CRILLON'S STAKE.
On a certain wet night, in the spring of the year 1587, the rain wasdoing its utmost to sweeten the streets of old Paris: the kennels wereaflood with it, and the March wind, which caused the crowded sign-boardsto creak and groan on their bearings, and ever and anon closed a shutterwith the sound of a pistol-shot, blew the downpour in sheets intoexposed doorways, and drenched to the skin the few wayfarers who wereabroad. Here and there a stray dog, bent over a bone, slunk away at theapproach of a roisterer's footstep; more rarely a passenger, whose soberor stealthy gait whispered of business rather than pleasure, movedcowering from street to street, under such shelter as came in his way.
About two hours before midnight, a man issued somewhat suddenly from thedarkness about the head of the Pont du Change and turned the corner intothe Rue de St. Jacques la Boucherie, a street which ran parallel withthe Quays, about half a mile east of the Louvre. His heavy cloakconcealed his figure, but he made his way in the teeth of the wind withthe spring and vigour of youth; and arriving presently at a doorway,which had the air of retiring modestly under a couple of steep darkgables, and yet was rendered conspicuous by the light which shonethrough the unglazed grating above it, he knocked sharply on the oak.After a short delay the door slid open of itself and the man entered. Heshowed none of a stranger's surprise at the invisibility of the porter,but after staying to shut the door, he advanced along a short passage,which was only partially closed at the further end by a high woodenscreen. Coasting round this he entered a large low-roofed room, lightedin part by a dozen candles, in part by a fire which burned on a raisediron plate in the corner.
The air was thick with wood smoke, but the occupants of the room, adozen men, seated, some at a long table, and some here and there inpairs, seemed able to recognize the new-comer through it, and hailed hisappearance with a cry of welcome--a cry that had in it a ring ofderision. One man who stood near the fire, impatiently kicking the logswith his spurred boots, turned, and seeing who it was moved towards him."Welcome, M. de Bazan," he said briskly; "so you have come to resume ourduel! I had given up hope of you."
"I am here," the new-comer answered. He spoke curtly, and as he did sohe took off his horseman's cloak and laid it aside. The action discloseda man scarcely twenty, moderately well dressed, and of slight thoughsupple figure. His face wore an air of determination singular in one soyoung, and at variance with the quick suspicious glances with which hetook in the scene. He did not waste time in staring, however, butquickly and with a business-like air he seated himself at a small woodentable which stood in a warm corner of the hearth, and directly under abrace of candles. Calling for a bottle of wine, he threw a bag of coinon the table; at the same time he hitched forward his sword until thepommel of the weapon lay across his left thigh; a sinister movementwhich the debauched and reckless looks of some of his companions seemedto justify. The man who had addressed him took his seat opposite, andthe two, making choice of a pair of dice-boxes, began to play.
They did not use the modern game of hazard, but simply cast the dice,each taking it in turn to throw, and a nick counting as a drawn battle.The two staked sums higher than were usual in the company about them,and one by one, the other gamblers forsook their tables, and came andstood round. As the game proceeded, the young stranger's face grew moreand more pale, his eyes more feverish. But he played in silence. Not sohis backers. A volley of oaths and exclamations almost as thick as thewood smoke that in part shrouded the game, began to follow each cast ofthe dice. The air, one moment still and broken only by the hollow rattleof the dice in the box, rang the next instant with the fierce outburstof a score of voices.
The place, known as Simon's, was a gaming-house of the second class:frequented, as the shabby finery of some and the tarnished arms ofothers seemed to prove, by the poorer courtiers and the dubiousadventurers who live upon the great. It was used in particular by theGuise faction, at this time in power; for though Henry of Valois waslegal and nominal King of France, Henry of Guise, the head of theLeague, and the darling of Paris, imposed his will alike upon the Kingand the favourites. He enjoyed the substance of power; the King had nochoice but to submit to his policy. In secret Henry the Third resentedthe position, and between his immediate servants and the arrogantfollowers of the Guises there was bitter enmity.
As the game proceeded, a trifle showed that the young player was eitherignorant of politics, or belonged to a party rarely represented atSimon's. For some time he and his opponent had enjoyed equal luck. Thenthey doubled the stakes, and fortune immediately declared herselfagainst him; with wondrous quickness his bag grew lank and thin, thepile at the other's elbow a swollen sliding heap. The perspiration beganto stand on the young man's face. His hand trembled as he shook out thelast coins left in the bag and shoved them forward amid a murmur half ofderision half of sympathy; for if he was a stranger from thecountry--that was plain, and they had recognized it at his firstappearance among them three days before--at least he played bravely. Hisopponent, whose sallow face betrayed neither joy nor triumph, countedout an equal sum, and pushed it forward without a word. The young mantook up the box, and for the first time seemed to hesitate; it could beseen that he had bitten his lip until it bled. "After you," he mutteredat last, withdrawing his hand. He shrank from throwing his last throw.
"It is your turn," the other replied impassively, "but as you will." Heshook the box, brought it down sharply on the table and raised it. "TheDuke!" he said with an oath--he had thrown the highest possible. "Twelveis the game."
