THE GREY CLOAK
by
HAROLD MACGRATH
Author of _The Puppet Crown_
The Illustrations by Thomas Mitchell Peirce
Grosset and DunlapPublishers, New York
1903
[Frontispiece]
MAY
LIKE STEVENSON
SHE LOVES A STORY FOR THE STORY'S SAKE
SO I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO HER
WHOSE BEAUTY I ADMIRE
AND WHOSE HEART AND MIND I LOVE
MY COUSIN
LILLIAN A. BALDWIN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE MAN IN THE CLOAK II THE TOILET OF THE CHEVALIER III THE MUTILATED HAND IV AN AENEAS FOR AN ACHATES V THE HORN OF PLENTY VI AN ACHATES FOR AN AENEAS VII THE PHILOSOPHY OF PERIGNY VIII THE LAST ROUT IX THE FIFTY PISTOLES X THE MASQUERADING LADIES XI THE JOURNEY TO QUEBEC XII A BALLADE OF DOUBLE REFRAIN XIII TEN THOUSAND LIVRES XIV BRETON FINDS A MARKER XV THE SUPPER XVI THE POET EXPLAINS XVII WHAT THE SHIP BRINGS XVIII THE MASTER OF IRONIES XIX A PAGE FROM MYTHOLOGY XX A WARRANT OR A CONTRACT XXI AN INGENIOUS IDEA XXII MADAME FINDS A DROLL BOOK XXIII A MARQUIS DONS HIS BALDRIC XXIV A DISSERTATION ON CHARITY XXV ORIOLES AND PREROGATIVES XXVI THE STORY OF HIAWATHA XXVII ONONDAGA XXVIII THE FLASH FROM THE FLAME XXIX A JOURNEY INTO THE HILLS XXX BROTHER JACQUES' ABSOLVO TE XXXI THE HUNTING HUT XXXII A GALLANT POET XXXIII HOW GABRIELLE DIANE LOVED XXXIV ABSOLUTION OF PERIGNY XXXV BROTHER!
NOTE
The author has taken a few liberties with the lives of varioushistorical personages who pass through these pages; but only for thestory's sake. He is also indebted to the Jesuit Relations, to OldParis, by Lady Jackson, and to Clark's History of Onondaga, the legendof Hiawatha being taken from the last named volume.
THE GREY CLOAK
CHAPTER I
THE MAN IN THE CLOAK.
A man enveloped in a handsome grey cloak groped through a dark alleywhich led into the fashionable district of the Rue de Bethisy. Fromtime to time he paused, with a hand to his ear, as if listening.Satisfied that the alley was deserted save for his own presence, hewould proceed, hugging the walls. The cobbles were icy, and scarce amoment passed in which he did not have to struggle to maintain hisbalance. The door of a low tavern opened suddenly, sending a goldenshaft of light across the glistening pavement and casting a brilliantpatch on the opposite wall. With the light came sounds of laughter andquarreling and ringing glasses. The man laid his hand on his sword,swore softly, and stepped back out of the blinding glare. The flash oflight revealed a mask which left visible only the lower half of hisface. Men wearing masks were frequently subjected to embarrassingquestions; and this man was determined that no one should question himto-night. He waited, hiding in the shadow.
Half a dozen guardsmen and musketeers reeled out. The host reviledthem for a pack of rogues. They cursed him, laughing, and went on, tobe swallowed up in the darkness beyond. The tavern door closed, andonce more the alley was hued with melting greys and purples. The manin the cloak examined the strings of his mask, tilted his hat stillfarther down over his eyes, and tested the looseness of his sword.
"The drunken fools!" he muttered, continuing. "Well for them they camenot this way."
When he entered the Rue de Bethisy, he stopped, searched up and downthe thoroughfare. Far away to his right he saw wavering torches, butthese receded and abruptly vanished round a corner of the Rue desFosses St-Germain l'Auxerrois. He was alone. A hundred yards to hisleft, on the opposite side of the street, stood a gloomy butmagnificent hotel, one of the few in this quarter that was surroundedby a walled court. The hotel was dark. So far as the man in the greycloak could see, not a light filled any window. There were two gates.Toward the smaller of the two the man cautiously directed his steps.He tried the latch. The gate opened noiselessly, signifying frequentuse.
"So far, so good!"
