"My son," said he, "I find you to be a man of large discernment."
"Aye, there you have it, my father," cried Pepin; "a man of large discernment. Body of John! there's not a man of a larger between here and the Invalides." At the same time he said to himself, "What does the old rogue want now?"
"And a man to be trusted," urged the Abbé.
"If there's one that doubts it, monsieur, I shall know how to defend my honour."
The Abbé smiled, remembering that Pepin's weapon was a four-holed flageolet.
"Undoubtedly, Monsieur Pepin," said he; "you are a man of courage. See how I make you my confidant, even going so far"—and here the Abbé bent over until his mouth was almost at Pepin's ear—"even going so far as to ask you what part people think I have played in bringing about madame's refusal to go to the palace."
Pepin scratched his head. "The Abbé is measuring his own neck," said he; "it will pay me to frighten him." And then he gave his answer.
"Corbleu! Monsieur l'Abbé", what's the good of hiding things. All the world knows why the king is refused. Your holy words—Mother of God! they moved even me."
The Abbé winced, and raised his hand in a gesture of dissent.
"No, no, Monsieur Pepin; it does not concern me at all. Heaven forbid that such a suspicion should come upon a humble servant of his Majesty."
"Eh?" exclaimed Pepin; "but surely you would not have her go?"
"I? My son, I would not harm a hair of her head. But the king's command—think of that!"
Pepin thought of it. His reply was not a pretty one: sticking his tongue in his cheek, he made a grimace at the priest, and then pointed to the coins on the table.
"What of those gold pieces, my father?" he asked suddenly.
"They are for you, my friend."
Pepin stretched out his hand. The Abbé covered the money with his palms.
"If," he continued, "you are able to do a service for me."
Pepin drew back his hand.
"By the Mass," said he, "you know how to plague a man."
"Indeed, my son, that would be an ill thing to do. But the labourer must prove worthy of his hire; and, first, I would know if you ride with de Guyon to-morrow?"
"Dieu! he would fare ill without me!"
"And at the palace you are to find the king, alone, eh?"
Pepin made another grimace. The Abbé drew his chair still nearer.
"And his Majesty being alone, or with very few attendants, it might be possible to slip a packet and a letter into his hand."
"As easy as a paternoster."
"For which service you are to have ten pieces now, and ten more when you shall prove to me that it has been accomplished."
Pepin nodded his head in rhythm with the Abbé's words.
"Ten more when it shall have been accomplished. Holy saints, Monsieur l'Abbé, what a friend you are buying."
"You will carry the packet carefully: it is of great worth. And the letter!"
"I will carry them like the sacrament."
The Abbé turned to his desk, and wrote precisely seven words upon a large sheet of paper. They were these: "Let the king beware of his ambassador." Then he folded the paper and sealed it.
"Monsieur Pepin," said he, "there is no name to this document; but should you be asked by his Majesty whence it comes, you know how to answer?"
"Aye, that I do," said Pepin. "It was given to me by a stranger on the wayside."
"Fool!" said the Abbé testily. "It was given to you by me. But that is for the king's ear alone."
Pepin put the packet in the breast of his jerkin, the money in his pouch.
"The devil of an Abbé!" said he, when he was out in the courtyard.
But the Abbé was at his prayers.
CHAPTER VIII
MASKING IN THE WOODS.
While the venerable Abbé was writing his sermon upon love, de Guyon was walking in the park of the château waiting for the coming of Gabrielle de Vernet. It was a feast day, and a procession of white-robed children, bearing flowers and banners and lighted candles, had just passed by the glistening lake, and so had entered a wood in the heart of which the chapel of the Virgin had been built. De Guyon listened to the notes of their hymn, dying away in the groves and thickets, and then walked slowly to the open lawns before the southern gate of the house—for tables were set here, and the villagers from many a mile round were coming in to share the hospitality of the woman they adored, and to hold carnival in her park. It was good to see the honest faces of the woodlanders in their liveries of green; the red cheeks and dark eyes of the country girls, all ready for any play they might hap upon; eager to anticipate, perhaps, that moment when the evening would come and some of those great fellows about them would have burdens in their arms. And it was no less good to behold the well-covered tables, the great casks of sound wine, the piles of fruit, the sweet-meats, the fantastic cakes, the fat capons.
Everywhere, indeed, the usually silent forest echoed the music of the horns, the lighter note of laughter, the merry voices of the girls, the neighing of horses. Here and there, beneath some great elm or oak, you might come upon a wandering musician drawn to the château by rumour of the feast, and now scraping his fiddle or blowing his flute for the delectation of the country wenches, all eager for the merry dance. Horsemen rode in from many an outlying station; priests were to be seen among the people, and were welcomed by them. And when the angry clouds, which at one time had promised thunder, rolled away to the east, and the sun shone upon the sparkling lakes, and the breeze blew fresh and sweet, it was a morning to call even the dreamer to life.
De Guyon, standing beneath the shade of a great oak tree, looked upon the scene and found it powerless to lift the gloom off his mind. He could not but contrast the simplicity, the freshness, the innocence of it with the extravagance, the weariness and the guilt of those feverish masks he was so well accustomed to at Versailles. The light laughter of these country girls, the manly speech of the men, the naivete of their pleasures would have been a jest to him a week ago. But that was before he knew Gabrielle de Vernet.
"Dieu!" said he, "she will make a monk of me;" and he laughed aloud at the thought. Yet there was something very sweet in the contemplation of that seclusion which would keep him always at her side. For some days now, he, the wit and fine gentleman, had lived like a priest, and fared little better than a religieux; had gone to Mass at dawn, had been content to sit out vespers and compline, had thought nothing of clothes for his back or epigram for his tongue. The silence, the sweetness, the exhilaration of the forest had entered into his life; awakening his mind to the knowledge of a con- tent he had not hitherto known. He was lifted up out of himself; carried to that high place of the spirit wherefrom man may look down upon the warfare of the passions, may hear the crying of those in darkness. And lie said to himself that surely it was a vision come to cheat him, since the morrow must bring the mists again.
Of the morrow, for a truth, he could have little hope. He was to leave at dawn for the château of Francis and of Henry Quatre, bearing a message which could bring him no favour nor hope of reward. He had set out to Fontainebleau, happy in that he had come to play the humble part of a trusted intriguer; he would return to those that sent him, pleading his own failure, despising the intrigue. What the aftermath might be he did not care, if only he might return to the forest to the feet of the little Huguenot who had opened his eyes to such visions.
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