CHAPTER III.
IT IS THE MAN
The wine was good! Worthy of whatever clos it had ripened on! A glass of it went far to repay St. Georges for any discomfort he had suffered during the wretched meal just concluded, and made amends for all that had passed hitherto. As for the Bishop of Lodève, he drank two glasses rapidly in succession, smacked his lips, and peered at the ruby liquid held between the guttering candle and his eye in the most approved fashion, and seemed to be making or receiving amends for the miserable meal he had also partaken of, though so sparingly that the soldier thought he must either have made a better one recently or be about to make one later on.
Then, after he had put three of the logs together – which seemed at last as though about to burn with some effect – by the summary method of kicking them close to each other with his foot, he said quietly, though quite unexpectedly on the part of the other:
"His Most Christian Majesty – or rather Louvois for him – wrote me that I might expect a visit from you on your way from Franche-Comté to Paris."
"Indeed!" said St. Georges, looking, as he felt, astonished. After which he added: "Truly, for a poor lieutenant of horse, such as I am, the king seems much interested in my doings. I marvel much that he should be so."
"Family interest, perhaps?" said the bishop, glinting an eye at him from behind the glass which he was again holding up to the light of the guttering candle. "Family interest is useful at court."
"Family interest!" exclaimed the other, pushing his glass away from him. "Monseigneur, it is evident you know nothing of Georges St. Georges, or you would not mention that. Still, how should you know my affairs?"
"How, indeed!" replied Phélypeaux, though again there was a flash from the eye – "how, indeed! I – I never heard of you until his Majesty said you would honour me with a visit. Yet, Captain – I mean Monsieur – St. Georges, there must be something which guides Louis in sending for you – in removing you from the miserable garrison in the Jura to Paris. Ah, Paris!" he interjected with an upward glance. "Paris! Paris!" But having recovered from this fervent ecstasy, he continued: "And if not family interest – I am a believer in family interest myself – what can it be? Unless, of course, you have been selected because of your military promise."
"Nor can it be that either," replied the guest. "I have been in garrison at Pontarlier for a year, and as for my service, why I have done nothing to distinguish myself. No more than thousands of his Majesty's troops have done – nay, not half so much."
"How old are you, may I ask?"
"Thirty-three."
"Ah," replied monseigneur, "and this is the third day of '88. So you were born in 1655. Ah!" and he leaned back in his chair and muttered to himself, though once he said quite audibly: "Yes, yes. That would do very well."
"What would do very well, monseigneur?" asked the other, looking at him.
"Pardon me," replied the bishop, and St. Georges could not help remarking how much more courtly his manner had become by degrees, so that, while heretofore it was quite in keeping with what he had originally imagined him to be – a servitor – it was now thoroughly suitable to his position – the position of a member of an old French family and of a father of the Church; "pardon me, my mind rambles sometimes when – when I throw it back. I was reflecting that – that – it was in that year I was made bishop. So you were born in 1655? And how – since you say you have none of that valuable family interest – did you become a chevau-léger?"
"It is somewhat of a story, and a long one. Hark! surely that is the cathedral clock striking. It is too late to pester you with my affairs."
"Not a jot," exclaimed Phélypeaux – "not a jot. Nay, tell the story, and – shall we crack another bottle of the clos? It is good wine."
"It is, indeed," replied St. Georges, "excellent. Yet I will drink no more. Three glasses are all I allow myself after supper at the best of times. And, after all, my history will not take long in telling. At least such portions of it as I need tell you."
"Tell me all. I love to hear the history of the young and adventurous, as you are – as you must be. The chevaux-légers encounter adventure even in garrison," and he leered at him.
"I have encountered none, or very few. A few indecisive campaigns against Holland in the year the king gave me my commission – namely, fourteen years ago – then the Peace of Nimeguen, and since then stagnation in various garrisons. Yet they say the time is coming for war. Holland seeks allies everywhere against France; soon a great campaign should occur."
"Without doubt, when his Most Christian Majesty will triumph as he has done before. But why – how – did you obtain your commission? You do not tell me that."
"No, I had forgotten. Yet 'tis not much to tell. My mother – an English woman – excuse me, Monseigneur l'Évêque, but you have spilt your wine."
