It would have been madness to do aught but comply with his request, and so I surrendered my rapier, which he in his turn delivered to one of his followers. Next I stepped down from the coach and turned to take leave of Mademoiselle, whereupon Montrésor, thinking that peradventure matters were as they appeared to be between us, and, being a man of fine feelings, signed to his men to fall back, whilst he himself withdrew a few paces.
“Adieu, Mademoiselle!” I said simply. “I shall carry with me for consolation the memory that I have been of service to you, and I shall ever—during the little time that may be left me—be grateful to Heaven for the opportunity that it has afforded me of causing you—perchance without sufficient reason—to think better of me. Adieu, Mademoiselle! God guard you!”
It was too dark to see her face, but my heart bounded with joy to catch in her voice a quaver that argued, methought, regret for me.
“What does it mean, M. de Luynes? Why are they taking you?”
“Because I have displeased my Lord Cardinal, albeit, Mademoiselle, I swear to you that I have no cause for shame at the reasons for which I am being arrested.”
“My father is Monseigneur de Mazarin's friend,” she cried. “He is also yours. He shall exert for you what influence he possesses.”
“'T were useless, Mademoiselle. Besides, what does it signify? Again, adieu!”
She spoke no answering word, but silently held out her hand. Silently I took it in mine, and for a moment I hesitated, thinking of what I was—of what she was. At last, moved by some power that was greater than my will, I stooped and pressed those shapely fingers to my lips. Then I stepped suddenly back and closed the carriage door, oppressed by a feeling akin to that of having done an evil deed.
“Have I your permission to say a word to my servant, M. le Lieutenant?” I inquired.
He bowed assent, whereat, stepping close up to the horror-stricken Michelot—
“Drive straight to the Château de Canaples,” I said in a low voice. “Thereafter return to the Lys de France and there wait until you hear from me. Here, take my purse; there are some fifty pistoles in it.”
“Speak but the word, Monsieur,” he growled, “and I'll pistol a couple of these dogs.”
“Pah! You grow childish,” I laughed, “or can you not see that fellow's musket?”
“Pardieu! I'll risk his aim! I never yet saw one of these curs shoot straight.”
“No, no, obey me, Michelot. Think of Mademoiselle. Go! Adieu! If we should not meet again, mon brave,” I finished, as I seized his loyal hand, “what few things of mine are at the hostelry shall belong to you, as well as what may be left of this money. It is little enough payment, Michelot, for all your faithfulness—”
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” he cried.
“Diable!” I muttered, “we are becoming women! Be off, you knave! Adieu!”
The peremptoriness of my tone ended our leave-taking and caused him to grip his reins and bring down his whip. The coach moved on. A white face, on which the moonlight fell, glanced at me from the window, then to my staring eyes naught was left but the back of the retreating vehicle, with one of the two saddle-horses that had been tethered to it still ambling in its wake.
“M. de Montrésor,” I said, thrusting my bullet-pierced hat upon my head, “I am at your service.”
CHAPTER XIV.
OF WHAT BEFELL AT REAUX.
At my captor's bidding I mounted the horse which they had untethered from the carriage, and we started off along the road which the coach itself had disappeared upon a moment before. But we travelled at a gentle trot, which, after that evening's furious riding, was welcome to me.
With bitterness I reflected as I rode that the very moment at which Mademoiselle de Canaples had brought herself to think better of me was like to prove the last we should spend together. Yet not altogether bitter was that reflection; for with it came also the consolation—whereof I had told her—that I had not been taken before she had had cause to change her mind concerning me.
That she should care for me was too preposterous an idea to be nourished, and, indeed, it was better—much better—that M. de Montrésor had come before I, grown sanguine as lovers will, had again earned her scorn by showing her what my heart contained. Much better was it that I should pass for ever out of her life—as, indeed, methought I was like to pass out of all life—whilst I could leave in her mind a kind remembrance and a grateful regret, free from the stain that a subsequent possible presumption of mine might have cast o'er it.
Then my thoughts shifted to Andrea. St. Auban would hear of my removal, and I cared not to think of what profit he might derive from it. To Yvonne also his presence must hereafter be a menace, and in that wherein tonight he had failed, he might, again, succeed. It was at this juncture of my reverie that M. de Montrésor's pleasant young voice aroused me.
“You appear downcast, M. de Luynes.”
“I, downcast!” I echoed, throwing back my head and laughing. “Nay. I was but thinking.
“Believe me, M. de Luynes,” he said kindly, “when I tell you that it grieves me to be charged with this matter. I have done my best to capture you. That was my duty. But I should have rejoiced had I failed with the consciousness of having done all in my power.”
“Thanks, Montrésor,” I murmured, and silence followed.
“I have been thinking, Monsieur,” he went on presently, “that possibly the absence of your sword causes you discomfort.”
“Eh? Discomfort? It does, most damnably!”
“Give me your parole d'honneur that you will attempt no escape, and not only shall your sword be returned to you, but you shall travel to Paris with all comfort and dignity.”
Now, so amazed was I that I paused to stare at the officer who was young enough to make such a proposal to a man of my reputation. He turned his face towards me, and in the moonlight I could make out his questioning glance.
“Eh, bien, Monsieur?”
“I am more than grateful to you, M. de Montrésor,” I replied, “and I freely give you my word of honour to seek no means of eluding you, nor to avail myself of any that may be presented to me.”
I said this loud enough for those behind to hear, so that no surprise was evinced when the lieutenant bade the man who bore my sword return it to me.
If he who may chance to read these simple pages shall have gathered aught of my character from their perusal, he will marvel, perchance, that I should give the lieutenant my parole, instead rather of watching for an opportunity to—at least—attempt an escape. Preeminent in my thoughts, however, stood at that moment the necessity to remove St. Auban, and methought that by acting as I did I saw a way by which, haply, I might accomplish this. What might thereafter befall me seemed of little moment.
“M. de Montrésor,” I said presently, “your kindness impels me to set a further tax upon your generosity.”
“That is, Monsieur?”
“Bid your men fall back a little, and I will tell you.”
He made a sign to his troopers, and when the distance between us had been sufficiently widened, I began:
“There is a man at present across the river, yonder, who has done me no little injury, and with whom I have a rendezvous at nine o'clock to-night at St. Sulpice des Reaux, where our swords are to determine the difference between us. I crave, Monsieur, your permission to keep that appointment.”
“Impossible!”