With a shiver the lad--he was little more than a lad, though in hisheart, perhaps, the greatest gambler present--dashed down his box. Heraised it. "The King!" he cried; "long life to him!" He had also throwntwelve. His cheek flushed a rosy red, and with a player's superstitiousbelief in his luck he regarded the check given to his opponent in thelight of a presage of victory. They threw again, and he won by twopoints--nine to seven. Hurrah!
"King or Duke," the tall man answered, restraining by a look theinterruption which more than one of the bystanders seemed about tooffer, "the money is yours; take it."
"Let it lie," the young man answered joyously. His eyes sparkled. Whenthe other had pushed an equal amount into the middle of the table, hethrew again, and with confidence.
Alas! his throw was a deuce and an ace. The elder player threw four andtwo. He swept up the pile. "Better late than never," he said. Andleaning back he looked about him with a grin of satisfaction.
The young man rose. The words which had betrayed that he was not of theDuke's faction, had cost him the sympathy the spectators had before feltfor him; and no one spoke. It was something that they kept silence, thatthey did not interfere with him. His face, pale in the light of thecandles which burned beside him, was a picture of despair. Suddenly, asif he bethought him of something, he sat down again, and with a shakinghand took from his neck a slender gold chain with a pendant ornament."Will you stake against this?" he murmured with dry lips.
"Against that, or your sword, or your body, or anything but your soul!"the other answered with a reckless laugh. He took up the chain andexamined it. "I will set you thirty crowns against it!" he said.
They threw and the young man lost.
"I will stake ten crowns against your sword if you like," the victorcontinued, eyeing the curiously chased pommel.
"No," the young man replied, stung by something in the elder's tone."That I may want. But I will set my life against yours!"
A chuckle went round. "Bravo!" cried half a dozen voices. One man in therear, whose business it was to enlist men in the Duke's guard, pressedforward, scenting a recruit.
"Your life against mine! With these?" the winner answered, holding upthe dice.
"Yes, or as you please." He had not indeed meant with those: he hadspoken in the soreness of defeat, intending a challenge.
The other shook his head. "No," he said, "no. No man can say that MichelBerthaud ever balked his player, but it is not a fair offer. You havelost all, my
friend, and I have won all. I am rich, you are poor. 'Tisno fair stake. But I will tell you what I will do. I will set you yourgold chain and seventy crowns--against your life if you like."
A roar of laughter hailed the proposal. "A hundred!" cried several, "ahundred!"
"Very well. The gold chain and a hundred. Be it so!"
"But my life?" the young man muttered, gazing at him in bewilderment."Of what use will it be to you, M. Berthaud?"
"That is my business," was the dry answer. "If you lose, it is forfeitto me. That is all, and the long and the short of it. To be frank, Ihave a service which I wish you to perform for me."
"And if I will not perform it?"
"Then I will take your word as a gentleman that you will kill yourself.Observe, however, that if I win I shall allow you a choice, my friend."
He leaned back with that, meeting with a faint smile and half-loweredeye-lids, the various looks bent on him. Some stared, some nodded secretcomprehension, some laughed outright, or nudged one another andwhispered. For four evenings they, the habitues of the place, hadwatched this play duel go on, but they had not looked for an end soabnormal as this. They had known men stake wives and mistresses, loveand honour, ay, their very clothes, and go home naked through thestreets; for the streets of Paris saw strange things in those days. Butlife? Well, even that they had seen men stake in effect, once, twice, ahundred times; but never in so many words, never on a wager as novel asthis. So with an amazement which no duel, fought as was the custom inthat day, three to three, or six to six, would have evoked, theygathered round the little table under the candles and waited for theissue.
The young man shivered. Then, "I accept," he said slowly. In effect hewas desperate, driven to his last straits. He had lost his all, the allof a young man sent up to Paris to make his fortune, with a horse, hissword, and a bag of crowns--the latter saved for him by a father's sternfrugality, a mother's tender self-denial. A week ago he had never seen agame of chance. Then he had seen; the dice had fallen in his way, thedevil of play, cursed legacy of some long-forgotten ancestor, had awokewithin him, and this was the end. "I accept," he said slowly.
His opponent, still with his secretive smile, took up the caster. But ashort, sturdy man, who was standing at his elbow, and who wore thecolours of the Duke of Guise, intervened. "No, Michel," he said, with agood-natured glance at the young player. "Let the lad choose his bones,and throw first or last as he pleases."
"Right," said Berthaud, yawning. "It is no matter. My star is in theascendant to-night. He will not win."
The young man took up the box, shook it, hesitated, swallowed, and threwseven!
Berthaud threw carelessly--seven!
Some shouted, some drew a deep breath, or whispered an oath. These wildspirits, who had faced death often in one form or another, were stillchildren, and still in a new thing found a new pleasure.
"Your star may be in the ascendant," the man muttered who had intervenedbefore, "but it--well, it twinkles, Michel."
