Swearing he would be back again in a week, Jacques set out for Ezy within an hour of our return to the Rue des Deux Mondes, and his going had removed one weight from my mind. I knew full well that, unless something beyond his control happened, my business would be faithfully discharged, though I felt I was losing a tower of strength when I needed support most, as I watched him riding along the Malaquais, mounted on the sorrel and leading the grey.

He went out of sight at last, and, now that the momentary bustle caused by his departure had ceased, I had leisure to think of what I had heard from de Belin; and those who have read the preceding pages, and have formed their judgment as to what was my character at that time, can well imagine that I was mentally on the rack.

The trouble with d'Ayen was bad enough, but united to that was Belin's statement, that she – she was prepared, no matter what the consequences were, to give her hand to de Gomeron! Had I been in her place death would have been preferable to me rather than this alternative; and then I thought of the token she had sent back to me – felt that I was being trifled with, and gave full rein to my jealous and bitter temper.

To all intents and purposes I was alone in my chamber, and yet I could swear that there was an invisible presence at my ear that whispered, 'Fooled! Tricked! She is but as other women are, and you have played the quintain for her practice.'

By heaven! If it was so, I would end it all at once, and not waste another moment of my life on a heartless coquette! It must be so. It was so. By this time I had got beyond power of reason, and jumped to my conclusions like the thrice blind fool I was. Snatching forth the bow from its resting place over my heart, I tore the ribbons asunder, and flung them on the floor before me, with a curse at the vanity of womankind that could make a plaything of a heart. I would be gone that moment. I would leave this country of intrigue and dishonour. In an hour I could catch Jacques up, and in ten days we would be on the seas, and in that New World, which had not yet time to grow wicked, make for myself a fresh life. By God! I would do it! My hand was on the bell-rope, when there came a sharp tap at the door, and the next moment Ravaillac announced in his low voice:

'Maître Palin to wait on Monsieur le Chevalier.'

I pulled myself together with an effort, and advanced to meet my old friend as he came in.

'At last! I have been expecting you hourly for some time.'

'I could not come, chevalier. I will explain in a moment.'

'First sit down. Take that chair there near the window; it commands a good view.'

'Monsieur does not need this?'

It was Ravaillac's voice that broke in upon us, and he himself stood before me, holding out on a salver the ribbons of the torn bow. Civil as the question was, there was something in his tone that made me look at him sharply. It seemed to me, as I looked up, that a faint smile vanished between his bloodless lips like a spider slipping back into a crevice.

I could, however, see no trace of impertinence in the long sallow face, and the whole attitude of my new follower was one of submissive respect. I fancied, therefore, that I had made a mistake, and put it down to the state of mental agitation I was in at the time.

'No,' I answered him; 'you can fling it away. And in future you need not ask me about such trifles.'

'Very well, monsieur, I will remember,' and with a bow he moved towards the door, the salver in his hand.

'Ravaillac,' I called out after him.

'Monsieur.'

'On second thoughts do not throw that away. I did not – I mean, please leave it there on the table.'

'Monsieur,' and, laying down the salver, he stepped out of the room.

'I see you have changed your livery with your old servant, chevalier,' said Palin, sipping at his wine, as the man went out, closing the door carefully and softly behind him.

'Not so. Jacques has merely gone away temporarily on some business of importance. In fact he left to-day, shortly before you came, and this man, or rather youth, has been lent to me by a friend.'

'And his name is Ravaillac?'

'Yes.'

'An uncommon name for a man of his class.'

'Perhaps – but these men assume all kinds of names. He is, however, better educated than the usual run of people in his position, and bears an excellent character, although he has been a Flagellant, from which complaint he has recovered.'

'Most of them do. And now, my good friend, let us dismiss Ravaillac and tell me how you progress.'

For a moment it was in me to tell him all, to say that I had abandoned a worthless cause, and that I could do no more as I was leaving France at once. Mechanically I stretched out my hand towards the tags of ribbon on the table, and my fingers closed over them. What was I to say? I could not answer Palin. Through the now darkening room I could see his earnest features turned towards me for reply, and behind it there moved in the shadow the dim outline of a fair face set in a mass of chestnut hair, and the violet light from its eyes seemed to burn through my veins. My tongue was stilled, and I could say nothing. At length he spoke again.

'Do I gather from your silence that you have failed?'

'No – not so – but little or nothing could be done, as the King has only just come, and then – ' I stopped.

'And then – what?'

'It seems that Madame has changed her mind.'