An indecisive moment passed, as though the man were nerving himself foran ordeal of courage and cunning. With a gesture resigning himself towhatever might befall, he entered the court, careful to observe thatthe way out was no more intricate than the way in.
"Now for the ladder. If that is missing, it's horse and away to Spain,or feel the edge of Monsieur Caboche. Will the lackey be true? Falseor true, I must trust him. Bernouin would sell Mazarin for twentylouis, and that is what I have paid. Monsieur le Comte's lackey. Itwill be a clever trick. Mazarin will pay as many as ten thousandlivres for that paper. That fat fool of a Gaston, to conspire at hisage! Bah; what a muddled ass I was, in faith! I, to sign my name inwriting to a cabal! Only the devil knows what yonder old fool will dowith the paper. Let him become frightened, let that painted play-womancoddle him; and it's the block for us all, all save Gaston and Condeand Beaufort. Ah, Madame, Madame, loveliest in all France, 'twas yourbeautiful eyes. For the joy of looking into them, I have soiled afresh quill, tumbled into a pit, played the fool! And a silver crownagainst a golden louis, you know nothing about politics or intrigue,nor that that old fool of a husband is making a decoy of your beauty.But my head cleared this morning. That paper must be mine. First,because it is a guaranty for my head, and second, because it is likelyto fatten my purse. It will be simple to erase my name and substituteanother's. And this cloak! My faith, it is a stroke. To the devilwith Gaston and Conde and Beaufort; their ambitions are nothing to me,since my head is everything."
He tiptoed across the stone flags.
"Faith, this is a delicate operation; and the paper may be hiddenelsewhere into the bargain. We venture, we lose or we win; only thisis somewhat out of my line of work. Self-preservation is not theft;let us ease our conscience with this sophism . . . Ha! the ladder.Those twenty louis were well spent. This is droll, good heart. Anonlooker would swear that this is an assignation. Eh well, Romeo was asickly lover, and lopped about like a rose in a wind-storm. Mercutiowas the man!"
He had gained the side of the hotel. From a window above came a faintyellow haze such as might radiate from a single candle. This was thesignal that all was clear. The man tested the ladder, which was ofrope, and it withstood his weight. Very gently he began to climb,stopping every three or four rounds and listening. The only noise camefrom the armory where a parcel of mercenaries were moving about. Up,up, round by round, till his fingers touched the damp cold stone of thewindow ledge; the man raised himself, leaned toward the left, andglanced obliquely into the room. It was deserted. A candle burned ina small alcove. The man drew himself quickly into the room, which wasa kind of gallery facing the grand staircase. A sound coming from thehall below caused the intruder to slip behind a curtain. A lackey wasunbarring the door. The man in the gallery wondered why.
"My very nerves have ears," he murmured. "If I were sure . . . to paymadame a visit while she sleeps and dreams!" His hand grew tensearound the hilt of his sword. "No; let us play Iago rather thanTarquinius; let ambition, rather than love, strike the key-note. Greedwas not born to wait. As yet I have robbed no man save at cards; andas every noble cheats when he can, I can do no less. Neither have Istruck a man in the back. And I like not this night's business."
On the cold and silent night came ten solemn strokes from the clock ofSt.-Germain l'Auxerrois. Then all was still again. The man came frombehind the curtain, his naked sword flashing evilly in the flickeringlight. He took up the candle and walked coolly down the wide corridor.The sureness of his step could have originated only in the perfectknowledge of the topography of the hotel. He paused before a door, hisear to the keyhole.
"She sleeps! . . . and the wolf prowls without the door!" He musedover the wayward path by which he had come
into the presence of thiswoman, who slept tranquilly beyond these panels of oak. He felt a glowon his cheeks, a quickening of his pulse. To what lengths would he notgo for her sake? Sure of winning her love, yes, he would become great,rise purified from the slough of loose living. He had never killed aman dishonorably; he had won his duels by strength and dexterity alone.He had never taken an advantage of a weakling; for many a man hadinsulted him and still walked the earth, suffering only the slightinconvenience of a bandaged arm or a tender cheek, and a fortnight orso in bed. Conde had once said of him that there was not a morecourageous man in France; but he could not escape recalling Conde'safterthought: that drink and reckless temper had kept him where he was.There was in him a vein of madness which often burst forth in a blindfury. It had come upon him in battle, and he had awakened many a timeto learn that he had been the hero of an exploit. He was not aboaster; he was not a broken soldier. He was a man whose violenttemper had strewn his path with failures. . . . In love! Silently hemocked himself. In love, he, the tried veteran, of a hundredinconstancies! He smiled grimly beneath his mask. He passed on,stealthily, till he reached a door guarded by two effigies of FrancisI. His sword accidentally touched the metal, and the soft clangtingled every nerve in his body. He waited. Far away a horse wasgalloping over the pavement. He tried the door, and it gave way to hispressure. He stood in the library of the master of the hotel. In thisvery room, while his brain was filled with the fumes of wine andpassion, he had scribbled his name upon crackling parchment on whichwere such names as Gaston d'Orleans, Conde, Beaufort, De Longueville,De Retz. Fool!
