I
_A flash of lightning._
At the stair-foot the landlord stopped me. "Here, lad, take a candle.The stairs are dark, and, since I like your looks, I would not have youbreak your neck."
"And give the house a bad name," I said.
"No fear of that; my house has a good name. There is no fairer inn inall Paris. And your chamber is a good chamber, though you will havelarger, doubtless, when you are Minister of Finance."
This raised a laugh among the tavern idlers, for I had been bragging abit of my prospects. I retorted:
"When I am, Maitre Jacques, look out for a rise in your taxes."
The laugh was turned on mine host, and I retired with the honours ofthat encounter. And though the stairs were the steepest I ever climbed,I had the breath and the spirit to whistle all the way up. What matteredit that already I ached in every bone, that the stair was long and mybed but a heap of straw in the garret of a mean inn in a poor quarter? Iwas in Paris, the city of my dreams!
I am a Broux of St. Quentin. The great world has never heard of theBroux? No matter; they have existed these hundreds of years, Masters ofthe Forest, and faithful servants of the dukes of St. Quentin. The greatworld has heard of the St. Quentins? I warrant you! As loudly as it hasof Sully and Villeroi, Tremouille and Biron. That is enough for theBroux.
I was brought up to worship the saints and M. le Duc, and I loved andrevered them alike, by faith, for M. le Duc, at court, seemed as faraway from us as the saints in heaven. But the year after King Henry IIIwas murdered, Monsieur came to live on his estate, to make high and lowlove him for himself.
In that bloody time, when the King of Navarre and the two Leagues weretearing our poor France asunder, M. le Duc found himself between thedevil and the deep sea. He was no friend to the League; for years he hadstood between the king, his master, and the machinations of the Guises.On the other hand, he was no friend to the Huguenots. "To seat a hereticon the throne of France were to deny God," he said. Therefore he camehome to St. Quentin, where he abode in quiet for some three years, tothe great wonderment of all the world.
Had he been a cautious man, a man who looked a long way ahead, hiscompeers would have understood readily enough that he was waiting to seehow the cat would jump, taking no part in the quarrel lest he shouldmix with the losing side. But this theory jibed so ill with Monsieur'scharacter that not even his worst detractor could accept it. For he wasknown to all as a hotspur--a man who acted quickly and seldom countedthe cost. Therefore his present conduct was a riddle, nor could any ofthe emissaries from King or League, who came from time to time to enlisthis aid and went away without it, read the answer. The puzzle was toodeep for them. Yet it was only this: to Monsieur, honour was more than apretty word. If he could not find his cause honest, he would not drawhis sword, though all the curs in the land called him coward.
Thus he stayed alone in the chateau for a long, irksome three years.Monsieur was not of a reflective mind, content to stand aside and watchwhile other men fought out great issues. It was a weary procession ofdays to him. His only son, a lad a few years older than I, shared noneof his father's scruples and refused point-blank to follow him intoexile. He remained in Paris, where they knew how to be gay in spite ofsieges. Therefore I, the Forester's son, whom Monsieur took for a page,had a chance to come closer to my lord and be more to him than a mereservant, and I loved him as the dogs did. Aye, and admired him for afortitude almost more than human, in that he could hold himself passivehere in farthest Picardie, whilst in Normandie and Ile de France battlesraged and towns fell and captains won glory.
At length, in the opening of the year 1593, M. le Duc began to have afrequent visitor, a gentleman in no wise remarkable save for that he wasaccorded long interviews with Monsieur. After these visits my lord wasalways in great spirits, putting on frisky airs, like a stallion when heis led out of the stable. I looked for something to happen, and it wasno surprise to me when M. le Duc announced one day, quite withoutwarning, that he was done with St. Quentin and would be off in themorning for Mantes. I was in the seventh heaven of joy when he addedthat he should take me with him. I knew the King of Navarre was atMantes--at last we were going to make history! There was no bound to mygolden dreams, no limit to my future.
But my house of cards suffered a rude tumble, and by no hand but myfather's. He came to Monsieur, and, presuming on an old servitor'sprivilege, begged him to leave me at home.
"I have lost two sons in Monsieur's service," he said: "Jean, hunting inthis forest, and Blaise, in the fray at Blois. I have never grudged themto Monsieur. But Felix is all I have left."
Thus it came about that I was left behind, hidden in the hay-loft, whenmy duke rode away. I could not watch his going.
Though the days passed drearily, yet they passed. Time does pass, atlength, even when one is young. It was July. The King of Navarre hadmoved up to St. Denis, in his siege of Paris, but most folk thought hewould never win the city, the hotbed of the League. Of M. le Duc weheard no word till, one night, a chance traveller, putting up at the innin the village, told a startling tale. The Duke of St. Quentin, thoughknown to have been at Mantes and strongly suspected of espousingNavarre's cause, had ridden calmly into Paris and opened his hotel! Itwas madness--madness sheer and stark. Thus far his religion had savedhim, yet any day he might fall under the swords of the Leaguers.
My father came, after hearing this tale, to where I was lying on thegrass, the warm summer night, thinking hard thoughts of him for keepingme at home and spoiling my chances in life. He gave me straightway thewhole of the story. Long before it was over I had sprung to my feet.
"Do you still wish to join M. le Duc?" he said.
"Father!" was all I could gasp.
"Then you shall go," he answered. That was not bad for an old man whohad lost two sons for Monsieur!
I set out in the morning, light of baggage, purse, and heart. I can tellnaught of the journey, for I heeded only that at the end of it layParis. I reached the city one day at sundown, and entered without apassport at the St. Denis gate, the warders being hardly so strict asMayenne supposed. I was dusty, foot-sore, and hungry, in no guise topresent myself before Monsieur; wherefore I went no farther that nightthan the inn of the Amour de Dieu, in the Rue des Coupejarrets.
Far below my garret window lay the street--a trench between the highhouses. Scarce eight feet off loomed the dark wall of the houseopposite. To me, fresh from the wide woods of St. Quentin, it seemed thedesire of Paris folk to outhuddle in closeness the rabbits in a warren.So ingenious were they at contriving to waste no inch of open spacethat the houses, standing at the base but a scant street's width apart,ever jutted out farther at each story till they looked to be fairlytoppling together. I could see into the windows up and down the way; seethe people move about within; hear opposite neighbours call to eachother. But across from my aery were no lights and no people, for thathouse was shuttered tight from attic to cellar, its dark front asexpressionless as a blind face. I marvelled how it came to stand emptyin that teeming quarter.
Too tired, however, to wonder long, I blew out the candle, and wasasleep before I could shut my eyes.
* * * * *
Crash! Crash! Crash!
I sprang out of bed in a panic, thinking Henry of Navarre was bombardingParis. Then, being fully roused, I perceived that the noise was thunder.
From the window I peered into floods of rain. The peals died away.Suddenly came a terrific lightning-flash, and I cried out inastonishment. For the shutter opposite was open, and I had a vividvision of three men in the window.
Then all was dark again, and the thunder shook the roof.
I stood straining my eyes into the night, waiting for the next flash.When it came it showed me the window barred as before. Flash followedflash; I winked the rain from my eyes and peered in vain. The shutterremained closed as if it had never been opened. Sleep rolled over me ina great wave as I groped my way back to bed.