Berthaud did not answer. The young man made him a sign to throw. Hethrew again--eight.
The young man threw with a hand that scarcely dared to let the dice go.Seven! He had lost.
An outburst might have been expected, some cry of violence, of despair.It did not come. And a murmur passed round the circle. "Berthaud willrecruit him," growled one. "A queer game," muttered another, and thoughthard. Nor did the men go back to their tables. They waited to see whatwould follow, what would come of it. For the young man who had lost satstaring at the table like one in a dream; until presently his opponentreaching out a hand touched his sleeve. "Courage!" Berthaud said, aflicker of triumph in his eye, "a word with you aside. No need ofdespair, man. You have but to do what I ask, and you will see sixtyyet."
Obedient to his gesture the young man rose, and the other drawing himaside began to talk to him in a low voice. The remaining playersloitering about the deserted table could not hear what was said; but oneor two by feigning to strike a sudden blow, seemed to pass on theirsurmises to those round them. One thing was clear. The lad objected tothe proposal made, objected fiercely and with vehemence; and at lastsubmitted only with reluctance. Submit in the end, however, he did, forafter some minutes of this private talk he went to his cloak, andavoiding, as it seemed, his fellows' eyes, put it on. Berthaudaccompanied him to the door, and the winner's last words were audible."That is all," he said; "succeed in what I impose, M. de Bazan, and Icry quits, and you shall have fifty crowns for your pains. Fail, and youwill but be paying your debt. But you will not fail. Remember, half anhour after midnight. And courage!"
The young man nodded sullenly, and drawing his cloak about his throat,went through the passage to the street. The night was a little olderthan when he had entered, otherwise it was unchanged. The rain was stillfalling; the wind still buffeted the creaking shutters and the swingingsign-boards. But the man? He had entered, thinking nothing of rain orwind, thinking little even of the horse and furniture, and the goodclothes made under his mother's eye, which he had sacrificed to refillhis purse. The warmth of the play fever coursing through his veins hadclad him in proof against cold and damp and the depression of the gloomystreets, even against the thought of home. And for the good horse, andthe laced shirts and the gold braid, the luck could not run against himagain! He would win all back, and the crowns to boot.
So he had thought as he went in. And now? He stood a moment in the dark,narrow chasm of a street, and looked up, letting the rain cool his brow;looked up, and, seeing a wrack of clouds moving swiftly across the slitof stormy sky visible between the overhanging roofs, faced in a dullamazement the fact that he who now stood in the darkness, bankrupt evenin life, was the same man who had entered Paris so rich in hope andyouth and life a week--only a week--before. He remembered--it was an oddthing to occur to him when his thoughts should have been full of theevents of the last hour--a fault of which he had been guilty down therein the country; and of which, taking advantage of a wrathful father'soffer to start him in Paris, he had left the weaker sinner to bear thebrunt. And it seemed to him that here was his punishment. The old greyhouse at home, quaint and weather-beaten, rose before him. He saw hismother's herb-garden, the great stackyard, and the dry moat, half filledwith blackberry bushes, in which he had played as a boy. And on him fella strange calm, between apathy and resignation. This, then, was hispunishment. He would bear it like a man. There should be no flinching asecond time, no putting the burden on others' shoulders, no self-sparingat another's cost.
He started to walk briskly in the direction of the Louvre. But when hehad gained the corner of the open space in front of the palace, whencehe had a view of the main gate between the two tennis courts, he haltedand looked up and down as if he hesitated. A watch-fire smouldering andsputtering in the rain was burning dully before the drawbridge; theforms of one or two men, apparently sentinels, were dimly visible aboutit. After standing in doubt more then a minute, Bazan glided quickly tothe porch of the church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, and disappeared inthe angle between it and the cloisters.
He had been stationary in this position for some half-hour--in whatbitterness of spirit, combating what regrets and painful thoughts it ispossible only to imagine--when a slight commotion took place at the gatewhich faced him. Two men came out in close converse, and stood a momentlooking up as if speaking of the weather. They separated then, and onewho even by that uncertain light could be seen to be a man of tall,spare presence, came across the open space towards the end of the Ruedes Fosses, which passed beside the cloisters. He had just entered thestreet, when Bazan, who had been closely watching his movements, steppedfrom the shadow of the houses and touched his sleeve.
The tall man recoiled sharply as he turned. He laid his hand on hissword and partly drew it. "Who are you?" he said, trying in the darknessto make out the other's features.
"M. de Crillon, is it not?" the young man asked.
"Yes. And you, young sir?"
"My name is Claude de Bazan, but
you do not know me, I have a word tosay to you."
"You have chosen an odd time, my friend."
"Some things are always timely," the young fellow answered, theexcitement under which he laboured and the occasion imparting a spice offlippancy to his tone. "I come to warn you that your life is in danger.Do not go alone, M. de Crillon, or pass this way at night! And whateveryou do, walk for the future in the middle of the street!"
"For the warning I am obliged to you," the tall man answered, his voicecool and satirical, while his eyes continued to scan the other'sfeatures. "But, I say again, you have chosen a strange time to give it,young sir. Moreover, your name is new to me, and I do not know yourface."