'I do not follow you. Do you know what you are saying?' His tone was coldly stern.

My temper began to rise at this. I put down the ribbons and said: 'Yes, I think I do – or else why has Madame come to Paris, and what is this story I hear about a Monsieur de Gomeron? If that is true it ends the matter.'

I got up as I spoke, and began to pace the room in my excitement.

'Had I been twenty years younger. Monsieur d'Auriac, I would have paraded you for what you have said; but my cloth and my age forbid it. My age, not because it has weakened my arm, but because it has taught me to think. My young friend, you are a fool.'

'I know I have been,' I said bitterly, 'but I shall be so no longer.'

'And, in saying so, confirm yourself in your folly. Are you so beside yourself that you condemn unheard! Sit down, man, and hear what I have to say. It will not keep you long. You can leave Paris five minutes after, if you like.'

I came back to my seat, and Palin continued: 'You appear to be offended at Madame de la Bidache's coming to Paris?'

'I am not offended – I have no right to be.'

'Well, it will interest you to hear that her coming to Paris was forced. That practically we are prisoners.'

'You mean to say that he – the King – has gone as far as that!'

'I mean what I say – Madame cannot leave her hotel, except to go to the Louvre, without his permission.'

'But this is infamous!'

'In an almost similar case this was what the daughter of de Cœuvres said, and yet she died Duchesse de Beaufort. But are you satisfied now?'

'I am,' I said in a low tone, and then, with an effort, 'but there is still the other matter.'

'You are exacting – are you sure you have a right to ask that?'

Luckily, it was too dark for Palin to see my eyes turn to the tangle of crushed ribbons on the table. How much did the Huguenot know? I could not tell, and after all I had no right to ask the question I had, and said so.

'I have no right, but, if it is true, it means that the affair is at an end.'

'If it is true?'

'Then it is not?' My heart began to beat faster.

'I did not say so. Remember that the alternative is Monsieur le Baron d'Ayen.'

'There is another.'

'And that is?'

'Death.'

'We are Huguenots,' he answered coldly, 'and believe in the word of God. We do not kill our souls.'

'Great heavens! man! Tell me if it is true or not? Do not draw this out. In so many words, is Madame de la Bidache pledged to de Gomeron?'

'Most certainly not, but Biron and her nearest relative, Tremouille, have urged it on her as a means of escape. She has, however, given no answer.'

'Then de Belin was wrong?'

'If you mean that the Compte de Belin said so, then he had no authority for the statement.'

I took back the ribbons from the table and thrust them into their old resting-place, my face hot with shame at my unworthy suspicions.

'Palin,' I said, 'you were right. I am a fool.'

'You are,' he answered, 'exactly what your father was before you at your age.'

'My father – you knew him?'

'Yes – Raoul de Breuil, Sieur d'Auriac, and Governor of Provence. We were friends in the old days, and I owed him my life once, as did also Henry the Great, our King and master – in the days of his youth.'

'And you never told me this?'

'I have told you now. I owe the house of Auriac my life twice over, and I recognise in this, as in all things, the hand of God. Young man, I have watched you, and you are worthy – be of good courage.' He stretched out his hand, and I grasped it in silence.

'See here,' he continued, 'I have come to you like a thief in the twilight, because I have that to say which is for you alone. It is useless to appeal to the King. Our only chance is flight, and we have no one to rely on but you. Will you help us – help Madame?'

'Why need to ask? Have I not already said so? Am I not ready to die, if need be, to save her?'

'You are now,' he said, 'but I will not press that point. Then we, or rather I, can count on you?'

'To the end of my sword; but does not Madame know of this?'

'Not yet. Should it fall through, there would be only another bitter disappointment for her. It is, moreover, an idea that has but shaped itself with me to-day.'

'Where do you propose going?'

'To Switzerland. There we would be safe, and there they are of our faith.'

'Remember, Maître Palin, that I am not'

'Look into your own heart and tell me that again at another time. Can you count on a sword or two?'

'If Jacques were only here!' I exclaimed.

And then, remembering my new man's reputation, 'They say Ravaillac is good, and I have a friend' – I bethought me of Belin – 'upon whom I think I could rely.'

'Better one blade of steel than two of soft iron, chevalier. We must do what we can with what we have.'

'When do you propose starting?'

'On the night of the fête at the Louvre.'

'And we meet?'

'Under the three limes in the Tuileries at compline.'

'I have but one horse at present – we must have more.'

