When Gilles de Crohin found himself alone with Maître Jehan in the corridor which led straight to the main entrance hall, he paused for a moment, irresolute, wondering what he had best do. That there had been murder in the eyes of that gallant Marquis de Landas no one could doubt for a moment, and there lay a long stretch of dark streets and narrow lanes between the Archiepiscopal Palace and the safe shelter of 'Les Trois Rois.'
But you cannot imagine Messire Gilles de Crohin quaking even for a moment at the thought.
'Careful we must be,' he said in a whisper to his faithful alter ego; 'for my choleric friend will not, I imagine, be above lying in wait for us within the shelter of a convenient doorway, and I should ill serve the cause of the Queen of Navarre by getting spiked between the shoulders at such an early stage of the proceedings. But between that and showing that gallant Spaniard a clean pair of heels and foregoing the pleasure of threading his mask on my blade, there is a world of difference; eh, my good Jehan?'
'Above all things,' he added to himself, under his breath, so that even Jehan could not hear, 'I must find out whether a certain provoking glance, which flashed from out a pair of the most adorable blue eyes I have ever seen, were intended for me or not.'
And his thoughts flew riotously back to Jacqueline—Jacqueline, his dream, his tantalizing, exquisite dream—Jacqueline of the blue eyes and the captivating mole—Jacqueline of the roguish smile and the demure glance.
'I wonder, now!' he murmured softly. Had she perchance meant to give him a hint? Had she thrown him a warning glance? Gilles just then could have sworn that she had done both when she spoke of Monseigneur's living-room, where she would sit prattling after the last of the guests had departed.
'Did she mean me to take refuge there against de Landas' murderous intentions?' he asked himself. But the supposition did not appear likely. Gilles was no coxcomb and had not had many dealings with women during the course of his chequered career; but he had an innate respect for them, and would not credit Jacqueline—proud, demure, stately Jacqueline—with the intention of offering a gratuitous rendezvous to an unknown gallant. Rather was her glance intended for de Landas—the assignation was for him: 'perhaps,' thought Messire Gilles with a vague stirring of hope in his heart, 'perhaps with a view to keeping that fiery lover of hers out of harm's way, till I myself was safely abed.'
Be that as it may, the most elementary dictates of prudence demanded that he should go back to his hostelry before his enemies had time to concoct any definite plans for his undoing. So, calling to Jehan to follow him, he found his way quickly out of the Palace.
It was raining heavily just then; the streets were dark and, after a while, quite deserted. Gilles and Jehan, keeping a sharp look-out around them, walked rapidly and kept to the middle of the streets. Fortunately for them both, they had had plenty of leisure in the last four days to wander through the intricate by-ways of the Flemish city. They knew the lay of the land pretty well by now, and at this moment when the thought of a possible guet-apens was foremost in their minds, they were able to outwit any potential assassin who might be lurking on the direct route by going to the hostelry along devious ways usually unfrequented by strangers.
Thus it took them nearly half an hour to reach 'Les Trois Rois,' and Jehan, for one, was heartily congratulating himself that those murderous gentlemen had been comfortably thrown off the scent and were mayhap cooling their tempers somewhere in the cold and the wet, when, just as they entered the porch of the hostelry, a shadowy figure detached itself from out the gloom.
Gilles was already prepared with a quick, 'Qui va là?' but the figure proved inoffensive-looking enough: a woman, wrapped in a mantle and hood from head to foot. She had a small roll of paper in her hand, and this she held out timidly to Gilles.
'Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont?' she inquired under her breath.
'Myself,' replied Gilles curtly. 'What is it?'
He took the paper and unrolled it. By the light of a small lanthorn which hung just inside the porch he saw that it was a letter—just a few lines—written in a small, pointed hand, and signed with the letter 'J.'
'Jacqueline!' he murmured, bewildered—so dazed that it took him some time before he was able to read. At last he deciphered the brief message.
'I do entreat you, Mesire,' it ran, 'to return to the palace within the hour. Nay! I do not entreat, I command! Go to the postern Gate: you will find it unlatched. Then cross the Courtyard till you come to a door on the left of the main Perron—this will be unlocked. You will find yourself in one of the chief Corridors which give on the grand Staircase. Remain there concealed, and await further Orders.'
A strange enough missive, of a truth, and one, no doubt, which would have made an older and more prudent man pause ere he embarked on so dubious an adventure. But Gilles de Crohin was neither old nor prudent, and he was already up to his neck in a sea of adventure which had begun to submerge his reason. Even before he had folded up the paper again and slipped it into the inner pocket of his doublet, he had made up his mind that no power on earth, no wisdom or warning, would deter him from keeping the tryst. Did I think to remind you that he was no coxcomb? Well! he certainly was absolutely free from personal vanity, and it was not his self-conceit which was stimulated by the mysterious message; rather was it his passion for adventure, his love for the unforeseen, the unexpected, the exhilarating. The paper which he hid so tenderly inside his doublet had a delicious crisp sound about it, which seemed to promise something stimulating and exciting to come.
'Run up, Jehan,' he called to his man. 'I follow you. Let me get out of these damnable slashed and puffed rags—these velvet shoes and futile furbelows. Up, man! I follow in a trice! We have not done with adventure yet to-night.'
Then he turned, with a piece of silver in his hand ready to reward the bearer of such joyful tidings. But the messenger had disappeared into the night as quietly, as mysteriously as she had come.
Less than half an hour later, Gilles de Crohin once more found himself within the precincts of the Archiepiscopal Palace. He had been so quick in changing his clothes and so quick in covering the distance which separated him from the trysting place, that he had no occasion to use the postern gate or the small door which had been indicated to him. The great entrance portals were still wide open when he arrived; some of the corridors still thronged with people—guests of Monseigneur and their servants on the point of departure—whilst others appeared entirely deserted. At one point, Gilles caught sight of M. de Landas taking elaborate leave of a group of ladies. He had his usual circle of friends around him, who—a moment or two later—followed him out of the Palace.