"Nor need you," said Bazan.
"Ay, but I think I need, craving your pardon," replied the tall, spareman with some sternness. "I am not wont to be scared by little things,nor will I give any man the right to say that he has frightened me witha lighted turnip."
"Will it convince you if I tell you that I came hither to kill you?" theyoung man cried impetuously.
"Yes, if you will say also why you did not--at least try?" Crillonanswered drily.
Bazan had not meant to explain himself; he had proposed to give hiswarning, and to go. But on the impulse of the moment, carried away byhis excitement, he spoke, and told the story, and Crillon, afterleading him aside, so that a building sheltered them from the rain,listened. He listened, who knew all the dark plans, all the scandals,all the jealousies, all the vile or frantic schemings of a court, that,half French, half Italian, mingled so grimly force and fraud. Nay, whenall was told, when Bazan, passing lightly over the resolution he hadformed to warn the victim instead of attacking him, came suddenly andlamely to a stop, he still for a time stood silent. At last, "And whatwill you do now, my friend?" he asked.
"Go back," the young man answered.
"And then?"
"Pay my debt."
The courtier swore a great oath--it was his failing--and with suddenviolence he seized his companion by the arm, and hurried him into theroadway, and along the street. "To Simon's!" he muttered. "To Simon's,my friend. I know the place. I will cut that villain Berthaud's throat."
"But what shall I be the better of that?" the young man answered,somewhat bitterly. "I have none the less lost, and must pay."
Crillon stopped short, the darkness hiding alike his face and hisfeelings. "So!" he said slowly, "I did not think of that! No, I did notthink of that. But do you mean it? What, if I kill him?"
"I have played for my life, and lost," Bazan answered proudly. "Ipromised, and I am a gentleman."
"Pheugh!" Crillon whistled. He swore again, and stood. He was a greatman, and full of expedients, but the position was novel. Yet, after aminute's thought, he had an idea. He started off again, taking Bazan'sarm, and impelling him onwards, with the same haste and violence. "ToSimon's! to Simon's!" he cried as before. "Courage, my friend, I willplay him for you and win you: I will redeem you. After all, it issimple, absolutely simple."
"He will not play for me," the young man answered despondently.Nevertheless he suffered himself to be borne onwards. "What will you setagainst me?"
"Anything, everything!" his new friend cried recklessly. "Myself, ifnecessary. Courage, M. de Bazan, courage! What Crillon wills, Crillondoes. You do not know me yet, but I have taken a fancy to you, Ihave!"--He swore a grisly oath. "And I will make you mine."
He gave the young man no time for further objection, but, holding himfirmly by the arm, he hurried him through the streets to the door belowthe two gables. On this he knocked with the air of one who had beenthere before, and to whom all doors opened. In the momentary pausebefore it yielded Bazan spoke. "Will you not be in danger here?" heasked, wondering much.
"It is a Guise house? True, it is. But there is danger everywhere. Noman dies more than once or before God wills it! And I am Crillon!"
The superb air with which he said this last prepared Bazan for whatfollowed. The moment the door was opened, Crillon pushed through thedoorway, and with an assured step strode down the passage. He turned thecorner of the screen and stood in the room; and, calmly smiling at thegroup of startled, astonished faces which were turned on him, he drewoff his cloak and flung it over his left arm. His height at all timesmade him a conspicuous figure; this night he was fresh from court. Hewore black and silver, the hilt of his long sword was jewelled, theOrder of the Holy Ghost glittered on his breast; and this fine arrayseemed to render more shabby the pretentious finery of the third-rateadventurers before him. He saluted them coolly. "It is a wet night,gentlemen," he said.
Some of those who sat farthest off had risen, and all had drawn togetheras sheep club at sight of the wolf. One of them answered sullenly thatit was.
"You think I intrude, gentlemen?" he returned, smiling pleasantly,drinking in as homage the stir his entrance had caused. For he was vain."I want only an old friend, M. Michel Berthaud, who is here, I think?"
"And for what do you want him?" the tall dark player answereddefiantly; he alone of those present seemed in a degree a match for thenew-comer, though even his gloomy eyes fell before Crillon's easy stare."For what do you want me?"
"To propose a little game to you," Crillon answered: and he moved downthe room, apparently at his ease. "My friend here has told me of hisill-luck. He is resolved to perform his bargain. But first, M. Berthaud,I have a proposal to make to you. His life is yours. You have won it.Well, I will set you five hundred crowns against it."
The scowl on Berthaud's face did not relax. "No," he saidcontemptuously. "I will not play with you, M. de Crillon. Let the fooldie. What is he to you?"
"Nothing, and yet I have a fancy to win him," Crillon replied lightly."Come, I will stake a thousand crowns against him! A thousand crowns fora life! _Mon Dieu_," he added, with a whimsical glance at Bazan, "butyou are dear, my friend!"
Indeed, half a score of faces shone with cupidity, and twice as manybearded lips watered. A thousand crowns! A whole thousand crowns! But tothe surprise of most--a few knew their man--Berthaud shook his head.
