"Full," said he, opening the door an inch or two in reply to my third knock, though the blankness of the dark upper windows gave him the lie. "Go elsewhere, my fine fellow, and make less noise." And would have shut-to the door again, had I not thrust the end of my riding-whip through the crack.
"Tell me," I whispered, as he struggled to push it back, "is the good-man of Tours in the neighbourhood?"
On the instant the struggling ceased, and I heard a little whimper behind the door like the cry of a child too frightened of the dark to scream.
"Saints have mercy on a fool!" he said, flinging the door wide. "Come in, Monseigneur, come in! How was I to guess it was your Excellency at so late an hour? There are half a dozen louts drinking in the kitchen, some of them not too sober—we must live as we may these times. Shall I turn them out?"
"No, but prepare supper while we see to the horses, then make our rooms ready. But the good-man of Tours, what of him?"
"Certainly, your Excellency, in the morning; I shall see to that. To-night he is——"
But I remembered Commines' advice, and cut him short; besides, it was long past our usual hour for the meal, and we were half-starved.
"Is that your business? Bring supper."
"Again, certainly, Monseigneur, and a good one, though all Ouzay be scoured2 for it." Nor, when it came, had we any cause to complain.
What profession, beyond that of spy and jackal to the sick Lion of Plessis, the good-man of Tours followed I do not know, but at least he was diligent3 in his master's service. Before seven in the morning there was a knocking at our door, and when Martin slipped the bolt a fellow in peasant's dress entered, closing the door carefully behind him.
"Monsieur de Helville?" he said, looking from one to the other, but speaking not at all in a peasant's voice.
"I am de Helville."
"And I the good-man of Tours—or his shadow. Here are your orders. Go to the Red Cock in Poictiers, and ask the landlord the same question you asked last night, saying neither more nor less."
He had kept his hand on the latch4 while he spoke5, and as he ended he opened the door and was gone before we could put in a word. Martin was for running after him, but I forbade it.
"To what purpose? We know as much as the King wants us to know. That masquerading peasant could tell us nothing more. It's my belief that, except Louis himself, not a man in France, not even either Monsieur de Commines or the Chancellor6, knows the route we are to follow or the business we travel on."
"But, Monsieur Gaspard, why such caution?"
"For this reason, my friend; if we bungle7 our commission, the King can say, 'I never knew you,' and so leave us to our fate as wandering vagabonds."
As it was at Ouzay, so it was at Poictiers and for the rest of our journey. Poictiers sent us to Ruffec, Ruffec to Marthon, Marthon to Saint Gatien, Saint Gatien to Le Catelet, Le Catelet to Gabarnet, Gabarnet to Orthez, Orthez to La Voulle. Everywhere there was the same question, everywhere the same obsequious8, frightened deference9, with none seeing further into the King's purpose than the next post. Once our instructions came by way of a woman, and once through the inn-keeper himself.
This last was at The Good Queen in La Voulle, and there, for the first time, our orders varied10.
"I am to tell you this," said he. "What you seek is at Morsigny. When you have found it, ride back here with all speed, and then, but not till then, open the sealed letter."
At the time I answered nothing, but next morning as we sat at breakfast, our host serving us, I asked, as if for gossip's sake, if he knew of such a place as Morsigny?
"The chateau11, I suppose you mean, Monsieur?" he replied, playing up to my lead while he busied himself doing nothing with apparent zeal12. "It is about three leagues to the south, and so not far from the hills. But you will not find the Count at home."
"Oh, the Count is not at home," I repeated vaguely13, my information being of the weakest. I had not even remembered there was a Count.
"No, Excellency; he is with the court at Pamplona, though not altogether for love."
"Who, then, is at Morsigny?"
"Only the little Count and a small household. The life they live is of the quietest; few pass their way, and if you have news from Paris, or even from Bordeaux, Monsieur, you will be sure of a welcome."