"So, indeed, I have," said the bishop, sopping up the wine which his elbow had overturned by a sudden jerk while the other was speaking, "so, indeed, I have. But 'tis not much. And there is still that other bottle uncorked." Then with a sidelong glance he said: "So your mother was an English woman. Ah! mon Dieu, elles sont belles, ces Anglaises! An English woman. Well, well!"
"Yes, an English woman. Daughter of a Protestant cavalier who left England when the Commonwealth was declared. He had done his best for the king, but with his death he could do no more. So he quitted his country forever."
"Most interesting," exclaimed the bishop, "but your father, Monsieur St. Georges. Who was he? Of the St. Georges's family, perhaps, of Auvergne! Or another branch, of Dauphiné! A noble family is that of St. Georges!"
"He was of the branch in Auvergne. A humble member, but still of it. I know no more."
"No more?"
"No."
"Humph! Strange! Pardon me, monsieur, I would not ask a delicate question – but – but – did not the family recognise the marriage of Monsieur St. Georges?"
"They did not recognise it for the simple reason that they were never told of it. It did not please my father to divulge the marriage to his family, so they were left in ignorance that it had ever taken place."
"And was Monsieur St. Georges – your father – a soldier like yourself?"
"He was a soldier like myself. And served against Condé."
"Against Condé. Under Turenne, doubtless?" and once more he cast a sidelong glance at his visitor.
"Yes. Under Turenne. They were, I have heard, more than commander and subordinate. They were friends."
"A great friendship!" exclaimed the bishop. "A great friendship! To his influence you doubtless owe your commission, obtained, I think you said, in '74, the year before Turenne's death."
"Doubtless. So my father said. He died in the same year as the marshal."
"In battle, too, no doubt?" Then, seeing a look upon the other's face which seemed to express a desire for no more questioning – though, indeed, he bowed gravely at the question if his father had died in battle – monseigneur with a polite bow said he would ask him no more impertinent questions, and turned the conversation by exclaiming:
"But you must be weary, monsieur. You would rest, I am sure. I will call Pierre to show you to your room. Your child will sleep better at the 'Ours' than you will do here, since my accommodation is not of the first order, owing to my being able to inhabit the house so little. But we have done our best. We have done our best."
"I thank you," the soldier said, rising from his chair. "Now, monseigneur, let me pay my farewells to you at the same time I say 'Good-night.' I propose to ride to-morrow at daybreak, and if possible to reach Bar by night. Though much I doubt doing so; my horse is jaded already, and can scarce compass a league an hour. And 'tis more than twenty leagues from here, I take it."
"Ay, 'tis. More like twenty-five. And you have, you know, a burden. You carry weight. There is the little child."
"Yes, there is the child."
"You guard it carefully, Monsieur St. Georges. By the way, you have not told me. Where is its mother, your wife?"
Again the soldier answered as he had before answered to the watchman's wife – yet, he knew not why, he felt more repugnance in speaking of his dead wife to this strange bishop than he had when addressing either that simple woman or the landlady of the "Ours." But it had to be done – he could not make a secret of what was, in fact, no secret. So he answered, speaking rapidly, as though desirous of getting his answer over:
"She is dead. Our existence together was short. We loved each other dearly, but it pleased God to take her from me. She died a year after our marriage, in giving birth to the babe."
Phélypeaux bowed his head gravely, as though, perhaps, intending thereby to express sympathy with the other, and said, "It was sad, very sad." Then he continued:
"And madame —pauvre dame!– was she, too, English, or of some French family?"
"She was, monseigneur, a simple French girl. Of no family – such as you, monseigneur, would know of. A girl of the people, of the bourgeoisie. Yet I loved her; she became my wife, and now – now" – and he looked meditatively down into the ashes of the (by this time) charred and burnt-out logs – "I have no wife. That is all. Monseigneur, permit me to wish you good-night."