Gilles, with Jehan close behind him, kept well within the shadows, away from the throng. He had exchanged his elaborate and rich costume for a suit that was both plain and sombre; he had washed the perfume out of his hair and the cosmetics from off his hands. He felt unfettered in his movements now and in rare good humour. The only thing which he had borrowed from his former accoutrement was the magnificent Toledo rapier, which, after a moment's hesitation, he had buckled into his own sword-belt. It had been a parting gift from Madame la Reyne de Navarre and was a miracle of the steel-worker's art; supple as velvet, it would bend point to hilt like a gleaming arc and when it caught a ray of light upon its perfect edge, it flashed a thousand coloured rays like a streak of vivid lightning in a storm-laden sky.
Jehan, on the other hand, was not altogether at his ease. Having less cause to feel exhilarated, he had a greater mistrust of the mysterious missive, had vainly tried to argue prudence where his master would only hearken to folly. But he had never succeeded in getting beyond a laboured: 'I th-th-th-think——' Upon which, he was peremptorily ordered to hold his tongue, even while Messire went merrily singing to face this questionable adventure.
At one point Gilles stopped in order to speak to a serving-man, asked him to tell him where was Monseigneur's private apartments, and when the man appeared to hesitate—for indeed he did not like to give this information to a stranger—Messire had seemingly lost his temper, and the man, trembling in his shoes, had stammered out the necessary directions. Monseigneur's private apartments and those of the household were in the right wing of the Palace. This was reached by mounting the grand staircase, then continuing along the main corridor which connected the different portions of the vast building, until the wing containing the living-rooms was reached. No one, the man went on to explain, slept in this portion of the Palace, which held only the reception rooms and one of the chapels; but there were always night-watchmen about the place to see that no malefactors were about.
Whilst the man spoke, Jehan felt as if his eyes were searching him through and through. The worthy soul was liking this adventure less and less every moment.
Indeed, very soon after this all the corridors became deserted. Singly, in pairs, or in groups, all Monseigneur's guests and their servants had taken their departure. For awhile the varlets and wenches belonging to the household were busy clearing up the disorder and the débris attendant on so large a gathering and on so copious a supper, and one could hear them jabbering and laughing in the distant dining hall or in the offices down below. Then that noise, too, became stilled, and one felt that this portion of the vast Palace was indeed completely uninhabited.
Up at the Town Hall, the belfry of Martin et Martine had just chimed the midnight hour. Messire Gilles and his faithful Jehan found themselves in the vast hall at the foot of the grand staircase, and the main entrance with its monumental gates was then immediately behind them. A strange stillness reigned all around: the great Palace seemed here like a city of the dead.
Jehan vainly tried to protest once more. For what was Messire waiting, he wondered. Surely it was unwise and worse to linger here now, when every one had gone and all servants were abed. Presently, of course, the night-watchmen would be making their rounds. Jehan had a swift and exceedingly unpleasant foreboding that he and his master would be ignominiously turned out! and then God alone knew in what rows and quarrels they would be involved, or how hopelessly they would jeopardize their own position; not to speak of the Queen of Navarre's cherished scheme. Poor Jehan would have given five years of his life and half his savings for five minutes' glib speech with his master.
Even at this very moment, Jehan's vague terrors took on a definite form. Footsteps and voices raised in merry converse were heard, resounding from the distance, and the next instant two serving-men carrying torches came leisurely down the corridor in the direction of the hall. Immediately behind them walked Monseigneur the Governor, who had Madame Jacqueline on his arm. Jehan felt as if his heart had stopped its beating; his knees shook under him, whilst tiny drops of perspiration rose at the roots of his hair.
Ye gods! if they were discovered now! They would be under grave suspicion of evil intent ... burglary ... assassination.... There had been talk at the banquet of 'spy' and 'Spaniard.' Jehan's scanty hair stood up on end with horror.
Fortunately, Messire was equally aware of danger, gave a quick glance round, and perceived a door close beside him on the right. This part of the hall was, equally luckily, in shadow. There was also just sufficient time to reach the door, to open it, and to step incontinently behind it, closing it again noiselessly. Phew! it had been a narrow escape!
The footsteps and the voices came rapidly nearer; a minute or two later they passed within a foot of the door behind which Gilles and Jehan were crouching, hardly daring to breathe. The glint of the torches could be distinctly seen through a narrow chink between two panels, as well as the shimmer of Madame's white satin gown. There were but a few inches of wood and a foot of floor-space between Messire and shameful discovery, and Maître Jehan fell to wondering what particular form of torture would be applicable to a man who was found lurking at dead of night in the dark, and with obviously evil designs on the life or property of the governor of a Flemish province.
Thank Heaven and all the protecting angels, however, the footsteps passed by, and presently were heard ascending the main staircase, and whilst Maître Jehan was feeling as if his whole body would melt in a sea of cold perspiration, Madame Jacqueline's rippling laughter came only as an echo from a considerable and comparatively safe distance.
After awhile Gilles ventured to open the door very cautiously. A faint murmur of people stirring came from very far away; the shuffling footsteps of the torch-bearers died away in the distant corridors.
And once more all was still.
Gilles gave vent to his feelings by a long-drawn-out 'Phew!' of obvious relief; but the next moment he said, quite coolly:
'Pardi, my good Jehan! but we did not want to be caught hiding in this place like a couple of malefactors, did we?' and made straightway to re-open the door. Jehan seized him by the arm and clung to him with all his might.