"What?" said I doubtfully. The possible solution of an evident difficulty did not seem a good one. "A stranger? Hardly welcome, I think."
"That's just it, Monsieur, because you are a stranger, or no more than two. Were you fifty you would find the door shut so fast that fifty would not open it. Nor would you get a welcome if you came from Tours. We of the Little Kingdom do not love Louis. Jean Volran says it."
"Bold words," said Martin grimly. "But, my friend, here's advice to you: if you meet a certain Messire Tristan, keep your dislikes to yourself, for assuredly Jean Volran would never say it a second time."
"Bah!" replied he, shrugging his shoulders as he turned away. "I'm not afraid of your precious Messire Tristan."
No more passed, but as we rode on the way I had leisure to admire the skill with which His Majesty14 chose even the humblest of his tools. In three sentences Jean Volran had informed us of the position at Morsigny, had shown us a possible cause of welcome, and hinted a warning we would be fools to disregard.
It was curious, but it was not the seizing of the child that troubled my conscience, but the stealing through a friendly door under cover of a lie. But as I cast about how I might shift a downright lie to a seeming truth, and so cheat the devil in the dark, Martin could stand his uncertainty15 no longer, and so, for the tenth time since we had left Plessis, spurred Ninus up alongside of Roland that he might ease his curiosity.
"Are we at our journey's end, Monsieur Gaspard?"
"Nearly," answered I, finding safety in brevity.
"And what do we do next?"
"The King's business."
"Then it's turn about," said he, "for the King nearly did mine in Tours. But what is the King's business to us?"
"The restoration of the Hellewyl lands, the building of Solignac, and Jan Meert's life. Will that content you?"
But to my surprise, so far from showing the lively satisfaction I looked for, or even astonishment16, his face grew grave.
"Is it as dangerous as all that? The old fox of Plessis never gives coin or life except at ten-fold usury17. Who pays it, Monsieur Gaspard?"
"Are you a coward? Think of the gain, man."
"Ay! Coward! Think of the cost!" he answered dourly18. "I say again, Who pays it? Pray God we don't!"
"That we may not," I answered, speaking more sharply than was just, for I had always encouraged Martin to be frank. "See well to Roland and Ninus, for when we ride from Morsigny we shall ride as if the devil or Tristan himself were after us. The pack-horse we shall leave behind."
"Morsigny!" said Martin. "I'd rather have Solignac, charred19 and roofless, than twenty Morsignys. God send us safe away!"
"God send us safe there," I retorted; "and that He may, do thou wait here till I ask our road. I hear voices across the break of whins yonder."
It is my belief that the sun, the rain, and the wind are at the bottom of half the workings of a man's spirit, nor, if nature be in a mothering mood, is it possible for wholesome20 five-and-twenty to withstand for long her comfortings. Never had Flanders shown me so blue a sky, rarely had such a kindly21 sun so warmed me. The very vigour22 of the trees, their depth of green, their splendid strength, their lavishment of southern foliage23, was a beguiling24 and a delight. Long before I turned Roland out of the track my sourness had vanished, and in its place was the glorious exuberance25 and sweetness of youth, that thinks neither care nor evil. Care? To the back of to-morrow with care! All around me the world was sown with gold, the yellow of broom, the yellow of whin, the yellow of kingcups; and as the honey-sweet of the warm air smote26 my nostrils27, my heart danced in time to the thud of Roland's hoofs28. Over this bush we leaped, over that, zigzagging29 towards the sound of life.
"Ah dieu! me donc le joye d'amour!"
sang I, and landed Roland almost flat on the top of a fluttering skirt. With a jerk I pulled him to his haunches, and, bonnet30 in hand, sprang to the ground.
"Pardon, Madame," I began, but stopped short, my heart leaping again, but this time to the tune31 of my song. It was no Madame at all, but Mademoiselle herself—Mademoiselle of the Star of Flanders and Tours Cathedral, and straddling in front of her was a little six or seven-year lad, his fists squared up at me.