"No," he said, "I will not play! I won his life, and I will have it."
"Fifteen hundred crowns. I will set that! Fifteen----"
"No!"
"Two thousand, then! Two thousand, man! And I will throw in my chain. Itis worth five hundred more."
"No! No! No!"
"Then, say what you will play for!" the great man roared, his faceswelling with rage. "Thousand devils and all tonsured! I have a mind towin his life. What will you have against it?"
"Against it?"
"Ay!"
"Yours!" said M. Berthaud, very softly.
Bazan drew in his breath--sharply: otherwise the silence was so intensethat the fall of the wood-ashes from the dying fire could be heard. Theimmense, the boundless audacity of the proposal made some smile and somestart. But none smiled so grimly as M. Michel Berthaud the challengerand none started so little as M. de Crillon, the challenged.
"A high bid!" he said, lifting his chin with something almost of humour;and then glancing round him, as a wolf might glance, if the sheep turnedon him. "You ask much, M. Berthaud."
"I will ask less then," replied Berthaud, with irony. "If I win, I willgive you his life. He shall go free whether you win or lose, M. deCrillon."
"That is much!" with answering irony.
"Much or little----"
"It is understood?"
"It is," Berthaud rejoined with a sarcastic bow.
"Then I accept!" Crillon cried: and with a movement so brisk that somerecoiled, he sat down at the table. "I accept. Silence!" he continued,turning sharply upon Bazan, whose cry of remonstrance rang above theastonished murmur of the bystanders. "Silence, fool!" He struck thetable. "It is my will. Fear nothing! I am Crillon, and I do not lose."
There was a superb self-confidence in the man, an arrogance, a courage,which more than anything else persuaded his hearers that he was inearnest, that he was not jesting with them.
"The terms are
quite understood," he proceeded, grimly. "If I win, we gofree, M. Berthaud. If I lose, M. de Bazan goes free, and I undertake onthe honor of a nobleman to kill myself before daylight. Shall I saywithin six hours? I have affairs to settle!"
Probably no one in the room felt astonishment equal to that of Berthaud.A faint colour tinged his sallow cheeks; a fierce gleam of joy flashedin his eyes. But all he said was, "Yes, I am satisfied."
"Then throw!" said Crillon, and leaning forward he took a candle from aneighbouring table, and placed it beside him. "My friend," he added,speaking to Bazan with earnest gravity, "I advise you to be quiet. Ifyou do not we shall quarrel."
His smile was as easy, his manner as unembarrassed, his voice as steady,as when he had entered the room. The old gamesters who stood round thetable, and had seen, with interest indeed and some pity, but with nogreat emotion, a man play his last stake, saw this, saw a man stake hislife for a whim, with very different feelings; with astonishment, withadmiration, with a sense of inferiority that did not so much gall theirpride as awaken their interest. For the moment, the man who was abovedeath, who risked it for a fancy, a trifle, a momentary gratification,was a demigod. "Throw!" repeated Crillon, heedless and apparentlyunconscious of the stir round him: "Throw! but beware of that candle!Your sleeve is in it."
It was; it was singeing. Berthaud moved the candle, and as if hisenemy's _sang froid_ wounded him, he threw savagely, dashing down thedice on the table, and lifting the box with a gesture of defiance. Heswore a frightful oath: his face was livid. He had thrown aces only.
"So!" murmured his opponent quietly. "Is that all? A thousand crowns toa hundred that I better that! Five hundred to a hundred that I doubleit! Will no one take me? Then I throw. Courage, my friend. I amCrillon!"
He threw; an ace and a deuce.
"I waste nothing," he said.
But few heard the words--his opponent perhaps and one or two others; forfrom end to end the room rang and the oaken rafters shook with a greatcry of "Long live Crillon! the brave Crillon!"--a cry which rose from ascore of throats. Then and onwards till the day of his death, many yearslater, he was known throughout France by no other name. The great king'sletter to him, "Hang yourself, brave Crillon. We have fought to-day, andyou were not there!" is not yet forgotten--nay, never will beforgotten--in a land where, more than in other, the memories of the pasthave been swept away.
He rose from the table, bowing grandly, superbly, arrogantly. "Adieu, M.Berthaud--for the present," he said; and had he not seemed too proud tothreaten, a threat might have underlain his words. "Adieu, gentlemen,"he continued, throwing on his cloak. "A good night to you, and equalfortune. M. de Bazan, I will trouble you to accompany me? You haveexchanged, let me tell you, one taskmaster for another."
The young man's heart was too full for words, and making no attempt tospeak, or to thank his benefactor, before those who had seen the deed,he followed him from the room. Crillon did not speak or halt until theystood in the Rue des Fosses; nor even there, for after a momentaryhesitation he passed through it, and led the way to the middle of theopen space before the Louvre. Here he stopped, and touched his companionon the breast. "Now," he said, "we can speak with freedom, my friend.You wish to thank me? Do not. Listen to me instead. I have saved yourlife, ay, that have I; but I hold it at my will? Say, is it not so?Well, I, too, in my turn wish you to do something for me."