'Why shouldn't we st-st-st-stay here?' he urged almost glibly.
Gilles shrugged his shoulders. 'Why not, indeed?' he retorted. 'Something has got to happen presently,' he added carelessly. 'Somebody has got to come. If it is not Madame Jacqueline—and, honestly, my good Jehan, I have small hopes of that—If it is not Madame, then——'
He paused and frowned. For the first time a sharp suspicion had crossed his mind. Had he proved himself to be a vanity-ridden coxcomb after all? Should not the most elementary prudence have dictated....? Bah! whatever prudence had dictated, Gilles would not have listened. He was out for adventure! Whether gallant or dangerous he did not care! Once more he shrugged his broad shoulders and unconsciously his slender hand gripped the hilt of his splendid Spanish sword.
He threw a quick glance around him. Through the open door, the huge metal lamps which illumined the hall beyond threw a wide shaft of golden light into the room where he and Jehan had found such welcome refuge. It appeared to be something of a boudoir or library, for the shaft of light revealed rows of books, which lined the walls all round. There was a window at the far end of the room, and that was closely curtained, and there was no other door save the one through which the two men had entered. The fire in the large open hearth had been allowed to die down. A massive desk stood not far from the window, and there were a few chairs about and a small, iron-bound coffer. Papers littered the desk and a finely wrought candelabra hung from the ceiling.
'The room,' said Gilles lightly, 'looks as if it had been closed for the night. There is no reason why we should not await here the future course of events.' He drew one of the chairs into a comfortable position and sat down, then added: 'I do not know, of course, how long we may have to cool our heels in this place, until the writer of the mysterious epistle chooses to explain his or her commands. I am beginning to think, as you do, my friend, that the missive should have been signed with an "L" rather than with a "J". What say you?'
'Aye! Aye!' muttered Jehan.
'Well, 'tis no matter! I'd as soon meet mine ebullient friend of the languorous eyes to-night as to-morrow, and inside this deserted Palace as out there in the rain. And a little sword-play would be very stimulating after the sentimental dalliance of the last few days.'
'H'm!' murmured Jehan equivocally.
'In the meanwhile, there is no reason why we should not have a rest. I confess to feeling rather sleepy. Just take a last look at the corridor,' concluded Gilles, as he stretched his long limbs out before him. 'And if you are satisfied that all is well, come and join me in an excursion to the land of Nod.'
Jehan went to the door as he was told and peered cautiously to right and left of him. Seeing nothing suspicious, he went as far as the great hall to listen if all was clear and still. It was whilst he was gone that something arrested Gilles' attention. Furtive footsteps this time—a number of them—moving stealthily along the corridor. With a quick gesture, he adjusted the mask over his face—instinct led him to do that first and foremost; then he jumped to his feet and went to the door, but had no time to step across the threshold, for the next instant a compact group of moving figures emerged straight in front of him out of the gloom, intercepting him and barring the way.
'À moi, Jehan!' he called aloud.
But it was too late. From the hall beyond there came the sound of a vigorous scuffle. Jehan, caught unawares, was putting up a good fight seemingly against heavy odds; but he could no longer reach his master—whilst some half-dozen gentlemen, all wearing masks, were pushing their way into the room.
'We've run our fox to earth at last, Messeigneurs,' came with a mocking laugh from out this dense and aggressive-looking group. 'And without cooling our heels in the wet—what? I told you that this would be the better plan. His own egregious vanity hath led him straight into our trap and 'tis mighty fine sport that we'll have with this abominable spy, without fear of interruption.'
It was the voice of M. de Landas, unmistakable owing to the slight guttural pronunciation of the French language peculiar to his Spanish blood. Before Gilles could forestall him, he and his friends were all around him: six of them, fine young gallants—those who had supported de Landas in the quarrel after the banquet.
Gilles surveyed them all with a rapid glance, measured his own position, which of a truth was not an advantageous one. The light from the lamps in the hall fell, through the open doorway, full upon him, whilst his aggressors appeared only like a dense mass in the heart of the shadow. They were evidently intent on forcing him back into the room; their movements appeared like part of a concerted plan of action, to get him into a corner where they could more comfortably hold him at their mercy.
Gilles realized his position, the danger in which he stood and his best chance of defence, with the unerring rapidity of a born soldier.
'It must have taken a huge effort of intelligence, Messire,' he said ironically, 'to concoct this pretty plan. What was there in an open challenge to frighten so many stalwart gallants?'
He gave ground, retreated into the room while he spoke. De Landas and his friends pressed in closely after him.
'I have yet to learn,' retorted the young Spaniard with a sneer, 'that you are worthy of crossing swords with one of us. You may draw, an' you have a mind; but you cannot escape the lesson which I and my friends have vowed to administer to you, and which, forsooth, you have so richly deserved.'
''Tis no use,' he added with an intaking of the breath like an angry snake, ''Tis no use calling for help. The night-watchmen are in my pay: my own men have settled with your servant, and no sound short of an earthquake could reach the distant wing of the Palace where Monseigneur and his household are abed.'
He drew his sword, and his friends immediately did likewise. Still they advanced, the solid phalanx of them, and so cunningly that Gilles was kept in the shaft of light whilst they remained under cover of the shadow.
'A murder!' said Gilles quietly.
'A lesson, first and foremost,' was de Landas' curt reply. 'After that, we shall see.'
'What shall we see, Messire?' riposted Gilles with a mocking laugh. 'A Spanish cavalier stooping to assassination——?'
'Who spoke of assassination?' queried one of the gallants.
'Why else are you here?' retorted Gilles, 'the six of you, whilst half a dozen or more of your varlets are overpowering my man outside, after ye have bribed or threatened the watchmen into silence? Methinks it looks uncommonly like projected murder.'