'That is not hard – I will settle that with Pantin. He knows the spot exactly, and will have horses in readiness and guide you there, if need be.'

'I know it too, and will not fail you. God grant us success.'

'Amen!'

There was a silence of a moment, and then Palin arose. 'It grows darker and darker,' he said; 'I must go now – adieu!' – and he held out his hand.

'Not yet good-bye,' I said. 'I will accompany you to the end of the Malaquais at any rate. Ho! Ravaillac! My hat and cloak!'

There was no answer; but it seemed as if there was the sound of a stumble on the stairs outside the closed door, and then all was still.

'Diable! That sounds odd,' I exclaimed; 'and 'tis so dark here I can hardly lay hands on anything. Oh! Here they are – now come along.'

As I opened the door to lead the way out I saw a flash of light on the staircase, and Madame Pan-tin appeared, bearing a lighted candle in her hand.

'I was coming to light your room, monsieur,' she said.

'It is good of you; but what is my new knave doing?'

'If Monsieur will step towards the loft, near Couronne's stall, he will see that Ravaillac is absorbed in his devotions – perhaps Maître Palin would care to see also?'

'Not I,' said Palin.

'But, at any rate, his devotions should not interfere with his duties,' I burst out; 'it will take but a minute to bring him to his senses. Excuse me for a moment, Palin – Madame will see you as far as the door, and I will join you there.'

And without waiting for a reply I ran down towards the stables, and on coming there heard the voice of some one groaning and sobbing. Peering up into the darkness of the loft above me, I could see nothing, but heard Ravaillac distinctly, as he writhed in a mental agony and called on God to save him from the fires of hell. The first thought that struck me was that the youth was ill, and, clambering up the ladder that led to the loft, I found him there in the dim light, kneeling before a crucifix, beating at his heart, and calling on himself as the most miserable of sinners.

'Ravaillac!' – and I put my hand on his shoulder – 'what ails you, man? Are you ill?' He turned his face up towards me; it was paler than ever, and he screamed out, 'My hour is come – leave me – leave me! Our Lady of Sorrows intercede for me, for I know not how to pray,' and with a half-smothered howl he fell forwards on his face before the crucifix, and, clasping it with both hands, began to sob out his entreaties to God anew. I saw that it was useless wasting further time on him, and that he had been taken with one of those frenzy fits that had before driven him to the Flagellants. I left him, therefore, to come to himself, and muttering that Belin might have told me of this foible, came backwards down the ladder to find that Palin and Madame Pantin had followed me, and were but a few yards away.

'Did you hear?' I asked, as I joined them; 'is it not strange?'

'He is wrestling with the enemy,' said Palin. 'Let him be.'

'He is a traitor,' burst out Annette. 'Monsieur le chevalier, I would send him packing tonight.'

'I can hardly do that,' I said, 'and, besides, agony such as that young man is passing through does not mark a traitor.'

'As Monsieur pleases,' she answered, and then rapidly in my ear, 'Were it not for someone else's sake I would let you go your own way. Beware of him, I say.'

'Corbleu! dame Annette! why not speak plainly? We are all friends here.'

But she only laughed mirthlessly, and led the way towards the door.

I accompanied Palin to the end of the Malaquais, speaking of many things on the way, and finally left him, as he insisted on my coming no further. So much had happened during the day, however, that I determined to cool my brain with a walk, and my intention was to cross the river and return to my lodging by the Pont aux Meunniers.

I hailed a boat, therefore, and was soon on the other side of the Seine, and, flinging my cloak over my arm, set off at a round pace, Annette's warning about Ravaillac buzzing in my head with the insistence of a fly. As I passed the Louvre I saw that the windows were bright with lights, and heard the strains of music from within. They were as merry within as I was sad without, and I did not linger there long. Keeping to the right of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, I passed by the Magasins de Louvre, and then, slackening my pace, strolled idly down the Rue de St. Antoine. Down this great street it seemed as if the coming of the King had awakened the good citizens to life again, for there were lights at nearly all the windows, though the street itself was in darkness, except at the spots where a lantern or two swung on ropes stretched across the road, and lit up a few yards dimly around them. A few steps further brought me almost opposite a large house, over the entrance to which was a transparent signboard with a row of lamps behind it, and I saw I had stumbled across More's, the eating and gaming house kept by the most celebrated traiteur in Paris. I had a mind to step in, more out of curiosity than anything else, when, just as I halted in hesitation before the door, two or three masked cavaliers came out singing and laughing, and in the foremost of them I had no difficulty in recognising the old reprobate, d'Ayen. Much as I would have avoided a quarrel, it could not be helped, for I had the door, and it was certainly my right to enter. They, however, ranged themselves arm-in-arm before me, and, being in wine, began to laugh and jeer at my sombre attire.

