The Quest of Glory, Marjorie Bowen [reading an ebook .txt] 📗

should not know you again; if we

go into the house I shall see your face.”

 

“I trust you,” answered M. Armand. He beckoned to the priest, and the

three entered the farm and the room next to that where the Marquis had

slept, and where his horse still stood. Luc found that it was in good

repair and rudely furnished, as if frequently used.

 

A deal table occupied the middle, and when the lantern was set on this

it showed several chairs, a cupboard, a plain couch with a coverlet, and

a stout box or chest with brass locks. M. Armand ordered the priest to

light candles; they were taken from the cupboard and placed on the table

in iron holders. The room was now in bright light, and Luc and the

stranger instantly looked at each other with calm curiosity.

 

The Marquis beheld a man still young, but not so young as he had at

first believed, dressed in a dark grey riding-suit without ornament or

jewel, wearing high boots and a plain sword with a basket shell.

 

His face, which was singularly attractive, was rather broad for its

length and very finely shaped; it expressed wit, energy, and a great

deal of humour. His eyes were dark brown, large, and powerful. His hair

grew low on his brow, and was of a dull auburn, lacking in brightness

and colour, but of great length and thickness.

 

Luc, quick at reading men, could not read this one; he only knew that

there were great possibilities in that face, and that the whole

personality was not one to be ignored. His wonder at the hideous

ceremony in the barn increased.

 

The priest, with a heavy air of annoyance and displeasure, was unpacking

a basket of provisions which stood on the table; Luc remembered seeing

it behind his saddle the previous day.

 

There were a round of beef, a couple of loaves, a small cheese, and a

large pie in an earthenware dish, besides three bottles of wine. M.

Armand produced knives, forks, and plates from the cupboard, and invited

Luc to join them; his air was one of careless good-nature.

 

But the Marquis could not eat; he ignored the priest, and addressed

himself to M. Armand, who had seated himself on the corner of the table

and was taking his supper with good appetite.

 

“You spoke of M. de Voltaire,” he said. “Do you know him?”

 

“Oh, every one in Paris knows him.”

 

“But you know him?” insisted Luc.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And yet you, by the aid of a Christian priest, seek to raise the

Devil!” exclaimed the Marquis.

 

“I wanted to know something. The Devil should have entered into the

heretic and answered my questions; but the fellow cheated. Faugh!

Do not let us speak of it.” Luc fixed his eyes on the handsome,

pleasant face. “What did you want to know?” he asked, with a smile.

 

“Something about a woman.” Monsieur Armand cut himself a slice of pie.

“I had that rascal fetched from Venice on purpose. The whim cost me

something.”

 

“I truly marvel at your folly,” said Luc calmly.

 

“Oh, there is a Devil,” returned the other, with a sideway glance, “and

one might raise him, you know. But you have the fashionable tone of

Paris.”

 

“I have never been there save for a day in passing,” answered Luc

simply. “And I speak from conviction, not fashion.”

 

The priest, who had touched neither food nor wine, suddenly addressed

Luc.

 

“Where is your servant, Monsieur?”

 

“In the next room—where should he be?” Luc turned from him coldly. “And

now I will be on my way.”

 

He rose, and the priest made an instantaneous movement to guard the

door.

 

“Take some supper,” said M. Armand. “And do not be in such a hurry.”

 

Luc glanced from one to the other.

 

“I will go on my way,” he said sternly. “Do you seek to detain me?”

 

M. Armand was eating his pie leisurely; he looked at the priest

reflectively.

 

“You should have thought of the servant before,” he remarked.

 

“I have promised not to speak, and I can answer for my servant,”

answered Luc, guessing his thoughts.

 

“Do you think I am afraid?” asked the other, languidly raising his bent

brows. “We are not very likely to meet again,” he added.

 

“No,” assented the Marquis. “You interest me, though. I think your

priest here would like to kill me. I wish you joy of your holy

companion.”

 

“If I had my way, you would not leave here alive,” said the priest, in a

low, calm voice. “You are an atheist and a blasphemer, and a menace to

Holy Church.”

 

“And to your safety, Father,” smiled M. Armand. “But go, Monsieur. You

are a noble.”

 

Luc bowed.

 

“I will see the heretic is buried,” added M. Armand, “though she would

not speak. Adieu. I am sorry you would not have any supper.”

 

“Adieu,” returned Luc gravely. The priest moved from the door, and he

stepped out; the last glimpse he had of M. Armand was the picture of him

seated on the table finishing his pie.

 

On reaching the yard he found the priest had followed him, and was

standing a few paces off watching his movements. He called his servant,

and the man came round the corner of the farm leading the two horses.

 

“Where have you been this while?” demanded the priest.

 

The fellow answered respectfully that he had been making the animals

ready.

 

Luc mounted and was turning out of the yard when the priest came to his

stirrup.

 

“Swear to me on the Gospels, on the Cross, that you will be silent about

what you have seen to-night,” he said, in a low voice.