'Whatever it is,' broke in de Landas savagely, 'it will be a lesson which you are not like to forget.'
'The lesson of how to lay an ignoble trap for an unsuspecting foe? A lesson, indeed, in which the teacher is well-versed in infamy. The assignation; the forged signature! The watchmen bribed, a dozen of you to attack two men, and, as you say, the wings of the Palace where our host and his servants lie abed, well out of earshot. My compliments, M. de Landas! I have met much knavery in my time, but none, I think, quite so cleverly devised. France, it seems, hath still a great deal to learn from Spain, and——'
He had not yet drawn in response to the other's challenge, but stepped back and back until he was almost up against the desk at the far end of the room. Then, suddenly, with a movement so swift that his antagonists were taken completely unawares, he skipped behind the desk and with a push of his strong arms threw it down straight at his assailants, forcing them in their turn to give ground or the massive piece of furniture would have fallen on the top of them. As it was, it came to the ground with a crash, the noise as it fell being to a certain extent subdued by the thickness of the matting which covered the floor.
When de Landas and his friends recovered from the suddenness of this unexpected shock, positions for them were unpleasantly reversed. They were now in full light, a good target for an experienced swordsman, whilst Messire le Prince de Froidmont lurked somewhere in the shadow. Fortunately he was comfortably outnumbered, and his henchman quite helpless by now; to disarm him and give him the long promised chastisement was only a question of time.
'And I have sworn,' cried de Landas spitefully, 'to deposit at Madame Jacqueline's feet the mask which still hides his impudent face.'
Gilles, however, was determined to sell his life or his discomfiture dearly. He had not been slow in consolidating his new position. Losing not one second of precious time, he drew the overthrown desk close to him, picked up a couple of chairs that were close by, then reached out for two or three more, piled these up over and around the desk, and by the time de Landas and his crowd had recovered their bearings and returned to the attack, he was magnificently ensconced behind a barricade of heaped-up furniture, and, having drawn his sword, was ready for defence.
'Now, Messeigneurs,' he said with those same mocking tones which had already exasperated de Landas beyond endurance, 'see to it that you escape well-merited chastisement; for, on my oath, I swear that 'tis I who will deposit half a dozen masks at Madame Jacqueline's feet ere I give you a chance of carrying out that nice little murder plot which was destined to cover six stalwart seigneurs with glory.'
De Landas gave a harsh laugh.
'Your ruse will not protect you,' he said, 'though I confess 'twas well manoeuvred. À moi, friends! 'Twill not be the first time that you have aided me in extirpating noisome vermin from its hidden burrow. You, La Broye, and du Prêt, hold the right; Herlaer and Maarege the left; de Borel, you and I wherever we are needed, and en avant. At him, friends! No barricade on earth nor protecting darkness shall save him from the punishment which he hath so richly deserved. At him, and unmask the rogue, so that I can at last smite the impudent spy in the face!'
De Borel, young, impetuous, a fiery nincompoop, easily led by the nose by his more brilliant friend, was not slow in following the lead given him. He and Herlaer made a swift rush for the improvised barricade whilst de Landas attacked in the centre and the others, with equal vigour, both on right and left. They thrust their swords somewhat wildly through the interstices provided by the legs of the chairs which towered above the overturned desk, lunged blindly into the darkness, for they could not see their opponent. For a few minutes all was confusion—the din of clashing steel, the hoarse cries of the assailants, and Gilles' ironical taunts as he parried all these aimless thrusts with the coolness of a consummate swordsman—all merged into a chaotic uproar. The next moment, however, Herlaer went down, and then de Borel, each with a deep gash in the leg, which had ripped up the flesh from the ankle to midway up the calf.
The front of the desk happened to be kidney-shaped, and it was through the aperture formed by that front as it lay on its beam end that Gilles' sword had suddenly darted out once and then again, like some vicious snake, with maddening rapidity and stealth, inflicting the sharp flesh wounds which had so disconcerted his assailants. They, entirely taken unawares, irritated by this attack from a wholly unforeseen quarter, not only fell back with some precipitancy, but also with a marked cooling off of their primary ardour. They had come straight from a festive gathering, were wearing silk hose and low shoes of velvet, and at this moment were wishing that their ankles had been protected by substantial leather boots. Somewhat sulkily they set to to staunch their wounds with their lace-edged handkerchiefs. De Landas watched them with a scowl, giving the while a short respite to his opponent—the latter, of a truth, well ensconced behind his barricades, was more difficult to get at than had at first been supposed.
There ensued a hasty council of war. Herlaer, limping, was despatched for reinforcements. The varlets who had effectually dealt with Jehan might as well come and lend a hand to dress their masters' wounds. Jehan, indeed, lay prone upon the flagstones of the hall, having apparently succumbed to a blow on the head, of which one of those same varlets was even now boasting with inordinate vainglory to his companions, when they were all incontinently called away to attend upon the young seigneurs.
De Landas in the meanwhile had returned to the assault. Leaving Herlaer and de Borel in the hands of their henchmen, he called the others lustily to him.
'À moi, du Prêt, Maarege, La Broye!' he cried. 'Beware of the fox's underground burrow, and en avant!'
He had espied the small coffer, seized it by one of its handles and dragged it across the floor. Aided by Maarege, they succeeded in placing it in position so as to block the aperture below the barricade. Now there was no longer any danger from that quarter; the enemy was getting foiled at every turn. And with renewed valour they once more rushed to the assault.