'Does Monsieur le Huguenot think there is a prêche here?' said d'Ayen, bowing to me in mockery as he lifted his plumed hat.

I determined to show in my answer that I knew them.

'Let me pass. Monsieur d'Ayen,' I said coldly. 'We have too much between us to quarrel here.'

He knew me well enough, but pretended surprise.

'Corbœuf! Monsieur le chevalier, and so it is you! Gentlemen, allow me to present to you Monsieur le Chevalier d'Auriac, with whom I have an argument that we never could bring to a conclusion. We disagreed on the subject of landscape gardening.'

It was a hard pill to swallow, but I had made up my mind to retreat. The Edict was fresh; a conflict there would have meant complete disaster; and there would be no chance for escape, as the passage was getting crowded.

'I remember perfectly,' I said, carrying on d'Ayen's feint, 'but I am not prepared to discuss the matter now. I must go back to take some notes to refresh my memory.'

The man was blown with wine. He thought I feared him, and my words, which roused his companions to scornful laughter, made him do a foolish thing.

'At least take a reminder with you,' and he flung his soft, musk-scented glove in my face.

'A ring! a ring!' roared twenty voices, and, before I knew where I was, I was in the centre of a circle in the passage, the slight figure of d'Ayen before me, and the point of his rapier glinting like a diamond – now in quarte, now in tierce.

He was of the old school of Dominic, and came at me with a ça! ça!' and a flourish, springing back like a cat to avoid the return. Had I been taught the use of the small sword by any less master than Touchet it would have gone hard with me, but, as it was, the third pass showed me the game was mine. The din around us was beyond description, for whilst More and his men were struggling to get close enough to separate us, the onlookers kept thrusting the hotel people back, and oaths, shrieks, wagers, screams for the watch, and half-a-hundred different exclamations and challenges were shouted out at once. I had no time to look around me, for, old as he was, my opponent displayed uncommon activity, and I could not but admire his courage. Coxcomb and fool, dishonoured though he was, under his flowered vest was no craven heart, and I spared him once for his age and twice for his spirit. But now came the warning cry of 'Watch! the watch!' behind me. D'Ayen thrust low in tierce; the parry was simple and I pinked him through the shoulder-joint – I could have hit him where I liked at that moment. He dropped his sword with a curse, and I found myself the next moment in a general melée, for the watch were using no mild measures to force an entrance, and there was a fine to-do in consequence.

Someone – I know not who – at this juncture cut the silken cord by which a huge ornamental lantern was hung above our heads. It fell with a crash, and in a moment we were in semi-darkness. I took the opportunity to dash forwards, flatten myself against the wall, and, by dint of a little management and more good luck, succeeded in getting within a yard or so of the door. Here, taking my occasion, I made a sudden spring forwards, upsetting a man in front of me, and dashed off down the street. Unfortunately, I was not so quick but that I was seen and instantly pursued by a portion of the watch on guard outside.

There was nothing for it but to run. Fast as I went, however, there were good men behind me, and I could not shake them off, though the streets were in gloom. The worst of the matter, however, was that the watch was being constantly reinforced by amateur guardians of the peace. Everyone who happened to be passing, or heard the noise, seemed to think it his duty to join in the chase, and it was with a fine following that I headed towards the river. Heaven knows how I cursed my folly at having put my nose into More's, and I redoubled my pace as I heard, from the shouts to the right and to the left of me, that I was practically hemmed in, and that my only chance was to take to the river. They were close up to me when I reached the bank a few yards below the Pont aux Meunniers, and without further hesitation I plunged in, and the bubbling and seething of the water brought the yell of disappointment from the bank faintly to my ears. The set of the stream was towards the opposite shore, and in five seconds I was in pitch darkness, though, looking back over my shoulder as I struck out, I could see, by the lanterns that some carried, the watch and the volunteer brigade dancing with anger at my escape, but none of them dared to follow.

I had to swim with a will, for the current was swift; but at length I reached my own side of the river – drenched, it is true, but safe for the present. When I reached my lodging Pantin opened the door to me.

'Ciel!' he exclaimed, as he saw me wet and dripping. 'What has happened?'

'I have had a swim in the Seine, Pantin; say nothing about it.'