"Anything!" said the young man, passionately. The sight of the other'sstrange daring had stirred his untried nature to its depths. "You havebut to ask and have."
"Very well," Crillon answered, gravely, "be it so. I take you at yourword. Though, mind you, M. de Bazan, 'tis no light thing I ask. It issomething," pausing, "from which I shrink myself."
"Then it is nothing you ask me to do," Bazan answered.
"Not so," the courtier replied, though he looked far from ill-pleased bythe compliment. "Listen. To-morrow the king sups at the house of Madamede Sauves. I shall be with him. Her house is in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec,two doors from the convent. Here are a hundred crowns. Dress yourself sothat you may appear as one of my gentlemen, and wait near the gates tillI come. Then follow me in, and at supper stand behind my chair, as theothers of my suite will stand."
"And is that all?" Bazan asked in astonishment.
"No, not quite," Crillon answered dryly. "The rest I will whisper inyour ear as I pass. Only do what I bid you boldly and faithfully, myfriend, and afterwards, if all be well, I will not forget you."
"I am yours! Do with me as you will!" Bazan protested.
But to mortals the unknown is ever terrible; and for twenty-four hoursBazan had the unknown before him. What could that be from which Crillonhimself said that he shrank--a man so brave? It could not be death, forthat he had risked on the lightest, the flimsiest, the most fantasticprovocation. Then what could it be? Bazan turned the question in hismind, turned it a hundred times that night, turned it a hundred times ashe went about his preparations next day. Turned it and turned it, butinstinctively, though no injunctions to that effect had been given him,took care to show himself as little as possible in public, andespecially to shun all places where he might meet those who had beenpresent at that strange game at Simon's.
A quarter before nine on the next evening, saw him waiting with abeating heart outside the house in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. He formed oneof a crowd of lackeys, and linkboys, citizens, apprentices, and chancepassers who had been attracted to the spot by the lights and by theguards in the royal livery, who already, though the king was not come,kept the entrance to the courtyard. Bazan pushed himself with somedifficulty into the front rank, and there waited, scanning with feverisheagerness every one who entered.
Time passed, and no Crillon appeared, though presently a great shoutingalong the street proclaimed the approach of the Duke of Guise, and thatnobleman passed slowly in, noting with a falcon's eye the faces of thebowing throng. He was a man of grand height and imperial front--a greatscar seeming to make the latter more formidable--his smile a triflesupercilious, his eyes somewhat near one another; and under his glanceBazan felt for the moment small and mean. A little later, from the talkof those about him, the young man learned that the king was drawingnear, and Henry's coach, surrounded by a dozen of the Forty-five,lumbered along the street. It was greeted with comparative coldness,only those who stood under the guards' eyes performing a carelesssalute.
Bazan was no Parisian, though for the present in Paris, and no Leaguer,though a Roman Catholic; and he forgot his present errand in theexcitement of his rustic loyalty. Raising his bonnet, he cried loudly_Vive le Roi!_--cried it more than once. There were six in the coach,but Henry, whose pale meagre face with its almond eyes and scanty beardpermitted no mistake, remarked the salutation and the giver, and hislook cast the young man into a confusion which nearly cost him dearly;for it was only as the guards closed round the coach that he perceivedCrillon sitting in the nearer boot. The moment he did see him he pushedforward among the running footmen who followed the coach, and succeededin entering with it.
The courtyard, crowded with gentlemen, lackeys and torch-bearers, was ascene of great confusion, and Bazan had no difficulty in approachingCrillon and exchanging a sentence with him. That effected, so completelywas he confounded by the order whispered in his ear, that he observednothing more until he found himself in a long gallery, waiting with manyothers attached to the great men's suites, while the magnificoesthemselves talked together at the upper end. By listening to the gossipround him, he learned that one dark handsome man among the latter wasAlphonso d'Ornano, often called the Corsican Captain. A second was M.d'O, the Governor of Paris; a third, the Count of Soissons. But he hadscarcely time to note these, or the novel and splendid scene in which hestood, before the double doors at the end of the gallery were thrownwidely open, and amid a sudden hush the great courtiers passed into thesupper room in which the king, the Duke of Guise, and several ladies,already stood or sat in their places, having entered by another door.Bazan pressed in with the flock of
attendant gentlemen, and seeingCrillon preparing to sit down not far from the dais and canopy whichmarked the king's chair, he took his stand against the wall behind him.
If the words which Crillon had dropped into his ear had not occupiedthree-fourths of his thoughts, Bazan would have felt a keener admirationof the scene before him; which, as was natural, surpassed in luxuryanything the country lad had ever imagined. The room, panelled andceiled with cedar, was hung with blue velvet and lighted by a hundredtapers. The table gleamed with fine napery and gold plate, with Palissyware and Cellini vases; and these, with the rich dresses and jewels andfair shoulders of the ladies, combined to form a beautiful interiorwhich resounded with the babble of talk and laughter. It was hard todetect danger lurking under these things, under the silk, within theflashing, gleaming cups, behind smiling eyes; still harder to discernbelow these fair appearances a peril from which a Crillon shrank.