Gilles now was on his feet, ensconced in the angle of the wall, so as to allow his sword arm full play; and indeed, in his skilful hands the magnificent Toledo blade seemed like a living, breathing thing—a tongue of steel which darted in and out of the improvised barricade, forward, to right, to left, parry, en garde, thrust, lunge—out of the darkness, now and then only catching a glint of light upon its smooth surface, when it would flash and gleam like a streak of vivid lightning, to subside again, retire, disappear into the gloom, only to dart out again more menacing, more invincible than before.
And every time that this tongue of living flame shot out of the darkness it left its searing trail behind. Maarege was bleeding from the shoulder, du Prêt from the thigh; La Broye had a gash across the forehead, and de Landas' forearm was torn from the wrist to the elbow. On the other hand, de Landas' sword was also stained with blood. He gave a cry of triumph.
'À moi, de Borel! Herlaer!' he called to the other two. 'At the barricades, while we keep the rogue busy. He cannot hold out much longer!'
And, indeed, the combat was far too unequal to last. One man against six, and his only ally was the darkness. That too was failing him, for his assailants' eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. They were able to descry him more easily than before, and there was not a mean swordsman amongst them, either. Even now, under cover of a vigorous onslaught made by de Landas and his three seconds, de Borel and Herlaer—their wounds temporarily dressed—rushed for the barricade and dragged first one chair and then the other away, and finally succeeded in throwing the two others right into Gilles' legs, thus hampering the freedom of his movements. True, that during this rapidly executed manoeuvre, de Borel received a gash across the cheek and Herlaer a thrust in the arm; but the solitary fighter's position had been rendered decidedly more precarious.
'Throw up your hands, you fool!' exclaimed de Landas with grudging admiration at his opponent's swordsmanship. 'Unmask, and go your way, and we will call quits over this affair!'
Gilles' only reply to the taunt was an ironical laugh. The chairs encumbered his legs, but his sword arm was free, and he had once been counted the finest swordsman in France. Attack and parry again, thrust and en garde—six blades menaced him, and he, ensconced in the dark angle, kept the six of them at bay! Now du Prêt's sword, with a vigorous blow, was knocked clean out of his hand; anon Maarege's blade was broken in two close to the hilt.
Confusion now reigned supreme. Fight and excitement had whipped up the blood of all these young gallants till a perfect fury of hatred for the invincible opponent drew a blood-red, veil-like mist before their eyes. The frantic desire to kill was upon them; their wounds no longer ached, their arms felt no weariness; the breath came with a hissing sound through their quivering nostrils. Now Maarege and La Broye succeeded in further demolishing the barricade, dragging away the table, overthrowing the chairs, making the way clear to right and left of these for a concerted attack upon the foe. Gilles, quick as a bird that scents an attack, skipped over the obstacle, darted to the right, where the curtained window was, and shadows still hung dark, almost impenetrable.
Already he was en garde again, close to the window this time—seemed still fresh and full of vigour though bleeding from more than one wound. He loved this fight, as a hungry man loves the first morsel of food which a kindly hand places before him; loved it for its excitement—one of the keenest he had ever sustained. De Landas' fury stimulated him, maddened jealousy was so obviously its mainspring; and Gilles felt as if he were fighting for the possession of Jacqueline. His fine Toledo blade filled him with joy—at this very moment it pierced de Borel's thigh as easily as it would have done a pat of butter.
'There's for one of you!' exclaimed Gilles in triumphant exhilaration.
De Borel was now out of action, and La Broye was weakening perceptibly; but du Fret had recovered his sword and Maarege was brandishing the broken stump of his rapier, whilst de Landas, drunk with jealousy and with rage, returned to the assault again and again, heedless of his wounds. The room was a mass of wreckage. Overturned furniture, broken débris, scraps of silken doublets and velvet mantles, shoulder knots, tassels and bits of priceless lace, littered the floor; the matting in places showed dark crimson stains and had become slippery under the ceaseless tramp of feet. With his barricade all tumbled about him, Gilles was more open to attack, for there were still four of them at least against him, and they pressed him closely enough just now.
'At him, friends!' de Landas contrived to shout, in a voice rendered husky with exhaustion. 'At him! The rogue is weakening rapidly! One more effort, and we have him!'
'Nay, by God! Ye have not!' exclaimed Gilles lustily, and parried with dazzling skill an almost simultaneous attack from de Landas and Herlaer on one side and Maarege and du Prêt on the other. They fell on him with redoubled energy, wellnigh frenzied by the seeming invincibility of their foe, their own impotence. They had thought to make sure of victory, had come in their numbers to administer humiliation and correction, and now were half crazy with impending defeat. And so vigorous became their attack, so determined were they to bring that hated foe to his knees, that it seemed for the moment as if he must succumb, as if only some sort of magic could save him.
But for a man of Gilles' temperament there could be no such thing as defeat. Defeat for him meant humiliation, which he could not tolerate, and the failure of Madame la Reyne's cherished plan. He was not only defending his life now, but her schemes and her happiness. His perfect blade accomplished miracles of defence; again and again his enemies returned to the charge. But that blade lived; it breathed; it palpitated with every thrust and every parry, swifter than lightning's flash. Now it was du Prêt's turn to stagger under a slashing cut on the shoulder, whilst La Broye was almost swooning with loss of blood.
'For two! And for three!' cried Gilles with a laugh. 'Three more of you, and I have done!'
With a cry of rage de Landas turned to the serving-men who, appalled by the fury of this combat, were cowering together in a far corner of the room, hardly daring to breathe.
'Here, Jan!' he shouted hoarsely. 'Peter! Nikolas! All of you! Seize that man! Fall on him! Seize him! At him! At him, I say!'
For just the fraction of a second the men shrank away still further into the angle of the room, terrified at the uncontrolled rage which had prompted the monstrous and cowardly command. They hesitated but only for one instant, and during that instant there was breathing time for all. But the next, egged on by de Landas' threatening commands, they gathered themselves together and came forward at a rush.
