VI
_A matter of life and death._
Nothing in life can be so sweet as freedom after captivity, safety after danger. When I gained the open street once more and breathed the open air, no one molesting or troubling me, I could have sung with joy. I fairly hugged myself for my cleverness in getting out of my plight. As for the combat I was furthering, my only doubt about that was lest the skulking Lucas should not prove good sword enough to give trouble to M.
Gervais. It was very far from my wish that he should come out of the attempt unscathed.
But as I went along and had more time to ponder the matter, other doubts forced themselves into my reluctant mind. Put it as I pleased, the affair smacked too much of secrecy to be quite savoury. It was curious, to say the least, that an honest encounter should require so much plotting. Also, Lucas, coward and rascal though he might be, was Monsieur"s man, doing Monsieur"s errand, and for me to mix myself up in a plot against him was scarcely in keeping with my vaunted loyalty to the house of St. Quentin. My friend Gervais"s quarrel might be just; his manner of procedure, even, might be just, and yet I have no right to take part in it.
And yet Monsieur had signified plainly enough that he was no longer my patron. For my birth"s sake I might never work against him, but I was free to do whatever else I chose. Monsieur himself had made it necessary for me to take another master, and a.s.suredly I owed something to Yeux-gris. I had reason to feel confidence in his honour; surely I might reckon that he would not be in the affair unless it were honest. Lucas was like enough a scoundrel of whom Monsieur would be well rid. And lastly and finally and above all, I was sworn, so there was no use worrying about it. I had taken oath, and could not draw back.
I hurried along to the rendezvous, only pausing one moment at the street-corner to buy sausages hot from the brazier, which I crammed into my mouth as I ran. But after all was there no need of haste; the little arch, when I panted up to it, was all deserted.
No better place for a tryst could have been found in the heart of busy Paris. Only the one door opened into the alley; M. de Portreuse"s high garden wall, forming the other side of the pa.s.sage, was unbroken by a gate, and no curious eyes from the house could look into the deep arch and see the narrow nail-studded door at the back where I awaited the rat-faced Martin.
I stood there long, first on one foot and then on the other, fearful every moment lest some one of Monsieur"s true men should come along to demand my business. No one appeared, either foe or friend, for so long that I began to think Yeux-gris had tricked me and sent me here on a fool"s errand, when, all at once, a low voice said close to my ear:
"What seek you here?"
I jumped on finding at my side a little, pale, sharp-faced man--the man of the vision. He had slipped through the door so suddenly and quietly that I was once more tempted to take him for a ghost. He eyed me for a bare second; then his eyes dropped before mine.
"I am come to learn the hour," said I.
"Did you not hear the chimes ring five?"
"Oh, no need for disguise. I am come from the two in the Rue Coupejarrets. They bade me ask the hour."
He favoured me with another of his shifty glances.
"What hour meant they?"
I said bluntly, in a louder tone:
"The hour when M. Lucas sets out on his secret mission."
"Hush!" he cried. "Hush! Don"t say names aloud--his or the other"s."
"Well," I said crossly, "you have kept me waiting already more time than I care to lose. How much longer before you will tell me what I came to know?"
He looked at me sharply for another brief instant before his eyes slunk away from mine.
"You should have a pa.s.sword."
"They gave me none. They told me to say I came from the shuttered house in the Rue Coupejarrets, and that would be enough."
"How came you into this business?"
"By a back window."
He gave me another suspicious glance, but making nothing by it, he rejoined:
"Eh bien, I trust you. I will tell you."
He clutched my arm and drew me to the back of the arch, where the afternoon shadows were already gathered.
"What have you for me?" he demanded.
"Nothing. What should I have?"
"No gold?"
"No."
"He promised me ten pistoles to-day. He did not give them to you?"
"I tell you, no."
"You are a thief! You have them!"
He stepped forward menacingly; so did I. He then fell back as abruptly.
"Nay, it was a jest; I know you are honest. But he promised me ten pistoles."
"He did not give them to me," I said. "Perhaps he was not so convinced of my honesty. He will doubtless pay you afterward."
"Afterward!" he retorted in a high key. "By our Lady, he shall pay me afterward! The gutters will run gold then, will they? Pardieu! I will see that a good stream flows my way. But one cannot play to-day with to-morrow"s coin. He said I should have ten pistoles when I let him know the hour."
"I cannot mend that. It lies between you and him. I have not seen or heard of any money."
Martin edged up close to the door of retreat and waxed defiant.
"Then all I have to say is, he may go whistle for his news."
Now, had I but thought of it, here was an easy road out of a bad business. If Martin would not tell the hour of rendezvous, Lucas was saved, Monsieur"s interests not endangered, yet at the same time I was not forsworn. But touch pitch and be defiled. You cannot go hand and glove with villains and remain an honest man. I returned directly:
"As you choose. But M. Gervais carries a long sword."
He started at that and made no instant reply, seeming to be balancing considerations. Then he gave his decision.
"I will tell you. But your M. Gervais is wrong if he thinks I can be slighted and robbed of my dues. I know enough to make trouble for him, and I know where to take my knowledge. He will not find it easy to shut my mouth afterward, except with good broad gold pieces."
"Enfin, are you telling me the hour?" I said impatiently. I was ill at ease; my only wish was to get the errand done and be gone.
He laid a hand on my shoulder and made me bend to him, and even then spoke so low I could scarce catch the words.
"They have fixed positively on to-night. They will leave by this door and take the route I described last night to M. Gervais. They will start as soon as the streets are quiet, sometime between ten and eleven. They must allow an hour to reach the gate, and the man goes off at twelve. In all likelihood they will not set out before a quarter of eleven; M. le Duc does not care to be recognized."