It is another of my beliefs that, in the disadvantage of surprise, a woman's wits work more keenly than a man's. Certainly Mademoiselle found her tongue first, though that, perhaps, was yet more truly feminine.
"Welcome to Navarre, Monsieur Gaspard Hellewyl!" said she, sweeping32 me a curtsey so low that the exertion33 fired her cheeks ruddily. "Or is it Monsieur Martin? The changes are so confusing and the names so hard to remember."
"Gaspard Hellewyl, Mademoiselle," answered I; "Gaspard Hellewyl, and always at your service."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, curtseying a second time, "always at my service! That is very prettily34 said, Monsieur. And have you come all the way from Tours to kill a man to prove it? That was your way in Paris, and that was what you would have done in Tours, but here in Navarre I pray you prove it in some gentler fashion. We have so few men in Navarre, and"—the laughter died from her eyes as she paused an instant—"we may need them all to fight France."
"If all Navarre can double its fists as sturdily as your playfellow, Mademoiselle," answered I, giving her badinage35 for badinage, "then France had better call Spain to her help, or else cry quarter."
As we spoke she had folded her arms round the little lad in loving protection, but now she loosed him, and we stood for a moment in silence. Presently she shook her head, her mouth twitching36, as if her gaiety was struggling back again.
"My playfellow! Ah, no, Monsieur Hellewyl, and I humbly37 pray you will pardon the freedom of my presumption38 in addressing you. I am Monsieur le Comte's gouvernante and nurse, but, to be frank, very much his nurse and very little his gouvernante, for I fear I teach him nothing but to love me. This, Monsieur, is Count Gaston de Foix, only son and heir to Monseigneur the Count de Narbonne. Monsieur Gaston, have I permission to present to you Monsieur Hellewyl?"
The child nodded gravely, acknowledging my bow with a quaint39 seriousness that moved my pity. It seemed a sorrowful thing that at six years old the ceremonies of court usage should already have been so deeply ingrained; but in an age when babes were betrothed40 in their very cradles, the prince knew even less of the joys of life than the peasant. Gaston de Foix! The lad to secure whom I was to turn child-stealer! Gaston! The troubler of France, and the bearer of peace to two nations if I could but succeed in my mission. Already I was drawn41 towards him, already I pitied him, for if court ways so cramped42 his life here in the freedom of the fields of Navarre, what would it be behind the walls of Plessis, or wherever the King might elect to quarter him?
"If Monsieur Hellewyl is your friend, Suzanne, then I am glad to see him," replied he, with all the sedateness43 of a councillor of state.
Suzanne! So that was her name! Somehow it pleased me that I should hear it for the first time from the lips of a child, and have my own conjoined with it as a friend. And yet, such is the discontent of mankind, I would have been yet better pleased if the child had put it that Mademoiselle Suzanne was friend to Gaspard Hellewyl.
With a gravity the equal of his own I returned the queer stiff little bow he gave me.
"Her friend always, that I can promise you, Monsieur le Comte, if she will but permit me the honour. And she has greater friends than I; Monseigneur the Prince de Talmont——"
With a sweep of her arm that should have been a revelation to me but was not, so intent was I watching her eyes, Mademoiselle unceremoniously put the boy aside.
"Commines!" she cried sharply, her face suddenly losing the freshness of its youth. "Monsieur de Commines has sent you! God's name, Monsieur Hellewyl, why did you not say so at once?"
"Because, Mademoiselle Suzanne, it is not quite as you put it."
"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur, leave your precise niceness of orders aside, and come to the broad truth. It was Monsieur de Commines who told you where to find me, however cunningly he may have packed his meaning in doubtful words. I know his shifty ways. I mean him no offence. More than once he has shown himself my friend; but he is one of those who love to skirt the shadow of a hedge rather than cross a field in God's sunlight. He has ten several ways of saying Good-morning! and each has a different significance. Your message, Monsieur? Is it peace? What a fool I was to think—but no matter what I thought; is it peace? is it peace?"