Gilles at once saw this new, this unexpected source of danger. The utter cowardice of this fresh attack lent him strength and power to act. With one of those swift, masterful gestures of his which were as unexpected as they were unerring, he threw aside his sword and seizing one of the heavy chairs which lay prone close by, he raised it above his head and brandishing it like a gigantic swivel he stood there, towering, menacing, breathing hatred too now against the dastardly foe who could thus outrage every canon of chivalry and of valour.
He struck out with the heavy chair, to right, to left. The varlets paused, really terrified. De Landas egged them on, prodded them with his sword. He had wandered so far now on the broad road of infamy, he was ready to go on to its ignominious end.
'Fall on him, Jan! Nikolas! All of you, you abominable knaves!' he cried huskily. 'Fall on him; or by Satan, I'll have you all hanged to-morrow!'
He beat them with the flat of his sword, kicked them and struck at them with his fist, till they were forced to advance. The heavy chair came down with a crash on the head of one man, the shoulder of another. There were loud curses and louder groans; but numbers were telling in the end. One more assault, one more rush, and they were on him. Then Gilles, as if by instinct, felt the folds of the heavy window curtain behind him.
To gain one second's time, he threw the chair straight at the compact mass of men, disconcerting the attack; then with both hands he seized the curtain, gave it a mighty wrench which brought it down in a heaped up medley of voluminous folds and broken cornice, and threw the whole mass of tangled drapery on his onrushing foes. De Landas, who was in the forefront of the aggressors, was the first to lose his footing. Already weak with loss of blood, he stumbled and fell, dragging one or two of the varlets with him. The edge of the cornice struck du Prêt on the head and completed the swoon which had already been threatening him, whilst Maarege, dazed, uncomprehending, stared about him in a state of semi-imbecility.
The other knaves, paralysed by some kind of superstitious fear, gazed on him open-mouthed while Gilles, still moved only by the blind instinct of self-preservation, extricated himself from his newly-improvised stronghold.
His first instinctive act was to stoop in order to pick up his sword again. A momentary lull—strange and weird in its absolute stillness had succeeded the wild confusion of awhile ago. Gilles staggered as he straightened out his tall figure once more, was at last conscious that even his splendid endurance had been nigh to breaking point. There was a mist before his eyes, through which he could vaguely perceive a cowering group of lacqueys quite close to him, huddled up together almost at his feet in the gloom; others, whose vague forms could be discerned under the fallen tapestry: further on, de Borel, lying helpless beside Herlaer; Maarege still clutching his broken sword; La Broye in a swoon, lying across the upturned desk, and de Landas, half-sitting, half-reclining, on an overthrown chair, obviously struggling against dizziness, his hand outstretched, with convulsed fingers that still threatened and pointed at the hated foe.
For the moment Gilles could not move. The mask on his face scorched his brow and cheeks as if it had been made of hot iron, and yet, though he longed to tear it off, his arm, from sheer exhaustion, refused him service. He longed to get out of that door, to find Jehan; but his limbs felt as if they were weighted with lead: his very brain was in a state of torpor.
Just then, through that semi-conscious state, he heard swift footsteps approaching down the main staircase, then across the hall. The serving-men, almost blind with terror, heard them too, crouched yet closer together in the gloom. They dragged themselves along the floor, nearer to Gilles, as if for protection. Experience had taught the poor wretches that, whatever else happened, they would be made to suffer for all that had occurred. True, they deserved all that they would get, for they too had played an ignoble part; but whatever else happened there would be floggings or worse for them. Their employers were too weak now to protect them even if they would. M. le Marquis, enraged at defeat, would perhaps be the first to give his men away. So they gathered round Gilles now—round the man whom they had helped almost to murder. They clung to him in their sheer, unreasoning cowardice—the instinct to get behind something that was still stalwart and strong. They crawled away into the shadow, out of sight of Monseigneur's serving-men if these should come, of the night-watchmen or of the Palace guard if they appeared upon the scene.
Thus Gilles, when he tried to move towards the door, could not do so because of that cringing mass of humanity that clung, terror-stricken, round his legs. He was too utterly weary to kick them all aside, so he remained quite still, listening to those approaching footsteps. One of these he could have sworn to—heavy, and with a slight dragging of the feet—which could only have belonged to Jehan. He tried to call to his faithful henchman, but his throat was so dry he could not utter a sound.
The footsteps were quite close now, and through the open doorway he could see that a new and flickering light threw every nook of the corridor into bold relief. A torch-bearer was coming along; other lighter footsteps followed, and anon it seemed as if a woman's satin skirts swept the marble floor with its melodious frou-frou.
Gilles now was in a trance-like state on the borders of unconsciousness, a state wherein the body's utter exhaustion seems to render the mental perceptions abnormally acute. He could only stand and gaze at the open doorway; but he knew that in a very few seconds she would appear. He knew that it was she who was coming: she and Jehan. Old Jehan had found her and brought her along, and now that he—Gilles—was weary and sick she would minister to him and tend him as she had done that night, long ago, in what still seemed to him so like a dream.
The next moment the second half of the folding door was flung open and a torch, held aloft by a serving-man, threw a flood of light into the room. Immediately afterwards, under the lintel of the door, Jacqueline appeared, just as Gilles had expected her to do, like a vision of the angel of peace, in her shimmering white satin gown, with the pearls round her neck and her crown of golden hair. She had no mask on, and even through the veil which seemed to hang before Gilles' eyes he could see that tantalizing little brown mole which gave such exquisite, roguish charm to her face and made of the angel vision a living, perfect piece of adorable womanhood.