Grinning from the high shelves were the Greek masks, Comedy andTragedy. The light from the candle gave a sickly human tint to themarble. He closed the door.
"Now for the drawer which holds my head; of love, anon!"
He knelt, placing the candle on the book-ledge. Along the bottom ofthe shelves ran a series of drawers. These he opened without sound,searching for secret bottoms. Drawer after drawer yawned into hisface, and his heart sank. What he sought was not to be found. Thelast drawer would not open. With infinite care and toil he succeededin prying the lock with the point of his sword, and his spirits rose.The papers in this drawer were of no use to any one but the owner. Theman in the grey cloak cursed under his breath and a thrill of rage ranthrough him. He was about to give up in despair when he saw a smallknob protruding from the back panel of the drawer. Eagerly he touchedthe knob, and a little drawer slid forth.
"Mine!" With trembling fingers he unfolded the parchment. He held itclose to the candle and scanned each signature. There was his own,somewhat shaky, but nevertheless his own. . . . He brushed his eyes,as if cobwebs of doubt had suddenly gathered there. Her signature!Hers! "Roses of Venus, she is mine, mine!" He pressed his lips to theinken line. Fortune indeed favored him . . . or was it the devil?Hers! She was his; here was a sword to bend that proud neck. Tenthousand livres? There was more than that, more than that by a hundredtimes. Passion first, or avarice; love or greed? He would decide thatquestion later. He slipped the paper into the pocket of the cloak.Curiosity drew him toward the drawer again. There was an oldcommission in the musketeers, signed by Louis XIII; letters from Madamede Longueville; an unsigned _lettre-de-cachet_; an accounting of therevenues of the various chateaus; and a long envelope, yellow with age.He picked it out of the drawer and blew away the dust. He read thealmost faded address, and his jaw fell. . . . "To Monsieur le Marquisde Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death."
He was not conscious how long a time he stared at that address. Agehad unsealed the envelope, and the man in the grey cloak drew out thecontents. It was in Latin, and with some difficulty he translated it.. . . So rapt was he over what he read, so nearly in a dream he kneltthere, that neither the sound of a horse entering the court nor thestir of activity in the armory held forth a menace.
"Good God, what a revenge!" he murmured. "What a revenge!"
Twice, three times, and yet again he drank of the secret. That he ofall men should make this discovery! His danger became as nothing; heforgot even the object of his thieving visit.
"Well, Monsieur?" said a cold, dry voice from the threshold.
The man in the grey cloak leaped to his feet, thrusting the letter intothe pocket along with the cabal. His long rapier snarled from itsscabbard, just in time. The two blades hung in mid air.
"Nicely caught," said the cold, dry voice again. "What have you tosay? It is hanging, Monsieur, hanging by the neck." The speaker was aman of sixty, white of hair, but wiry and active. "Ha! in a mask, eh?That looks bad for you. You are not a common thief, then? . . . Thatwas a good stroke, but not quite high enough. Well?"
"Stand aside, Monsieur le Comte," said the man in the cloak. His toneswere steady; all his fright was gone.
The steel slithered and ground.
"You know me, eh?" said the old man, banteringly. His blade ripped ahole in the cloak. "You have a voice that sounds strangely familiar tomy ears."
"Your ears will soon be dull and cold, if you do not let me pass."
"Was it gold, or jewels? . . . Jesus!" The old man's gaze, roving ahair's breadth, saw the yawning drawers. "That paper, Monsieur, or youshall never leave this place alive! Hallo! Help, men! To me,Gregoire! Help, Captain!"