The bishop rang the bell, and while they waited for Pierre to come, he said:
"You asked me, Monsieur St. Georges, this evening, why his Most Christian Majesty should have thought fit through Louvois to direct you to stay at my house in Dijon? I shall not see you to-morrow ere you depart; let me therefore be frank. The king – and Louvois also – are in correspondence with me on a political matter, which must not even be trusted to the post, nor to courier, nor messenger. Nay, we do not even write what we have to say, but, instead, correspond by words and signs. Now, you are a trusty man – you will go far – already I see your captaincy of a troop looming up before you. Therefore I will send by you one word and one alone. You cannot forget it, for it is perhaps the simplest in our or any language. You will convey it?"
"I am the king's servant. What is the word, monseigneur?"
"The word 'Yes.'"
"The word 'Yes,'" the chevau-léger repeated. "The word 'Yes.' That is it? No more?"
"Nothing more. Simply the word 'Yes.' Yet stay, remember my instructions. The word is sent as much to Louvois as to the king. It is a common message to both. And there is one other thing. The Marquise de Roquemaure is also concerned in this matter; she will without doubt ask you what the word is I have sent. And, monsieur, there is no need of secrecy with her. You may frankly tell her."
Again with military precision the other made sure of his instructions.
"I may say that the word you send is 'Yes'?"
"Precisely."
"I shall remember."
And now, Pierre coming in, the bishop bade him farewell and good-night.
"The bed, I trust," he said, addressing the servant, "is as comfortable as may be under the circumstances. Also properly aired. For Monsieur St. Georges must sleep well to-night. He rides to Troyes to-morrow or as far upon his road as he can get. He must sleep well."
"So! he rides to Troyes to-morrow," repeated the domestic, surlily – "to Troyes, eh? And at what hour does Monsieur St. Georges set forth? I must know, so that he shall be called."
"At daybreak," St. Georges replied.
The man led him after this up some great stairs, evidently the principal ones of the mansion, and past what were the chief salons, holding the lantern he carried above his head all the way and casting thereby weird shadows on to walls and corners. Then up another flight they went – their feet echoing now on the bare, uncarpeted stairs, and so along a corridor until at the end the man opened a door and ushered the guest into a moderately sized room very sparsely furnished in all except the bed, which was large enough for three men to have slept in side by side. Next, lighting a taper which looked as though it might burn ten minutes but not longer, he gruffly bade St. Georges "Good-night," and, saying that he should be called before daybreak, he strode away, while the other heard his heavy footfall gradually grow fainter and fainter until, at last, there was no further sound in the house except the banging of a door now and again.
"Nom d'un chien!" exclaimed the soldier, as he unbuckled his spurs, drew off his long riding boots, and, unsheathing his sword, laid it along the side of the bed nearest the wall, "this is a pleasant hole for a man to find himself in." And throwing himself on the bed, and discovering that, as he drew the counterpane up about his shoulders, it was so short that it did not reach below his knees, he wrapped up the lower part of his body in the great cloak in which he had carried the child all day, and so, shivering with cold, went at last to sleep.
Down below, while this had been going on, Pierre had rejoined his master, and, standing before him, was answering several questions put with great rapidity.
"Your horse is sound?" the bishop asked, as now he partook of a glass out of the second bottle.
"Ay, it is sound," replied the other. "It has not left the stable for three days."
"You can, therefore, ride forth to-morrow."
"Further than he can, weather permitting."
"Good. Therefore ride ahead of him until you meet the Marquis de Roquemaure. Then you can deliver to him a message somewhat similar to the one he will deliver to the mother of the noble marquis."
"What is the message?"
"The message he will deliver to madame la marquise – if he is fortunate enough to see her – is the word 'Yes.' The message you will deliver to her son, whom you must see, is also 'Yes.' And, if you can remember, you may also say to the marquis, 'It is the man.' Can you remember?"
"Without doubt I can. The words are: 'Yes. It is the man.'"
"Those are the words."
CHAPTER IV.
"HER LIFE STANDS IN THE PATH OF OTHERS' GREED."
Awakened in the dark of the morning by a loud knocking on the door, St. Georges sprang off the bed and called lustily to know who was there?
"It is near dawn," a female voice answered. "Monsieur was to be awakened."
"Where is the man called Pierre?" asked St. Georges, perceiving that the tones were not his gruff ones.
"He has gone forth to one of the bishop's farms at Pouilly. He bade me call monsieur."
"And the bishop?"