But to Bazan, as he waited with tortured nerves, these things werenothing. They were no more than fair flowers to the man who espies thecoils of a snake among the blossoms. Crillon's whisper had revealed allto him--all, in one brief sentence; so that when he presently recognizedMichel Berthaud standing near the upper end of the table and on thefarther side of it, in attendance upon the Duke of Guise, he felt noastonishment, but only a shrewd suspicion of the quarter from which thedanger might be expected.
The king, a man of thirty-seven, so effeminate in appearance that it washard to believe he had seen famous fields and once bidden fair to be agreat Captain, was nursing a dog on his lap, the while he listened witha weary air to the whispers of the beautiful woman who sat next him.Apparently he had a niggard ear even for her witcheries, and littleappetite save for the wine flask. Lassitude lived in his eyes, his longthin fingers trembled. Bazan watched him drain his goblet of wine,almost as soon as he sat down, and watched him, too, hold out the goldcup to be filled again. The task was performed by an assiduous hand, andfor a moment the king poised the cup in his fingers, speaking to hisneighbour the while. Then he laid it down, but his hand did not quit itsneighbourhood.
The next moment the room rang with a cry of alarm and indignation, andevery face was turned one way. Bazan with unparalleled audacity hadstepped forward, had seized the sacred cup almost from the royal hand,and drained it!
While some sprang from their seats, two or three seized the culprit andheld him fast. One more enthusiastic than the others or more keenlysensitive to the outrage of which he had been guilty, aimed a fierceblow at his breast with a poniard. The stroke was well meant, nay, waswell directed; but it was adroitly intercepted by M. de Crillon, who hadbeen among the first to rise. With a blow of his sheathed sword he sentthe dagger spinning towards the ceiling.
"Back!" he cried, in a voice of thunder, placing himself before theculprit. "Stand back, I say! I will answer to the king for all!"
He cleared a space before him with his scabbard, and a quick signalbrought to his side the two guards at the nearest door, who were men ofhis command. These, crossing their pikes before the prisoner, securedhim from immediate attack. By this time all in the room had risen savethe king, who appeared less moved than any by the incident. At thispoint he raised his hand to procure silence.
"Is he mad?" he asked calmly. "What is it, Crillon?"
"I will satisfy your Grace," the courtier answered. But the next moment,with a sudden change of tone, he cried loudly and rapidly, "Stop thatman, I beg you, d'Ornano! Stop him!"
The warning came too late. The Corsican sprang indeed to the door, butthe crowd impeded him; and the man to whom Crillon referred--the samewho had struck at Bazan, and who was no other than Berthaud--got to itfirst, slipped out and was gone from sight, before those near theentrance had recovered from their surprise.
"Follow him," Crillon cried loudly. "Seize him at all hazards! _Mort deDieu!_ He has outwitted us at last."
"His Majesty has asked, M. de Crillon," said one at the table, speakingin the haughty, imperious tone of a man who never spoke unheeded, "whatis the meaning of all this? Perhaps you will kindly satisfy him."
"I will satisfy him," Crillon answered, grimly fixing his eyes on theother's handsome face. "And you, too, M. de Guise. An attempt has beenmade to poison my master. This young man, observing that a strange handpoured the king's wine, has saved his Majesty's life by taking thepoison himself!"
Henry of Guise laughed scornfully. "A likely story!" he said.
"And in my house!" Madame de Sauves cried in the same tone. "His Majestywill not believe that I----"
"I said nothing against Madame de Sauves," Crillon answered, withfirmness. "For the rest, let the king be judge. The issue is simple. Ifthe lad go scatheless, there was no poison in that cup and I am a liar.If he suffer, then let the king say who lies!"
A close observer might have seen an uneasy expression flit across morethan one face, darken more than one pair of eyes. Crillon remained onhis guard facing the table, his eyes keenly vigilant. The Count ofSoissons, one of the younger Bourbons, had already stepped to the king'sside and taken place by his chair, his hand on his hilt. D'Ornano, whohad despatched two guards after Berthaud, openly drew his long sword andplaced himself on the other side of the dais. Nor was suspicion confinedto their party. Half a dozen gentlemen had risen to their feet about theDuke of Guise, who continued to sit with folded arms, content to smile.He was aware that at the worst here in Paris he was safe; perhaps he wasinnocent of harm or intent.
The main effect, however, of Crillon's last words was to draw many eyes,and amongst them the king's, to the prisoner's face. Bazan was leaningagainst the wall, the cup still in his grasp. As they turned with asingle movement towards him, his face began to grow a shade paler, aspasm moved his lips, and after the interval of a moment the cup fellfrom his hand to the ground. Thrusting himself with a convulsivemovement from the wall, he put out his hands and groped with them as ifhe could no longer see; until, one of them meeting the pike of thenearest guard, he tried to support himself by this. At the same time hemuttered hoarsely, "M. de Crillon, you saw it! We are--we are quits!"
