Quite convinced now that if he would sup with Gabrielle de Vernet he must carry her to the table, as she had asked, the king crossed the second of the rooms with quick steps, and began to knock upon the panel. He was answered almost at the first rap, but it was the mocking voice of Père Cavaignac which he heard.
"Enter, sire," said the priest.
Louis turned upon his heel at the words, and faced the Jesuit. A flush of passion was upon his face, an oath upon his lips.
"Blood of the Sacrament, who are you?" he asked.
The priest opened his cape and stepped into the light.
"I am the servant of Jesus, François Cavaignac, at one time known to your Majesty."
There were few of the Bourbons that lacked courage, and the "Well-Beloved" was not among their number. Though the presence of the Jesuit had already struck him chill with a fear he could not define, he betrayed himself in no way.
"Well," said he with a fine smile of irony, "and what does the servant of Jesus, François Cavaignac, want with me?"
The priest advanced a step.
"The liberty of a prisoner, sire."
Louis retreated as the other advanced until, when he answered, his back was against the door upon which he had knocked.
"Ha!" he cried, "the liberty of A prisoner. And his name is——?"
"A lieutenant of your Majesty's Musketeers, Paul de Guyon."
The king's face flushed with passion; the hand of the other was trembling beneath his robe.
"Dog of a priest," snarled Louis, "I will have you hanged upon the nearest tree."
"Possibly," said the priest in a cold, clear voice, "but your Majesty would be the first to die."
"How you threaten me?"
"Decidedly since you compel it."
The king sank into a chair with great drops of perspiration upon his face. The priest stood immovable, motionless. There was silence between them for many minutes, but Louis was the first to speak again.
"Come," said he, "you are a pretty jester, friend. Do you know that I can have you torn limb from limb by a word spoken from those windows?"
"You will never speak it, sire."
"Indeed, but it shall be spoken now."
He rose from his chair, but had not made a step when the hand of the ecclesiastic closed upon his arm with an iron grip.
"Your Majesty wishes still to live?"
"I?"
"Then do not call the guard."
"What you proclaim yourself to be an assassin?"
"As you please—I say, do not call the guard to find your body here."
The king sank back into the chair trembling in all his limbs; but the priest went on with his words.
"Sire," said he, "if you fear, you fear because of yourself. Give me this man's freedom, and you shall never see my face again."
"How can I give you his freedom since you threaten me?"
"That is easily done—there are pens and ink; a line from your Majesty——"
"Which you will carry to the prisoner."
"Nay, but which my servant shall carry."
"Your servant! You are not alone, then."
"The servants of Jesus are never alone, sire."
"And if I pardon this man—what then?"
"Your clemency for my mistress, Gabrielle de Vernet."
"What—you are a friend to Huguenots?"
"I am a friend to Huguenots such as she is."
"Dieu, mon ami, you risk much for your friends."
"What matter, since I befriend them. Your Majesty will sign the paper."
Louis took the pen in his hand. He trembled no longer. He was thinking that when the door was opened, he would cry for help. Once he had made his voice heard, he would have this priest flayed alive. Never should such a vengeance have been known. The idea pleased him. He wrote a few lines upon the paper, and handed them to Cavaignac.
"Well," said he, "bring me your messenger."
The priest read the paper through.
"Your Majesty has forgotten my mistress," said he.
"Ha! and what of her?"
"That she may leave the château immediately."
The king's hand trembled; he half raised it to strike the motionless figure before him. Then he remembered his idea, and wrote the order.
"Come," said he, "where is your servant?"
"He is here, sire."
The door of the inner room opened as the Jesuit spoke, and a man in the scarlet uniform of the musketeers saluted the "Well-Beloved." So sudden was his coming, that the king had not even time to rise from his chair before the door was shut again.
"See," said the priest, "the servants of Jesus are never alone, sire."
Louis stared at the musketeer as at an apparition.
"What!" said he, "a musketeer, too; by the mass, I am well served."
"Your Majesty sent for me," cried the trooper, saluting again.
"To carry this order for the release of the Lieutenant de Guyon, and for the horses of Madame de Vernet, who is leaving the château immediately," cried Cavaignac, as another oath sprang from the king's lips.
The trooper took the paper, to which the priest added three words of his own, and vanished as he had come.
"Well," said the king, "and what now?"
"That your Majesty will be pleased to sit until my mistress shall have reached the forest."
"That my arm may not reach her."
"Exactly, sire."
"And then——?"
"I shall have the honour to kiss your hand for the last time."
Louis laughed ironically.
"To-morrow, I shall settle with you," said he.
"As your Majesty wills."
The voice was the voice of a man who knew no emotions, of a man of iron. Yet could Louis have searched the heart of the Jesuit, courage would have rushed upon him like a freshet. Apprehension, racking fear, the thought of Gabrielle soon to lie in de Guyon's arms, an imagination depicting every phase of torture and of suffering that might be his—all these were contesting victory with the outward calm which the Jesuit displayed. Yet he did not move a hand while minutes passed; the great clock of the château struck nine, and still he stood like some ghostly shape of the night.
As the hour struck, the king, who had warred long with his passion, found himself able to subdue it no longer. Determined that he would stake all upon the hazard, he sprang of a sudden from his chair and ran to the window of the room. The court without echoed his alarm; the whole palace seemed to awake from sleep. Armed men burst into the room where the Jesuit had been; attendants, officials, valets pressed one upon another in the gallery.
"The priest—the priest—death to the assassin—seize the priest!"
A hundred voices took up the cry. It rang through court and cloister. It seemed