Bardelys the Magnificent, Rafael Sabatini [best free e book reader .txt] 📗

hoped to lie some days in prison before being brought to

trial, and that during those days Castelroux might have succeeded

in discovering those who could witness to my identity. Conceive,

therefore, something of my dismay when on the morrow I was summoned

an hour before noon to go present myself to my judges.

 

From the prison to the Palace I was taken in chains like any thief

—for the law demanded this indignity to be borne by one charged

with the crimes they imputed to me. The distance was but short, yet

I found it over-long, which is not wonderful considering that the

people stopped to line up as I went by and to cast upon me a shower

of opprobrious derision - for Toulouse was a very faithful and loyal

city. It was within some two hundred yards of the Palace steps that

I suddenly beheld a face in the crowd, at the sight of which I stood

still in my amazement. This earned me a stab in the back from the

butt-end of the pike of one of my guards.

 

“What ails you now?” quoth the man irritably. “Forward, Monsieur

le traite!”

 

I moved on, scarce remarking the fellow’s roughness; my eyes were

still upon that face - the white, piteous face of Roxalanne. I

smiled reassurance and encouragement, but even as I smiled the

horror in her countenance seemed to increase. Then, as I passed on,

she vanished from my sight, and I was left to conjecture the motives

that had occasioned her return to Toulouse. Had the message that

Marsac would yesterday have conveyed to her caused her to retrace

her steps that she might be near me in my extremity; or had some

weightier reason influenced her return? Did she hope to undo some

of the evil she had done? Alas, poor child! If such were her hopes,

I sorely feared me they would prove very idle.

 

Of my trial I should say but little did not the exigencies of my

story render it necessary to say much. Even now, across the gap

of years, my gorge rises at the mockery which, in the King’s name,

those gentlemen made of justice. I can allow for the troubled

conditions of the times, and I can realize how in cases of civil

disturbances and rebellion it may be expedient to deal summarily

with traitors, yet not all the allowances that I can think of

would suffice to condone the methods of that tribunal.

 

The trial was conducted in private by the Keeper of the Seals - a

lean, wizened individual, with an air as musty and dry as that of

the parchments among which he had spent his days. He was supported

by six judges, and on his right sat the King’s Commissioner,

Monsieur de Chatellerault - the bruised condition of whose

countenance still advertised the fact that we had met but yesterday.

 

Upon being asked my name and place of abode, I created some

commotion by answering boldly “I am the Sieur Marcel de Saint-Pol,

Marquis of Bardelys, of Bardelys in Picardy.”

 

The President - that is to say, the Keeper of the Seals - turned

inquiringly to Chatellerault. The Count, however, did no more than

smile and point to something written on a paper that lay spread

upon the table. The President nodded.

 

“Monsieur Rene de Lesperon,” said he, “the Court may perhaps not

be able to discriminate whether this statement of yours is a

deliberate attempt to misguide or frustrate the ends of justice, or

whether, either in consequence of your wounds or as a visitation of

God for your treason, you are the victim of a deplorable

hallucination. But the Court wishes you to understand that it is

satisfied of your identity. The papers found upon your person at

the time of your arrest, besides other evidence in our power,

remove all possibility of doubt in that connection. Therefore, in

your own interests, we implore you to abandon these false statements,

if so be that you are master of your wits. Your only hope of saving

your head must lie in your truthfully answering our questions, and

even then, Monsieur de Lesperon, the hope that we hold out to you

is so slight as to be no hope at all.”

 

There was a pause, during which the other judges nodded their heads

in sage approval of their President’s words. For myself, I kept

silent, perceiving how little it could avail me to continue to

protest, and awaited his next question.

 

“You were arrested, monsieur, at the Chateau de Lavedan two nights

ago by a company of dragoons under the command of Captain de

Castelroux. Is that so?”

 

“It is so, monsieur.”

 

“And at the time of your arrest, upon being apprehended as Rene de

Lesperon, you offered no repudiation of the identity; on the

contrary, when Monsieur de Castelroux called for Monsieur de

Lesperon, you stepped forward and acknowledged that you were he.”

 

“Pardon, monsieur. What I acknowledged was that I was known by

that name.”

 

The President chuckled evilly, and his satellites smiled in polite

reflection of his mood.

 

“This acute differentiating is peculiar, Monsieur de Lesperon, to

persons of unsound mental condition,” said he. “I am afraid that

it will serve little purpose. A man is generally known by his

name, is he not?” I did not answer him. “Shall we call Monsieur

de Castelroux to confirm what I have said?”

 

“It is not necessary. Since you allow that I may have said I was

known by the name, but refuse to recognize the distinction between

that and a statement that ‘Lesperon’ is my name, it would serve

no purpose to summon the Captain.”

 

The President nodded, and with that the point was dismissed, and

he proceeded as calmly as though there never had been any question

of my identity.

 

“You are charged, Monsieur de Lesperon, with high treason in its

most virulent and malignant form. You are accused of having borne

arms against His Majesty. Have you anything to say?”