"Monseigneur is not yet risen. There is a meal prepared for monsieur below, if he will partake of it."
Monsieur so far partook of it on descending – after he had made a rapid toilet, cleaned his sword by passing the folds of his cloak over it, and (good soldier as he was!) having said a prayer at his bedside ere leaving the room – as to drink a cup of thick, lukewarm chocolate. But beyond this he would wait no longer, being very anxious to regain the custody of his child. Also he thought that the "Ours" would offer a more satisfying meal than that now set before him, which, in truth, was nothing but the selfsame chocolate, some bread, and a half-finished saucisson which did not look particularly appetizing.
Therefore he tossed on the table a silver crown to the miserable-looking old woman who had called him, and who afterward escorted him downstairs, and, following her across the more than ever snow-covered courtyard, emerged on to the great place.
And still, as he observed, the snow fell, must have been falling all night, since it lay upon this open space in great tussocks, or mounds, while across the place itself no footmark was to be seen. It was, indeed, as though a vast white sea stretched from the house of Phélypeaux over to where the "Ours" stood.
Beneath a dull leaden canopy of cloud the wintry day was, however, coming; from the chimneys of the inn he could see the smoke, scarcely more dull and leaden than that canopy itself, rising; at the door of the inn he saw the mousquetaire standing, looking up at what should have been the heavens.
"Is all well?" he asked as he drew close to him now. "Have you seen the child?"
"All well, monsieur," the other replied, saluting as he spoke – "all well, both with child and horse. Yet, ma foi! what a day for a journey! Must monsieur, indeed, continue his?"
"Ay!" replied St. Georges, "I must. My orders are to pause no longer than necessary on the route to Paris, to report myself to the Minister of War, the Marquis de Louvois." Then turning to the mousquetaire, he asked: "What are your orders? Do you ride toward Bar to-day?"
"Since monsieur proceeds, so do I. Yet I doubt if we get even so far as Bar. Ciel! will the snow ever cease to fall?"
But in spite of the snow, in half an hour both were ready to set out. The little child, Dorine, had slept well, the patronne said, had lain snug and close with two of her own all through the night, while she had seen to its nourishment and had herself washed and fed it.
"Heaven bless you, for a true woman," St. Georges said, "Heaven bless you!"
But the woman would hear of no thanks; she reiterated again and again that she was a mother herself and had a mother's heart within her; she only wished monsieur would leave the little thing with her until he came back; she would warrant it should be well cared for until he did.
"I doubt my ever coming back this way," he said, as he ate his breakfast – a substantial one, far different from that which the bishop's servant had been able to set before him – and she ministered to his wants, "unless the future war rolls toward Burgundy. I am en route for Paris, and Heaven only knows where to afterward."
"Find a good home for her, monsieur," she said, "a home where she may at least be safe while you are away campaigning. Nay," she continued, "if I might make so bold, meaning no offence, find a new mother for her. It would be a sad life for her even though monsieur followed a stay-at-home existence; 'twill be doubly hard when you are separated from her."
But St. Georges only shook his head and said mournfully there was no other wife for him; a statement from which she dissented vehemently. Then she asked:
"Does monsieur know of any one in Paris to whom the little Dorine might be confided? If not," she continued – "she intended no liberty! – she could recommend one with whom it would always be safe. A woman of Dijon like herself, married and settled in Paris; married, indeed, to a cousin of her late husband, who, rest his soul! had been dead eighteen months. This woman's husband was a mercer in a large way of business in the Rue de Timoleon, lived well, and had children of his own; it would be an abri for the child if monsieur cared to consider it."
"Care to consider it!" exclaimed St. Georges, "why, it is the very thing I should wish." Then he paused a moment, reflecting deeply and looking round the kitchen, as though to see that they were alone, which they were with the exception of the mousquetaire, who sat by the great fire warming himself.
"Hark you, dame," he said, lowering his voice a little, though not from any fear of the mousquetaire hearing, but more from instinct than anything else. "You have done me one great kindness in being so tender to my poor little motherless babe. Will you answer me, therefore, a question? Will – will – suppose, I would say, that I wished the whereabouts of this, my child, unknown to any one – would she be safe in the house of this mercer you speak of? Also – if you – should be asked by any one – high or low, here in Dijon – if, par hasard, you know, or could guess, had indeed the faintest suspicion, where that little child might be – would you hold your peace? Would you let this be a secret locked only in your own honest heart?"
