieur,” I said. “Pray do not trouble about it.”

“Trouble about it, indeed. Come in here with me,” and he dragged rather than led me into the café again. “Come, Maitre Delorme,” he cried to the proprietor, who was still wringing his hands and bewailing the destruction of his glasses, “bring me water and clean linen, and be quick about it. Ah, here is one who will know how to dress the wound,” he added, as a tall, clean-shaven man, dressed severely in black, pushed his way through the crowd. “Upon my word, Levau, you come in the nick of time. I have a patient for you,” and he turned me over to the famous surgeon.

The latter in a moment had examined the wound, with puckered brow, washed it in clean water, spread some cooling lotion upon it, which he took from a case he carried in his pocket, and securely bandaged it. Not till then did he deign to speak.

“A mere nothing,” he said, “for a man who has good blood in his veins, as my friend here has. A little soreness for a week, perhaps, a stiffness for a fortnight, and then only a memory.”

“Indeed, I am wondrous pleased to hear it,” said Richelieu, shaking his hand warmly, and leaving a gold piece in it, I do not doubt. “But what have we here?” and he turned towards the door, whence came a sudden commotion.

“For the king!” cried a voice. “For the king! Make way, messieurs.”

“The regent!” exclaimed some one, and then a strange stillness fell upon the place, save for Richelieu, who hummed one of Lulli’s gay airs.

The crowd parted to right and left, and I saw advancing towards us a large, heavy-set man, with red face and eyes which seemed to run one through.

“Who hath done this?” he cried. “Who hath killed the Comte de Gare, one of my faithful friends?”

“To me belongs the honor, monsieur,” said Richelieu, in a cool voice, but bowing low. “I regret to learn he was a friend of yours, for he was a coward and a villain, and deserved to die by the rope, not by the sword like a gentleman.”

The regent’s face turned from red to purple, and I looked to see him rush upon Richelieu, and half drew my sword. But with an effort he restrained himself, and his next words came in a voice strangely calm, yet infinitely more menacing than any violence could have been.

“Ah, I have the honor of seeing the Duc de Richelieu, have I not? But they tell me there were two men opposed to de Gare.”

“Monsieur,” cried Richelieu, “whoever said that lied. A friend of mine interposed to save me from a treacherous dagger-thrust, which the coward would have given me when he saw himself hard pressed.”

“And where is this friend, may I inquire?” asked the regent, looking about with an ominous light in his eyes.

My hat was sweeping the floor in an instant.

“I have that honor,” I said.

“I do not know you, monsieur,” sneered Orleans, looking me over from head to foot. “I should say, however, that you were from the country, and I warn you that you have fallen into bad company. You would better leave it.”

“I choose my own company, monsieur, and ask no one to do it for me,” I answered, for the insolent look of the man had set my blood on fire. “I desire no better than that I have already had.”

“Then by my faith you shall see more of it!” cried the regent, losing his calmness in an instant. “Here, lieutenant,” he called to an officer near the door, “bring in a squad of guards and arrest these men. I will see if we are to have roistering and murder at mid-day in the streets of Paris.”

“’Tis useless to resist,” said Richelieu to me in a low voice as I drew my sword. “He will not dare use much severity.”

“Your swords, messieurs,” said the lieutenant of police, advancing towards us at the head of a dozen men. Richelieu broke his over his knee and threw it to the floor. I placed my foot on mine and snapped the blade.

“To the Bastille with them!” cried the regent, beside himself with rage. “You shall answer for them with your head, lieutenant, so take care they do not escape.”

The officer simply bowed, but his cheek flushed with anger. We were led to the street, where I saw the regent’s coach standing. As we emerged from the café I caught a glimpse of two faces which seemed familiar, and looking again, I recognized the men who had entered the place with de Gare. I understood then how it happened that the regent had arrived so opportunely. They had doubtless warned him of de Gare’s peril, but too late to save his life.

A moment later we were mounted on two horses, and, surrounded by our body-guard, galloped briskly away towards the Bastille, in which, I reflected, I was like to find much less of comfort than in the palatial Hotel de Richelieu. Yet a man must take the lean with the fat, and I was far from repining.