For the second time I had unwittingly misled her. But though on this occasion the fault was certainly not mine, I was embarrassed how to answer. It was not simply that to tell how, in blunt truth, I had stumbled on her by accident would have cost me the playful mischievous44 interest I had first awakened45, but it must also have provoked enquiry. The woman who had cried of Villon, Is there no one to kill this infamous46 wretch47? who had had the cool hardihood to ride under the very shadow of Tristan's gallows-house, because the greater safety lay in the greater danger, would promptly48 ask, If Gaspard Hellewyl does not come from Philip de Commines, what, then, is he doing in Navarre at all in these times of stress? It was the little Count who gave me sufficient breathing time to avoid the crime of a blundering lie. Naturally, he could not follow Mademoiselle's change of mood, and her pleading cry as she stood with outstretched arms seemed to him the cry of fear.
"What is it, Suzanne?" said he, running between us. "What has he done to you? If he hurts you, I'll kill him when I grow big—I will, I will! Go away, Monsieur Hellewyl, you are not a friend."
"No, my heart, no," answered she, again putting him aside, but gropingly, for her eyes were fixed49 on mine. "Monsieur Hellewyl, is truly our friend, or I hope he is, and am waiting to hear him prove it."
"Heart, head, and hand," replied I, not venturing to touch the white fingers, near though they were to mine. The brief interval50 had given my slow wit time to move, and I thought I saw my way clear. "As to Monsieur de Commines, his position is even more difficult than you credit. At times the path by the hedge is quicker than the straight road in the open sun. But this will prove that at least I am here with his full knowledge." Out of its inner pocket, and with a blessing51 on him for his crooked52 ways, I whipped the King's letter, turning first the false seal, and then the extorted53 endorsement54 towards her. "Do you recognise them?"
"I recognise them," she replied curtly55, advancing her hand yet nearer. "Give it me, Monsieur; pray God you bring good news."
"From my heart I believe I bring peace, and yet I cannot give you the letter—cannot give it to-day," I added after a pause. "You see it has no address, and—oh! wait Mademoiselle, wait! Trust me, the best fruit ripens56 slowly."
"Wait!" she repeated, her arm sinking to her side; "that is always what men say to a woman! Wait! wait! as if to wait were not hardest of all; to wait, not knowing whether to hope or fear, or whether the new day brings a blessing or a curse. Wait! Ah, Monsieur, you cannot love your Flanders as we of the Little Kingdom love Navarre, or you would not say Wait! so easily."
Once more the little Count stood my friend.
"Come and play, Suzanne," he said impatiently. "Monsieur can find his way to Morsigny by himself."
"To Morsigny!" she cried, stooping to catch him in her arms so that I failed to see her face. "Yes, that is best. Why, what a clever boy you are, Gaston! Monsieur Hellewyl, the Count de Foix invites you to Morsigny. But oh! I fear that you will find it dull, for at Morsigny there are no men to be killed."
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1
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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2
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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5
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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6
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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7
bungle
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| v.搞糟；n.拙劣的工作 | |
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8
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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9
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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10
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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12
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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13
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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14
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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15
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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16
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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17
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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18
dourly
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19
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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20
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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21
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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22
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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23
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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24
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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25
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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26
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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27
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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28
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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29
zigzagging
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| v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的现在分词 )；盘陀 | |
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30
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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31
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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32
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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33
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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34
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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35
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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36
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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37
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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38
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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39
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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40
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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41
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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43
sedateness
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| n.安详，镇静 | |
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44
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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45
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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46
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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47
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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48
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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49
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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50
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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51
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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52
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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53
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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54
endorsement
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| n.背书；赞成，认可，担保；签(注)，批注 | |
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55
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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56
ripens
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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