He would have fallen on that, but the men caught him in their arms andheld him up, amid a murmur of horror; to many brave men death in thisspecial form is appalling. Here and there a woman shrieked; one fainted.Meanwhile, the young man's face was becoming livid; his neck seemed tostiffen, his eyes to protrude. The king looked at him and shuddered."Saint Denis!" he muttered, the perspiration standing on his brow, "whatan escape! What an escape! Can nothing be done for him?"
"I will try, Sire," Crillon answered, abandoning for the first time hisattitude of watchfulness. Drawing a small phial from his pocket, hedirected one of the guards to force open the lad's teeth, and thenhimself poured the contents of the bottle between them.
"Good lad," he muttered to himself, "he has drained the cup. I bade himdrink only half. It would have been enough. But he is young and strong.He may surmount it."
The rest looked on, some in curiosity, some in pity, some in secretapprehension. It was the Duke of Guise who put into words the thoughtsof many. "Those," he said scornfully, "who find the antidote, may knowthe poison, M. de Crillon."
"What do you mean, Duke?" Crillon replied passionately, as he sprang tohis feet. "That I was in this? That I know more than I have told of it?If so, you lie, sir; and you know it!"
"I know it?" the Duke cried, his eyes aflame, his cheeks reddening.Never had he heard such words. "Do you dare to insinuate--that I knowmore of this plot than yourself--if plot there be?"
"Enough!" said the king, rising in great haste, and with a face whichbetrayed his emotion. "Silence, gentlemen! silence! And you, my cousin,not another word, I command you! Who poured out the wine?"
"A villain called Berthaud," Crillon answered promptly and fiercely,"who was in attendance upon the Duke of Guise."
"He was not in attendance on me!" the duke answered, with spirit.
"Then on Madame de Sauves."
"I know nothing of him!" cried that lady, hyster
ically. "I never spoketo the man in my life. I do not know him!"
"Enough!" the king said with decision; but the gloom on his brow grewdarker. "Enough. Until Berthaud is found, let no more be said. Cousin,"he continued to the Count of Soissons, "you will see us home. D'Ornano,we return at once, and you will accompany us. For M. de Crillon, wecommit to him the care of this young man, to whom we appear to beindebted, and whose thought for us we shall not forget. Madame, I kissyour hand."
Guise's salutation he acknowledged only by a grave bow. The last of theValois could at times exert himself, could at times play again the heroof Jarnac and Montcontour, could even assume a dignity no whit lessthan that of Guise. As he retired all bowed low to him, and the greaterpart of the assemblage--even those who had not attended him to thehouse--left in his train. In three minutes Crillon, a couple of inferiorofficers, and a handful of guards alone remained round the young man.
"He will recover," Crillon said, speaking to the officer next him. "Heis young, and they did not dare to make the dose too strong. We shallnot, however, convict any one now, unless Berthaud speaks."
"Berthaud is dead."
"What?"
"As dead as Clovis," the lieutenant repeated calmly. "He is lying in thepassage, M. de Crillon."
"Who killed him?" cried Crillon, leaping up in a rage. "Who dared tokill him? Not those fools of guards when they knew it was his evidencewe wanted."
"No, no," said the other coolly. "They found him dead not twenty pacesfrom the house. He was a doomed man when he passed through the door. Youunderstand, M. de Crillon? He knew too much to live."
"_Mort de Dieu!_" cried Crillon, raising his hands in admiration. "Howclever they are! Not a thing forgotten! Well, I will to the king andtell him. It will put him on his guard. If I had not contrived to trythe draught there and then, I could not have convinced him; and if I hadnot by a lucky hazard won this young man last night, I might havewhistled for one to try it! But I must go."
Yet he lingered a minute to see how the lad progressed. The convulsionswhich had for a time racked Bazan's vigorous frame had ceased, and aprofuse perspiration was breaking out on his brow.
"Yes, he will recover," said Crillon again, and with greater confidence.
As if the words had reached Bazan's brain, he opened his eyes.
"I did it!" he muttered. "I did it. We are quits, M. de Crillon!"
"Not so!" cried the other, stooping impetuously and embracing him. "Notquits! The balance is against me now, but I will redress it. Be easy;your fortune is made, M. de Bazan. While James Berthon de Crillon livesyou shall not lack a friend!"
He kept his word. There can be little doubt that the Laurence de Bazanwho held high office under the Minister Sully, and in particular rose tobe Deputy Superintendent of the Finances in Guienne, was our youngBazan. This being so, it is clear that he outlived by many years hispatron: for Crillon, "le brave Crillon," whose whim it was to daregreatly, and on small occasion, died early in the seventeenthcentury--in his bed--and lies under a famous stone in the Cathedral ofAvignon. Whereas we find Bazan still flourishing, and a person ofconsequence at Court, when Richelieu came to the height of his power.Nevertheless on him there remains no stone; only some sketch of theabove, and a crabbed note at the foot of a dusty page in a darklibrary.