He suffered all this ignominy to save a comrade in arms, whom he believed to be guilty, but who was as innocent as himself. Only a week ago this comrade became aware of what had happened. Even had he been guilty he would not have made profit from his friend"s generosity. It was fine of the chevalier; do you not agree with me?"
"Then the Chevalier is not all bad?" said Du Puys.
"No. But he is the son of his father. You have met the Marquis de Perigny?"
"Only to pa.s.s him on the streets. But here comes the host with the punch. What shall the toast be?"
"New France."
"My compliments on your good taste."
And they bowed gravely to each other, drinking in silence. The youth renewed his gaze at the fire, this time attracted by the chimney soot as it wavered above the springing flames, now incandescent, now black as jet, now tearing itself from the brick and flying heavenward.
Sometimes the low, fierce music of the storm could be heard in the chimney. Du Puys, glancing over the lid of his pewter pot, observed the young man kindly.
"Monsieur," he asked, "are you related to the poet De Saumaise?"
The youth lifted his head, disclosing an embarra.s.sed smile. "Yes, Monsieur. I have the ill-luck to be that very person."
"Then I am doubly glad to meet you. While in Paris I heard your praises sung not infrequently."
The poet held up a protesting hand. "You overwhelm me, Monsieur. If I write an occasional ballade, it is for the mere pleasure of writing, and not because I seek notoriety such as Voiture enjoyed when in favor."
"I like that ballade of yours on "Henri at Cahors." It has the true martial ring to it that captivates the soldier."
"Thanks, Monsieur; from a man like you such praise is poisonously sweet. Can you direct me to the Hotel de Perigny? I must see the Chevalier to-night."
"I will myself show you the way," said Du Puys, standing. "But wait a while. The Chevalier usually spends the evening here."
"Drinking?"
"Drinking and dicing."
Victor rose just as a small uproar occurred in the hallway. The door opened and a dozen cavaliers and officers came crowding in. All made for the fire, stamping and jostling and laughing. The leader, his eyes bloodshot and the lower lids puffed and discolored, threw his hat to the ceiling and caught it on his boot.
"Maitre--ho!" he cried. "Bring us the bowl, the merry bowl, the jolly and hot bowl. The devil himself must hunt for cheer to-night. How it blows!"
"In the private a.s.sembly, Messieurs," said the host caressingly; "in the private a.s.sembly. All is ready but the hot water." And respectfully, though determinedly, as one would guide a flock of sheep, he turned the roisterers toward the door that led into the private a.s.sembly-room. He had just learned that the Jesuits had arrived and that there was no room for them at the episcopal palace, and that they were on their way to the Corne d"Abondance. He did not desire them to form a poor opinion as to the moral character of the establishment. He knew the temper of these wild bloods; they were safer by themselves.
All the arrivals pa.s.sed noisily into the private a.s.sembly: all save the leader, who was seen suddenly to steady himself after the manner of a drunken man trying to recover his dignity.
"Victor?" he cried in dismay.
"Paul?" frankly joyous.
In a moment they had embraced and were holding each other off at arm"s length.
CHAPTER VI
AN ACHATES FOR AN AENEAS
"What are you doing here?" demanded the Chevalier roughly.
"Paul," sadly, "you are drunk."
"So I am," moodily. "How long ago since I was sober? Bah! every pore in my body is a voice that calls loudly for wine. Drunk? My faith, yes! You make me laugh, Victor. When was I ever sober? As a boy I used to fall asleep in the cellars of the chateau. But you . . . What are you doing here in Roch.e.l.le?"
"I am here to command your immediate return to Paris."
"Paris? Body of Bacchus! but it is fine grat.i.tude on your part to accept this mission. So his Eminence thinks that I shall be safer in the Bastille? What a compliment!"
"No, Paul. He wishes simply to exonerate you and return to you your privileges. Ah! how could you do it?"
"Do what?" sinking upon one of the benches and striving to put together his wine-befuddled thoughts.
"Take the brunt of a crime you supposed I had done?"
"Supposed? Come, now; you are laughing!"
"Word of honor: supposed I had done. It was not till a week ago that I learned what you had done. How I galloped back to Paris! It was magnificent of you; it was fine."
"But you? And that cloak which I lent to you?"
"Well, I was as little concerned as you, which I proved to Mazarin. I was at my sister"s wedding at Blois. Your grey cloak was stolen from my room the day before De Brissac met his violent end. My lad, Hector, found the cloak in a tavern. How, he would not say. He dared not keep it, so sent it to the Candlestick in care of another lad. He understood that its disappearance might bring harm to you. I trounced him well for his carelessness in permitting the cloak to be stolen."
"This is all very unusual. Stolen, from you?" bewildered.
"Yes."
"And it was not you?"
"Am I a killer of old men? No, Paul. De Brissac and I were on excellent terms. You ought to know me better. I do not climb into windows, especially when the door is always open for me. I am like my sword, loyal, frank, and honest; we scorn braggart"s cunning, dark alleys, stealth; we look not at a man"s back but into his face; we prefer sunshine to darkness. And listen," tapping his sword: "he who has done this thing, be he never so far away, yet shall this long sword of mine find him and snuff his candle out."
"Good lad, forgive! I am drunk, atrociously drunk; and I have been drunk so long!" The Chevalier swept the hair out of his eyes. "Have you an enemy? Have I?"
"Enemies, enemies? If you but knew how I have searched my memory for a sign of one! The only enemy I could find was . . . myself. Here is your signet-ring, the one you p.a.w.ned at Fontainebleau. You see, Mazarin went to the bottom of things."
The Chevalier slipped the ring on his finger, twirled it, and remained silent.
"Well?" said Victor, humorously.
"You never told me about Madame de Brissac." The Chevalier held the beryl of the ring toward the light and watched the flames dance upon its surface.
"Why should I have told you? I knew how matters stood between you and madame; it would have annoyed you. It was not want of confidence, Paul; it was diffidence. Are you sober enough to hear all about it now?"
"Sober? Well, I can listen." The Chevalier was but half awake mentally; he still looked at Victor as one would look at an apparition.