 

“You heard my word,” answered Luc coldly. “And I have told you I believe

in neither Cross nor Gospels. Stand away—your habit smells rank to me.”

 

The priest stepped softly back; the servant mounted, and the two rode

away.

 

They had gone perhaps half a league before the Marquis recollected that

he still did not know the road to Avignon; in his haste to be rid of his

companions he had never thought of this.

 

Instantly checking his horse, he looked back at his servant.

 

The dawn was breaking, and the man’s face appeared of a strange pallor.

 

“We do not know the way,” said Luc.

 

“Any way, Monseigneur,” answered the servant, “as long as we do not go

back.”

 

“What is the matter?” asked Luc sharply, for the fellow was plainly in a

fright.

 

“Monseigneur, I did not mean to tell you. I thought we should both be

murdered.”

 

“I thought that possible too,” replied the Marquis calmly. “Anything

else?”

 

“Oh, Monseigneur—there was murder. I went back to the barn to fetch

my hat. I had the little lantern—and I could not forbear looking in;

and there was the foreigner lying dead from a sword-thrust.”

 

CHAPTER XI # M. DE RICHELIEU

 

Luc felt instantly that his servant spoke the truth, and saw instantly

how he had been deceived. There was no back door to the barn; the young

man, discovering he was being cheated, had run the poor foreigner

through and left him there to die. The priest knew it, and hence his

anxiety about the servant: he had dreaded the very thing that had

occurred—namely, that the fellow should return to the barn and see the

second corpse.

 

The Marquis’s first feeling was one of intense anger that a dissolute

young noble had been able so to fool him; he had accepted the tale of

the Italian’s escape like any child, and had sat down to bandy words

with one who was fresh from a miserable, cowardly murder.

 

“Why did you not tell me before?” he asked.

 

“Monseigneur, I thought you might wish to return, and then we stood a

good chance of being murdered.”

 

“Why?” demanded Luc sharply. “We were two to two, and one of them a

priest.”

 

“But, Monseigneur, he was armed under his habit, and I saw evil

intention in his face—and how could we tell how many more were in

hiding? With respect, Monsieur le Marquis, they were dealing with the

Devil.”

 

“Are you sure that the man was dead?” asked Luc.

 

“Monseigneur, perfectly sure. He lay in a strange attitude with one leg

drawn up, and I crept into the barn and felt him, and he was cold with a

hole in his chest and his fingers all cut where he had snatched at the

sword—and with the dead frogs and snakes and that other corpse in the

chair—”

 

The Marquis cut him short.

 

“You will be silent about this, Jean, until I give you leave to speak. I

shall not go back—now, at least.”

 

Jean, only too thankful that his master was not returning to what he

feared might be an outpost of hell, promised readily enough. They

proceeded along the straight road, looking out for some habitation where

they could ask their way.

 

Luc felt depressed, angry, and disgusted. He recalled the Italian’s

healthy face, his callous laughter, then the hideous little scene in the

barn with the horrid, foolish details of gross superstitions; lastly,

the calm serenity and haughtiness of the young man whose careless manner

had so deceived him; and the priest, in his mockery of a habit—Luc

wondered that he had not made some attempt at a disguise. Evidently all

of them had been pretty sure that they were not likely to be

interrupted; yet Monsieur Armand, as he called himself, had not seemed

very concerned, or even surprised, at being discovered.

 

Luc, riding along in the grey dawn, wearily followed out the

consequences of this wretched episode.

 

They would burn or bury the body of the foreigner, who was not likely to

be missed; they would probably burn the whole barn—who was to make

inquiries?

 

M. de Richelieu did not keep such a strict policing of Languedoc that it

was likely to come to his knowledge—well, the affair would be hushed

up; and he, Luc, saw no good in soiling his lips by any mention of it,

though he felt himself no longer bound by the promise he had made the

young rake.

 

The Italian charlatan had perhaps not lived so as to look for a better

end—let the whole thing be forgotten; Luc only hoped that he might meet

neither priest nor patron again.

 

As the sun rose above the horizon they came upon some poor scattered

farms where a peasant driving pigs put them on the road to Avignon,

which town they reached about noon of a misty autumn day. Luc put up at

a quiet inn, and, having ascertained that the Governor was in residence

but would soon be leaving for Paris, he sent his servant at once with

the introduction from the Marquis de Caumont and a letter from himself

requesting an interview.

 

Jean dispatched on this business, the Marquis shifted his linen,

breakfasted, and sat at the inn window overlooking the unfamiliar main

street of beautiful Avignon.

 

His head ached, his limbs were full of lassitude, and the incident of

the night hung unpleasantly before his mental vision. He tried to

replace this picture with others: with that of Clémence de Séguy in her

frilled rose-coloured muslin; with that of young d’Espagnac kneeling in

the chapel of St. Wenceslas. As he drove his thoughts back to the

Hradcany, he suddenly recalled that the voice last night which the

Italian had feigned to issue from the poor heretic’s dead lips had said,

“Beware