A Gentleman of France: Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne Sieur de Marsac, - [if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud .txt] 📗

I felt some surprise on hearing this, since d’Agen was still dressed and armed for the road, and was without all those prettinesses which commonly marked his attire. But as he volunteered no further information, and did not even refer to the place in which he found me, or question me as to the adventures which had lodged me there, I let it pass, and asked him if his party had overtaken the deserters.

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘with no result.’

‘And the king?’

‘M. de Rambouillet is with him now,’ he rejoined, still bending over his tracing.

This answer relieved the worst of my anxieties, but the manner of the speaker was so distrait and so much at variance with the studied INSOUCIANCE which he usually, affected, that I only grew more alarmed. I glanced at Simon Fleix, but he kept his face averted, and I could gather nothing from it; though I observed that he, too, was dressed for the road, and wore his arms. I listened, but I could hear no sounds which indicated that the Provost-Marshal was approaching. Then on a sudden I thought of Mademoiselle de la Vire. Could it be that Maignan had proved unequal to his task?

I started impetuously from my stool under the influence of the emotion which this thought naturally aroused, and seized M. d’Agen by the arm. ‘What has happened?’ I exclaimed. ‘Is it Bruhl? Did he break into my lodgings last night? What!’ I continued, staggering back as I read the confirmation of my fears in his face. ‘He did?’

M. d’Agen, who had risen also, pressed my hand with convulsive energy. Gazing into my face, he held me a moment thus embraced, His manner a strange mixture of fierceness and emotion. ‘Alas, yes,’ he answered, ‘he did, and took away those whom he found there! Those whom he found there, you understand! But M. de Rambouillet is on his way here, and in a few minutes you will be free. We will follow together. If we overtake them—well. If not, it will be time to talk.’

He broke off, and I stood looking at him, stunned by the blow, yet in the midst of my own horror and surprise retaining sense enough to wonder at the gloom on his brow and the passion which trembled in his words. What had this to do with him? ‘But Bruhl?’ I said at last, recovering myself with an effort—‘how did he gain access to the room? I left it guarded.’

‘By a ruse, while Maignan and his men were away,’ was the answer. ‘Only this lad of yours was there. Bruhl’s men overpowered him.’

‘Which way has Bruhl gone?’ I muttered, my throat dry, my heart beating wildly.

He shook his head. ‘All we know is that he passed through the south gate with eleven horsemen, two women, and six led horses, at daybreak this morning,’ he answered. ‘Maignan came to my uncle with the news, and M. de Rambouillet went at once, early as it was, to the king to procure your release. He should be here now.’

I looked at the barred window, the most horrible fears at my heart; from it to Simon Fleix, who stood beside it, his attitude expressing the utmost dejection. I went towards him. ‘You hound!’ I said in a low voice, ‘how did it happen?’

To my surprise he fell in a moment on his knees, and raised his arm as though to ward off a blow. ‘They imitated Maignan’s voice,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘We opened.’

‘And you dare to come here and tell me!’ I cried, scarcely restraining my passion. ‘You, to whom I entrusted her. You, whom I thought devoted to her. You have destroyed her, man!’

He rose as suddenly as he had cowered down. His thin, nervous face underwent a startling change; growing on a sudden hard and rigid, while his eyes began to glitter with excitement. ‘I—I have destroyed her? Ay, mon dieu! I HAVE,’ he cried, speaking to my face, and no longer flinching or avoiding my eye. ‘You may kill me, if you like. You do not know all. It was I who stole the favour she gave you from your doublet, and then said M. de Rosny had taken it! It was I who told her you had given it away! It was I who brought her to the Little Sisters’, that she might see you with Madame de Bruhl! It was I who did all, and destroyed her! Now you know! Do with me what you like!’

He opened his arms as though to receive a blow, while I stood before him astounded beyond measure by a disclosure so unexpected; full of righteous wrath and indignation, and yet uncertain what I ought to do. ‘Did you also let Bruhl into the room on purpose?’ I cried at last.

‘I?’ he exclaimed, with a sudden flash of rage in his eyes. ‘I would have died first!’

I do not know how I might have taken this confession; but at the moment there was a trampling of horses outside, and before I could answer him I heard M. de Rambouillet speaking in haughty tones, at the door below. The Provost-Marshal was with him, but his lower notes were lost in the ring of bridles and the stamping of impatient hoofs. I looked towards the door of my room, which stood ajar, and presently the two entered, the Marquis listening with an air of contemptuous indifference to the apologies which the other, who attended at his elbow, was pouring forth. M. de Rambouillet’s face reflected none of the gloom and despondency which M. d’Agen’s exhibited in so marked a degree. He seemed, on the contrary, full of gaiety and good-humour, and, coming forward and seeing me, embraced me with the utmost kindness and condescension.

‘Ha! my friend,’ he said cheerfully, ‘so I find you here after all! But never fear. I am this moment from the king with an order for your release. His Majesty has told me all, making me thereby your lasting friend and debtor. As for this gentleman,’ he continued, turning with a cold smile to the Provost-Marshal, who seemed to be trembling in his boots, ‘he may expect an immediate order also. M. de Villequier has wisely gone a-hunting, and will not be back for a day or two.’

Racked as I was by suspense and anxiety, I could not assail him with immediate petitions. It behoved me first to thank him for his prompt intervention, and this in terms as warm as I could invent. Nor could I in justice fail to commend the Provost; to him, representing the officer’s conduct to me, and lauding his ability. All this, though my heart was sick with thought and fear and disappointment, and every minute seemed an age.

‘Well, well,’ the Marquis said with stately good-nature, ‘We will lay the blame on Villequier then. He is an old fox, however, and ten to one he will go scot-free. It is not the first time he has played this trick. But I have not yet come to the end of my commission,’ he continued pleasantly. ‘His Majesty sends you this, M. de Marsac, and bade me say that he had loaded it for you.’

He drew from under his cloak as he spoke the pistol which I had left with the king, and which happened to be the same M. de Rosny had given me. I took it, marvelling impatiently at the careful manner in which he handled