Jacqueline de Broyart was not the sort of woman who would faint at sight of blood. Her country had suffered too much and too long for her to have remained ignorant and detached from all the horrors which perpetual warfare against tyranny and intolerance had sowed broadcast upon the land. She had ministered to the sick and tended, the wounded ever since her baby hands had been strong enough to apply a bandage. But at sight of this disordered room, of the ghastly faces of these men—ghastly above their blood-stained masks—of de Landas' weird, convulsive gesture, of Maarege's attitude of vacant imbecility, of all the litter of stained floor and soiled bits of finery, she recoiled with an involuntary cry of horror. The recoil, however, was only momentary; the next, she had come forward quickly, a cry of pity this time upon her lips. Her first thought was for de Landas—the friend, the playmate, the lover. She hurried to him, hardly looked on Gilles, who could not move or call, who tried not to stagger or to fall headlong at her feet.
Now Jacqueline had her arms round her lover, his head rested against her shoulder, soiling the white satin of her gown with ugly crimson stains. But that she did not heed. She could not conjecture what had happened! That stuttering, stammering creature, himself half dazed and bruised, had found his way to Monseigneur's living-room, had in incoherent language implored her to come. Monseigneur happened to be absent from the room at the moment, had gone to give orders to one of his servants. Jacqueline was alone, sitting by the hearth waiting for him when the creature came. She knew him for the henchman of the Prince de Froidmont, the man who had fought so valiantly to defend his master awhile ago in the banqueting hall. She could see that he was hurt and in grave distress and gathered from his confused stammer that something awful was happening somewhere in the Palace. She followed him without any hesitation, and now through that medley of hideous sights which confronted her in this room, the most vivid thing that struck her gaze was de Landas' convulsive gesture, pointing at Gilles.
Already, with a few quick words, she had despatched the torchbearer for assistance.
'Go, Anselm!' she said, 'and rouse Nicolle and two of my women. Tell them some gentlemen are hurt and that I order them to come hither at once and to bring all that is necessary for the dressing of wounds. And—stay!' she added in a tone of peremptory command. 'Not a word to Monseigneur or to his men—you understand?'
The man nodded in quick comprehension, fixed the torch into the wall-bracket and went. As soon as he had gone Jacqueline turned back to de Landas, pillowed his aching head upon her bosom and held his poor, trembling hand in her strong, warm grasp. Then only did she turn to look on Gilles.
He appeared unhurt, or nearly so. True, his doublet was stained—he might have received a scratch—and he bore about his person that unmistakable air of a fighting man who has been in the thick of a fight; but amongst these other fallen and fainting men he alone was standing—and standing firmly, on his feet. And he had a group of men around him, all of whom were quite obviously unhurt. They looked like his henchmen, for they crowded close behind him, looking up to him as to their master.
So, whatever had happened—and Jacqueline gave an involuntary shudder at the thoughts and conjectures which were crowding into her brain—whatever else had happened, the stranger had had plenty of minions and varlets with him to defend him, even if he had been set upon by de Landas and his friends.
It were easy to blame Jacqueline for the utterly false interpretation which she had put on what she saw; but de Landas was the friend, the playmate, and—yes!—the lover; whilst Gilles was only a stranger and an adventurer at best. Strangers were both feared and hated these days in this unfortunate, stricken country, that was tyrannized over and cowed by conquerors of alien blood; and though Jacqueline was shrewd enough to suspect de Landas and his companions of the treachery which they had indeed committed, yet in her mind she half-excused him on the plea that the Prince de Froidmont had been unchivalrous and timid enough to have his person guarded by a gang of paid varlets. Thus it was that the look which she threw on Gilles was both contemptuous and unpitying.
'I pray you, Messire,' she said coldly, 'to leave my guardian's house, ere I call to him to demand of you an explanation which I imagine you are not prepared to give.'
Her words, her look, were so different to what Gilles had expected that, for the moment, he remained absolutely speechless. He certainly had not his wits entirely about him, or he would not, after that one moment of silence, have burst into a harsh and prolonged laugh.
'Messire!' reiterated Jacqueline, more peremptorily, 'I have desired you to go, and to take your varlets along with you, ere they swoon with the excess of their terror.'
'Your varlets!' Gilles laughed more loudly than before—indeed, he felt that he could no longer stop himself from laughing now until he dropped down dead on the floor. Jacqueline was leaning over de Landas and saying something to him which he—Gilles—could not very well hear, but her whole attitude, the look wherewith she regarded the wounded man, sent such a pang of insensate jealousy through Gilles' heart that he could have groaned aloud with the misery of it.
'I entreat you, my beloved,' de Landas murmured more audibly after awhile, 'to go back to your apartments. This is no place for you, and my friends and I will struggle homewards anon.'
'I cannot leave you like this, José!' she broke in firmly. 'Not while—while that man and his varlets are here!'
Ye gods! the humour of the situation! No wonder that Gilles could not cease laughing, even though his side ached and his head felt like splitting with pain. But he obeyed her commands, peremptorily ordered the cowering group of knaves to go; and they, thankful to escape, rushed helter-skelter for the door. Probably they never understood what the noble lady had been saying, and they were too stupid with terror to say aught in protest. Whether M. le Marquis de Landas, who had employed them for this night's work, would pay them liberally on the morrow, as he had promised, or have them flogged for failing to murder the stranger, still remained to be seen. For the moment, they were only too thankful to escape with their skins whole. Jehan, who much against his will had been forced to remain at attention behind the door, relieved his feelings by giving each of them a vigorous kick ere they started to run madly down the corridor.
While the last of them was stumbling over the threshold Gilles managed to pull himself together sufficiently to stop that paroxysm of ungovernable laughter.