 

“I have to say that it is false, monsieur; that His Majesty has no

more faithful or loving subject than am I.”

 

The President shrugged his shoulders, and a shade of annoyance

crossed his face.

 

“If you are come here for no other purpose than to deny the

statements that I make, I am afraid that we are but wasting time,”

he cried testily. “If you desire it, I can summon Monsieur de

Castelroux to swear that at the time of your arrest and upon being

charged with the crime you made no repudiation of that charge.”

 

“Naturally not, monsieur,” I cried, somewhat heated by this

seemingly studied ignoring of important facts, “because I realized

that it was Monsieur de Castelroux’s mission to arrest and not to

judge me. Monsieur de Castelroux was an officer, not a Tribunal,

and to have denied this or that to him would have been so much

waste of breath.”

 

“Ah! Very nimble; very nimble, in truth, Monsieur de Lesperon,

but scarcely convincing. We will proceed. You are charged with

having taken part in several of the skirmishes against the armies

of Marshals de Schomberg and La Force, and finally, with having

been in close attendance upon Monsieur de Montmorency at the battle

of Castelnaudary. What have you to say?”

 

“That it is utterly untrue.”

 

“Yet your name, monsieur, is on a list found among the papers in

the captured baggage of Monsieur le Duc de Montmorency.”

 

“No, monsieur,” I denied stoutly, “it is not.”

 

The President smote the table a blow that scattered a flight of

papers.

 

“Par la mort Dieu!” he roared, with a most indecent exhibition of

temper in one so placed. “I have had enough of your contradictions.

You forget, monsieur, your position—”

 

“At least,” I broke in harshly, “no less than you forget yours.”

 

The Keeper of the Seals gasped for breath at that, and his fellow

judges murmured angrily amongst themselves. Chatellerault maintained

his sardonic smile, but permitted himself to utter no word.

 

“I would, gentlemen,” I cried, addressing them all, “that His

Majesty were here to see how you conduct your trials and defile his

Courts. As for you, Monsieur le President, you violate the sanctity

of your office in giving way to anger; it is a thing unpardonable

in a judge. I have told you in plain terms, gentlemen, that I am

not this Rene de Lesperon with whose crimes you charge me. Yet, in

spite of my denials, ignoring them, or setting them down either to

a futile attempt at defence or to an hallucination of which you

suppose me the victim, you proceed to lay those crimes to my charge,

and when I deny your charges you speak of proofs that can only

apply to another.

 

“How shall the name of Lesperon having been found among the Duke

of Montmorency’s papers convict me of treason, since I tell you that

I am not Lesperon? Had you the slightest, the remotest sense of

your high duty, messieurs, you would ask me rather to explain how,

if what I state be true, I come to be confounded with Lesperon and

arrested in his place. Then, messieurs, you might seek to test

the accuracy of what statements I may make; but to proceed as you

are proceeding is not to judge but to murder. Justice is represented

as a virtuous woman with bandaged eyes, holding impartial scales;

in your hands, gentlemen, by my soul, she is become a very harlot

clutching a veil.”

 

Chatellerault’s cynical smile grew broader as my speech proceeded

and stirred up the rancour in the hearts of those august gentlemen.

The Keeper of the Seals went white and red by turns, and when I

paused there was an impressive silence that lasted for some moments.

At last the President leant over to confer in a whisper with

Chatellerault. Then, in a voice forcedly calm - like the calm of

Nature when thunder is brewing - he asked me, “Who do you insist

that you are, monsieur?”

 

“Once already have I told you, and I venture to think that mine is

a name not easily forgotten. I am the Sieur Marcel de Saint-Pol,

Marquis of Bardelys, of Bardelys in Picardy.”

 

A cunning grin parted his thin lips.

 

“Have you any witnesses to identify you?”

 

“Hundreds, monsieur!” I answered eagerly, seeing salvation already

within my grasp.

 

“Name some of them.”

 

“I will name one - one whose word you will not dare to doubt.”

 

“That is?”

 

“His Majesty the King. I am told that he is on his way to Toulouse,

and I but ask, messieurs, that you await his arrival before going

further with my trial.”

 

“Is there no other witness of whom you can think, monsieur? Some

witness that might be produced more readily. For if you can,

indeed, establish the identity you claim, why should you languish

in prison for some weeks?”

 

His voice was soft and oily. The anger had all departed out of it,

which I - like a fool - imagined to be due to my mention of the King.

 

“My friends, Monsieur le Garde des Sceaux, are all either in Paris

or in His Majesty’s train, and so not likely to be here before him.

There is my intendant, Rodenard, and there are my servants - some

twenty of them - who may perhaps be still in Languedoc, and for

whom I would entreat you to seek. Them you might succeed in

finding within a few days if they have not yet determined to return

to Paris in the belief that I am dead.”

 

He stroked his chin meditatively, his eyes raised to