"Would I? Ay, monsieur, I would! Your child has slept with my little fillettes; when I went to arouse them ere dawn they all lay cheek to cheek, and with their arms entwined. She is as one of mine, therefore; she shall be as sacred. Je le jure."
"Give me your friend's name and address," St. Georges made answer. "What you have said is enough. I trust you as I should have trusted her dead mother." And he took his tablets from his pouch as he spoke.
"Write," said the woman, "the name of Le Sieur Blecy, 5 Rue de Timoleon. That is sufficient. His wife Susanne will arrange with you for the safety of the little one when she knows that I have sent you."
"But," exclaimed St. Georges, "can you give me no line, no word, to her or him? Surely she will not accept me on my own assurances. Besides, 'tis much to ask. She will scarcely receive my child into her house, into her family, without some proofs from you."
"How," exclaimed the woman, "can I send such proof? I can not write – alas! I can not even read." She blushed as she spoke – though truly she need not have done so, since in all Burgundy, in the days of Louis le Dieudonné, not one in a hundred could do more than she – and he himself reddened at having so put her to shame, and muttered some sort of excuse under his thick mustache.
"Send some trifle that she will recognise – some little thing she will know to have been yours," exclaimed the mousquetaire from his seat in the chimney-piece. "She will know that."
"Ha!" she said, recovering instantly from her confusion, "and so I will." Then, casting her eyes round the great stone-floor kitchen and seeing nothing therein that she could send to her friend, she ran up the stairs and came back bearing in her hand a little missal, with her name written in it.
"It was given to me by Susanne's mother on my wedding day, she saying that, though I could not follow the service with it, my children might learn to do so – as they shall! – as they shall!"
St. Georges took the book – a tiny one – and put it in his pouch also, along with his tablets; then he said to the mousquetaire: "Friend, if you have still a mind to depart, let us set out. Yet I would not take you from your comfortable nook if duty does not make it absolutely necessary for you to go."
"I will go," the other said, springing to his feet. "All is ready; my horse has rested for two days; at least we can get some distance on our route. Come, monsieur, let us away."
Therefore St. Georges paid the reckoning due, not forgetting among other things to give the woman's children – who were now all up and ready for their breakfast – some little sums to buy things with; and so he bade the woman farewell, thanking her again and again for her goodness, and promising that he should certainly seek the Sieur de Blecy on his arrival in Paris.
"Also," he said, as he shook her by the hand, "I shall find some means of letting you know of her welfare. Burgundy is far from Paris, yet there is always continuous passing to and fro from one to the other – you shall hear from me."
"I hope so," she said, "and, tenez! De Blecy is himself of Burgundy; his old mother lives near here – not a league away – send through him. He corresponds often with her and others. A word to me will reach. Farewell, monsieur; – farewell, mousquetaire. Adieu!"
Yet the last word was not said; for while the soldier went into the inn yard to fetch the horses and St. Georges brought down from the room she slept in his little child – who prattled in her baby way to him while her soft blue eyes smiled up in his – and wrapped it in his great cloak preparatory to mounting the block before the inn door, she asked:
"Why, why, monsieur, do you desire that no one should know where she is? Why keep her existence a secret? Surely there are none who would harm so innocent a little thing as that?"
He paused a moment, looking down at her from his great height as though meditating deeply; then he said:
"I will trust you fully. I wish her whereabouts – not her existence, that is already known – kept secret until the time comes that either she shall be in safety out of France or I can be ever near to guard and watch over her; for her life – after mine – stands in the path of others' greed – perhaps of others' ambition. My life first, then hers. I know it, have known it long; until a day or so ago I thought none other knew it – "
"And?" she asked, glancing up at him, while she stole her hand into the folds of his cloak and again softly patted the child's little dimpled cheek – "and – ?"
"And," he continued, "I am sure now that against her life, or at least her liberty, some attempt will be made – as it will against mine. That," he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "is why I am recalled to Paris. Farewell!"