'Have no fear, Madame,' he contrived to say with moderate coherence and a full measure of contemptuous irony, 'I'll not harm M. le Marquis de Landas or his five gallant friends, on mine honour! All that remains for me to do now is to collect the half-dozen masks which I swore awhile ago to place as a trophy at your feet.'
'I forbid you, Messire,' she retorted coldly, 'to pursue this callous jest any further.'
'Jest? It was no jest, Madame! I swore to unmask these gentlemen, and——'
'And took good care to protect yourself against their wrath by a crowd of ruffianly bullies! The victory—if, indeed, there be one—doth not redound to the credit of Messire le Prince de Froidmont.'
'Even so, I must redeem my pledge,' he riposted in a tone quite as cool now as hers. 'So, by your leave——'
She watched him, fascinated—somewhat like a hare might watch the playful antics of a tiger—with blue eyes opened wide in wonder and horror, as he went lightly from one man to the other and with deft fingers removed their masks, then threaded them by the eye-slits along the length of his sword. De Borel never moved—he was quite unconscious, and La Broye only groaned and tried to turn away. But both Herlaer and du Prêt struggled in feeble self-defence, and Maarege, still clutching his broken rapier, made futile efforts to lunge at Gilles. But they too were faint from exhaustion and loss of blood, and Gilles, who had himself well in hand, had strength enough for his self-imposed task. Jacqueline never moved. Protests against this outrage were obviously of no avail, and physically she had not the strength to intervene. But when he finally turned to de Landas, she interposed with all her might, with the motherly instinct of a bird, striving to protect its mate.
'I forbid you, Messire!' she cried.
But even before the words were out of her mouth, de Landas with a hoarse cry of pent-up rage had struggled to his feet. With convulsed hands he fell heavily on Gilles, gripping him by the throat. Jacqueline could not suppress the cry of horror which rose to her lips: these two wounded men, one of them in the last stages of exhaustion, fighting and tearing, at grips with one another, like beasts convulsed in a desperate struggle for life.
But that same struggle could not help but be brief. De Landas was vanquished even before his last futile effort had fully matured. A minute or two later he was on his knees. Gilles held him down with one hand and with the other detached the mask from his face. He had thrown down his sword when de Landas attacked him with his hands. The row of masks had slid down the blade; they now lay in a mass upon the matting, right at Jacqueline's feet. De Landas' mask went to join the rest, and Gilles coolly picked up his sword. The light from the torch was full on him. Jacqueline still watched him, speechless and fascinated. It seemed as if she could not detach her eyes from him—his masked face, his broad shoulders, his hands; above all, his hands—the left one wherewith he tossed de Landas' mask at her feet; and the right, which clutched that exquisitely fashioned rapier with so much conscious power.
In a vague, dreamy kind of way, she noted how slender and nervy were those hands, despite their outward roughness and toil-worn look—the hands of a soldier, very obviously. The Prince de Froidmont must have been in many a bloody fray; had been wounded too on the left wrist—a severe cut. The scar gleamed white against the bronzed hue of the flesh. Jacqueline gazed on, strangely stirred. The scar was a very peculiar one, shaped like a cross, and at the time must almost have severed the wrist from the arm. She only remembered having once seen a similar wound, which must have left just such a peculiar scar. That was some three years ago, after that awful fight near Gembloux. Her brother Jan, since dead, was at the time lying sick at the monastery close by. She had wandered out for a breath of fresh air, feeling weary and desperately anxious. She was a mere child then, just past her sixteenth year. Outside the postern gate she and Nicolle had espied a soldier, lying wounded and unconscious on the ground. Nicolle had gone for help and two of the good monks had carried the poor man into the monastery. The leech who waited on Jan had tended him, and afterwards Jacqueline had ordered him to be transported back on the abandoned battle-field, where mayhap his comrades would presently find him; and she had seen that he was provided with food and with a pitcher of water, for she had been so sorry—so very sorry for him.
All that had happened three years ago, and Jacqueline had never thought on the matter again until now. Strange that the scar on Messire le Prince de Froidmont's wrist should so remind her of that little incident which had occurred in the monastery near Gembloux. Strange also that Messire should stand before her now and be searching her face with that intent glance of his, which she could feel right through the slits of his mask. He caught her looking at him so inquiringly and she straightway averted her gaze; but not before she had noted that with a quick gesture he had suddenly pulled the sleeve of his doublet well over his hand.
Gilles abruptly made for the door. But close to the threshold he turned and looked once more on Jacqueline. He could no longer see her face now, for she was stooping to de Landas, supporting him with her strong young arms. She had given one glance at the half-dozen masks which lay there on the floor where he had thrown them down. One or two were stained, others torn. She gave a shudder of horror and buried her face on de Landas' shoulder! Gilles could see that at sight of those things she had at last given way to tears and that convulsive sobs were shaking her lovely shoulders.
He felt a miserable brute—a callous ruffian who, for the sake of despicable vainglory, had done just the last thing that broke down this valiant woman's magnificent fortitude. A wave of self-contempt swept over him. He had meant to justify himself, to tell her that, far from being a common braggart who employed paid spadassins to save his own skin, he and his one faithful henchman had been set upon by her lover and his friends aided by half a dozen varlets to boot. He had meant to challenge de Landas to deny this truth, to force an avowal from his lips or from those of the young coxcombs who had played such a cowardly rôle in this night's work.
Yes, he had meant her to know the truth—the truth which would have shown her her lover and her friends in their true light. But when he saw those exquisite shoulders shaken with sobs, when he heard the pitiful little moans which at last found their way to her lips, he felt that he could not add yet another sorrow to the heavy burden which was weighing that golden head down. Now he was something of a knave in her sight; if she learned the truth from his lips he would become a cur in his own.
And, bidding Jehan to follow him, Gilles de Crohin hurried out of the room.