"Madame shall become a widow," said the man in the mask.
Back he pressed the old man, back, back, into the corridor, toward thestairs. They could scarce see each other, and it was by instinct alonethat thrust was met by parry. Up the rear staircase came a dozenmercenaries, bearing torches. The glare smote the master in the eyes,and partly dazzled him. He fought valiantly, but he was forced to giveway. A chance thrust, however, severed the cords of his opponent'smask.
"You?"
There was a gurgling sound, a coughing, and the elder sank to hisknees, rolled upon his side, and became still. The man in the greycloak, holding the mask to his face, rushed down the grand staircase,sweeping aside all those who barred his path. He seemed possessed withstrength and courage Homeric; odds were nothing. With a backhand-swing of his arm he broke one head; he smashed a face with thepommel; caught another by the throat and flung him headlong. In amoment he was out of the door. Down the steps he dashed, through thegate, thence into the street, a mob yelling at his heels. The lightfrom the torches splashed him. A sharp gust of wind nearly tore themask from his fingers. As he caught it, he ran full into a priest.
"Out of the way, then, curse you!"
Before the astonished priest, who was a young man, could rise from thepavement where the impact had sent him sprawling, the assailant haddisappeared in the alley. He gained the door of the low tavern, flungit open, pushed by every one, upsetting several, all the while thebloody rapier in one hand and the mask held in place by the other. Theastonished inmates of the tavern saw him leap like a huge bird andvanish through one of the windows, carrying the sash with him. But anail caught the grey cloak, and it fluttered back to the floor. Scarcea moment had passed when the pursuers crowded in. When questioned, thestupefied host could only point toward the splintered window frame.Through this the men scrambled, and presently their yells died away inthe distance.
A young man of ruddy countenance, his body clothed in the garments of agentleman's lackey, stooped and gathered up the cloak.
"Holy Virgin!" he murmured, his eyes bulging, "there can not be twocloaks like this in Paris; it's the very same."
He crushed it under his arm and in the general confusion gained thealley, took to his legs, and became a moving black shadow in the grey.He made off toward the Seine.
Meanwhile terror stalked in the corridors of the hotel. Lights flashedfrom window to window. The court was full of servants and mercenaries.For the master lay dead in the corridor above. A beautiful youngwoman, dressed in her night-robes, her feet in slippers, hairdisordered and her eyes fixed with horror, gazed down at the lifelessshape. The stupor of sleep still held h
er in its dulling grasp. Shecould not fully comprehend the tragedy. Her ladies wailed about her,but she heeded them not. It was only when the captain of the militaryhousehold approached her that she became fully aroused. She pressedher hand against her madly beating heart.
She pressed her hands against her madly beating heart.]
"Who did this?" she asked.
"A man in a mask, Madame," replied the captain, kneeling. He gentlyloosed the sword from the stiffening fingers. The master oftwenty-five years was gone.
"In a mask?"
"Yes, Madame."
"And the motive ?"
"Not robbery, since nothing is disturbed about the hotel save inmonsieur's library. The drawers have all been pulled out."
With a sharp cry she crossed the corridor and entered the library. Theopen drawers spoke dumbly but surely.
"Gone!" she whispered. "We are all lost! He was fortunate in dying."Terror and fright vanished from her face and her eyes, leaving the oneimpassive and the other cold. She returned to the body and the lookshe cast on it was without pity or regret. Alive, she had detestedhim; dead, she could gaze on him with indifference. He had died,leaving her the legacy of the headsman's ax. And his play-woman? wouldshe weep or laugh? . . . She was free. It came quickly and penetratedlike a dry wine: she was free. Four odious years might easily beforgiven if not forgotten. "Take him to his room," she said softly.After all, he had died gallantly.
Soon one of the pursuers returned. He was led into the presence of hismistress.
"Have they found him?"
"No, Madame. He disappeared as completely as if the ground hadswallowed him. All that can be added is that he wore a grey cloak."
"A grey cloak, did you say?" Her hand flew to her throat and her eyesgrew wild again. "A grey cloak?"
"Yes Madame; a grey cloak with a square velvet collar."
"Ah!" said the captain, with a singular smile. He glanced obliquely atmadame. But madame lurched forward into the arms of one of herwaiting-women. She had fainted.